A toast to you, our beautiful fans!

In all fairness, I will now admit that we have more than 2 readers. I guess I just didn't realize people cared as much as they do. My apologies to you Grandma, the queen of rok, and anyone else offended by our measly count.

I will try to give you the latest update, however many you are.

I have been in Denver for a couple weeks now and Paul just joined me. We returned to the States from New Zealand after some family mishaps and will now be here for at least the next nine months, (nine months has nothing to do with a gestation period, just in case you were thinking that). Paul will be able to take classes at CU Boulder to keep up with his coursework until we are able to return to the magical land of Zealand that is 'New' and I will be teaching, hopefully, at the Bear Park sister school in Boulder. Slightly ironic isn't it?

So, we are officially back. We don't have cell phone plans yet, just in case the masses of fans that we have want to start ringing us off the hizzy, so for now, email us...but we are back and will be updating you on any new crazy accounts that seem to happen to us all too often no matter where we live.

Dog Shi-ca-ca

By now hopefully all two of our readers have caught up on the fact that we are no longer in New Zealand. We have returned to the land of the Obama's, Clinton's and McCain's. We aren't making this political, we are only mentioning this because we thought we might miss this very controversial election, come November, and seeing as neither of the choices are good ones we were not unhappy about missing all the ensuing drama.

But back to the task at hand...updating you, our lone reader. (yes, you Jen.) Other than major family drama that i'll spare you from at this current time, Paul and i celebrated our 1 year anniversary. Our original celebration destination was a toss up between Rotorua Mud Baths in New Zealand that come complete with cabins, tea time and mud OR surfing in Piha (world class beach) and we figured we couldn't go wrong. Our surprise return to the states took us for a loop, a BIG loop, therefore landing us in Indianapolis on our special date and calling in a compromise: the promise of a dog, our very own. Our current problem is: we are a little on the homeless side and its easier to find a bed for two people than a bed for two people and a dog. Not sure why, but not all people are dog lovers, so, we decided on this faux-furry creature for the time being. Our only solace is that we don't have to walk him or pick up his daily poo.

Designer fraternity

Ludolph McGaffin is the named opaquely emblazoned on the glass window of the shop i walk past on my way to work. Its a symmetrically square shop/house. It boasts a well manicured, though tiny, yard and an inviting glow from within. Centrally located cement stairs lead up to the main door while two show windows on either side display the designer gowns of the week on cotton muslin mannequins, one per window. Its a rather classy shop. Surrounded by doctor's office buildings, a police station, St. Mark's Church, a rival preschool and what appears to be a house taken over by alcoholic cockroaches. It sits immediately next to Ludolphs, separated only by shrubs. The yard seems to never have less than 36 beer cans and/or bottles. An abandoned couch sits on the half porch and a pinic table takes up what little lawn the property affords. Graffiti covers the windows and a crack runs through one of them. The first couple times i passed it i thought it was abandoned. I decided it wasn't after noticing how the bottles and cans rotated and the recycle bin on the edge of the sidewalk was always on a new level of full. On the morning after St. Patty's day i had to step over a puddle of puke that appeared to have projected across the lawn and onto the sidewalk, probably originating 5 hours before my daily trek to work. I wondered at how a designer shop ended up next to such a frat pad. I noticed something on the windows of the rubbish abode, the opaque font, identical to the design shoppe next door. I asked the girls at work. Turns out that the designer used to rent what was now the trash house and then the lease ran out so they moved next door. They weren't sure of the details but apparently the previous site of the afore mentioned shop had been left in pristine condition and then decimated about 3 hours after the new tenants moved in. They thought that either the new guys were relatives of the owner or the owner was overseas and was clueless to the demise of his property. Either way, they had sufficiently demolished the place, making it look days away from being condemned. Way to go guys. Bringing down the property value for everyone, even in Newmarket.

What it tastes like

If you want to know what horse feed tastes like or perhaps shredded cardboard with bits of dried sour apricots mixed in it...Buy this box, if you are lucky you'll find a semi-sweet raisin. Good news is its 98% fat free and currently on sale. Bad news is it was no Delite to eat. You'll have jaws so muscular after just one bowl that even Arnold will be jealous.

We are petitioning the company to change their name from 'Sunreal' to 'Sureal'. Or just to simply omit their product off the market entirely...it really wouldn't be that much of a loss. Eating competition athletes have been banned from eating this because it gives them an unfair advantage, its like steroids for your cheeks.

Sounds of my daily commute

Paul usually leaves for the university, or 'Uni' as the peeps refer to it here, 20-30 minutes before i leave for work. I putter around our dime sized apartment, finishing my breakfast, watching the morning news with Paul and Pippa and count out my train fare for my pocket. Then, its out the door to Bear Park, learning center for little ones with small legs and arms and in the process of graduating from nappies to knickers.

The glass door slides shut and a key locks it.
My rubber soled sandals squeak on the slate bridge echoing between the glass sides.
The exit security door beeps its release and i use my entire body weight to push it open.
It slams behind me and re-beeps the lock.
The gravel crunches as i cut across the parking lot.
My soles slap on the stairs as i descend below Britomart and the tunnels and the trains beneath.
The train screeches and clicks on the tracks as it pulls up.
The brakes groan as it stops.
Clinking, moaning, grating of the train as the cars pull and resist one another.
The beep beep beep of the door alarm sounds the ok to open.
The clatter and squeak of the temporary footpath scaffolding as all the pieces groan under the weight of the busy crowd heading off in a myriad of directions.

The espresso machine whirs and steams and i listen for the clink of the ceramic on the wooden table surface as i pass Organic Nutmeg.
The rev of the car engines accelerate up the hill.

The crosswalk chimes the go ahead to go.

The woman with the hula skirt purse and bubblegum pink lipstick's high heels rhythmically click clack on the cement we pass each other.
The miniature button springs squeeze as i push the code to get into the school.
Door hinges noisily protest on rusty hinges.
As i enter, a wave of cries, playful screams, talking, laughing and quietly in the distance, Jack Johnson sings from the cd player in the far corner of the toddler classroom.

My day has begun.

Yeah, that's right, these little kiwis listen to surfer music...