New Parental Lesson

I learned two things today.

1)  There is an upper age limit on when you can sing "Shankill Butchers" to your children.

2) That limit is age six.

There is a more than probable chance that Tessa will be singing that song to herself tomorrow at school.

If anyone asks about it, I'm going to focus on the value of vocabulary terms like "cleaver" and "askew" and commonsense lessons like "lock your windows tight."

With one of her knowing looks, Amy mentioned that Tessa asked "What's a butcher?"  Amy played it safe and referenced the "going to market" conversation.  More and more, I reminisce about those wonderful pre-verbal days.

I guess it's back to the wheels on the damn bus.

Drewsker arrives

Uncle Drew arrived after a blistering 17 hour flight from Dallas to Sydney.  "Blistering" is ironic here, since Drew had three free seats next to him on that flight and managed to stretch out and have a pleasant six hour nap.  We waited for him at the arrivals gate and watched him stagger back and forth several times.

We started the thirty minute drive home from the airport.  After ten minutes, Drew suddenly panicked because he realized he was in the Laser's left front seat and couldn't find the steering wheel.

"Am I supposed to be driving?"

We got a little crazy right after he arrived.

We hit the Botanic Garden.  WOOT!

A Flower

Another Flower

And of course the Titan Arum.

Drew decided to get a closeup of the corpse flower, despite my shrieks of warning.  I later discovered that he was taking a picture of "a really big spider under that oak tree."  I never told him how close he came to being lunch to an oversized stalk of celery.

As an aside, that is the same corpse "plant" that I took a few weeks ago.  The only upside is that is no longer smells like a pre-school classroom after  burrito day.

This is an example of overeager photography.  I was excited to see the Douglas name in Australia, and therefore neglected to evaluate whether this is an interesting photo.  Which, I've decided, it is not - unless you're into pictures of withered leaves.  If so, it turns out that I have a LOT of those.

Uncle Drew and the Rillkins.

















Uncle Drew and Tessabear.

Uncle Drew reading Rowan of Rin, a fantasy novel by Emily Rodda, an Australian author.

The girls were excited to have a new reader, as they have decided that I am substandard.  Although Amy had a hard time arguing with them, I was able to come up with four important functions I serve.  But they have a point about the reading.  I have personally read over 200 pages of Rowan and struggle to remember any details.  I have a vague sense that it has something to do with a dragon, who is either named Rowan or eats Rowan or "gets involved" with a billionaire named Rowan who is into S&M.  The most profound problem with reading to your children (beyond the occasional elbow in the eye) is the sedating effect of their warmth.  I get so relaxed that I repeatedly fall asleep in mid sentence.  Amy told me it sounds like I'm having a stroke (interestingly, I don't remember her ever trying to resuscitate me or call an ambulance).

However, If you look closely at the photo, you'll see that The Great Uncle Drew isn't doing much better.  His eyes are closed.

Vegetarianism

Gaga left Australia with more than she anticipated.

She left with vegetarianism.

Now, I'm sure some of you think that's a result of Amy's newly copyrighted 24 hour indoctrination program (available for $24.99) that involved repeated viewings of PETA videos on You Tube, waterboarding, and repeated administration of gin and tonics.  And, frankly, that was probably part of it.

Last known photo of Gaga as a carnivore.

But it was mostly the sheep from Kangaroo Island.  (Note: I would have blogged this immediately after the visit from Gaga and Grandpa had I known the extent of its impact).

So here's the story.  On our way back from Kangaroo Island, we disembarked the ferry and settled on the bus back to Adelaide.  So far so good.  No vegetarian conversions.  Everyone pleased with their own culinary preferences.

Then, in a moment Gaga will apparently always remember, two large semi trucks drove off the ferry, each packed with hundreds of bleating sheep.

"Ooooh, those sheep are sooooo cute," Tessa said.

The adults nodded and murmured platitudes like "yes, they are" and "they sure do look delicious."

"Where are they going?" Tessa asked.

"Oy," our bus driver offered.  "They're headed to market,"

"But they're not the ones shopping," I added helpfully.  I've been working on my helpfulness.

Tessa looked quizzically at Gaga and then Amy.

What followed was an accurate if somewhat sanitized description of "going to market," as Amy glossed over words like "slaughter house" and "abbatoir" and "captive bolt stunning."

Reactions to Gaga's conversion have been mixed.  Grandpa Jim has adapted to vegetarianism through what I'll call gravitational acquiescence.  Sort of like when a ship passes the event horizon of a black hole; you know you're going in, so might as well get comfortable.

I would characterize her son Andy's reaction as "quietly supportive."  He used words like "are you f**$^ing kidding me?" and "it was Amy, wasn't it?!" and "we're at the top of the food chain and every once in a while, to demonstrate that, we need to kill something and eat it."

I see this philosophy as fitting right in with vegetarianism.  The last thing we need is broccoli thinking they're higher up on the food chain.

PS  Amy didn't like the last line.  She said it didn't "make sense" and "ruined the whole post" and "could drive away the six people who follow your blog."

Burning sensations

Warning:  The following image is not suitable for viewing over breakfast unless you've got a thing for knees.

If you've got a thing for knees, that's probably not something I want to hear about over breakfast.

So, what happened?  Several possibilities.

1)  I have developed an incurable and lethal form of the mange as a result of canine ancestry on my paternal side (when I heard my great grandfather was killed in a freak fetch accident, I thought he was the one throwing the stick).  While searching for a cure, I'm avoiding a shadowy government organization hoping to use my unique genetic sequence to create superdog soldiers.

2) I encountered the Nair Jellyfish while snorkeling in Cairns.

3)  I went swimming in a public pool.

Even though #3 seems the most far fetched, it was true.  Ah, the beauty of public pools.  Being splashed by other peoples' kids.  Swimming through random warm patches of water.

After thirty minutes of horsing around with my kids, I noticed a slight burning sensation in my knees.  As a forty five year old, I'm trying to get used to burning sensations in various joints, which my doctor calls arthritis and I've been trying to call "afterburn" because it suggests that I did something more kinetic than walk up the stairs.  But this BS felt different.  It was only when I left the pool, that I realized my knee was disfigured.

(As an aside, I think Burning Sensations could be a cool band name.  You know, a geriatric superband featuring Stephen Tyler, Slash, and Phil Collins sponsored by Fixodent and Biofreeze).

Australians are apparently generous with dispersal of chlorine and, in a pinch, will make do with hydrochloric acid.  They have also invented a pool bottom surface that can give you that whole body shave.

The real loss here is the lucrative knee modeling contracts that I was hoping to pursue.  Even through the disfigurement, you can see that I had the bone structure to compete with the likes of David Gandy.  Obviously, I will also no longer be competitive for Tyra Banks' new show "America's Top Knees."

EDIT:  Pat W astutely noted that Burning Sensations has already been used as a name for a rock band in the 80s.  What does it tell you that I didn't know that?  I just WASTED my teen years!  Still, I think my idea has merit.  Can't you just imagine the tension ... er chemistry between Slash and Collins on stage?

Tram

"TRAM!" Tessa screamed.  "TRAM!"

When someone screams "Tram" or "Fire" or "Trump Won Michigan," your first instinct is probably to assume that imminent death is upon you.  Maybe your life flashes before your eyes.  Hopefully that's a worthwhile ten seconds.  (At least five of my ten seconds would be twins complaining about what I cook.  You're jealous, I know).

Your first instinct is probably not to assume that there is a tram two blocks away doing what trams do.  Which is follow the track.  Because screaming Tram doesn't do anything in that situation except scare the shit out of your father.

It's an unfortunate truth, but Tessa has inherited an unfathomable (to me) fascination with modes of transportation.  It almost certainly derives from Grandpa Jim, given that my side of the family appears to regard modes of transportation as modes of transportation.  The Douglasses have as much interest in trams as we do in, say, the ingredients in baloney or the proper way to shuck an ear of corn.  It's something we might get around to figuring out but, in all honesty, probably not.

Grandpa Jim regards trams and trains as the sacred cows of the west.  He has been known to ride a train for two hours and then wait fifteen minutes to take the return train two hours.  He has been known to believe that the only problem with the three day train to Perth is that he was asked to leave the train on the third day.  During these journeys, he has been known to contemplate Absolute Block Signaling, Bulkhead Flatcars, and Journal Bearings and is more than willing to share these things with you.  He has been known to purchase timetables on Ebay for pleasure reading.  However, to my knowledge, Grandpa Jim has never screamed "TRAM" in the middle of a crowded restaurant, so I suppose Tessa is one up on him.

So, one Saturday, I agreed to spend several hours hunting down the fabled trams and taking them to the end of the line.  Tessa spent most of our time downtown shouting "Tram" in the same way that construction workers whistle at women and Dustin Hoffman counted matches in Rain Man.  Impulsive and pointless.  I felt a bit embarrassed every time she screamed because people reacted by ducking and staring wildly around (you know, for the runaway tram).  I was also afraid that an ex-military black ops Aussie might assume that my code name was Tram and take me out.  I spent a lot of time trying to decide whether performing a sidekick would rip out my hamstring.

This is the beginning of the journey.  Notice our expectant smiles.

Tessa absconded with my phone and demonstrated why the upselfie is not a good idea.

Mid Journey.  Entering the contemplative phase.  Possibly thinking about journal bearings.

Nearing the end of the journey.  Her glazed eyes probably stemming from an awareness that it's about to end.  My glazed eyes tears of joy that it's about to end.

Why did we do this?

Because it's a tram and we can.

In Adelaide it turns out you can also ride bronzed pigs.  The excitement level is about the same.

Signage

My conscience was working me over again today.  Saying things like "when are you going to post again?" and "I hope the next post is funny" and "There were still dirty dishes in the sink this morning."

This  may be a recurring post, depending on my luck at finding screwy signs.

A friendly caution?  Or a threat?

This seems more straightforward, particularly given the size of the grille.  Of course, gotta love the cheery license plate.  I'm pretty sure the driver of this vehicle was going for irony.

Not everyone in Australia buys into the "no worries" laissez faire free love revolution.

This is more of a glass 1/10 full kind of person.  

Notice the distance from the van?  That was intentional.

As an alum of University of Iowa, I was pretty pissed at this one.

This one made me even more pissed.

On behalf of all males, I took all the advertisements I could find and crammed them into the mail slot.

For those of you who still doubt that magpies are a problem ...

I was really discouraged by the last line.  I was counting on throwing things at magpies as my last line of defense.  Our options are now "stand there and take it" or "run down the sidewalk screaming" or "hide behind a nearby child."

This made me feel a little sorry for Scientology.  

You know you're in a bad spot when Christian Scientists feel the need to publicly distance themselves from you.

I could see this devolve into a religious war with no clear winner.  On the one hand, the Christian Scientists have God, unless they've misplaced him.  But Scientologists have the E-gram, Xenu, Cruise and (I assume) laser weapons.

I saved the best for last.  This was taken inside a restroom in a national park on Kangaroo Island.

All sorts of questions come to mind.  

For example, who thought it would be a good idea to use a toilet that way?  

How the hell did the park officials realize that people were doing this?  Obviously, someone either walked in on a "croucher," as I'll call them, or a croucher lost their balance and got wedged deep into the toilet.

What are the chances someone is going to walk in on me?

How many times does this happen?  Obviously enough to hire a graphic artist to do a rendering, laminate the rendering, and post the sign.  

Where were the crouchers putting the toilet paper before the helpful sign?

Is another panel missing?  Instructional depiction of proper wiping?  It might really help the crouchers.

But the last thought, the dark thought, was ... how often do they clean these bathrooms, anyway?

And ... maybe those crouchers are onto something. 

Bug

The other night, I lurched out of bed at 2 am.  It’s not uncommon for me to wake up in the middle of the night, usually as a result of Spousal Continental Drift.  For those of you unfamiliar with the phenomenon, it describes a situation in which both you and your spouse are on your own sides of the bed and then, hours later, both you and your spouse are on your side of the bed.  Amy refers to it as cuddling.  It occurs to me that I may already have referenced this in the blog.  Chalk my forgetfulness up to sleep deprivation.

In any event, full disclosure requires me to state that Amy was not at fault here.

I woke up because I thought I heard voices.  Psychologists sometimes call this hypnopompic hallucinations.  Stoners usually call this the point of doing drugs.  Although I was pretty groggy, I grudgingly headed downstairs to ask the burglars to keep it down when I saw a black three inch oval on the wall of the stairway.  That’s odd, I remember thinking, I don’t remember a three inch oval there.  An oval that MOVED.  Skittered, in a way.

I leaped upstairs and turned on the light.  I may have screamed.  A three inch bug (four inches with antennae) skittered across the wall with the kind of speed you only see in Formula One racing.  

It was a massive cockroach. 

As we stared at each other, I felt a deep and profound homesickness for Maine.  Beautiful, desolate, freezing Maine, where nothing can survive outside in February.  For that matter, almost nothing can survive inside.  I fantasized about sitting in a snowbank.  I envied frostbite victims.

A plan, I thought.  I need a plan.  I’ll consult Amy.  I ran to our room and used my Urgent Voice.  “The biggest cockroach I have ever seen is in the stairway,” I whispered.  “That includes the Discovery Channel.”  

Amy’s plan was to remain inert in bed in the hopes that a) she was dreaming, b) that I might think she was asleep and leave, or c) that I might be eaten by the cockroach before she had to get out of bed.

Clearly, I had to deal with this myself.  First, a weapon.  Broom.  Boom.  Second, confrontation.  By now, the roach had skittered to the ceiling of the stairway, which is about twenty feet high.  Too high for my broom.  But in times of crisis, I am not without innovation.  A pile of laundry was on the landing.  I threw a towel at the bug.  Nothing.  I threw the second towel.  The roach “took wing” and swooped down at me.  I’m not ashamed to say that I shrieked and ran upstairs.  

After five more towels, I managed to knock the roach into a corner of the kitchen.  What followed was an ugly two minutes of frantic broom swinging and cursing as the roach charged me repeatedly.  There was a great deal of adrenalin - I later discovered that I bent the broom (a testament both to my strength and shoddy Australian craftsmanship) - but I was ultimately able to flip the beast onto its back and bludgeon it to death.

Later, Amy and I had a long laugh about how funny I sounded scrabbling up and down the stairs, though I think only one of us was laughing.

Much later, Amy pointed out some "bug art" on the wall of a shop and said “I thought you might like this” in the same way mobsters might suggest you’d like a decapitated horse head in your bed.

I scoffed.  That’s TINY.  But just to be safe, I paid the clerk $5 not to sell it to us.

Bad Blogger! or Reflections on Time

Time.  I’ve been thinking a lot about time.  As in … “Isn’t it time you wrote your blog?” said Amy.  “There are people counting on you to give them a good way to waste time.”

Which brings me back to time.

I'm not sure how to put this politely, but Australians managed to totally screw up time.  Including daylight savings, there are thirteen zones: ACDT, ACST, ACT, ACWST, AEDT, AEST, AET, AWDT, AWST, CXT, LHDT, LHST, and NFT.  I’m going to add NFW and WTF.  Part of the problem is that half of the country refuses to observe daylight savings time because only wankahs try to manipulate the fourth dimension.  As an example, Alice Springs is roughly due north of Adelaide.  Half the year, we have the same time and Australia seems pretty reasonable.  Half the year, Australia seems insane.  Adelaide is an hour later than Alice Springs, half an hour behind Cairns in the northeast, half an hour behind Sydney to the east and two and a half hours ahead of the west.

The issue has become political.  South Australian politicians have attempted to force the poor citizenry to change time zones for 30 years.  This has been going on as long as the argument about whether Solo shot first (he did, obviously).  At one point in the process, some idiot proposed splitting SA into two time zones - you know, because thirteen isn’t enough.  Proponents assert (somewhat aggressively) that changing time zones will reduce traffic accidents, improve communication with east coast suppliers, and solve problems with "online diaries" between south australian and eastern state users.  Ok.  I see where they're coming from.  Change time zones so everyone can use the same computer program.  Or, just saying, you could hire an IT guy.  From what I can gather, that’s sort of what they do.

But the most compelling argument I’ve read is that the 30 minute difference with the east “feeds a perception that South Australia is out of touch.”  “Feeds” in the sense of “proves.”

Not to oversimplify, but it seems like the key is simply agreeing to do the same thing.  The problem is when everyone wants to do their own thing.  That’s called Anarchy or Being 6.

That’s when Kim Jon Un gave me an idea.  I recognize that’s one of those sentences you never expect to hear, just like “I”m going to grab a beer with Satan” or “President Trump displayed striking intelligence and compassion” or “Dad, would it be okay if I scratched your back after I did the dishes?”  You’re probably thinking that the Kiminator gave me the idea to become a despot where I assume total control over millions of people and spend large amounts of time executing my advisors and watching basketball with Dennis Rodman.

Okay, he gave me two ideas.

Time Zones.  You probably heard that the Unster suddenly declared that North Korea was creating its own time zone.  Pyongyang time.  The move came in defiance of “wicked Japanese Imperialists” who deprived them of standard Korean time for fifty years.  I think Kim Jong teared up when he talked about the billions in lost productivity caused by fatigued North Korean workers underperforming in their jobs.  Or the great North Korean satirists who were too sleepy to write good jokes.  It could even be why Kim Jon doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor.  Or many satirists.

In any case, it’ll be a big blow to all those wicked Japanese time zone map makers. 

But it got me thinking.  I’ve decided to create my own time zone.  Lukertime.  Wherever I am, it’ll be 4:14 in the afternoon.  It’s a good time.  Early dusk in Maine.  Close to quitting time.  Defensible to have a beverage.

Ahhhh.  4:14.

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.