Yet another cultural difference

Confronted with yet another important difference between our cultures.  In America, when something smells bad, we have a script.  We do a little detective work and make sure it isn't us.  Ruling that out, we search our environment, locate the offending object, and dispose of it.  What we don't do, is put it on freaking display.

The Titan Arum.

I can sense you are not impressed.  You are thinking 'That's just sad, Luke.  Botany?  What the hell happened to you over there?  I didn't want a blog on botany.  Now we'll be subjected to four hundred posts about flowering crab trees and the ways in which plants serve as a metaphor for renewal.  I expected something more gritty, like the vomit in the elevator post except with way more vomit and a freight elevator."

I think we can all agree that would be a blog worth reading.  Although I'm not going there, I'm also not into botany.  I'm into zombie botany.

That's right.  The Titan Arum is known as the Corpse Flower because of its aromatic similarity to rotting flesh.

I have to say that the Australians have made this a little more complicated than they need to.  You could imagine limburger cheese, onion, stale beer, smelly feet, garlic, or rotting fish.  Or you could imagine a giant ass.  From what I can gather, that's the fragrance of this flower.  As you can see, it takes ten years for the "corm" to bloom, which means the Australians had ten years to track down these plants and eradicate them.  Instead, they potted it and put it on display.  Which left me wondering whether it was all a reality tv show to show how stupid Americans are.

In that vein, I have a few titles for pilots that AMC might be interested in.

The Budding Dead

Children of the Corm

Dawn of the Stamen

Pride and Prejudice and Giant Ass

Night of the Living Pollen

Resident Evil: Pollination

As we were leaving the display, Amy stopped me.  "Go stand over there next to the carnivorous plant," she said, nudging me.  "It'll make a great picture.  A little closer.  Closer ..."  After observing the plant move a little, I opted for the "safe distance selfie."  I thought Amy looked a little disappointed when I came back.  But maybe that's just paranoia talking.

Cough cough

Lily is sick.  When she coughs, she sounds like a centenarian who's been smoking a variety of substances for thirty years.  As parents know, it's heart rending to have your child sick because the hacking just never ends and keeps you up even if you close the bedroom door and stuff towels underneath and turn on Kenny G.  You can still hear them wail above the sax.

Thus, we decided it was time to brave the Australian medical system.  I'm sure Australia would agree with me here, but I use "system" loosely.  Cartel could be more descriptive.

Our first step was cough medicine.  If nothing else, we are logical and effective, just like swiss watches and the Jeb Bush campaign.

Too soon?

"Helour," the chemist clerk said.  We've decided that, in Australian, this either means "Hello" or is the name of a satanic glamour magazine.  Which seems like a pretty unexplored niche, in case there are any entrepreneurs among the five of you reading this.  Shark Tank, anyone?

Back to reality - Amy explained that she needed some cough medicine for our six year-old.  The clerk stared at her in a guarded way, as if Amy might be trying to pull one of those American schemes where teens purchase cough medicine to get high.  In the clerk's defense, Amy has taken to using gang signs in an effort to fit in with the locals.

The clerk told Amy she would need to talk to "the chemist."  Along came the chemist.  "Helour."

Amy repeated her request and the chemist looked worried.  In a country of no worries, when someone looks worried, you are completely screwed.  "Six, eh?  Oy, I wouldn't be comfortable giving you anything unless you'd been to the doctor."

Amy repeated that she was looking for cough medicine and not oxycontin and then pointed at the vast array of child cough medicines behind the counter (I'm serious about the vast - it wasn't a supply-demand thing.  It's like they were taunting her).  "In the states we just buy things like this over the counter."

"Right ..." the chemist said in a tone that said we've seen your presidential candidates.  "We do things a little different over here."

"So I need a prescription?"

"No you could just tell us what the doctor said."

Amy's wasn't done.  "Well ..." Amy said in the crafty tone she gets when she's trying to convince me to watch a John Cusack movie, "do you have any adult cough medicine?"

"Sure," the chemist said cheerfully.  "Aisle 3.  Lots of 'em."  So Amy proceeded to purchase adult cough medicine that had dosages clearly labeled for children.

We asked our source (a fellow parent from school) why the ban on cough medicine and she told us "Oy.  They don't like one of the ingredients they put it in."  In America, we call this the "active ingredient."

Survival skills

Discovered some new things about elementary school education.  Before I go on, I should issue the caveat that it's often hard to understand what's happening at school by asking your six year old.  It's a lot like traveling in a foreign country where everyone is a compulsive liar who complains about eating broccoli.  For example, back in Maine, Tessa and Lily often complain about being bullied.  But their credibility is shot when I ask who the bully is and they identify the most milquetoast kid in the northeast.  This kid couldn't bully his reflection.  In fact, when I first saw him I mistook him for a crash test dummy.  When I ask what the "bully" did, they usually say something like "after I grabbed the toy from him he went and told the teacher!"  I usually say "Damn him!  Damn him to hell!" unless Amy is listening, when I say "Well, Tess, that sounds more like a disagreement about property rights."  Lily and Tessa went so far as to create a list of their bullies (which, ironically, is definitely grounds for bullying).

Back to Australia.  Physical education apparently includes survival skills.  I suppose I should expect that, given that we're in the deadliest place on earth aside from Antarctica.  However, I was expecting guest lectures by Bear Grylls and field trips to the Outback.  I wasn't expecting when Tessa came home and said "Do you know how much water is stored in your thigh?"

Lesson #1.  Her gym teacher opened by commenting on how important it is to drink water.  Not seeing a transition here - but she then went on to assert that a great deal of water is stored in your thigh.  She had everyone look at their thighs.  In fact, she went on, if you were trapped on a desert island, you could survive by eating a thigh.  Of course, she added, you wouldn't want to eat your own thigh.  Unless you had to.

Hmmm.  I thought cannibalism was year 4.

I see two options here.  1) Tessa's gym teacher is an anxious woman who recently watched 127 Hours and doesn't know when to stop talking and 2) Tessa's gym teacher is a psychotic woman who recently watched Silence of the Lambs.

Kangaroo Island

Dedicated to Don and Dre, who told me they wished the posts were longer.  

Sometimes, our wishes are fulfilled.

Sometimes, that's a bad thing.

This is that time.

Kangaroo Island, or KI if you want to sound like a savvy Adelaidian, is a turtle shaped island off the southern edge of Australia.  (After reading that, Amy said I should stop trying to introduce new words like Adelaidian in the whisper she uses when I mispronounce words or forget people's names).

KI is an impressive throwback to the Paleolithic Era known for its wildlife, koalas and rocks shaped like Nicholas Cage's hair.

I'm not a fan of bus rides.  But the ride to the ferry had a great view.

Our good friends at Hertz were there to greet us at the ferry.  I had a nice sit down with the agent who was affable until I asked about driving at night.  She stared at me with the lifeless eyes of a goanna.  "You're not covered if you drive after dusk," she whispered.  "No one on the island will cover you if you drive at night."

"Is that because of all the kangaroos?"  I laughed helpfully.  Another long goanna stare.  "Because I might hit one?" I added helpfully.

"Riiiight ..." she nodded.  "Kangaroos.  That's why."

After having me initial forty clauses that stated that Hertz cannot be held responsible for damage to the vehicle or damage to my family, we were off!

We traveled from Penneshaw to Kingscote, where we were staying a the Aurora Ozone Hotel.  A good example of naming something by finding two random words in the dictionary and then acting pissed off when people ask you what the name means.

Accommodations were a step above spartan.  For those of you who failed history, Sparta was a greek city state established prior to the invention of plumbing.  This necessitated difficult choices; a great deal of bucket hauling or self-mutilation of the olfactory sense.  Ask any classics professor at Bates.  I shouldn't complain.  We essentially had a two bedroom apartment that seemed well built and soundproof.

At two in the morning, I was awakened by a repetitive hammering sound somewhere below me.  Pounding.  Then silence.  Pounding.  It was a puzzle.  In my sleep deprived mind, it sounded like home improvement.  With a deep sense of embarrassment, I realized the sound was coming from the direction of my in-laws' room.  But that was odd, because my father-in-law had a well established contempt for home improvement and the people who spend their time that way.  Ask my mother-in-law.  His stock phrase is "why would I work on the house when I could work on my [insert obscure economics lecture topic here]?!'

The next morning, Amy headed down to check on her parents.

You know that moment in the Shining, when the elevator doors open and a tsunami of blood pours out into the hall?  It was like that.  But it was vomit.

Amy was confronted by an elevator of vomit.  I know this both because a) I heard distant screaming and weeping in the direction of the elevator that morning, and b) she told me.

I'm choosing to take the moral high ground and not include a picture here.  Obviously, that suggests I took a picture, which suggests that my moral high ground is a savannah.

The puzzle was starting to come together.

Amy took the stairs.  She debriefed her mother, who reported that she also heard the pounding in the early morning.  Now many of you don't know Alice, but she doesn't take anyone's shit.  If you're a manager of a budget gift shop and you're trying to screw her out of $1.50, expect a patient and implacable reminder that you are a manager of a budget gift shop.  Imagine Nurse Rachet.  Now image Nurse Rachet on steroids without her morning coffee.  You don't really want to piss that image off.  If you're pounding the shit out of the door next to her, Alice is going to have words.

Alice opened the door and said "Would you possibly be able to do that tomorrow morning?"

What this translated to is this:

"If you don't stop doing that, I will wait until you pass out and staple your pants to your forehead."

The "bloke" turned to her and said, "I'm trying to get into my room."

What this translated to is this:

"I am completely hammered and I've run out of ideas.  I am in a hallway.  I want to be in a bed.  Beating on this door is my best idea."

Adelaidian (n) See above.

I should also mention that Amy had a harrowing experience on the way back.  Deciding not to the take the elevator back up, she took the stairs.  At the top of the stairs was a locked door that required a key card entry.  It may be useful at this juncture to note that my wife historically has a habit of leaving her wallet at home.  At any time you might meet her in the world, there's a 50/50 chance her wallet is in the bathroom.  When I point out that she could be in a serious accident, in a coma, and without appropriate identification or proof of insurance, her response is "oh wellseys."

So ... it turns out that Amy had her wallet and the key card but the reader didn't work.  So Amy had to take the elevator.  She did stand on her tiptoes which I think made it a LOT better.

The next morning I stopped by reception and told them that someone had violated the elevator.  Without missing a beat, the receptionist said,  "Right.  One of our guests saw someone who wasn't wearing any pants.  That must've been him."

I think of this as Amy's expression immediately before seeing the vomitorium.

I'm watching Speed while I write this post.  You remember the Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock movie that restored our hope in love at first sight?  It would be totally different if I were taking speed and writing the post.  It would go something like this.

We went to Kangaroo Island.  KoalasKangaroosMrRogers.  We came back.

During our long drive around the island, we happened upon a desolate beach and decided to stop and take a look.  Bales Beach.

Huge waves.  Pristine beach.  It was amazing.  The beach was empty.  There was no one on the beach.

And then it struck me.  There was no one on the beach.  "Shar ..." I croaked.  "Shar ..."   But no one had seen Jaws recently and they didn't get the joke.  So I started raving about chum and a squinty old guy named Quint but no one had a damn idea what I was talking about.  So we all took off our clothes and jumped in the waves.

It was awesome.

On the way back, we stopped at a cafe and had a latte.  Restrooms were (helpfully) triply labeled.

The Remarkable Rocks.

Amy said, "Don't use that photo.  Lily looks like she's about to vomit."  I chalk that up to elevator induced hypersensitivity.

Amy fondling Mr. Cage's hair.

Our shy daughters.

As we reached Admiral's Arch, I realized that we were getting perilously close to dusk.  Which, according to our Hertz Goaana, was Armageddon.  Or Ragnarok.  I essentially badgered everyone down the trail, took three pictures of seals and badgered everyone back.  It was great family fun.  The whole time I was acutely aware of the retail cost of our Hertz rental and the population of kangaroos on our turtle shaped island.  Because, you know, no one in the universe insures after dusk.

We finally headed out back about six o'clock.  It was cloudy, so I had a hard time determining how close we were to dusk.  Five minutes after heading back, two kangaroos hopped across the road fifteen feet in front of the car.  Almost as if they were saying, "G'dusk.  We've been waiting for you."  We had a harrowing drive back.  I had to decide whether it was better to crawl along at 35 kph to avoid hitting a kanga and arrive at midnight (prime kanga time) or speed at 110 kph and hope we got back before the kangas decided to have a block party.

My mother in law helpfully noted that, traditionally, dusk starts two hours before the sun sets ... so our entire drive was uninsured.

But no kangas were harmed.

The road.

I promise.  The next post will be shorter.  Much shorter.

Wish fulfilled.

Mundane details

After backing the Laser into the brick wall of our back alley (never really spelled this out for Amy), I decided it might be time to figure out the Australian insurance system.  I paid premiums, but for what exactly?  What would happen if we were in an accident?  If brick walls randomly threw themselves under my car?

So we googled our car insurance company.  Which didn't exist.  We will call that problem number one.

After further googling and screaming, we discovered that our insurance company had a different name than was billed to our credit card.  In America, we call that a shell company.  Here, they call it multiple branding.  Problem 1(a).  We tracked down the number for that company and gave a call.

The chap who answered the phone was friendly but confused by my paranoid question; "What documentation do we need to prove that we are insured?"

"Ah mate.  Here in Australia, we just assume you have insurance."

This is a true excerpt.

He continued, "I assume that in the states you need to carry it with you?  Can you tell I watch too many American crime shows?"

I wanted to say "No.  No you don't.  If you did watch American crime shows (or reality television), you would immediately assume that we are either a) insurance fraudsters setting up the grift, or b) serial killers."

My wife then wrested the phone from my hands and asked what would happen if our kids distracted her and she drove the car into a tree.  Writers call this foreshadowing.  American insurance carriers call this grounds for denial of coverage.  My wife calls this friendly banter.

The Australian appeared completely unfazed.  "Right.  Well, your regy would cover that."  I wanted to shout "MY NAME IS NOT REGGIE AND I WOULD NOT COVER THAT" until I realized that he was referring to the car registration.  It's a little known fact, but Australian car registration INCLUDES collision.  So you are covered if you are married to a woman with an inexplicable hatred of pine trees.  Which, apparently, I am.

Twilight Zone

The girls are off to school, or freedom for parents as we call it.  There was considerable anxiety prior to the first day, mostly focused on the idea that they would be unable to understand their teachers who might use words or phrases such as "g'day," "listen the first time" or "please pick up after yourself."  Upon seeing her classroom for the first time, Tessa was consumed by anxiety (see below).

Every day we walk the kids to school through a beautiful park.  My Apple health app tells me it's 2/3 of a mile each way and then points out that glaciers tend to move faster and burn more calories.  Nonetheless, the walk is beautiful.

But it's not without danger.  On the first day, the girls received a send off from our friendly neighborhood avian psychopath, Mr. Feathers.  As you may recall from an earlier post, magpies are simultaneously hailed as accomplished songbirds and as sadistic assassins.  The magpie can lull you into a false sense of joie de vivre with a bizarre Matrix like lyrical display before dive bombing your sedated ass.  Australians are encouraged to wear bike helmets and carry umbrellas to wave wildly around their heads in the event of a magpie "swooping."  

Magpies hail from the butcherbird genus Craticus which, for those of you who failed biology, represent the muscle of the avian mafia.  In this picture, the "songbird" is preparing to extort a fee for our passage.

Don't believe me?  I get it.  You're thinking "Luke, you're making a big deal out of a small bird.  If that were a goanna or a gator or (even cooler) a raptor, it'd be something to blog about.  But a freaking bird?  In America, we just slather on the barbecue sauce and eat them during college football games."  Good point.  But then, we slather barbecue sauce on a lot of things and none of them have warning signs.

Keep shaking your head skeptically.  I have a growing suspicion that I'm witnessing a coup.  We'll see who's laughing when I start referencing Our Beneficent Avian Masters.  It'll probably still not be me.

Back to the first day of school.  It was pretty good.  I took a nap.

The girls have all the basics - art, music, PE, recess.  They also have a Chinese class, though their description of the content suggests it's just another hour for kids to scribble an abstract design and call it a kangaroo.

But I'm simply not sure what to say about the weirdest moment.  This isn't photoshopped.  It's just the universe saying "stay on your toes.  I'm watching you."

The Return of the Squirrel

Opened my email this morning and discovered that my new best friend ebay is looking out for me.

Hello, would you like to take another look?

We've picked this out for you

You recently browsed Cowboy Squirrel Taxidermy Animal Statue on Base Home or Office Gift

Being from Maine, I'm not entirely ruling out the possibility that I'm in a Stephen King novel where I eventually discover that I'm being stalked by a squirrel who is emailing selfies to me.  You have to admit, that's kind of what this looks like.  It's weird enough to be one of his plot-lines.

Just gotta hope that I'm the main character.

Australian Tea

Neil (our host) invited us over for tea, you know, to welcome us to the country.  Upon arrival, Neil waved us over and whispered "goanna's caught a frog by the pool."  Now, I'm still not completely fluent in Australian and I initially thought he might be referring to a girl named Joanna or quoting a classic Australian rock song.  But his desperation convinced me it was something much much more.  He ushered us into his backyard, either cautioning us to be silent and not get too close or asking me how the flight was.  Using stealth skills honed by years as a parent, I crept as close as I dared and snapped this photo.

Impressed?  The lizard didn't even move.

Thinking that Neil had badly underestimated my stealth capabilities AND that the goanna had badly underestimated my threat level, I went for a closer shot.  When the lizard remained immobile, I realized with a bit of disappointment that our host must have sedated the poor bastard.

By the fourth shot, I realized that the sedated lizard was permanently sedated.  As in, plastic.

We all had a good laugh.  Yep.  I was really laughing.

In any event, I was ready for his second joke which I found in the back yard - a poorly made rubber snake half hidden under a rock.  I motioned him over and pointed out the toy with an eye roll that said, been there, done that.

Neil screamed like a eunuch.  "Run you stupid wankah.  It's a brown snake."

After cleaning up, we all had tea.

What we are doing in Australia

Perusing the finest Australian literature?  Australian wines?  Becoming involved in local government?

Leave it to my wife to discover weird tv in a foreign land.

We are currently watching a British expose on "people who make ornaments of their pets."  It's called All Creatures Great and Stuffed.  One person made a drone out of his deceased cat.  I am absolutely not shitting you.  He flew his dead cat approximately fifty feet into the air before crash landing it in a field and bemoaning the lack of aerodynamics caused by the fur.  If you've never stared into the lifeless eyes of a levitating cat corpse, you've never lived.  Another American (sigh) family spent $5k to have a taxidermist freeze dry their Dalmatian and paint the toe nails hot purple - let's just say this family probably didn't max out their Roth IRA before Han Soloing their dog.  Another dressed a stuffed squirrel in skimpy Victorian garb, a Liaisons Dangereuse for the rodentia.

If you don't believe me, log on to ebay and search "taxidermy animals."  Do it now.  What you see will cause you to lose all hope in humanity.

Here is a sample.

There were 144 people watching this when I queried.  ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY FOUR "PEOPLE" interested in a dead squirrel dressed up like John Wayne.  This must be a sign of end of days.  That squirrel could be one of the four horseman.

For those of you not following the comments, Darth Lobster asked what all this "blogging" has to do with Australia.  This post is a perfect example.  The answer is virtually nothing.  This is not an educational blog where you leave better educated and basically better than when you started reading.  It's a way to stick it to the man while dissociating in the bathroom.

Glenelg and other palindromes

Upon arrival we spent a few days at Glenelg beach trying to recover from jet lag.  Six year olds respond to jet lag in a different way than most adults.  I tried to trick my body into believing it had energy by consuming six cappucinos in rapid succession, which tricked my body into believing that I could fly.  I then immediately sat down on the couch and nursed my caffeine hangover while my daughters tortured each other (which is how they respond to jet lag and pretty much everything).  The CIA should really subcontract with my daughters for interrogation purposes.  After an hour of listening to them argue, I would have told anyone anything.

The upside is that I could look outside and fantasize about how quiet drowning would be.

On the second morning, we woke up at four in the morning to the sound of howling wind and rattling windows.  Upon further investigation, it was not Tessa (as we assumed) but a massive storm front.  By the time we reached the front room, a tidal pool was forming in front of the sliding glass doors and HAIL was pelting the windows.  It's like Maine followed us here, in a warm and fuzzy Stephen King kind of a way.









Tessa was incredibly helpful, gathering towels, throwing them on the water, and giving her best Riverdance impression.  The irony here, of course, is that Tessa is usually the primary cause of such disasters.

The next post

Some of you are probably wondering how we are getting around.  Just before leaving, we entered the speculative foreign auto market and, on Tessa's advice, we purchased a Ford Laser.  The name alone filled our minds with a vivid image of me driving a sleek black car through the streets of Montenegro with Eva Green reclining in the passenger seat.  Um ... maybe that was just my mind.  In any event, when I learned it was a 1992 Ford Laser, it filled my mind with an image of fuzzy dice, fuzzy blue seat covers, and a fuzzy Kurt Cobain reclining in the passenger seat eating a box of French Toast Crunch.  That, sadly, was the more accurate image and, more broadly, the metaphor of my life.

Behold.  The laser.

For those of you who repressed the 90s, ours is the white tin can.  As our Australian host informed us prior to our arrival, the car indeed retained the capacity to move forwards and in reverse.  It can "harken" you back to a simpler time, when locking the car required you to hold up the handle of the door as you closed it and using the air conditioner reduced the top speed to 10 kph.  A time when you had to crank open the windows by hand (which was very confusing to our daughters ... "you mean I have to use my arms to open the windows????").  A time when pine tree air fresheners were a necessity rather than a luxury and the most serious problem involved picking out which flannel shirt conveyed apathy the best.

But I have to admit, it got us to Cleland Wildlife Park.




Cleland is an interactive wildlife experience, which essentially means that you can purchase $3 pouches of compressed sawdust pellets that you drop on the sidewalk before running from a horde of rats that have been renamed things like "bandicoot" and "potoroo."  Or, if you're Lily, you giggle while the "bandicoots" swarm over your feet.  If you're Amy, you giggle because intense fear has caused hallucinations.

Neither of us thinks this is a good idea

While Lily dutifully doled out small portions of her sawdust to the hantavirus carrying critters, Tessa adopted a more efficient dispersal strategy -  which essentially consisted of dumping the packet in front of an already satiated and plump kangaroo and then asking Lily to share.









My daughters encouraged me to participate.  They said, "Daddy.  You spend so much of your life just watching it go by.  Do something with your life!  Go feed a kangaroo."  After an intense ten minutes of badgering, I nervously agreed and approached the smallest kangaroo I could find.  I made soothing sounds, like "I've never had a kangaroo steak" and "I support voting rights for animals." It made little difference.

Other notable characters we encountered ...

Sleeping Dingo.

The "bullet wound to the head" emu.

The Fatalistic Koala.  From his expression, I realized that he simultaneously learned a) that he cannot climb any higher to escape us because b) he is a fat, slow moving bear like creature.

Then we came upon the enclosure that I'd been seeking.  In an excited whisper, I called out "Girls!  This ... is the dreaded Tasmanian devil."  They gathered around the enclosure and spent a long moment staring at the "devil" before looking back at me in what can only be described as disappointment of both the animal and their father.  In an effort to save the moment, I said, "He's got huge, sharp ... he can leap about.  Look at the bones."  Not getting the reference, they turned back to stare at the immobile creature (or possibly look for bones).  Our collective disenchantment would be hard to overstate.  I don't know whether to blame Warner Brothers, Geico commercials, or Tasmania itself, but we definitely expected some whirling, slavering, or motion of some kind.  Perhaps Tasmania is so desperate for press that they are exaggerating the deadliness of local fauna.  To give credit where it is due, Tasmanian Devil does sound much more ominous than Large Sleepy Rat.

The Sleepolympics or How We Got to Australia Part II

So.  Tin can.  Monkeys.  Methamphetamines.  That's where we were, I think.

We all had our own ways of coping with the monkeys.  I spent most of my time pretending that I was the father of the children across the aisle.  Amy spent most of her time pretending the same thing and feeling sorry for those children.  Tessa spent most of her time doing what she always does.  Talking and seeking out any device that runs on electricity.

Lily adopted a different approach.

Lily is a force of nature when it comes to sleeping - a narcoleptic savant who can lose consciousness on command.  Anywhere, anytime, any position, from mid Pacific to mid sentence.  As she contorted herself into an uncomfortable space that made my back hurt, a thought occurred to me.  Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, maybe it was second hand exposure to Tom and Jerry cartoons, maybe it was the oxycodone Amy slipped into my wine - but I thought "she has the potential to go pro.  Who knows, even an olympian.  A sleepolympian."  

If you think I'm way out there, spend just a moment thinking about the strange olympic events past and present.  The following are or were REAL events.  There's everyone's favorite whipping boy - curling - which basically exists because three Canadian janitors had a free night, a case of beer, four brooms and a frozen cow pie (I refuse to acknowledge that the Scots had anything to do with curling).  Race walking?  Just commit, dammit!  Live pigeon shooting?  An indulgence of the ornithophobics.  And of course, Solo Synchronized Swimming, which makes no sense unless you are synchronizing multiple personalities - in which case it's impressive but boring to watch.  Trust me, in 2020, our nation is going to spend some serious time watching my daughter nap.  The award ceremony could be a bit tedious.

Here are some of Lily's best routines, in no particular order.

Evening Salutation

Downward Sleeping Dog

The Wilted Lotus Pose

I was going to call the one below the Elegant Corpse Pose, but it freaked Amy out.  She said, "You can't call our daughter a corpse!  What's wrong with you?  Why can't you write something happy?  What happened to you when you were a child?  Can't we go back to pretending that you're the father of the family across the aisle?"

Yes.  Yes we can.

The Wilted Corpse Pose

Lily also explored the possibility of competing in a doubles tournament.  However, her partner was an amateur and his poor form torpedoed their chances at gold.

To recap, one hour drive to Portland, two hour bus trip to Boston, three hour wait, six hour flight to San Francisco, two hour layover, twelve hour flight to Auckland, two hour layover, five hour flight to Adelaide, and thirty minute drive to Glenelg.  31 hours into our journey, Lily stretched and yawned and said something like "We're almost there?  That wasn't so bad."

The most important thing you'll read all day

... is not this post.  I hope.  If it is, we should really talk.  Professionally.

Here's a sleek new look to distract you from the realization that I haven't posted anything of substance in several days.  Or ever, really.  From the looks of it, I could change the background color for the next five years and not have to write anything.  That seems easier than blogging.

As an aside to the aside, did you know that an r is all that stands between important and impotant?  Seems like there should be a LOT more letters.