Our guide/driver, Rob, met us at the airport yesterday—six of us plus luggage and golf clubs. After the briefest of greetings, Rob told us we can’t “root” for anything in Australia. Confused, Cap said, “Can’t I root for my wife?” Rob said, “Exactly”. It took a minute, due to the jet lag but it finally registered that Rob was giving us the nasty slag for sex.
Rob’s going to be alright.
He took us to the Victoria Market insisting we try something he described as, “Jelly filled donuts that ooze”.
Rob’s not a salesman.
We met a fur vendor and learned that kangaroos must be shot with a gun while pigs must be shot with a bow and arrow. I think he knew we were Americans because why else lead with this? We got to pet the kangaroos. That what I’m saying to the grandkids when they ask.
A vendor selling wool sweaters explained that the wool was made from possum fur and I said, “Yes, please”. I’m not usually one to urge buying on impulse but I desperately wanted The Husband to have this sweater so I could say, “I’m petting my possum”.
In related news, I brushed my teeth with Vagisil last night. It was a clue that the jet lag was starting to set in.
Sweet Pea and Spud arrived yesterday as well so we all went to dinner at Duke of Wellington. Puffy eyes from most, red eyes from many, mussed hair from a few and me with my hormone-laced teeth—we made it through the first day.
(Good photos from day 1 don’t really exist from me. I was too busy petting my possum):
😍
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I guess since you can’t “root” for anything in Australia, you might as well brush your teeth with Vagisil, and pet your possum.
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I’ve said that my whole life.
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