Not according to plan

The last week hasn't really gone according to plan.  Unfortunately, my ultimate team did not do as well as I'd hoped, and we lost to some okay teams because of drops and throw-aways, two things that are extremely frustrating.  I couldn't really enjoy the party, I was too tired and the beer on tap was terrible.  I have had many a fun night on the likes of Natural Ice and Coors, but for some reason this was impalatable.  Later, many supposed that the stuff had perhaps been watered down. The day after the tournament, I had planned on staying for an extra day in Christchurch with my roommate Ben, but he bailed at the last minute to take a temp job this week, so I instead hung out with some other ultimate players on the Monday following.  Still among the group were two good friends, and things might have been fine, except I was still very tired, the weather was shit, and I had to pass up work at my favorite Preschool to do it.  No on in New Zealand that I have talked to likes Christchurch.

I came home and it fell to me to take care of the details of acquiring the new Minivan (Honda Odessey '95) Joey, Ben and I bought during the previous week.  This wasn't really a big deal, but I did have to pass on another day of employment, and deal with paperwork, plus foot some vehicle start-up costs (until we divide these up by three) such as registration and the first tank of gas. Having bought this car a little quickly (only cost $1,100 USD) to get a good deal, we overlooked little things like parking permits, and I got a small ticket on day one.  I have since been the one who has had to bike half a mile to the nearest free parking space to park the behemoth of an automobile when it has needed parking this week, and I had to take it to work with me on Wednesday.  Driving it through downtown in rush hour sucks.  I'm adjusting to driving with most of the car itself on my left instead of on my right, which is taxing on the brain.  And I don't even like cars.  

This week I worked on a stencil during almost all my free time, and after considerable investment, I'm unhappy with it.

Baxi was absolute garbage last night.  My trike broke down on numerous occasions, until I finally called it an early night.  I made very little money, and this in the face of four other successful pilots working last night.  As the Kiwis would say, 'Unlucky'.

I was supposed to play Ultimate all day today, but it's raining bullets. 

The significant difference in what I had planned to have saved by now, and what is actually left in my bank accounts is worrisome.  And the fact that I am a supposedly unusually talented and well educated twenty-three year old WITHOUT a job that even allows me to save money, is, though doubtless reasonable and common, frustrating.

The things that sound like the most fun to me right now (Working at BICAS, starting work on a couple of long-time good ideas I've had like T-shirt Trading, stenciling, sewing, hanging out with Wig before he leaves the country for who knows how long) are all things that are better accomplished in Tucson.

Downtime

When I am not working, I have time to myself during which I have been pursuing some creative outlets.  These exploits vary in intensity, some in fact are just ideas of things I might like to do.  But all float around in my head in some unsatisfied space, and I wish I had the dexterity in one medium or another to let them out.  I'm working on refining some skills...

Here are some of the ideas:

1. Stenciling.  I've got two ideas that are fleshed out in photoshop and need cutting, but others swimming to the surface all the time.

2. Sewing.  I have a machine that I bought on the cheap, but no patterns.  I even bought fabric, but NO PATTERNS.  I need to get on this.

3. Web Comic.  Mostly I just like reading them, but xkcd.com tends to make me do some extra research on the side to really get all the jokes.  Somehow it feels constructive to do this.

4. Blogging.  I am only now branching out into the world of Blogs (the Blogosphere) and learning something about how other people use these things.  The successful ones aren't usually as introspective... the same is true for the ones that are fun to read.

5. Writing.  I have taken a couple of stabs at creative writing, both of which came out somewhere in between poetry and prose, says one reliable editor.

6. Cribbage Boards.  I have vowed to make a cribbage board for a friend as part of a mutual xmas gifts to each other.  Ideas abound, but no physical progress yet.

Baxi

I am a bicycle taxi pilot.  I use my leg muscles to ferry the nightlife of Wellington from here to there in groups of one or two (but never three! Unless you offer me extra money…).  I charge $5 to $20 per fare depending on the distance and how much I think a prospective customer is likely to pay.  I accept tips.  I am trained and qualified to operate a three-wheeled vehicle.  I have heard a better title, and it is “Professional Tricycle Driver”.

I have stories, oh do I have stories.  I have driven three transvestites to Marion St.  If you are from Wellington, you will roll your eyes and say ‘Of course Marion St.” because that is where all of the transvestites, and the people who are into transvestites hang out.  I have driven at least three different passengers who claimed to be the mayor.  One, while probably not the mayor, did play a mean harmonica.  He played me a blues tune while I rode all about how great I, the Baxi driver, was.  I have received payment in the form of coins, bills, kisses, drinks, and massages.  I have received a $40 tip for a $20 fare.  Joey has been paid $100 to drive two strippers around for an hour while they sipped champagne.  Ben had a date last Wednesday with a customer.  It was an average date, he said.

I know the street performers, the cab drivers, and the bouncers, and we are all tight.  We are all apart of the exclusive club of cab drivers, bouncers, street performers, and Baxi pilots.  The people who ride, love me.  The people who do not, well, most of them do too.  As I ride down Courtenay Place, cars honk approval, and pedestrians cheer!  I reply with my bell, BRING BRING!  The yay-sayers abound.  I am a hero!  Once, I drove a homeless woman who jumped on my Baxi thirty meters to the next bench for free, and everyone on the patio of Hotel Bristol cheered.  “Good on ya!”  My passengers flirt with me.  “You must be fit to ride one of these, ay?”  “Look at the size of his calves!”  The girls pinch me in places it is not appropriate to pinch girls, and their boyfriends don’t care.  The women give me kisses and think I am cute, no matter how dorky and unimpressive my helmet and mountain bike shorts make me look.  When I am in the saddle, I might as well be wearing Armani. 

Then there are the nay-sayers.  There are cheap, stingy drunkards, who plead with me for free rides.  Drunk women are the worst.  So used to having drinks bought for them in the bars, they jump on the back and say “Mush!”  I know better than to talk long.  I give them my buzz-kill face and tell them to get off.  I insert profanity in the above sentence if it is called for.  There are unfunny, unclever boys who jump off without paying.  I can spot them better now, and demand payment up front.  My Baxi isn’t built for speed, and some streets are one way, so I cannot give chase, but the last one to jump off my Baxi fell and appeared injured, so I was satisfied. 

The waterfront is the most pleasant place to ride in nice weather.  It is quiet, and the starts are beautiful.  The ocean laps against the warf and beaches, and the customers there are friendly and appreciative.  Cube street, between Ghuznee and Vivian is a great place to find passengers, because it is quieter there than on Courtney, and I can schmooze a bit.  Establishment is one of the biggest bars around, and one of few that stays open past 3:00am, when the final bump in business comes.  I make rounds to and from Estab until 3:20 when it is time to call it quits, and go home.  I return to the depot, where the other Baxis are stored, there are four that work, two that do not.  There all the pilots have a cuppa and count their earnings.  A slow night can be anywhere from nothing to $50, and a good night as high as $140.  Above that is a great night, and I have once kept $191.60 after paying out the mandatory $40 rental fee.  I do not pay taxes.  I am an independent contractor.

In my underwear drawer, I have over $50 in coins, which I try to spend at the farmers market on Sundays.  I keep close track of my money, and write the totals on the ziplock bags the cash goes in.  I pay cash.  I sleep in on weekends, and occasionally miss ultimate Frisbee practice on Sunday mornings, but I forgive myself.  Sometimes, I have seen the sunrise as I fall asleep.  At noon, when I awake, I share stories with Ben and Joey, my roommates, and they with me.  We are heros.

 

Thanksgiving

Ten days after the real day had passed, my roommates and long time friends Ben and Joey and I put on a harvest festival.  We had been planning this since day one in New Zealand, anticipating the myriad friends we were likely to make before the special Thursday in November, and ordered ourselves a turkey from the local butcher well in advance.  We bought fresh produce from the Sunday farmer's market that we love, and made a traditional menu including from scratch stuffing, root mash, green beans, cornbread (with honey butter), turkey, cranberry sauce, gravy, salad, and apple crumble with whipped cream for dessert.  To prepare all this food was a task for the three of us in a sarcastically small kitchen with an electric range.  We were also lacking some key kitchen accessories, such as enough bowls and baking dishes.  Still, with some strategic day-before work, and Pulp Fiction playing in the background we managed to crank out enough food for 15 people by 2pm.  That's right, this even went down on time.

Our dining room, which lacks a dinning room table and volume, wasn't gonna cut it for this little soiree, so we crossed our fingers for the weather (a considerable gamble in these parts) and planned a picnic style feast.  Some of our guests helped out by driving the food down the steep hill on which our house is perched to the park tables at the community center below.  We threw all semblance of class to the Wellington wind and used our own bed sheets as tablecloths, any available receptacles including tupper wear and unused electric skillets as serving bowls, and the public rubbish bins for our empty beer and wine bottles (no, it's not really okay to drink in the parks here, though interestingly and scarily, it IS okay to drink in cars as long as you aren't the driver).  

Dinner went off without a hitch.  Our company mingled beautifully, and there was just the right amount of food to go around.  Nothing ran out too quickly, but we finished almost everything.  Every dish was highly praised, especially my cranberry sauce and apple crumble.  The day was sunny and warm with a light breeze, and we played bocci with a set that Ben and I won at a recent ultimate tournament for being co-MVPs.

Early Childcare

I have been working as a day to day substitute (relief) early childcare (preschool) teacher for a little over three weeks now.  It has become a very suitable replacement to working at Leuven, I've never looked back.  Basically the job begins, or rather has an 80% chance of beginning, each weekday morning at 7:45ish when I (maybe, here's where the 80% kicks in) get a call from Megan or Emma about a gig that day at such-and-such early childcare.  Unless I have a compelling reason to turn down the job, I take it and am off for 7-8 hours of fun with tiny humans.  

Fluid oozing, toy throwing, tag playing, block stacking, nap taking, nappy pooping, pick-me-up arms giving, little 0-4 year olds.  I'm sure you're familiar.

All in all, it's a fun job.  I get to see kids learn so much, though not in the way my secondary teaching background has made me used to.  These kids aren't learning academics, they're learning how to roll over and crawl, how to use their arms and legs to run and jump, how to make noises with their mouths, how to speaking english, how to make jokes (exploring the seemingly endless supply of humor within the topic of poop and pee--i remember doing that), and how to deal with inconvenient feelings like sadness, jealously, and anger.  They are little learning machines, and are indiscriminate, so I have to be careful.  I can't pick Emily up every time she looks up at me with those adorable little eyes and reaches her hands up high, for she is already learning that she can expect all the attention she wants with this little maneuver.  I shouldn't sit little 0 year old Zoe up on her bottom whenever she cries.  She needs to learn to roll over and crawl, to use those arms, or she might end up like Todd the bum-shuffler, whose hips are turned out at a worrisome angle from scooting around on his butt all day.  

Some of these kids have clearly learned that crying results in all the attention they want.  They have also learned that if they want to play tag with someone who doesn't want to play tag, grabbing a toy out of the abstainer's hand and running away with it will get them something almost as good.  Some of them have unfortunately been taught that screaming and whining will result in a suspension of consequences, and it falls to us at the center to try and re-teach no hitting 101 to some misguided 4 year olds.  

I get to see some pretty monumental moments in a human's history at the centers.  Like when Quinn negotiated his first ever whole spoonful of yoghurt into his mouth, or when Dov learned how to connect two Lego train cars together--the potential for an indefinitely long toy!  Or when I came back to Early Years Tory Street for the second day a week, and found out that a little boy who can't even speak intelligible language yet missed me.  I learned how little you have to do sometimes to matter a great deal in one persons life.