My page.

If, by some small chance, I haven’t already bothered the shit out of you for this cause, then check ‘em out.

http://cgi.ebay.com.au/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=290380235400#description

And read the questions too:

http://contact.ebay.com.au/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ShowAllQuestions&ShowASQAlways=1&frm=284&iid=290380235400&ssPageName=PageAskSellerQuestion_VI&redirect=0&requested=s700s (mine’s the one that starts with "I’ve already got a BBQ…")

The best part about this is not only is this guy an absolute legend, this thing is ridiculously cheap, but he’s right down the highway from us.

You better believe I’m bidding on that fucker.  If for no other reason than to meet this guy.  Simply awesome.

That’s right, I’ve found a way to be pretty fucking cool.

That was after several beers too, just keep that in mind.

Thus far, I’ve successfully played, from start to finish, where you can recognise them as an actual song:

• Opportunity – Pete Murray
• Iggle Piggle Song – Some Fuckwit
• Hazy Shade of Winter – Simon & Garfunkel
• Under the Bridge – Red Hot Chili Peppers
• Stand By Me – Ben E. King

Now I’m utilising Google for a lesson in frustration on "how to make a guitar make the surfer sound".  Finding nothing, hence the frustration.

So, the real reason I’m actually even posting this fine Sunday evening is because I wanted to brag that I played a whole song already (after roughly 6 weeks of geetar ownership) and tell you how fucking cool I am now (shoosh, repetition makes it more true), and to also make the exact phrase, "how to make a guitar make the surfer sound", show up in Google’s search results in a few days.

Oh, and to say that I like building things and dressing up like I’m somebody from history and fighting with swords.  Yeah, I know you probably knew that, but saying it out loud is part of the steps.

Smoochiebabies.

Go hug someone you love because deep inside they want to be a rock star because they think that would impress you.

You see, I get very comfortable with people and the relationships that they have. My wife’s younger brother, The Düd, was in a long-term relationship with his High School Sweetheart for as long as I knew him. They were comfortable together, seemed to be a good fit, and eventually rented a place together where I attended many a party (most of whose end was signalled for me by staring into the bottom of a toilet bowl). Things were nice. They were comfortable.

But, as we are all sometimes forgetful of, ‘comfortable’ does not equal ‘ideal’ or even ‘happy’ and things with them were slowly showing themselves to be less-than-ideal. Not terribly un-happy, but not the desired anymore. The Düd had called more than a couple of times to announce that they’d broken up, or were on the verge of it at least, only to get back together within the week. It was a song we’d all heard before. Then, one day, he said it differently and it made sense. It was just time to move on.

He’d talked about this Irish chick at his work for a while, telling us how cool she was and how if I went with them out somewhere we’d perfectly fit the beginning of that joke, “An American, an Irishman, and an Aussie walk into a bar…” Sounded cute and all, but I worried he’d just turned his attention onto the next seemingly best thing and was too invested in that. Having fallen victim to this myself, I was wary for him, but kept my mouth shut as I am ever one to let others make their own mistakes.

He ends up on some sort-of-kind-of-dates with this chick and is fully into her. She, to be quite frank, doesn’t seem that into him. He holds it together though, and justifies what appears to be her ambivalence as her being one of those people that doesn’t just let people get close to her too quickly. Having known more than a few of those, and also having justified many a romantic rejection with that same argument, I again kept quiet and was secretly pleased, yet anxious, that she was still around.

Then BOOM, they’re boyfriend/girlfriend, and we’re meant to be meeting her officially at sister-in-law’s house on the weekend.  Wife is all chick-ish about meeting the ‘new’ chick and I’m appropriately apathetic about it all, with the exception that deep-down, I was still a bit put off that he’d gotten rid of the other one without my permission and I was also feeling quite ready to not like this girl at all. Let me repeat: I fully intended to NOT like this chick at all. Not straightaway, anyway, some serious work was needed on her end to get me interested in this union in the slightest. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted The Düd to be happy, but I wasn’t going to welcome this chick in with open arms by any stretch.

Then, I met her. Wife liked her. I liked her. It was a house full of the usual chaos that comes at sis-in-law’s and I recognised that. Then, we hung out again, this time at the setting of that joke set in the bar. Again, “An American, an Irishman…” and we drank, and she bought shots, and we hung out, and her and Wife enjoyed each other and I enjoyed her and did I mention we drank? Yeah, good times.

Months later, and it became a Friday Night Thing at our place to have her and the Düd over. Her and Wife were getting on like Beshtesht Frendsh and I was starting to think that I didn’t want her to ever break up with The Düd, regardless of what a pain in the ass he is sometimes.

He starts ring shopping, and I start to wonder if she’ll actually go for what I secretly want, which is for them to stick together indefinitely. I also wonder if The Düd will screw it up in any fashion. Strange things were happening with The Düd though, he was actually sorting out a lot of the crapulence that I saw when he was with the other one. He was taking similar situations in this relationship that he’d handled differently in the other one, and was now changing how he did things, fixing himself in a way, for her. For HER. I couldn’t have asked for more proof on the quality of this chick other than she made him a better man.

Then, it’s set. They’re engaged. She was her usual dry and sardonic self in relating the tale but it was wrought with emotion, the silly sweet kind, and we were overjoyed not only for the announcement but that they came straight to our place for drinks to tell us. Friday Night Thing was firmly ensconced in our lives, and this cemented it. She was going to be family now… family. As long as he didn’t screw it up before the actual D-Day.

They had a party, an Engagement Party, and even invited the Prime Minister (who didn’t even RSVP, the butthole) and when it came time to make toasts, I lifted my glass and gave a shortened version of what I’ve just written above. While some were not terribly impressed, she got the message. It went something like this:

“When you guys first hooked up, you were replacing somebody I am very fond of, and I was fully prepared not to like you. I had every reason not to like you and I stuck with all of them for as long as I could. Thing is, I never expected to end up loving you like my own family, and I’m happy as hell that you are, as far as I’m concerned, already that.”

Except make it more drunker and picture me announcing things loudly even though some folks are uncomfortable and me seeing that they’re uncomfortable and only getting drunker and louder. Got it? Good.

Anyway, it was sweet and heartfelt and I stand by it steadfastly even as I write this. I love that girl. She’s made my brother-in-law a better man and made my life better for having her in it.

She lost her mum not long after that, to a long and drawn out cancer, and her old man and her sister nicked off to Ireland shortly thereafter. To be blunt, some real shit has rained down on her head all at once. I, like The Düd, have sat back and simply marvelled at how she handled it all. We’ve both said, in separate moments, that we could only wish to have the courage and the strength that she’s shown. She was, quite simply, remarkable. I’m not terribly easily impressed either, and let me just tell you know, this chick… is impressive.

Then during one fine Friday Night Thing, her and Düd announced they were just going to sneak off and get married at the Registry Office a la the mighty beast known as “Juddjo”. Wife and I were among the few there and a feisty little Irish gal smiled down on them while we took silly pictures and had a fine time. Except that wife had a small terrorist cell living in her sinuses and one of them accidentally detonated himself. By the time the party was to be in full swing, she had enough Jihad rockin’ in her nasal passages to require hospitalisation. Missing out on a big event blew big time, for wife and her new best friend.

The Düd and his now Wife got to live in wedded bliss for a while (with many a party at their pad) until her Sis and her Da made it back from Leprechaunpotatoland deciding here was the better life. Back to living somewhere a bit cramped, they’ve trundled along being a happily married couple, and it seems as if it’s always been this way.

A proper and Catholic wedding saw wife staying home with our oldest boy who was violently ill with gastro, leaving the ceremony minus one ringbearer and bridesmaid. We were already down a groomsman and my tux cost more than our rent, so I went to the wedding instead of wife, despite the fact that I had gastro too. I KNOW, hindsight is 20/20 and all that. Wife missed out, I felt like throwing up on the priest the entire ceremony and the only ones from our family to rock the night away was a flowergirl (totally gorgeous) and the baby (who shed her dress for cake and danced like a werewolf refusing all partners). Add this one to the pile of stories told with smiles on our faces and tears in our eyes.

Years on, and birthdays and Christmases, New Years and Australia Days, barbecues and drinkups, have all seen the same basic family unit living, loving and enjoying life. She’s brought the best out in those closest to me, and she’s brought joy and a smile and a many a drunken laugh to my life on many, many occasions. I feel blessed just having known her.

Now, allow me to explain a bit about this… thing that we have going. Being that she’s a natural born shit-stirrer, being Irish and feisty and all, we give each other a hard time as often as we can. I casually flip her the finger whenever I can and she does the same. I send emails to her at work (where Wife also worked for a while, thanks to her) and casually mention that she blows papaya monkeys and she sends me letters, complete with Government Agency Office Letterhead, that proclaim me to be (in very large font, mind you) a “bum bum hole”. In recent months, she’s discovered how irritated I get when she refers to me as a “Texan” and delights in the fact that I can’t get the same reaction out of her by calling her “Scottish”. This little war has seen her hammering me for quite some time with me striking nary an offensive blow.

I have, in my very clever and extremely geeky way, created another blog entry where I’m supposedly telling you all what a horrible hambeast she is, and have isolated her computer to be the only one that sees that entry. I will link to this entry from it, because I have a heart and because Wife told me to, but until she reads that awfulness and sees the video of me slowly and deliberately flipping her off, don’t say anything to her. Cool?

Heh heh, hehehhehehhehehe, haha, hahahahhahahahahahhaah… haha… ha… this is gonna be awesome.

Nic, this one’s for you baby.

Updated: Here’s the one that she saw…

I’d like to take a moment away from stories of the holidays or my broken pee valve to tell you all about a very special person in my life. She’s my sister-in-law by virtue of marrying the Düd, my wife’s younger brother, and her name is Slutface.

Slutface is from England or Scotland, I can’t remember which, though I could swear that she sounds for all the World to have been born and raised in Southern Ontario. It continually amazes me that she denies being Canadian when that’s how she talks. She even gets offended at people for suggesting it!

I figured for the longest time that she was Protestant because of how much she likes the colour orange, but when I found out she was actually Catholic, I almost threw up on the priest at her wedding.

A wedding, by the way, which cursed me so heavily that it made half my family puke that day and put rocks in my pee squeezers.

I mean seriously, WTF?

Oh, and the thing that makes this chick so special? She thinks it’s funny to call me a “Texan” because she thinks it makes me mad. I tell her what’s up by chucking wet sponges at her mascara and peeing in her champagne (didn’t know I did that didja Slutface?).

So, she thinks she’s funny and has a slight upper hand in this little war we have going, where I positively OWN her by giving her the finger every chance I get and she acts all stupid and pretends she can’t see it.

This video should explain it all:

I wasn’t sure it would fly with the Wife though, so I went in thinking that there was a solid likelihood that it wouldn’t happen, as there just isn’t enough space on our property, too much work, it’ll eat up all my “projecty” time, etc. I was prepared for any of these, so my heart pretty much leapt when she got as excited as I did and said something along the lines of, “Now we can tour the coast all Grey Nomad style!”

Even though I’m not ready to retire yet, we were stoked, and I towed the rotting and rusted hulk of mildew-smelling canvas home. It hadn’t been treated with the tenderest care of the past few years and, even though it was free to begin with, my ears immediately drowned out the excited cries of my children with the cha-chinging of a cash register.

Despite the cash needed to simply raise the beast’s societal rating from slightly above Gut-Churning Eyesore to Functional-Yet-WhyWouldYouDoThat, there was a buttload of manual labour involved too, and my back, knees, shoulders, even my upper spleen, were all crying out for a long holiday by the time the hulking monstrosity was ready for any attempt at accommodation.

Plus, it still smelled really bad.

Backbreaking efforts, combined with raw pains in the ass, combined with an almost militaristic strategic plan, had us ready to hit the road first thing on a Friday morning. Food was loaded, beds were made, we’d even fashioned a keep-baby-in area, and the kids had tested the structural integrity of every square inch of the inside through vigorous Climb-On-Bloody-Everything-While-Yelling tests.

As the sun set on the day, I sipped my beer and revelled in the idea that not more than a month ago, somebody said, “Hey, want a free caravan?” and I said, “That’s a real hunk of shit isn’t it?

I thought about when Wife were still in the midst of trying to pull off Christmas Miracles and, being armed with this weapon of relaxation, we felt compelled to plan a date and take that bad boy a-motorin. It was almost as if we simply had to by virtue of the fact that we were in possession of this… thing.

Morning came, kids happily and wonderfully chipped in with whatever task I could set them to, loading such necessities as the baby’s favourite toy, Giraffalopolous, and Jackie Chan DVDs (I told ‘em that the laptop could function as entertainment in the car ONLY as the 3-hour drive was quite daunting). Wife and I prepped children and each other, and we rolled out of the driveway.

32 feet later, I realised that when I bought a new jockey wheel (that little fella in the front of trailers that you can wind down and push the gooseneck up off your hitch with and then roll the trailer around) I had installed it according to where the old one had been. Since I am known for getting the cheapest item I can find and “making it work” I had missed the fact that two different sized wheels shouldn’t be installed in exactly the same way. I was alerted to this fact by the clunking and grinding noises, and by the fact that the entire car was shaking like an old dog shitting a peach pit.

One minute later, a wrench, a few curious yet forgiving neighbours cruising by, some cursing and then a smile, and we were on our way. Our jockey wheel’s pride was stinging a bit, not being able to show off as the only shiny new thing on the entire outside of the caravan any more, but he was game. We smoothly made our way to Nanny and Poppy’s to drop off the dog. Wife’s mum tends to overdo things a bit, but her intentions are good. She hooked us up with some interestingly well-suited cookware and we were off.

8 feet later, with the help of my father-in-law, we realised that none of the lights or signals were working. Driving may be a bit more of an adventure than we’d planned if we can’t actually tell others which way we’re turning, or that we’re stopping and that they may not wish to blend their car with our gigantic ass-end in an instantaneous fashion.

2 hours later, we were going to bop to the auto parts store and fork out some of the Holiday Cash on tail lights and indicators, when Poppy goes to turn the key in the ignition and says, “Hey!You can use those!” pointing to his dilapidated old 2-wheel trailer’s set of ugly, yet functional, lights.

1 hour later, slightly gunky from rotted worms that were once electric wires, and we were on our way for real.

Our destination was Jurien Bay, ~200 km North of Perth on the coast, and despite that there’s a highway about 30 km off the coast that goes straight there, we wanted to follow the coastline up, a la Route 66, and scout out some of the touristy hotspots.

This is WA though, and nothing ever seems to be as I expect it should be in my rational and logical little mind, so even the “coastal” route wasn’t really on the coast, and the multiple turnoffs for the beachside towns were too far for us to determine if those spots were indeed hot. By the time we reached Lancelin and went all the way into the town for gas and some directions (uh yeah, I managed to leave the map at home), we found out that there actually is no road that follows the coast between Lancelin and Jurien.

“You’ll hafta head back out past the construction and make for the Highway” I was told. After I asked if they sold maps, I was presented with a photocopied and hand-drawn sketch of the area with the twists and shimmies that would get me North in the most expeditious fashion.

“So, after the construction eh?”

“Yep, then onto KV and then Sappers, Orange Grove, SomeOtherRoad, MoreTurns, and then RULostYet. ”

“Sheezus. I don’t suppose ‘the construction’ is for a road that actually connects us is it?”

A shrug and an empty-gazed smile told me that the bit of scrap paper was as good as it was going to get.

The kids were road-weary, the trailer was heavy, everyone including the car was tired, and my stress levels were rising as fast as I could witness the gas gauge dropping as Ex-mobile laboured with our portable house.

We rolled into Jurien ~6 minutes before the caravan park closed and checked in. The assurance that I was being given a prime spot was just short of a wink and a nudge, and I felt like we were getting a bit of a hookup, even if I had no idea what a “Bouncy Pillow” was. The children left little cartoon clouds of vapour the second we’d pulled to a stop, leading me to believe that at least they knew what it was.

Happily clambering about and setting up our bulky, awkward, and somewhat ridiculous-looking caravan, I realised that we’d paid for a site with electricity, yet I had… wait for it… forgot the extension cord. A quick trip to the IGA, ~6 minutes before THEY closed, a stop at the liquor store for something to wash away 3 and a half hours in our car, and we were all set to spend the night soothed by the easy sounds of late 70’s/early 80’s bogantastic rock from our neighbours and the intermittent screeching of yet another child bullied and bounced off of the infamous “Bouncy Pillow” (our boy made 3 trips to the caravan with reports of unfairness before I wandered over, flexed, and stated my preferences for his safety loudly and Americanly to several of the 20-odd children there).

4 hours later, it’s just past midnight and we (Wife and I) are awakened by the whoop-whooping of some happy-go-lucky teens, out for a late evening stroll and surely not up to trouble. At all.

3 hours later, in the wee hours of the AM, and our cleverly-dubbed “Magic Ship” has apparently hit some choppy waves. To keep worries down and excitement up, Wife has told the children that we’re setting sail at bedtime and will wake up somewhere after an exciting, if not bumpy, sleep-filled ride. Her promise did not disappoint, and the coastal winds have certainly made me feel like a genuine pirate alright.

2 and three-quarter hours later, and the poorly-compressioned V8 engine cranks to life, needing only constant revving and grinding gear changes to stay in idle. It stops, and in it’s place is a conversation between two gravelly inconsiderate men regarding certain personality traits of a mutual acquaintance. Not one for rash behaviour, I stayed in bed and simply fumed sleepily with Wife. The clincher, as it seems to be with me, is when the kids and the baby stir.

I popped my head out of the caravan like it was an audition for the show about meerkats on Channel Ten, with a terse and pointed, “You fellas gonna be long?”

If you’ll allow yourself to follow your instincts at this moment, then when I describe the fat and aging angler, you’ll see him perfectly as you have 100 times before. Balding, with the remaining more-salt-than-pepper hair close-cropped, thick glasses mounted on a bulging and veiny nose, ruddy and sunburned neck disappearing under a polo shirt embroidered with either a fishing company’s logo, HIS company’s logo, or the tavern where he plays darts, drinks too much, and thinks the waitress is adroitly hiding her secret and burning passion for him. Mount this on a distended belly that only beer can create, twist on a pair of khaki shorts, and plug in a couple of whitened and wiry sticklegs, fit for carrying this swollen caricature around.

There you go, you’ve got it. Multiply it by two, add a touch of facial hair and a hat, and subtract about 15 pounds and some shoulders, and you’ve got a couple of fellas that couldn’t have looked more matter-of-fact about disturbing me than if I had just been hit by their retardedly combusting bushbasher of a truck while standing in the middle of the road.

The intensity of my gaze lent seriousness to the situation, and they were cautious when the said, “Wazzat?”

“Oh,” I began again ever-so-politely, “I was just wondering how long you’re going to be, out here, so I can plan my day accordingly. ”

The matter-of-factness circles their heads until they almost become puzzled when the fat one says to me, “It’s quarter of mate, all the boats are going out. “The latter half of his sentence was lilted towards the condescending end of the spectrum.

I mean, how could I NOT know that the boats went out at 5:45 AM?

“Okay super,” the bite in my voice was back in force, “well I’ve got two kids and a baby here trying to sleep. Should I just get ‘em up now?”I delivered this last bit quite sincerely, as if quarter-of-six boat-leavers were just part of The Experience, and I wouldn’t want to deprive my children of a second of it.

“No, no, mate, you’re alright!” he said, almost relieved that I wasn’t going to make too much of a fuss.

I nodded vigorously, gave him a hearty thumbs up (nearly swapping one digit for another, more convenient, one) and shut the door. Wife grumbled a bit about “fishing azzholes” and told me that I’d handled the situation well, if not bitingly smartassedly, and the fact that I can be quite imposing was a real turn-on, which was exactly what I needed to hear.

My undoubtedly subtle message was apparently received, and it was somehow managed that the boat was hooked up and hauled away without another word of conversation. Interestingly enough, even the shoddy V8 revving was slightly subdued.

12 minutes later, in one of those instances that leads you to believe that you just aren’t going to catch a break, the instant “the boats” left the seagulls came. The warm streaks in the sky, signalling dawn of a spectacular new day, were apparently too much for these majestic creatures to behold. They simply had to squawk about it. Loudly.

1 hour later, by the time that the morning activities were cleared to begin for all, or maybe possibly an hour before they were cleared, they began. Things like sleep and food were once again secondary for our 5 and nearly 7 year olds, for the Bouncy Pillow beckoned. Things like sleep and quiet were mere ghosts in our small world, and a slightly scowly baby and a giant cup of coffee were the new realities.

By the time we’d packed it all back up, chastised the ADD 5-year old for constantly wandering away and into strangers camping areas, released the excess pressure from our oldest’s Yippee Valve, and bid goodbye to the whitest trashiest of our neighbours, we were seriously looking forward to the beach.

While checking out, I contemplated how much to divulge about our nocturnal disturbances to the desk staff, instead deciding to simply keep my opinions to myself and rant about later. Here. On Teh Intraweb. Where I can tell everyone our experience with the Jurien Bay Caravan Park*.

*Watch out for how long it takes me to hit #3 in Google for that phrase. Hey, it’s what I DO fora living.

40 feet later, we’d reached the beachside carpark and docked our hideous beast, ready to venture out into what promised to be the first of many picturesque and idyllic beaches. After our rough night and our limited time to enjoy Jurien Bay before heading south to the Pinnacles, we had figured that we wouldn’t need more than a brief “fix” of the white sandy beach there, as there were surely a plethora more awaiting us.

As it turns out…

We were wrong.

It’s called two birds with one update bitches, and there’s pictures over there.  Feel special.

As my plane was beginning it's descent into Austin and I was thinking about all of funeral shit that I was soon to be subjected to, my brain got instantly excited at the thought that I'd get to go fishing again with my Uncle B. I kept waiting for the grief and sorrow to kick in, yet all I really wanted to do was load up some Shiner Bock, some cigars, the fly-rods, and take his boat out on Lake Belton.

Now be cool, I'm not a complete heartless ass. I felt sad and shit at the funeral-planning session, when we had to go around and share stories of Gramma. I started in with her and her infamous \”walking farts,\” but after many a sharp glance from my dad and the pastor, I relented with the fact that she was the ONLY person in my family that ever remembered every single damn birthday of mine for 30 straight years. That zinger got Dad to hang his head.

HA! SternLook me motherfucker?

I was doing really well at being the good grandchild and all that shit until the pastor asked (*ahem* prodded, guilted, forced…) me to do \”a reading of scripture\” at the services. I'm about as comfortable reading from a Bible as I am from a book of Japanese Tax Laws, so when she handed it to me and I started shaking my hands and making sizzling noises with my mouth, she started to grasp the idea that I was going to be the token fuck-up in the group.

The funeral went surprisingly well, and I was more than happy to blend into the background behind my more flamboyant relatives (yeah, I KNOW), only nodding sympathetically and answering the barrage of questions that almost always opened with, \”So, you're really moving to Australia?\”

I'd done my time in my 10-year old cheeseass suit, the reception was going in full-swing… it was time to fish. Me, The Brother, and Uncle B loaded up as much Shiner as possible and headed out into the brisk early-evening. We'd been trolling, fishing lazily, and drinking heavily when WifeToBe called.

I'd expressed my happiness at the fact that she and The Mom got along so well, but now she would get the full-on Brother the Charmer treatment. She was tentative, at first, but I knew she'd warm up to him quickly when the background noise of him emptying his bladder off the side of the boat caused her to say, \”I can tell you're brothers, you pee the same.\”

For two people who talk so differently, they got along great, and The Brother and Uncle B got treated to our distinct brand of schmoopieness while we were repeatedly dive-bombed by a couple of Blow-The-Fuck-Outta-Middle-Easterners-And-Fishing-Boat Apache Helicopters.

Fort Hood is right off the lake, and despite the fact that I could make out the Pilot's eye-color as he kept swooping by, he failed to notice me giving his \”bird\” the \”bird.\” WifeToBe suggested that I should moon him, for she surely would were she there, but I reminded her of the existence of such a thing as Hellfire Missiles and my desire to keep them from protruding from my rectum.

Considering the circumstances that brought me there, I couldn't have been happier in that moment. My brother got to \”meet\” my fiancé, she still loves me and doesn't think I'm the retard that I am, I was drunk, smoking a cigar, and catching more fish than The Brother and my uncle. The only possible way it could've gotten better would've been if I'd have actually hooked the wheel struts of that fucking helicopter with the BigAss Bass Rod and scored a Jackie-Chan-style waterski ride.

Provided it didn't yank my arms from my sockets, that would've totally fuckin' rocked.

This is why, when Pops called Friday afternoon, I figured he was finally coming around and ready to talk about my impending life-upheaval. It's no secret that he and I aren't close, but the timing seemed about right.

Wrong. He called to inform me that he'd be in Denver on a flight layover, on his way to Texas. My last remaining (and favorite) grandparent died a few hours previous, he's headed down for the funeral, and was wondering if we could have lunch at the airport.

I was still reeling a bit from the news when he asked me to bring along pictures of my bride. Maybe there's hope for him after all.

This 'disconnect' though, has had me a touch nervous all week, and I invited the Mom over for dinner and a bottle of wine, just so we could hash out anything she may be feeling about all this too. No great surprise, but she's behind it 100%. She's been around for the whole story and honestly thinks that this entire deal is everything that I do. She gets it, and I trust her. She even got to talk briefly to WifeToBe when she called.

This might normally cause a freakage for the bride, talking to the future mother-in-law for the first time, but they got on like old friends. I was thankful that the subject of my penchant for peeing in the bathtub as an infant was never brought up, but it is International Long-Distance after all. Some things are going to have to wait 'til they're in person.

But, Life is good. It's ALL good. And nothing can change how Right I know this is.

While at the airport (I just returned) Pops called my favorite Aunt and cousin (whose graduation I attended last Spring) and told them when he'd be in. They began shrieking, in unison, that they needed me to come too.

I'll be honest, I was told that my appearance wasn't necessary in February, when my other aunt (graduating cousin's mother) died, and I was a touch hesitant for them to tell me that it was so incredibly necessary now. I didn't ask why, but they told me that they needed someone around to make them feel good again.

\”What, like feed you honey-coated snacks and rub your tummies?\”

\”No, we need someone to make us laugh, keep things up, but still be strong when we need.\”

\”I can't really afford it right now, but I'll be there. Make you laugh? Um… airline travel usually gets me good and gassy, if I can drink beer and fart, I'm pretty sure laughter will ensue.\”

*laughter prematurely ensues*

\”WE'RE paying for your ticket, get down here now! Oh, and bring pictures of the Aussie.\”

\”Pictures? I'll have to ask her what pictures I can bring, she's kinda sensitive about what her future in-laws (Texans and Montanans) are going to think of her. You guys okay with her in undies with a whip?\”

*laughter prematurely ends*

\”Whuh… whuh-uht?!?\”

My flight's tomorrow morning, I'm packing my only suit and tie, some pics of my bride (the beach ones honey, not the Betties), and I'm going to eat about 17 packets of peanuts en route. Heh heh, and chase 'em with a few beers.

HEY. They asked for it.

Oh, and sorry for not just linking directly to WifeToBe in the last entry. I'm pretty damn dumb sometimes and forget how many friggin people there are that read this shit.

If I brought unwanted traffic to your site, I apologize, but on the other hand, if I can spark some new readers for the folks that I dig (a la El Puerco when he did it for me) then that's way cool.

You gotta admit though, somebody landing on Wombat's diary, expecting to find my beautiful betrothed, must've shat themselves when they saw a big, hairy, beer-swilling, dude in a kilt.

Fuckin' classic.

Not to say that folks haven't told me that they do, but I am fully aware that the general feel is that they don't, and I can hardly blame 'em.

The important thing, to me at least, is that I understand and WifeToBe understands.

There are very few things in the Universe that ever really work out like this, please don't think that we are not acutely aware of this. Sometimes though, sometimes you find someone that you see that ultimate potential in, and everything else just gently and subtly pushes you together. Sometimes, it works like that.

This is one of those times.

Before we'd met in person, things had moved along as one might expect, with tentativeness, cautiousness, massive disbelief, deep and soulful yearning, and lots of pulling away from something that seemed too good to be true.

Sometimes, it's asking a fucking ton to have faith in something that seems like everything you've ever wanted. It's all too easy to think that things like this just don't happen, for even if you'd ever even heard of it happening, which we hadn't, it seemed like it just wouldn't happen to us.

But it did.

Someday I may actually attempt to document the falling stars, the magic 8-balls, the surreal visions/dreams, the X-filesy psychic wackiness, or even all of the amazing similarities. Not today though, there's simply too much.

Suffice to say, I met Me. For the first time, I truly got to know someone else who is so much like me that I was forced to see myself through their eyes and she did exactly the same.

We sort of held out though, for that first meeting, for that chance to really KNOW if all the signs-and-omens bullshit was just that… bullshit.

Not only was it NOT, but it kept happening, and happening.

It takes more than the fact that our hands and feet are identical, other than a half-inch extension of one of her lines, or that we both love/hate the same foods/music/movies. Being with someone in person, you learn a lot about their feel and you learn to trust Gut without constantly checking to see if he's whispering anything. He almost always is, so when he's quiet, when everybody's quiet because they're so goddam happy and complete, you tend to trust that.

It takes more than a strong, mutual, emotional/lusting attraction, and it takes more than pheromones and/or a perfect physical \”fit.\”

It takes more than all of that, I'll admit. But… none of that stuff hurts.

It wasn't the easiest week, as far as situations and their stresses go, but neither of us ever felt anything other than complete contentment and wholeness with the other. Again, words can never do it justice, they simply can't.

When something is Right, you just KNOW. Cliche? Maybe, but none the less true, I know this.

So, that Friday morning we sat on the bed, eating cold pizza from the night before and talking about our feelings on \”marriage\” and \”forever\” and all the trappings. We both agreed that, when you've wanted something for your entire life and have always known EXACTLY what that was, despite how it gets refined over the years or how impossible it ever seemed to be attainable, when you truly see it, you know it.

We knew it.

We tested it too, and it kept passing by far exceeding any expectations. So we told each other that we'd be alright with getting married \”someday,\” since we already knew that eternity wasn't anything that we could ponder without the other in it.

\”Someday\” turned into that particular day.

It wasn't drastic or flaky. Not sudden or impulsive. It wasn't even to get me into the country… until we'd already done it and looked at all the visa options.

It was just Right.

We regret nothing. Except possibly not fully believing sooner, but Life offers a fuckload of lessons and they are never easy nor fun, and they must be learned if we are to truly move forward.

So no shit. I'm selling everything I own and moving to Australia. I've got a shit ton of paperwork to put together for a visa and a handsome wad of cash that needs to accompany it. I've got a house that needs sold and all of my worldly possessions have to go too including, sadly, Asshead… and my comic books. I'm not going to elaborate on which of those two takes precedence because I'll be sure to catch hell from the animally folks, but seriously, you guys have no idea what a true Asshead she is…

Keep a lookout in here for the Fire Sale at Casa De Hole, Everything Must Go! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!

I've been somewhat remiss in my introduction of WifeToBe to all of my friends and family, mostly because she's so freakin' far away, but also because I've been told that I should at least have pictures so that the AlphaFemmes in my life can size her up accordingly.

I've heaved many a heavy sigh when trying to tell people about her and why we are meant to be together.

I've pondered linking to her diary, though it's become apparent that some have already found it, but I didn't want to feel like either of us needs to explain anything. She's there, on the left, if you wish to read. I make no blogger's disclaimer for I figure if you need to hear that shit then you're too fucked to ever really be reached.

I could never really hope to capture how much I love her in a goddam diary anyway.

The best I can truly come up with is: I'm happy, for the first time in my entire life, I am truly happy. And Content, and Real, and Whole, and Complete, and… I could go on and on. And she is the same.

Trust me. Just… trust me. Trust Us.

WifeToBe seemed to absolutely detest having her picture taken, so I had to sneak shots unbeknownst to her. I caught her in a moment, and a pose, that at first seemed oddly familiar to me until I realized that I have those same moments and stand the exact same way. This happens to us so often that it's hard to believe that she's a complete other entity and not just some sort of FemaleJuddDoppleganger.

I honestly make a conscious effort to keep the mad amounts of schmoopieness out of this diary, unless absolutely warranted, but this picture so completely captures something utterly indescribable that it's one of my favorites.

Plus, it was a minor battle to simply be able to post ANY pictures of her, so my reward is showing her off to the masses.

I'll forego the cue for the violins, but she IS the most beautiful woman I've ever even imagined, and she is all mine. I'm struggling mightily with the urge to spew forth adjectives such as: intelligent, charming, funny, SexyAsAllGetOut, and AbsoFuckinLutely Wonderful, but maybe that's just me being completely in love. I must really make some of you sick. Sorry 'bout that.

Naw, Fuck That, I ain't sorry. Yer just jealous, I know this. I would be.

Like I said, I never really expected anyone to understand all of this, and I don't simply want you to be happy for us, though I fully appreciate all of your wonderful comments and emails.

I could only wish for anyone to experience this for themselves.

Nothing has ever been more Right.

My flights out there were smooth and on-time, I never waited more than 45 minutes at any gate, and I never got bored. The latter is probably explained by my body's constant state of excitement and anxiousness, but the constant fear that I'd piss all over myself actually did make the trip go quicker.

I was a bit perturbed at LAX when I had to get off the plane, collect my gigantic hockey bag, and attempt to find Qantas International's terminal, but as I was walking from baggage claim, I noticed a large black fella next to me that looked startlingly familiar.

I made eye-contact with him and his smile, combined with his fucked-up eye, confirmed that I was walking with Forrest Whitaker.

\”Hey, I just saw you shark Paul Newman at pool the other night.\”

Mildly bemused look followed by recognition that I was referring to The Color of Money, \”oh… right on,\” he said and looked forward.

\”No shit,\” I mildly gushed, \”you're one of my favorite actors. Ever since Big Harold in Platoon.\”

Smile, then easy nodding, \”Hey thanks, 'preciate it.\”

\”Can I ask you a question?\”

Uncomfortable glance at Potential Psycho Fan Guy, \”um… sure.\”

\”Do you know where the Qantas terminal is?\”

Laughing as he points and says, \”Yeah, it's at the end of this one.\”

\”Thanks!\”

I sprinted off to catch what I thought would be a horrifically long flight, but instead turned into 15 hours of Qantas pampering Judd with 3 meals, 3 of 20 movies, video chess against the guy in 15H, free socks and toothbrush, and FREE BEER.

The flights were great, but I learned an important lesson at Customs. When greeted with, \”G'day mate, what's your business in Australia?\” the answer, \”LOVE, mate\” is one that will quickly get you pulled aside and thoroughly *cough* THOROUGHLY searched. I passed though, and didn't even have to explain the hole in my boxer briefs.

I bounced nervously through the last flight like Patrick Roy about to take the ice in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. The nice woman next to me heard the whole story and, wishing me luck, had me get off the plane in front of her so she could witness the sweepingly romantic meeting.

And by \”sweepingly romantic,\” I mean, \”crowded with knuckleheaded WWF fans awaiting their square-headed hero while I hugged both Ochweidnit and my Love in a shakily awkward embrace.\” I shook like an old dog shittin' peach pits until she sat me down, and only succeeded in truly calming down after a cigarette and our first kiss.

Driving on the \”wrong\” side of the road brought more nervousness, but many beers and a much good time with their circle of friends more than made up for it. That's not quite true, for when said circle finally left the Hotel Room after said many beers, THAT's when the nervousness went away.

Awesome, awesome, folks though, and I got the feeling that I could hang with them any time, as long as they know to scram when my Love and I get \”tired.\”

A quick 4-hour jaunt down to Albany to Ochweidnit's place got me a bit more natural with driving completely backwards, and quiet, comfortable days flowed into wonderful nights.

A hike down a steep hillside got us a beautifully surreal moment, followed by this view when we got back to the beach.

It took me awhile to shake the whole \”I can't believe I'm in fucking Australia\” feeling, and views like these were part of my disbelief.

I took this one after ooching up to the railing, snapping the picture, then scampering back before the wind could scoop me up and send me to oblivion, ignoring the fact that my Love was standing calmly at the edge and didn't seem in danger of plummeting do her doom at all.

The way the waves crashed on these rocks brought the urge to scream, \”Katerina! Katerina! Arturo! Arturo!\” but I wasn't sure anyone would get it, or even hear me over the blasting wind.

As is my habit in visiting a completely foreign land, I take at least one picture of my feet, preferably in a body of water, and this time I had the company of the woman I love.

After a tearful goodbye to the sis we stopped for a bite at a place mysteriously disguised as \”Burger King\” called \”Hungry Jack's.\” I was feeling quite comfortable driving and being in this foreign place, so when the drive-thru girl didn't understand my order, I cockily ignored my fellow passengers who were repeating, \”Just say 'Spicy Chicken' Judd, dammit,\” and shouted even louder at her, \”A. NUMBER. NINE. PLEASE.\”

I figured it must be my accent, so I relented and ordered a Spicy Chicken, moments before I realized that the \”9\” next to the sandwich on the menu, and the \”10\” next to the sandwich below it had additional, smaller, words underneath them…

\”Grams of Fat\”

How long before the BigDumbYank Jokes wear out?

I'll letcha know.

There are enough humorous cultural differences to fill an entire diary, but one that really got me giggling was this:

Am I the only one that confused the warning for the brand name?

\”Yeah, I'll take two packs of 'Smoking Kills' and a pack of 'Smoking Harms Your Baby.' Menthol, please.\”

Back in the city of Perth and she and I got nothing but time with each other. Friday was, far and away, the best day of my life thus far. Saturday would prove to be, far and away, the hardest, but I don't feel like writing about that just yet.

Friday we lounged in our underwear, eating cold pizza, until we came to a decision and headed for downtown. We perused the shops, did some people watching, flirted and schmoopied it up, and completely soaked up the moments spent softly kissing and gazing into each other's eyes. It was sappy and sickeningly romantic, and I can imagine that my description brings heart-twangs to the romantic as readily as it brings stomach bile into the throats of the cynical.

Oh, and we went to some Official Governmenty Place and filed the paperwork to get married.

I'm selling everything I own and moving to Australia.

Anybody want my dog, Asshead?

I can ramble on and on about the plane ride, the people I've met, the stuff I've done and seen, the time of my life I'm having and loads of other important and/or inane shit but I won't.

I'll simply say Thanks to all of you commenting and emailing and, since I'm too lazy (and a bit… preoccupied) to write you all back right now, I'll just say… that thing? You know… that Thing I was hoping for, wishing and wanting and pining for?

Yeah, THAT.

Well, I got it.

I've got it and, for the first time in my life (and certainly in this diary), I don't have the words. I'd throw out \”happy\” or \”complete\” or \”blissfully whole\” but none of those do it justice.

It's just the best thing ever, that's all.

And NO, it's not a flaming venereal disease or a pet monkey that brews beer and can program my TV to pick up free porn on the sattelite.

I'll talk to you all when I'm back in the States…

IF I come back, that is.