This month I moved into a new house with a blue roof. The beach is across the street and the Catholic Church Monastery of St. Gerard is above my home.
I have one complaint about my new abode. During our first morning together it tried to kill me.
It was a normal start to a normal day. I woke up late, as usual. I hit walls while walking to the bathroom and I fiddled with the temperature of the shower. I noticed the tub was unusually curved. When I groggily turned to grab the shampoo and sing like Ferris Bueller my feet lost their grip and, as usual, gravity was pitiless.
I fell in the tub. I was embarrassed, even though I was alone. I carefully stood up, dressed myself and went to the doctor. I thought I fractured a rib.
After giving me a series of hugs to assess the damage to my rib cage the doctor said, “You probably have a small fracture. Don’t be a pussy and go to work.”
Apparently I like to start a new year by breaking bones. One year ago I broke my toe. January is a dangerous month.
When I told a colleague at work I slipped in the tub, she said when her mother fell in the bath she broke her nose. When I told Richard about my accident, he said his grandfather died from slipping in the tub.
Be careful, reader. Tubs are dangerous.
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Categories:jeffrey-ism, jinxed, kiwi-ism, life
Last week Amber and I grabbed a weekend deal with Air New Zealand. For $190 they provided flights to Christchurch, accommodation and tickets to a polo match, which included lunch and wine.
Besides watching the polo, I:
The polo started before noon and I was nervous. What was the etiquette? Was the match like the scene from Pretty Woman? Are we expected to stomp divots with hookers? Should we bring extra change to give to the poor, as if we were tossing stale bread to pigeons? Polo has that air about it.
When we arrived I snuck inside the marquee for reconnaissance. I registered our names and we were allocated seats for lunch, which was served after the second chukka.
Watching the game was fun because I’m scared of horses. When the polo “ponies” galloped past me, my heart skipped a beat. Horses are big.
During the fourth chukka a player was hit by a polo mallet. After he dismounted, his hands tried to catch the blood falling from his nose, without touching his nose. So I guess it was broken. He forgot his harden up pills at home so he was replaced with another player.
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Last night was the New Zealand premiere of The Lovely Bones. We found a good spot along the red carpet outside the Embassy and waited for Peter Jackson and Susan Sarandon. It was my first movie premiere.
Sometimes living in New Zealand is exciting.
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Categories:jeffrey-ism, kiwi-ism, life, memory
Thanks to Tom and Amber I gamble. I am addicted to poker.
As gambling is legal in New Zealand, I play and lose tournaments at the Lanes, a local ten pin bowling club. I’d like to think my skill is improving, but it’s hard to say. My goal is to win a tournament in the next six months.
Although the game can be frustrating, the poker community is great. Not only are its members diverse, they share a unique vocabulary. For example have you heard of the flop, the turn, the river, a Dolly Parton1, an Anna Kournikova2, a bad beat, a boat and a nut flush?
That’s only a few. During the night you can someone say, “I had pocket nines and flopped a boat. He was on a flush draw.” I love the language.
Besides poker I play ping-pong every week with Andy. Again I don’t win, and when we play I focus on how to lose gracefully. I refuse to spit the dummy!3
Through two months of gaming I now realize I have an addictive personality. First poker, then ping-pong. What’s next? How do I become addicted to something productive?
1. This is when your two starting cards are nine and five, live the movie
2. This is when your two starting cards are ace and king. This is named after her because it looks good but rarely wins
3. A dummy is a pacifier. To spit the dummy means to throw a tantrum
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Categories:jeffrey-ism, kiwi-ism, life, luck
A few things I should mention from the past two months.
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You should buy swag from the Webstock shop. They’re comfy and hip. And who’s modeling the men’s shirts?
- I sold work at the New Zealand Affordable Arts show in Wellington. There were 563 artists in the show and together we made $992,000
- I attended Mark and Jill’s wedding in Ireland last month. The wedding was beautiful and I am so happy they invited me
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Dan visited me for two weeks this month. We flew to Christchurch, hired1 a van, and drove around the South Island. Highlights include hot springs, glaciers, fjords, beaches and sheep
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Amber and I pierced our ears
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It was great seeing Dan. We met at 15. He drove me to school in the morning. His car was a broken station wagon covered in bumper stickers, bonnet to boot.2 What I remember from English class is learning the word “dilatory” and thinking “that’s Dan.” Back then, he was always late.
Especially in the mornings, we usually left late for school. It made me nervous, you know, as we studied in a Catholic high school and God burns kids who are late to class. So on the drive I was usually uneasy.
Then he would stop for a bacon-filled bagel.3 Torture. When we parked I would run to class and he would saunter. He charmed the teachers with piety and respect, so they all adored him, like he was a joy to have in class.
My relationship with the faculty was strictly master/servant. Once my math teacher, Mr. Glennon, rummaged through my bag and took out my gym shoes. He opened the window and chucked them outside during an exam. The class stared. I think he was trying to break the tension. He looked me in the eyes, raised his arm and pointed at the window. He said, “Get your shoes.” The class snickered.
I dove through the window headfirst.
Master, servant.
1. rented
2. hood to trunk
3. I know I’m skinny, but his appetite is impressive. On our trip he ate all the time
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Categories:catholic-ism, guilt, jeffrey-ism, kiwi-ism, life, memory
The setting: A local supermarket.
“Do you want a separate bag for the washing powder?”
“No thanks.”
“What about a separate bag for your meat?”
“No that’s okay.”
She takes the wine bottle, scans it and puts it in a paper bag.
“Am I going to be charged for that?”
“What, the wine bag?”
“Yes.”
“It depends if it’s in a separate bag. Do you want it in a separate bag?”
“No thank you.”
She scan the milk. She looks at the bag of groceries. She looks at me.
“No. One bag. Please just one bag.”
“I don’t think it’s going to fit?”
“Oh it will fit. Make it fit. Pile it on top.”
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Some local grocery stores have started charging for plastic bags. What a guy does to save a nickel!
If they were brown paper bags like in America I wouldn’t mind.
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Categories:jeffrey-ism, kiwi-ism, life, rants