Hey 2009, EAT SHIT

Let's face it, 2009 was one of the worst years of my life, and as far as I'm concerned, it can kiss my white butt!!!!

*exception made for getting NZ residency which was AWESOME.

So suck it, 2009, here's looking forward, with GREAT eagerness, to 2010!

Victory! Wave the Flag!

Shortly after I arrived at work today, I got this IM from Beau:

"I am looking at your photo.... and it is next to... your brand new... NEVER BEEN USED.... permanent work permit!"

Hooray! We're permanent residents of New Zealand!

Finally! It should have taken about 3 months, but between notoriously slow and sketchy Thai officials, medical reviews going back and forth across the country, and a hair-pulling epic waiting period for Beau's school to cough up his contract, it took about 14 months.

Oh well, all's well that ends well. HOORAY!

Inappropriate Behavior: Possum Huntin'

This is one of several posts I had hoped to write during my mourning time in Auckland, but never got around to for obvious emotional reasons. But I don't want to lose it, because these are memories I really want to get DOWN on "paper" before I lose them. As I've mentioned before, I've written blogs on events from my days in Bangkok that I TOTALLY forgot about. That scares me, but makes me grateful that I took the time to record them. So, here we go...

----------------------------------------------------

Possums abound in New Zealand, to the tune of 70 million, in fact (the human population is about 4.5 million). Legally, they're considered a pest, and most people who live in this country and own a gun take great pleasure in shooting them. There are several reasons for this. Like any mammal in this country, the possum was introduced, not native, and so, without any natural predators, has spread across these two islands like the Swine Flu. They eat your gardens, your trees (good luck getting a single fruit from a fruit tree), and damage and eventually kill a lot of native plants and trees. We have a few fruit trees on our property, peach and plum, and I got 2 plums and no peaches last year - the possums had gnawed on them all, and only partially, which is somehow way more frustrating. And they drive my dog batshit crazy.

Even a local school will occasionally hold a possum hunt as a fundraiser.

When you tell a local about possums around your house, like, "Hey, I think I heard a possum last night,..." the first response you always get is, "Did you shoot it?"

The first time I heard one, I was in the bathroom, and I heard the familiar sound of tires on gravel outside the house. I stayed still to make sure someone was actually visiting us (a rare occurrence) so late at night. One small worry about living in the middle of nowhere, is you have a small bit of unease, as if someone could drive up your hidden driveway and slaughter you to death and no one would ever know and your dog and cats would feast on your dead carcass to survive. Or even if someone did get an emergency call, it'd take them over an hour to get there, so we're totally dead anyway.

Or maybe that's just me.

Anyway, the possums,...right. So, I continued brushing my teeth or whatever, and I heard the gravel sound again. And then it stopped. Perplexed, I opened the door and peered out. Nothing. At some point I figured out I was hearing a possum instead of a car. Me armed with a searchlight with the power of the Sun, and Beau with a rifle, we found it perched on top of a tree. Well, we smelled it before we saw it. For a cute fuzzy little thing, they stink like a dead Ton-Ton.

And with a bang that shattered the still of the night and made my own heart freeze for a few beats, the possum was dead. We called up our neighbor, Paula.

"What do you do with a possum?"

- "You kill it."

"No, it's already dead."

- "Great!"

They're actually pretty cute, unlike their haggard-looking American cousins. They're more teddy-bear like with soft fur that is made into expensive socks and mittens. Well, teddy bears with evil red eyes. Oh yeah, and they carry and spread Tuberculosis too! Awesome!

I'm building them up as these bad guys cause well, we shot them. A few of them. Okay, by "we" I mean that One-Shot Beau shot them. My job was to hunt them down. And as much as I hate hunting, and as awkward as I still feel about the whole thing, a part of me, honestly, also liked it. Okay, I said it. Now I feel like a jerk and not the great animal lover I claim to be.

Anyway, it was late at night, and one of those nights with no moon, so when I stepped outside it was total blackness. I could hear the ocean, as usual, but I couldn't see anything. I made a couple of ginger steps down from the deck when suddenly I heard a bunch of thrashing and running about. That sent me back into the house pretty damn quick. Until I realized, of course, that there's really nothing in New Zealand that could attack and hurt me, duh. Well, non-human anyway. I realized I was probably hearing possums. I looked at the clock -- it was midnight.

Tiptoeing into the bedroom, I leaned over Beau.

"Um, Beau? I know you're sleeping..."
- "Whuh!?"
"Well, there's a possum out there, and if you want to stay in bed..."
- "Huh?"
"Possums, outside, in the darkness...But I totally get it if you don't want to..."
- "No, I'm up."

A few minutes later we were dressed and ready. Me once again with my power light and Beau with his shotgun. Or rifle, or whatever. I flipped the switch and began scanning the trees. It was like the searchlight from a helicopter. Seconds later, the light caught a flash of neon red. Yikes. That's how you find them -- their eyes glow a diabolical red, unlike any animal I've ever seen. I guess that makes shooting them easier, if you imagine they've the devil in 'em.

One shot-Beau did it again. It was almost like a magic trick. There was the mind-jarring shot and a half second later the soft *thump* as the body hit the ground. We checked to make sure it was dead (yup, real dead), and grabbing it by the tail, Beau tossed it into the back of his truck. We continued on. There were more. *BAM* *BAM* Two shots, two more dead, two more tossed into the truck. I was relieved he was such a good shot; I think if one were still alive I wouldn't be able to take it. My searchlight fixated on the last one - spotted a good distance off in a tall tree.

"Is it too far?" I asked.
- "Hrmmm..." said Beau.

He raised his gun and shot. There was a great cacophony of breaking twigs and branches as the possum exited the world, downward. We gazed down where it was -- an impossible-to-reach place without some climbing rope and crampons. Hmmm.

Back at the truck, we stared at the bodies.

"How many do you have to skin to make money on them?" I asked.
- "They told me it takes about 14."
"14? That's a lot. How much money do you get for 14"
- "They said about $90."
"That doesn't seem like a lot."
- "So, get after it."
"What?"
- "Skinning them."
"Fuck no!"

I found out later there is some kind of hand machine you drop the dead possum in, turn a crank, and it somehow de-skins them as you wind it like a hand organ. Still.

The weird thing about this, besides some small residual guilt about killing ANYTHING, I don't feel totally bad about killing possums. I still don't believe in hunting for a sport, and am RABIDLY against trophy hunting, but it's good to see the "other side" of the issue, not that there are m(any) animal rights activists crowing for the NZ possum.

Still.

Personal Update - November 2009

As all 2 of you who read my blog know, Beau and I separated at the beginning of June, so about six months ago. We never really stopped talking, and neither one of us were happy with the way things turned out. I won't go into all the gory details, and I doubt much people would care. But just to make sure the progression of this blog make some sense, things are coming back together....slowly...which includes us.

We're in therapy, which is intense and interesting and sometimes hard as hell (what happened to the fun kind of therapy where you get to blab your guts out and told how unfair the world was to you?). The therapist is sympathetic and thorough, yet she doesn't let us get away with anything, which I think is great. I think she's pretty awesome, and besides, how many of them allow you to bring your dog so it can have a playdate with the therapist's dog? It's not always easy to find out some of the stuff you do is really fucked up and needs to change, and that goes for BOTH Beau and I, but I'm pretty proud how both of us are facing it and making a sincere effort.

So, we talk every night on Skype, and nearly every weekend one of us drives to see the other (5 hour journey) or we meet halfway in between where the therapist is and spend the day there. Beau's going to be working at his school in the bush for quite some time yet, and my current job ends either at the end of December or January. There are a few options we're discussing like my moving back to the bush (and Beau...and Tonks and Fern), my staying here and getting a permanent job, or my moving to Tauranga, the city halfway between us, and getting a job there (since we'd like to actually live there permanently someday - the bush is not a long-term option), etc. There are LOTS of variables influencing our decisions, some which we can't force, which makes me crazy, because I hate not knowing the projection of my life, at least in the short-term. And the pro's and con's seem to be evened out no matter what we do. Argh!

In other news, it looks like our permanent residency status will come through in a matter of days or weeks (depending on fast they cash our "migrant levy" check). That's fantastic news for a number of reasons, one big one being that someone will actually be interested in hiring me for a real job instead of trolling for low-paying temp jobs. It also means cheaper and better health care, MUCH cheaper schooling (if I want to go back for teaching), the ability to buy a car/home/expensive furniture or appliances if need be, and a general sense of peace knowing you don't have to apply and pay for work permits every few months. I'm really excited about that. I want to do something big and celebratory for it. In New Zealand, that only means getting completely shit-faced drunk. I don't mind that part, but I need some food and entertainment thrown in too.

:)

It's Not an Illegal Drug if its for Cultural Purposes

Back when Beau and I were doing the "He drives, she reads aloud" thing I loved so much, we read two hysterical books called, The Sex Life of Cannibals and Getting Stoned with Savages by J. Maartin Troost. They were written by a (Dutch-born) American guy and his gf who spent years on obscure Pacific islands. She did life-saving development work. He...got high with locals and occasionally wrote about the surroundings. But in the end, he published a highly-successful series of books. So maybe I should shut-up and think about trying his method of writing instead of my own.

So obviously, a large part of the plot of Getting Stoned with Savages detailed just that. The author easily befriends the locals and they all frequently consume the narcotic of choice: kava. Beau and I had never heard of kava before, and in the book, the author initially described it in Vanuatu as roots of the kava plant chewed up by young boys then spit into shells to be drunk. The first time the author tried it, it tasted awful, but it really fucked him up. So of course, he was hooked.

Later in the book, when they move to Fiji, his only source of kava is markedly less...authentic. Now it is in powder form which the author turns his nose up at though begrudingly still consumes.

As you can imagine, Beau and I were intrigued. We're not drug takers, and Beau's occasional reoccuring smoking habit is a source of powerful tension between us, but the book was so entertaining, and the author made the experience seem so interesting, we always wondered.

One night, I was -HORRORS- out of rice, and had only realized it after I had already started preparing stir fry. I dashed to the car and drove to the nearest "dairy." In New Zealand, there is a dairy on nearly every major corner and always one in the thousands of mini strip malls that dot Auckland. Dairies are basically Ma & Pop shops, a 7-11 if it had a soul. Since the demographic of my neighborhood is heavily Indian/Sri-Lankan, I figured the local dairy would most likely have rice. Yeah, it's a stereotype, so what!

I drove up, and as I got out of my car, I saw a ginormous sign in the window with large black letters: KAVA SOLD HERE.

No way.

I entered the shop and was immediately hit with a plume of Indian spices. A dark, balding man approached me with a big smile. I self-consciously inquired about the kava and his face lit up. He reached over and grabbed a small, white pouch of powder. "Five dollars," he said.

Cheap high.

I then started asking him exactly how the whole process was done. He got excited and came from behind the counter and started motioning me toward the back of the store. "Come on, come on, I'll show you!" he said.

I hesitated. Isn't this the part in every C&I show I've seen, and I've seen a LOT of them, where the woman gets abducted? On the other hand, isn't this also how every one of my crazy adventures across the world has started out? Really friendly people, a language constraint, an interesting experience.

I followed him to the back where there was a curtain obscured a doorway. He pulled it back to reveal a tiny space with only a sink, a large bowl with murky grey liquid and a crate. A very placid, happy-looking man was sitting on the crate. He looked up and serenly greeted me. I felt weird.

There was already a silky-looking cloth tied to the faucet and the man, who now introduced himself as Mohammed, began showing me exactly how to strain the kava from the powder into an awaiting bowl. "Do you want to try some?" he asked.

Sure!

He took a tiny bowl and dipped it in the grey water and handed it to me. I looked up at both of them, "Um, all at once or sip it?"

"Whatever you like," they both shrugged.

I took the biggest swallow I could and made a face. It tasted like gym sneakers.

"Good?" Mohammed asked.

"Not really," I said. "Can I still drive home? Is it safe?"

They laughed. Of course it was safe.

After a few moments, I was starting to lose feeling in my tongue. I mentioned this. The men were unconcerned.

"The more you drink it, the less that will happen," said the man on the crate.

Erm, okay.

Honestly, I didn't feel much at all, maybe just a little.

So, I got my rice, my little bag of kava powder, and waved goodbye to the still beaming Mohammed, who told me he was always open very late so feel free to come whenever I needed something.

I got home and looked at the bag of powder. Being a work night, I wasn't going to have it then. It'd just have to wait til the weekend when I was going to see Beau, and of course, that's another story.

Prairie Dog Days

Life keeps truckin along, nothing too exciting, THANKFULLY. It always seems when you're at your lowest financially and emotionally that shit seems to snowball. I've had a few bad events, but nothing that will wipe me out. It's just forcing me to be even more of a hermit than usual.

The new job is kind of interesting. It's exam time and my main duty is to type them up to Very. Specific. Specifications. Overall, the professors are nice, except for one ol' curmudgeon who I seriously considered strangling and dumping his body in the ocean, but quickly realized that I might lose my temp job, so decided against it.

The best part are my co-workers, who are the most amazingly motley crew in age, ethnicity, and attitude. There's the sour but witty ginger gal; the strangely apathetic yet hard-working young Maori woman; the tiny, silly Filipina; the barely-audible, ethereal-voiced older white Kiwi woman; and the highly-detailed yet easily confused and gullible Vietnamese woman. And me, the smart-ass, goofy American with the ever-changing hair (I just re-dyed it back to brown because I'm so damn broke I couldn't keep up with the blonde highlights -- *sniff*).

In my usual way, I immediately befriended the Filipina and Vietnamese women by speaking their own languages to them, even going so far as to sing the folk song Katakataka in its entirety to the the former. My smart-assiness fit in well with the ginger gal and anyone could get along with Miss Ethereal. The Maori woman, though, is a tough nut to crack.

When I started the job, I had already been carrying a stupid cold for over a week, so figured I wasn't contagious anymore. Still, it was pretty damn embarrassing to be new at a job and find yourself bellowing phlegmy coughing fits every 15 minutes and snorting buckets of snot into dozens and dozens of tissues. Also, I sounded like a 75 year-old Lucky Strikes smoker with lung cancer -- and this is me after feeling much better!

When 2 days later, Miss Ethereal came down with a wicked cold, I felt like a complete fucking jerk. But when you're a temp, sick days aren't an option. I had gone to great pains not to touch anyone and washed my hands with OCD-faithfulness. Still, what an ass.

Another week went by and though I was feeling even better than before, I would still find it hard to breathe when I exerted myself and would get chest pains. The worst part? About 1/2 deaf! My ears were hopelessly clogged. I waited it out for a couple days, then gave in and bought ear drops. God, ear drops SUCK! Squeezing a slimey liquid into your ear and then encouraging it down the canal is one disgusting feeling. Another 3 days went by. Still deaf. I could tell it was becoming annoying to my co-workers, who working in one large room, were used to just shouting to each other. I lived like a prairie dog, occasionally catching something that sounded like my name on the wind and then promptly popping up from chair, head above my cubicle, head swiveling around for the origin. Then I would usually have to walk over to the person so I could actually comprehend what they were saying.

I realized I would have to see a doctor, but was concerned since having no residency, health care costs were a major issue, and I was, as usual, low on cash. My co-workers surprised me in their sweetness -- all of them simultaneously started either calling their own GPs (general practitioner) or searched on their computers for a cheap, local one. Withing minutes, various printouts and notes were being pushed my way, until we found one not too far from my house that charged just $40 for a "casual patient." A few hours later, I was off, squirming about missing the several hours of work from my paycheck, but knowing it was necessary.

The medical centre was like walking into a Cambodian rural clinic. It wasn't exactly...dirty...but had a run-down, dirtiness about it. It was packed with some scary looking people and several screaming babies. Many people did not speak English, which made me think this is where immigrants (like me) came for cheap health care. I was told the doctor was running "a little behind" which made me wince. I was right too -- I would sit in my chair, my clothes soggy from the downpour outside, for well over an hour waiting for my turn.

When I got in, I was greeted by a Filipina who must have been pushing 100 years old. I explained to her about my 2 week+ cold and she immediately launched into a scolding rant while I listened, as best I could, with jaw agape. Who goes to the doctor for a cold unless it gets to this point anyway? After a short exam, she started scolding me again, telling me I was on the verge of developing pneumonia. PNEUMONIA. Great. JUST great. Look, give me the prescription and let me be on my way. Lecturing just pushes my homicidal button.

I finally got out of there and made it to the tiny pharmacy where 2 people I recognized from the waiting room were already there. One girl, talking to the pharmacist, was holding up a heavily-bandaged finger, where I caught part of her conversation: "...and every time I tell someone it happened because I got bit by a pig, they start laughing at me."

I burst out laughing.

The girl whirled around, where next to me, the other woman was chuckling too, though a bit more furtively than I. I laughed harder.

"HOW did you get bit by a pig?" I asked. I mean, back in the bush where I lived and pigs were either raised or hunted wild, I get it. But in Auckland?

Apparently she had been at some sort of petting zoo and got chomped there. Still funny.

So, it's been several days since I started taking my antibiotics and...well, my ears are still plugged, I still occasionally cough, and I still can't exert myself too much. But there's some hope -- every once in awhile when I yawn one ear will pop deliciously open for a brief 1-2 seconds before clomping closed again.

sigh

Queen's Got Boobs

On my lunch break, hurrying to the electronics store to try and get a hands-free set, I found myself stymied. The street was...blocked. Even if I could have pushed my way through the substantial crowd, mostly male, with jaws hanging open and camera phones clicking away, I wouldn't have been able to get across. I saw a warning about it on the news before I left for work this morning, so I should have expected it. Still, you're never quite prepared to stumble upon a meandering march of women's breasts.

There's a big "erotica" expo going on this weekend, so by tradition, today was "Boobs on Bikes," which is a parade down Queen (the main downtown street) featuring porn stars, and other-related sex workers (and all their tranny friends) riding along topless (well, the trannies were modestly covered).

Nudity's a funny thing, especially when you're an American and you've got all the Puritanical pervy prudeness about you. A naked woman is a *gasp* shocking shocking thing! Look, look away! OMG!

But what always interests me, is how the interest so quickly wanes. I get my first glimpse of breasts. And my internal monologue goes something like this:

"OMG, those are those NAKED WOMEN the news warned me about! They're really here. They really are TOPLESS! OMG. There's one! *gasp* There's another! Her boobs are so different *cranes neck to see between the cracks of eager guys lining the street* More boobs! Holy shit, there's that SUPER BOOB woman they talked about! Doesn't her back hurt??? Oooooh that woman's nipples are brown...mine are so pink and stuff... wow.. ...."

--30 seconds--

"... oh, more women. More breasts. Hmm... interesting. Wow, hers are droopy... yeah..."

--30 seconds--

"Hmmm I really need to get across this street."

--10 seconds--

"WTF, enough with the breasts already. I get it. Breasts, all shapes and sizes. I'm over it. My lunch hour is TICKING AWAY. I haven't even bought my lunch yet! Move it, tits on wheels!"

Oh well....I guess they got all the publicity they needed, even if it did inconvenience me for a short while.

Back for Now

I knew I would never stay away forever, but though I have nearly written a blog a couple dozen times, I always stopped part way through it. I guess I just wasn't ready. I even started to try to write pre-break-up blogs, because there were some memories I wanted to write down before I forgot them...because I will forget them, beyond vague imagery and the powerful feelings left behind (I always remember how I felt about something more than the event itself), but they never quite materialized, though I did get quite a bit way through the midnight possum hunt Beau and I had. I'll finish that at some point.

The other reason I didn't post was that my very first job -- that great one I began with such promise and hope -- my first Kiwi position, ended unbelievably horribly, and except for several hyperbolic moments in Bangkok, can easily be said to be the worst work experience of my life (Montana couldn't even compete). And knowing how my work experiences in the past few years have been less than fortunate, I grew tired of once again getting into the whole story -- of explaining why and how. But I can't resist explaining...just a little bit.

I started working at a health clinic as the clinic manager, and entered the job with gusto. Two of my co-workers were great people, and the psychologists there were all friendly and welcoming -- one was even a gregarious American. But the boss turned out to be a complete and total psycho control freak. It started nearly the moment I arrived, though I couldn't really know at the time, when she walked me around the clinic and instructed me just how EXACT the pillows had to be placed on each couch, how I had to straighten up and throw away papers on the shrinks' desks (touch their shit?), how I had to use THIS pad of paper to take notes, and never use that one, etc. I mentally shrugged at the time -- big deal, I can do that -- but didn't know that the woman's control went farther than how many rolls of toilet paper I had in the cabinet or what kind of shirt I was wearing (yes, she critiqued how I dress).

Let's just say, for only the second time in my life (see my Roadhouse experience here), I walked out on a job. Oh, I stayed that last night and tied up EVERY SINGLE loose end, as well as leaving long, type-written notes for everyone in there who might be affected by my departure. Still, it was awful, despite the fact that my leaving was a mutual decision. That day, 2 psychologists came up and hugged me and said, "You're doing the right thing to get out of here." (One has since left, the other only worked one day a week and was already finding it trying).

Since I left in June, 3 psychologists and 4 other staff members have left and I hear that 2 psychologists are now grumbling and another staff person is considering leaving. That's 7 people in 3 months. Oh, and the place was thousands and thousands of dollars in debt when I got there, and the bank was ONLY paying out our salaries, but nothing more, so every time toner ran out or the copy machine stopped working, it was a major disaster. Not to mention that every day I had to field calls from a slew of justifiably angry bill collectors who hadn't been paid for 3-4 months and had had enough.

One good thing came out of it -- I made a fantastic friend there, one I really have a lot in common with. She has since quit (naturally), and we meet up when we can and always have a great time together. So, I guess it wasn't all bad.

That was my introduction to the workforce, and it was rather demoralizing. All the while, I had rent to pay, electricity, which is WAY beyond what I ever paid in the U.S., and all the other usual stuff to keep you alive. My salary at the clinic was a good one, and I figured it wouldn't be long before I found another job and could settle in again.

Shit, I was wrong.

And of course, I was also dealing with the crumbling of my marriage, which had left me with a deep ache alternating between sharp pains and a burning sensation which emanated from my chest and spread outwards. I walked around half-zombie, half mental patient, feeling so fragile, and constantly fighting off the urge to burst out into ugly sobbing at any given moment. Those are the days where you can't imagine getting through the day and you think the pain will never subside enough for you to lead a normal life. But it does, slowly.

I went through a myriad of things during this time, some of it was actually good, for though part of me was wounded and part of me was enraged, another part of me was full of love and wonder, and I used that to keep myself afloat and to clean out some of the cobwebs in my head.

Anyway, now I'm here, in Auckland, still. I really love Auckland -- all the perks of a big city with all the beauty and tranquility of a suburb. What I didn't quite realize was that in this recession (yes, here too), a foreigner with a simple work permit is of no use to a company who is already laying off workers AND who also has to prove to the government that there isn't a single other Kiwi who could do the same job - not easy when your skills lay in the un-skilled realm of administration. As soon as it was learned that I didn't have permanent residency, backs were turned. Still, I applied eagerly -- 30 jobs in about two weeks.

Nothing. Zippo.

I registered with temp agencies. EIGHT of them. Finally, work started trickling in. I worked for the government doing data entry. That was fine, and had some interesting people. I did mock interviews for big corporate company, which was fine as well. Then most recently I got a position with one of the universities, hooray(!), for a whole month to cover a receptionist on leave (you can do that here in New Zealand, go on leave for a month). Everyone in the department was super nice, and the month flew by. The wages sucked (after paying rent and bills, I was down to about $70 NZD/week for food, gas, parking and anything else), but it was just such a wonderful place to be in after my awful clinic manager experience. My last day at the department was this past Friday, and I was sad to say goodbye. They were just the kind of people you love to work with -- kind, funny, close, cat lovers.

And tomorrow I start another assignment, also at the university, though in a different department on a different campus. It's another clerical job with a big emphasis on typing. That's fine. At this point, until I get my permanent residency (hopefully, sometime in October), there isn't much I can do but just keep treading water.

And that hasn't been all my own doing. Part of my staying afloat has to do with my landlord, who lives on the property and has been completely understanding and kind. Many times my rent was late, real late, and he was always fine with it. He said, "I'll never come over and demand the rent. Please, don't worry about anything." Wow...wonderful.

But the truth is, it's really Beau that has thrown me a life preserver (or two). There were a few weeks in between my leaving the health clinic and finding any kind of steady work, and during those lean times it was his paycheck that kept my heat on (it was still winter) and food in my belly. And here it is, about 4 months later, and he hasn't had one paycheck that I haven't pilfered in one way or another. I am now at the point where I am caught up on rent, electricity, and internet bills (yeah, as poor as I am, you don't go without internet unless you want to find my cold, dead, bored body), but I'm still unable to make it completely unsubsidized. It's pathetic, but it's getting better.

I did have one hiccup. One day, out of the blue (after biting an olive with a pit inside), my front tooth came off. Yeah, broke right off. Okay, it wasn't like my real-real tooth, it was one of those veneer things. But it was RIGHT IN THE FRONT!. The NEXT day I had an interview for a REAL job at the university for gobs of money. How can I go in there like a fucking hick? I panicked, but did find a dentist on a Sunday and promised him sex and my first born child to fix it. He did stun me when I pulled out a wad of damp bills and said, "I only have $90, can I give you $50?" and then proceeded to say, No, he was going to take the whole $90. Bastard. An hour later I left with a new tooth and a bill for $650 (minus the $90).

Oh, and as for the job interview, they said they loved me, I was their #2 pick, but they picked someone else cause they'd already worked with her before. GODDAMMIT.

And as for Beau and I. I don't know. We don't know. We had a few good, long talks on the phone, and then we downloaded Skype and talk quite a bit every day. We've visited each other several times, and as usual with Beau, it's always been a great time. I love being around him, always have, that hasn't changed. I love him. But, things are different now. I want it to be better, and frankly, I'm willing to do quite a lot for it, but there are things that have to happen first.

I feel like I've been gone (from him, our dog, and our gorgeous place in the bush) forever, and some things about that have been really good for me, and some things have just sucked. I'm not in intense pain anymore, though I still have my moments. I'm just trying to live my life, which frankly, feels a bit in limbo right now. Without a husband, but not divorced, without a real job, but still working, without any kind of citizenship, but living as a lifetime Kiwi. I'm trying to be patient until these are all resolved.

And I'm not a patient kind of girl.

#1 with a Bullet

Right now I'm at home, at least, what was my home, and in a few hours, will forever cease to be.

It is with tremendous sadness that I say that Beau and I are over. If I'd written this the first day after things went down, I would have a torrent of words to express myself. But now...I just can't do it. A part of me has already changed. And it may not be fun and gossipy of me, but I have to be, (sorry for the corniness) true to myself. Compassion and dignity is important to me right now. And so is love.

So, after being painfully confronted with the end of what has been the center of my universe for the past four years -- this relationship -- I immediately went into survival mode, a familiar mode for me. I escaped to a neighbor's house -- a wonderful woman who has been nothing but kind and compassionate to me. I started looking for jobs, applying to a slew of universities all over the country. I began attending a yoga/meditation class, I started seeing a therapist (god bless New Zealand for free mental health care), and my family doctor put me on anti-depressants and high blood pressure pills -- the same pills I had discarded happily and successfully before we came here over eight months ago. And I immediately began re-reading Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert - a book about the end of a marriage and clawing your way out of depression.

These actions saved my life.

It is for this reason that tomorrow, with my cat Claus, I will be moving to Auckland, the big city five hours away. I've already procured for myself a pretty great (I hope) job at an impressive non-profit. I am going to put my whole heart and soul into that job. Let's face it, it's not like I have much else to do anyway.

I've already found a place to live. They call them "Granny apartments" here. They're usually a separate building from the main house, basically a studio apartment that sits all by itself. It's small, but it's not like I have a lot of stuff or need a lot of room. And as far as Auckland goes, it's cheap. $200 a week rent (yes, they do it by the WEEK). I have a reliable car. As usual since we were living solely on Beau's salary, money is at a critical point, but I will get by.

And so tomorrow, my life starts over. Again. As someone who in the past preferred living alone and enjoyed doing things by herself, now, I'm scared. I don't want to be without him. I don't want to go to the movies, to Border's, to the Asian food courts, alone. A couple days ago I walked around the mall across the street from my new job in Auckland, and I just felt like I was in some kind of silent bubble. Like the world was going on all around me and I wasn't a part of it.

I've lost my best friend, my love, and my future all in one go.

I know I'll be okay, I know I'm a survivor, etc. I know I may love again, and maybe, if I'm very lucky, I will have a baby. The pain will go away. Things will take on a normal hue. Maybe. Right now I can hardly see past my nose. Each day seems so long.

I've been dealing with this for awhile, but am just writing about it now. There have actually been many positive things, even some funny things, that have happened to me since then that I'm grateful for, and thought about blogging about, but haven't exactly been in the mood. I will get to that soon. I don't want to forget them, and if I don't blog about them, I probably will.

For now, I'm staying positive, I'm keeping my heart full of love, and I'm going to take another step forward in my life. Even if it's not the one I want.

Warm Chilly Nights

New Zealand homes are notoriously NON-insulated, so even when the weather is only slightly chilly outside, you can be shivering in your socks inside. It's the strangest thing to be living in such a truly temperate climate, and yet if the weather is just a tiny bit hot or tiny bit cold, you suffer. As soon as I hear the house start creaking and stretching, I rush to fling open windows and the sliding glass door to get as much air in as possible, or it'll start sweltering inside.

And now that we're in Fall and heading toward Winter, it's time to heat the house. And how is our home heated here? With a fireplace. Sort of. It's a cross between a fireplace and a pot-bellied stove, which makes it both charming and inefficient. It's a tiny fireplace too, so it can only hold a couple pieces of wood at a time. But it does the job though, as long as your sitting in the living room. Luckily, we have the snuggliest down comforters and crocheted blankets for the bedroom, so all's good.

Also luckily, we don't lack for wood considering we live deep within them and so, have unlimited access to fuel. After much trolling, Beau finally scored a new chainsaw off of TradeMe which is New Zealand's version of ebay. He was so jazzed to get it, and when it came in the mail and seemed to be of a totally mysterious brand (i.e. NO brand discernible and questionable English in the user's manual, uh oh), he realized he probably got a cheap Chinese import. Ahhh well, so far it does the job, which is to cut wood, so as long as it doesn't fly apart and slice his face off, we're satisfied.

Over the weekend, with Tonks sitting happily in the back of the pick-up, we drove down the road to our neighbor, Paula, (the owner's sister), who had a giant pile of tree branches to be cut for fuel. Beau went to work chainsawing away, and me, with my new leather utility gloves (gift from Beau) started loading the wood into the back of the truck as Tonks was having a playdate with Paula's black lab. I even had a go at the chainsaw myself, but it spooks me, so I gave it back to Beau.

The air was crisp and as usual, the scenery was rugged and beautiful. I just couldn't help but think of the Italian line, "strano il mio destino," or "strange my destiny." Here I am, this total city girl, loading wood into the back of my beat-up "ute" as my pig dog runs around me in the middle of the woods, the middle of nowhere, in New Zealand.

Am I happy out here in nowhere land? For the most part, yes. I'm still dazed and amazed by the view of the ocean I see out my windows and the gorgeous forest around me. I'm writing, another dream come true. And hell, I'm in New Zealand. This is where I want to be.

But I've also been shocked how such solitude, something I always dreamed of (complete with satellite internet and cable), can actually be rather difficult. Many days can go by where Beau is the only other human being I have any contact with, and there are times when he gets home, where I just pounce on him verbally, since I have SO MUCH to tell him. As much as I adore Tonks, and the kitties, Fern and Claus, they're really not enough unless I want to be crazy talk-to-her-pets-like-they're-REALLY-people lady.

We drive into town once or twice a week, but even the closest town is pretty pitiful and you can only frequent the same restaurant or same stores so many times before it stops being that satisfying.

So, strange my destiny, that a woman who has lived in Bangkok and New York is now living in a place that doesn't even have a real postal address. A woman who now takes care of her chickens, and hunts possums (more on that one later). A woman who walks around in gumboots more than she does heels.

The truth is, I'll always be a city girl, I just will. I miss the access to food, classes, entertainment, and jobs. But I'm living in a beautiful little dream right now, and I'm going to do my best to truly appreciate that. You never know when things change. Hell, it's me we're talking about. I could be moving in another month!

Claus von Stauffenberg - Part II

Now that I had plucked the kitty out of the graveyard, my conscience wouldn't let me rest until I got him a vet check-up (in Bangkok, I had nearly killed my adult cat from bringing sick kittens into the house). The vet basically said, "This cat is in good shape; he's been eating somehow. He's about five months old." His right eye was in a near-constant squint, so she gave me some cream for it and sent me home.

Hoping the cat had been sneaking into the SPCA next door, but realizing he could still be somebody's cat, I put him back into the carrier and set off back to the cemetery. I crossed the street to the first house.

Nope, never seen the cat before. "Keep him! Take him home!" she exclaimed.

The next house had a woman and what I believe was her son. He was of the age that he might still be in school, or he might just be a "challenged" adult. I didn't inquire. They eyed the cat, and shook their heads. "Take him home! That's how we got our dog! He just showed up on our doorstep!"

Geez, I guess this "They choose you" thing is for real in the country.

I crossed to the other side of the street, and approached another woman. Nope, never seen him. "Keep him!" she said. Seems there's a theme....

Lastly, I stopped at the corner house, one of these interesting houses you see in New Zealand where people have a big yard and just make it their own. There are usually such a hodge podge of trees (fruit, ornamental, native), various vegetables and flowers growing in random places, a path cut out that might lead to nowhere. I just love them. The place we're staying at now has the same kind of set-up.

It was an old woman, bent over her garden toward the back. Not wanting to enter her yard and spook her, I called from the gate. "Hello, hello, ma'am?" Nothing. I raised my voice. Nothing. I opened her gate and walked slowly toward her, calling out. I was really afraid of scaring what few years she had left out of her. Finally, she looked up and I asked her about the cat.

A half hour went by where she talked a little bit about everything else, including her house which she was selling. She even went into the house and brought out the assessor's letter on her house -- a 3 bedroom with a big yard for only $180,000 (about $95,000 USD). Not bad!

She was such a sweet, old lady, I didn't mind. But eventually, I did need to know if she knew Grey Matter.

She knew him. She had seen him walking around the cemetery for quite some time. "Sometimes he crosses the road and sits on my fence. I talk to him."

Awww.

But he wasn't "hers." She didn't think he was anyone's cat. Okay, I'd had enough, he was coming home with me. Now we just needed a name -- something I approach with great seriousness. I considered Loki, from the naughty Norse god, and a couple other cutsie names. In the meantime, I was calling him things like "Grey Matter" and "Little Man."

Finally, we settled on the name I had picked from the beginning: Claus von Stauffenberg. For those not familiar, he was the German Nazi during WWII who was part of the German resistance, and one of the main players in one of a billion failed assassination attempts on Hitler. And like my kitty, he had only one workable eye.

Also, we had just seen Valkyrie in Auckland about a week before and had been surprised by how much we liked it, especially since we didn't think it had done all that well at the box office. I guess all the press around Tom Cruise's ridiculous antics over the past few years really did hurt him (as they did for Mel Gibson's Apocalypto, which was also a pretty good movie).

AND Valkyrie has a great cast (Bill Nighy! Kenneth Branagh! Tom Wilkinson!). Deliciously tense and occassionally tender, it's a good film, despite the fact you know the ending.

About a week later, after many forced squirts of eye goop into the kitty's eye, he no longer resembled his namesake. But it's just fun to call out "Claus von Stauffenberg" and to see a little grey furball barreling toward you.

I'm sure the real Claus would be deeply honored.

And now he's officially ours. Two SPCA adoptions and one stray, ALL under 2 years old. I feel a little guilty about that, since I believe in trying to get adults, but as they say, "You don't pick them, they pick you."

Argh!

Last night as it got chilly, I slid open the front door and called into the night for Fern, the cat. She's the stereotypically-aloof outside cat. I've given up trying to make her my lap cat. But at least she spends a lot of her unconscious hours inside.

Anyway, I could hear the *jingle jingle* of her collar from the darkness. She leapt up on the deck and trotted into the house. As I greeted her and turned, I noticed something.

"Umm, Beau, has she got something in her mouth?"

Beau looked down since she had reached him in the kitchen. "Yeah," He stood up and walked toward her. "She's got..."

A mouse! OMG.

*plech* she spit it out at Beau's feet. It was teeny and grey. Cute, even. Beau picked it up gingerly by its tail. Two globs of blood remained on the floor where the mouse had been. He walked to the door and chucked it into the night.

I spent the next 10 minutes both laughing and feeling like shit. OMG, she actually brought a mouse into the HOUSE! Hahahaha. OMG, that poor poor mousie! *sniff sniff*

I've started to see rats around the property in the last week, too, since it's starting to get cold. And now with a second cat, and a dufusy "attack it if it moves" dog, this should be an interesting winter.

Animals on Parade - Kingfisher

Big pro on living out in the middle of nowhere: Lots of wildlife

Big con on living out in the middle of nowhere: Lots of wildlife

Okay, this was a big PRO moment. Not an icky "protected" bug or yucky "introduced by Europeans" vermin moment.

Beau came home from work the other day, and Tonks and I went out to greet him as we often do. Through the windshield, he was motioning to me, but the glare made it hard to see. Something was in his hand.....

A birdie!

It was this beautiful little kingfisher. Beau was coming up our driveway, which is impossibly long and improbably steep and had to slam on his breaks and pull the emergency break all the way out to his chin. (It's an old truck, you pull this lever toward your face).

He picked up the birdie, and in some way I still can't quite comprehend, got the truck back up the driveway and up to the house, one hand on the wheel, one hand holding the bird.

We ooh'd and ahh'd it for awhile, but finally decided that it didn't seem to be dying or hurt after all and that maybe we should return it to the bush. So, we walked back down the driveway slowly, looking for an appropriate place of deposit. Problem, our kitty Fern also decided this was a good time to follow us. And since I've already picked up the poor, dead body of a starling she nabbed, I wasn't keen on her getting this one. We shooed her off several times before she finally... shooed.

And just to be cute, as the bird held its mouth open for a bit, Beau stuck his finger gently in the middle and made this face. Just so you don't think we pried its beak open or whatever...
So, the little kingfisher went back into the forest and we went back up the hill. We checked the next day to see if either there was a dead bird or a pile of colorful feathers but it looked like it went on happily with its life.

Our theory is that it must have clonked itself kooky temporarily. The way a kingfisher makes its nest is to fly, full speed, at a log and stab into it with its sharp beak. After doing that a few times, it begins to make a hole to make its nest in. I can't imagine that doesn't occasionally knock the senses right out of a kingfisher or two.

Hopefully, it's out and about and living up to its name.

You Don't Choose Them - They Choose You

I (almost) always enjoy the the country boy-city girl differences between Beau and I. It can be so intriguing how these two kinds of upbringings, which I see as not just about location, but also a general cultural outlook, can differ.

One area they are almost always different in is animals. Country people tend to have a more utilitarian view of animals, and are more pragmatic in how to treat them. Killing them is just a fact of life. City people tend to be focused on animals as not just pets, but as integral members of the family. City people, like me, usually let their pets sleep in bed with them. The greatest dog Beau ever had, the one he keeps talking about to this day (though it died like 20 years ago) slept in the garage.

Recently, another difference came up, and it's one that I've always been rather touched by, even though I still don't totally buy it.

Beau strongly believes that you don't go out and buy a pet. As he's said many times, "A pet chooses you, you don't choose the pet." This is all well and good in the country where strays and dumped puppies can literally show up on your doorstep, but in the city, this just really doesn't happen, at least, rarely, save for the occasional outside cat that will gladly take any tuna you wanna leave out on a dish.

Thus, I truly believe that I choose the animal. I got to the local SPCA, maybe I visit it several times over several weeks. I go from cage to cage. I touch them, pet them, talk to them. And I wait...until I feel a connection. If it doesn't feel right, feel really powerful, I don't adopt.

A couple weeks ago we drove to the SPCA where we had adopted Tonks. She's at 8 months now and STILL hasn't gone into heat. This was a problem because when you adopt from them, they give you a certificate to get the dog fixed for free and ours was just about to expire. Well, the thing is, because Tonks is such an enormous, SPAZ of a puppy, the vet told us to make sure she goes into heat BEFORE we get her fixed, since those mommy hormones will chill her out and mature her a little.

So, we rolled into the SPCA to get our certificate time extended, but it seems we had shown up about an hour early (they have crazy public hours). We had already been driving around and doing errands in the other city for hours, and were eager to get home. Sitting around for an hour was not something Beau was willing to do.

The SPCA is on a piece of land it shares only with a large and ominous cemetary. I'm a big fan of these places, Beau is not.

Then we started to hear it - loud, long cries of a cat. Beau heard it first and started walking toward it, a short distance away from the SPCA and closer to the graveyard.

Then we saw it -- small and grey and a complete fuzzball -- an older kitten. How weird that he was out there. The second we made contact, he superglued himself to us, notably me. Every step I took, he was there, meowing and crying. I began to pet him and he cuddled and nuzzled. Awww man.

Right there was an old wooden loading chute, standing abandoned in the thick grass between the SPCA and the cemetary. Looking through the slats, you could see that three small little "beds" that the cat had made. Awww.

That cat desperately clawed his way up the chute until he reached the top slat which was at the level of my face. He tried to rub and cuddle my face, his purr about the loudest I'd heart. Oh man.

Beau, standing back a few feet said, "We're taking that cat home, aren't we?"

I looked up at him. "I don't know..."

"I don't see how we're getting out of here without that cat," he said.

The truth was, at this moment, I felt enormously conflicted. Beau is CONSTANTLY fighting me about getting more (any) animals. Even if I mention it in jest his face scrunches up like a lemon. "Noooooo," he growls, "NO animals."

But at this moment, Beau's country philosophy kicked in. "J., the animals pick you, you don't pick them. And look at...it..." He paused.

I grabbed the kitten's tail and pulled it upwards. "Oh boy, that's definitely a boy," I said.

"Yeah, he's picked you."

So, I stood there, conflicted. "But, what if he's someone's cat? He looks well-fed. And here we are, right next to the SPCA, maybe he escaped? And his eye..." His right eye was held in a permanent squint. Definitely an issue there.

You see, one of my (small) problems about living out in the country, is that it (allows) makes our cat an outside cat. Now, Fern would be one ANYWAY, that's clear, but it's absolutely necessary for us to have doors and windows open here during the day to allow the breeze to flow in from the sea. The only thing that has kept me from getting a second cat, is knowing it'd be an outside cat. And I want an inside cat. I want a lap cat, a sleep-with-me cat, a watch-TV-with-me cat. I spend a LOT of time alone up here on my beautiful remote paradise (with Beau at work), and I could use another heartbeat in the house.

But a free kitty!

So, five minutes later we were back on the road toward home, the kitten in my arms, doing that annoying cat-squalling-in-car thing. *sigh*

Over the weekend I introduced "Grey Matter" to the house. Tonks was thrilled -- another playmate! The other cat, Fern, was horrified and became nearly feral, only showing her face to grab 3 minutes worth of food before jumping out a window and back into the bush again.

Monday I drove the kitty back to town and went to the SPCA. I decided -- either he belonged with them, and if he didn't, maybe I'd just give him to them. I was still feeling...weird about the whole "choice" process. I was shocked that they didn't even recognize him, considering he lived right outside their gates. I put the cat carrier down and asked if I could look at the other animals. I walked up to the big cat cage, and put my hand against the metal mesh. Instantly, a mewing cat appeared. Seconds later, another and another. In less than a minute, I could make out about 20 cats. And this is a small, small town. Oh, man.

I couldn't possibly give him up when they had all these cats to adopt out. I turned around, thanked the lady, and drove across the street to the vet.

"He's about 5 months old, and someone's probably been feeding him, or he's been sneaking into the SPCA at night. He's hardly feral."

Racked with guilt, I set out on a small quest.

To be continued...

This Gnome Used to Have Some Dignity

It wasn't that long ago that I was walking across our carpark and Tonks starting barking her head off at some of the ground cover along the house. This groundcover is a plant with long, thick green blades...like grass gone B-movie.

She was still going at it, her hackles up, and I peered into the plants and saw something. My heart leapt into my throat. An animal? There are only so many four-legged critters in New Zealand, most of them introduced pests of some sort. This was something little and orange.

Taking a closer look, I saw that it was one of a few gnomes that the owners had decorated their gardens with. It had hair, a cute little straw hat, some sort outerwear, and feet the size of a hobbit. Somehow it had spooked Tonks into believing it was an animate object. Who knows? Maybe it comes alive when your back is turned. I calmed her down and went back inside.

A few days later, the gnome had mysteriously disappeared.

A day after that...I found the straw hat laying in the front yard, on the other side of the house. Bits of his hair were strewn here and there.

*sigh*

I had to assume foul play. I only have one suspect.

I finally found his body....far from his original post or his hat or hair. And here he stands today. Poor thing. It's going to take a lot of therapy to get over this shit.

Big Bang Baby, It's A Crash Crash Crash

I should have just written about this here instead of posting a provocative "status update" on Facebook. The power of Facebook! Instant sympathy with no details needed!

Yesterday I had to drive to the town an hour away to pick up Tonks. Beau and I have been in Auckland for over 4 days, and there are only 2 two-hour windows each day to pick her up which is kind of impossible to make when road tripping by night. I picked her up, she went SUPER spazzo like I expected (she's still a puppy, she's still a puppy), and put her in the back on the car and we were off.

It was a great day. I got to stop at the pottery place I love and buy 2 bowls and one coffee container. We are slowly accumulating all our dishware this way, in two's, like Noah's Ark, but at a bit of a slower pace.

I picked up some groceries, got the good dog food from the vet for Tonks, and even filled up the gas tank -- I felt immensely responsible and headed for home after a couple hours. Tonks had her head hanging joyously out the window.

I had only gotten about 10-15 minutes out of town. I was rounding one of 10,000 corners on this road when the car swerved a little. I immediately tried to correct it, and suddenly it was as if car was alive, and I was driving Christine. The car was violently careening back and forth, while I made desperate attempts to control it. With each jerk, out of the corner of my eye I could see Tonks being flung around the car, letting out a sharp howl each time she hit something. It's amazing how in just a few seconds, so many things fly through your head. It's not like they say -- "everything goes in slow motion" -- it didn't. It was so fast, and I was just barely reacting to it all. But it was like my thoughts were matching the lightning speed of the events around me.

I thought about how bad I felt that Tonks was being thrown around like a rag doll. I thought about how I couldn't believe I couldn't get control of this car. I thought about how stupefied I was that the car had gained a life of its own like this, I saw the embankment coming and thought that I was about to be in a lot of trouble... or worse.

Supposedly, I hit the embankment full on (about 12 feet high) and then spun 360 degrees to hit it head on again. The seatbelt locked in and the airbags deployed. "It's a miracle you didn't flip," said the ambulance worker, "Cars always flip in these situations."

Immediately after the final head-on hit, I stared at the hood, which was now smoking alarmingly. As if I was in a Hollywood movie, all I could think of was, "It's gonna blow! It's gonna blow!" I scrambled to free myself from the car. The seatbelt was stuck. The key (the car was still running) was stuck, the door was stuck. "The car's going to explode!" was all I could think of. I finally got the key to turn off, though it wouldn't come out. I got the seatbelt off and the door open. I turned and grabbed Tonks's leash (still attached to her collar) and led her out with me. I staggered away from the car...my hips and chest aching, my neck and arms burning.

Within seconds, people started appearing. A large Maori man with his eyes like saucers stared at me. It was his large place that I had crashed near. "It was so loud," he kept saying. Others started pulling over, including a woman who had just minutes ago annoyed me in the grocery store. *blush*

The trunk had blown open and all the groceries were strewn across the road, including the expensive bag of dog food. I just stood there, holding onto Tonks's leash, stunned, shocked. "Beau's going to kill me!" I thought over and over. He always thinks that I go too fast and I had no idea why it might have happened except for the fact that maybe I had come around the corner too quickly. It all just seemed too weird though.

A young girl had called the police and ambulance, and they arrived from town rather quickly. There was now quite a crowd, and I was feeling a little awkward. The girl let me use her phone, and for the second time in as many months, I called the school and told the woman who answered, "Get Beau, it's an emergency."

Everyone was very nice, and what was left of my groceries and dog food was picked up off the highway and placed on the side of the road. The onlookers, police, and ambulance workers unanimously stated that the back tire had blown out and been the cause of the accident. I felt immensely relieved by this. I knew I hadn't been going over the speed limit (100kph), but I was wrong. Sort of.

It seems awhile back there had been a 30kph sign posted. About 3 feet in front of my accident sight was the 100kph sign. The 30kph signs are used for construction which is frequent on the highway between our place and town. Usually this involves a group of burly and burnt men standing on the side of the road while we drive by at a crawl, gravel crackling and popping around us. In the area I had been in there were a couple of cones on the side of the road, but no construction. This had annoyed the police officer at the scene who grumbled that construction crews often left their signs around when there was no real work in the area anymore.

I felt Tonks all over her body, pressing into her muscles and feeling her legs, but besides a little shock, she seemed totally fine. I couldn't believe it, especially since she had been thrown around the car like a rag doll.

I was then led into the back of an ambulance by a very nice EMT lady, and Tonks was allowed too! I was quickly checked, and after several "tsk's" at the sight of the seatbelt marks across my neck and chest and some mysterious welts in other places, it was determined that I was merely banged to shit, and had nothing broken. "You're very lucky, you know," she said, "Air bags don't deploy without quite an impact."

I have no memory of the air bag, none at all, though it's shriveled afterbirth is still stuck to the steering wheel.

The police officer took my statement, and after investigating a bit, determined it wasn't my fault *phew* He looked up and chuckled. "They sure clear out fast, don't they?" he said. The onlookers, ambulance workers, fire truck, other police officer, and tow truck (with totaled car attached), had all vanished. It was just the two of us now. He let Tonks and I sit in the back of his air-conditioned car (it's still the edge of summer here) and wait for Beau to arrive.

Then, after what seemed FOREVER, Beau pulled up in our now only remaining vehicle -- a beat-up ol' 1987 truck. Seeing him emerge and walk toward us was a wonderful moment.

I know I'm lucky. My injuries, though painful and colorful, are all superficial. The biggest reason though? Just a few miles further up is when this "coastal highway" does just that -- hugs the coast. The view is impressive, not just for its beauty, but for its drop-off that makes your stomach somersault with just a glance. I had no control over that car whatsoever. If it had been just 5 more minutes into my drive, I'd probably be dead.

This morning I feel like total shit. My entire body is stiff and the few remaining places that didn't hurt yesterday are screaming in protest and pain today. I walk around like I'm wearing a neck brace and do the Playboy bunny squat when trying to pick things up. The most amusing though is literally rolling out of bed and then pushing myself up from all fours until I can stand. My entire torso is too sore to pull myself up from any kind of position.

And so today I putter around the house like an old woman, and soon the call to the insurance agency. Hopefully, I'll have as much luck with them as I did with my crash.

Tonks Sucks, I Suck

My "puppy" Tonks is 7 months old, which Beau keeps reminding me means she's "still a puppy" but I'm pretty much fed up with all the puppy shit and think it's about time it ended. I'll go through about a week of totally loving this dog -- she'll be perfect! Fun, funny, a good companion, obedient, etc. Then the next week, she'll chew the shit out of 5 favorite things, bite the cat's head, and the one that makes me the craziest -- takes off from our "land" and runs off down the highway. Yes, the HIGHWAY! I know it's a 2-lane country highway, but it's mad curvy, sees a very small, but steady stream of traffic, and ... it's a HIGHWAY!

This is a big bummer for me, because when we moved here, one of the best things was that Tonks could just basically live outside all day, running around the hills and different yards of our place. Spending most of the day inside, I'd occasionally see her trotting happily around, tail high and slightly wagging, face looking jolly.

Then we figured out that she had not only figured out how to make it down to the highway (which is actually not all that easy since we're in a dense forest area), but that she had found a dead hawk on the road and... WAS EATING IT! I know! Gross! She brought it back up to the lawn around the house, and there were brown feathers and hawk guts EVERYWHERE. Totally puke-inducing.

So, I started going outside more often, at least once an hour, and I'd call her name to make sure she was around. After a few bellows, she usually would bound up to me at 100 mph, tongue lolling out, all expectant. I'd usually give her a tiny treat for her obedience.

But we let her into the house in the evenings, and just the other day, just around dusk, we let her out to go wee. After about 15 minutes, we noticed that she hadn't returned on her own, as normal. We went outside and starting calling and calling, whistling and whistling. No dog.

"She went to the highway," said Beau. I knew he was right...and I was scared. She'd never NOT come back before, even when it was clear she had been up to no good -- coming back after several calls, drenched, and covered in mud.

So, we got in Beau's shithole pickup and started down the highway looking for her. Beau looked out one side, me the other. We got all the way to our neighbor's place a few kilometers down the road.... no dead dog on the road....phew, but still, no dog.

We turned around and started driving back, and halfway there, she popped out of the bush on the side of the road -- the OTHER side of the road by the ocean, a couple miles from our house. And this all in about 15 minutes!

I was slightly relieved, but a lot more pissed. She jumped into the back of the truck, and we went back, before I killed her on her own.

So, more and more often, she's been spending a lot of time hooked on her long chain. Of course, even though it is rather long, and she is under an enormous car park shelter, she hates it. Better than having her splattered all over the highway, but I still hate keeping her chained up so often.

And how does she show her dissatisfaction? By chewing the FUCK out of anything she can possibly reach. Bags of soil, shoes, garden tools, plants, etc. It's like a little kid -- you try to remove anything you think they can possibly reach, and yet, they still seem to get to stuff...

Yesterday, I came out and was surprised to find Beau's NEW swim fins on the ground, near the guilty-looking dog. They had been hanging in a net bag on a hook up on one of the carport's wooden beams. Tonks had chewed through the net bag, the fins had dropped out, and she had then proceeded to chew on the fins themselves, taking them from shiny and new, to shitty looking. After smacking Tonks on the butt with one of them, and giving her a few choice words, I placed them on top of the car's trunk to get them out of her way. Then I went to feed the chickens.

A couple hours later I had to go to the local medical clinic to get some blood drawn. It's approximately a 20 minute drive to the clinic, and when I had called them from home, they had told me if I had to make it there within the next 30 minutes. Naturally, most of the way there I was behind a slow car, which can be rather maddening when you're the ONLY two cars in the universe, which is what it feels like out here. Finally, we reached a straightaway, and the car sped up a bit, hooray! As I was singing along to my iTunes player and speeding up a little, I looked into my rearview mirror. I saw two bright blue shapes explode into the air behind me, flutter gracefully, and then disappear out of my view.

FUCK!!!

The swim fins. I had totally forgotten they were there. And I had already been on the road for 15 minutes! I immediately pulled over next to an old tractor, then turned around and drove as slowly as I could up and down the road. Didn't see them anywhere. Lots of yellow brush grass on the sides of the road. I looked at the clock -- I had 10 minutes to get to the clinic. I was about 5 minutes away. But I did have a small dilemma -- you leave something like that out here for more than a few minutes, and it's probably going to be happily claimed by someone as their new prize.

Well, I decided I had to go get the blood drawn (immigration thing) and then I'd come back and do a better search. I walked back to the car and saw the old tractor, which I thought was just a piece of junk on the side of the road, pulling onto the road. A man, who looked like he was about 126 years old, was driving.

I got in the car and pulled slowly up beside him. I tried to talk to him through the window, but nothing could be heard above the rattle of the tractor. We pulled over.

"Hi!" I said, "I live here...over at the river...at Dave's place..." I was trying to establish that I wasn't the typical white devil that many Maori can see us as, but as a legitimate local. I was okay!

The man opened his mouth, which appeared to be lacking any teeth, and kind of moaned. Uh oh. It was quite possible that he was a local who only spoke Maori. I immediately went into my ESL-Teacher mode, gesticulating with my specialized language-barrier-beating sign language and talking slowly and clearly. He made a few more moan sounds, and I wasn't sure if he was getting any of it. Then, he began to speak English to me, and the more I talked, the more aware I became that yes, he spoke English, and yes, idiot that I was, probably understood every word I was saying. I told him about the fins.

"Ohhhh, someone probably picked them up..." he said. This almost made me laugh, since like I said, a few more minutes and yeah, I could probably kiss them goodbye.

After a few more awkward moments, I just let him know that if he should see them, they were mine, and I'd be back ASAP. Then, feeling a little more stupid, we both got back on our vehicles and were off.

I returned from the clinic about 20 minutes later, and parked the car on the side of the road. I got out, and started to walk, searching the side, peering into the bush. After I rounded a corner, and the car was out of sight, I started to wonder if leaving the keys in the car, even in the middle of nowhere, was really such a smart idea. Well, must have been, because I continued walking up the road, searching searching.... I got pretty far, and crossed over, to come back. Uh oh, this didn't look good.

Finally though, after passing a couple farms and a perplexed cow, I came upon one dusty fin sitting in the brush. Yes! Okay, the second couldn't be too far off, right? I know I never took Physics, but still. I didn't see it at first, but finally spotted it....down in a ditch about 10 feet down. Of course.

After a humorous descent through brambles and bushes, I reached and retrieved Beau's poor fin.

The ride home was surprisingly without incident.

Daily Routine; Cocksucker!

I was just thinking this morning that I never write those neat, little "update on my life" blogs that most do, and that I should, since although my life isn't terribly exciting, I don't always need to be writing on an issue or peculiar cultural occurrence, especially since the latter don't happen as much as they used to, and I spend the majority of my time alone in the midst of a jungle-forest.

So, here I am about to describe my daily, mundane routine. And then I remembered that cocksucker!

Every morning I get up and after emerging from zombieland, I go out and put on my gumboots. These are the shoes of choice in our area where rain is a common occurrence and there's lots of muck about. Of course, I got myself a fashionable pair, which are now respectfully stained, so I can always look legitimate, but fabulous!

I put those on, and whistle to my dog, Tonks, who spends most of her time outside, as it makes her happy and having her inside usually makes me unhappy, as in the cartoon-like set of muddy tracks she left on the carpet from front to back door the other day *mutter*

But she loves doing stuff with me outside, and accompanies me each morning on this little chore. Typically, we are also accompined by our cat, Fern, who runs around in the background, tempting Tonks to 'come and get her!' This usually ends up with me hollering at Tonks to stop attacking the cat and at Fern to stop antagonizing the dog. Tonks will try to look appropriately ashamed, as she is displaying in this photo from this morning. Fern could care less.

Then, we set off to the "chooks." This is the term for chickens here, which most people have wandering their yard or in a coop like mine. From the owners of our house, we have inherited their own clutch of five hens... and one COCK.

At first the rooster seems rather benign. He's slightly smaller than the hens, who push him around. For example, there's a whole line of silverbeet, a kind of nasty-tasting cross between bok choy, kale, and celery which grows along the outside of the coop. The owners planted it, and showed me how they picked off leaves each day and threw them over the fence of the coop to the chooks, who quickly devour it. I've watched many times as I've done the same -- the hens literally shove the rooster out of the way where he stands, a bit awkwardly, and kind of waits for them to get their fill, or more likely, for them to get distracted by the next piece thrown over the fence.

And the best part -- he's fluffy. He's a fluffy rooster! Cute, right? He's a damn cocksucker, he is.

So next, I'll go around the coop where the chicken feed, a vat of boring, brown pellets, are stored. I scoop up a batch of that in a little white bucket with a handle, and I enter the coop, where by now, the hens are RIGHT at the door waiting for me.

I admit, I'm a little spooked by them. I know they can't really hurt me, but still! They have beaks and those gnarly, nasty-ass claws, and they're rather aggressive. This is one of the main reasons I wear gumboots. That way I don't have to worry about them pecking my feet or something, which they seemed inclined to do when I enter their coop, bucket in hand. All they seem to know is: human = brown pellets, and so they swarm me in an alarming way.

So, I'll throw out their feed, some on the ground to distract them, and the rest goes into a cute little chicken trough which is under cover from rain. I then go to their nests, of which there are four. But they all seem to lay their eggs in the first or second one, almost totally ignoring the third and fourth. I collect the eggs, and the chooks, still totally immersed in their feeding frenzy, have by now ignored my presence.

On this particular day, I was finished and was on my way out of the coop. I was reaching for the door when suddenly *BAM*

That fucking cock had attacked me -- FROM BEHIND! And he must have put his all into it, cause it was quite a thump. If I hadn't been wearing my beloved gumboots and sweatpants, that might actually have been uncomfortable or something.

I wheeled around. That little cocksucker was standing there, all proud of himself. I don't know who he thought he fucking was, or who he thought he was impressing, since the hens hadn't even looked up from their chow session.

Okay, you little prick, BRING IT!

I walked toward him, bucket in my hand. He started coming at me again, but this time I was ready. I swung. *BLAMO* I hit him while he was in the air, claws extended out in front of him like he was in a G-D Filipino cockfight. He came at me again and again, sailing through the air with his nasty claws flying in front of him. I met him each time with the empty bucket. I wasn't out to hurt him, but I was going to make sure he knew I wasn't going to be target practice. After a few smacks with the bucket, he stopped and backed off.

It seemed to work. Since that day, each time I enter the coop to feed the chooks, he gives me a wiiiiiiide berth. That's works just fine for me. He knows who the real boss is now.

Cocksucker.