A New Rebeginning (sort of like episode seven, but without lightsabers and with new content)

Before I blog in earnest, Amy pointed out an “ethical issue” I needed to consider about blogging.  I expected a ripped-from-the-headlines, journalistic integrity speech with several Sean Penn El Chapo references.  I naturally thought of myself as a younger El Chapo, before he got into cocaine and trans fats.  (I considered including a photo of El Chapo for effect, but as I Googled “cocaine death lords” I started getting worried about possible ramifications.  I asked Amy if she thought it was possible that I could either be sued by the Huffington Post or killed by the cartel.  She either said “I don’t know” or “I hope so)”.

Back to our ethical discussion … Amy turned to me one night and, in a gentle voice that you might use with someone who has a terminal illness but doesn’t know it, said "Almost all of your blog made fun of me last time.  That was fine.  MOST of the time.  But you can’t make fun of our daughters because it could hurt their feelings.  And what if some of their friends find it in a couple of years?  They could be embarrassed."

Ok.  Good point.  Almost everything my daughters do is either (a) cause for embarrassment, (b) cause for arrest, detention and deportation, or (c) fodder for a David Sedaris story.

On the other hand, I’m pretty sure my daughters have already stopped caring about what I say.  This has been illustrated over the past six days by approximately twenty “whatevers” and sixty eye rolls.  Adolescence starts at six.  

More importantly, however, I need material.  Items (a) and (b) above represent material.  If I didn’t use my daughters, I’d have to notice things in the world and comment on them.  It would take focus, work, and awareness of my environment.  Three things I’m hoping not to have for the next three months.

Also, as those of you reading this recognize, the chance that anyone will read this blog 10 years from now (or ever really) is remote at best.

That's about as far as I got with my ethical dilemma.  Ethicists should feel free to opine and then be ignored.

Amy pointed out that I should probably include photos, you know, to introduce that human element to the blog and distract people from the bad writing.  So here we are ... these photos were taken at the beginning of the 36 hour journey, around the time Tessa started asking (wait for it) "are we there yet."  All parents will recognize that this is not a bad joke but a sad truth.

A productive wince

Warning: This blog post should not be viewed before, during, or immediately after breakfast. It contains graphic images not suitable for psychology professors with weak stomachs. I’m not going to out Sargent, but suffice it to say that he would be better served reading a blog on the Teletubbies.

This is an artist’s rendering of a supermassive black hole at the center of a galaxy, courtesy of NASA.



This is a picture of a supermassive meconium, courtesy of Lily.



Meconium is what physicists refer to as “dark matter,” which is essentially a mixture of tar, glue, and the gelatinous goo that Steve McQueen battled in The Blob. Physicists have hypothesized that up to 25% of the universe is composed of this dark matter and most have concerns about what this might mean for the future of the Universe. I share those concerns. The white area on the edge of the meconium is what I call the Event Horizon, beyond which no light can escape. If you venture past this point and get meconium on your finger you have a choice; you can amputate or call it a birthmark because it is never coming off. Babies produce this substance with surprising and, frankly, frightening rapidity. If we could somehow synthesize this renewable energy source, I think we would go a long way towards reducing our dependence on foreign oil.

My first encounter with meconium occurred at the hospital. Advance press was accurate. It was a mess. Lily was being examined by the pediatrician on call and he checked her diaper. Observing a sizeable amount of meconium, he threw the diaper away and began to wipe the “affected area.” Almost immediately, Lily began to produce. What she produced can best be described as a steady, pulsing stream of smooth blackness. Basically, soft serve meconium. Dairy Joy will never be the same. The pediatrician waited, changed a diaper and as he was about to put on a new diaper, Lily gave a productive wince and he got served. After two more iterations of this, he successfully changed her diaper. He walked away muttering something about not getting paid enough for this. I walked in the other direction muttering the same thing.

In closing, I should note that this photograph was not easy to come by. I was hunched over Lily’s diaper in the corner of the room with my camera (trying to get the light just right) when a nurse entered and gave me this quizzical look. Upon seeing the diaper, her expression immediately changed to the kind of look you give someone when you catch them propositioning an undercover cop in a public toilet. Pity, disgust, and wonderment. I cleared my throat and said “I just needed a picture for my blog.” I’m pretty sure that made it worse.

Twinnage

I know that I wrote there might be delays in updating the blog but I now see that was a bit naïve. In my defense, I wrote that in what I now call the Days of Silence, which my brother calls “that hilarious time when you used to say how cool it would be to have kids.” As you may have surmised, we are now the proud, exuberant, and exhausted parents of twin girls. Here’s the synopsis.


We arrived at the hospital on Thursday evening at 6. I discovered a self-serve Pepsi machine and immediately reverted to my eleven year old self, who often fantasized about having unfettered access to the soft drink machine in the little league snack shop. Within half an hour I was wired. We settled into our ten-by-ten hospitality suite and Amy was hooked up to a complex system of wires and electrodes designed to monitor the fetal heart rates. The downside to this sophisticated system is that every time Amy moved (or took a deep breath) one of the electrodes fell off and the machine started beeping crazily and the nurses came running in. They gave me this look like “can’t you stop her from breathing for even twenty minutes?” I gave them this look like “I can’t concentrate on my Sudoku with all this commotion.” Amy babbled something about babies.

I went to get more Pepsi and as I was coming out of the kitchenette I heard a sound from one of the rooms; a bloodcurdling shrieking and hissing that sounded like twenty cats being bathed in ice water. It occurred to me that someone was being murdered on the maternity ward. Realizing that I might be called on to testify as an eyewitness, I tried to remember everything I could about my wife’s research. The next shriek coincided with my recollection that eyewitnesses are pretty useless and my fight or flight instinct kicked in. I ran for our room. As I neared our room, however, I came to the slow but unnerving realization that my wife would be in the Twenty Cat state very soon. Once again, my fight or flight instinct kicked in and I headed for the exit. As I pounded on the exit doors, I came to the realization that the maternity ward is a locked unit. You are probably thinking “that’d be because they’re trying to keep bad people out.” You’re thinking that because you haven’t been on a maternity ward.

Imagine 36 hours of this. Random screaming. Pepsi. Beeping. Sudoku.

And then imagine this.

Lily Alice and Tessa Mae Douglass, born August 29 weighing in at an impressive 6.11 and 7.4.

This is a picture of a man who has no idea what is about to happen to his life.

I have to say that most of the medical staff was amazing. Kind, compassionate, helpful, warm – all the stuff they had in the brochure. I don’t want to be maudlin or sentimental, but there was often hugging involved. Most of the time, I think these people just felt sorry for us. They would look at us and then look at the twins and then realize what we were in for and get all misty eyed and choked up, the same way you do when you’re watching Terms of Endearment or The Wrath of Khan when Spock is talking to Kirk at the end.

But there are always exceptions. For us, the exceptions were Doctor Bowel and Nurse Racheted-Up. Dr. Bowel was a tall, thin resident with a thick accent and a perpetual look of thoughtful confusion, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether he was, in fact, confused. He would come in and ask several apparently random questions and then, two minutes later, he would come back and ask another two random questions. His favorite question was “Any bowel movements? Any gas?” He asked this four times a day and every time he seemed disappointed when Amy said no. “No bowel movements?” he would reiterate, poking her in the belly. I have a few hypotheses about this behavior. The first possibility is that pain in the abdomen was one of twenty symptoms he knew. The second is that bowel was one of twenty words he knew. Doctor Bowel also had an unfortunate tendency to ask these questions at inopportune times, such as Amy’s first attempt at breast feeding or Lily’s first attempt at hitting that fifth octave. He would stand in the middle of the room observing events and trying to get his nerve up for one more bowel inquiry.

But at least Doctor Bowel was calm. Nurse Racheted Up had a strung out look that said “Hey! I just raided the pharmacy of Ritalin and drank a two liter of Mountain Dew and now I’m ready to be your nurse. Hey! Who wants a Percoset?” She made unusual comments for a nurse, like “I’m not very good at this,” as she was attempting to help Amy breast feed. Or, “I keep losing everything. My pen, my pad. And did I already give you your medication.” She regarded the twins anxiously, as if they might ask her for something she wasn’t ready to provide. Our favorite question had to be “would you like me to watch the twins in my office so you can get some rest?”

Um, where did I put those twins …

Swine lover

Because nothing is going on right now (on the bright side, nothing is quiet, right?) I thought I'd introduce you to our doctor. Although he appears completely incapable of telling us when to expect the twins, he is hilarious. We go in for our weekly checkup and feel like we’re getting good, solid information on the twins and a quick standup act. It could only be improved if they served drinks (or Percoset) during his set.

Several weeks ago, a family friend called him and asked if he would be willing to serve as a foster family for a piglet. This request apparently translated as “How would you like 50 pounds of bacon?” The piglet moved in and, to welcome her, our doctor built a pen in his garage, bought a new grill, and found a few good recipes on epicurious.com. Then he made a fatal mistake. He named the piglet Maggie.

Our doctor kept repeating “I just keep hoping that she’ll turn out to be mean. Then I won’t feel so bad.” But Maggie has proven to have an uncanny sense of self-preservation. She oinks in an appropriately endearing sort of a way. She rams the pen wall when he doesn’t stop to scratch her on his way inside. I think she makes him feel validated.

A few days ago, he constructed a new and improved pen in his back yard. I’m not sure what new and improved translates to when it comes to pig pens, but I get the sense that it’s a pretty posh pen. Later that night, he heard her “oinking like mad” and rushed outside. He tried to make it seem like he was checking on his investment but I’m pretty sure he was tearing up in the examining room. The reason for the mad oinking was undetermined, but I think it may have been swine separation anxiety.

His son is apparently much more savvy. When our doctor asked his son if he wanted to bond with the pig, his son apparently looked at him with 9 year old incredulousness and said “Dad. I’m not going to bond with our food.”

We were all quiet for a moment, thinking about Maggie the pig, and then I asked if he had ever seen Babe. His exact words were “thanks for that.” He asked me a philosophical question … “Why does bacon have to be so intelligent? It makes me wonder what people would taste like.” In unison, he and I immediately shouted “SOYLENT GREEN IS MADE OF PEEEPLE” in our best Charlton Heston. Amy shouted “GET THESE BABIES OUT OF HERE” in her best 39 week pregnant woman.

Amy finished the conversation by predicting, “There’s no way you’re eating that pig.” He laughed and nodded and then, in an embarrassed, I wish I hadn’t named that damn pig kind of a way, said, “I know. I’m about to have a 300 pound pet.”

Nothing.

The title pretty much sums it up. Absolutely nothing is happening. We wake up in the morning and stare despairingly at her belly. We eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We watch episodes of Voyager and give the twins a good stare down before bed. Then we do it again.

That's not to say that this time hasn't been full of learning. For example, I've learned you can only ask a pregnant woman "You're not feeling anything? NOTHING?" so many times before she comes after you with a butter knife. I've learned that, in the wrong hands, a butter knife is significantly more lethal than you'd think. I've learned that a woman who is 39 weeks pregnant with twins is the definition of "the wrong hands."

We had another ultrasound a few days ago. In week 20, the ultrasound was amazing. You could see feet, hands, arms, legs, faces. The wonder of life depicted by the wonder of science. Fast foward to week 39 and you are treated to an hour of gray blobs. Based on the number of times the technician called out "that's a FOOT!", our twins are quadrapeds. However, I have to say that I'm getting good at reading these gray blobs. I'm pretty sure I saw one of the twins holding on to Amy's ribcage.

That's my explanation for why they aren't here yet.

They should be here ... someday

Week 38. We’ve moved into a new phase of pregnancy that most people don’t warn you about (aside from my brother whose exact words were “if you get your wife pregnant in the summer you’ve just bought yourself a ticket to hell”). The new phase is most clearly marked by a change in how we talk to the children. For a long time, we were stuck in a phase I’ll call the Optimistic Illusion. We called them Deedle and Doodle (Amy became Dawdle in recognition of the pace of her eating). We talked about all the ways in which the twins would improve our lives. We assigned colors and clothing and areas of personal interest.

Now we simply call them squatters.

A day away from week 39 and no signs that they’re vacating any time soon. If anything, they seem to have settled in for the long haul. I assume this is good practice for that moment when they graduate from college and return home to get a job at a local coffee shop to write the great American Tweet.

If there was any question we were in the new phase, it was answered the other night when Amy got up from the couch and shouted “OUT OUT OUT OUT” down at her belly. Given the crazed look in her eyes, I thought she might be speaking in tongues … but when I helpfully offered to find a secular exorcist, she gave a look that cannot be described. I survived by locking myself in the bathroom and reminding her that we have This American Life on our Netflix Instant Queue.

In all fairness, I have to concede that I am not carrying twins. I have not gained [edited for the author’s safety] pounds. I do not have to go through labor. I do not have strange people touching me in the produce aisle of the grocery store. I’m not saying some of those things wouldn’t be interesting, but it’s beyond my experience.

I will say this … I’ve done what I could. I’ve come up with the Babies Out Program, a sure fire way to induce labor. Castor Oil? Eggplant Parmesan? Scrubbing the kitchen floor? All reasonable suggestions that failed. The BOP is so good that I’m hesitant to just give it out for free. Put simply, the BOP is a twenty minute labor induction method that consists of the pregnant individual catering to her partner’s every whim. Want a beer? Invoke the BOP. Want something more specialized, like a Fin du Monde? Have Amy bike to Florian’s and pick up a four pack and then stop by George’s for a cheese pizza, balancing everything on the handlebars. If that wouldn’t put her into labor then I don’t know what would.

Surprisingly, Amy was less than enthusiastic about this program.

Two more upovahs

I’ve decided that blogging about my experience as a father of twin girls is likely to be preferable to most of you (mostly because it will eliminate the need for repeated intrusive emails containing pictures of me changing diapers, weeping, feeding the twins, changing diapers, feeding the twins, weeping).

I think we can all agree that none of you need to see this kind of thing again.

So, here we are. Back at the blog. Naming the blog was an issue. I considered renaming the blog “The Douglass Twins” but it was obvious, bland, and freaked me out a little. Amy wasn’t fond of “What Have I Done To My Life?” so I went to music for inspiration. Amy rejected all the good ones ...

The end of the world as we know it (REM)
Stop this train (Mayer)
What is and what should never be (Led Zepplin)
Harvester of sorrow (Metallica)
Run like hell (Pink Floyd)
Living on a prayer (Bon Jovi)
Testosterone (Bush)
Armageddon (Def Leppard)
Run to the hills (Iron Maiden)
When you wake up feeling old (Wilco)
Interstate love song (STP) (it’s just a good song)
King of pain (Police)
anything by Megadeath

But in the end, I decided that Upovahsdownundah is likely to sum up our impending experience better than anything else.

To get you up to speed, we returned home from Australia and promptly ended up pregnant. Skipping ahead to the 35th week of the pregnancy … all I can say is so far so good. No morning sickness and just a bit of fatigue. Amy talks about being tired too (as an aside, I’ve noticed that these are the kind of statements that make people nervous. For example, during one of our doctor’s appointments I commented that Amy looked substantialesque. The nurse gave me this look of horror, like I’d just offered a cigarette to an infant, and forced me to take two pamphlets: Top 10001 Things You Should Never Say to a Pregnant Woman and Empathy for Dummies).

We now have what can only be called a vast library of books describing what we can expect in what can only be called frightening and often unnecessary detail. This week our twins are the size of roasting chickens (the authors have an unfortunate tendency to help us visualize our children as food). Our children have also been the size of chocolate chips (week 7), garden beetle (10), peanuts (11), lobster tails (18), apples (19), mango (20), small grapefruit (22), box of sugar (23), banana (24), pot roast (27), and a bag of flour (28). Amy’s least favorite week was the week they were the size of gerbils.

We’ve also been inundated by information, advice, guidance, and observations from strangers. Not the Jerry Seinfeld “You ever notice how twins look alike” observations. No, instead our interactions tend to run along the lines of “OH MY GOD, how many MINUTES until she’s due?” “How much weight have you gained?” “Is she supposed to look like Violet from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory?” and “Isn’t vegetarianism a cult?” In moments of frustration, I occasionally offer to bring such people to the Lukidian compound that I’m building in my subcellar where we await the arrival of Armeggedon, Ragnarok, and the next season of America’s Got Talent. With twins, I will have an instant two disciples until they start to worship Dora the Explorer or Veronica the Harmonica or whatever Disney dreams up next. However, usually I simply nod and agree that a) Amy looks like Violet, and b) she scares me.

Amy’s personal favorite experience has been an interaction with a woman at the grocery store who, upon being told we were having twins, said “Oh my GOD! What a nightmare. You’re never gonna sleep again.”

Another favorite is that first look of fear that people give her when they see her midsection, followed by a look of relief when we tell them that we’re having twins. “Ah,” they tend to say (as if to say) I thought you were an extra for a sci-fi film. Parenthetically, if you see Amy on the street, do NOT mention how the movement of the twins reminds you of Alien.

You might be wondering how all these changes are affecting our pup. She adopted a very zen attitude that we attribute to her limited attention span, small cerebral cortex and greater interest in the garbage can. No kleenex is safe. Our vet gave us a pamphlet that gave a few helpful hints on how to introduce a newborn to your dog. Some of this was pretty down to earth and practical, such as “When you return from the hospital, have the mother come in alone first to reacquaint herself with the dog.” We liked that. Sensible. Doable. Something that we sort of wished we had come up with on our own. However, the list culminated with the tip …

Do not dangle your baby in front of the dog.

Seriously.

This advice ranks up there with …

Do not teach your dog to ‘fetch’ your baby
Do not wrap your baby in sausage and leave her on the floor
Do not tape rawhide bones to your baby’s toes
Do not use your baby as a prop in recreating the movie Cujo
Do not let your baby go swimming in the ocean after playing in chum
Do not allow your baby to play in chum
Do not give your baby a toaster in the bathtub
Do not dress your baby in furry clothing and drag her across the floor whistling and yelling “Here, boy.”

Five days, but who's counting? Aim is, that's who!

Why? One word. Puppy.

That's right, we're five days from reuniting with our dog; the canine most eager to please and least equipped to do so. This is the dog that surreptitiously devoured an Ugg boot owned by one of Amy's students during a dinner. The dog that waited until Amy was out of the room to mouth her baklava.

The pup separation was tough at first but it's easier now. When we arrived in Australia, I tried to lessen the emotional reaction by being lighthearted and saying "Hey, we've only got eighty nine days left!" I wasn't prepared for Amy's reaction, which was to search the ground for something that could be used as a weapon. Creativity does have a dark side. I never thought a plastic cup could be used to fashion a shank.

Anyway, those days are behind us because five days is a lot less than eighty nine. It's simple but important math.

I did have a secret plan. Prior to our departure, I secretly made twenty one videos of our dog doing the kinds of things that dogs do. I called it the Pupumentary. If you think that watching seventy five minutes of a dog lie on its back sounds tedious, you have no concept of what it was like to film, edit, and produce the videos. It was the act of a desperate man. To Amy's credit, she made those videos last the whole time.

So how am I spending my final week in Adelaide?

NOTE: Readers are advised to cease reading if disturbed by graphic medical photographs or feet.

Unfortunately, I'm less mobile now because I sprained my ankle while jogging with Amy. I know what you're thinking ... that I look really young for a ninety-year-old. We were jogging by one of the parks when Amy said "let's cross the street. Check for cars." I checked for cars but neglected to look down and took two steps on the side of my foot. I'm not saying that Amy pushed me or tripped me. I'm just saying that she looked unsurprised when I began to limp. She said "can you run on it?" Not even if I was being chased by a rabid Koala. When I finally limped up to our apartment door she said "I just think you might be exaggerating a little bit." Two hours later she said "Wow. That does look swollen."

It's like SNL. This stuff just writes itself.

So we're getting ready to come home. I'm afraid my anxiety level will skyrocket back in the US given that no one will tell me there are no worries. No worries. It's a freeing feeling, even if you know they are lying. I ask "What about the collapse of the world economy?" Eh. No worries. I've got me savings in Coopahs. "What about SARS?" No worries. I take me vitamins. "What about the aussie's lackluster performance in the second test of cricket in India?" No *unprintable expletives* worries.

We are going miss several things about Adelaide. The restaurants ...

summer ...

footy ...

and, of course, death by magpie.

Please do not climb on the ancient log.

Aim and I went for an Adelaide walkabout. Strictly speaking, this is a bit of an oxymoron, as walkabouts are a rite of passage that tend to involve a) wilderness, and b) 6 months. Three hours, unfortunately, all the time we had. If it makes any difference, I did a LOT of soul searching out there, particularly over a good, cold Cooper's Pale Ale on West Terrace where I discovered that a) I like cold beer, b) I like to enumerate things, and c) McCainPalin spelled backwards is Nilapniaccm. Three epiphanies. Not a bad run. My second beer resulted in epiphanies d), e), and f), but my ability to remember them declined.

We started walkingabout (not an authentic Australian usage) by cutting through the park by our apartment on our way to the Adelaide market. We stopped by the Botanic Gardens on our way there (and our way back for good measure, because you can never spend too much time watching plants grow). We discovered a log dating back 1500 years - but the whole day was ruined when we read that we weren't allowed to climb on, break pieces off of, or cut our initials into the log. What is the point of having an ancient log if you aren't allowed to deface it with pithy statements like A&L '08 or America Rulez. We also came upon a monument that had been erected in honor of the combined efforts of the Australian and American armies during World War II. We happened upon this monument at approximately the same time as an older Australian couple. The man stared at the plaque and said, "Hmm. The Americans helped us in a war. Hard to believe. I've only seen them in pubs." Now, I'm not normally the kind of person who shouts at strangers, but there had been enough America bashing that day. I poked him in the back and said "Watch it buddy! That's what we do NOW. But we used to do all sorts of different things." It was kind of hard to read his reaction while we were running away, but I was pretty sure I'd put him in his place.

We walked along Rundle Mall and communed with the spirit of commerce and credit until realizing that several Australians blame the US citizenry for the current economic downturn. Suddenly, 'where are you from?' took on a sinister meaning. It meant "are you personally responsible for the 90% decline in my retirement portfolio's value?" My only recourse was to admit that Amy was an American but that I was an Independent.

Amy decided to pursue culture and went to an aboriginal museum where she was cornered by a bored museum attendant who told her that she narrowly missed a spiritual presence with body odor who lingered around the museum the day before. I narrowly missed being part of that conversation.

I spent that twenty minutes of my life deciding that I had to have a meal at the Stag (for obvious reasons). Rump roast never seemed so savory. And lamb cubes on a bed of risotto? Unfortunately, the only thing on the menu that I could have was beer.

Damn my luck. Damn it to hell.

Good on ya!

We survived the trip along the Great Ocean Road.

Friday. We left Adelaide at 5 and headed south. The drive was spectacular while we had daylight and creepy when we didn't. Australia provides a new definition for remote (and, let's face it, we were in Outback Light). We stopped for the night in Kingston SE. An interesting thing about Kingston ... there's five of them in Australia. FIVE. It turns out that I reserved a room in Kingston, Canberra, which is approximately 300 KM from Kingston SE. Amy muttered something about attention to detail and I muttered something about muttering. Luckily, I discovered my mistake soon enough to ensure that we wouldn't be trying to sleep in the back of a Corolla hatchback.

We celebrated the first part of the drive by walking down to the local pub. Now, you might wonder how an authentic australian pub differs from an american pub. Less than you might think. It was what you'd expect; beer, music, and pokies. Pokies are slot machines, in case I haven't blogged about that. We walked in to see a projector screen of Axl Rose screeching Paradise City (we were subsequently subjected to a 70s and 80s montage that included Bananarama, the Bee Gees and Dee Lite - groove is apparently in the heart even in Australia). Fifty people were packed into one corner of the bar around a pool table where an enormous man (Goliath) was playing a human sized opponent (David). I think the size of Goliath's hands must have interfered with his ability to aim because he lost quickly. In a fit of fury, Goliath took this opportunity to heave himself onto the pool table. He struggled to his feet, balancing himself on the light fixture, and dropped trow. Not being shy, he began to dance. Everyone in the bar immediately covered their eyes and groaned but it was clear that their reaction was not surprise ... it was resignation. In Kingston I learned a) Goliath isn't good at pool b) that pool table has a limited life span, and c) there are some things you can't forget no matter how hard you try. We left before a rematch could take place.

The next morning, we realized that we missed an important landmark on the way into Kingston SE. We backtracked to a replica of Godzilla's nemesis in Maine. Yes, in Kingston, they make tourism and the tourism they make is thirty foot lobsters. They are currently seeking donations to pay for the $50,000 repairs required to keep the Big Lobster lobstering. It helped cure a bit of homesickness and helped us forget about Goliath. Mostly.

The first day of driving was full of signs of kangas (but no actual kangas), wind turbines, and Mt. Gambier: Sinkhole capital of South Australia. Here again, we were faced with the unflagging optimism of the Aussies. Woke up to an enormous pit in the middle of your town? Plant some flowers and turn it into a tourist attraction! We ended the day in Warnambool and ate at the Australian equivalent of Applebees while AVP played on the flatscreen by the bar. Who needs Chopin?

Saturday was incredible. Approximately every 300 m there was an impressive vista overlooking the ocean that made us wonder why it hasn't been chopped into .5 acre lots and sold. We stopped by London Bridge. In 1990, the arch connecting the limestone mass crumbled into the ocean.

We also spent quite a bit of time at the Sow and Piglets, limestone remnants from the erosion of the cliffs. The S&P was subsequently renamed the Twelve Apostles after someone saw the face of Jesus in a rock.

We stopped in Lorne but it turns out the town has nothing to do with Bonanza. We needed somethin to eat and drink. Too tired for a beer, we settled on ice cream and water. As we were leaving Lorne, we saw a police officer waving us to the side of the road. I thought that my past finally caught up with me. Instead, the officer told me that he was conducting a random breathalyzer and asked if I'd had anything to drink. Now, we learned a while back that the legal blood alcohol limit in South Australia is .05, which you can basically achieve by looking at a beer. Or using cough medicine. Cough cough. He looked a bit surprised when I passed and said "Good on ya!"

Then it was a two hour drive into Melbourne.

On to Melbourne

Amy is at work and I'm about to pack for our trip along the Great Ocean Road. I need to leave the apartment in about 20 minutes and I haven't started. This would pose a problem if I weren't confident in my ability to adapt.

I've recovered enough to remember to drive on the left side of the road. I hope.

Man down!

Well, I've managed to capture the genuine Australian experience by getting the flu. They say that love heals all. Amy says "I don't think you have the flu. I don't think a cleaning woman telling you that you have the flu is evidence. You might have a cold. Wait ... what are you typing?"

Why am I not better?

This is how I feel.

Note: No dingos were harmed in the making of this blog. This is provided for illustrative purposes only. Any resemblance to an actual dead dog is purely coincidental. This dingo is sleeping in the sunlight and enjoying himself.

Brisbane

Just back from BrisVegas, as the aussies call it. It is also rumored to house the largest collection of bumpy metal balls in the world.

Amy had to work the first day - she gave a talk and interrogated the officials at the Uni of Queensland about the study abroad program - and I did my best to look busy. We wandered around Brisbane that night. Definitely a cool city, complete with a man-made beach, the CityCat (a river ferry), yet another Botanic garden (that makes four gardens for those of you counting at home), live music, and a few wicked good restaurants.

JJC Bradfield reared his ugly head in Brisbane. It appears that he compulsively put up bridges all around Australia. This served to feed Amy's megalomanical sense of place in the universe, as she kept pumping her fist and repeating "Oooo yeah, baby. Who's laughin now? Not the Douglasses, that's for sure!"

We went to the Brisbane Museum, primarily because we wanted a bit of backstory on the city. We'd heard that the city was founded by a bend in the Brisbane river to ensure that it was harder for convicts to escape, as treading water with leg irons is apparently harder than you'd think. Sadly, the museum had nothing on the sordid past of the city and was focused instead on all the great and wonderous and charitable things the populace had done since 1842. Great disappointment, needless to say. We did learn that the site was initially named Mian-jin, meaning 'place shaped like a spike.' By 1825, the town had swelled considerably in size and was renamed Brisbane, translating roughly to "place shaped like Sir Thomas Brisbane, Governor of Queensland." We rode to the top of the clock tower with six other people in an small, hot, and rarely aerated metal box and that felt a little sordid. So it wasn't a total loss.


More educational tourism in the form of a historic walk around the city. We found the former AMP Insurance Society building, which can really get your heart pumping. All jokes aside, this building has historical significance. It served as Douglas McArthur's headquarters - his orders were to reassure the Australians that they would not be invaded by the Japanese. He neglected to mention that they would later be invaded by American fast food chains and Yu Gi Oh.

We were excited about Saturday night - we planned on spending several hours in a local bar watching the Grand Final footy match and rooting for the team that had the greatest support in that bar. We went back to our hotel to get ready and Amy turned on the tele. We watched with growing disappointment as the Grand Final trophy was awarded. The announcers gushed about the match. Um. Yeah. The match was over.

We eventually broke down and went to the Treasury, the nearest casino. As we were walking towards the Texas Hold'em tables, Amy turned to me and said "Have you noticed that no one looks like they're having fun?" I was immediately, deeply embarrassed. It's the kind of comment you desperately hope hasn't been overheard, sort of like making a joke about jihad as you're passing through airport security. I looked around to make sure that she hadn't been overheard. Luck was with us. "Gambling isn't about fun," I whispered. "It's about sticking it to the man. It's about addiction and compulsion. Now give me all of our money." Just joking of course. Amy didn't have our money. Anyway, there were ATMs handily sprinkled around the casino - right next to tiny placards that read gamble responsibly. You know, because the casino cares. Just like CBS, McDonald's, and Philip Morris.

Well, we stuck it to the man. We left with $10 of their money. Who says penny slots doesn't pay? First round is on me when we get back (assuming there's only two of us).

We were also able to take a publicity photo of Amy in the hopes that she might get a guest spot on Ghost Whisperer or Crossing Over (I forget which one is supposed to be real).

The Great Barrier Reef

Cairns. We came before the tourists, summer temperatures and 'stingers.' We booked a trip on the Reef Experience.

The trip included brekky and lunch. Brekky consisted of instant coffee and a surprisingly good sandwich made of fried eggs and onions. As I was finishing my sandwich, I heard one of the guides tell a pallid woman in front of us "If you're feeling sea sick - don't eat the egg." The sort of advice you might want to offer all passengers prior to brekky. I immediately felt a bit nauseous. Thirty minutes into the trip, there was a bedraggled but lethal group of six passengers sitting in the stairwell clutching brown paper bags like life rafts. One woman went through three bags during my attempt to pass her on the stairs.

You could snorkel or dive or do both. I signed up for an introductory dive. Our total training time consisted of a fifteen minute talk about the basic skills necessary for survival, which included four modules: a) breathing, b) clearing water from your mask, c) regulating the pressure in your ears, and d) mastering the hand signals to communicate with your guide. The hand signals included "okay," "not sure if I'm okay," "definitely not okay - can't you tell by my flailing?," and "look at that shark." I was pretty sure they were kidding about that last one. In any event, I think the most obvious sign of an encroaching shark would be watching my guide swim very rapidly away from me.

I should say that there were several relatively graphic moments in the training; words like "rupture" and “ear drum” were used repeatedly.

I suited up and sat on the back of the boat ...

... until I was commanded to fall forward into the water.

We demonstrated our mastery of the "life skills" in a fifteen second "test" and I suddenly realized how little I've appreciated the value of repeated practice and mentoring in my life. I apparently passed the test because the guide hooked her right arm in my left arm and we began to swim downwards.

Everything became a light blue. I concentrated on breathing and discovered that I could manage it pretty well. We kept on going down. Then my head began to throb and I realized that I'd forgotten to regulate the pressure in my ears. Down down down. I quickly switched life skills to regulating the pressure in my ears and promptly forgot to continue breathing. This was a poor trade off. I tried to switch to breathing again but only managed to start hyperventilating. I used each of the hand signals I’d been taught in quick succession and the entire group rose to the surface.

The second attempt was much more successful. I didn’t buy an underwater camera and I’m afraid any attempt to describe the reef would be similar to a transcript of Tito describing the earth from orbit: “um … wow … I mean, it’s just … um … not really sure what … just, wow ... it's just like I thought except ... rounder.” Advance press had been correct: the reef was great. Clams the size of small couches, sea cucumbers, a five foot horned worm that I declined to investigate further, and a universe of fish.

Diving gave me a different perspective on things. For example, it might have been the bends, but I found myself thinking that there's something almost graceful about watching a fish defecate as it swims by you. If you put it to classical music, it could be a scene out of Fantasia II or Apocalypse Now, like a jet fighter laying down napalm.

I spent the remainder of that day snorkeling and getting a nice, even sunburn on the back of my legs.

We spent the next few days sitting by the pool, drinking, sleeping, and walking along the boardwalk where we discovered something strange. Warnings about croc sightings and the danger of being too close to the water’s edge were placed in unobtrusive areas, such as underneath the boardwalk.

It’s that classic dilemma from Jaws: you gotta warn the tourists in a way that doesn’t freak them out. I think it might be easier to simply sell the Cairns boardwalk as a living zoo – charge five bucks and tell people they have a good chance of seeing a croc if they let their dog wander close to the water’s edge.

We also went to the Cairns botanic gardens where we saw the Smoked Ribs Plant.

The mighty double blues

First semi-finals today at the Adelaide Oval. The Oval is famous for its association with cricket and the venerable Don Bradman. You know this because everything in the Oval is named after him (the Don Bradman bar, the Don Bradman club, the Don Bradman scoreboard, the Don Bradman stands, and the Don Bradman beer tap).



The mighty Sturt Double Blues took on the wretched Norwood Redlegs. You may recall from earlier posts that the Redlegs destroyed our beloved Double Blues several weeks ago. Not this time.




133 to 62. Afterwards, I asked whether it is considered a footy "game" or "match." GOFF (Good Old Fashioned Flogging) was the reply.


This puts us in the second semi-finals, which we will unfortunately miss because we'll be in Brisbane. And here we are feeling pretty good after a decisive win and a few "heavys."

NZed's Dead

Day 6

Woke early to skies of the New Zealand national color – gray. We reluctantly decided to leave the National Park Village (given that it was pouring outside) and drove north to Waitomo.

We stayed at the Waitomo Caves Hotel, a very impressive place sitting at the top of a hill. The hotel hadn’t been renovated since the early 1940’s and had that rustic, dilapidated look that Stanley Kubrik must have been looking for when he was in preproduction for The Shining.

When I checked in, I asked if my father had been there yet. The concierge said, “You’re the first guest to arrive. You’ve always been the first guest to arrive.” I didn’t think this was quite accurate but he seemed to know what he was talking about. We were also informed that the dining room would not be available that evening, narrowing our options to two. We brought our bags up the creaking stairs and I just couldn’t help commenting on HOW MUCH the hotel reminded me of Stephen King’s novel. Amy politely reminded me that, although she’s never seen the Shining, she’s pretty sure that it would freak her out. I said “Heeeere’s Johnny!” She didn’t get it.

We went for a beer and a veggie burger. Then the four of us did a forty minute “bushwalk” that was extraordinary; a path that ran through caves, alongside waterfalls, and culminated in an underground viewing platform over a subterranean stream.

We ended the hike and toured the most amazing cave I’ve ever seen. I imagine that the Glowworm Cave is like an acid trip without the brain damage, flashbacks, and DEA agents. The upper chambers include the “cathedral” which has excellent acoustics and has attracted singers such as Kenny Rogers and the Vienna Boys Choir. I thought about trying the opening of Welcome to the Jungle, but really wanted to see the glow worms so I just hummed it.

The chamber that held the glowworms was *insert favorite expletive* awesome. We boarded on a metal boat in near darkness and our guide used hanging ropes to maneuver the boat into a chamber where thousands of tiny, bright blue lights glittered on the ceiling. I’ve never seen anything like it.

I should mention here that the lifespan of the glow worm is rather tragic. Sure, it’s not bad when you’re in the cocoon stage, dangling a sticky snare line to catch insects and draw them up for brunch. Upon hatching, however, each glow worm discovers to its horror that it has no mouth. So it’s a fun filled four days before starvation sets in.

We hiked back from the caves and encountered beautiful hilly terrain bounded by a maze of barbed wire fencing. We mastered the art of climbing over stiles. Surprisingly, the hiking path led us right through a field filled with approximately thirty cows.

We started to walk through (somewhat nervously). Someone commented that these appeared to be very well endowed cows, sort of a bovine Crying Game. Amy and Cris did their version of speed walking. There was snorting and heavy breathing (which seemed to startle the bulls). My father took pictures and said things like “thank you so much for letting us pass through” and “we come in peace” in his best therapeutic voice. If you know my father, you know I’m not kidding. We responded by pointing out that my father was the only carnivore in the group.

I took pictures of bulls that I thought might be responsible for my death.

We got back just before sunset.

Day 7

Breakfast at the hotel. An acceptance that things were grim. It was going to rain. We decided to drive north to Raglan, a small village next to an excellent hike by the Tasman Sea. We agreed to meet at in the town of Three Streams, prominently marked on our map. Funny … “Three Streams” is not so much a town as two houses next to a stream. With no sign. We reunited by luck and determined that hiking was not going to happen.

As we prepared to drive north to Auckland, I thought I should probably visit the Shire. After all, we were going to pass about three centimeters from it, translating to about three extra hours on the road. However, a quick Google search and I discovered that a tour company has a stranglehold on the site and charges an obscene amount to poke your head in a hobbit hole. I know how that sounds and I still considered doing it. The tour company has attempted to sweeten the deal by offering (as a bonus) a personal viewing of a sheep shearing, the New Zealand equivalent of a bull fight. My ovinaphobia got the better of me, however. So I settled on visiting the local gift shop and picking up hobbits for everyone at home.

Unfortunately, I was informed by a customs official that hobbits are considered an invasive species. They were confiscated.