#I think instead of running he hops like a real kangaroo

[ghostzafara]

[survivorwildwest]

Episode 9 - I’m My Own Girl

Returning from Tribal Council Russell ties his horse to the saloon and turns back toward his tribemates to say, “So, everyone voted for Todd but me?”

“That was the plan from the very beginning, Russell,” Kass reminds him. “I don’t know why you had to go trying to screw things up.”

“I’m not screwing anything up!”

“Clearly,” Kass smirks.

Russell storms off to the inn above the saloon. The rest of the tribe chuckles as he leaves.

Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, a kangaroo rat’s eyes glow as she scurries around.

The next morning, the tribe reads the tree mail. Colby clears his throat as the residents of their small ghost town gather round.

“gun,” Ben finishes.

When their shadows are their smallest, the Cheynne tribe finds Jeff behind the saloon. Painted on the wall is a silhouette of a cowboy on horseback. The horse is grey with the number one printed on it. The cowboy is black with the number two printed on it. The cowboy’s head is yellow with the number three. The tan hat is worth four points and the cowboy’s red heart is five. Jeff tells them they will split into two randomly selected teams. He places two six-shooters, one with a teal grip and one with an orange grip, on the wooden stand in front of the silhouette. “Each person has one shot at the cowboy and his horse. The team who scores highest, wins reward. A breakfast buffet with sausage and eggs and bacon, biscuits and gravy, pancakes and syrup and of course, beans.”

Everyone cheers, especially when the beans are mentioned. The team wearing teal is Russell, Wardog, Ken, Bi, and Ben. The team wearing orange is Michaela, Jerri, Colby, Kass, and Wendy. Lauren draws neither and sits out.

Russell fires first. He takes aim and hits the cowboy in the leg. A teal gel is left where the bullet strikes, giving them two points. Michaela takes the first shot for the orange team. Her orange bullet explodes on the cowboys head, giving them a 3-2 lead. Wardog takes a shot and hits between the horse’s legs and its chest, giving them zero points. It’s 3-2 as Jerri takes her shot and hits the cowboy’s chest. The score 5-2 as Ken takes a deep breath, steadies his arm, knowing exactly where he’s aiming, he fires and hits the hat, giving the teal team a 6-5 lead. Colby fires and just barely knicks the cowboy’s leg. The score is now 7-6. Ben lines up his shot and everyone gets quiet. He pulls the trigger and the bullet hits the edge of the cowboy’s heart, giving them five more points. The score is 11-7 when Kass takes her shot. She hits the cowboy in his ribs, giving them two more points. Wendy takes her shot and hits the cowboy in the leg, covering Russel’s shot. The score is 11-11. Bi picks up the gun, lines up her shot and asks Jeff, “What do I need to win?”

“One point.”

“Oh, easy.” She fires. Her bullet explodes in the exact center of the cowboy’s heart, winning reward for her team.

“But five will do,” Jeff continues.

“Killher Bee!” Wardog yells as their team celebrates.

Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, a swallowtail floats through the dry air with grace.

The teal team find themselves at a long table set up in a small cave. A pile of pancakes wider than any one of them sits as a centerpiece within a mountain of scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon. A ring of biscuits lines the mountain. The peak of the mountain is decorated with deviled eggs, each dashed with just enough paprika to give the ensemble that pop of red any good Cave Breakfast requires. At the end of the long table is a plate of beans on a warmer. The five castaways take their seats. Russell looks over his compatriots, tucks his napkin into his collar and folds his hands in his lap before touching his food.

Wardog makes an argument against Kass again, but it doesn’t gain much traction. Then Russell speaks up, “I’m glad to have you all here. I’m sure you all know my game. And I’m sure you all know how well that’s done me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since Brandon left. Who I am, who he thought I was, who I want to be. I am turning a new leaf. I am becoming a new man. I want to play an honest game.”

“So, what are you suggesting,” Bi asks.

“The five of us come together. Ken can bring in Lauren and then we have the upperhand for the rest of the game.”

“Who do you want to take out, Russell,” Ben asks.

“Wendy. She has proved to me time and time again, she is not trustworthy. I want to play a game based on trust. I know you two are close, Wardog, but you gotta think about your future in this game and Wendy ain’t it.”

“That works for me,” Bi says, licking deviled egg yolk from her thumb.

“Ken, can you get Lauren, Ken” Russell asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” he says.

“Ben?”

“I’m in,” he says.

“Wardog?”

“I hate to go against Wendy, but I’m in,” he admits.

Russell says in a talking head, “And they say Survivor’s hard.”

Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, a goldfinch sits atop a willow tree.

Back in town, Lauren, Kass, Michaela, Jerri, Colby, and Wendy sit around the fire and boil some beans.

“Do you guys want to talk about who to target,” Kass asks.

“Is anyone close with Bi,” Colby asks.

“I’d rather see Wardog go to be honest,” Lauren says, “I know he’s itching to make a move. He’s going to do something that blows up everyone’s game soon. I promise you.”

“I’m good with that,” Michaela says and everyone around the fire comes to an easy consensus.

Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, a scorpion hides between two rocks.

After the beans they considered lunch, Kass and Jerri wash dishes in the sink in the inn’s kitchen when Wendy and Lauren walk in. They sit at the rickety wooden table in the corner.

“So, you two are really on board with voting Wardog,” Jerri asks as she looks into the pot she’s drying.

“Absolutely,” Lauren says.

“I’ve wanted him out since I saw he was here,” Wendy says.

“I’m surprised you three don’t have some Edge of Extinction alliance,” Kass says while she rinses the dishes in the sink.

“No way,” Wendy assures her through a hiccup.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Jerri says.

“What about your friend, Lauren,” Kass asks, passing a freshly cleaned bowl to Jerri to dry.

“We’re just friends. That’s it.”

Jerri turns around and raises a single eyebrow to Lauren then looks back to Kass. They share a snicker before returning to dishwashing.

“So, when are you gonna cut him loose,” Kass asks Lauren.

“Well, I think the four of us would be a strong final four, so I could use him up until five?”

“I think Final Five is a good time for the Ken & Barbie story to end.”

“He actually doesn’t like to be called that,” Lauren says.

“What,” Jerri says.

“Isn’t that his name,” Wendy asks.

“Yeah, no but like the barbie doll, he doesn’t like that.” Lauren explains.

“Okay,” Jerri says as she dries the last dish.

“Oh my god,” Lauren says in a talking head, “That was so stressful. I felt like a teenager bringing a boy home for the first time.”

Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, a cottontail rabbit hops up to and munches on a plant under a log.

The winning team returns to camp with enough leftovers for the rest of the tribe to eat for the day. Russell immediately finds Jerri and the two head to The Oasis for water.

“What’s going on,” Russell asks.

“We’re targeting Wardog.”

“Wardog? Why?”

“It’s what Lauren and Wendy wanted.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Russell says, scratching his head.

“Who did you target?”

Russell looks up at her, apologizing with his eyes before mouthing, “Wendy.”

“No, why?!”

“It was the consensus.”

“Fuck,” she says, massaging her temples, “Okay. Fine.”

“Really, you’re fine with it?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s a massive wrench in my plan, but it’s fine.”

“I thought you’d be more mad. Isn’t that your girl?”

“I’m Jerri Manthey,” she says with a grin, “I’m my own girl.”

Russell smiles a real big, proud smile back to her.

Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, the shadows of rocks grow and shrink as the sun rises and sets.

Michaela finds Ken in the inn. He’s laying down on a cot after a hard day of eating and chatting on the reward.

��How was the reward,” she asks.

“Oh, It was great,” he says, “Oh my god. I think I ate too much.”

“Where’s everyone’s head at?”

“Looks like Wendy’s the target. I’m supposed to get Lauren to come over to our side.”

“Cause y’all are shacking up?”

“Shacking up?”

“Or whatever you’re calling it.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Right. Sure. I know y’all are just waiting for the opportunity to take Ben out so you can get this room to yourselves.”

“I mean, it’s not our number one priority…”

“But...”

“It’s been brought up.”

“Ha! Y’all are nasty.”

Ken just shrugs his shoulders.

Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, a coyote howls as it crosses a path left by a roadrunner.

Wardog finds Lauren sitting with her horse at the fire just before the sunset. She holds the reins in her fist beside her.

“Hey, Lauren,” Wardog says as he sits next to her, “I gotta talk to you.”

“Yes, Wardog?”

“I know you me and Wendy were supposed to be working together but,”

“What did you do Wardog?”

“Wendy’s the target.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since the reward, we all got together and decided to vote Wendy because she’s untrustworthy.”

“What?”

“That’s what Russell said.”

“Why are you listening to Russell? You know who he is.”

“No, he said he’s turned a new leaf.”

“Wardog. Come on. Don’t be stupid.”

“So, who are you voting for?”

“Russell! Obviously,” Lauren says, rolling her eyes and looking back at the fire.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Wardog says as he runs the plan through his head.

Ken approaches on his horse and reaches a hand to Lauren, “m’lady,” he says as she takes his hand and climbs atop her horse. The two ride off as the sun descends and the sky turns from blue to orange to pink and violet. Far from ear shot, as the stars become visible, Lauren tells Ken, “I know we agreed to not talk about the game on these walks, but I have to tell you, I can’t vote for Wendy.”

“So, who are we targeting instead?”

“Wardog.”

“What’s Wardog ever done?”

“Nothing. That’s my point. He’s going to do something soon if someone doesn’t take him out.”

“What if he wins immunity.”

“Have you seen Wardog in challenges? He’s not winning immunity.”

Somewhere under the Mojave Night Sky, a ringtail cat stands alert.

The next morning, Colby rouses the tribe and gathers them around the fire to read them the day’s tree mail.

At high noon, Cheyenne rides their horses out to the challenge where they meet Jeff. He stands in front of 11 balance beams. 

“For today’s challenge,” he explains, “each of you will stand on a beam while balancing a ball as it races around a ring. If your ball drops or you drop, you’re out. Last person standing wins immunity, and, as you have all informed me, has exclusive access to the immunity suite.” 

He holds up the rusty old key and tucks it into a pocket inside the bandolier.

Everyone takes their place and begins spinning the ball. Once everyone finds their rhythm, Jeff announces the challenge has begun. Almost immediately, the ball clips Wardog’s finger and he falls off the beam. Michaela drops soon after, then Kass, then Ben, all within a few seconds of each other. Russell loses his rhythm for a moment but is able to gain it back for a few moments before succumbing to the sound of wood scraping against wood. Colby loses focus and drops his ball. Ken, Lauren, Bi, Wendy and Jerri remain. Ken’s ball increases in speed with each rotation. Next to him is Lauren, who instinctively matches his speed. It eventually becomes too fast for either of them to control and they drop out one right after the other. Jerri, Wendy and Bi remain. All three women have found a concentrated rhythm.

Jeff announces they must move to the next smallest section of the beam. Once they do, Jerri easily finds her rhythm again, followed by Wendy. Bi is unable to find her speed again and drops out. Jeff notices Russell grinning.

“What are you so happy about,” Jeff asks.

“It’s both my girls up there. I’m good either way.”

“You don’t think you’d be good if Bi won?”

“Let’s just say, I’m more good with one of them two winning. I know they got me.”

“That’s right, Russ,” Jerri says, not breaking her concentration, “We got you.”

Wendy loses her concentration after a high pitched tic, forcing her ball to the ground.

“Jerri wins immunity,” Jeff yells.

Jerri quickly drops her ball to check on Wendy. Wendy tells her she’s fine. Jerri kisses the top of her head and cuddles her under her shoulder.

In a talking head, Wardog says, “I gotta choose between Wendy and Russell. I’ve played with Wendy but that’s the past. I gotta worry about my own future. Wendy’s my past and Russell’s my future.”

After the challenge, everyone congratulates Jerri on her win as she hangs the bandolier over the bar in the saloon. At the bar, Colby, Ken and Jerri all take a seat. Jerri spins around, tips her hat back and asks in an exaggerated drawl, “What can I get y’all?”

“Y’all got any sarsaparilla,” Colby asks, mirroring her charm.

“Darn tootin we do!”

“What are you guys doing,” Michaela asks with disdain as she takes a seat next to Ken.

Jerri and Colby giggle together like teenagers while Jerri pours each of them a whiskey. As she passes each of them a tumblr of the brown stuff, she asks, “So, it’s Wardog tonight, yeah?”

“I don’t know, Jerri,” Michaela says, “I’ve thought about it a lot and I think we’re pissing off less people with Wendy.”

“But, who cares about Wardog?”

“It’s just not the time,” Ken says.

“We can take him out at any time,” Michaela assures her.

“Colby,” Jerri asks for support.

“I just don’t think it’s worth the effort to save her,” he says.

“Fine,” Jerri mutters.

She downs her drink and walks upstairs. In one of the bedrooms, Jerri finds Kass resting. Jerri falls back on the creaky mattress. Her greying brown curls fall over the pillow as she groans.

“They’re targeting Wendy,” she says with her face in her hands.

“Do they have the numbers?”

“I think so.”

“Well that really throws a wrench in our plan, huh?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“What is Lauren thinking?”

“She doesn’t want to vote for Wendy.”

“You don’t have an idol for her?”

“No, I don’t...”

“Well, that is unfortunate.”

Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, a spider jumps over a crevice between two rocks as it builds its web.

As the sky takes on an orange hue, Ken and Lauren work on the fire when Jerri approaches them.

“Hey guys,” she says.

“What’s up Jerri,” Lauren says.

“Hey Jerri,” Ken says.

“So, you know it’s Wendy?”

“I heard.”

“You’re definitely voting for Wendy, Lauren?”

“I mean, what’s my vote for Wardog gonna do?”

Jerri gets up from the fire and wanders through the town until she finds Wendy doing the same.

“Wendy,” Jerri calls over.

“Jerri, hi.”

“Who are you voting for tonight?”

“Wardog, isn’t that the plan?”

“No, listen to me. Don’t waste your vote on Wardog, unless you want to. You have an opportunity to take out whoever you want in this game with your vote.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re gonna need to play your idol.”

“I don’t have an idol.”

“I know you do.”

“How do you know?”

“Because when I asked you if Hannah had an idol, your eyes darted around the same way they did just now. The votes are coming your way. All of them.”

“What do I do?”

“Play your idol. Take out whoever you want.”

“Whoever I want?”

“Whoever you want.”

Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, a leopard lizard rests on the side of a rock formation.

With the moon now lighting the desert town, the tribe rides out to Tribal Council. Jeff takes his usual seat at the head of fire while the remaining members of Cheyenne gather around. Todd and Elizabeth ride in on two gallant and gold akhal-tekes. The horses stand across from each other, as their riders preside over tribal council.

“Ben,” Jeff begins, “you mentioned at last tribal council, you felt there was a target on your back for having won before. Do you still feel that’s true?”

“Oh, yessir. Of course. I imagine there will always be a target on my back.”

“Do you agree, Michaela, will there always be a target on Ben’s back?”

“I don’t think so. If we take out Ben, then do we take out Colby and Russ next because they did the next best? Nah, you know that’s not how this game works.”

“Colby, do you feel targeted?”

“Well, sure. I’ve done well in Survivor, why shouldn’t I be considered a threat, but this game’s evolved. It’s so much more than building strong relationships with people. I don’t know that I can navigate this new advantage-heavy game.”

“Russell, how do you feel you fare in this next evolution of Survivor?”

“Well, clearly I’m still a threat or else Michaela wouldn’ta said my name!”

“I think at this point, Jeff,” Kass says, “It’s fair to say everyone’s a threat.”

“That’s the thing about Survivor,” Bi says, “Anyone can win.”

“Can anyone win, Survivor, Ken?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“Lauren, do you believe anyone can win Survivor?”

“With the right amount of tact and luck, I think anyone could win Survivor, yes.”

“Wendy, do you think you could win Survivor?”

“Oh, I really hope so, Jeff,” Wendy says with a smile wider than her cheeks should allow.

“Alright, with that, it is time to vote. Wardog, you’re up first.”

Wardog makes his way from the campfire into the cave and the voting booth inside. He holds up a begrudging vote for Wendy and just says, “Sorry.” Colby makes his vote. He’s seen writing a “W” before fading to Russell. He proudly writes Wendy’s name, holds it just over the urn, leans his elbows on the stand, and says, ”You never should have turned your back on me.”

Wendy makes her way to the voting booth and contemplates her vote for a good while. Jeff turns around and peers into the cave after a few minutes to see Wendy briskly walking back to her seat.

“I’ll go tally the votes.” Jeff walks into the cave and returns with the urn full of votes. He sets it upon the rock he’s stood behind and says, “If anyone has a hidden immunity idol and you would like to play it, now is the time to do so.”

Wendy looks over at Jerri who’s staring back with her eyebrows raised as high as they’ll go.

“Jeff,” Wendy exclaims, getting up from her seat. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her gold nugget of an immunity idol. “During the challenge, Russell said that me and Jerri were his girls and I just wanted to tell him,” she turns to Russell before handing the idol to Jeff, “I’m my own girl.” She turns back to Jeff, “I’m playing this for myself.”

Wendy returns to her seat, looks to a beaming Jerri, then to Russell, who’s winning a staring contest with the sand. 

Jeff tells them, “This is a hidden immunity idol. Any votes cast for Wendy will not count. First vote: Wendy. Will not count.”

“Wendy. Will not count. Wendy. Will not count. Wendy. Will not count. Wendy. Will not count. Wendy. Will not count. Wendy. Will not count. Wendy. Will not count. Wendy. Will not count. Wendy. Will not count. Tenth person voted out of Survivor: Wild West and third member of our Jury... Russell.”

The jury and the rest of Cheyenne gasp. Jerri reaches over to Wendy and rubs her shoulder. Wendy smiles a humble, quietly proud smile. Russell grabs his torch, shaking his head, and makes his way to Jeff. His torch is snuffed and he walks away into the night with his small grey horse following close behind him. Jeff gets back on his clydesdale and rides off with Elizabeth and Todd.

“Player got played,” Russell says in his final talking head, “Gotta give her that. I ain’t mad. Great job, Wendy Girl.”

Read Episode 10 here

[thisolddag]

She’ll Be Right.

Six weeks on my own have taken their toll. For the first time in years, I board an airplane without the accompanying belief that I am going to die on it. 

In fact, I’m a bit blasé boarding - I still say my three prayers (two in Polish, one in English) I still step onto the plane right foot first - but in general I’m exhausted and feel only relief when the doors finally close. It’s ironic, of course, my newfound air travel nonchalance - as this isn’t going to be just some ordinary flight; this is going to be fourteen hours across the vast and deep and dark Pacific, just the kids and me. If there was a such a thing as an anti-bucket list, just days ago, getting on this particular Boeing 777 would have been at the very top. But there I was - row A, seat 6, listening to the Ashanti/Ja Rule version of Helpless from the hit Broadway musical Hamilton, on repeat - and not shaking with fear that as soon as we took off, or somewhere over that bottomless body of water, or perhaps right at landing, our plane would suddenly and mysteriously plummet to its doom. I feel tired, yes, but not anxious. Not the kind of anxious I’m used to anyway, the fucking hell this is the end terror that grips me whenever the captain turns on the seatbelt sign. I’m ok when we lift off the ground. I’m ok when we reach cruising altitude. I’m ok when I stand up, lean over my seat and check on my boys - each nestled in a futuristic purple pod, one directly behind and in front of me - to see they are totes living the dream with their big screen TVs and their cubby holes galore and their ambient lighting. I sit back down and look out the window into darkness. We are going to be fine. We are going to Australia.

Here are the things I think of when I think of Australia before I get to Australia. Koala bears, that opera house, Steve Irwin, ‘the outback’, manly men, surfing, sharks, dingoes eating babies, Aboriginals, and Muriel’s Wedding. The phrase “Island of Misfits” comes to mind too, but where and how, who knows. Most importantly, I think of how Australia is not a real place, but a faraway land written about in travel articles, and occasionally filmed.

During the flight I listen to audiobooks - soothing and heart-wrenching Hunger and absurdly ridiculous I, Partridge - and watch six episodes of Big Little Lies. I doze, down a single glass of pinot noir, and guiltily resign myself to the perks of business class. Even during the short bouts of turbulence, I remain at ease. The only time my body clenches is halfway into our journey, when the plane shudders and bounces for what seems like a really long time, but the nice flight attendant (my inside voice still insists on stewardess) informs me that’s what always happens when ‘we cross the equator’ and as insane as it sounds, I am satisfied with the answer. I find myself basking. Which is odd, and sort of amazing. At some point, I write out a birthday card for my husband, and among the scribblings is one important, surprisingly life-affirming sentence.

“I don’t believe our story will end in tragedy.”

And it doesn’t. We land thirteen hours and twenty-nine minutes later and disembark safely and soundly, in awe at how, just like that, we have found ourselves on the literal other side of the world. I am glad we didn’t check any luggage, and that even for a two-week trip across the hemisphere, I was able to cram everything we might need into three small carry-ons. I film the boys running toward their father, him swooping them up in his arms, them delirious and overjoyed. My happiness is quiet, like waking up from a dream that didn’t quite make sense.

First things. I’m sitting on a balcony situated on the 19th floor of a tall, white skyscraper. Directly in front of me; the neon marquee of the Kurrawa Surf Club, an ocean, and a blinding sun rise. But the word ‘ocean’ seems lacking, a joke. I need a new word now, something longer, something that can hold the enormity of what it is I’m staring at. Univocean. Or maybe just a single letter. This Pacific is a planet, a floating galaxy; there is no end to its width and depth and length. Surreal is a good word, for everything I am feeling right now. I pull my sweater closer to my skin. It’s chilly, but then again it’s winter down here and in the coming days I will notice, that similar to Angelenos, Australians are quick to don scarves and boots whenever the temperature dips below sixty.

Two days in, and my jet lag has let up a bit; I stir at six am, instead of three. Patrick is sleeping; in an hour he will get up, shower and head to set. The children are on their twin beds, and having read for the requisite twenty minutes, they’re playing a game of dueling kingdoms and luck-of-the-draw survival on their fully charged iPads. I type and stare out intermittently at the rolling waves, which crash and burn, and crest over and over again. The sound of this Sisyphus-like motion is satisfying and calming. To my right I spy the spirals of equally high-reaching buildings - all of them white and whimsical, undulating shapes and strange spirals - buildings with intricate and thoughtful facades that do not mar the horizon, but somehow add to its majesty.

I feel at home in this strange place. It’s a good feeling; a reminder of how thrilling and welcoming the world can still be.

The truth is, anywhere in the world would probably have seemed like a pleasant distraction from the goings-on back in the States. Anywhere in the world would have seemed more beautiful, I’m sure. (For starters, I prefer old buildings and ruins; the sight of a centuries old cathedral or an ancient hut instantly makes me feel better about life in general.) What’s happening back home is ugly. I’m no dummy, however. No matter where one goes, there are moments in history that have been forgotten about, swept under the rug, moments I know nothing about. I’m sure Australia has its fair share of ugly. The Aboriginals weren’t exactly given the red carpet treatment here. They weren’t even regarded as part of the population - as human beings to be counted and recognized - until 1967. (I learn this later on in our trip, thanks to an article in a glossy magazine given out gratis in the Virgin Australia business class lounge, the irony.) I am sure there is ugliness here too, beyond the immaculate sunsets and breathtaking waters, and friendly g’day mate faces. I just don’t feel like looking for it. Not yet, anyway.

The ugliness back home has worn me out. I hate it. I hate when stupidity is lauded as a right, when people wave their idiot flags proudly. It’s disheartening, ridiculous and maddening - and come late June, I am done. A reprieve, or else I will crack. I am done tweeting about it. I am done calling my senators. I am done marching, protesting, wearing pink hats. I am tired of news coverage, tired of Trump, tired of pointing out the hypocrisy. I want to slip away. I want to pretend that ugly, ignorant people will once again have the courtesy to spew their hate behind closed doors, over fences, or at cotillions or whatever, like in the good old days. I want to disengage. I want to leave New Jersey. I want to forget about America. There. I said it.

Which is why when my husband tells me he probably won’t make it home before August, and that we’ll have to fly to him, I don’t panic. I just nod my head and start a list of essentials we’ll need to pack. Australia has a leg up, right from the start but I don’t know yet that I will come to love it so much in so little time.

New things. It seems easier to write about the nuts and bolts of our initial adventuring, without having to search for the appropriate words to describe anything beyond what it feels like to hold a koala bear for a minute. It feels weird.

His name is Cowen and we hold him on Friday afternoon, a few hours after landing. (Thursday was lost as we flew over the equator. There is no trace of Thursday. ) The koala is docile but his claws are sharp, and it freaks me out, but I take him, upon my sons’ joint urging. An arm under it’s rear, the other one wrapped around its torso, tight but not too tight, just like the zoo keeper instructs. No petting. No jerky movements. Just smile for the camera and hold. After Cowen - Cohen, perhaps? - we attempt to feed a bunch of kangaroos - animals which strike me as unfinished, as if God or whomever, had started on them, got to the front paws and was like fuck it, I’m tired, they can hop around like this, good enough. The animals are medium sized, lazying about the wildlife farm we tour, wary looks on their rabbit-like faces, their middle claws extending far beyond the other three, the noncommittal display of an eternal middle finger. Our guide, the owner, raises his eyebrows when my husband introduces me as “Dag, my wife.” Because dag means something different here. It means the dried bits of shit that cling to a sheep buttocks - so from here on out I become “Dagmara, my wife.”

Suffice it to say, the marsupials are a hit with the boys. “Well, our work here is done” I wink, as if seeing koalas and kangaroos was all there was to Australia, because movies, because dumb tourists. To top it off, we buy two boomerangs at the gift shop before we head to set. 

We are really here, my husband is real again; I can reach for his hand, I can catch whiffs of his smell. And I can’t see straight.

We take a picture with Dolph Lundgren in front of a trailer. Dolph is tall, and without his Ivan Drago accent, I am slightly thrown. Is it really him? We walk around cavernous stages draped with swaths of blue screen, partaking of the crafty table which do not have loads of shit candy like Twizzlers, or dry pretzels on it, but instead, as in a patisserie, offers freshly baked brownies and fluffy peanut butter sandwiches. We meet Aquaman’s real life children and they are beautiful and quite the conversationalists. I learn quickly that they take Capoeira classes and aren’t allowed on any sort of electronic devices, and my heart twists enviously at that tidbit. I want to be that parent, I think. Suddenly I want to be Lisa Bonet. Aquaman himself looks like a very attractive beast of a man, with a gorgeous face and very thin calves. He’s very sweet but I am way too tired for anything beyond “so nice to meet you.”

Later, the boys and I fall asleep at the ungodly hour of 5pm, and wake up at 4am. We stand on the balcony silently staring out at the roiling ocean. Then we film ourselves trying Vegemite, which tastes like an old scrotum sack, and I actually say that aloud, much to the giddy shock of my boys. “Shhhh, we’re gonna wake Daddy…” 

Australia, one day in, is just a feeling. It is not a specific city, nor is it the literal continent - for now, we are ensconced in a suburb of Brisbane, a small stretch of hustle and bustle and beach somewhere on the Gold Coast.

Little things. The Palmolive orange scented hand soap in the bathroom reminds me of Poland; the smell left lingering on my hands sends me reeling toward childhood summers and yet I can’t recall exactly why - did my Babcia have similarly scented shampoo? A dish washing liquid she used? I don’t know, and I don’t care, and I remind myself daily to purchase some to take back to New Jersey with me. (I never do.) We take a day trip. Byron Bay is lovely, and I know Chris Hemsworth lives there, so that’s fun. My husband drives expertly on the left side of the road, pointing out landmarks and oddities, and we spend an hour on the beach, where surfers swim with dolphins in blue water that is cold and transparent.

I have yet to see a church, mosque or synagogue. The only bookstore I spot is in a mall that looks like it fell from the skies in 1999 and stayed that way. It’s dusty, and full of used, out-of-print paperbacks, all floral covers, volumes on doilies and flower arrangements. I purchase a word search book for three bucks.

The breakfasts are delicious; thick bread with a strong crust, yellow butter, slices of rosy ham, fried eggs like they’ve been painted to life. The coffee takes ages to arrive but arrives frothy and creamy and absolutely perfect. The only thing that makes me queasy is the sight of poached eggs arriving at our table - three oval white sacks with sagging skin, like things we’d find washed up on shore or in a bird’s nest. Slimy when in tact, and slimier still when my husband stabs one with a fork - the thick orange yolk oozes out like congealed blood. The word for bathroom is toilet and signs for TOILETS hang everywhere, and it’s truly the only puzzling thing I’ve encountered so far. The public playgrounds are impressive, like things from Dali’s imagination; colorful and bright and full of twisted contraptions and gigantic slides and zip lines and huge swaying nets that hang like UFOs, like things Tarzan swung on. 

The people are terrific. I’m sure if I spent an appropriate amount of time with any one of them, they might become annoying or overbearing, but my casual, quick brushes with the natives are reassuring. Waiters, police officers, retail clerks, security guards are so nice and helpful it’s overwhelming. They make innocuous yet meaningful inquires; how are things going? Back in the States, they mean, wink wink, Trump Trump. We are to be pitied now, us poor, duped, stupefied Americans. Everyone is referred to as mate, including my sons. It’s like our pal, I suppose, but sounds far less condescending and much more inclusive when the Aussies say it. They’re thick skinned too, I can tell. Conversely, I think of the opposite when I think of my fellow citizens - our thin, easily bruised egos. Coming from a place filled with people prone to screeching, pining and preening like adolescents, it’s quite a breath of fresh air to be surrounded by fully-formed adults, comfortable and confident in their skin, who smile at you because they mean it, not because it’s required of them.

We try in vain to imitate the accent, each of us failing in our efforts to mimic the musicality, the ease, the lazy, soft vowels. Thirteen is thudeen. The first few times my husband says doday you, I have no idea what he means. He means .AU - as in the end of an email address. To pash means to kiss fervently. An “old feller” is a penis. She’ll be right is my favorite though - the Australian way of implying that whatever is wrong shall right itself with time. Towns have names like Coolangatta and Gympie. It’s all fantastic. Our oldest son says he wants to move here. But here only becomes real when we remember the globe in my office back in New Jersey, and how we traced the path from mainland America all the way across the surface, so far to go, the wobbling tip of my finger taking forever to make its way toward the land down under, the land beyond our imagination. “Can you believe we are actually here?” is a question posed a few times a day. We answer with shaking heads, at a loss for words.

If they could, the boys would not leave the beach, despite my worries they will catch a cold. I stand in the water like a sentinel, watching them hurtle into the waves, trying not to think about their freezing toes, or the articles I’ve read listing the top ten deadliest animals found in Australia like the thumb-nail sized Irukandji jellyfish which can kill grown man. Or the cone snail which has venom one thousand times stronger than morphine and leaves you paralyzed and gasping for life. Or sharks. Helicopters do fly over us, checking for errant fins and such, and my husband has assured me that nets are dropped and secured to keep the jellyfish and bluebottles and stingrays away, but really, what’s it take for a predator to swim over a net? Still, I let the boys carouse. I let them swim, dive, run away from and straight toward the blue-grey waves. I am less panicked about everything.

Things that don’t matter. My period is many days late. Traveling across the international date line will do that to a body. I am walking around crampy, bloated and terribly grumpy. It’s a real problem, and I make no bones about explaining to my sons about what’s happening to me. Mommy is moody because she’s about to bleed from her vagina. I joke to my friend in a text sent at 6am her time, that my period probably came on Thursday, only Thursday never really happened, did it? Under this black cloud, the kids are annoying. They seem glaringly American - loud, insistent, spoiled by the first-rate everything they are experiencing. I am the first to call them out on all of this and the first to recklessly bid 120 dollars on a toad named Gay Freddo just so my kid can take part in ‘racing’ it at a musty boozy-smelling establishment called Iron Bar (this, when we get to the tropics.)

Our first week is spent walking a fine line between total fun and total mom-losing-her-shit. Of not kissing my husband. Of wanting to buy everything, and taste everything, especially the foreign sounding snacks - Koala Carmellos, Curlywurlys, Starburst “Babies.” I wish I was a hard drinker, or even a lightweight one, so I could ‘pep’ it up come evening. Mornings are the best because I wake up ‘here’ all over again, mentally renewing a covenant - enjoy your blessed life, goddamn it. But then my beautiful son wakes up and greets me by asking if he can poop with his iPad and I grit my teeth, “poop with a book!” I think of Aquaman’s daughter, with the hair down to her waist, like a perfect, feral creature who’s never begged to download an app.

I eat too much and don’t brush my teeth enough. I wear the same black, sack-like dress over and over again. I should not have brought three pairs of shoes with me as the only ones I bother with are the cheap flip flops. I don’t care about looking like the wife of a semi-famous actor. Perhaps I should.

We arrive in Cairns - pronounced like cans - at nine pm, on day seven. Cairns is a city in the North Queensland tropics. The airport is small, but just like the one in Brisbane, it is bright, modern, spotless. I am incredibly impressed and dying to shop, but fight the urge. Outside an enormous full moon - like a prop some grip hung - greets me as I squat down to vape, while the boys wait at baggage claim. I take out my camera and zoom in. The balmy, salty air reminds me of Florida. We are here, again, a vacation inside a vacation. We drive an hour north, toward a small tourist spot called Port Douglas (pop. 1278) where ‘the rainforest meets the reef,’ a terrific family getaway, according to many a Trip Advisor testimony.

The drive is difficult, as my husband navigates on a narrow, winding road which is in turn shrouded by immense thick canopies of jungle greenery and then completely exposed to a cliff leading toward a dark, rumbling ocean that we cannot see at this time of night, but can only hear. It’s eerie, a bit like a scene from a horror movie, where any moment something large and mysterious and predatory will jump into the road and slam into our car. My husband drives on, trying to concentrate as I annoy him by asking him why we haven’t planned things in advance and reminding him that he isn’t perfect, you know.

We fight a lot in Port Douglas. The boys fight, and Patrick and I fight. The fights are absurd and revolve around sold out tours and the necessity of guides if we get to Mossman Gorge (we never do), and how ‘crocodile shows’ sound inhumane. We fight about screen time, and where to go to dinner, and about not getting sand everywhere. Reunions are difficult sometimes. When absences become the norm, togetherness takes work. That’s all I want to mention. Bickering does occur in paradise, if you were curious.

Strange things. Every time Hagrid the Crocodile clamps his jaws down on what looks like a decimated broomstick, bits of rope and rag tied to its end, I jump in my seat. When he chomps there’s an echoing sound like a champagne cork popping, only amplified, as if Hagrid is miccd. It’s nerve wracking - and as jolly and engaging as the emcee is, I find myself thinking we shouldn’t be doing this. Crocodiles are mean, and aggressive, and you don’t survive 3 million years on this earth by being the nice guy. They hate each other, the crocs do, or so we are told. You never survive an attack either. You’re a goner, if you dare to swim amongst them. We take a slow boat ride around a lagoon, and watch a dozen of them - with names like Ted and Louie - stealthily follow our boat, sidle up and wait for their bits of raw pink chicken. God, those jaws.

We take pictures, and feel much better a few minutes later as we walk amongst wallabies and roos. I say roo now with utmost confidence, feeling like after a week abroad, I have earned it. At the gift shop we buy t-shirts, a crocodile calling whistle, and a soft, stuffed kangaroo which my oldest son immediately christens Jeremy. I ask my husband if crocodile printed man thongs called “Snappers!” are the perfect gifts for my brothers-in-law. Sadly, he shakes his head no.

Snorkeling in the Low Isles is interesting. We figure 90 minutes to the Great Barrier Reef would make us tired and seasick - suddenly we strike ourselves as amateurs but go with it - and opt for a quick, rollicking jaunt aboard the Reef Sprinter. We pull up to the low reef and immediately a smell hits us hard. Fishy. Rotting. I don the wet suit, get fitted with a prescription lens snorkeling mask (which is very exciting,) slip into the flippers, and I even jump into the water. And then four meaty, massive fish graze my thighs, and I am done. It’s hard work, and breathing is weird, and suddenly I feel claustrophobic, and the smell is overwhelming, and the coral is too close - low tide due to full moon - and I am totally fine swimming back to the boat that brought us out. It’s just as brave to admit your fears, as it is to conquer them, I say being funny, but also meaning it. I spend the remainder of my time sneaking in puffs of my vape and taking pictures of my boys. They’re proud of me anyway. My little guy heads back too, after twenty valiant minutes with his tiny head in the water. I can’t say enough how thrilled I am that both my sons have inherited their father’s joie de vivre and adventuresome spirit. They are usually up for anything. You go right ahead, I tell them, and I’ll stay here and write about it. Later, we race cane toads - don’t ask, or just look up the Iron Bar in Port Douglas - and go back to the hotel, where the boys are reunited with their iPads, and I sit on the deck and listen to annoying British teenagers thrash around in the communal pool, and wonder when my bad mood will lift.

Best things. My period arrives in Sydney, and finally I turn back to my good old self. My good mom self. I am happy. My back doesn’t hurt. My smiles are wide, and last all day long. Sydney is a glorious city. Imagine a turn of the century town, imagine Boston, or New Orleans, or even Paris, and then imagine it fully preserved, allowing modernity to sprout, but not take over. That’s Sydney - where the antiquated bits remain front and center, and the high rises merely loom as shadows. A gorgeous thing, for time to conjoin, to mingle, to not be erased. I can’t get enough. I also can’t pinpoint what this place reminds me of, only the emotions it stirs inside me - nostalgia, happiness, wonder.

On our first night we walk to the Sydney Observatory and stare out in awe at the skyline; the Harbour Bridge twinkling red and green like a Christmas Tree, the opera house way off in the distance like a paper fan on water, a brilliant crimson sunset. Someone is flying a drone. The boys run down the hill and attempt to climb a giant tree straight out of a Roal Dahl book. We could live here, I say stupidly, contentedly, and I kind of mean it. It’s possible to enjoy life, to eek every ounce of magic and wonder from it, without fear or fret. It’s possible to pretend we are a family of well-off nomads, traversing carefree, imagining a life abroad, living only for the sake of experiencing happiness. It’s possible for life to be like from a movie. Thoughts like this are hard to come by for me, and for ten minutes, sitting in the cool grass on a picturesque knoll overlooking a strange, gorgeous city, I allow myself.

There are more brown people is Sydney, more Asians, more tourists speaking Dutch or German or Portuguese, and in some street corners, as we head toward the aquarium, I even spy tattered sleeping bags which house the homeless. The line to get into Sea Life is long and winding and I am glad my kids will have to wait. I worry that always skipping ahead, or often flying business, or staying in five-star hotels is ruining them somehow - that they won’t know how to deal with real life, that soon they’ll take our good fortune for granted because it will cease to become out-of-the-ordinary and become banal. Which is why at every stop, I regale them with stories of my poor-immigrant beginnings. There was no Fast Pass when I was a kid, my husband quips. I sat in the back of the plane back when people were allowed to smoke, I point out, nine hours to Poland with only a book and my head aching from the fumes, imagine it. I want them to really imagine it, and later, when it takes us thirty minutes to get on the rickety Wild Mouse roller coaster at Luna Park, I am glad, and decide to get on too, even though I hate that shit.

Everywhere we go, the rooftops of old buildings boast edifices with historic dates inscribed into the original brick. On the sidewalks are stone slabs fitted into the pavement which tell short, amazing stories: “17 well-behaved convicts where made night watchmen here.” These reminders of the city’s history are beautiful, and I wish my adopted New York City showed the same pride and care. My husband explains that NYC is on a small island and in an effort to expand and make room, the city had to eradicate whatever stood in the way. It couldn’t bloom sideways or into suburbs - there are no suburbs, no outer city limits, unless you count Hoboken et al. Still, I wish Americans in general, held a higher regard for their architecture, and their roots.

The Langham Hotel on Kent Street is accented in pink. A creamy pink old-timey cab sits out front, the bathroom wallpaper is pink, and the pens bedside are pink and gold and so lovely that I slip one into my purse. When you walk into the lobby, you are taken aback by how immaculate every surface is, and by the floral scent in the air. This place smells like a bathtub, my seven-year-old announces and I know what he means. Like a bathtub full of rose petals. We could be in a Jane Austen novel, if Jane Austen had taken up the hospitality service. Everything is warm - from the silky sheets to the velvet floor length drapery - and opulent - from the extraordinary chandeliers in the lobby to the the enormous purple orchids arranged on many a marble tabletop. I’d live here too, if I was not a real person who went to sleep without wiping off her make-up, or who snuck vanilla nougat at 1am while reading a book about a recluse, or who grew up in the Glenwood Housing Projects and never forgot her past. I imagine my mother here, my sisters. I imagine my father, who would probably nit pick and point out discrepancies, because my father is a person who does not know how to trust beautiful things.

At a chemist’s my son pleads with me to buy him a pair of yellow sloughing shower gloves. These, along with a glitter filled rainbow-colored baton, are to make up his regalia. He is “The Wisher” now, and for the rest of our stay in Sydney he walks around wearing the gloves and gripping his baton, asking us to make wishes, which will, on an eighty percent guarantee, come true. I wish for a smooth flight back to Newark, and for my 41st year on earth to be the best one yet. The rare Pokemon my older son wishes for comes to fruition a few blocks later, much to his joy and to The Wisher’s complete shock. We walk around The Rocks, a neighborhood full of chocolate shops and galleries, making more and more wishes, until at the Museum of Contemporary Art we are told the baton must be cloaked. Instead, I bury it in my purse, and we roam around, not hiding our disdain for some of the more abstract artwork like blank white canvases, or a dried sculpture of an electrical plug. During security check at the airport, the wishing baton is left behind in a bin. I am unreasonably sad about it.

Things we talk about. Manners. Money. School. Food. Animals. Dreams. We find dream dictionaries online and look up flying, teeth crumbling, falling into holes with cousins, when a friend pushes the girl you have a crush on over a cliff. We wonder why dreams happen, we dissect the inner workings of our varied brains, while Bill, our driver pretends not to listen. He tells us about the beaches here, and what to watch out for. He tells us that Brad Pitt made him try the Batman free fall ride at Movie World. We talk about love, and what country we’d move to for a year if we had to, if we had a choice. We talk about how boring New Jersey will seem, and what we’ll do to occupy the remains of our summer once we are back home. We play endless rounds of Would You Rather - would you rather have penises growing our of your ears or a butthole on your chin? (Because, lest we forget I am in the company of three basic males.) We talk about our favorite things so far (snorkeling, the amusement park, seeing a wallaby with a baby in its pouch) and what we want to do before we depart. We talk about how we will not climb Harbour Bridge, because Kass doesn’t meet the age requirement and because well, mommy doesn’t want to die in Sydney. Mostly, we talk about how goddamn lucky we are.

The last things. Back in Brisbane, or Broadbeach, or Gold Coast - I still don’t know what to call it - we don’t fall asleep till very late. Our jet lag is gone now, no traces left. Instead we have trouble falling asleep and trouble waking up at a decent hour. I finish the book I bought at a wonderful bookstore I finally stumbled upon in the other mall, and having relayed the plot as I learned it to my sons, they are now eager to hear how it ends. I tell them, and we are all three, just a wee bit disappointed. It is eleven pm, and I start on another book, short stories about the indigenous and minority Australian experience. My husband puts in loads of laundry, and watches a rugby game on TV. Tomorrow is our last day and we have no major plans aside a final frolic in the ocean, a trip to the mall to purchase some local sports jerseys and more books. Maybe we’ll go to the movies. I have strange dreams about cutting off all my hair. We walk up at ten am, groggy, and quiet. We don’t want to go home just yet.

I am sitting on the balcony again. It’s hard to believe two weeks have gone by. It’s hard to believe our real life is waiting for us, and that in twenty-four hours we will be reunited with the dogs and guinea pigs, back in all the ennui and humidity the East Coast has to offer. Already we are making plans for more trips. There will be six weeks of summer left when we get back. This makes us happy. I look across the way warily, squinting to make out the familiar figures of my three boys, my companions on this journey. I love them more than I did when we started this trip, and perhaps that is the best outcome of any vacation.

There is nobody in the water but them - it must be truly cold today. The waves are no joke. Every time a child screams I stop and cock my head to ascertain if the echoing sound - of panic? joy? - is familiar to me. For a minute I worry that the something awful I briefly contemplated two weeks ago, will happen today, now, as I write this. A jellyfish sting. A rip tide. A shark. I sip my orange juice and remind myself about that sentence I jotted down in my husband’s birthday card, about how our story won’t end tragically. Our story will end quietly, naturally, after many adventures, many idle hours full of love, tiffs, and laughter. It will end when it is supposed to end, and I will have nothing to do with it. For now, I stare out at the mighty Pacific, and smile, my mind already humming with newly formed memories. I smile knowing that wherever we are, or wherever we end up next, as long as we are together - she’ll be right.

[legendary]

A Look Behind the Scenes of Kong: Skull Island

Director Jordan Vogt-Roberts and the cast reminisce about shooting in the film's exotic locations.

Kong: Skull Island took its talented cast and crew on across the globe during production. Spanning three continents, the film shot in Vietnam, Hawaii, and on Australia’s Gold Coast to create the film’s visually stunning settings. Take a look at Backstory’s behind the scenes gallery for a glimpse of some of the stunning real-world locations that were utilized to bring the mythical Skull Island to life, accompanied by quotes from stars Tom Hiddleston, Brie Larson, Samuel L. Jackson, John Goodman, and Jason Mitchell detailing some of their experiences on set. Kong: Skull Island hits theaters everywhere March 10, get tickets here: BUY TICKETS

Photos by Bryan Chojnowski

“In our film, Kong is more fully a character than a creature. He has empathy and pathos, and can connect with others on an emotional level. There’s a humanity to Kong – a heart that I think people will respond to. In fact, I can’t think of another monster that has that kind of human quality.” -Jordan Vogt-Roberts

“I was so appreciative that we shot in real locations instead of all on a green screen because I hadn’t done a film like this before so I think it would have been a leap for me to have been on a soundstage where everything was just green screen. At least with this, we were in these epically gorgeous surreal locations.” - Brie Larson

“We had a set that was right outside of the Iwi village that took us 3 boats to get there. We had to jump on one boat and then jump on a speed boat, then jump on these little row boats.To go to all these untouched places...it was incredible. Even if you visit Vietnam you probably won’t get that experience.” - Jason Mitchell

“It started when I was a kid, like it did for so many people. I’d be Kong for Halloween and it’s something you want to believe in. It’s willful suspension of disbelief. He’s become a part of our mythology as a country. You want to believe in him because he’s big and he’s strong and he’s good and he’s always pitted against really bad people.” - John Goodman

“I was so excited to be able to take real film photographs because I was traveling all over the world and had beautiful subjects to take photos of so it was great to be able to capture that.” - Brie Larson

“Kong is this enduring myth of movies - he represents the power and majesty of nature, the mystery of the unknown, and there’s a very child-like affection that we have for him. Kong’s quite often minding his own business and doing his own thing, and it’s only when human kind interrupts his peace that we disturb the balance of things.” - Tom Hiddleston

“The Gold Coast was kind of strange because there was stuff out there that could hurt us that we didn’t necessarily know was around. There was a brown snake under (producer) Alex Garcia’s chair one day. We’d look up and there’d be kangaroos hopping through the shot or koalas hanging up in the trees. There was always some kind of spider that no one knew what it was.” - Samuel L. Jackson

“It was really important to me in this retelling of the Kong tale to have something that’s new and different when it comes to this iconic female character and that relationship with Kong. What’s so cool about her is that she’s just as courageous and brave as all of the dudes are but she never carries a weapon throughout the whole movie and the thing that ultimately is her strength is her vulnerability. It’s an incredible lesson to have within this huge epic action movie.” - Brie Larson

“I was always in awe of Kong when I was a kid. My friends and I would pretend to run away from him or capture him and I always wished I could be in a movie with a monster like that in it. All of a sudden I’m in one. I’m part of the mythology now.” - Samuel L. Jackson

“Shooting in the jungle was just incredible. You’re in the environment but we’re still pretending so it has a way of making you feel in awe. It’s humbling.” - Jason Mitchell

“One of the first days we were shooting we got to go up in a helicopter and I had never been in one before so I got a helicopter tour of Hawaii while I was working. And that was the first moment that I saw the boneyard...from up above and I thought it was real.” - Brie Larson

[toras-muse-cabinet]

Mint drags her brother by his wrist towards where she had already arranged to meet with the Mobians who had posted an ad looking for a Speed player for their Extreme Gear team. She wasn’t dumb she made sure the meeting was in a nice public cafe and was bringing her Big Brother along but she was really excited, a real Extreme Gear team!! And they needed a player of her exact skill set!! This could be her chance to get famous!

Sorrel stumbles after his excited sister a small fond smile on his beak. He didn’t quite catch what had made her so excited in the first place, what with her talking almost as fast as she runs, but he did catch something about first time meeting and going to a public place for safety. He was very proud of his sister showing at least a tiny bit of maturity even if it was pretty basic.

Mint takes a seat that can be seen from the street, Sorrel taking the seat next to her while they wait for this mysterious meet up.

“So.. Now that you are calmer, what happened?”

“These guys are looking for someone to be the Speed Player in their Extreme Gear team! I could become famous Sorrel! Maybe even more famous than Sonic~”

Sorrel chuckles at the excited chatter from his sister as she quickly dissolves to talking much faster than anyone can listen. He gives a tiny frown at the idea of her rushing off to join some Extreme Gear team... that race system seems kind of brutal and lawless... He doesn’t really see the appeal in it but... He focuses on his sister’s practically shining face.. It would make her really happy huh? Sorrel smiles softly resolving to support her best he can.

Just as Sorrel comes to his resolution a Kangaroo mobian and Sugar Glider mobian take up the remaining two seats at their little table. Sorrel gives them a quick look over, deciding immediately the Sugar Glider is relatively harmless. The kangaroo on the other hand... this one could be dangerous. He had on knee high boots, they looked to be steel toed from the shape, as well as a Camo vest. This guy meant business and Sorrel wasn’t sure yet if that business was something he would trust his sister to.

Mint quickly bounces to her feet shaking first the Kangaroo’s hands then the Sugar Glider happily announcing “Hello! I’m Mint and this is my brother Sorrel! You need a Speed player right?!”

The kangaroo looks a little shocked at the chipper greeting, given how cold the girl had been on the phone “Yea... I’m Kicks.”

The Sugar Glider smiles gently, sweet as her namesake “N I’m Honey~”

They both glance to Sorrel expecting him to greet them but he’s still analyzing the situation, a small frown on his face. Mint sees this and makes a face but presses on with the topic at hand “I have a lot of notes about my running speed! I’m ranked one in my school back home, though I rank at 9 here it’s only because I’ve not been here long! I’ve never used extreme gear before but I’m a really quick learner so I can figure out Extreme Gear super fast I swear!”

Kicks listens patiently, considering what she has to say “N why should we pick you ova any otha candidates? What do ya got that no one else does?”

Mint freezes at the question frowning, she’s never really had to stop and think about it. Outside of races just being fast was unique enough, What did she have that was unique other than her speed? Her tail taps against the chair while she thinks, not enough to make a loud sound just enough to make a soft ‘paf paf’. Finally she speaks again “Well.. I guess I’m pretty unique in that I can maintain my speed when going through water. Not many can claim that feat~”

Kicks smirks seeming amused by this response, but Honey pipes up curious about this “Wait.. really? Why would you even practice that?”

Mint smiles bouncing “The best place to practice in the village is the park, and there’s a swimming pond across the middle so instead of weaving the woods around the pond I started diving in and swimming across it during the hot months! I can swim the whole thing in one breath and leap back out to keep running~”

Honey tilts her head curiously “But.. doesn’t the wet feet make it hard to keep running?”

Mint shakes her head lifting her foot to draw Honey’s attention to it “My claws help me keep a grip on the ground.”

Honey looks at the claws and turns to Kicks excited “Kicks she’s like.. the best candidate so far?!”

Kicks huffs a little scratching his head “’cept the part where she’s neva used extreme gear.”

Honey rolls her eyes “It’s not like it’s hard to pick up! If you can balance on a skateboard you can balance on an extreme gear board! Besides she clearly can learn on her feet and that’s the most important thing for a racer!”

Sorrel tilts his head slightly listening to the pair argue, eyes narrowing when they mention how dangerous the races can get and that Honey’s almost broken an arm during practice on several occasions. They seem to agree Mint is the best candidate and offer her the position right then. Sorrel stands abruptly causing his chair to screech horribly against the concrete.

Kicks whips to look at Sorrel standing up suddenly as well, knocking the chair over in the process, already on the defense thinking Sorrel is about to pick a fight.

“This all sounds very dangerous and stupid. How can I be sure you won’t hurt my baby sister in all of this?” Sorrel hisses, annoyed at the possibility his sister might be dragged off into some reckless racing ring.

Mint hops off her seat grabbing Sorrel’s arm whining “Sorrel nooo!! I really wanna join their team! Please~”

Kicks scoffs at the idea of Mint getting hurt “Ya listening bird brain? Honey said almost got hurt. I’d neva let them get hurt unda my watch.”

Sorrel’s eyes narrow at the name calling sizing the other up before another pleading whine from his sister seems to calm him a tad.

“Fine. But I swear to god if Mint gets hurt on your watch, whatever hurt her is getting kicked into next year and then you will be kicked into the next century.”

Kicks rolls his eyes stepping closer holding out a hand, treating the other’s words like they are hot air. No one can out kick a kangaroo as far as he’s concerned, “Deal.”

Sorrel steps closer as well grabbing Kicks hand, digging his thumb spur into the other’s hand “Good.” He hisses quietly enough that Mint doesn’t hear “Break that deal the next time you feel my spurs they will be venomous”

Before Kicks can even process the threat Sorrel is letting go of his hand and has turned to leave “Come on Mint, s almost time for your shift with the post office. You’ll need to let them know about all this racing business too.”

The pair of Platypus siblings walk away from the Kangaroo and Sugar Glider with nothing more than an excited wave from Mint.

[newstfionline]

Petting zoos at the office are the latest perk for stressed-out employees

By Andrea Sachs, Washington Post, December 1, 2017

Chris Delaney typically unwinds from his job at Discovery Communications by taking leisurely weekend drives or flipping through stacks of vinyl at used record stores. But on a recent midweek afternoon, the broadcast ingest operator was releasing his stress—right there at work—by stroking a bearded dragon, a household lizard with thankfully inert spikes.

“He’s very mellow,” Delaney said of the coldblooded creature resting on his lap. “Applying a warm hand puts this guy in a good mood.”

At the office animal party for the over-My Little Pony set, the good vibrations were flowing in both directions. How could you tell? Well, Norbert didn’t puff up his body and deploy his defenses, and Delaney didn’t rush to the medic with gouged fingertips. Quite the opposite: After finishing with Norbert, he requested a cuddle with another member of the visiting menagerie from Squeals on Wheels, a traveling petting zoo based in Potomac, Md.

“I think my favorite was the rabbit,” Delaney said after several failed attempts to soothe an African pygmy hedgehog named Tweedledee. (Or was it his brother, Tweedledum? Hard to know, because all hedgehogs act like twitchy acupuncturists.)

At the mention of his name, Rex the Velveteen rabbit attempted an escape, thumping his head against the cover of his wooden bin. Perhaps he needed an animal to hold, too.

In these anxious times, the embattled masses are resorting to all manner of succor. We meditate in the morning and drink a stiff one after work. Yell at traffic on the way to laughter yoga. Binge on Netflix all night and down cup after cup of pour-over coffee the next morning.

And now, with the rise of office animal parties, you can stroke a bunny, cradle a puppy or massage a tortoise’s neck on company time. If your colleagues or clients grow irate over unanswered emails, tell them to submit a complaint to Slinky, the blue-tongued skink.

“Animals make the environment less stress-y,” says Alan Beck, director of the Center of the Animal-Human Bond at Purdue University. “When you talk to another person, your blood pressure goes up. When you talk to animals, it goes down.”

During the tensest time of the year, Dawn Bailey, director of human resources at Aronson accounting firm in Rockville, Md., arranges special treats for her bleary-eyed accountants. For this tax season, she hired Squeals on Wheels. “All I wanted to see was the teacup pig running down the hallway,” she said. Unfortunately, that fantasy didn’t fly, as the oinker couldn’t breach the conference room.

Workplace stress is a real affliction, of course, but so is Instagram-oholism, especially among millennials. Which makes the office animal parties a major draw.

“We don’t put ordinary experiences from the office on our social feed,” notes Jeff Fromm, an author of books on the millennial generation, “just the extraordinary.”

The unconventional perks can also help employees forget—or at least forgive—their long work hours. Your 12-hour day may prevent you from owning a dog, but you can frolic with one on the clock.

“For many people today, particularly millennials, there is a definite blurring of the line between personal life and work,” said Jason Dorsey, president and co-founder of the Center for Generational Kinetics in Austin. “Millennials often know they won’t be able to retire, so why not have fun at work?”

Thanks to this trend, animal facilities across the country are accumulating miles on their little red wagons. Honey Hill Farm has led camels to a shipping logistics provider in Cincinnati (for Hump Day, of course) and released hopping kangaroos in its hallways. Brooklyn’s Foster Dogs has let its rescue pups loose at various New York offices. Austin-based Tiny Tails to You has chilled out such pressure-cooker players as Apple, Facebook, Dell and Whole Foods.

Of course, animal encounters during business hours can involve some risk, so keep a spare shirt and dry shampoo in your desk drawer.

“I don’t want her to go to the bathroom in your hair,” Squeals on Wheels’ Grant Phillips warned a Nest DC employee as a chicken blazed a northward trail.

Nest DC, a property management company, can’t seem to kick the critter habit. For its third Squeals on Wheels event in two years, some of the guests returned, but others didn’t receive an invitation.

“We didn’t bring the ducks this time,” said Grant, “because they kind of made a mess last year.”

Better-behaving birds Delilah and Henrietta, both bantam chicks, did attend. Baby teacup pig Thumbelina came wrapped in, yes, a blanket and slept through most of the two-hour stay. Nothing could rouse her. Not the squeaks of the guinea pigs or the carousel ride of hands passing her around like a hairy infant.

“I think everyone would be so much nicer if they could cuddle a pig once a week,” said Grace Langham, chief executive of Nest DC.

Employees at Dataprise in Rockville also discovered the calming effect of nuzzling with creatures, but their Xanax was puppies.

“I juggle multiple tasks,” said Charlie Chiochankitmun, a program manager, “so it’s nice to juggle multiple puppies instead.”

Homeward Trails Rescue Center in Fairfax Station, Va., supplied the quartet of pups, who ran, wrestled and relieved themselves around the break room. Employee Sarah Tabor raced over to a puddle in high-heeled boots, paper towels in hand.

Eight-week-old Taisha, Taima and Tabora scrambled down a hallway. Taima paused for a quick chew on an elegant green suede shoe still attached to a foot.

“It’s hard to be stressed with puppies running around,” said Katie Zelonka as she watched them dash past. “I don’t know how much we’re getting done, though. I should get back to my email.”

After 90 minutes, the puppies passed out under a kitchen table and the employees grudgingly returned to work, the dog hair on their clothes and the bite marks on their shoes serving as reminders to relax.

[readbookywooks]

IF SHE HAD CONNECTED, she would have sunk her fangs into me and I would have died. But luck was on my side, and instead of landing on flesh, she slammed against the end of the flute and went flying off to the side. She landed in a ball and was dazed for a couple of seconds. Reacting rapidly, aware that my life depended on speed, I stuck the flute between my lips and played like a madman. My mouth was dry but I blew regardless, not daring to lick my lips. Madam Octa cocked her head when she heard the music. She struggled to her legs and swayed from side to side, as though drunk. I sneaked a quick breath, then started playing a slower tune, which wouldn't tire my fingers or lungs. "Hello, Madam Octa," I said inside my head, shutting my eyes and concentrating. "My name's Darren Shan. I've told you that before but I don't know if you heard. I'm not even sure if you can hear it now. "I'm your new owner. I'm going to treat you real good and feed you loads of insects and meat. But only if you are good and do everything I tell you and don't attack me again." She had stopped swaying and was staring at me. I wasn't sure if she was listening to my thoughts or planning her next leap. "I want you to stand on your back legs now," I told her. "I want you to stand on your two back legs and take a little bow." For a few seconds she didn't respond. I went on playing and thinking, asking her to stand, then commanding her, then begging her. Finally, when I was almost out of breath, she raised herself and stood on two legs, the way I wanted. Then she took a little bow and relaxed, awaiting my next order. She was obeying me! The next order I gave was for her to crawl back into her cage. She did as I told, and this time I only had to think it once. As soon as she was inside, I closed the door and fell back on my butt, letting the flute fall from my mouth. The shock I'd gotten when she jumped at me! My heart was beating so fast, I was afraid it was going to run up my neck and leap out of my mouth! I lay on the floor for a long time, staring at the spider, thinking about how close to death I had come. That should have been warning enough. Any sensible person would have left the door shut and forgot about playing with such a deadly pet. It was too dangerous. What if she hadn't hit the flute? What if Mom had come home and found me dead on the floor? What if the spider then attacked her or Dad or Annie? Only the world's dumbest person would run a risk like that again. Step forward Darren Shan! It was crazy, but I couldn't stop myself. Besides, the way I saw it, there was no point having stolen her if I was going to keep her locked up in a silly old cage. I was a little smarter this time. I unlocked the door but didn't open it. Instead I played the flute and told her to push it open. She did, and when she came out she seemed as harmless as a kitten and did everything I'd communicated. I made her do lots of tricks. Made her hop around the room like a kangaroo. Then had her hang from the ceiling and draw pictures with her webs. Next I got her lifting weights (a pen, a box of matches, a marble). After that I told her to sit in one of my remote control cars. I turned it on and it looked like she was driving! I crashed it into a pile of books, but made her jump off at the last moment, so she wasn't hurt. I played with her for about an hour and would have happily continued all afternoon, but I heard Mom arriving home and knew she would think it was strange if I stayed up in my room all day. The last thing I wanted was her or Dad prying into my private affairs. So I stuck Madam Octa back in the closet and ran downstairs, trying to look as natural as possible. "Were you playing a CD up there?" Mom asked. She had four bags full of clothes and hats, which she and Annie were unpacking on the kitchen table. "No," I said. "I thought I heard music," she said. "I was playing a flute," I told her, trying to sound casual. She stopped unpacking. "You?" she asked. "Playing a flute?" "I do know how to play one," I said. "You taught me when I was five years old, remember?" "I remember." She laughed. "I also remember when you were six and told me flutes were for girls. You swore you were never going to look at one again!" I shrugged as though it was no big thing. "I changed my mind," I said. "I found a flute on the way home from school yesterday and got to wondering if I could still play." "Where did you find it?" she asked. "On the road." "I hope you washed it out before you put it in your mouth. There's no telling where it might have been." "I washed it," I lied. "This is a wonderful surprise." She smiled, then ruffled my hair and gave my cheek a big wet kiss. "Hey! Quit it! "I yelled. "We'll make a Mozart out of you yet," she said. "I can see it now: you playing a piano in a huge concert hall, dressed in a beautiful white suit, your father and I in the front row..." "Get real, Mom." I chuckled. "It's only a flute." "From small acorns, oak trees grow," she said. "He's as thick as an oak tree," Annie said, and giggled. I stuck my tongue out at her in response. The next few days were great. I played with Madam Octa whenever I could, feeding her every afternoon (she only needed one meal a day, as long as it was a large one). And I didn't have to worry about locking my bedroom door because Mom and Dad agreed not to enter when they heard me practicing the flute. I considered telling Annie about Madam Octa but decided to wait a while longer. I was getting along well with the spider but could tell she was still uneasy around me. I wouldn't bring Annie in until I was sure it was completely safe. My schoolwork improved during the next week, and so did my goal-scoring. I scored twenty-eight goals between Monday and Friday. Even Mr. Dalton was impressed. "With your good grades in class and your prowess on the field," he said, "you could turn into the world's first professional soccer player-cum-university professor! A cross between Pele and Einstein!" I knew he was only pulling my leg, but it was nice of him to say it all the same. It took a long time to work up the nerve to let Madam Octa climb up my body and over my face, but I finally tried it on Friday afternoon. I played my best song and didn't let her start until I'd told her several times what I wanted her to do. When I thought we were ready, I gave her the nod and she began creeping up the leg of my pants. It was fine until she reached my neck. The feel of those long thin hairy legs almost caused me to drop the flute. I would have been a dead duck if I had, because she was in the perfect place to sink her fangs. Luckily, my nerve held and I went on playing. She crawled over my left ear and up to the top of my head, where she lay down for a rest. My scalp itched beneath her but I had enough sense not to try scratching it. I studied myself in the mirror and grinned. She looked like one of those French hats, a beret. I made her slide down my face and dangle from my nose on one of her web-strings. I didn't let her into my mouth, but I got her to swing from side to side like she'd done with Mr. Crepsley, and had her tickle my chin with her legs. I didn't let her tickle me too much, in case I started laughing and dropped the flute! When I put her back in her cage that Friday night, I felt like a king, like nothing could ever go wrong, that my whole life was going to be perfect. I was doing well in school and at soccer, and had the kind of pet any boy would trade all his worldly goods for. I couldn't have been happier if I'd won the lottery or a chocolate factory. That, of course, was when everything went wrong and the whole world crashed down around my ears.