Heather & Rod's Amazing (& Not So Amazing) New Zealand Adventures

We've Got to Kill Charlie

2010-06-21T23:41:00.000-07:00

“You’re gonna have to kill him,” were the words I uttered to Rod as we watched Charlie lying on his side, barely moving and breathing erratically.

We had gotten attached to him in the last day or two. Our ‘relationship’ started two weeks prior . . .

It was a sunny day. I was sitting on the couch and looking outside the window when I noticed Pele The Cat ‘flirting’ with something in the backyard. I knew he was flirting - - he was flicking his tail and rolling on his back and casting his wide eyes at something in the grass not too far away.

I went to inspect.

A baby hedgehog was the love interest apparently. Freaked out by small, wild animals (wha, huh, do you even follow this blog, people?) I didn’t get too close. But I had to admit he was a bit cute. He was only as big as my hand and slow as a snail, so I wasn’t too worried about a vicious hedgehog attack.

As the days went on, I got used to seeing Charlie skitter across the yard. He seemed to be happy slowly meandering around the lawn and gardens – surely in search of some sort of grub or other hedgehog delicacy.

Pele continued to flirt and often was caught sitting beside Charlie the hedgehog at different places in the garden.

Fast forward to Saturday. Charlie was in the grass and Rod and I were doing a bit of a project – some brick work and seed sowing. Charlie had a bit of a nap in the grass for a few hours, which we found rather odd. Especially since we were walking past him continuously. No sign of him curling up into a defensive ball as they do. But, he perked up as the sun went down and proceeded his wandering ways around the yard, checking out our new brickwork along the way.

He did seem a bit out of sorts, however. He just wasn’t quite right. At one point we tried to feed him cat food – that apparently isn’t something hedgehogs normally eat. He turned his nose up – literally!

That night, the last we saw Charlie he was heading under the deck with Pele close behind watching his every move.

The next morning, I opened the blinds to find Charlie sleeping right by the back door. I did a close inspection – yes, he was breathing, but his breathing was definitely ‘laboured.’ I didn’t feel good about this.

That’s when I said to Rod, “I think you’re going to have to kill Charlie.”

It was the only humane thing to do. . . .

That led us to discuss – how do you properly kill a hedgehog? Several different methods were discussed. But, Rod was pretty defiant. After his killing spree last spring (wha, huh, really, seriously, do you follow my blog??), he was jaded and refused to kill any little backyard friends ever again.

So, Rod went to work and I started my hourly vigil of reporting to the cats on Charlie’s fight for life. “He’s still breathing!,” I’d yell from the living room to the cats who were sleeping in the bedroom.

At one point, Pele went out the cat door and lay down beside Charlie. He then stretched out in the sun with his paws nearly touching Charlie’s spikey little head. I think Pele was hoping Charlie would get up and shuffle about for his amusement. Wasn’t happening . .. .

1:00 came and I checked Charlie one final time and left for a meeting. 3:00, back from my meeting, time for a Charlie Check - - -dead. I yelled to the cats, “Charlie’s kicked it!” They kept sleeping. I phoned Rod and left a message, “Charlie’s dead.”

Well, a few hours later, Rod got home, got the shovel and buried Charlie in the veggie garden. He asked me to say a few words in memorial – my eulogy resembled the ‘few words’ by Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Vacation when the family leaves Aunt Edna at the cousin’s back door . . . . I find a bit of laughter after death makes everyone happier . . . .

The upside is Charlie did not die in vain. Our little Charlie will give us good nutrients for growing our tomatoes next summer.

The irony, however, is . . . the cats love to poo in the exact location where Rod buried Charlie. Later that night, Pele wandered in the cat door with dirt on his paws. I think he pooped on Charlie.

There’s a life lesson in there somewhere - - just not quite sure what it is yet.

A Rat Tale

2010-02-22T20:58:00.003-08:00

It was 2am and my parents, our friend Virginia, Rod and I were fast asleep on Kawau Island in our friend’s beautiful bach. Such an idyllic spot, I could never have imagined the night time scenario that was about to unfold. . .

I’m known to be a light sleeper and was awoken by the sound of bottles clanking together as if someone were rummaging through the empties. Below our bedroom is the rubbish bin, and I immediately thought of racoons in the garbage back home in America. No racoons here, but possums are equally leftover lovers. I had to go investigate.

I venture down the two steps that lead to the kitchen and the side door and see the door has accidently been left ajar. I pull it shut without a further thought and turn on the outside light. As I squint to see if there are possums licking spaghetti and tuna tins, I hear the rattle of bottles coming from just behind me.

I swing around to see the pantry door is open and in the corner where all the liquor bottles sit is something big, brown and hairy slithering around in the corner.
With no thoughts of causing the older folks a heart attack, I scream at the top of my lungs, “ROD, THERE IS SOMETHING IN THE HOUSE!!”

I burst up the stairs, passing Rod and barely giving him time to exit the bedroom before I slam the door shut.

Dreary eyed and no doubt with a racing heart after being awoken by a screaming lunatic of a wife, Rod descends into the kitchen as I yell through the safety of the door. “What is it?”

“You’re crazy, I don’t see anything.” I am now starting to cry and laugh as the whole thing is both scary and funny at the same time.

As Rod fumbles for the pantry light, he answers my question very matter-of-factly, “It’s a rat.”

Okay, now . . . as background info you must know . . . . during the past five years or so, I have developed a phobia toward rats. But the funny thing is I have NEVER actually SEEN a rat . . . . until TONIGHT.

At first I think he’s actually attempting to joke with me at 2:05 in the morning. He’s just said that because it’s really nothing, and he is trying to get me going.

I have the door cracked open and say again, “What is it?” because his answer certainly can’t be true. He annunciates more clearly this time. “It ... is ... a ... RAT.”

I look at my mother who is across the hallway standing in her bedroom doorway. She just loudly exclaims, “Oh no! It could get in our rooms!” And she slams the door real fast. That’s the last I see her that night.

When the excitement began, my father had the urge to pee (no surprises there). Now he emerges from the toilet and wanders downstairs ‘to help.’

By this point, the rat has come out of the pantry and scuttled behind the fridge. I imagine Rod standing in the middle of the kitchen floor wondering what move to make now, when my father says, “Well, of course there are rats around here. That’s no surprise.” And he wanders back to bed leaving Rod alone in the kitchen.

Now, at this point, I know the rat is a reality and I believe I actually suddenly escalate into a true state of hysteria for the first time in my entire life. I am standing on top of the bed, laughing, crying, sobbing, shaking and sweating from fear.

I can hear Rod in the kitchen banging things around and I’m not sure what is happening. He comes into the room and my state, I think, actually scares him more than the rat (not that he’s scared of a stinkin’ rat...).

He tries to console me . . . “Is it gone?,” I ask. “I think it got out the door,” he says. “You’re lying,” I sob. “Well, I’m not actually entirely certain but I’m pretty sure it’s left the building,” he soothes.

“How (sob, sob) . . . . big (sniffle, sniffle) . . . is it,” I choke out. “Just this big,” Rod says, and holds up his fingers to show it’s the smallest rat in history.

“You ARE lying,” I cry. He just hugs me because he can’t retort.

“I can’t (sob, sob) . . . . sleep (sniffle, sniffle) with that thing in this house,” I weep.

So, Rod goes out for round #2. He puts any scrap of food away, closes pantry doors, bangs on the fridge a few more times and comes back to bed.

“I do think it did go outside when I wasn’t looking,” he says and comes back to bed. I just roll my eyes with a ‘yeah, right’ and then start in on some deep breathing exercises. I’m trying to resume some sense of calm while Rod gives me a bit of a cuddle (with the lights on, just in case the rat can slip under the door...).

Now, my mind starts to invent any number of scenarios. I begin to be especially worried about leaving the room with the possibility of the rat scampering about the house. I suddenly feel like I might have to use the toilet, “What if I have to pee later?,” I whisper. “Wake me up and I’ll go with you,” Rod says. My hero.....

We finally turn the light off and Rod resumes a soft snore while I lay completely awake, blanket pulled up to my chin. Within about 15 minutes I start to hear noises. A crinkle of a paper bag, tap-tap-tap of little rat feet (oh, goodness, is it scraping at my door!?), and then suddenly the crash of a broken glass.

Let the screaming begin again . . . .“Rod, it’s still down there! On the shelf with the drinking glasses!” He quickly appeases me and gets up with haste and goes to investigate.

Yes, a wine glass is broken. Evidence that the little hairy sucker is STILL in the house! Ah-hah! Rod was lying to me.

The folks get up again. The whole house is awake because of this stupid rat.

My father actually finally contributes something to the night and has an idea . . . bait. Rod sacrifices a slice of bread, putting it out on the deck just outside the door the rat originally came in. The lights are turned off, glass cleaned up, and we retire to the bedroom where we can watch if the rat exits the house and takes the bait.

It doesn’t take long till the furry monster scampers out the door and starts munching on the wholegrain, no doubt thinking the night’s hunting has really paid off.

With the rat safely back in the bush, we all finally got back to sleep around 4am. Two hours of rat antics. Not my idea of a relaxing weekend at the beach!

I should mention this entire time Virginia has been sound asleep in the boat shed....

When the sun came up, the hysteria was forgotten and it was all just a funny story we kept retelling throughout the day. Needless to say we bolted all the doors shut each night from there on out – we weren’t taking any chances.

Now there is talk that my family want to put me into rat therapy (I worry, hoping there isn’t actually such a thing). And Rod’s even talking about getting us a rat for a pet . . . . apparently he’s already named it ‘Snuggles.’

Great White Cotton Crisis of 2010 Hits New Zealand

2010-01-19T21:03:00.000-08:00

“This is Roving Reporter, Aech Kleicombe, live (online), reporting from downtown Hamilton, New Zealand.

"I am reporting tonight on a little-known-crisis that is threatening homeowners in this city with a shortage that is predicted (by myself) to rival the proportions of last century’s great oil shortages in the 1970s.

“I have been researching this crisis for some time and, although I do not want to panic the city’s homeowners, I do feel it is my duty to report the facts. Just the facts.

“My colleagues and I have been growing increasing panicky as we’ve searched city-wide for what one would assume is a common household item. Yes, that’s right, the all-too-familiar and unexceptional white pillow case.

“And, it’s important to note, readers, that this is only the white pillow case. There is no need to panic if you need ecru, ivory or taupe. No, it is only the WHITE pillow case. Something so incredibly common that homeowners have been able to purchase them since the dawn of the textile age. In fact, white was the first colour of pillow case ever produced in Manchester, UK in 1824 (or thereabouts).

“But, now, it seems you can no longer purchase the common white pillow case in this city – the fourth largest in New Zealand and one well-known for its plethora of shopping outlets. You heard it first here folks, ‘If you can’t get it in Hamilton, you soon won’t be able to get it anywhere.’

“My colleagues and I believe it is only a matter of time until the Great White Cotton Crisis of 2010 (as it is now known) spreads like the wildfires of Australia, to every corner of the earth (kind of like Swine Flu, but slightly different).

“To see just how dire the Great White Cotton Crisis of 2010 really is, I followed a woman from store to store today, chronicling her desperate attempt to find the rare white pillow case. She went from Briscoe’s in Te Rapa to Briscoe’s downtown, to the Warehouse, K-mart and beyond. She went into every store she could possibly think would stock such a common item. Blue, black, and various shades of cream were available in arguably grotesque quantities. However, white was nowhere to be seen.

“At two distinct times the woman, formerly of American origin, was heard saying in her loud twang, ‘This is the type of thing that makes me want to move back home! All I want is a simple white pillow case! Is that such a crazy thing to ask?!’

“The readers will be relieved to note that finally, after gleaning the shelves of every known linen retailer in the city, the woman of note did find white pillow cases at the local Farmers department store. So relieved was she to find the rare treasure, that she bought more than she actually needed, leaving only two on the shelf.

“This leads me to believe hoarding white pillow cases will soon become common practice, meaning the item may soon become totally stocked out (yes, extinct).

“This is Aech Claycomb, signing off to research my next assignment . . .. ‘Why Supermarkets Stock the Shelves with An Item One Week, Never to be Seen Again?’ The American woman mentioned this was another irritating factor that often tempted her to pack her bags.”

The Prime Minister Pees Too

2009-12-10T21:20:00.000-08:00

An airport is always a funny place to see all kinds of people. I was at the Hamilton Airport today for a meeting and while standing in the queue to order a coffee, I saw a man sitting at a cafe table donned in a French beret. The proper, real kind with the little tab on top that makes you want to pluck it right off his bald little head.

But, that wasn’t all: he also had a very French-looking handlebar moustache with the ends twisted tightly and pointed up toward the sky (oui!). And, to top it all off, beside him sat his carry-on luggage that was, in fact, a shopping bag with the words ‘French market’ screen-printed on the side alongside images of various fruits.

“Okay, this guy’s not for real,” I thought to myself. And, while I stood in line, I could tell others were thinking the same. But, after he sat there for a really long time leisurely reading a book and sipping his café au lait from a paper cup, the more I realised he was real - - - a REAL Kiwi trying to be REALLY French .... ah well, no harm in being delusional, I suppose.

So, with MY café au lait in hand, I headed toward a comfy couch for my business meeting. However, only a few minutes into a discussion with my client and I nearly spit my ‘morning drug’ on the sofa.

In walks the Prime Minister – yes, the Prime Minister of New Zealand (yes, my American friends, the same one that appeared on David Letterman recently). The one who was just in Copenhagen meeting with 150 world leaders – yeah, THAT Prime Minister!

He is walking alone through the cafe – right past my French friend – not looking where he’s going and texting like a wandering teenager. Not one person looked his way (“What? Who? Prime Minister? Huh?”) I’m having flash backs to the infamous ‘Phil Keoghan Encounter of 2007’ and the nonchalance Kiwis have toward celebrities (see my posting Dec 22, 2007).

He did have two ‘minders’ (yes, equal to the Secret Service my American friends) who followed not-so-closely behind him. One of the ‘body guards’ (I use the term loosely) was carrying a backpack. I wondered if his mother had packed him lunch and a few magazines to read on the plane ride up from Wellington? The other ‘body guard’ wandered not-so-closely behind the first, gazing out at the plane on the tarmac. Both had those little earpiece thingies with a curly wire disappearing down their shirt collars, but I strongly believe these may have been simple pieces of plastic wire rigged up to look official (Who could possibly be talking to them through the earpieces? Would the two of them talk to each other? Come on!).

As John (hey, there’s obviously no need for formalities here) texted his wife about dinner plans and nearly walked into a few passersby (who didn’t notice who the heck he was, by the way), I soon realised he was heading straight for the loo (the restroom, my American friends).

That got me thinking . . . will he use the urinal? What if it’s one of those long ones that are meant for multiple users (okay, I’ve only seen these in movies, boys, but I’ve got an idea of the setup). Wouldn’t that be a surreal moment . . . relaxin’ for a moment, takin’ a leak, gettin’ ready to do the polite head-nod to your neighbour (this is how I imagine the scene - men, does this happen?) and there’s the leader of your country! “Hey, how’s it hangin’?” What IS the appropriate greeting in such a situation?!

Anyway, as I tried not to envision my Prime Minister peeing but not having any luck, I noticed one minder went in with him while the ‘body guard’ with the backpack stood watch at the doorway. I soon noticed this ‘PM Protector’ was actually chewing gum (aren’t there rules for body guards that state ‘no chewing of gum while guarding the life of our nation’s leader?’ hmmm...).

Soon after John entered the loo, a young man quickly exited the facilities. I’m thinking he was asked to leave – politely I’m sure (“please, don’t rush, just when you’re finished”). Now I’m thinking the Prime Minister has an issue with pee fright. Hey, we share a character flaw - a brother from another mother – don’t worry John, happens to the best of us!

Finally, his business attended to, the great and powerful leader of my country emerged into the cafe area once again . . . . STILL texting (‘Gr8 my luv. Wld enjoy a nice lamb roast for dnr. It is the nat’l dish afta all – LOL  xoxo, C U l8r’).

Ah well . . . see these are the joys of living in New Zealand. There’s never too much pomp and circumstance about much of anything. And, most importantly, the Prime Minister can pee in the same toilet as you and me. Gotta love this wee (ahem...) little nation!

Racing the Dog

2009-11-17T15:51:00.000-08:00

This past August I was coming out of my typical ‘winter funk’ not having exercised much over the rainy season. So, I thought committing myself to run Hamilton’s 12 kilometre Bridge to Bridge fun run would be the trick to get myself in shape by training . . . . I had 3 months to do it. Easy.

Last week, on Wednesday, it’s 4 days till race day and I’m wondering, ‘if I ran the next 3 days, could I possibly get in shape for a 12k run?’ Nope - - so, I downgrade my expectations, ‘I’ll just run the alternate 6k race, thanks.’ Piece of cake.

Is it also too late to train for 6k? Thursday comes, ‘I should really go for a run and see if I can do it...’ Friday rolls around, ‘Run? Hmmm.... kinda rainy...’

Now it’s Friday night and I discuss my dilemma with a friend . . . do I run tomorrow (one day before the race) to see if I can actually run the whole distance, or do I just wing it on Sunday? The risk is I may be too sore on Sunday if I run Saturday after so many months of being such a lump. The overwhelming consensus (by us both) is that it would be madness (MADness I tell you) to run on Saturday and risk injury. Just wake up and go on Sunday. Okay, then, that’s the plan.

Not feeling sufficiently carbed up after 6 months of a bread-heavy diet, I ensure I’ll have energy for the big day by eating a bit of pizza on Saturday night. I do limit myself to one wine, though. Gotta be clear-headed for the big race (hey, I’m all about being kind to my body as it is a temple).

I rise on Sunday early so I can have my high protein breakfast (why I don’t go for more carbs, I can’t say). I inspect the skies . . . looks like rain and gosh, it’s a bit chilly. One thing you must know about me - - - I am a fair-weather outside sport kinda gal. If there is a hint of rain, even a slight percentage chance of showers, there’s no way you’re getting me out to run, golf, play tennis or perform any other outside activity. Perhaps I was a ‘wicked witch’ in a past life? Who knows? All I do know is rain and sport for Heather are not a happy mix.

So, I’m not delighted at the prospect of running this race in rain. But, too late to cancel now...

Anyway, the cats wish me luck and I take off. I register among the 4000+ runners, don my race number and affix my timing device to my shoe. This is all seeming quite ‘real’ now (damn, I should have trained!).

I hang around the start line and wait for the cue to queue. At 9:25 it comes and I squeeze into a place among the crowds. It was like standing in a crowded elevator . . . . I wonder, ‘how am I supposed to take off like Usain Bolt in this mess of people?’ Then my mind switches from annoyance to worry, ‘If I go too slowly, will I get run over in the stampede?’

As the one-minute-till-racetime notice is given I suddenly have one last thought, ‘should I have stretched a bit?’ Oh well, too late now. If I attempt to stretch my quads I risk kicking the guy behind me in the whatsits.

The buzzer sounds and the race begins. . . at a snail’s pace at first, picking up speed every few meters . . . . okay now I’m feigning a run at grandma speed . . . . oh, yes, here we go that’s a better pace. And I’m off! No Bolt, but it’ll do.

As I find my pace, I turn on the ole’ i-Pod Shuffle with my 850 songs. What I need is a good motivational, fast-paced mix to help me keep my mind off my unfit body. First song, slow. . . . second, too slow. I start fiddling with the darn fast-forward button, trying to keep my pace, but it’s hard to concentrate on running and i-Poding at the same TIME. I click 3 times and WHY IS THIS DARN THING PLAYING NEIL DIAMOND OVER AND OVER!!! This is not good for concentrating on the race at hand. I keep clicking 3 times trying to fast forward to the next song, TRYing to find a fast song. THERE ARE 850 SONGS on this darn thing, why are they all so darn slow!! AND WHY does the same Neil Diamond song keep playing over and OVER!

Ah. . . . okay, calming down . ... I suddenly realise it’s TWO clicks for fast-forward, THREE clicks for rewind. Right, that’s how long it’s been since I ran with my i-Pod. Okay, after listening to Neil 3 times over, it’s about 1.5k into it and I finally get some fast motivational music going.

Now, I’m in a groove . . . uh-huh . . . gooday nods all around . . . . feeling good . . . smilin’ a bit . . . lookin’ good in the colour-coordinated running outfit I must say . . . . surprisingly not too tired . . . sun is shining . . . hey this is kinda fun.

It’s now time to eye up the competition. I’ve got my eye on two. A schnauzer and his owner seem to keep one step ahead of me at all times. Even a stop for a poop and scoop doesn’t keep them behind me too long. Always just in front of me. Kilometre 4 comes around and my goal now is not to be beaten by the dog.

I’ve got one eye on the dog and one eye on an older lady who keeps walking a bit and running a bit and each time she runs, she passes me! The nerve. I keep thinking, I can’t be beaten by a dog and I can’t be beaten by walk/run lady (as she’s now known as)! Surely I should be rewarded for: a) being human and b) running the WHOLE race without stopping . . . .

Kilometre 5 comes and we’re getting toward the end now. And, just when I think I’m gaining on the darn dog, he and his owner turn right when I turn left . . . . the dog has decided to run the 12k race. Oh . ... he must have been training since August! Grrr...

Okay, well, that leaves me and the walk/run lady. She’s still at it – wimp . . . .

Now, we’re on the home stretch, I’ve just come off a big hill that leads to the finish line. I can see it in the distance and the walk/run lady is AHEAD of me. No, I can’t let this happen. So, I find that last bit of energy (this must be what the carbo loading was for??) and pick up my speed for the last hundred metres, leaving her IN MY DUST! Huh, take that walk/run lady!

So, I did it. I didn’t stop. I finished 446 out of 1500+ people who did the 6k, so I wasn’t in the bottom half! When I told Rod about my finishing time he said, ‘that’s what is called a benchmark (irritating fingertip quote marks happening on the last word!).’

So, I raced a dog who was fitter than me, but beat the walk/run lady. But, more importantly, I enjoyed myself and am determined to run regularly once again.

(However, forecast for today is heavy rain at times.) Tomorrow, then, TOMORROW we start the new running regime!

The Birds are Back

2009-11-10T12:36:00.000-08:00

After my last blog post, ‘I’m Living With Killers’ . . . .what’s the worst thing that could happen after Rod skips town for Las Vegas. UGH!!!!

I get home from working out, step in the hallway and feathers everywhere. I wander, carefully, into the living room and there is Mitzer, lying on the carpet in the sun like a drunken misfit. He lifts his head slightly as if to say, ‘did ya want something?’ I keep looking for the bird . . . . until I retrace my steps back around to the hallway and here it is hovering in the corner by the garage door – I nearly squished it when I came in the house.

It’s breathing heavily but looks scared stiff. As much as I really don’t think of myself as a ‘girly girl’ something about birds just freaks me out. So, there’s no way I can pick up the thing. I’m kind of whimpering to myself and cursing the cat as I walk around the house saying out loud, ‘what am I going to do?!’ Trying all the while not to have a full blown panic attack.

I know! I’ll call our friend and former pastor, Mike, who lives around the corner! Surely this is a pastoral matter!?

I call and he’s not home. . . . but, his 15 yr old daughter, Tamsyn, says, ‘I’ll come get it!’ So, she trots over and without hesitation she picks up the bird. However, unlike Rod, she didn’t need any ‘kill kit.’ She was going to let the bird go. So, I just said, ‘make sure you put it somewhere where our cats can’t find it again.’ You can see now where this is going . . . .

Just before Tamsyn slips out the door, the bird poops in her hand, landing on my carpet which distracts her for a moment and she loosens her grip on the bird. When it escapes from her hand it darts STRAIGHT toward my HEAD! It’s at this point that I totally lose it, making total fool of myself in front of Tamsyn and her mother, Janene. I scream bloody murder and run toward the farthest corner of the house. Tamsyn just calmly goes and gets the bird again and takes it outside.

I vacuum quickly, shower and am off to a friend’s house for dinner. Fast-forward to 9:30, walk in the door. ‘Hmmm..... didn’t I vacuum before I left?’ More feathers on the floor. I search and search and search and can’t find a thing. I am now hopeful that Mitzer did bring the bird back in the house, but THEN decided to take it back out again. Whew.

I go back to our bedroom and I’m in the ensuite getting ready for bed and happen to peer out to the bedroom where Mitz is hunkered down and staring under the dresser. Oh no! So, I get down on all fours with him. I can see something in the corner - - a blob in the dark. It’s not moving. At this point, I think there’s only a 50% chance it’s actually a bird. I’m thinking coincidentally, Mitz just saw this long-lost toy of some sort under there. I go get the torch (flashlight). It’s only shining at 30% capacity . .. . it doesn’t help much. Now, Mitz, Pele the scaredy cat, and I are all three hunkered down looking under the dresser. I see a slight movement. %$#^&*! It’s a friggin’ bird!

Now it’s 10pm. Who is going to rescue me at 10pm? For a brief moment I do consider actually sleeping in the room with the bird under the dresser. It probably would just stay under the dresser, wouldn’t it? I can’t see it creeping forward while we’re all asleep. Okay, ooooo, that thought lasted a VERY BRIEF MOMENT! I think of that Hitchcock movie and decide against sleeping in my bed with a bird 6 feet awat. I could just close the door and make up the spare bed and sleep in there . . . . the cleaning lady is coming in the morning, maybe she’ll help me get the bird? She’s used to doing dirty stuff......

I think about Mike again. The closest male living in the neighbourhood. But, it’s 10pm . . .. I don’t want to phone his house. And, my heroine, Tamsyn, is probably in bed by now. Mike is often on Facebook so I take the gamble to check if he’s online. HE IS! I chat to him and ask if he’ll come over and get the bird.

He does . . . . . with a plastic bag in hand, he reaches far under the dresser and gets it. I’m in the hallway peeking around the corner. When he finally gets it out he has a ‘Tamsyn moment’ and relaxes his grip on the thing and I swear it started flying STRAIGHT toward my HEAD once again! I make a fool out of myself yet another time by squealing like a crazy woman. All the while, Mike is relaxed and calm and saying, ‘it’s okay, I’ve got it’ over and over. He calmly just marches out the door with it . .. . . I’m left there alone with feathers all over the house and a heart beating madly.....

I watch him go, taking the bird to his house apparently so that it’s far away from Mitzer. He just about gets to his car when he turns back around and walks back to the window and says thru the glass, ‘when there’s one of these, there’s probably more.’ That’s it. That’s his motivational, comforting (pastoral?) last words to me . . . . . As I go ashen, I just say, ‘thanks for that.’

So, 12 hours later, no more birds yet. I REALLY can’t wait for Rod to get home!

I'm Living With Killers

2009-10-08T20:44:00.000-07:00

It’s a relaxing Tuesday evening . . . . Rod has just cooked me dinner (as per usual, I’m so spoiled). As we settle ourselves down with our plates and a nice wine, all of a sudden, our cat Mitzer bowls through the cat door and all I can hear is a loud, urgent ‘peep, peep’ of some small animal!

I scream, “Rod, it’s yours!” and I proceed to the highest point in the room. I am now standing on top of the chair in our lounge, half-eaten chicken breast forgotten in my mouth as I scream for Rod to ‘get it.’ Whatever ‘it’ is.

You have to understand, I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to furry creatures brought home by the cats. Rod never lets me forget the morning I woke up and stepped on a large black thing in the hallway, ran screaming into the toilet AS HE WAS DOING HIS BUSINESS mind you . . . . in a hysterical mess screaming and crying that there was a rat in the hallway. After Rod zips up quickly in order to rescue me from this horrible beast, he saunters back from the hallway to the bathroom where I had squeezed myself into the farthest corner . . . . .. he was carrying a large leaf. “Is this it?”

As my hyperventilation calmed down, I realised I may have slightly over-reacted.

Okay, so back to the present . . . . I’m reliving that horror in my mind as squeals emanate from the living room.

“It’s a baby bird,” Rod yells. He knows I’m a sucker for baby animals, but this time it is not going to work – I’m not going all mushy. He picks it up in his hand and starts walking toward me.

“I don’t want to SEE it,” I scream, wishing this damn lounge chair was two stories taller. I think he’s going to try to touch me with it. An irrational fear . . . . I’m yelling loudly as he looks at me like I’m a freak and slowly, calmly takes it outside.

But the baby bird can’t fly. Obviously “Mitzer the Killer Cat” has stolen it from a nest.

For the next few minutes, we discuss what to do with it. Rod decides to put it on a high bench and pray those flying instincts miraculously kick in withn the next few minutes!

So, the baby bird is outside and now so are both cats – this is way too much excitement for them to ignore, of course.

We settle back down to our dinner. . . every few moments we hear the baby bird SCREAMING again (eating chicken while listening to the screeches of a dying bird - all too ironic and somehow appetite dampening). Mitzer is playing with it while our older, anxiety-ridden cat, Pele, stands guard with his famous, “should you really be doing that, Mitzer?” look on his little face.

For another 30 minutes, Rod and I take turns peeking out of the blinds at the scene in the backyard, reporting on Mitzer’s proximity to the bird and status of the bird’s liveliness.

“Is he flying away, yet?”

“No chance.”

“This is torture!” Rod finally admits. We decide that we are in danger of being reported to the SPCA for animal cruelty if something is not done soon.

Rod looks at me with a look of appeal . . . .. . “Hey, I’m not doing anything, you’re the boy!” This is the line I use several times a week, usually when it involves having to do something dirty or gross or kinda scary.

We both know what must be done. End the madness.

We live in the suburbs, so unlike where we both grew up in the country, you can’t just throw the bird over the fence or down in the woods . . . . I can see Rod’s analytical mind thinking, “hmmm, how to end this?” He ends up grabbing a paper towel (he suddenly doesn’t want to touch the bird anymore – don’t blame him) and a Ziploc bag (the big freezer size is best for this job apparently).

By this time, Pele the fraidy cat is inside on my lap and Mitzer is sitting by the doorway with a furrowed brow wondering what the heck Rod is about to do with his new toy. We all watch him as he walks outside . . .. . closes the door behind him. I swear all three of us were each holding our breath. I wasn't quite sure of his exact plan but I knew it wouldn't involve a happy ending.

Before we know it, there’s a dull but loud ‘THUD’ against the house. . . . we jump and the cats and I look at each other . . . .a few seconds silence . . . a second dull, loud thud. I swear to you it sounded like those scenes in scary movies when the bad guy kills someone with a silencer on the end of his revolver.

Rod opens the door to the three of us, our human and cat eyes staring at him with awe and fear. No one says (or meows) a word. Rod looks at me with a look of remorse. I just let out a nervous giggle and say “I’m so glad you’re the boy!”

Fast forward 12 hours . . . . Rod has decided to have a little sleep in this morning. Me too. It’s 6:45 or so. All of a sudden, from the hallway we hear that same loud, ‘peep, peep!’

“You’ve got to be kidding me? Damn, cat,” Rod says. “It’s all yours!” I say and immediately assume my usual ‘evacuate to higher ground’ position on the bed.

Rod races out of bed. This time, there’s no fooling around. He knows that he can’t save this baby bird. As he walks by it in the hallway he says, “it’s opening and closing its little beak like it wants the cat to feed it! I think it’s hungry. Maybe we could save it?”

Again, he’s trying to appeal to my love of baby animals, but long ago I put this thing in the same category as mice and rats. I have no love for this little bird. “Are you kidding me?! I’m not nursing it!” I really do think he was serious for a moment.

Rod looks at me with that “please don’t tell me I have to do this again” look in his face. He starts the long, slow march to the kitchen and proceeds to get his ‘kill kit.’ We had just watched Serial Killer Sunday on the Crime & Investigation channel a few nights prior where I learned about this technical term - - usually the ‘kill kit’ involves such items as rope, a knife and Vaseline - perhap some chloroform. But, Rod’s ‘kill kit’ is two paper towels (a double barrier from baby bird cooties) and a large, freezer-size Ziploc bag.

As I listen I prepare myself for the inevitable . . . .the same two dull thuds against the house.

I’m now back under the covers for protection and can see Rod taking the body to the garage to put it in the rubbish bin. He looks back at me with sorrow and remorse in his eyes (he wasn’t born to be a killer, it was just unfortunate circumstances that drove him to it!).

I yell, “I’m glad you’re the boy!” I giggle. He says it’s not funny. No, it’s not....

To top off the experience, that very morning, there is an animal expert from the University of Colorado on the morning breakfast show talking about how animals are generally kind to each other in the wild and us humans could learn a thing or two from them. I hear Rod mutter an adamant, ‘bullshit!’ Yep, I agree. Nature is cruel.

Let me just say how happy I am that baby birds normally only come two to a nest. No further signs of carnage in the neighbourhood. No need for the ‘kill kit’ in recent days. Thank goodness.....

I Think the Earth is Angry

2009-10-01T21:39:00.000-07:00

What a crazy week it's been in the Southern Hemisphere - tsunamis in Samoa, an earthquake that killed more people than the tsunami did in Indonesia, aftershocks in both countries and then an earthquake in Peru. Not to mention the hurricane in the Philippines last week that has left thousands and thousands homeless and killed hundreds.

I think the earth is angry!

Growing up in rural Pennsylvania there really weren't too many natural disasters that could harm you. The occasional heatwave . . . okay, get into the air conditioning. A flood - yes, there were a few of those that were quite major. Drought - - yeah, not the best of natural disasters when your family operates a Christmas Tree farm.

Living in New Zealand this week, however, has brought a whole new reality to what natural disasters can really be like. The day after we came home from our beach house in Matarangi following a long weekend, our friends went up to stay for the school holidays. That morning, Rod and I were watching the news as a tsunami warning was issued for our coast following the Samoan earthquake.

My first thought was for our guests at our house. I texted and phoned and no reply, which made me a bit anxious. They finally phoned back and said they were just fine and heading to the cafe for a morning coffee.

Ten minutes later, my friend leaves me a voicemail message on my mobile . . . . a loud alarm was going off in the background while she said, "Heather, do you hear that? We are being evacuated to higher ground!" They were herded off with a hundred or so other villagers in their cars to a nearby mountaintop, where they stayed until the tsunami warning was called off.

Thank goodness all was fine. There was a fleeting moment that I thought, "I'll finally get those beach house renovations we can't afford!" Then, wondered if our insurance covers 'acts of God' (I must check that out...).

We did get a small surge on the coastline a bit later in the day, but it was virtually unnoticeable. The TV news did catch the wave coming into a harbour and nearly capsizing a few boats due to the momentum of the water.

Yes, momentum! My husband (with the physics degree) gave me a little tutorial the morning of the tsunami about momentum. It's not the size of the wave but the weight of the volume of water moving at 1000 kilmetres per hour by the time it his NZ shores! (See, I could practically teach high school science now . . . )

If the earth is angry, I hope it has cooled off a bit after this week and got it out of its system. It needs to take a chill pill, take a time out, sit in the naughty chair and think about what it's done for a few decades . . . Maybe if we loved it just a little bit more . . . .

Memories Rise as King Dies

2009-06-25T17:59:00.000-07:00

What a sad week for us ‘children of the 70s.’ The death of Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon and now Michael Jackson . . . . my brain is on overload with so many memories associated with all three.

Firstly, how many of my girlfriends had the Farrah ‘do?’ ALL of us had it at one time or another. Man, I had my curling iron heated up morning, noon and night trying to practice how to get that flick around the face just right. All I wanted was to grow up to be a pretty and cool as Farrah! What little girl didn’t?

Most of my memories of Ed McMahon are of me hiding behind a corner or on the steps listening to my parents watch late night TV. When I heard ‘Here’s Johnny’ I knew it was really late and I was being quite naughty being out of bed!

But, I’m most sad about the death of Michael! His music is associated with a lot of ‘firsts’ for me . . . . his Billy Jean album was the first album I ever bought with my own money. I can remember he had a sparkly silver outfit on the front. I’d play it for hours! And, I practiced and practiced that darn moonwalk but could NEVER get it….

Then, when I got my first walkman for Christmas in the mid-80s, the first cassette tape I got given with it was Thriller! Man, I loved that song. It was great at school dances, cause it was so long . . . . but you never quite knew how to dance to the talking bit. . . .

Ah, well......it’s the death of an era, really, isn’t it? RIP my 70s icons!

Tale of Two Boobies

2009-06-23T22:29:00.000-07:00

Well, my friends, I am getting older. Yes, as you know, I’m 40 now (I was going to say I’m in my 41st year, but that just sounds way too old!). And, in NZ, that means it’s time for your first mammogram.

Prior to the Big Squeeze on Thursday, I had no prior knowledge of what it’s like to have a mammogram except for some documentary I saw once on 60 Minutes. I can’t even remember what the subject was, but I DO remember some woman’s really ugly, vein-striped boobs squeezed like a wet sponge by that horrible machine. This was 10+ years ago, but fresh enough in my mind to cause boob-squeeze anxiety, nonetheless.

Although I had trepidation, I figured this is kinda like jumpin’ off the high dive (bad analogy as I stood there for 20 mins but ended up climbing back down the ladder). Anyway, I knew I had to just do it – and not think about it. So, I made my appointment for 3 weeks hence. Then, I just had to wait . . . . and think . . . . about my boobs squeezing in that contraption that began to appear in my mind as some 15th century torture device (I swear I saw boob-squeezing machine on a tour in some dungeon in Germany?).

To make matters worse, the NZ medical system is flawed . Case in point: I get a letter in the mail confirming my mammogram appointment and providing me with a few instructions I must follow on the day. There are big capital letters at the top of the page saying, “if you do not follow these instructions, you will not be able to keep your appointment on the day.” Eek, better follow these. They included two critical notes:

Eat a light breakfast on the morning of your scan (will I be experiencing nausea??!)
Drink one litre of water one hour prior to your appointment. Your bladder must be full at the time of your pelvic scan (Wha!?? Huh??!)

Okay, anyhoo. So this is interesting . . . perhaps the mammogram machine thingy has changed quite significantly since the 60 Minute doco. Perhaps you actually get a full body scan? I imagine a device kind of like a tanning bed – squeezing my whole body at once. My nose and boobs and toes all terribly squished to the top of the scanning bed while a lady yells, “you’re doing well Mrs Claycomb, just hold it there a few seconds…” All the while I have to pee like a banchee due to that litre of water I drank one hour ago!

These instructions are not helpful for my anxiety levels.

As I continue to obsess about the Big Squeeze, my biggest concern was that my lack of bodacious tatas was going to cause more pain than if I was well endowed. Yes, it’s no secret, I’m small. (I did realise a few years ago I am a ‘B’ cup but that was after many years of mistakenly squishing myself into an ‘A.’ And, if I am honest, there’s some room left over in the ‘B’ but it does make me feel better.)

Anyway, I digress. . .

“What if all they can squeeze in that machine are my nipples?” This is the question I keep pondering over and over and over . . . . . It’ll be like those ‘titty twisters’ the little boys used to give the little girls in elementary school. Remember those? Or were my school mates just extra perverted? The boys would yell ‘titty twister’ and run up to a girl and twist her little boob like a cork screw. (Yes, okay, this could be the root of so many of my mental problems . . . )

This is not an irrational fear, so don’t laugh at me as if I’m a freak. I spoke to a friend of mine who – before I could say anything about my fears – said how she too is small and never had a mammogram and was scared about the nipple pinch!

Well, several boob nightmares later, the day of the Big Squeeze came. On the morning, I looked again at the eating and drinking instructions and thought, “this can’t be right?” So, I actually picked up the phone to the medical centre. After explaining that I was sorry to bother, but wanted to confirm the instructions, the receptionist laughed, “Oh goodness, no. You got the wrong instructions – those are for hip scans! Just don’t wear deodorant and show up as you are!”

Whew, okay, this is good news. I’ll be smelly but I won’t pee my pants.

I show up for my appointment and I’m called into the office by the technician. While walking down the hall beside her she looks at me several times with a very puzzling look while checking her chart. “Oh! 1968, huh? You’re doing well – I thought you were way too young to be one of my patients.” (We’re now best friends).

I enter the room and she asks me to disrobe. I take off my shirt and bra and enter the mammogram area. After the compliment in the hallway, I’m expecting a ‘woo hoo, lookin’ good!’ but the second compliment never came. That’s okay, let’s get down to business.

Well, long story short is I do have enough boob to squeeze in that machine, my nipples weren’t bruised, it didn’t hurt one bit and I didn’t pee my pants.

My girlfriends, if you haven’t had yours yet, don’t fret. The Big Squeeze is no big deal.

Three Cheers for the Buddy System

2009-06-07T23:18:00.000-07:00

A key life lesson we all learn early on during childhood is to use the ‘buddy system’ during risky situations.

I’m sure you can all think of times when you’ve had to call on a buddy and put the ‘system’ into action.

Swimming is a good one that comes to mind. I was snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef eight years ago . . . . there were sharks and nasty looking fish and the risk of sea snakes, not to mention rough waves hitting me in the face as I tried to clear my airway. The risk of me drowning was rather high. So, the dive master made me stick with a buddy. Smart thinkin’. . .

Tramping (hiking, you Americans) is another instance where the buddy system is a good move. When you’re lost in the dark bush (woods, my US buddies) on a cold winter night, you’ll be wishin’ you had a buddy just about then.

Women attending University frat parties. . . . Yes, I can still remember the days, friends . . . . . . it is certainly advisable for all young women to use the buddy system under these risky circumstances!

Using power tools . . . . Uhuh, I am known for my frequent – and skilled, I must say – use of the odd power tool (nail guns are my personal favourite). Rod’s usually my buddy on these occasions. Or, I’ve been on Habitat for Humanity builds where they match you up with a builder buddy. When you nail your clothing to the roof, your buddy comes in quite handy!

And, after this weekend’s tragic news of the death of David Carradine . . . Another instance where the buddy system is a smart strategy? SEX! Well, yeah, we all know it’s more fun with the buddy system. But, who would have thought you’d be taking your life (among other things) into your own hands if you choose to go it alone?

All the NZ media would report was that David the Karate Kid was found hanging in a closet with a rope around his neck with the other end tied ‘to another body part.’ The prude in me, at this point, put her fingers in her ears and started screaming ‘nah, nah, nah, I can’t hear you!!!’ I don’t want to hear ANY more details.

But, let not his death be in vain my buddies. Let this be a lesson to us all. If you’re gonna attempt some risky moves, take my trainer’s advice - - - for goodness sake people, USE A SPOTTER!

Postscript - - - prior to finalising and posting this blog entry, I decided to check on the internet how to spell Mr C’s last name. Only to be hit between the eyes with a headline that pops up on my news site home page ‘Photos Published of Carradine’s (oh yes, there are two R’s…..) Naked Body.’ Dear Lord, blind me now!

It's all Greek to me - Chapter Two

2008-06-25T12:46:00.000-07:00

Chapter 2 .....
I had a wonderful time in Athens. It is one of the most incredible places. Excavations of folks that lived there in 3000 BC. That's further on that side of Christ than this one! It's just incredible how all these massive stone structures were built so long ago. Ok, most of these were built around 2000 years ago, but what's a few years when you're talking thousands. And so amazing still.The Greeks just ooze sexuality and indigance, a marvelous combination that results in a very interesting culture.

The food was fantastic and, of course, with Ouzo to finish everything off, you always go to bed happy!So, after a day and a half in Athens, it's off to Crete for the conference.

It's only a 50 min flight from Athens to Crete. I'm feeling pretty confident in retracing the steps BACK to the airport...45 min later, all good. The flight to Crete was smooth, with the most amazing views over the Mediterranean coming into Heraklion, the major city on Crete. The conference is at another town, called Hersonissos (pronunications pending), which is about 30 km to the east around the northern coast.

The conference is at a resort called Royal Knossus Village, which is also where I'm booked to stay...unfortunately, I have no phone number this time, but not to worry. It's a major international conference, right? Once again, I come out of the airport, looking around for something that says AgEng2008 (the name of the conference) or transportation to Hersonissos. Nothin.... Heraklion airport is very small....picture Williamsport, PA (or Hamilton, NZ) here without the English.

Ok, I've learned my lesson in Athens. I'll ask someone right away. Here's a tourist bus driver standing with a sign waiting for his posse. "Sir, I need to get to Hersonissos, to the Royal Knossus Village. Do you know it?" "Oh yes, sir...I recommend the bus, which is right up around the corner there (pointing)." "Oh, great, thank you very much." Let's just call this guy, Greeko #1.

Now, there's a sideline to this chapter. At the baggage terminal, I look across and see my PhD advisor from UC, Davis waiting for his bags. Mike is renowned at pinching every penny he can, especially when travelling. I start to think about a conference in San Diego once, where I quickly paid $35 to get a taxi to the venue. Mike paid $1 to take the public bus. So, I thought I might wait for Mike at the bus stop that's just been referred to me. He'll be here shortly, I'm sure. So, up to the bus stop I go.

The bus stop is really a small shed with 4 Greeks smoking cig's inside. "Hello. I need to go to Hersonnissos." "Oh, Hersonnissos. Yes, that bus right there." "Do you have a ticket?" "No." "No problem. That's 90 cents." "Really! Only 90 cents. This was definitely the right way to Hersonnissos. Mike is going to love this!

No sooner do I climb onto the bus with my handy luggage in tow than the bus driver leaps in, fires it up, and off we go! Geez, that was lucky timing. I'm gonna make the conference hotel, have a swim and be on my second Ouzo by the time Mike gets here!

Weaving our way through the streets of Heraklion, I start to wonder, "I think we're going west. I thought Hersonissos was east?" Oh well, Greeko #1 told me this was the way. Smoking Greek guy at the bus told me this was the way. It must be the way!

Six stops later, in the middle of the most run-down decripit streets I've ever seen, the bus driver spins around, looks at me and says, "This is your stop!" When Greeks talk to you, it's usually quite commanding, so you don't spend alot of time arguing. "Oh, ok. Are you sure? (I say in this mousy little voice.)" "YES (he booms), you go over there (pointing about three more decripit streets down)." Alright, here we go.

I get off the bus and nervously watch as he drives away. (little did I know this would be a scene repeated again.) Well, no ones attacking me yet. I guess I'll go in the direction he pointed. After about half a block, I'm thinkin, "this can't be right." So, back to the bus stop...thank God, there's a map. After a considerable Greek translation period once again, I make out a station that seems to say "Intercity Bus Terminal." And, what do you know, it's about 3 decripit blocks down!

Ok, with renewed confidence, I head over to find said station. I go in, buy my ticket for Hersonissos, leaving 20 min from now. This is good. I check my watch to calculate that I'll still beat Mike to the hotel, maybe minus the time for the Ouzo's. Finally, the bus leaves, packed to the hilt...but headed in the right direction at least!

Well...just as I'm settling back for the 30km haul to Hersonissos, the bus stops...and then it stops again...and again. Just about every freakin' block. Turns out that this is accepted practice in Crete...just walk out to the roadside and wait and the bus will pull over and get you. It's standing room only now, but the bus ain't turning down any revenue. There's even a 2nd guy on this bus who's job it is to collect $$ from people as they board (we'll call him Greeko #2).

A typical Greek lady sits down next to me. About 60 years old, with purple eye-shadow. Trying desparately not to look her direction, I'm staring out the window and thinking, I wonder if the Royal Knossus Village Resort will be obvious once I get to Hersonissos.Turned out to be a prophetic thought. After about an hour on this bus (Mike's gotta be close by now!), I'm getting nervous that I've somehow missed the seaside haven. I finally take a big swallow, turn to purple-eyed lady and ask if she knows where it is? "Oh, I don't have my glasses," she gesticulates in a way to say she can't see...I think it's the purple glare. So, the next time Greeko #2 looks my way, I motion him back and repeat the question. "Ah...the Royal Knossos. Oh yes, I let you know when it's time." Whew! That's good.

I haven't passed it yet and now I have my main man looking after me. After another 15 min or so, the bus pulls over to what looks like a run-down veggie stand from about 200 BC. Even the dust whipping around it looks old. Greeko #2 looks back at me and says, "This is you!" I tentatively squeeze past purple-eyes and gingerly make my up the bus, the whole time thinking, "This can't be right!" He looks at me like I'm holding up the whole works...as if it hasn't already taken an eternity to get this far...and, quite angrily, motions me down the stairs. I'm scared! I go...adding as I pass him that he might want to consider delivering my luggage from under the bus. As he's removing my bag, I ask him, as politely and un-insultingly as I can, "Are you certain this is the right stop?" Now, he's really upset...and waves across the road, and says "Go that way!" I can see the sea out there somewhere, but it's over a hill. "About how far?" "What?!? 200 m." And that was the last I saw of Greeko #2.

Well, it's about this time that I'm thinking an expensive taxi would have been just the ticket. But, here I am...me and my luggage. At least it's on wheels. So, off I go, across the road and down the hill toward the sea. "How far is 200 m, I think." After what must have been 1 km and about 10 near misses on this narrow cow-path Greeko #2 has sent me down, I can see the sea-side village in the distance. Ah, finally! I've made it. Starting to look for a substantial building that at least resembles a resort, I am again disappointed. Nothing but run-down shacks, with one two-story apartment block. If that's the Royal Knossos, I'm swimming back to Athens!

As I near the village, I spot a small shop at a corner intersection. Two ancient Greeks are sitting outside smoking, so I figure, they've gotta know where this place is. I amble up, give it my best smile and kindly show them Royal Knossos on my paper. The old lady's eyes light up like the sun and waves me over to the middle of the intersection. Pointing down the coastline, she motions if I can see the large white building with the red roof. "Yes, yes, yes!" I say. Even though it looks another 5 km away, I can see it! But then....she says, in surprisingly good English, "No, over that." "What! You've gotta be kidding!" "No, no, see the red roof. Go straight past this!", smiling like she's just solved world peace. "Oh...I must have a taxi for that!" "Oh no," she says, "you will walk!" "Really (whimpering)? How far?" "Ten minutes." I look again in the distance at the red roof and think back to Greeko #2's "200 m." There's a pattern in here somewhere.

Just before heading off, I repay her by buying a bottle of water. Then, back to the trek. The next 30-45 min is kind of a blur. The bottle of water has gone straight out my pores (it is about 35C...95F). And I'm feeling like Chevy Chase in National Lampoon trekking across the desert. Just as I'm about to tie my shirt around my head, I spot a sign that says Royal Knossos. I now know what the old-time mariners felt like when they spotted land!

Down the road I head, finally seeing the large gates and lighted tennis courts of what looks very much like a resort. Hoping it's not a mirage, I walk into the lobby of the Royal Knossos, just about collapse on the counter. I must have looked like I just ran a marathon. The girl looks at me and asks if I'm ok. "Well, I've been better. But I'd like to check in, please." After giving my name, I see a troublesome look in her eyes. "Just one minute sir." She picks up the phone and starts arguing in Greek. This can't be good...Finally, she gets off the phone and says, "This hotel is full. You've been re-booked in the hotel back up the road!" This is when I go hysterical and start laughing. Of course, I have to explain my story. She's nice enough to have someone drive me back up the hill.

Finally checked in to the right place, I look at the clock. The total trip has taken me about 3.5 hr and I'm certain nearly 5 km of walking. All I want to do is go jump in the sea or the pool. So, I get into my room, drop trou right where I am, throw on the togs, grab my resort card to get a beach towel and head out the door. You can imagine my disappointment when it turns out that it was too late...the pool was closed and there would be no beach towels 'til morning. Ok, I could have still went and jumped in the sea, but the thought of what I felt like doing to myself sort of frightened me. I limped back to the room and went to bed.

Oh well...the conference turned out to be great. The Crete setting was awesome. And I finally had that swim I had coming.I've always said that the key to good travelling is coming out of it with a story. This trip was well worth it...I can't wait to come back.

It's All Greek to Me - Chapter One

2008-06-25T12:44:00.000-07:00

It's All Greek To Me

Ok...Rod here. Please bear with me, as I don't have all the blogging experience that Heather has. But, she tells me that my recent experiences in the ancient world of Greece deserve a mention. so, here goes...

I am currently on one of my round-the-world business jaunts. You know, the crazy 18 countries and as many hotels in 20 days. Everyone usually calls them 'holidays,' but those who've never done one can be very naive!

Part of this trip has sent me to the wonderful country of Greece...the island of Crete to be exact for an international conference in Agricultural and Biosystems Engineering. Before you start thinking how rough I have it, I can tell you that putting such a conference in such a place is torture. Imagine the most beautiful setting on the Mediterranean Sea at a posh resort for 3 days, and all you get to do is sit inside window-less, air conditioned rooms listening to Ag & Bio Engr papers. Stupid really...

Anyway, that's not the story. Since I had a day to kill en route to Crete, I decide to stop in Athens to have a look around. I find this hotel per Virginia's advice that, on the website they say is "overlooking the Plaka." The Plaka is the ancient marketplace of Athens. It is NOT the wide open square you might expect from such a description, but that will be clear in a minute. So, I get on the train from Athens airport and embark on the 50km journey into town. Now the first thing that hits you is...surprise, surprise...it's all in Greek! So, as the train whizzes by various stops, you're left to try and draw on your university fraternity days...not only rapidly translating the pi's, omega's and delta's, but at the same time trying to assemble them into some semblance of an English looking word!

One thing I've learned about European trains over the years is, if everyone's still on it, it's still going somewhere. The hotel website says I need to get off at Larrisus Station. Well, as I'm trying to make 'lambda...alpha...rho...rho...whatever the hell 'i' is...sigma...mu...sigma' out of the brief train station stops, I see nothing resembling 'Larrisus Station' for what seems like an eternity (a quite popular Greek symbol by the way, but that's another story). Not to worry...no one is really getting off the train, so I obviously am not at the central Athens yet. Finally, a stop comes and the train clears! Oh no...now where the heck am I. So, I do the prudent thing and get off the train at the next stop...you can always get back on, right?

Well, I come up out of the depths of Athens and walk out of the train station, thinking I'll just check where I am and it'll all be sweet. What a mistake that was! Downtown Athens is an absolute of mash of narrow streets going in every direction! And...you guessed it...more Greek street signs...when you can find them! Oh well...here we go. I start pulling my luggage through the incredible crowds of people through what seems like the longest market I've ever been in. I should also mention that around every corner seems to be a 'ruin' that looks incredibly old and very cool. Distractions aren't what I need at the moment.

After enough turns that I'm starting to risk not getting back to 'Go,' I decide to ask someone where the Airotel Parthenon is. It's gotta be close, right? After all, everyone's got off the train a stop before and the Parthenon's on top of the gigantic mountain that you can see from everywhere. Well, no one knows, not even the street name. Finally, one guy that speaks a bit of English says, "Oh I know it. You're on the wrong side of the hill (referring to the Acropoli)!" It's a BIG hill! Ah man...this just isn't working. And luggage doesn't roll very well on cobblestone streets.

Luckily, I have a phone number of the hotel. Ok, I'll call them. "Hello. I have a room at your hotel tonight, but I'm very lost." "Ok. Where are you?" "Hmmmm....I have NO IDEA!!!!" "Well, sir, then I don't think I can help you." "Right...well, I got off the train..." "Oh...where?" "I don't know. The stop after everyone else did!" "That's not very helpful, sir." :) long silence :) "Sir, why don't you go back to the station (oh, Thank God, I did something right not going so far that I can't get back!) and then call me back." "Ok, good rational thinking."

So, back through the market I and my luggage go to find the station, which turns out is Mrakiyanni (see you can hardly pronounce the English version!) "Hello, me again. I'm at..." "Ok, you went one stop too far (good, more validation of theories). Go back to that station and take the other train to the next station, called Acropoli. We are one block from this station." "Excuse me? I thought I was looking for Larrisus Station?" "Oh no...that's on the other side of the city." "But...your website..." "No sir. Trust me...this is where you go."

Ok...so back on the train, off to Acropoli, following the directions, and I find the hotel! Turns out the website was completely wrong!

The end of this chapter is the next morning, I'm ambling down through the Plaka looking for a nice Greek breakfast...no luggage. All the sudden, "Hmmm...this looks familiar." Turns out I was right back to the original place I asked for directions the night before. Unbelievable!

Come on Down, We'll Show Ya a Good Time!

2008-05-09T22:51:00.000-07:00

Some friends – Tye and Char – who are from California, recently came for a visit. It was so great to have them here. Since it was their first time in New Zealand, we wanted to cram all the fun stuff they could possibly do into their 10 days!

We went to the beach, visited geothermal sites, took them fishing, and pointed them toward every touristy option they could squeeze in.

Their last day in New Zealand was a Saturday and we aimed to send them off with a ‘big bang.’ We had to ‘Kiwi-ise’ them in a monstrous way!

So, first, we dropped them off at the famous Glow worm Caves. These are caves you walk through and then get on a boat in a very dark underwater cavern where these glow worms dangle from the ceiling. They glow in eerie silence. It’s way cool.

We met them on their way out of the caves anticipating their delight at the natural wonder . .. . however their only comment was about a 20 inch trout they saw toward the end of the trip. Hmmmm, I was wondering . . … perhaps they were unimpressed? Perhaps I don’t remember how much it takes to impress the over-stimulated American brain these days?

Oh well, no time to dwell on their reaction, many sites to see, many sites to see. . . . next stop - - - the local Angora rabbit farm.

Yes, I know you are thinking, “boy, Rod and Heather how to show their guests a good time!”

Yes, this was exciting stuff . . . in fact, we just got to the farm in time for the 1pm shearing demonstration! Oh yeah, baby!

We entered the barn-like tourist trap and made our way to the back room and there was one of the owners of the farm – an older woman of about 60. She had this beautiful, white, long-haired rabbit in what looked like a 10th Century torture device.

The rabbit’s front legs were stretched out rather tautly and tied to one pole, while its body laid on a flat board. Its back legs were also stretched out and tied to another pole. This now allowed the shearer to rotate the rabbit – who was oddly quite still – on this rotisserie device and sheer him down to the skin.

The shearing room was very small – about 15 feet square. And there were only 7 people watching this poor rabbit being basted – oops, I mean sheared…. But, despite this, the second owner of the farm – a rough-looking woman of about 65, turned on her microphone and amp that she bought in 1972 and begun talking to the tourists.

She told the history of the rabbits and astonished the crowd with tales of how they cost $2000 for a male and $3000 for a female. They own 350 rabbits (who live in pristine barns, apparently, in some undisclosed location. She was reluctant to reveal their exact address to keep rebel tourists from stealing bunnies to take home as a souvenirs).

Well, the shearing was over, the rabbit looked like a naked cat with a fuzzy head, we all piled in the car and were off to the next stop on the tour. There were no comments from either of our guests . . . no oooos or aaaaahs……. . hmmm…. Here are some pics of the rabbits:

But, the next activity would surely surprise and amaze, I thought. We were off to the tiny town of Te Kuiti for New Zealand’s equivalent of the ‘running of the bulls in Pamplona’ - - the running of 2000 sheep down the centre of town.

We got to Te Kuiti and there were two blocks of town roped off with food, craft and various stalls of grandmas selling jam and sundry items. It’s about at this point that I put on my ‘American eyes’ and thought back to what I would have been thinking nine years ago when I first landed on the island. . . . . I am quickly realising that this is perhaps the most mundane, hokiest thing I’ve ever taken anyone to do.

Sheep are going to run down a road in the centre of this tiny little town. Why is this event even something worthy of advertising to tourists???

Oh well, we’re here now. Even though I am now anxious about the stupid activities I am boring my guests with, we hang in there….

All of a sudden, an announcer comes on the loud speaker and urges the crowd to take their spots on the sides of the street. “Hurray to your places everyone and pick up the weedmat!” he exclaims.

‘Pick up the weed mat’ - - WHAT THE!? We look down and as far as the eye can see, on both sides of the street is a huge piece of weedmat that stretches for literally a mile or more.

The idea is that everyone in the crowd forms a human fence, holding the weedmat up. This will ‘fool’ the sheep into thinking they need to run straight down the street and into the pen awaiting them.

Well, we look around and shrug . . . . if you can’t beat ‘um, join ‘um, as they say. We pick up the weedmat and become a human sheep fence.

It’s about this time, Rod and I look around and Tye and Char are nowhere to be seen. They’ve gone down the road trying to find a better viewpoint, we figure. “Or maybe,” I thought, “they’ve gone back to the car??”

Anyway, Rod and I enjoyed it. It was hilarious. I took a video if you want to watch. . . . the funniest part is my uncontrollable giggles: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rilhu-F7UOU

With that over, there was only one last place to stop – the Kiwi House on the way home. You can’t come to New Zealand without seeing a Kiwi bird, right?!

We pay $10 each and see the Kiwi, which takes about 5 minutes. I now am really seeing this from an American’s point of view. This is a bit boring, actually. I’m a bit embarrassed – this just doesn’t compare to the “American Theme Park type experience” they may have been expecting from us!

We sped through the Kiwi house and headed home for a beer - perhaps the most exciting and enjoyable part of the day for them, I fear!

I’ve concluded from this experience I think Rod and I are becoming too ‘Kiwi-ised.’ Our ideas of fun have become somewhat skewed to say the least! We’ve gotta get outta here - - someone rescue us!

Oh well . . . . don’t let this story scare you off. You’re invited to come down anytime. And, we promise to take you to see the glow worms and rabbits and sheep and Kiwi birds! I know you are booking your tickets now!!

Oil Diaries

2008-05-09T22:50:00.000-07:00

Yes, the car service saga continued into the New Year.

It’s now a month past our driving holiday – six weeks past the date I first noticed the service was drastically overdue - and still no signs of Rod making any moves to schedule a service appointment. Meanwhile, the kilometers are ticking up on the odometer at an alarming rate….

My parents were visiting and we all happened to be driving together in the car when I decided to ‘out’ Rod to my father.

Now, you have to understand, I come from a family of men who were – and are – EXTREMELY particular about their cars. They are especially particular about ensuring the engine is serviced regularly. If the car manufacturer recommends an oil change at 5000 miles, my grandfather and father would get the oil changed at 2500 miles. That’s just the way things have always been done in the family – until Rod the Rebel joined us, that is.

So, yeah, I thought I’d ‘out’ him. Doing so would hopefully teach him a lesson and would also be kinda funny to watch!

“Hey dad,” I say. “Rod hasn’t changed the oil in this car for 10 months and he’s 12,000 miles overdue in getting it serviced. What do you think about that?”

“Wha . . . tha . . . . huh . . . “ my father grunted without making any logical sense. I think he was actually in a kind of shock. We were 50 miles from home and I suspect he was suddenly fearful we may be stranded in Podunk, New Zealand, awaiting public transport because we would be breaking down at any moment.

“Why haven’t you got the oil changed?,” my father exclaimed.

Heather: “He actually didn’t know where the oil went.” This is more like getting your brother in trouble . . . . it was fun.

More shocked and amazed sounds from my father, “We’ve gotta book this thing in this week, we can’t be running around the countryside without knowing what’s going on under the hood. You need to keep better care of your cars!”

As the days progressed, my father was relentless. “Rod, did you book that car in for a service today,” he’d say as Rod came home from work. “Not yet, tomorrow,” he would say.

At random points during the day, my father would say to me, “Call Rod, tell him to book that car in!” I would do so, to no avail.

Finally, upon deciding he was sick of the prodding, Rod did book the car in. All was hunky dory under the bonnet and my father breathed a sigh of relief.

I’m not sure if Rod learned a lesson or not, but it made for some humourous moments anyway….

Auto Mechanics, Not His Forte

2008-05-09T22:49:00.000-07:00

If you asked me to name the reasons why I love Rod, one of the main ones is he takes care of me. He knows how to fix stuff around the house. . . he takes out the garbage . . . . he does handy things. I love that! I’m not a weak woman, but I do like that he can do these ‘manly’ things.

There’s not much that Rod can’t do actually (I still have this teenage infectious ‘love thing’ where I do think he’s great at everything!), but recent events have clearly demonstrated that anything automotive does go on the list of ‘things Rod CAN’T do for me.’ It was a real blow, actually. I’m still recovering mentally.

Picture this . . .we are getting ready for a long holiday. The holiday will involve a lot of driving for many kilometers into areas of the country where mechanics and petrol (gas, Americans) stations are few and far between.

Three days before the trip, I glance up at the windscreen and see that Rod’s next service on his vehicle is due at 15,000 kilometers. Another glance to the odometer when I see he is on 25,000 kilometers - 10,000 kilometers over the limit! He has not had an oil change – let alone a ‘check up’ (or whatever the heck ya call it) in nine months.

This leads to a rather heated conversation, needless to say.

“You’re way overdue on taking your car in for a service!” I exclaim.

“Huh . . . . yeah, I guess I am,” he says as he glances at the service sticker.

“You need to get that done before our holiday!”

“Can’t. There’s not enough time to book it in,” as he adjusts the stereo and itches his crotch (okay, maybe not, but you get that he’s not taking this seriously!).

“How could you put my life at risk like this!” Okay, that might have been over the top, but you see how the conversation went……

Needless to say, no oil got changed before we went on holiday.

So, now, we are driving around a tiny little town when Rod goes to clean the windshield. We’re out of cleaner. We both glance at each other at the same time. Me with the, “Told ya you should have had this thing serviced” face on. And Rod with the, “It’s just windshield cleaner, don’t have a cow” look.

We stop at the next garage.

After filling up with petrol, Rod finds a watering can and fills it. This will do till he gets that next service in 2010, he must be figuring . . . . and, I have the brilliant idea of checking the oil while we’ve got the bonnet (hood, Americans) up. It did need a bit more….

So, here we are, Rod pops the bonnet. He’s got the watering can in his hand and I’ve got the oil can. We are both standing in front of the car staring at the engine like two Zulu tribesmen seeing an i-Pod for the first time.

Rod says in a low voice so no one can hear, “I think this is the first time I’ve actually had the hood up.” I look at him incredulously with a crinkled brow!

“Where do you think the windshield cleaner goes,” I whisper, still staring.

“I’m not really sure. Maybe that hole there?” He looks at me. I give him a ‘don’t look at me, you’re the BOY!’ look.

So, he pops off the top and just starts pouring the water in. We have a 3 gallon watering can. It just keeps going and going and going . . . . . We keep watching and waiting for it to be full, but it doesn’t get there. Half way through the can contents I say, “Are you sure that was the right hole?” Rod just shrugs and keeps pouring. It never did fill up, but we did empty the watering can.

Anyway, on to the oil. Again, we are both staring at the engine looking for something that remotely looks like an oil hole thingy . . . . . . Rod points at several places asking my opinion. All I can do is shrug.

Finally, after more whispers and glances at the station attendant who is starting to peer out the window . . . . Rod picks a hole and pours in the oil.

As the can drains, I make my way toward the door and look back at Rod, he has this look of someone who knows what they’re doing. Hands on hips with that blokey, ‘I’m a man’ kinda look as he takes in the summer sun.

He SLAMS that bonnet down, slaps his oily hands together a few times – I swear he snorted and spit and adjusted his boxers – and got back in the car. I just shake my head as he pulls onto the road once again…

The good news is the washer fluid did come out of the right spot and the car didn’t blow up while on holiday.

That’s my man!

Celebrity Spotting III

2008-05-09T22:48:00.001-07:00

No, it’s not quite over yet. . . . one more celebrity story…

Fast-forward to March. I am having a casual stroll on the beach when in front of me is a man with his golden retriever. The dog is fetching a stick.

As I near this guy, something looks vaguely familiar. Finally, it clicks. This is the host of the New Zealand version of the television game show, ‘Deal or No Deal!’

I had heard the rumours from the locals that he had a place in Matarangi.

As I approach him from behind, he slowed up considerably. I decided I’d wanted to follow him and see where his bach (beach house, Americans) was located. Perhaps, by chance, we might be neighbours and didn’t even know it!?

So, now I must find a reason to slow up as well so that I continue in a following mode.

I stop and look out to the horizon, feigning a love for the beauty of the sea. . . . . I look down and begin an bit of eager shell seeking. . . . . all the while nonchalantly glancing along the beach to see if my Deal or No Deal friend has decided to get his butt moving.

A few moments later, I was sidetracked by a lovely sand dollar and a perfectly pink scallop, when I look up and he’s all of a sudden making tracks!

I pick up the pace . . . . . with the look of a woman who’s all of a sudden decided to ditch the leisurely beach walk for speed-walking . . . I follow him while trying not to get too close (being a voyeur is a fine art, people!).

Anyway, I did follow him home and know EXACTLY where he beaches it now! I keep on looking for him on my beach strolls, but haven’t spotted him OR his dog again. He’s either busy in Auckland filming next season’s shows, or he sees me coming and is casually avoiding me.

“It’s that crazy lady that followed me on the beach a few months back! Quick, everyone, draw the curtains!”

Surely not?

Celebrity Spotting II

2008-05-09T22:45:00.000-07:00

Forgive me for my absence from the blog. I’ve been on a blogaday . . . that’s a ‘blog holiday!’ But, baby I’m back!

So, where was I? Right, celebrity spotting at Matarangi.

WELL, so, if you’ll remember waaaaay back to Christmas and my spotting of Phil Keogan, the host of The Amazing Race . . . . The very next day I saw him again. And, if I was one to be prone to paranoid delusions of being stalked, I may have thought he was following me!

The next morning after having dinner with Phil (delusional, huh, what?), Rod and I set out for the big city of Whitianga for holiday supplies (okay, it’s a small village, but it has a supermarket).

We met some friends at our favourite café. There I was, in mid-bite of my eggs Benedict when who walks into the café? PHIL!

He’s unshaven, baseball cap backwards, an old t-shirt and jeans. He’s carrying a paper sack from the pharmacy next door (which was in a suspicious shape of L’Oreal hair dye) and gets in the queue (in line, you Americans) to order a coffee. There are about four people in front of him, as it’s just about morning tea time (10am, Americans).

Still with my mouth open, fork poised, I grunt at Rod and make googly eyes, urging him to look over toward the counter. He does. I SWEAR we are the only people in the restaurant looking at Phil! Remember, in my last spotting how no one in the restaurant even glanced his way? Where am I living, people?

That’s it, I say to myself. I stand up without even thinking and yell out in the middle of the packed restaurant, “What is wrong with you people? Can’t you see there is a celebrity in our midst?! Does this Tall Poppy Syndrome make you blind?!”

Okay, no, I didn’t really do that. But, I wanted to!

The funny thing is our friends who were having brekky with us (breakfast, my American friends) don’t own a TV. So, there we are gob-smacked and trying to explain to our friends what an amazing (get it . . Amazing Race . . .) international celebrity this guy is. They just aren’t getting it and lapse back into whatever conversation we were having.

Meanwhile, I’m tuned out and watching Phil as he orders his coffee, pays with some cash out of a worn wallet, waits a few minutes for his takeaway cup and casually leaves the premises.

I think he may have glanced my direction on his way out, but I’m not sure. Perhaps he felt me staring uncontrollably at his form? I’ll never know.

I spotted Phil again last Tuesday night . . . .oh, yeah . . . that’s on this season of The Amazing Race. His hair looks somewhat of a different colour. Must be the new shade he picked up at the local chemist over Christmas holidays.

Heather

Asparagus in the Air

2007-12-22T21:20:00.001-08:00

If I didn’t know better, I might suspect I was pregnant. (Don’t be alarmed, I do know better and this is a 100% impossibility, thank you Lord!).

Why? Well, have I heard somewhere that pregnant women are ultra-sensitive to smells? Not sure if this includes actually manufacturing phantom smells, but that is what has happened to me.

Every day, about five times a day . . . I smell asparagus.

It’s gotten to the point where it’s driving me mad. At first I thought maybe I was eating too much asparagus (it is in season) and the smell was seeping out of my orifices. Not just my pee, as is normal you know, but EVERY orifice. Can a smell really come out of your nose? Your ears? I am beginning to think it might be possible.

But, that can’t be accurate. I eat asparagus about once a week at the moment . . . two, tops. . . surely that frequency can’t leave lasting seeping effects?

Then, I thought maybe it was my breath. Eek! Rod has gotten tired of me coming up to him unexpectedly and huffing into his face, ‘does my breathe smell like asparagus??!’ Assaulted with a scrunched up face, he backs away and shakes his head. He’s often uncomplimentary, but does confirm my breath does not smell like asparagus.

For the past two weeks I’ve made it a habit to keep asking Rod, “There! I smell it again! Asparagus! Do you smell it??” I just get ‘the look’ – did you actually ask me that AGAIN, crazy lady!

Now, I’ve just relegated to random statements without expecting a reply . . . ‘there it is again.’ Or simply, just. . . ‘asparagus!’ It’s like a code word now, Rod knows what I’m referring to. He no longer comments. Just rolls his eyes.

Sometimes on those crazy shows about poltergeists living in someone’s home, people will talk about smelling smells. Maybe some asparagus-loving ghost is following me around!? My grandmother loved asparagus . . . . maybe Bernice is trying to communicate to me from beyond the grave!?? Grandma, are you there??

Good news is . . . asparagus season is almost over. I’m hoping the smell disappears with the crop.

Heather

Next Stop on the Amazing Race? MATARANGI!!

2007-12-22T21:14:00.000-08:00

Rod and I have retired to the beach for Christmas and the summer holidays. Gotta love New Zealand, when you can take a month off at Christmas and your clients think this is normal! Whenever we contemplate moving back to America, this lovely tradition holds us here…

Anyway, tired of cooking for ourselves at the bach (beach house), we decided to pretty up and go to the golf club for dinner. It is still a bit quiet at Matarangi beach as most people stay at home (Auckland or wherever) for Christmas Day and Boxing Day (day after Christmas), so thus there were only about 25 people in the restaurant. A quiet night.

As I tucked in to my calamari and Rod into his tomato/feta entrée (appetizer, that is), I glanced at the bar to see a most famous face! In much too loud of a whisper, I hit Rod on the hand which stunned him out of his wine-appreciation reverie and said, “Oh my goodness! Look over there! It’s What’s His Face!!! You know from the Amazing Race TV show! Phil!!! It’s PHIL!”

Rod, coolly glances over the bar and nonchalantly nods in agreement and sips his Chardonnay.

“What? Are you acting cool? Do you see celebrities everyday?” I irritably say. I need a partner in my astonishment.

“Well, I’m not going to act like a fool like some people!” he replies.

Phil Keoghan is a New Zealander (and holds the record for highest bungy jump, just so you know!). We did know he was a native, as Kiwis claim any celebrity who has any connection to NZ as ‘their own’ and take all opportunities to publicise such in the media over and over again.

Russell Crowe is also theirs - - he was apparently born in NZ, although he moved when he was like two years old to Australia. He speaks like an Australian and I would imagine calls himself an Australian . . . . but Kiwis claim he’s a native.

Keith Urban, the country singer/wife of Nicole, is also a New Zealander. Again, I think he vamoosed to the US when he was a teenager and hasn’t been back since, but they still claim him.

New Zealand is also a funny place for another reason: Kiwis won’t bother a celebrity on the street or in a public place because they believe they are equals with these people. Anyone Kiwi believes they are better than another Kiwi - - even if you are an international celebrity worth millions - - should be knocked down a few notches. This is such a prevalent phenomenon that a syndrome has been named after it . . . ‘Tall Poppy Syndrome.’ As in ‘no one is supposed to raise their head above the other flowers’ as a tall poppy would!

ANYWHOO…. Back to Phil.

So, because of the Tall Poppy Syndrome (which apparently Rod has suddenly come down with) NO ONE bothers Phil at all. He sits with his family of five without anyone even so much as glancing his way. Which makes my antics even more noticeable. I try to get my excitement under control….

Phil orders his drink and walks back to his table. Turns out Rod has a direct line of sight to his table, which is behind me, making gawking impossible. I ask Rod every five minutes for an update on what Phil is doing.

“He’s sipping his beer.” “He’s eating his dinner.”

I decide Rod needs to get a little more imagination, please! He can be the best colour commentator when it comes to American football, but when I ask for a little bit of detail here, he’s uncooperative.

While we finished our mains (entrees, you Americans), I contemplated asking the waitstaff if they might take my photo with Phil. Wouldn’t that make a great Christmas photocard to send friends!? But, because no one else was bugging him (or even noticing he was there!! …. I just wanted to scream out – “there’s a celebrity in our midst, wake up people!”), I decided against it. I would have ended up being the rude, celebrity-mad American fan. I figure I need to work on blending in with the natives.

Turns out, upon paying our bill, we did ask our waitress friend, Claire, about Phil. He owns a house in Matarangi! Huh, so, now I will be walking the beach with camera in hand! There may still be an opportunity for that photo yet.

I can hear it now . . . ‘Heather and Rod, you are the first Americans to arrive at the pitstop on this leg of the race - my posh Matarangi beach house. Please come in and meet my friends Rob and Amber.’

Heather

Goat Dreams

2007-11-15T13:20:00.000-08:00

My blog readers already know I have demented dreams, so may as well share my latest.

I am 'home' in America and helping my father with chores on the farm when what should appear? Why, a small herd of talking billy goats, of course!

I was very afraid of them. I thought they appeared a bit evil and one tried to headbutt me while talking all the while.

I told my father he'd have to deal with them as they scared me.

My dad began talking to them as if he knew them - he'd done this before, apparently. Turns out he had offered the goats to bed down for a while in a nearby cave. They showed up to claim their nests for the night.

Once they surveyed the cave and approved, my father decided it would be nice to offer them something to eat - they were hungry from their travels. I'm not quite sure what he was preparing, but it was some sort of raw meat. He began throwing it on the barn floor for them to eat and I found myself confused and appalled.

"If they are civilised enough to talk, why can't they eat off of plates," was my last thought as I awoke.

As I laid in bed amazed at my always delusional dreams, my conscious whispered: "Now that's one for the blog!"

Heather

Great NZ Cheese Wars

2007-11-03T23:24:00.000-07:00

If one looks back in History, one will find many wars fought over food . . . you have the great spice wars, wars over tea (Boston Tea Party), there were actually wars over salt in India (so says, Google), and even coffee wars (Starbucks vs all the others, that is). And, now, I am claiming 2007 as the year of the Great NZ Cheese Wars.

These Cheese Wars took place in a small suburb of Hamilton, New Zealand and all began over a small block of Havarti.

Going back in my own history (yes, I'm in my 40th year!) Havarti has always been a favourite cheese. In fact I have fond memories of Havarti. When I was a young lass (why does talk of history automatically make you think with a British accent?) my grandmother knew Havarti was my favourite fromage and she would always bring a block just for me when she would visit. Since then, Havarti has always held a special place in my heart.

In New Zealand, however, it's a different story . . . . Havarti here is not Havarti there (US). In fact, rather than the lovely, mild - yet tasty - cheese of my youth, you never know what you're going to get in NZ. Sometimes it can be rather bland . . . other times stinky and unappetising. All in all, I've never had a Havarti in NZ that 'reminds me of home', so to speak. One word - rank.

Despite its unpredictable reputation and unpalatable tendency, Rod insists on continuing to buy Havarti. Finally, while perusing the cheese counter last week, I finally just spoke my mind. As Rod picked up the Havarti to toss it in the trolley, I blurt, "Rod, not the Havarti, it's never good. I'm not eating that."

"I really enjoy Havarti!," he exclaims. We bicker back and forth for a few moments until finally he wins and throws it in the cart. It ends with a stare-down and unspoken truce as we continue down the grocery aisles.

This happens on Sunday . . . Tuesday evening rolls around and I'm hankering for a bit of cheese before dinner. As I peer into the fridge at the unopened Havarti, I am lured once again by my childhood memories. "Maybe today, it'll actually taste like the Havarti I remember..."

So, I decide to have a go. Rod and I are in deep conversation over the day's events as I grab a knife and slice open the plastic packaging.

WHOO! The stench that wafts up my nostrils is worse than any cheese I've ever smelled! This one just might make the Havarti Hall of Fame! Many explitives and noises later, Rod claims I'm exaggerating to make the point that he should never have bought the Havarti in the first place.

"It's a good cheese," Rod whines from the living room. "Some of the best cheeses in the world don't smell nice at first but they taste great. Just give it a chance."

Stupidly, I listen to this reasoning and take a bite. It tastes as foul as it smells and I scream - while also laughing hysterically - all of this with cheese on my tongue, "It tastes like someone FARTED in my mouth!!" And spit it out...

This Tuesday was a momentus day in the Great NZ Cheese Wars, because from this point onward Havarti would be referred to only as Hafarti.

With exaggerated motions, I toss the cheese into a Ziploc and throw it back into the nether-regions of the fridge. I then look at Rod and say, "You're going to EAT this Hafarti?!" "Yes," he says as if he had any other option now. The war is on.

For the remainder of the week, the Hafarti sat in the fridge OOZING a stench like rotting food from within its double plastic casing. I forgot it was there several times and went hunting for the rotten meat that I assumed was hiding under something. Other times I ran the garbage disposal several times a day, thinking something had decayed in it overnight. All of this only to remember several minutes later that nothing was rotten . . . . it was just my husband's nasty Hafarti.

When I'd realise this, there was much wailing and complaining . . . "UGH! The stench, are you going to EAT this? Eat it or toss it!" . . . . "Yes, I'm going to eat it. I love Havarti!" By Thursday, it was an official standoff.

Hafarti was the source of much bickering this week . . . until today. Rod finally decided he was in the mood for a little farty, Havarti. He opened the Ziploc and it was sweet victory watching his face scrunching up with as the putrid smell penetrated his nostrils.

"Oh that doesn't smell nice at all," Rod says. I quickly remind him that some wise man once told me many smelly cheeses actually taste quite nice.

I could see the forelorn look in his face as he readied for defeat . . . He cuts a small chunck and delicately places it on his tongue . . . . "Oh, that's really not nice."

YES! Sweet victory for the female troops!!!

The Hafarti is now in the rubbish bin in the garage stinking up the place. But, good news is rubbish day is Wednesday, so it'll be out of my house in a few short days.

The Great NZ Cheese Wars. ... . started with Havarti, ended with a Heather Hafarti Victory. Children will be writing essays on this for years to come.

Heather

Windy End to The Adventure

2007-10-23T00:12:00.000-07:00

We sleep in till 8:15. I look at the bedside clock and yell, "oh no, we've missed the bread, it'll be cold!" Rod dashes to the door with only a few minutes to spare before all warmth was lost. Thank goodness this is our last day of bread - I think I gained two pounds in three days! It's back to low-carb next week.

A lazy morning and we pack up to go.

Before we're off we take a stroll on the beach and sit on some rocks in the sun. We have a bit of a walk along the sand and see daulphins off the coast. A perfect 'goodbye.'

Back to the 'Great Barrier International Airport.' I see our pilot/bag lady friend again - checking people in. . . .

Turns out it's a pretty windy day and flights are late coming/going from the island. I have a bit of a tendency to get a 'pukey' on bumpy flights, so I'm getting slightly anxious about the flight. More so as I've left my motion sickness pills at home. . . . hmm, not a smart move.

After an hour delay, we pile into our 8-person aircraft and get going. At one point during takeoff the plane went sideways as a result of a wind sheer. It was at that point I knew I was in trouble.

We were up into the clouds and most of the flight was a white-out. This makes it a bit difficult to 'focus on the horizon', which is my rule when getting car-sick, sea-sick or air-sick. No horizon means there is a problem.

In and out of the clouds - - QUICK, find the horizon. Damn, it's gone.

In front of me is a mother with her two teenage girls. She was moving all over the place taking about 50 photos of clouds! After each one, she leaned over to show her daughters 'how it turned out.' 'They all look the same, dammit!,' I want to say. Her movements were adding to the 'background noise' of my sickness and it wasn't pretty. I wanted to throw her stupid camera to the back of the plane, but I refrained.

More clouds, more peeps of the horizon....

When, finally, we descend and any hope of seeing any horizon is now long gone. And, happy, happy, we now are circling the airport in a HOLDING PATTERN.

I know Rod is looking at me - - I can feel his eyes in the back of my head and know that HE knows I'm feeling really sick now. I check for the sickness bag. It's there.

I'm now getting that sweaty, clammy feeling that happens when you know you're going to be sick. I'm praying, 'please God let me see land' over and over and over.

Now, I really feel like I'm gonna puke. I DON'T WANT TO - - I've never actually had to puke in an air-sickness bag. I've been very close, but never got quite there thank goodness. I suddenly was staring at the white sack in that back seat pocket. 'How do I do this?," I wonder. Do I bunch it up around my lips? What if a power puke, will I be able to hold onto the bag? Will it leave a horrible stench in the plane and cause a chain reaction of more pukers?! I'm going into a bit of a puke panic - - all the while still praying for sight of land. PLEASE DEAR LORD!!!!!!

The hot sweats are coming fast and strong now. I know I have precious little time left. To top things off the pilots are young and cute and I know I'm going to be the 'older lady' who puked in their plane. This sucks!

One last prayer to the Almighty as I ready to grab the bag and FINALLY, land! Oh, God, I think I can make it! Yes, I do. Taxiing, deep breathing, wiping my brow, calming down, cooling off....

I look back at Rod and he's smiling with a knowing look. I just signal to him with my thumb and first finger an inch apart meaning, "I was THIS close to losing it!" He chuckles out loud.

A windy end to a great adventure.

Heather

Great Adventure Day 3

2007-10-22T23:56:00.000-07:00

8:00 - yep, more yummy bread! And, more rugby . . . . and more views. So predictable now.

However, here's what's unpredictable. . . . Great Barrier somehow gets Aljazzera TV on this morning! This happened to be on the channel that, on the previous day, was broadcasting the rugby. We thought for a few moments NZ had been invaded by Muslims overnight. We soon found the rugby on a different station (there are only 5, so this was a bit bizarre). Oh well, we chocked that up to 'interesting island life.'

After another leisurely morning, we were off to a two hour roundtrip walk to the island's hot springs. All along this creek there are little pools where you can sit and enjoy the hot, steamy water. Rod stripped down to his skivvies - I put my feet in. It was a very unique experience.

Back from the hot springs, we took naps, watched another movie and got ready for dinner. We were booked in at another lodge called, Earthsong. A 25 minute drive and we turn onto a driveway that is a track several times worse than the one at our cottage - we wouldn't have thought this to be possible!

The lodge is made of hay bales as insulation and has a cozy feel to it. I'm served a Cosmopolitan (dangerous drink, so I decide to only have one!) while Rod sips on some wine. We are dining with Sue and Zane this evening - a couple our age from Auckland.

Turns out the chef at Earthsong has cooked all over the world and is a member of the Slow Food movement. And it was slow - - we started at 6:30 and ended at 10:30. As he served each course (there were 5), he described how he cooked it and the ingredients in the dish. Each thing had amazing flavours. Slow food is about great flavours, small servings and tastes that get more intense with each course. It worked . . . the chef told us we should be able to eat dinner but still feel like getting up and dancing at the end! Don't know about that, but felt good by the time I finished my rhubarb cake.

Back to the cottage for the final of Midnight Movie Madness and off to bed.

Heather

Great Adventure Day 2

2007-10-22T23:39:00.000-07:00

It was 8:00, so you know what that means! Fresh bread on our doorstep - -mmmm, yes, each morning at eight sharp, fresh, warm bread. Marmalade and butter in the fridge and fresh coffee boiled on the stovetop - - with a view to die for. Now, this is breakfast. Plus, Rod was in heaven as there was a television in the room and he was able to watch the Rugby World Cup semi-final match. Does it get any better than this? Na-ah.

After a leisurely morning, we were off to do a bit of tramping (walking that is) and exploring in the 4WD. We drove nearly an hour to the top of the island to a mass grave site where people were buried after a horrible shipwreck in the late 1800s. A bit grim, but a nice walk all the same. Our second walk was through Windy Canyon, which was terribly windy (whoda thunkit?), to the top of a mountain with more amazing views. We ended our physical day with a walk to a waterfall. We worked off the bread!

Back to the room to prepare for dinner. We're off the Skilly's remember? We travel 20 minutes down the track and round the corner to see this huge, grey old-looking lodge at the top of a hill. It's isolated from anything else and reminded me of house in the movie, Psycho. Turns out it was a relatively new lodge. A fire was roaring in the lounge and another couple was there joining us for Skilly's dinner - Alison and Gary.

Skilly was officially cooking, but was really just taking orders from his wife who is the actual cook at the lodge. She had snapped her Achilles tendons somehow and was in a wheelchair. So, he was literally cooking to her orders. During the night, he would come out as if he had just been beaten up and ask for luck as he plunged back through the kitchen door.

Alison and Gary turned out to be lovely company. We dined over fresh seafood chowder, snapper, potatoes, spinach and a chocolate pot for dessert. Turns out Skilly is definitely a man of many talents. Oh yeah, and he cleans up pretty well too.

Back to the room for another round of Midnight Movie Madness (we're getting crazy in our old age!) and off to bed.

Heather

Great Barrier Adventure Day 1

2007-10-22T22:50:00.000-07:00

In classic 'Rod and Heather Tradition,' last Friday we embarked on our annual surprise birthday trip (a reminder: we have the same bday and take turns planning a trip away each year). It was my turn to plan the surprise and after a bit of an email blunder, Rod found out where we were going. So much for the surprise - - - he did know the 'where' - Great Barrier Island, off the coast of NZ - but didn't know the hows or whats.....

The trip started at Auckland airport where we chartered a flight to the island. A young lady (I'd give her 23, which would be generous) met us at the plane and took our bags. We assumed she was the 'bag girl' but she popped into the front seat and began giving us safety instructions. What is it about getting old that makes others look so young!?

After a beautiful, scenic flight, we begin landing onto a paddock by the wind-swept beach dunes when I jokingly pointed to a green shed and said, "there's the international terminal." Only to discover 15 seconds later that it WAS actually the terminal - - a shed. Hmmmm, quaint.

After the pilot/bag girl (uhuh) unloaded our bags and physically dragged the baggage cart over the grass to the shed, we picked up our luggage and headed to the rental car bay... Okay, it was a dirt parking lot that held 10 cars.

The rental car guy showed up 10 minutes late (Island time, people, Island time) but flagged us down. He was attired in a ripped sweatshirt and grubby shorts. He led us to our rental car, which was a rusted out 4WD jeep with dusty dash and muddy carpets. "You'll need this for the track you're going on," he says (yes, 'track' not street or even road).

He turned the key on and the fan belt scretched like a native bird: "will that bother you?" he says to Rod. Rod kind of gives me the eye like, "where the hell have you taken me." But says, "no, that won't be a problem." Skilly (as we find out the locals call him) wrote out our rental agreement on the bonnet and grabs my VISA and then suddenly says, "oh right, you guys are coming to my place for dinner tomorrow night!" I now get an even more interesting look from Rod . . . "I own the Mount St Pauls Lodge." I affirm we are booked in and quip, "Ha, you going to cook our meal too?!" "Funny you should say that," he says (you'll have to read Day 2 for Skilly Part II).

Skilly hands us everything back and says, "do you want me to show you where you're going?" Now expecting he'll whip out a trusty map of the island and give us some detailed directions, he motions us to follow him. He points: "You see that hill over there? Well, okay, actually that tree is blocking the hill, but there's a hill behind that tree. You'll be going up there." Another look from Rod and we're off - laughing hysterically I should add!

We find our way just fine. The last stretch was the worst metal (dirt, American friends) road you've ever been on. The 4WD was definitely required. Five minutes down the 'track' and we arrive at Blind Bay Cottage. All is forgiven now . . . it was in the most magical spot ever. Now Rod is breathing a sigh of relief! It is on one of the highest hills on the island at the tippy top and we can see forever over the ocean, including the sunset. Words can't describe how beautiful it was. The cottage was set in native bush and isolated from everything and everyone. Just incredible.

Carole, the cottage owner, met us at the door and showed us around. We got the rundown on how there is no electricity reticulated to the island, so they generated their own by solar and wind. Therefore, we were asked to conserve whenever possible. They also collect their own water, but due to a lot of recent rain, there was a lot of water available. Despite the electricity going out a few times and the lights being a bit dimmer than at home, all was relatively normal.

Carole left us to our own devices, so we took wine and snacks down to the beach. We then went out to one of the only restaurants on the island - Thai as it happens. It was just us and 4 other people. Terrific food, surprisingly. Run by a Kiwi bloke who is married to a Thai lady. I'm guessing she was a mail order bride who's now wondering how the heck she can escape from the island!

A movie on the DVD and it was to bed by midnight (late for us old folks. A great beginning to our 39th birthday adventure.

Heather

Rugby Religion

2007-10-15T23:21:00.000-07:00

As part of our adventures of living New Zealand, we've come to realise the country's religion of choice is not Catholicism, not Anglican . . . . it's rugby. And, this year is something like Ramadan with less ritual . . . . it's the rugby world cup. It only comes around once every four years, so it's a big deal.

This year, the world cup is in France and the whole thing lasts about two months. And, Rod's into it. . . . this shouldn't be a surprise. Anything that involves a ball, Rod can quickly become addicted to. The exception is Cricket. He tried playing Cricket the first year we lived in NZ. You have to realise that most Cricket games last for five days . No that wasn't a type-o. Five days! Short ones last three days. Recreational cricket can take place in an afternoon. However, it's just not your typical 'game with a ball.' Rod reckons the best way to watch cricket is with a good book. A typical score for one team is around 600 runs - - and, after five days it is common to end in a tie! Go figure.

Anyway, back to rugby.

So, the All Blacks (our team's name) is the national team. There is only one team, unlike in American sport. Kind of think of it as the Olympics . . . . you have a national team only. The All Blacks were pumped up as being the best team in the World Cup this year and even other country's were tipping us as winning the whole shebang.

Rod has been waking up at 2am . .. 4am to watch matches between obscure country's like Samoa, Fiji, Georgia, etc. This goes on for about a month, until finally the quarter finals start and the All Blacks are playing rugby on a Sunday morning at the reasonable hour of 8am versus France. I even get up for this one.

It turns out to be a great game. We're in the lead for most of it - - - until the very end, when to the country's shock and horror, we lose by just a few points. I have to admit, even I was pacing the room during the last few minutes and felt a sense of disbelief and sadness that we had lost. The whole country went into mourning. Literally!

Firstly, our church service that day offered condolences to all in attendance. Then, for 3 days, there was nothing else on the radio - particularly talk radio - except for discussions around the reasons why we lost.

THEN, the Government launched an inquiry to find out the reasons why we had lost. The coach was fired.

THEN, on the news show the following morning, there was a psychiatrist on television giving people tips for getting over their depression. There was no laughter during this segment - - it was all very serious!

Only 8% of people in NZ go to church. But 99% love their All Blacks! It's an adventure - - not always logical, but an adventure.

Heather

Value of $135 Remains a Mystery

2007-10-09T19:45:00.001-07:00

For those of you following the saga of my 'special callers' (see http://americannzadventures.blogspot.com/2007/08/what-does-135-get-you-on-street.html), I am sad to report that I missed the opportunity to find out the street value of $135 today.

I was sitting in my office this afternoon when my phone rang:

"Hi. I'm calling about your ad in the paper."

In the middle of a mind-sucking task, I didn't even clue in:

"What ad?"

"The ad for a massage," says the hopeful John.

My ears perk up and I catch on now! However, immediately laugh and say, you have the wrong number. When a SPLIT SECOND LATER, I began screaming down the phone . . . "wait, wait, wait, wait, wait...." UGH! He hung up.

There it was, people! My chance to ask a few questions about the value of my hourly fee.

But, one mystery is solved. This was the first time my caller actually came out and said he was inquiring about an ad in the paper for a 'massage' (code in NZ for sex!). Bad news is my phone-twin missed out on income today. Oh well, I'm saving some poor girl from defiling herself one less time....

Well, loyal readers. Stay tuned in. I will try to keep my wits about me when my next would-be lover rings up.

Heather

Visions of My Obituary

2007-09-19T21:52:00.000-07:00

When Rod took this picture this week, I had a premonition of how my life might end and a scenario has been floating arond in my brain ever since. This will only happen if Rod goes first, as with him around I'll maintain my sanity, but if he kicks it, here's how I predict things may ensue:

A woman's body was found today at the bottom of a heap of sleeping cats. The scene of the smothering was the victim's home, an apparent feline haven.

Reporter, Joe Smith, was first on the scene with this report:

"The woman - once a noted professional in the local community - was found wearing her housecoat, lying on the couch. There were cats sitting on her head, lying on her lap and reposing on every limb. It is thought she may have inadvertantly fallen asleep, when the legion of cats lept upon her and smothered her to death."

It was noted by police that the cats were apparently "quite large," the result of what could only be chronic over-feeding. The commissioner estimated the weight of the cats to be rather enormous. Several bags of half-empty kitty treats were found near the body.

Neighbours were questioned at the scene. One neighbour commented that he "never saw much of the lady. However, I often heard her in the backyard talking to the cats. Once in a while they even replied."

Oh well . . . till then I'll try to maintain some balance. Although they are good for keeping me warm in winter!

Heather

Our Lives Have Reduced to This

2007-08-30T23:03:00.000-07:00

It's Friday, and as is tradition in the Claycomb household, we will be 'going out' for the night. Nothing fancy, people, just a bite to eat and a movie (Matt Damon if I'm lucky!).

As Rod reads the evening paper, he gets to the last page - - the TV listings and says, "Don't forget to tape Project Runway."

I am still finishing off some work bits and not quite listening 100%, but this stopped me in my tracks. I look up at him and say, "Do you realise what you've just said? We are actually going to TAPE Project Runway!"

Rod's disclaimer, which he is forcing me to type at gunpoint (okay, more like wineglass-point), is that this will be taped for MY enjoyment not his (uh, huh).

But, this is just an illustration of what our TV viewing has been reduced to after 8 years in NZ. It's like we're living in a bubble where we don't actually remember anymore what good TV actually is. Here's the typical viewing schedule:

Mondays:
Desperate Housewives from 2005/06 season. Hey, I can't complain, at least I have Gabrielle for entertainment, no matter how outdated.

Tuesdays:
Lost - 2 seasons ago. I am interested to know if this is actually on anymore in America? Does anyone have any more answers than questions?

Wednesdays:
The Amazing Race - Rob and Amber have transferred from Survivor, which we saw only 2 seasons ago.

Thursdays:
SVU -2 seasons old

Fridays:
Yes, Project Runway (this is following a few months ago when the viewing was America's Next Top Model from 2005 season which we taped religiously each week!).

Then, add to that Seinfeld reruns - -the VERY first season; Who Wants to Be a Millionaire from Britain, 2003 (cultural differences mean we have no clue about a third of the questions, but watch anyway); and Friends, the early years - Rachel has REALLY big hair.

We often have TV protests when we snap out of our unreality and realise these programmes are so NOT entertaining, we should be spending our leisure time more wisely. So, we'll have two evenings of reading books, playing scrabble, but we inevitably turn on the TV "just to see what's on" and it lures us in!

Oh well, gotta go, Survivor is on. Rupert is just about to win the immunity challenge I think.

Heather

What Does $135 Get You On The Street?

2007-08-30T22:27:00.000-07:00

Picture this . . . . . a late winter evening and my cell phone rings at about 10pm. Being that my phone is primarily a work phone and my profession is PR, a late evening or early morning call can never be a good thing. One of my clients is an airline pilot training organisation . . . . eek, late night cell phone calls get the adrenalin pumping, visions of planes crashing!

The phone is in the office, so I jump out of bed, race down the hall and grab my phone on the last ring....

A shy-sounding, soft spoken man is on the line and uncomfortably says:

"Um, yeah, ah, I saw your ad and just like wondered, like, where you are located and what your rates are?"

Hmmmm.... I was niave and confused. Had I inadvertantly placed an ad for my communications services and couldn't remember? My fees are $135 and hour, but I don't usually start out my sales process by talking money (learned that in some sales training class years ago).

So, I say in a very business-like, rather stern voice: "What kind of services are you looking for?"

He suddenly realised he probably had the wrong number as the woman on the other end of the line didn't seem terribly receptive. "Oh sorry, wrong number, bye!"

Hmmmm....

Fast forward several weeks later, again, very late night and my cell phone beeps. Not entirely unusual as my UK client often texts me ay odd hours - "this must be Karen," I think.

I hunt down the beeping phone in my office and select my text mailbox:

"Saw yr ad and am intrsted. Wht R ur fees?"

Okay, I'm getting this now. I text back: "U got wrong nmbr. Cn u pls tell me was this an ad 4 escort svc? I hv got a few of these funny msgs-i may hv 2 chg my numbr as it must b similar! Thxs 4 yr reply."

Nothing back. At first I thought the guy might think I was a cop trying to bust a prostitution ring and that's why he never replied. I felt very much like Olivia on SVU . . . until later . . . I remembered prostitution is legal in NZ, so he just must have been busy (maybe on a 'date'--eek!).

So, tonight, I was determined to read thru the Escort Services column in the local paper to see if my phone matches any of the young ladies in waiting....

"Curvaceous, busty red head for all your needs and desires" (hmm... needs AND desires). Anyway, no phone match.

"Stunning beauty, prv, discreet, specials avail." (hmm....specials?). Again, no phone match.

And then at the bottom of the column clearly in the wrong section of the wanted ads (I'd be asking for a free advert if I were them):

"Colonic hydrotherapy - bowel irrigation, have a spring clean!" (ouch). No match either.

After thoroughly checking out the paper, Rod reminds me that NZ mobile phones all have the same area code, so my would-be clients could be calling from anywhere around the country. To track down my phone-twin, I'd have to read all escort service ads everywhere. Entertaining, but daunting.........

I don't think I'll change my number. It's very entertaining. I think next time I'll tell them my hourly rates are $135 and ask them what they would expect for that (I'm curious now). I'll have to think of my answer when they ask if I have specials available. . . .

Until next time, this is the:

"Flat-chested, 30-something, grey brunette, in bed by 9, enjoys threesome with husband and cats. Gr8 hrly rates and extra-specials available."

A.K.A. Heather

Read About Hamilton

2007-08-15T21:17:00.001-07:00

I was searching on the web for something and found this link: http://www.nwm.co.nz/download/North%20&%20South%20Article%20on%20Hamilton%202006.pdf . It is an article on the town we live in - Hamilton. Rod and I were interviewed in it, if you're interested!

Heather

Sleep - Interrupted

2007-07-27T16:07:00.000-07:00

Rod and I took a hiatus from our New Zealand Adventures to visit our families back home in Pennsylvania. We had a terrific holiday and spent the last day in Washington DC with Rod’s parents, Bud and Eileen. We toured the sites and ended our day in the Quality Inn near the Dulles airport.

We booked the hotel earlier in the week. We had intended on getting two rooms – one for us and one for Rod’s folks, but the cheapest place we could find near the airport was $160. I suggested that was a bit much to pay for two rooms, so why didn’t we just share one?

Eileen warned us she had a tendency to get up a few times a night and wouldn’t want to bother us, but we quickly dismissed this as something that wouldn’t be a problem. There was no mention of any nighttime idiosyncrosies Bud may have that might impinge on our slumber, so we assumed all would be fine. We booked the one room.

As we settled in for the evening, there was a brief conversation about Bud’s sleep apnea machine. We quickly became thankful when we learned he had left it at home. It makes a horrible racket and I’m particularly sensitive to any noises that may keep me from sleeping.
It was already 10:45 and we had to get up at 4:30, so being able to sleep soundly was important at that point… even more so as we had around 35 hours of travel ahead of us.

Bud went to bed before Rod and I, as we watched a bit more television. When Bud turned out the light on his side, I jokingly quipped, "No snoring!" He said, "There are no guarantees, I didn’t bring my machine. But, if you think I’m bad, wait till you hear Eileen."

Hmmmmmmmmmmm……..it was at this point I was now wondering if this room sharing idea was such a good one….. No machine equals snoring??? I hadn’t realised this minor (yet important) detail.

All was fine while the lights and TV were on. Finally around 11:00, Rod put his book down and turned the lights out. Within about two minutes the chorus began. Since it takes the average human seven minutes to get to sleep, this was a problem….

It started with a lot of deep, soft sighing. Rod and I were prepared, however, with ear plugs by each bedside. As Rod whispered, "Just great!" we donned the plugs. The deep sighing quickly escalated, however, into nose-rumbling, snorting inhalations followed by loud, wet exhalations.
As I lie there, Rod was completely still. I started to get angry (and quite jealous) that he was sleeping already and I was left alone to hear the din, when, all of a sudden Rod hits me on the leg. I take out my left plug . . . . "Are you hearing this?," he says. "Am I hearing this? The snorts are penetrating the hi-tech, spaceage foam of my earplugs!"

After much whispered discussion, we assume the best case scenario - he’ll most likely get into a rhythm and it won’t be so bad. We put the plugs back in…..

Rhythm did not ensue. In fact, soon, the sighing, followed by the rumbling snort and wet exhalation is punctuated by doubly loud, quickly accented grunts reminiscent of funny characters in children’s cartoons. It was during the first of these grunts that the giggling began. Rod said the following morning he could feel my body racking the bed.

Another hit on the leg . . . . earplugs removed . . . . "What are we going to do?," Rod whispers as he works to keep a loud giggling fit at bay. "We only have five hours till we have to get up. Can you sleep?" This was a rhetorical question.

"Is it worth $160 for another room?," Rod pondered aloud.

Now, this was a tempting thought, but there was no way we could move two 65 pound suitcases, 50 pounds of golf clubs and sundry items out of the room without waking up the offender and his so-far-silent accomplice. After much whispered discussion, we reinserted the earplugs.

I tried several times during the next 30 minutes to reposition the earplugs in my auditory canal. The snoring was so loud, I kept thinking, "surely these things aren’t inserted properly!" I have a pair of those disposable, foam earplugs - you know the kind that you have to squish up really small, put in your ears and hold in place till they inflate.

The challenge with these types of earplugs is timing the split second just perfectly from the time you’ve squished the plug to its thinnest form to the point of insertion in the ear. If you don’t get this timing just right and miss the centre target of your canal opening, you are back to square one and squishing the thing once again.

My focus during this episode was on trying to get the thinnest possible point on the end of my earplug so that I could insert the plug (with lightning speed, of course) as deeply as possible into my ear canal, so that upon inflation it blocked out the greatest percentage of noise. However, each time I inserted, I could STILL hear the snoring! And, each time I took out the plugs and tried again – getting the foam so thin that the risk of an eardrum puncture was quite high. At that point, I thought the risk of partial deafness was a small price to pay for a few hours of sound sleep.

Little did I know until a discussion the following day that Rod was beside me the whole time repositioning his earplugs (and risking hearing impairment) to no avail as well.

After at least seven attempts at getting the best plug insertion as possible, I admitted defeat. The snoring decibels rose and continued to seep through my perfectly positioned plugs while the punctuating grunts elicited many more giggles.

Luckily sleepiness overrode the noisy distraction and I was able to nod off around midnight. Rod did too. One saving grace was Bud’s snoring was a solo performance and Eileen only got up once in the night, which ironically didn’t bother us at all.

The conclusion? There does come a point in life when you’ve become ‘too old’ to share a hotel room with your parents. If you are wondering when that is, Rod and I can confidently tell you it’s in your 39th year.

Heather

Greek Nightmares

2007-07-02T00:18:00.000-07:00

Okay, since I'm on about my dreams . . . . I'm having some really freaky ones. Too many to write out in full. Plus, if I told you them all you would know how truly demented I am. The fat lady from the Poltergeist movies featured in one the other night - - - you know, the 'go into the liiiiight' woman. . . . oh my.

But this one takes the cake...

The world has ended and only a few people have survived. I'm holed up in this old, old house with a few other people. The house is falling down, the roof has holes in it, we are all cold and miserable. And there is this monster out to get us...

Turns out it's one of those creatures from Greek mythology (yeah, I told you this is normal content) that is half bull, half man. When we see him, he's HUGE and he is trailed by this black cloud (kinda like the monsters in Lost - the TV show).

Anyway, it's terribly evil and so scary. He's out to get all of us and kill us. All of my friends there are trying to figure out how we can dodge this monster and get away.

We all decide there are these few other people who are sitting around reading books and watching TV. We are going to leave them in the house to be sacrificed to the half bull/half man monster. We figure when he comes back he'll think al the people are in the house - - cause that's where 'people' live. So, me and my few friends decide to put on all the clothes we can and run for the barn, cause we won't be found in there.

We open the door to the room where all the loafers are sitting around unawares. We give them one last look and make off for the barn and safety.

That's it....

I was so disturbed by this dream. As I told Rod about it in the morning, I'm like, "What are those things. . . . half bull, half man . . . isn't that a Greek thing?" Somehow we dredged up those high school Greek Mythology notes from the back files in our brains.... we came up with Minotaur! Yeah, Minotaur.....

All day I could not get this scary dream out of my head, so I Googled 'Minotaur' to see what it was. Definition:

Minotaur - Classical Mythology. a monster, the offspring of Pasiphaë and the Cretan bull, that had the head of a bull on the body of a man: housed in the Cretan Labyrinth, it was fed on human flesh until Theseus, helped by Ariadne, killed it.

AHHHHHHHHHH!!!! As soon as the definition popped up, I was totally freaked out! I couldn't have told you what a Minotaur was 30 seconds before I saw this definition. I had no clue. I have not seen anything on TV, I haven't read anything about them lately, I haven't Googled the word on the Internet until now.......

The brain is a weird and freaky thing, my friends. That's all I have to say....

Sweet dreams, people.

Heather

Do Ya Think I'm Stressed?

2007-06-25T21:43:00.001-07:00

Am I stressed? You be the judge! In one evening, I had the following nightmares....

Dream #1:

I'm sitting down to take a test on something like the History of Ancient Indian Religious Ceremonies (yes, if you aren't familiar with my dreams, this is normal content). Some guy in a turban hands me a test and I sit down and realise . . . I KNOW NOTHING! Nothing!

I have this papyrus with outlines of ancient drawings on them. I'm supposed to take some coloured power and, using a brush, brush the powder over the drawings. This is going to reveal some answers.... But, it doesn't work. I realise that I have been studying all semester for this final exam but I know nothing and I am pissed!

I signal for the test monitor to come over and I begin yelling that I know nothing . . .this isn't fair. . . . I've studied, but nothing I've studied is on this test! I get so frustrated I begin just uncontrollably crying and crying.

I leave my desk and walk outside and there are these three Indian men (one I actually know in real life) who are also weeping and the guy I know tells me it's just something I have to do.

So, I go back to the classroom, but while I was gone someone has STOLEN my test! Then, I get really, really angry, frustrated and cry a lot more.

THE END.

Dream #2 - - - on the same night, mind you . . . .

I am suspended along with about 20 other pupils high up over this huge crevasse. We are 100s of feet up. I am sitting in a desk/chair combo where the left side has a bar that can prevent me from falling out that side. But, the right side is open. So, if I tip, I could fall into the crevasse.

While I am trying to write on my test paper, this guy behind me has his foot on my desk and keeps tipping me over to the right side! I am hysterical and trying to cling on to the left side of my desk and not lose my papers into the crevasse. I finally yell at him to stop!

THE END.

The third weird thing I woke up to was this voice in my head saying, "Science isn't the Truth. The Truth is the Truth."

I'll just leave you with those wise words. Someone may have an interpretation for me (other than, whoa, that girl is stresssed!). Who knows, I could be an Oracle or something. Let me know if anything pops up for you :)

Heather

Growing Old Sucks

2007-06-25T21:10:00.000-07:00

For the first time in my life I have had slight inklings that I just may be getting a bit (JUST A BIT) older. For all you readers over 35, do you remember the first time you actually felt you were getting older? Unfortunately, I've had a raft of incidences lately, which have all converged to give me a general feeling of 'oldness.'

Firstly, I am sorry if I'm the first to tell you this, but I've recently come to the realisation that we are actually older than we tell ourselves that we are? Yes, hope you're sitting down for this one.... On 'paper' I'm only 38, but I'm actually IN my 39th year. I'm in my 39th year. Perhaps that's why I'm feeling old lately.

Incident #1: I've got this fungus growing on my face that just won't go away (okay, it's a bad rash, but it's not pleasant!). I've always had the good fortune of having good skin. While all my friends had teenage acne, I always skirted by relatively pimple-free. And, although most women in NZ my age have wrinkles from a lack of ozone, my wrinkles are keeping at bay somewhat. But, this face fungus is driving me mad. My doctor insists moisteriser and a gentle face wash will help it abate soon and asked me to hang in there. After all, 'my skin isn't the same as it used to be' . . . I'm in my 39th year.

Incident #2: It's winter here in NZ and in true winter tradition, I've gained the 'Frosty Five' (okay, it's really ten if I'm honest). One thing I can always count on - - not happy about, but can count on it - - is that extra pounds always go to my butt. Not this year. The extra few pounds have gone to my tummy. Again, I've always been pretty happy that no matter how fat my thighs get, my tummy is rather flat. I can hold onto that hope! Not any more. If I wasn't past child-bearing years (that would be my 38th year) people could mistake me for being in month #2 or something. All the more reason for keeping up the running (which, I swear is starting again TOMORROW).

Incident #3: You know your greys are getting bad when your stylist consistently comments. I have been cursed with my mother's genes - - I should say, the reason I have nice skin and a relatively flat tummy (until my 39th year at least) is because of all the good genes she gave me, but she's also passed along her greys. Last time I was in to see my stylist (that's what they call them here. Mine is 'David' - a VERY heterosexual male you would swear is a beer-guzzling, unemployed rugby fan if you saw him on the street) he actually let out a little shreek. It was somethign between a 'eek' and a 'euww.' Yes, I'm grey, SO WHAT! I'm in my 39th year!

Incident #4: For some odd reason, this is the first winter where I have begun feeling a chill on my neck everywhere I go. This is definitely 'old lady syndrome.' This is the stuff of grandmas - a constant conversation in the resthome: "A bit drafty in here, don't you think," as she covers up her neck.... I've actually reverted to wearing scarves into business meetings so I'm not caught off-guard by a sudden wind comign in through the windows. I also am wearing a high-necked shirt to bed (and sometimes a beanie - knitted hat). I SWEAR I can feel something breezy around my head and Rod SWEARS he's not blowing kisses (no chance of that with this new sexy get-up!). But, I guess that's what happens as you reach a certain maturity. I'm wearing scarves now - - - I'm in my 39th year.

Incident #5: I have to have organs removed. My gallbladder, specifically. I have had what I do believe are gallbladder 'issues' for about 2 years now (another 'Bad Janet Gene'). The doctor has recommended its removal. Only old people have organs removed! In addition, this has led to that inevitable time in one's marriage when you begin talking about bowel movements and other such things as if it is normal conversation! NEWSFLASH: YOUNG PEOPLE DO NOT TALK ABOUT THESE THINGS!! That's okay, I'm in my 39th year.

I could go on . . . tweaks in my knee when I run . . . talking to myself and my cats way too much, etc.

But, I guess it happens to all of us. Soon, 'on paper' I will catch up and actually turn 39 on 18 October. On 19 October, I'll be in my 40th year. Oh, I just can't wait for what it is store for me then!

Heather

Rod Fillets a Fish

2007-06-17T20:11:00.000-07:00

Many of you have seen this, but I realise there are new 'readers' out there who could have missed this one. Or, if you've seen it before, it's worth watching again! My husband, the novice fisherman, attempting to fillet a fish while I read him instructions I found on the Internet. . . .

Click here for the video link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LUnZ_lpPq2w

Heather

A Squatter's Life

2007-06-11T23:29:00.000-07:00

Rod just got around to reading my previous posting: "Division of Labour." When he read the part about not ironing for him and sharing 'tidy toilet' duties, he nodded and remarked very matter of factly, "Right - -- that's when I started sitting down to pee."

It's a significant milestone in our married history, really. You know . . . the first time you leave the bathroom door open while peeing . . . the first time you have to flap the bedcover . . . the first time your husband scratches his itches without apology. And, for Rod - - - sitting down to pee.

After hysterically laughing until I was crying, I did remember this fact. To Rod's dismay this is just too good not to become 'blog fodder!'

I remember the first time he actually took the toilet brush in hand. . . . Rod has a thing about germs, so wouldn't be surprised if he also donned gloves and a safety mask on his first foray. Okay, if not that extreme, there was at least some major scrubbing afterward that any surgeon would be proud of.

He went in for battle and came out announcing that he never knew how much splatter a man could muster! He immediately felt sorry for his mother - - cleaning up two bathrooms for a team of three spritzing males for 20 odd years!

It was then and there that he made the announcement. It was like a spiritual awakening really - - he denounced tradition and announced the conversion: "Hear ye, hear ye! From this point forth, I will sitteth to pee-ith!"

He has thus, eliminated 'the spray' altogether. My external toilet and immediate surrounding floor has sparkled ever since!

It reminds me of the Jack Nicholson film, "About Schmidt". Have you seen it? In the beginning he's talking about how much he hates his wife... during the diatribe it pans to him sitting on the pot. Here's a teaser of the script . . . . get that famous, Jack voice in your head first, then proceed:

Who is this old woman who lives in my house?
Why is it that every little thing she does irritates me?
Like the way she gets the keys out of her purse -- long before we reach the car.
And how she throws our money away on her ridiculous little collections.
And the way she cuts me off when I try to speak.
And I hate the ways she sits.And the way she smells.

[Pan to Jack sitting on the john]...

For years now, she has insisted that I sit when I urinate. My promise to lift the seat, and wipe the rim and put the seat back down -- wasn't good enough for her. No!

Ahhh..... Rod is my Jack. But, I caution that he is not hen-pecked! He chose this squatter's life himself.

Like a religious conversion, Rod is now critical of all men (particularly family, he's forgiving of friends, mostly) who DON'T sit to pee. He rarely confronts the male transgressors. Rather, he usually expresses his displeasure in one of those hushed conversations you have when family have come to visit you for several days.

You know those conversations. . . . everyone's gone to bed, you close the door but know the walls are too thin to block out anything above 5 decibals. Whispering loudly:

Rod: "He's peeing all over the floor, it's like Mount Vesuvius in there."

Heather: "You can't MAKE him sit down to pee, you'll just have to deal with it."

Rod: "But ants and other small insects are having a party on the bathroom floor!"

Heather: "So tell him!"

Rod: "I'm not gonna tell him, you tell him."

Heather: "I'm certainly not gonna tell him!!!!"

And so it goes . . . .

Ahhh, for those of you unmarried or newly married, these are the things you have to look forward to in married life. It is an exciting adventure . . . . 14 years and counting!

Heather

Division of Labour

2007-06-07T01:35:00.000-07:00

Before Rod and I got married, we had the traditional 'marriage counselling' precided over by the pastor who would marry us, Pastor Mel Stephen. During one of our sessions, Mel gave us each the same 100 question quiz. We were to take it away and answer it separately, not sharing answers, and bring it back for him to have a look.

The quiz asked such questions as . . . "who do you expect to change the oil in the car? who will do the banking in your family? who will do the grocery shopping?" It also went into hard core issues as well, "if your kid is caught smoking dope, what's the punishment?" (okay, so that wasn't one of the questions, but you get the idea).

Amazingly - Rod and I still pride ourselves on this one - we answered 99 out of 100 questions the same! We were so meant for each other!

One of the compromises we made at this early stage in the relationship was that I was happy to do the laundry in exchange for Rod taking care of the finances. (Rod acts as if this is a sacrifice, but there is NO WAY he would trust me with the finances. Ahuh.)

However, in 15 years of marriage (going on 16), he always seems to find a way to criticise my work (I'm workin' hard here!) . . . This is never in an aggressive manner. Usually simply short comments under his breath, "sure is a big pile of laundry out here," "I don't seem to have any clean, brown socks," "is that basket of clean clothes going to sit there for another week?"

And, recently, he's been spoiled by his Mother who was visiting us for seven weeks. She was amazing while she was here - she did all our laundry the whole time, which was such a huge help! She also has an interesting habit I have never known (sorry to my mom!) - she actually irons everything fresh out of the drier. This means doing the laundry is an all-day affair. I walked into the room once as she was ironing Rod's workout t-shirt. I told her she was crazy. She said, "no, this is just what I do!"

You have to understand, I don't iron Rod's clothes - - I pay the cleaning lady to iron Rod's clothes. I have never ironed Rod's clothes. . . . . Why? Well, you have to understand the birth of our relationship . . . . Rod and I were friends before we were boyfriend/girlfriend. This was unlike any other traditional boyfriend/girlfriend relationship I had ever had. Due to this unusual 'love situation,' I thought from the beginning, "he's got two hands, he can iron." This attitude also led to my telling Rod, "you've got two hands, you can also clean the toilet as often as I do." Just because I have female body parts does not make me more qualified for these jobs!

So, the niggle Rod has at the moment is that I don't empty the laundry baskets. I'm basically treating them as two more drawers! Why not? You can actually see what you need much more clearly than if they are stuffed in a drawer.... And, when the basket is empty, it's a friendly, little reminder you probably need to do more laundry! (Oh, if my mother-in-law is reading this she is probably having a fit!)

The challenge coming up in the next two months . . .. my cleaning lady is heavy with child and due in July. Who will be ironing? I predict we have the early-morning conversation that happens every so often now (you know the one, girls) . . . "Does this shirt look wrinkly?" "It's kind of wrinkly." "I don't have the time to iron. What if I wear a sweater or jacket over it." "That will work. Will you get too warm and have to take it off?" "I'll suffer through...."

The only saving grace is we are going home to America in July. Maybe Rod could take some clothes home for him mom to iron while we're there?? hmmm......

So, as I sit here tonight, I have just folded two huge laundry baskets full of clothes - - - while Rod pays the bills and balances the cheque book (checkbook, Americans). Anybody want to place bets how long it'll take to empty the baskets??

Heather

Curiously enough, as I said, Rod and I answered 99 out of 100 questions the same. I

The Reluctant Samaritan

2007-06-04T21:47:00.000-07:00

Rod comes home from work on Thursday, we get in the spa ('hot tub,' Americans) as we normally do at the end of the day and the first words out of Rod's mouth are:

"The grossest thing happened to me today!"

"Oh yes, blog material!" I say. With wine in hand and sweat on brow, I begin taking my mental taking notes... unfortunately . . . . or, actually, fortunately, no pics . . . but here it goes...

Rod is standing on the footpath (sidewalk, you people) outside a local cafe waiting to meet a friend for coffee. Up the path, half a block along is a bench at the bus stop. All of a sudden he hears a loud grunt coming from that direction and looks to see what is happening.

This shoddy looking, unkempt man is sitting on the bench and reaching with both hands into his mouth and pulling out what looks like a large pink object from his throat. Rod thinks, "is he choking," and waits a moment to see what is happening.

All of a sudden, the man's throat releases whatever was in it and with a few additional bits and pieces to boot, he expels it to the ground.

Rod is silently relieved that the Heimlich was not going to be required....

Then, while anxiously checking his mobile (cell phone) for the time and after a few more uncomfortable glances at the bus stop loner, Rod sees the man is clearly not well. Drunk or high, more like it. . . . When, all of a sudden the man rears back and power pukes across the footpath right in front of the bench he's sitting on - - fortunately, not he doesn't hit any walkers.

Now Rod starts to think the Samaritan moment he hoped had passed is going to require super-human compassion as it re-emerges. He realises he really needs to go help this guy, no matter what he might look like - - - and, no matter what he might expel on his professional, career garb.

He makes the first step, when all of a sudden a pristinely-dressed woman leaps out of her immaculate BMW and races up to the man, asking him if he needs help. He doesn't want help, he says, and wanders - - drunkenly - - down the street.

Rod secretly sighs . . . . but all day, he said, he felt guilty for hesitating. Are we only called to be Good Samaritans to people who smell good, look good and act kind of like us??

The next morning, as Rod still feels a bit of shame, we read our morning devotion, which pondered:

"As Christians, we may make mistakes that we feel reflect poorly on Christ and his church. Others usually forgive our mistakes, but often we can not forgive ourselves. We fail to accept that part of the learning process is making mistakes. If we allow past mistakes to preoccupy us, we 'score points' for the wrong side. There is no shame in making mistakes. The meaning of the cross is that because of God's love, grace is available for our mistakes and sins. We honour the cross when we accept God's grace and continue to try."

WOW! God knows what we need to hear, when we need to hear it!

Rod will keep trying....

postscript: He walked by the scene after his coffee date and the thing the man was pulling out of his throat was apparently a large piece of sandwich meat. Hmmm....yummy.....

Dew Dreams

2007-05-27T13:43:00.000-07:00

Rod was a bit under the weather yesterday, so I was relegated to the weekly grocery shopping on my own. With list in hand, I was off to the shops...

Veges were first in, fish, meat, milk . . . oh, yes, we need some soda, so down the soda aisle I go only to be stopped in my tracks. There, on the corner of the shelf, was something of American ex-pat dreams . . . . Mountain Dew - and NO SUGAR (nothing is called 'diet' anymore) to boot! If I were in the movies, there would be a beam of light shining on the soda box and dreamy music in the background. Anyway, I picked it up, gave it a little hug and shot through the rest of the store, anxious to see Rod's face when I got home. "Honey, a little piece of America for you!!"

You have to understand, in eight years, this hasn't happened often, but when it does it is a very exciting time. I remember, for instance, the first time we found Oreo cookies (they call them biscuits in NZ). We bought and ate the whole pack in one sitting. Or, in Year One of our NZ Adventure, when El Paso started importing Mexican products - - - there were educational commercials on TV to teach people how to roll a tortilla!

And, our small circle of American friends know where to find every American product we know exists in New Zealand. A friend led me to find the only Dr Pepper in the city - - - "go down the alleyway marked Barton Street, hang a right and you'll see a hole-in-the-wall sushi shop. In the corner they have a fridge and it's on the second to last shelf in the back."

Another friend alerted us to the only Dunkin Donuts in NZ. Unfortunately, it's a 2.5 hour drive north, but be assured I have memorised the directions for next time I pass by!

Most recently, Fritos have begun importing. However, you can only buy the teeny, tiny snack bags - you know, the ones with about 20 crisps (chips, you Americans) in them. They are on the shelf in the Special Gourmet section of our newest grocery store and sell for $5 a pop. I haven't been that desperate for 'tastes of home' quite yet.

Anyway, back to my Dew Dreams....

I pay my $180 for 5 meals for two (yes, CRAZY grocery prices here) and head back home to my ailing husband, looking forward to making his day. I bring the first bags in with a shout, "I have a surprise for you!" Rod, not able to wait, follows me to the car and I pull out of the boot (trunk, you Americans) the box of Mountain Dew. He can't believe his eyes.

We decide to share a can, but not quite yet. Wouldn't this be better after a quick walk around the block (work up a thirst, ya know). So, we do that, all the time with the Dreams of Dew in the back of our minds....

The whole experience of looking forward to soda reminds me of a story my Mother-in-Law told while visiting in March. She said when she had her birthday as a little girl, her father would buy a bottle of pop on her birthday and all the kids would share it around, getting a few sips each. It was a huge treat . . . . this story was told in contrast to my Father-in-Law's habit of drinking a half-dozen Pepsi Zeros per day (but, he's given up coffee, he keeps reminding us!).

Anyway, back from the walk and we prepare the Dew. Two glasses, lots of ice (just like home!) and pour the yellow soda. We clink glasses and say 'cheers' and down the hatch it goes...... hmmmm.... take another sip...... hmmmmm.... We both look at each other with scrunched faces and say, "Doesn't taste like Mountain Dew." We finish the whole glass, hopeful with each sip that it will somehow miraculously taste like what we expected. It didn't. Must be the Southern Hemisphere recipe.

So, I have a whole case of Mountain Dew now, in the cupboard. I'll probably still drink it, but with each can will be sorely disappointed and looking forward to the real thing when we travel home in July.

Heather

Big Deck Adventures-The Final Chapter

2007-05-26T15:38:00.001-07:00

We've done it! Rod and I have decided in retirement, we're going to go around building decks. Man, we're good! We finished yesterday with a flurry of the nail gun (my weapon of choice...) and the finished product looks great, I must say.

Only thing left to do is a bit of dirt movement (make that ONE MORE TIME for the movement of the dirt!) and hauling some grey riverstones in to surround the edges. But, these might be more like August timeframe projects.....

When I mentioned the retirement career as deck builders, Rod said he was keen as long as all decks were built at waist height . . . . this would mean he wouldn't have to bend over. He's only 38, but his back is shot. Oh well, nothing a fortnightly (two weeks, you Americans) massage and a wheatie won't solve.

Okay, Americans, the wheatie is a NZ invention we just discovered last month after 8 years on the island! It is a bag of wheat husks. You put it in the microwave for 2.5 minutes with a mug of water. The husks absorb the moist heat and you put it on your sore spots. It's lovely becuase it molds to your body. People also heat them up and put them under their covers in the winter before they hop into bed - - - - a symptom of having no proper heating. The wheatie sounds sweet, but I'd rather have central air!!!!

Speaking of which, we just had our first 'winter' weather this week and I am now relegated to being chilly until about . . . . Oct 1. That's NZ in the winter. It doesn't snow here, but it is so damp that the chill goes right thru you. And, the vast majority of homes do not have heat like we know it in the US. Just plug a little heater in the wall and you'll be fine! Ahuh....

Well, that's all for now. No more adventures to report at the moment.

Heather

Big Deck Adventures-Part 3

2007-05-21T22:38:00.000-07:00

Big deck adventures continued this weekend as our new deck at our Hamilton home took shape.

The biggest challenge was setting the posts at an even height. I wanted a deck just off the ground, so this required digging 9 holes about 1.5 feet deep! Lots of dirt to move. And, since we're in the city, no back paddock (field, you Americans) to shove the unused dirt. So, I think we moved all dirt in this 10ft by 10ft space a total of 6.3 times! Ugh.

Keeping in mind all neighbourhood cats are using the newly turned earth as a fresh toilet! It never fails - - uncover some new dirt by planting a new plant or something and the local cats are there to test it out. Okay, our cats are there to test it out too. This means inevitably you get a little prize when you are digging the dirt 6.3 times on average! Eeuuw!

Another lovely thing is our cats love the feel of the dirt on their fur/skin. Pele especially - -- he loves, particularly, to do this in the middle of the night and then crawl into bed beside me. Not a nice surprise to feel little speckles of dirt on his fur when he gives me a cuddle while half awake. Eeuuw!

So, by the end of the day on Sunday, we actually were able to lay down the deck boards, so it looks 'real' now. The only issue...... as you can tell from the picture we are REALLY close to our neighbours and can see into their windows now! Ahh, the joys of city living. Nothing a few big bushes planted on our side of the fence won't solve....

Anyway, we are taking a few weeks off at the beach and back into it to finish the job on 8 June. The final chapter will come through then. . . .. I know you can't wait!

Heather

Pele's Big Adventure

2007-05-16T17:43:00.000-07:00

Our cat, Pele, has asked me to post a letter he wrote a while ago (don't worry, I'm not psycho - just cat crazy!). When we moved to our new house, about 10 miles from our old house on Grey St, he ran away for 3 months and lived in the 'bush' (woods, you Americans) where a man named Bryan took pity on him and fed him jelly meat (gooey, gross meat in a can!) twice a day. Since Pele is a 'fraidy cat' it took Bryan three months until he could get close enough to see our number on his collar and phone us! Here is Pele's account of getting acclimated back to life with us (the wardens) and a new arrival, Mitzer the cat. He is writing Bryan a letter of 'thanks' for taking care of him. Pele escaped and travelled back to Bryan's three times (one mile away) before we confined him indoors for many months! He's very happy and settled now.....

Dear Bryan,

It’s been several years since I escaped the Northern Hinterlands for the green gullies of Harrowfield. I thought it apropos to pen…well type…you a note now that I’ve been back in captivity for 8 full, long, arduous months.

I really never got the chance to even tell you about my original escape from the Flagstaff Penitentiary:

It was just coming on to summer and the nights had lost their chill. So, I thought it was high time to make my move back to Grey St. I had had enough…the old bush was calling and I missed the routine…the familiar neighbours…and of course the Pizza Hut across the street. So, who could blame me? Besides, the wardens were away for a long weekend. I knew this was the chance. So, I was off.

The first night of freedom was more than euphoric…it was like un-endable buckets of catnip. Travelling along the flax-lined boulevard, I quickly realised I was a fugitive without food. I thought, “This bush is where I belong…but with food.”

You should know, in Hillcrest, I was often referred to as ‘The Fat Cat.’ I took no offence. I just appreciated fine food (Iams). Of course, I hadn’t yet experienced the delights of your jelly meat.

As I meandered toward the old Grey St abode with these thoughts in my head, I rested for the night near a lovely little gully. I awoke in the morning…a chill in the air and a drizzle in my coat…and had second thoughts, until, alas,…the smell of something delightful. I followed my nose, through flax, through ponga & ferns, over streams and under urbanised decking toward the faint smell of residual paint, when there you were. A saviour, really. Pink can in hand…spoon in the other…spooning out into that wonderful red dish what soon I came to know as the ‘sweet nectar of 6am and 5pm’…jelly meat. I can’t tell you how much of a full life I’d have missed without tasting that drug. But enough about that.

I also never really got the chance to say ‘Goodbye’ and how much I enjoyed your manicured gardens…thus my three trips back to express my appreciation, always thwarted by the dreaded wardens. I’ve now again grown to quite like them.

I’ve finally realised that there’d be no more escapes…There’d be no more jelly meat…There’d be no more summer afternoons under the ponga trees. No rainy afternoons under the grill cover. These wardens are just too good….and I had just become too addicted to the jelly meat. They knew where I’d be. I suspect that somewhere, someone actually rang them and informed them of my whereabouts. I know that couldn’t be you, of course, but if I ever find out, I’ve been sharpening my claws for the occasion. I suspect it might be that small blond person I saw there several times during my stay, who screams a lot and liked to try to chase me away, but I will never be sure.

After my last escape, I was confined to close quarters for 3 whole months. Not only was I confined, I had to deal this latrine the size of a small mat, and filled with what can only be described as ‘sandpaper grit.’ I screamed…I cried…I wandered from window to window until I had no tears left to wet the carpet. There was no sympathy.
Besides that, there was this bouncy, black wannabe of a ‘Bush Gang’ inmate, who had since been incarcerated, and strangely seemed to get on very well with the powers that be. In fact, he was often confined to another cell and I know he had in-and-out priveleges. I could smell it on him through the cell wall. They call him Mitzer….I call him ‘Meowzabub’.

During those 3 months in confinement, something happened to me. And…I must get this out in the open, for I’m not sure what rumours might be circulating amongst the ole’ ‘Bush Gang’ buddies. I’m afraid they might have heard the rumours. But, they’re not true. As you know, there are certain things that happen in all-male prisons. Suffice it to say, one must watch his back while eating one’s breakfast, if you know what I mean. A few months after the extended confinement, I was particularly feeling low one day reminiscing about the bush life, when ‘Meowzabub’ jumped up on my bunk and began licking my ears. I wanted so hard to resist, but I’d always wondered, “How the hell do you clean the inside of your ears?” Here was the solution! And, oh, the ecstasy! I returned the favour. It was the least that I could do, for I was sure that he’d never had that experience either. And therein began a relationship that transcends bush and city cats. But, I must say, I see it no differently than you would see getting someone to clean your chimney...a spot you just can’t reach. Whew! That’s such a relief getting that one out in the open. Please pass that on to the old gang to dispel any rumours.

Finally, 3 months ago, I was allowed in-and-out privileges to the exercise yard for 10 supervised minutes at a time. One day while walking the perimeter, looking for a new escape route, I heard this gurgling growl from across the fence. I peaked through the gaps in the prison walls, only to see what would keep me here. Often at night from the cell, I could hear their wet jowls flapping in the night breeze…they’d never let me out. Actually, I grew to become thankful that I was in here and they were ‘out there.’ As my privileges became extended, however, I became accustomed to their grumbles and growls. Although still quite dangerous, now, my new friend, Meowazbub and I, enjoy sitting across from their post and teasing them with sounds of escape.

I still often dream of escaping back to the bush and delight in staying out late, just to make the wardens a bit nervous. But, knowing their uncanny tracking power and the aforementioned unidentified informant, I soon decided to relent and accept my fate. I’ve now joined the northern gang of Flagstaff Felines. We’re not nearly as rowdy as the Bush Gang,…we dine on a lot more leftover chicken than filet mignon. But, all in all, I’ve become accustomed to the northern lifestyle.

And, I’m ashamed to admit, the loving care the wardens now impose, especially the female one, now that the communistic restrictions have been lifted, are very nice. She rubs me, pets me, and even lets me sleep on her head with the occasional kiss. My favourite time of day is the morning. Replacing the 6am jelly meat now is copious amounts of Cravers and a morning brush (I still remember the embarrassment of how I succumbed to that like Superman’s kryptonite, the first time they came for me).

So…Bryan….I want you to know. I’m happy now…I no longer long for the bush life. Your lovely home….far larger and nicer than the one I’m now in, at least from the brief circuits I made of it…But, I do so appreciate those short months of freedom, the jelly meat, the open air, and most of all that strange language you spoke to me all the while.

With fond memories,
Pele (aka Pete) from Cell 58

Flashback to Shattered Paradigms in Paradise

2007-05-15T22:00:00.000-07:00

Rod and I recently returned to a friend's bach on Kawau Island, just northeast of Auckland. Here we are with Rod's parents having breakfast on the deck.... it is literally paradise. The only way in is on a water taxi and once you get there, it's just you and the birds and views of the harbour. The recent trip brings back memories of our first time on Kawau with my parents, Bob and Janet. Here's a story of that past, great adventure....

Kawau Boatie Tales: It’s amazin’ we’re still livin’

We had landed in ‘Paradise,’ but even in Paradise Americans can not live without knowing what George Bush might have been up to overnight. So, it was inevitable that we would embark out in the dingy, sail the treacherous Karaka Bay to buy the day’s edition of the New Zealand Herald.

The first morning arrives and, just short of drawing straws, the father-daughter team is chosen as the pair that will brave the high seas. Neither having any dingy experience whatsoever, but this doesn’t bother the daughter as, even in her 30s, she still believes that “my dad can do anything – he’ll figure it out!” (please don’t ask her if she still believes this, it is too emotional to answer)

The first step is getting the dingy out of the boat shed. This requires that we first figure out how the heck to bring the motor into a horizontal position, so as not to damage the propeller on the way into the water. No worries, this only takes approximately 10 minutes to figure out. After a quick fill-up of the petrol tank, we’re away laughing. The daughter of the father-daughter team, is laughing anyhow (and, by the way, does not stop now until the pair’s return approximately 30 minutes hence).

Okay, we’re in. Now . . . . this boat is pointed forward isn’t it? (Several minutes later, we discovered it was not.) Something just doesn’t seem right, but, hey, a little laughter and all seems perfectly normal.

The first shade of doubt enters the daughter’s mind, when the father can’t figure out how to turn the motor on. “I’m pulling out on this thing . . . . nothing’s happening . . . .:

“Dad, we’re floating into shore. Here, I’ll row out, just keep trying.” He does know ‘everything’ doesn’t he??, she ponders.

Whew, it finally starts. “Okay, now, hmmm, we are facing forward aren’t we,” she thinks, as her father proceeds to try to make the dingy actually move.

Over the sound of the engine fully cranked, father yells, “It’s in ‘forward’ and I’m revvin’ it. I can’t give it any more gas, I don’t know why it’s not moving.” A sudden panic overwhelms the daughter and she yells, “For goodness sake, stop revving it, we are NOT facing forward. If you get it going, we’ll slam into the sheer rockface wall only 10 feet ahead (or behind…_) STOP!”

Okay, crisis averted. “If dad knows everything, why doesn’t he know something as simple as aft and stern??” she wonders (note: aft and stern are two words recently looked up in the dictionary as ‘research’ for this short story).

Oh well, the daughter tries to block out further doubts…. The boatie team quickly turns around and faces the REAL front of the boat. By sheer luck, somehow the boat starts moving (we do manage to repeat this maneuver one more time later that evening, so must not have been luck). No more revving - - father is happy to enjoy a gentle ride on our trek to get the paper.

Once over at the Yacht Club, little did we know there was a boatie-friendly pontoon available to the right of the boathouse. We believe the only place to park (or is it ‘dock’) is at the gas pump or the space reserved for Reuben. A quick look out on the Karaka and no Reuben in sight, so we decide to share his space for a quick moment.

Waves are lashing at the dock posts. The dingy is being swept to and fro. Someone is looking on curiously from the boathouse…. “How can they possibly think little boats can tie up here,” the daughter thinks. “How ridiculous.” With the engine turned off, they paddle in close, manage to tie up the boat and run in to buy a paper.

With such an adventure so far, it seems silly that the expedition results in only $1.50 spent in 30 seconds flat. Anyway, back in the dingy.

It’s a bit dicey backing out of Reuben’s parking space (docking space?), but we make it and we are on the way back.

Just short of 30 minutes from boatshed to the Yacht Club and back. The ‘girls’ on the deck capture the adventurers returning. Only to notice . . . . these novices sailed their maiden dingy voyage ‘sans’ life jackets. (oops!)

Safely on shore, we were happy to read the reports that ole’ George Dubbya hadn’t been up to much different – a few wars started, a few wisecracks thrown at world leaders. The world was once again right on Kawau. Ahh….

[Chapter Two of Kawau Boatie Tales is yet to be written, but is a tale of 5 adult Americans, crammed into the above dingy, braving choppy waves for damn expensive fish n chips. The pontoon was found on this journey as the club owners yelled at the crew for taking up Reuben’s space once again. Nerves were frazzled on the voyage home as one passenger sang, ‘Jesus Loves Me,’ (a tune apparently that comes to mind when death is insinuated) and all three women experienced mad fits of uncontrollable laughter. We did remember safety vest this time, but as there were only 4, the father sacrificed for the others, saying, “It’s a short swim, I’ll be fine.”]

Big Deck Adventures - part 2

2007-05-11T19:54:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, Rod and I built a deck at our bach (beach house, you Americans). That adventure began when, one day, on the front lawn, I wandered out about 15 feet from the house and said to my lovely husband, "I want my deck to come out to about here."

Rod took some careful measurements and then looked up at me and said, "you realise if you come out to 'here' the deck will be bigger than the house?" Hmmm, curiously interesting fact, but that does not deter my big deck desires. After all, Americans want everything 'big', right and my deck should be no exception!

My favourite thing to do, to embarrass Rod while building this vast wooden structure was to say in a very loud voice when the neighbours were outside pottering about, "I love my large DECK(emphasis on deck)!" Because, New Zealander's would assume I was saying another word in a NZ accent . . . . leave you to it to figure that one out (gotta keep the blog Rated G).

Several months later we completed the project and it is definitely the best feature of the bach by far. Although we both agreed the other day that it is not big enough out back. Go figure!

As a woman who loves ripping things apart, working with tools, generally building . .. . it was high time that we got back to deck building. I was looking out the dining room window the other day at a side yard that is generally used but which receives really great afternoon sun. As we partook of dinner in silence, all I had to say was, "you know what would go really well in that space?? A BIG DECK!" Rod just rolled his eyes and knew he was in for another project.

So, here's some pics of my big deck at the bach. . . . as well as the beginnings of our big deck at home. The concrete was delivered this morning.... Stay tuned for more big deck adventures....
Heather

Cats in Trees

2007-05-11T19:35:00.000-07:00

My father has a dog who climbs trees. I told my cat, Mitzer, this story and he decided to try it for himself.

Heather

700 Women Build a Home

2007-05-11T19:09:00.000-07:00

I had the privilege on Friday of leading a team of 8 women to help build two homes for local families as part of Habitat for Humanity. We were a small contingent of 700 women who will build 2 homes in 2 weeks!

My friends Rebecca, Alison, Sarah and myself got paired with 'Wayne the Builder' - - a man with the patience of Job - - to accomplish some 'building tasks.' Keep in mind others got to do painting, siding, roofing. We are in charge of 'building.'

I am a closet DIYer (that's Do It Yourself-er, Americans) and love anything that involves power tools. So, give me a building task - I'm there!

The first job - - affixing the facia boards (don't know what they are called in American, but boards that the gutter is attached to around the roof). The small house probably had around 10 facia boards in total. It only took my team of 4, with the builder's help, to cut and affix two 3-metre (6 feet, Americans) boards in a whopping 4 hours flat!!! Hey, put me in charge of this whole build, I say and I'll have these houses completed by 2020, no problem!

First task was pounding a few nails. The last instruction from the builder before he left us alone for a few moments was not to hit the facia board (it is nice and painted white and smooth and decorative!) because that would leave a few unwanted dents. He walks away after handing all 4 of us a pile of nails and hammers. We go to it, and it only takes us about 15 taps (our hands hold the hammer totally incorrectly, about half way up the handle) to get a nail in. And, we probably only averaged about 4 missed hits per nail (each time, looking at each other with a pierced 'O' lip and looking around for Wayne to ensure he didn't see).

One board up in about an hour (I kept asking where the nail gun was, but only got chuckles from Wayne and no straight answer - - - I think he was thinking '700 women with nail guns? YEAH, RIGHT!). Now, it's off to measure and cut the next. This is more like it - - a circular saw. Now we're talkin'.

Wayne (patience of Job remember) decides to give all four of us a few lessons on the saw before we actually have to cut the length for real. Cause, he keeps telling us we only get one chance and can't screw up the real cut. After all of us trying about 3 times each (and, Wayne saying to me "hmmm, you've done this before." "Yes, I'm a farm girl," is my reply) we voted my friend Rebecca to do the real cuts. She was fabulous and we decided it was all down to her love of crafting - - scissor, glue gun, . .. she's probably picked up sawing prowess at some point along the way. Okay, then, 2 more hours and we've cut one board!

Over to the roof to pound a few more dents into the facia and we're ready for afternoon tea. Whew, that was a bit of work.....

The afternoon ended with affixing a few more boards and pounding nails while crouching and hammering above my head. This makes for even worse aim on the head of the nail, take it from me.

All the while, the home owners looked on with an equal dose of happiness and wariness. And, meanwhile all 4 of us looked jealously on at the women next door who got the cush job of painting.

Hey, but I bet their lats don't hurt like mine today! And, they wouldn't have the satisfaction of knowing they don't need a man to get something cut by a circular saw. YES!

Heather

Just a Beer Please

2007-05-11T18:53:00.000-07:00

Adventures in Suburbia

Rod and I live in classic 'suburbia.' It's New Zealand, but not unlike any typical American suburb. Kids playing in cul de sacs, grandmas gardening on a weekday afternoon, mums taking their children to kindergarten, etc. etc.

However, perhaps unlike America, there is little choice in bars ('pubs') where you can grab a quick drink with a friend after knocking off work at 5pm (now, that's a bit unlike America where it might be 6pm or beyond!).

So, a few months ago, Rod and a few of his work buddies were happy to find a nice, quite bar just around the corner from home. Tucked into a strip mall straddeled by a cute dress shop and linen store. Typical suburbia...

They have now frequented the bar approximately fortnightly (two weekly, for you Americans) and it's become somewhat of a habit. So imagine the shock, while having a 'quiet one' on Thursday night, when Rod and his friend Noel discover something's changed....

As per usual, the boys wander in and order a beer at the bar. They take a seat and begin having a quite serious work conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, Rod notices a waitress who's wandered into the pub from the kitchen . .. . clad in nothing more than a bikini. (it's winter here, now, so this can't be for comfort purposes). Hmmm... that's different, they boys say to themselves. Two married men not interested in such eye candy (so, Rod told me), they kept drinking and talking....

Several minutes later, Rod notices a woman in the corner with a cute skirt and fishnet stockings leaning over the pool table. After a quick glance, it's back to work chat . . . . when a few moments later she straightens up after hitting her shot and to Rod and Noel's utter surprise, she is completely topless!!

'WHAT!' both exclaim and give each other the look as if to say, 'are we dreaming, here!??' The remainder of the work conversation, apparently, was an exercise in focusing on each other and trying not to look at these boobies bouncing aimlessly through the bar.

They finished their beers (I was told they did not order another) and slipped out the door. However, upon leaving they noticed a sign they did not happen to see upon entering: "Topless waitress night each fortnight on Thursdays. All welcome!"

So, if 2 Thursdays from now, Rod is a bit late in getting home, I will have a good idea of where he may be! Shall I believe him when he says he just goes there for the great food??

Heather

2007-05-09T12:11:00.000-07:00

Heather and Rod's New Zealand Adventures

Check back soon for the first installment.