Oz.

First morning in Australia. Here's my bullet list:

• I struggle with remembering to look right when crossing the street. This makes me think that a plane crash will likely never kill me, but I might very well kick the bucket if getting hit by a car that drives on the left side of the road.
• Staying in Rose Bay, a suburb of Sydney. Sitting on the patio feels like being on the Discovery Channel...these birds sound much nicer than our Texas grackles. Oh, and a cockatoo just flew by.
• Sydney is expensive. This most hurts the boyfriend, who hasn't been here in 13 years...times they are a'changin! Also, we picked a stellar time to visit, as the Aussie and US dollar are on parity for maybe the first time in recent memory. Joke's on us, folks!
• Apparently, you drop the end of basically every word and replace it with an "i" or "o." Breakfast is now "brekki," mosquitoes "mozzies" etc.
  
• For the (14 hour) flight from San Fran to Sydney, Phil and I chose the seats in the middle, against the toilets --the ones that *don't* recline -- disproving conventional wisdom that two brains are better than one.

Jet-lag shot me out of bed at 6:00 this morning, and I feel absolutely famished...it's lunchtime back home. Going to rustle up some herbal tea and see if I can't get myself back to sleep.

Also, had a request from the States to investigate the toilet situation south of the Equator: have not been able to determine if they do indeed flush opposite of northern hemisphere toilets, but will keep you all posted....

Free wheelin'

Today is Tuesday, which is automatically good because it's not Monday. Also, I had a morning so splendid, I simply had to write about it:

After getting up for an early walk with my dog, followed by strategically organizing my guest bedroom closet, I enjoyed my peanut-butter-honey-wheat-toast with African roobois herbal tea. I refinanced my car (I'm saving $40 per month!) and mopped my floors. But even better: I had the best bike ride ever....

About a month ago, I made the commitment to forsake my car for the ol' Fuji road bike. My reasoning had several prongs:

• By my calculations, my poor-graduate-student-self could save about $35 a month in gasoline
• I could also cancel my monthly gym membership...doubling my savings
• My shrinking carbon footprint would be the envy of all my bearded, granola friends

I always enjoy my friendly waves to fellow cyclists, fellow fighters against the evil of motor vehicles. There's a camaraderie. Unity. Solidarity in the battle. I've also learned a few lessons:

• Hills are not your friend. My vintage Fuji is uber-cool, looks great but also somewhat impractical for a bike commuter...the bike is so old, the gear shifts are actually at the center of the handlebar stem. Shifting is not graceful, or easy. This is compounded by hills.
• Traffic lights are not your friend. Rather, hills with traffic lights are your worst enemy. By far, stopping at a red light at the crest of a hill (Stassney and I-35, I'm talking to you!) makes me want to weep...just imagine if you will the trickery of pedaling enough to maintain upward momentum, but not too much that you cruise into the intersection and get yourself flattened.

Oh, and a word to non-cyclists with whom I share the road:

• don't shout at me to get on the sidewalk. Seriously, I don't shout at you to get on a treadmill, do I?
• don't honk at me as I struggle uphill. I mean really, throw me a bone here.
• as you fly by me, gently grazing my arm with your side mirror, please keep in mind that my Fuji and I have a combined weight of oh, say, 140 pounds. That's about 1/bazillionth of you and your tank. I don't want to die.
• also, yes, I am allowed to ride in the middle of the lane. In fact, that's where I'm supposed to be so that ass clowns like you can see me better.
• if you're that bothered by bicycle commuters, you should probably move to Dallas.

K-so.

Man, I tell you what: in the words of my friend Stacy May, "bloggin' -like pimpin'- ain't easy." My grad school classes are back in full swing and I suddenly remember what it's like to have a precariously limited social life. Fortunately, for the remainder of my degree I'll pretty much just be taking writing workshops, which I love love love. That also means anytime not spent at work is spent, well, writing. As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

The biggest event of my last ten days of life has been meeting the boyfriend's dad and his girlfriend for the first time...visiting from good ol' foggy London town. OK, not foggy London town at all actually, but England nonetheless. I really wasn't nervous because:

• Parents looooove me
• Grandparents loooove me
• Hell, everyone loves me

We did all the usual Austin stuff: ate shredded rabbit leg and braised pork belly at The Odd Duck, saw the South Congress bats, went wine tasting in Fredericksburg, and had drinks at The Driskill. But most importantly, we introduced them to a culinary delight that they (tragically) have been missing for their seven decades of life on Earth: QUESO.

This was a moment of which I had only dreamed: the opportunity to bring the most greatest food ever to a sweet old English couple. It was like a mission from God. Suddenly, I understood the reason missionaries "go to the savages." This was truly a Genesis moment, like taking two people on a desolate, dark planet and saying, "Let there be Light!" My friends, queso is Gospel to me.

I could hardly contain my excitement as we ordered margaritas, a bowl of queso AND guacamole (I wanted to tell them that in Austin, we like to fold guac into our queso, but not wanting to overwhelm them with too much sheer awesomeness, kept them in separate bowls). I eagerly awaited the reaction to their first taste of heaven. And you know what?

They weren't really blown away.

Strike one for Texas. I'm not really sure how one's toes don't positively tingle at melty, spicy, cheese but I'll blame it on England. Clearly, their taste buds lack the necessary receptors needed to appreciate queso. Or maybe in true English form, they thought it best to downplay their wondrous amazement. Regardless, I basked in the glory of my (low key) conversion, my spreading the good word, and knew that deep down they appreciated -nay, admired!- my good taste and benevolence....

On Earth as it is in Queso. I mean, Heaven.

Amen.

Babysit.

It's Wednesday and I feel fully recovered from an "alter-ego" themed party at my house Saturday night and an 80s dance party downtown on Sunday night. I also spent Saturday evening doing something I haven't done in years: babysitting.

All in all, an easy time because I more or less just put the girls to bed, then worked on a reading assignment for my Literary Journalism class. Actually, the whole experience kind of made me feel like being an 8th grader again. It also made me think of the very worst kids in the entire world that I had the great, reeking misfortune of babysitting in the late 90s....

See, babysitting is always kind of hit or miss. The second Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, I sat for two girls that were literally angels. The very first time I ever sat for them, they each gave me a kiss goodnight, said "I love you" and informed me that they hoped some day I might find my very own unicorn, because I was the best babysitter in the world and God would send me just such a magical creature as my Earthly reward. Even the dog, Winston, was curiously kind and well-mannered: I would open the back door and he would only walk on the tile...never a single paw on carpet or rug. Their parents also had a bad-ass stocked refrigerator and paid me $12 an hour, in cash. Sweet gig.

Of course, this scene starkly contrasts with the big "miss" of my babysitting days: the first Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, was home to three little devils. I have completely blotted their names from my memory (recommendation from my therapist) but the family unit contained one clueless father, one nagging, neurotic, medicated mother, two screeching daughters and a rambunctious son.

Funny enough, the parents had an entire bookcase of parenting books. Quite literally a library of "how not to raise three devils" and yet, they managed this Olympic feat. I remember distinctly this stupid effing M&M jar, which was the kids big treat...after dinner they were each allowed to have as many M&Ms as their age. Seems fair, right? Wrong. The fatal flaw in this holy treat system is overlooking the fact that most toddlers hate fairness. Let's be real: they are the center of their own universe and no one should have as much as them. Case in point: today, I cannot tell you how much I had to convince Tot #1 that she did, indeed, get many, many more strawberries than her little sister. So, giving one child 3 candies, one child 5, and one 8 is just plain stupid, something even my 13-year-old brain was able to understand.

Anyhoosen, one evening after allotting just the right number of candies to each kid, the middle threw a fit, as the older had more candies. In one quick flash, that glass jar was shattered on the ground in a sea of "melts in your mouth, not in your hand." Nothing a little broom couldn't fix. But then came bath time, and this family used these really odd soap flakes. Ya know, because liquid or solid soap would just be too difficult? Whatever. Anyway, the fatal flaw in this soap plan is that soap flakes -unlike liquid or solid soap- have the unique ability to be transformed into a projectile in the hands of a toddler, thanks to its powdery consistency which is easily handled by tiny fingers and I'm sure feels absolutely delightful being launched through the air...ever seen a tyke and a bag of flour? Yeah. So there they are, all three in the bath tub when the oldest takes both hands, and in yet another quick flash, tosses a fistful of soap into the eyes of the littler ones. Screaming. Crying. Burning, red eyes. Pretty sure the little boy threw a punch.

After all this, the parents wrote me a check, paying me $6 an hour. A check. To a 13-year-old. What the crap am I supposed to do with a check? I still had a mason jar for crying out loud, with a piece of paper taped to the outside outlining my savings plan for a palomino horse or Nissan Z car. They might as well have paid me in clothes pins. Useless. Absolutely useless.

Oh, and their refrigerator sucked, too.

Wait for me! Wait for me!

Holy hell, when did it become September? And where did my blog go? Ah, here it is! Yowza. As a writer, my personal commitment was to blog every day for no more than 20 minutes...the challenge was to make my everyday, mundane life something interesting -and sometimes funny- to read about, with very minimal editing/re-writing.

Well, here I am after a two week dry spell and I'd like to explain myself: You see, about two weeks ago is the moment when Nugget #1 decided she had outgrown naps. This means gone are the two hours of midday freedom, where after I clean up the zoo -I mean, house- I can sit down for a tiny sliver of time and free write. Now that time is spent inventing games like "vacuum snacks" and (the not so cleverly named) "scrub the sink" in order to have a productive day before I leave.

The realization of my neglected blog also makes me marvel at where this year has gone. It seems like just yesterday I was running down 6th street, in purple tights, sequin top, and red heels and counting down at The Red Eye Fly...but that's another story.

So why is it that time flies if we're having fun, but also seems to positively soar the older I get? Sure, I'm having plenty of fun but geez, does it really have to be going so quickly?! NPR has a great piece on some different theories for this phenomenon.

Currently, I'm looking into solutions for manipulating time. Thus far, some sort of time machine seems the most logical means to this end. Particularly, I would like to add a few more hours to my day that is already full of interning, working, and night school-- slow down nights, so I can get a full seven hours of sleep, speed up the time it takes to receive my spring tax return, and slow down the fine lines appearing on my forehead.

Unfortunately, I've scoured Craigslist and Ebay and my time machine dream may never be fully realized (although I did find this little ditty, the price is right but it's not really my style)...looks like my best bet is a pesky thing I keep hearing about called "time management" which involves making "to do lists" and "monthly goals" and "five-year-plans." Blah.

Maybe flying by the seat of my pants ain't so bad after all.

Sneaky.

OK, obviously I've lost track of time which means I have no clue how many days of freedom I have had, or how many days I've been nannying, or how many days since I've showered or changed my underwear. That's childcare for ya...

Recently, #1 (the older child) has gotten into the habit of shouting out, "you didn't see that!" whenever I have my back turned. To her, this is positively hilarious and is followed by a shower of giggles. To me, this is a special brand of terrifying. Positively incredibly how a four-year-old with 74 pink barrettes in her hair can cause the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.

Generally, when I hear this exclamation she's actually doing nothing, but still I expect to turn around and see one of the following scenarios playing out:

a) #1 juggling a chainsaw, two tennis balls, and a bottle of vodka

b) #1 and #2 running naked while allowing a wild squirrel into the house

c) the dawn of World War III about to begin at the hands of a four-year-old who is quietly plotting nuclear warfare

This all brings to mind my mother's constant refrain that she had "eyes in the back of her head." Somehow, she managed to catch me doing absolutely everything I was never supposed to do. I mean really, the woman could be downstairs in the master suite, sleeping like a log while I was upstairs in my bedroom, crawling out the window and onto the roof and before I could get my hot little feet back on solid ground, I'd already be bending over for a spanking. Respect.

Truth be told, there were times when I was living in Maastricht...or Bangkok...or Buduburam and still feared those eyes from the back of her head, that would come right over and slap that bottle of Absinthe or other illicit substance right out of my hand.

Come to think of it, I may have found my secret weapon....

Deuce.

Day 41 of my freedom, day 4 on the job. I was greeted by an unpleasant surprise in my living room: poopy explosion #2 (please see post below from my first day on the job, for reference) this time, of the doggy variety. Not sure if it was Schatzi or George, but it had clearly happened during the night, as most of it was dry-crusted to the floor. mmmmhhhhhmmmmm.

I get to the house and the family decides to throw me a wild card: potty training has been brought to a whole new level and we're going entirely sans-diapers! (I added the exclamation point so as to appropriately communicate my extreme excitement!!!!) Wow. Little Bit has a delightful way of announcing she has peed...please note here the use of past tense. As in, I can sit her on the toilet (to no avail) and then five minutes later she's standing in a puddle- and not the kind with tadpoles, mind you.

...Never thought I'd miss poopy diapers, but poopy pants have changed me in the worst way. I mean, it wasn't quite on a Chernobyl level, but some sort of meltdown happened. Seriously, I don't get paid enough to deal with this shit (pun intended). Truly amazing how much waste a 22 pound child can create.

Finally got the girls cleaned up and packed up for a walk to Town Lake. Because the Universe loves a good joke (and also because birds are gross) a pigeon shat on the stroller, which landed squarely on Little Bit's shoe (as an aside: absolutely incredible a bird's ability to hit a small, moving target...I mean, of aaaalllll the cars driving down the four lanes of Barton Springs Road *we* get bombed on the sidewalk in a tiny stroller) and before I could grab a tissue from the diaper bag (no longer an accurate name, now I think of it) she's put her finger in the poo, and proceeded to lick it off.

Ugh. I hate that shit.

4x4.

Day 39 of my freedom, day 2 on the job. The house was a teensy bit chaotic: in addition to the usual milieu of clients, architects, musicians, and neighbors coming through, there was also a guest chef from Durham here to develop new recipes, some painting guys, and another man in a baseball hat that was doing something involving bunches of wires coming out of a hole in the wall.

So. Needed to get the girls out of the house and out of the way. Fortunately, we are within walking distance of lovely Zilker Park, made even lovelier by the fact that currently, there are *not* eighty billion sweaty, dehydrated music fans stomping around while trying to figure out who's on the main stage at 8:00.

This marks my first experience with a stroller in, say, ten years. My god, they've come a long way! Truly, this thing was the way of the future. It was a two-seater, with a braking system so complicated it had to be explained to me by the Mrs. Honestly, I had an easier time navigating a mountainous foreign country in a popsicle of a rental car. This stroller actually had a spare tire. I mean, what the hell am I gonna do with that? Wouldn't I need a pump or inner-tube or patch or something in order to fix a flat? And when did strollers start boasting spare parts? I'm pretty sure that when I was a child, the wheels on my stroller could have caught on fire while rolling over a bed of flaming-hot nails, then flown off after being shot at by a drug kingpin and my mom *still* would have jerry-rigged the damn thing with a piece of bubble gum, some baby wipes, and a freakin' bobby pin. Respect.

That's another thing...what's with kids always wanting you to "go faster!"?? Listen tyke: I'm pushing you uphill, in a stroller that also converts into a single-engine airplane, in strappy sandals (they're cute, yet impractical, a hanger-on from my old life), in 100 degree August heat, while my sunglasses ever-so-slowly slip down my sweaty nose...don't you know that slow and steady wins the race?

Tomorrow we make an "adventure trip" to Walgreen's. Can't wait to see what the car seats are like...

Spoon full of sugar.

Day 38 of my freedom and first day on the new job as: super nanny. In an effort to *not* drown in graduate school debt -because spending $30K on a master's degree which will never actually increase my earning potential is always a good idea- I've taken on the glamorous task of dedicating 30 hours per week to two tiny tots: girls aged 2 and 4 years old.

I know the family through mutual friends and Mom and Dad are textbook Austin. Naturally, they live in 78704 in a house rehab'd in the [seemingly effortless, yet impossibly unattainable] rustic-vintage-meets-modern-industrial style. Mom rides her bike to the office at Whole Foods corporate, while Dad works in his [at-home] design studio with Ray LaMontagne crooning in the background. There's a Prius in the driveway, vegan sausage in the fridge, and oh yeah, they also run a recording studio used by the likes of Sarah Hickman and Ben Kweller. Naturally.

[Knock on wood] but the girls are cooperative and mild. I loved that this afternoon, I didn't have to meet with any clients or sit through sales meetings...instead, I collected rollie-pollies (sp?) and caught up on some class reading. Sure, the lack of adult interaction might leave me just this side of brain dead if I did this for, I dunno 18 years, but it's a sweet gig for now.

Today was uneventful, although I'm sure there'll be plenty of blogging fodder. Although, I was a little bushwhacked when I arrived at 8:00 this morning to a "poopy explosion" that had taken place a mere moments before my arrival. I cannot describe to you the horror of these two words, so I'll let your imagination do the talking. Clean-up involved a lot of bleach. And not even organic, fair-trade, dolphin-free kind. Like, real Clorox. It was definitely a "situation."

Other than bug-collecting, I realize one great joy of this job will be that I essentially live in a universe of Casual Friday. No strict dress code! Love it! Especially considering my corporate job was so heinously corporate, that there was no such thing as Casual Friday...the Suits saw denim as nothing short of an abomination against Christ himself.

Actually, I take that back. There probably should be a dress code for nannies: as I left the house [on my way straight to class for the evening] I realized I was covered in peanut butter, purple chalk, yellow finger paint, snot, baby powder, and an unidentifiable substance that was likely radioactive...yeah, I should probably go ahead and invest in a haz-mat suit now.

Nuckin' futs.

Day 35 of my freedom and I find myself at home, waiting for a potential roommate to show up. Last night after class, I interviewed with a family for a nanny position and next week, I'll be interviewing for internships. Seems like we spend an awful lot of time jumping through hoops...always screening. impressing. trying too hard. I mean seriously, we all know that even in the romantic world, the first couple dates aren't really "dates" in the sense that you'd like to enjoy yourself while also forming a connection with another human being; but more "dates" in the sense that they're a thinly veiled screening process in an effort to fill an opening (some may call this a deep, emotional void) in your life.

But here's why I love Craigslist: it does half the work for you! Call me shallow/conceited/lofty/bitchy but if you cannot properly punctuate a sentence, or have an annoying habit of *constantly* splitting infinitives, I don't want you under my roof. I find e-mail is a nice, detached way of weeding out potential renters. Case in point: I received interest from a young lady whose 900 word [first contact] message I will condense and regurgitate here, with my bracketed, [literally] colorful commentary:

Hi! My name is Crazy (typo, but it stays...ok, ok I did that on purpose) I'm 18 years young (young doesn't even begin to describe you, toots) and I graduated this year from McCallum High School. Yay me! (thank you for at least using/spelling the proper form of 'yay' as opposed to 'yeah') It was a rough 4 years, but I got through it. Finally.(hmmm nice use of foreshadowing here. Your pointedly vague use of "rough" sends little shivers up my spine. What does it all mean??) I'm an only child (did you really scare your parents into stopping reproduction?), so having a roommate will be interesting.. lol. (your tone says 'laid-back' but your uneasy ellipsis with 'lol' says 'emotionally wheels-off')

My past: (I like the subtitled chapters. Nice touch. Also means you have too much time on your hands)

During my freshman year in highschool, I began having lots of trouble. (Again, vague use of "trouble" frightens me). I would skip school, cry out of nowhere, have panic attacks, etc. (Ahh, there it is! Some real character exposition. Love it!) Finally, I was admitted into the Shoal Creek Psychiatric Hospital for self-harm. The psychiatrist later diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder, and I was put on medication. I haven't been back since, and I've been stable (I'll go ahead and assume you use the term 'stable' loosely). Sure, I still have my depression moments and mood swings, but that's all part of being a hormonal teenage girl (really? I thought it was boys, breaking curfew, more boys, drinking Boone's Farm, and lots more boys...I like my version better). By the way, I'm NOT psycho. (No, no of course not!) Bipolar Disorder is a chemical imbalance in the brain. No, I'm not going to come after you in the middle of the night with a knife (I'm sure you prefer a chainsaw). I'm a sweetheart, trust me. (Again, experiencing extreme discomfort at closing this sentence with "trust me." Pretty sure those are the last words you hear when waking up in a basement outside Guadalajara, in a bathtub of ice, with your kidneys neatly packaged in a Zip-Loc bag next to the hairdryer on the sink).

My current situation:

So after graduating high school, I decided to take a year off. Now I work full-time at a pet store, which I love because I get to see and pet animals (do they not smell the crazy on you? I thought animals could do that.) Oh yeah, last week I picked up a German Shepherd puppy off the streets (Because this seems like just the kind of responsibility you can handle at the age of 18).The vet estimates that she is going to be between 80 and 90 pounds. She is already displaying protectiveness signs. And she loves to chew on her toys. (Basically, she will kill you).
Another thing.. my mom and I fight constantly, and my dad doesn't do anything about it, so I'm always feeling kind of helpless (Wow! This just keeps getting better and better! Alright, alright I do kind of feel for you here. Kind of.). I want someone who I can get along with and just will be there for me and will be like a best friend and will talk to me and just let me vent when I need to (Well, I need someone that can just be a responsible grown-up, not flush tampons down the toilet, or set up a meth lab in the closet. How about we both just shit in one hand, wish in the other, and see which one fills up faster, k?).

Anyway, that's currently where I stand right now ('Anyway'? That's it? Whew! Thought I might really have a crazy person for a second there!).

Hope to hear from you soon!

That's the other thing I love about Craigslist: while you might not ever find someone to rent out your third bedroom, at least the shit's entertaining!