Turn the Radio Up, For That Sweet Sound.. that is not your children talkin' crazy

I have been hearing some interesting conversations going on in the backseat of the vehicle lately. I have come to the conclusion that I need to keep that radio cranked.

Exhibit A:

The Princess, "When I'm a grown up lady I'm going to be pregnant eleven times!" Pause. "I'm allowed to marry my brother, right Mom?"

(This is the part where I swerve into oncoming traffic.)

Exhibit B:

The Hurricane, playing with a pair of toy handcuffs (not mine, you dirty beggars), "My girlfriend is pretty so I'm going to put handcuffs on her."

(This is the part where I let go of the wheel and hit the gas.)

Aaaaannnnnddd this is exactly the moment when a mother starts building that lovely wall of Denial.  When her offspring are mostly or fully grown and have been arrested, a mother can say with complete conviction, "Oh, not my baby, my baby would never do something like that! He's always been such a good boy!"

And in other news that boosted my self esteem, The Princess told me not long ago, "Wow, Mommy, your underwear are huge!" Oh really? Well, you go ahead with those eleven pregnancies and we'll have a Big Unders competition. Brat.

I knew it was a classy joint because everyone* was wearing shoes.

So I didn't see it much when we were in Brisbane, but there is something that I see all the time in our little corner of Aus, and I'm surprised by it every time.

People are barefoot. Everywhere.

I'm not talking about little kids being shoeless at the park or the beach. I'm talking about people of all ages going barefoot in the grocery store, at Target, in the mall, in public restrooms (gross), walking down the street, at the gas station, in restaurants. Nobody even bats an eye. It's totally normal for people to wear their dirty feet into a public place.

Sorry, Australia, I am falling in love with you, but that shit is weird.

Josh and I went out for dinner on our last date night, and he took me to a restaurant, called The Hog's Breath (these Aussies and their sense of humor).  From the outside, The Hog's Breath appears to be a bar and grill.  From the inside, it also appears to be a bar and grill, but there are kids everywhere.  Right behind me I can hear the Friday night regulars getting hammered and watching footy, and everywhere else I look there are kids. There was even a kids birthday party.  At a bar. A bar. Honestly, I didn't even know what to make of it.

So, I look around and notice everyone* is wearing shoes.  I was impressed, as it was the first time since moving to our new place that I had been anywhere that everyone old enough to drink alcohol was also wearing shoes.  I guess it's one of those things that you just get used to. All I know is that with all the shit that will kill you for sport around here, I'll feel a lot better with a quarter inch of cheap plasticized rubber between me and the ground.

*Everyone except two small children from the birthday party who spent most of the time running laps around our section. When a man from another table accidentally knocked over his empty beer bottle and it bounced an incredible four times before smashing right next to my (sandal-wearing) feet, their parents put shoes on them.  Safety first, right?

Oh you know, just moved across the world. No biggie.

So my little family has moved to Queensland, Australia, from Alberta, Canada. Can't really get much farther (further?) from home. We've been here a little over a month and so far, so good. Hot Stuff's employers paid for our flights, and also are paying for us to rent furniture until our stuff comes from Canada (which they also paid for). So, basically, his ass belongs to The Man for a minimum of one year.  My ass, however, is (not for rent) currently hanging out in the Rental House, planted on a Rental Couch, watching a Rental TV.  Earlier, I ate some chips from a Rental Bowl with some hummus I got from the Rental Fridge. Later I will go sleep in the Rental Bed tucked into the Rental Linens. Obviously, I am not big on commitment. Also, they don't call them Linens. Aussies call them Manchester - which includes towels, etc. I don't get it?

I have to say, though, that Australia is pretty cool. It's Spring here, which means the weather is GAR-JUSS, JUST GAR-JUSS.  I haven't yet (knock wood) seen anything that can kill me in the blink of an eye. I guess dodging venomous things is more of a Summer game. Guess I'll find out soon enough.

It's always awkward being The New Guy, and it's not like I have an over-abundance of Social Ease, so I tend to leave it up to others to start a conversation.  Thankfully, others have approached me and I've met a couple of nice people.  It helps that I joined a gym and my trainer is being paid to be my friend for half an hour a week. Also, no one has assumed I am American, everyone just asks where I'm from.  One grocery store teller did ask me if I was Irish. I was flattered.

So my days are full of Getting Shit Done and sweeping and mopping and laundry.  When we first moved into the Rental House, I found a roach. I HATE bugs. I am repulsed and disgusted by bugs. The sweeping and mopping makes me feel like I am being proactive in keeping bugs away because bugs probably don't want to be walking across clean floors (yeah, pretty delusional, I know).

Man, I'm pooped tonight. Time to get to bed so I don't miss the awesomeness of Hot Stuff snoring. Also, more mopping and sweeping and laundry to do tomorrow. Sure don't want to be tired for that!