Another weekend sans chilluns.
I get mad at them sometimes. If my logical and analytical mind can't immediately grasp the entire situation as a whole, I get frustrated. Illogical and seemingly irrational things can do that, as anyone with a similar brain can attest.
"What are you doing?" (loaded and pointed question)
"..." (blank stare with zero verbal response)
"Are you allowed to play with that?" (a simple question, but again very pointed)
"No." (slight signs of relief at a question so easily answered, obviously showing no foresight)
"Then why are you playing with it?"
"..." (back to blank stare with brief and hasty movements to stop doing so)
"WHY ARE YOU PLAYING WITH IT?" (disbelief and disapproval abound)
"Um, coz I'm naughty?" (this is Georgia's patented answer) or "I don't know?" (this one tends to be Damon's)
I get caught, once again, between exasperation at their audacity and admiration at their unequivocably methodical experimentation. It's one thing to say, "They're just kids, kids do that kind of thing," and another to realize that they're like little scientists, testing and measuring and learning what they can from the results.
I honestly do admire them. They amaze me sometimes.
It's cool out, as it's been raining for two days, breaking only for golf in the morning. Poppy is fond of proclaiming God to be a golfer, and he has yet to be proven wrong as the rain always misses us. I held off Johnny, the legally blind Kiwi, with an 8-foot putt on the 18th hole to win by a stroke for the second week in a row. After going out every single week with these four blokes since I first got here, I am only winning now that I'm officially an Aussie.
George is up from her nap, as are Jo and I. We'd all happened to crash out at roughly the same time, with the exception of Damon who crawled into bed and cuddled and whispered to first Jo and then myself until one of us finally woke up. He is now happily clicking through the Special Features of "A Bug's Life" like he invented that freakin' remote control, and I am sitting on the couch reading some Robert Heinlein. I'm attempting to grok what the author is referring to when he uses the word "grok" in context of the Martian language and marveling at the fact that my boy doesn't quite read yet, though he navigates through Behind The Scenes clips like he designed the interface.
Jo's on the computer, chatting with a mutual friend of ours as well as her sister, Roni. She's happily tuning in some streaming music and marveling at the similarities of our tastes after I comment on my love for almost every song that's been played. She is randomly wandering through the lounge room and kissing me on my neck, checking to see if everything is cool. She smells good, like comfortable clothes and a hint of slightly-athletic sweat, and I tell her so.
Georgia's pouting a bit, for as much as she ever can without getting distracted by how much fun life is, because she accidentally wet her pants pre-nap and is naked from the waist down. She's also been told off for chewing on her toys and sucking her fingers. Oral fixations aside, she doesn't tend to take anything terribly personally for too long. Her pouting and crying are only intended to communicate to us her displeasure with being punished. She doesn't actually feel any guilt or remorse for destroying yet another small and intricate toy, and grudgingly puts on the knickers that I hand to her.
Dames finally asks for some assistance with the movie menus, as he's switched the entire setup to German and is a bit bothered by the fact that, "DAD, everyfin turned Chinese! What happened?!?"
I close my book and sit on the bigger couch, picking up my little girl's legs with one hand and setting them upon my lap after plopping down. As I struggle with the DVD settings, my boy climbs up onto my lap and comfortably conforms his little body into mine, much like he does when either Jo or myself is napping. By the time I decide to simply shut the whole DVD off and restart it again, both children are snuggled into me and we're lounging quite effectively. If only I could get one hand free to shove into the front of my waistband, I'd pull a beautiful "Al Bundy." We all agree that maybe we should just watch the DVD as opposed to watching the special footage of the Director chasing insects around the parking lot.
Dames knows all the lines, and repeats them after the fact while looking at me expectantly for the same humourous response that I gave the idiot box. I do so to humour him, though I learn quickly to pay less attention to the movie and laugh more at his renditions. He gleefully continues as his sister absently plays with my fingers and giggles at both of us as well as the TV. She patiently waits for moments when it seems unlikely for him to play up any on-screen joke and then belts out her own version. This usually involves a moment that one might not find terribly funny, yet she sits up, gives a recap, and cackles raucously.
"It's like a CAR! BWAHAHAHAAAA!! A CAR!!!"
She gets the same response from me, though a fair bit of it is genuine laughter at her complete silliness. We exchange smiles, she settles back down onto me, and we go back to watching our movie. We're comfortable and we're all happy.
And then he's there. Standing on the front porch, smiling slightly awkwardly through the window, politely waiting for me to open the door. I'd spaced the fact that he was coming by and I'm startled to say the least. I jostle the kids to their feet and they excitedly greet him with cries of "Daddy!"
I edge past him and give him a bit of a stern look. The one that tells him to be on his best behaviour this weekend. That these are my kids too, and he better take as good a care of them as I would. That he skates on such incredibly thin ice with me already, given his past actions before I even arrived, that he should always be prepared for me to deliver him a complete and thorough ass-kicking with only minimal provocation. The look that makes him shorter and smaller than me, though he is in fact NOT.
I grab the kid's carseats and buckle the attachments into his car. My eagerness to do so does not in any way reflect an intention to expedite the children's departure. I do so to ensure that he won't attempt to do it himself, for I trust him only as far as I trust a magpie to carry him and I want to make absolute certain that my kids are safe.
He's brought his dog, who's name translates from the Aboriginal as "worthless," and Jo takes him out of the car and runs him around for a bit. The kids jabber excitedly about going to see their "Grandie and Grandad" (his parents, whose house they stay at as opposed to staying with him) as well as the events of their day and week. The awkward occasion frequently arises when one of the kids calls out, "Daddy?" and both Steve and I say "What?" My bitter and petty inner-child notices that I'm always a step ahead of him in this response, though the child is usually Damon and he is calling to either of us about half the time. Georgia defers to me as "Daddy" and uses his full name when trying for his attention, which secretly makes me smile inside.
Both kids are buckled in, snug and tight, and I lean across George to kiss Damon's head and tell him to have a good time. I move to kiss her head and tell her to have a good time. She beats me to the punch when I go to remind her to behave with a solemn, "I'll be good Daddy. I'll be a good girl."
With Steve still leaning over and fussing with the complexities of a seat-belt, Damon's eyes get serious and he tells me, "I miss you, Dad. I'm gonna miss you." My heart drops as I pull his little head against mine and tell him I'm going to miss him too. I kiss him goodbye again.
I'm doing my best to keep my composure as Georgia says to me, "I miss you Daddy, I'll miss you and I will." I kiss her forehead and give her a nosey-nosey and tell them that I'll miss them both terribly, but that they'll have a good time and to be good.
His dog is incredibly obnoxious, still being a puppy and all, and constantly has to nip and lick at people's faces in an extremely over-exuberant manner. I cringe as I see both kids recoil, especially Damon who doesn't really care for dogs, when the dog leans over into the backseat area and harasses them.
I hate this.
Let me rephrase that... I really, really, HATE this.
I miss them. This house doesn't really make sense without them in it. Sure, we turn up the music to way-too-loud levels, have one too many beers, and run around naked being as noisy as we wish. We eat a dinner of Toohey's Ale and baked snacks while surfing the internet. We only have ourselves to concern ourselves with, and we can make plans accordingly. We have our share of fun.
But we miss them. We both miss them something awful and, if given our druthers, would never have them leave. Not with him at least.
We're going out tonight. A chance to put on The Hotness and show it off a bit. We might stumble home and drunkenly undress each other as any other relatively-newlywedded couple might do.
Unlike other newlyweds, there's something bittersweet about those moments when a passionate embrace is broken only long enough to dig a miniature skateboarding Tony Hawk from behind one's back and fling it across the room.
Our weekend is our own and we're having fun, but all will be right with the World once our kids are back under our roof.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.I’m no hobbitt.
My five-year-old Damon has just informed me about his love for cupcakes, despite the fact that "cupcakes ah also fahts, daddy."
Heh, I'd forgotten that. I'ma get ‘im with that one later...
Father-in-law, Poppy, is a smallish, wiry, thin, deceptively strong old man, but he occasionally requires a bit more muscle when working any number of his odd jobs, and he invites me along. Cash in my hand is a sweet incentive, the work isn't meant to kill me, and he's damn easy to be around.
So we built a fence. A big one.
Fairly-newly-richened lady Sandra likes to scream at her kids and husband and hire out Poppy for any old chore around their rather stately joint. The money's good and he puts up with it, but she has absolutely zero right to have such a well-adjusted and pleasant 14-year old daughter. I figured, or at least had hoped, that she was hanging around me and Poppy because of her raging teenage hormones, but it turns out that she genuinely and sincerely possesses a strong work-ethic and nothing but the purest of intentions for wanting to subject herself to such conditions (both the weather and my sweatystinky self).
So we hammered and sawed and I dug somewhere between 23 and eleventy brazillian holes a half meter deep and put really heavy posts and really heavy bags of concrete in them.
It was good, but hard, but good.
Somewhere along in there, my wedding ring disappeared. To keep it from getting all scratched up, I'd tied it to the string around my neck using my bestest Boy Scout knot, yet forgot not only that I'm a complete tardigan, but that I got thrown out of the Scouts before I got that badge. A brief moment of carelessness and stupidity, for which I am known for many, basically wrecked me.
I had help in my search for it, I had a basic idea of where it might have been, but it wasn't getting found. I traced and re-re-re-traced all my steps, as did my help, and we found not a clue. We knocked off early as I was apparently so perilously close to breaking down that Poppy didn't trust me to carry the 40-kilo posts without repeatedly banging one against my head.
I wasn't having fun. Wife wasn't having fun either, and we were both quite down. It wasn't the money, it wasn't the hassle, it was just that thing that you couldn't hope to explain to any dude who's never been happily married.
The next day, we rented a metal detector, I figured out how to use it, and I spent two solid hours going over every spot I could think of, including checking each two-foot concrete posthole. I don't know what I would've done had the sensor sounded above one of the now-filled-in holes, but I had a hammer, a chisel, a song, and I wasn't to be stopped.
My heart leapt when I actually found a ring instead of a bottlecap or fencing staples, but I just as quickly threw it into the next time zone when I found it to be a crappy old "mood ring" from some crappy vending machine.
I was still not having fun. Neither was wife. Neither of us wanted to say it out loud, but we were both left thinking, "But this stuff just doesn't happen to us! It just doesn't." We made some wishes and went to bed. Wife held her finger up, I blew the eyelash off of it, and she reminded me that you can't chase down wishes, you have to just let them come to you. That night, we dreamt of losing things like mythical animals bound for The Ark (anybody ever heard of a "tanto?") and about clues to finding our Heart's Desire left in broken Spanish (I told her it meant "Golden Estuary" though it could've just as easily been "Burnt Cookie Dough.").
I worked my ass off the next day, with what appeared to be a firm resolve to a "job well done," but instead what was in fact a need to get finished and get out of there. The work wasn't near as exhausting as walking around with constant radar on, finely tuned and highly sensitive, and I was growing sick of the futility of it all.
We finished the fence and hung the wrought-iron gate, and the assemblage went into the house to sort out the cash and such. I stayed behind to take one last walk, casting cursory looks to my left and right and occasionally down, but certainly not seeing anything for I was not really looking. For some inexplicable reason, I thought that it was somehow going to reveal itself to me.
My walk finished, there was no more fence to traverse. I was done.
I walked to the front of the driveway, pulled the dropbars up, and proudly swung the wide gates inward. I was enjoying a comfortable sense of accomplishment while staring at the gate when I simply had to turn my head and look down. Though I don't know why, I stared directly into a spot that I would never have seen from any other angle and had previously been searched thoroughly.
And there it was.
There in a crack in the concrete, an inch and a half wide, four inches deep, and about nine inches long, sat my ring. The light that did hit it wasn't significant enough to make it glint or shine and I had to stare for a few seconds before I could even make out it was there. I had no right looking in that exact spot with such intensity, though even if I had I wouldn't have picked anything up with my previous radar's strength.
I lost it two days previous, spent a combined 10 man-hours searching for it over a 500 square meter area, and within 10 minutes of finishing up the job, had found it in a place so obscure and simple it boggles.
I don't know why I found it, but I'm not asking too many questions.
It's back and I'm whole again.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Frodo Lurks Too.
My five-year-old has just informed me about his love for cupcakes, despite the fact that "cupcakes ah also fahts, daddy."
Heh, I'd forgotten that. I'ma get 'im with that one later...
Father-in-law, Poppy, is a smallish, wiry, thin, deceptively strong old man, but he occasionally requires a bit more muscle when working any number of his odd jobs, and he invites me along. Cash in my hand is a sweet incentive, the work isn't meant to kill me, and he's damn easy to be around.
So we built a fence. A big one.
Fairly-newly-richened whitetrash lady likes to scream at her kids and husband and hire out Poppy for any old chore around their rather stately joint. The money's good and he puts up with it, but she has absolutely zero right to have such a well-adjusted and pleasant 14-year old daughter. I figured, or at least had hoped, that she was hanging around me and Poppy because of her raging hormones and my irresistible sexitudiness, but it turns out that she genuinely and sincerely possesses a strong work-ethic and nothing but the purest of intentions for wanting to subject herself to such adverse conditions (both the hotter-n-fuck weather and my sweatystinkynastysexy self).
So we hammered and sawed and I dug somewhere between 23 and eleventy brazillian holes a half meter deep and put really fucking heavy posts and really fucking heavy bags of concrete in them.
It was good, but hard, but good.
Somewhere along in there, my wedding ring disappeared. To keep it from getting all scratched up, I'd tied it to the string around my neck using my bestest Boy Scout knot, yet forgot not only that I'm a complete dipnuggeted tardigan, but that I got thrown out of the Scouts before I got that fucking badge. A brief moment of carelessness and stupidity, for which I am known for many, basically wrecked me.
I had help in my search for it, I had a basic idea of where it might have been, but it wasn't getting found. I traced and re-re-re-traced all my steps, as did my help, and we found not a clue. We knocked off early as I was apparently so perilously close to breaking down that Poppy didn't trust me to carry the 40-kilo posts without repeatedly banging one against my head.
I wasn't having fun. Wife wasn't having fun either, and we were both quite down. It wasn't the money, it wasn't the hassle, it was just that thing that you couldn't hope to explain to any dude who's never been happily married.
The next day, we rented a metal detector, I figured out how to use it, and I spent two solid hours going over every spot I could think of, including checking each two-foot concrete posthole. I don't know what I would've done had the sensor sounded above one of the now-filled-in holes, but I had a hammer, a chisel, a song, and I wasn't to be stopped.
My heart leapt when I actually found a ring instead of a bottlecap or a used prophylactic (high iron content in his diet?) but I just as quickly threw it into the next time zone when I found it to be a crappy old "mood ring" from some crappy vending machine.
I was still not having fun. Neither was wife. Neither of us wanted to say it out loud, but we were both left thinking, "But this shit just doesn't happen to us! It just doesn't." We made some wishes and went to bed. Wife held her finger up, I blew the eyelash off of it, and she reminded me that you can't chase down wishes, you have to just let them come to you. That night, we dreamt of losing things like mythical animals bound for The Ark (anybody ever heard of a "tanto?") and about clues to finding our Heart's Desire left in broken Spanish (I told her it meant "Green Estuary" though it could've just as easily been "Burnt Cookie Dough.").
I worked my ass off the next day, with what appeared to be a firm resolve to a "job well done," but instead what was in fact a need to get finished and get out of there. The work wasn't near as exhausting as walking around with constant radar on, finely tuned and highly sensitive, and I was growing sick of the futility of it all.
We finished the fence and hung the wrought-iron gate, and the assemblage went into the house to sort out the cash and such. I stayed behind to take one last walk, casting cursory looks to my left and right and occasionally down, but certainly not seeing anything for I was not really looking. For some inexplicable reason, I thought that it was somehow going to reveal itself to me.
My walk finished, there was no more fence to traverse. I was done.
I walked to the front of the driveway, pulled the dropbars up, and proudly swung the wide gates inward. I was enjoying a comfortable sense of accomplishment while staring at the gate when I simply had to turn my head and look down. Though I don't know why, I stared directly into a spot that I would never have seen from any other angle and had previously been searched thoroughly.
And there it was.
There in a crack in the concrete, an inch and a half wide, four inches deep, and about nine inches long, sat my ring. The light that did hit it wasn't significant enough to make it glint or shine and I had to stare for a few seconds before I could even make out it was there. I had no right looking in that exact spot with such intensity, though even if I had I wouldn't have picked anything up with my previous radar's strength.
I lost it two days previous, spent a combined 10 man-hours searching for it over a 500 square meter area, and within 10 minutes of finishing up the job, had found it in a place so obscure and simple it boggles.
I don't know why I found it, but I'm not asking too many questions.
It's back and I'm whole again.
We, Wife and I that is, are talking about... you know. Stuff.
We'd talked about it previously, but never with such definitiveness, and now we've got some plans about said Stuff for sometime in the not-too-distant future.
But that means that we've got to quit smoking.
Which I've never done.
Which sucks mightily.
I had decided Tequila is the solution, but that's a hard one to argue to the boychild who is coercing me into yet another viewing of "A Bug's Life" and the girlchild sprawled across my lap, so "Kirk's Pasito*" it is.
*Holy shit, Passion Fruit Soft Drink... it's freakin' awesome. Between that, "Lift" Lemon Drink, and Mrs. Mac's Meat Pies, I am baffled as to why the ol' U.S. hasn't figured out how to get this shit in stores.
I've seen that it's National De-lurking Something, and though my first urge is to call all of you out, I realized that this would be a mistake.
Not that I don't care if "Shawna" in Shitpoke, Iowa reads this worthless shit.
I do. She's terribly sweet, that Shawna, and probably would send me nekkid pichers iffin' I asked. Awesome, but what the fuck IS with Iowa anyway?
No, it's just that I've relearned how to be a complete freak about my stats, and have been checking them lately.
I know who you are.
I thought I'd take this moment to delurkifierize myself, to a certain extent, and come out of the I-check-stats-so-obsessively-I-notice-any-anomaly closet.
So, to whomever you are out there, Smooches.
Smooches to Cork, Ireland. There's only one of you, I'm pretty sure, and you don't come by very often, but you do come by. Lovely to see you here and hope that you don't have a flaming case of crotchrot from the experience.
Smooches to Cape Something, South Africa. There's only one of you too, as far as I can tell, but you come back with about the same frequency as our Mick friend above, and I wish you the same good fortune concerning lack of problems in your crotchenities.
Full on Tongue to Argentina, I remember who you are as I've dropped by your blog too, but refresh my memory and consider yourself added to the Fungus Free Nether Regions Group, or FFNRG (which is remarkably similar to the noise you make when you AREN'T).
Kiss on top of the head to Malaysia, for I've seen many of your people around these parts and I'm pretty sure I'd throw my back out trying to reach my lips to anywhere else. I keed, I don't know anything more about you than where you are and how often you read. And your screen resolution, but I can't imagine caring less than I do about that (who designs these feckin' stat programs?).
China, you come and go so often that I can't keep track if you're real. Even after throwing out the referring pages that have to do with "dog piss sewing pussy leather peanut monkey fuck" I'm left with hits from China that make me think you might love me more than... um... Monkeys.
New Zealand, I don't really think that you're the windowlicking cousin of my new home country like the rest of them. There's one or two of you, but I notice coz I care, and not because we Montanans share a ton of the same sheep jokes.
Big Smooches to mah Aussies, and a heapin' Thanks for Immigration telling me that I'm all legal 'n shit. I can do it all but vote in my new home, and who wants any part of that nonsense anyway? I did that kind of shit back in the States and look what happened.
Anyhoo, Adelaide, I think I know who you are, as I do Canberra, but Melbourne and Sydney have too many for me to sort. Hey Dinky-Marzy-baby, not sure if you want link action or not and I forget which city you're in, but I see you comin' by. Smooches sweets.
Oh, and Phillipines, you have your fair share of funkyassmonkeynut searches, but I think there might be some real folks there that find me slightly more interesting than that chick in the tub. Ha, I almost got that out without giggling. Fuck.
Canuckleheads, there's a fuckload of you. Smooches to all of you, except for the Surly One, who gets a size-11 steel cap inna arse. I see you, and I'm pretty sure that none of you are my old hockey coach. Just in case you are though, "Hey Holzer, Eat a Bowl of Fuck. Love, Your Goalie."
I didn't necessarily mean to do this by country, but big smooches to all 'Mercan friends. I see you in your respective states, checking in here regardless of whether or not I've updated. Some of you waste at least a few seconds almost every freakin' day, and I can't quite figure out why you don't sign up for Notify, or Dland's buddy-thingy or something, but hey, it's your obsessio... I mean, deal.
So, I don't ask you to de-lurk, just hold still while I poke some fun at you.
I love you all.
Not really, but MOST of you, and that's lots, so there.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Lemme just say, “Thank You”
Allow me to take a minute to issue a long overdue "Thank You" to some folks for helping me and Jo have such an incredibly wonderful visit over the holidays.
Yes, once again, I could have written each and every one of you an email, but that would mean that I'm not terribly lazy... and the very existence of this diary proves that I am, so there.
I'll go in chronological order, since that's easiest (see? LAZY.), and start with my in-laws here in Oz...
Thank you, Ronifer and Doc Sam, for taking care of the house and our son. Thank you for being so good to him and keeping him not only healthy but happy as well, and thank you for absolutely rocking like Champions with the house. I had to go back outside and check the house number to make sure that we were at the right place when we got home. You really went all out, as you tend to do, and I appreciate you. I love you guys with much muchness.
Thank you my other favoritest in-law, Chris, for never even blinking when we need a ride at either 2 in the afternoon or 4:30 in the morning. I know you probably always got important happnin's goin' down, but you've always been there for us, and I appreciate you. You and Sharnie would be some of my favorite people whether I was related to you or not.
Thank you to my favorite li'l Cobra, Anu, and to Vedha and Venu too, for having us in, making us feel comfortable, and for giving us the first wedding present that made us both say, "Wow, that looks just like what real grown-ups get when they get married." You've been one of my favorite people for a long time, Cobra, and that won't change as long as you protect me from Dave. He might be cheesed that we never hooked up, though I tried.
Thank you to my dearest of friends up in snowy Steamboat, Willis and Torey, thank you so much for such a great time. You fed us, you beered us, and you gave us an amazing place to stay. Not to even mention the raucously good time that we all had. Thank you Wilbur, for being "Wilbur" and getting me free drinks and not-carded EVERYWHERE in town. Thank you Torey, for attempting subtlety when sizing up my wife, and for unleashing your unabashed love for her after she obviously did far more than just "measure up." Oh My Dog, did we have us some fun, and Jo has mentioned that part of the trip at least 78 times as "the funnestical part."
Thank you Becky and Juris, for making it such a priority to hook up while we were out there. Drinks and fun with The Jurinator could hardly be simply described to my wife, she had to experience it. Congrats to you guys and to Jake and Rachel too, two little bouncing baby hockey players within 10 weeks of each other is going to make for some much good times.
Thank you Auntie Gaye and Uncle Nick, for making such a long trip out to the sticks and such, and for bringing along Awesome Cousin Gina. Shame Nicky couldn't make it, but the rest of you helped complete the family picture that I was hoping to show to my wife. Thank you Gina, for being your kickass self. You rock.
Thank you Cady, Bobby, Virginia, Ray, Gaylie, Jo, Mindy, Robin, and all the rest, for a wonderful dinner and a truly memorable experience for the Aussie. I did relatively little to prepare her for the atmosphere at the "adopted family" gatherings, she was understandably tentative at first, and then all came together beautifully. She had a great time hearing stories about me (Ginia, I still have no idea what girl you are talking about though) and gaining valuable context about the folks that she's heard so much about. I even got a kick out of the fact that Bobby didn't seem to want her to leave, we were having such a good time.
Thanks to Dad, and especially to Cathie, for all your efforts in not only going all out to make us feel completely happy and comfortable, but for putting on that wonderful reception. Seriously, if you could've seen Jo's face when I told her that there was going to be a "reception" at the "country club" you would have giggled like I did. My repeated efforts to soothe her anxieties were limited to saying things like, "Honey... it's Montana... there'll be Carhartt's, cleaned and pressed, but still." I couldn't think of much more to tell her to describe it, other than not to worry about it. She didn't, and had a great time.
Thanks to Becky, Bret, and the B-children for making that dog-awful drive all the way up to Montanyland. You guys were beyond entertaining, and far exceeded the fun-quotient that I had prepared Jo for. Ben is a truly remarkable boy, and he never fails to amaze. Bethany is sweetness personified and Becky is basically the grown-up version of such, while Bret is my most favoritest-awesomest uncle ever. Thank you Becky, for helping Gaye and Gina and Cathie and Jamel and the rest with all the preparations for the reception, and thank you Bret for taking care of the foodations and such. Not to mention the Moose Drool, for which I am eternally grateful.
Jamel and Jason, thank you so much, not just for hanging out with us and being all cool and all, but for your gift. The "place of honour" where we mentioned that it would go on the wall is tile, so we need to get suitable adhesives to get hangers affixed to it. As soon as we do, I'm taking a picture and sending it to you guys. Jamel, my wife is as sentimental as I am, though a bit easier to leak from the eyes, and she got a bit chokey when talking about what a gift like that meant to her (though I doubt that was allergies in your eyes when the two of you were talking...). Seriously, we had been discussing gifts of love, created specifically for us, not 3 days before receiving yours, and it meant the Absolute World to us. Wow.
Matt and your goofy sister and parents. Thanks for making the trip down from Ballantine to meet the wife and partake in the party. You guys completed the "family picture" that I had described to Jo, for every Family Tapestry needs it's Weavings of Crazy. Matty, thanks for coming down from the Great White North. You are my only single reason for ever wanting to visit Calgary (other than to spit on anyone wearing a Theo Fleury jersey) and I honestly plan to someday.
Neal the Squeal and your gorgeous wife, Steph and equally gorgeous brand-spankin-new baby, Zachary. Thank you guys for coming all the way down for that reception. You represented the precious few that weren't actually family, in one way or another, and gave me and the wife some good company. Your boy is beautiful and I'm not certain, but I may have him to thank, or smack even, for fostering the notion of one of our own sometime soon. It was damn good to see you guys.
Montana Matty and Tedi Bear. What can I say? Matty, thank you so much for all that you've done for me. At a time when I was at my worst, separated by 10,000 miles from my love, you gave me a place to stay and you never treated me any differently than a good friend, despite the fact that I was a mopey, pouty, depression-laded wraith, wandering about your house saying little and drinking too much. I have a hard time believing it was because I was sneaking you smokes behind Tedi's back either. You're a friggin' great guy, and I'm damn lucky to have had you in my life. Thank you.
Theodora, I meant what I said the first night that I knew about you and that boy, Matt. Despite his quirks, which may drive you incalculably insane, he is most definitely a keeper, and I couldn't be more pleased that you're going to actually keep him. Like forever and all. Thank you for making him so happy, thank you for being your incredibly sweet self, and thank you for being so cool to my wife. You two made the list of "folks Jo definitely would ALWAYS have time for a beer with."
Thank you Gramma Genie, for being such an incredible person in my life. You had a huge part in not only caring for me as a little one, but in who I am every day. Since my wife thinks who I am is pretty good, and I think she's beyond awesome and trust her opinion, I owe a large part of that to you. Thank you for always having time for me and my impromptu visits, thank you for never ever failing to make me feel completely at home in a place that I hadn't known as such in over 20 years. Thank you for everything, I couldn't love you more if I actually was one of your grandchildren.
Last, but the farthest thing from least, Mombo. Thank you Mom, for every single ounce of support that you could squeeze from your Momness, for being someone who was always, ALWAYS, there without fail, rain or shine, hell or high water. Thank you for giving me nothing but everything I needed, and thank you so much for honestly and genuinely loving my wife to bits. I knew you would, you knew you would, even SHE knew you would, but it was nothing short of magnificent to actually see it with my own eyes. She loves you so much and misses you terribly, much like my own self. You've honestly given so much, I can't ever hope to repay you and, as feeble as it may sound to some, I can only offer my happiness. Happiness that you had such a huge part in providing to me.
Sappy, yes, but stuff that I needed to get out. Thank all of you from the bottom of my li'l down-under-livin'-so-happy-I-may-burst Heart. You're the best, all of you, and I couldn't have done better if I'd written the script my self.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Home and Back Again.
The days and weeks preceding the holidays were a time filled with stress for he and his lovely wife, not to mention the two little walking barometers in the house. The excitement and anticipation of their trip back to America notwithstanding, leaving his kids for two weeks wasn't something he was looking forward to. The logistics of taking them along on such a significant voyage simply didn't work out and they stayed with their wonderful auntie as well as assorted grandparents. He had something extremely important to do. He had to introduce his wife to his old life.
The day of departure finally came, and his sleepy brother-in-law arrived in the pre-pre-dawn hours to ferry them to the airport. The nervousness and excitement felt by both he and his wife was ratcheted further up the scale for every mile and milestone that they crossed. Her first trip in a major airplane, first visit to another state, first trip out of the country, and the not-even-remotely-small item of meeting his family.
The camera clicked as continually as her excited jabbering, and a new t-shirt, refrigerator magnet, or nosepicking tool was garnered in each new locale. It took a bit of convincing, but his wife's urge to take numerous photos in the airport security line at LAX was quelled in favor of a single token shot of the back of Stifler's head, simply for novelty's sake. The truly photoworthy subjects at their final destination, the Rocky Mountains, promised to hold still longer and be more willing to be immortalized digitally while almost certainly attracting less attention by security personnel.
A true whirlwind of introductions followed, as his new wife met everyone from his old hockey team to his mother's co-workers. The only respite that Colorado offered was a luxurious two day stint in Steamboat Springs, where one of his oldest and closest friends, Wilbur and his fiancé Torey, gave him Le Grande Hookup via his connections at the mountain's dining establishments, as well as his fiancé's managerial position at the Sheraton Hotel.
After a day spent bopping into and out of each and every shop that virtually screamed, "Tourist Crap Here!" and purchasing at least one item in almost ALL of them, his wife was treated to her first hockey game. The Good Guys lost, heads were moderately hung, and his wife and Torey inebriatingly cheered on the Zamboni driver like they'd been partners-in-crime for years. The post-game dinner was Mexican fare that pleased the Aussie to no end, and the beers (as well as the shot of Patron) loosened her tongue to the point of mentioning that she'd never had a margarita.
Looks of shock and surprise were quickly replaced with fiendish grins as the entire troupe journeyed to a place suspiciously known for the best margaritas on the planet. Many of said best were imbibed, and as he and his wife drunkenly stumbled into their incredible hotel room, they saw that there were not only flowers from Torey, but a note from the concierge... sitting on top of a bottle of champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries. The note involved something along the lines of "Happy Honeymoon!"
They stepped onto the balcony for a smoke amidst the Winter Wonderland, and his wife happily commented to him that they were indeed on their honeymoon. How did they not KNOW?
The answer, "Because this is too perfect to be planned," became readily apparent. Then, BOY did they honeymoon.
Two days, sadly, was not near enough time. The fact that it snowed the entire time gave his wife her first taste of the frozen white stuff in all it's champagne-powdery glory and didn't dampen the visit at all, instead giving Torey a chance to forge a deep bond with his new wife. Much beer was consumed and though the margaritas created gargantuan hangovers, leaving was difficult. The promise of a return trip in September for the wedding certainly made things easier.
The march North across the windy wasteland of Wyoming gave his mother and wife plenty of time to grow even closer, though it also gave his wife ample time to rename the state, "Why-oming," after passing through small-seemingly-pointless-town after town and nothing else in-between.
Montana was reached safely, and the whirlwind continued, encompassing family, extended family, adopted family, and countless friends. A wedding reception was thrown in their honour, and they were indeed honoured by the sheer amount of beer, food, and love present.
He'd shown her his home and almost all of his favorite people and places, and they took to the trek south heavily laden with gifts and a firmer context and appreciation of their family. A different route through high mountain valleys and along winding rivers actually answered the question of, "Why-oming?" with the answer of "Majestic Beauty, idiot" and his mother and his wife, the two most important people in his life, grew ever closer.
Their final day had come, and while it seemed both too long and too short, their adventure was drawing to a close. The trip's quiet tears for achingly missing their two little ones were replaced with the prospect of the coming months to be spent apart from those that grew so incredibly close in such a short amount of time. Bittersweet, it was both wonderful and heart-wrenching, and it was time to go.
Her first actual plane rides had proven her a champion traveler considering they involved a combined 45 hours in a smallish seat next to her snoring and flatulent spouse, but her relief was tangible when they started their decent for home.
Though their little ones were still visiting their grandparents, they were happy and content while quietly ringing in the year's new seconds with his parents-in-law and a bit of champagne. Beautiful and sincere resolutions were shared over what proved to be a slight excess of alcohol, and the combination of such with international jet-lag made lunch the following day with their rellies interesting.
On the first day of the New Year, they decisively collapsed at roughly 8 pm, and found themselves sweeping through their house at 5:30 am unpacking and sorting the last of their trip's bounty. Though neither voiced it out loud, it was highly evident that they were tidying their "nest" in anticipation of their brood's return, even though his wonderful sister-in-law had cleaned the entire house while they were away.
The delight that he felt upon finding some of his children's Christmas toys brought instant heart palpitations (knights, horses, and castles often do) followed by nervous shakes and sweating when he realized that he had to wait until his children were home before he could play wi... ahem... instruct the kids on how to properly assault a castle using ladders, a catapult, and a dragon.
The little ones returned, tiny arms gave gigantic hugs, and the castle was indeed mightily assaulted. After the dragon's fire had subsided, he reclined contentedly across the couch with a look of serenity and happiness across his face and comfortably watched the kids tear through their gifts from the States before sighing heavily.
"You sound like that's the first time you've taken a breath in two weeks," his wife commented amusedly.
Because of the hustle and bustle he hadn't noticed, but she was right.
It's good to be home.
