Fanny Footy Rooting

Adjustment to a new culture can be a bit of a shock to just about anyone and I’m not immune. While this would normally be associated with monetary transactions, a new language, or certain ritual involving shearing my nether regions, mine are more simplistic.

Every Friday, Golf with “the boys” consists of my 5-foot-nothin’ Aussie father-in-law, Poppy, a big hairy kiwi, Pedro, a legally blind kiwi, Johnny, and a wild-haired Scot, Willie, who I swear is either constantly drunk or has a serious speech impediment.

I was happy that it didn’t take long for them to take right to “the big yank” or for the constant ribbing and shitslinging to become an integral part of the game. By the second week, I’d gotten somewhat used to Willie’s constant chattering in a language that resolves somewhere between DrunkenScot and AussieBloke, and was even beginning to hold actual conversations with him.

I was lighting up a smoke on the 4th tee when he came up and said, “Ussed be Ah’d bargeredmearoot festin namoornan… wannatnayt too!”

My mouth and brain both worked unconsciously and extreme concentration clouded my visage until I’d come to the conclusion that he was telling me that he enjoys a cigarette first thing in the morning and at night as well.

I looked at him curiously and said, “But I thought you quit smoking, ya goof!”

He shook his wildish-Donald-Trump-maned head while cackling before gesturing madly in front of my face with his hand, “Root! ROOT!” he yelled while jerking his fist up and down, “Nahh gawdammed smoook!”

He responded to my questioning what this piece of information concerning his masturbatory habits had to do with anything I cared about with, “Cosyoornadda beg YANK, yerra beg WANK! BWAHAHAHAHAAA!”

We’ll see how he takes it when I whip his ass at golf next week.

Saturday, Wife and I were stoked because the kids were shipped off to the grandparent’s for the weekend and our plans consisted of leaving the sweaty goodness of our bed only for sustenance, but we’d almost forgotten the game.

Footy. Australian Rules Football. For those of you that are truly sports fans, listen to me now…

This Shit Rocks. Seriously. It whups all kinds of ass on the NFL I am almost sad to say.

For as much clich?s as we may tend to fulfill as newlyweds, wife-as-a-faithful-servant-while-hubby-watches-sports went down the tubes the minute that Wife sat down on the couch, out-belched me, and screamed something mildly intelligible at the player on the television while drinking a beer.

Oh yes, we be us some big ‘ol Footy fans.

Non-stop action and a tense and tremulous finish provided an atmosphere of adrenalinized testosteronity on our back patio that only playoff sports can bring and Wife and I sipped beers while recapping the game we both just watched. After we went next door and rubbed CrazyCatLady’s (Mother-in-law) nose in our win, of course. She’s not a West Coast Eagles fan and made the mistake of telling us this quite proudly, so we figure she was much deserving of the pajama-ed whistling and taunting we provided on her front porch.

Life with my 21-year old brother-in-law has been an interesting ingredient to the mix of Judd’s New Aussie Life. In an effort to save up some money and get a fresh start on things, he’s been staying in our spare room and has been quite a joy.

And by “joy,” I mean, “a 16-year old girl.”

He’s an awesome guy, but the life of a 21-year old gay male in Perth, Australia apparently consists of clubbing and drag shows late into the night and MSN chatting with 97 potential boyfriends all day. Properly motivated, he’s a champ with the dishes though.

For being the other “man” of the house, I was quite appreciative of his contribution to our post-Footy-playoff-win-reveling when he excitedly told us the recent happenings at AsianQueenFriend’s fashion show.

To be jolted from my own daydreams of AFL stardom (“He’s never played before folks, but this new American is a delightful surprise to the entire league!”) with soap-opera-drama-like announcements of how the wrong name got on the labels of the outfits (or some shit like that) was yet another reminder of my continuing adjustment to life here.

Thankfully, Wife is with me every step of the way. Literally. Especially when I’m kicking my shoe to her across the front yard and getting tackled by the letterbox.

She’s awesome like that.

Or she may just be with me until I’m a million-dollar Footy Star. We’ll see.

One morning, Wife had stepped out of the shower a bit before me, so when the plastic accordion door was shoved aside shortly after, I thought little of it as I began toweling off.

“Daddy?” my 2-year old asked in the manner that suggests she’s either in trouble or about to be.

“Yeah Pie?” I replied, forgetting that shorter towels mean my boy bits are exposed while I dry my hair.

“Oh!” she exclaims (she starts most sentences this way), “you have a willie!”

After pulling the towel off my head and debating whether or not to cover myself, I looked down as if to somehow verify that I did indeed, have a willie. I’d decided that showing no shame or awkwardness about it would provide the right message and said, “yep, sure do.”

While I stepped to the mirror to shave, she showed no discomfort while she prattled on with, “I don’t have a willie, I have a fanny!” (‘fanny’ being the Aussie’s word for the girl’s part in the front as opposed to the American’s use of it for anybody’s part in the back) and she continued with, “my brother has a willie too! And Mommy has a fanny too!”

I was enjoying this bit of cuteness right before shaving cream haphazardly smeared across my face when she calmly said, “Nanny (Mother-in-law) has a fanny too!”

I spit a good portion of said shaving cream into the sink as she finished with the loud statement of, “An OLD fanny!”

Too much laughter can bring the kind of reinforcement that a statement like that just doesn’t need. The kid KNOWS when she’s funny, but CrazyCatLady DOES live right next door, and I don’t need that kind of shit coming out of my kid’s mouth randomly and damaging my mother-in-law’s unblemished opinion of me. For this reason, I slapped my hand over my mouth and coughed shaving cream into it while she looked on bewildered.

Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t teach her to say that.

I’m still working on getting her to tell people that hockey goalies are well hung and beer and cigarettes are good for you.

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