Julia: Why did Uncle Paul leave us?
Me: Because there weren't any cute girls here for him to kiss.
Julia: What about me?
Me: I meant, cute girls Uncle Paul's age.
Julia: What about mom?
Me: I meant, cute girls, Uncle Paul's age, who he was not related to.
Julia: Oh. Now he can kiss girls in the States?
Me: You'll have to ask Uncle Paul that question. And trust me, there aren't too many times in life when you'll ever hear me utter those words.
***************
(lights turned off watching "State of Play")
a half dozen termites start swarming around the screen.
Me - Looks like our house is finally starting to pick up a couple of termites.
Jaime - Yep.
(insert conversational silence withtool Ben Affleck in the background)
Jaime - It's still not near as bad as the termite swarms over at ____ and _____ 's house.
Me - Is it bad over there?
Jaime - Yep.
Me - Good to know we finally are keeping up with the Joneses.
'nuff said.
Me: Because there weren't any cute girls here for him to kiss.
Julia: What about me?
Me: I meant, cute girls Uncle Paul's age.
Julia: What about mom?
Me: I meant, cute girls, Uncle Paul's age, who he was not related to.
Julia: Oh. Now he can kiss girls in the States?
Me: You'll have to ask Uncle Paul that question. And trust me, there aren't too many times in life when you'll ever hear me utter those words.
***************
(lights turned off watching "State of Play")
a half dozen termites start swarming around the screen.
Me - Looks like our house is finally starting to pick up a couple of termites.
Jaime - Yep.
(insert conversational silence with
Jaime - It's still not near as bad as the termite swarms over at ____ and _____ 's house.
Me - Is it bad over there?
Jaime - Yep.
Me - Good to know we finally are keeping up with the Joneses.
'nuff said.
It's fair to say I'm just a little excited about our trip off the rock this summer. Usually, I try and plan our Murphy vacation during the weeks prior to Palmetto Bible Camp. This year, we only have one week to squeeze in our adventures before our PBC deadline.
Thus, in June....
The Murphy family will be going
Eight Days
Seven bags
Six trips through Customs (six countries if you include AmSam)
Five currencies, five airlines
Four Big Excursions
Three nights sleeping on the airplane.
Two trips across the International Date Line.
One wife who loves me enough to not kill me for planning such a trip.
Our Google Map
Our family will either fall in love, or fall apart. The Amazing Race is mere child's play for us.
The sole purpose of this particular blog is not to brag, but rather, when I'm stuck in Mexico without a peso to my name, wondering, "What was I thinking?"... I can turn to this blog and recall the passion.
'nuff said.
Dear American Samoa Burglars,
We will be departing the confines of our warm Vaitogi bungalow on or about June 3. If you'd like to steal anything else, this would be the time to do so as our family will likely be visiting the following locales:
New Zealand;
The San Diego Zoo;
Cleveland/Marietta, SC;
The Vol State;
The Natural State;
The Lone Star State;
and then an extended period of time in the great Palmetto State. (and possible side-trip to D.C.)
However, please watch out for the two ferocious dogs, boobie traps and other beastly weapons, including, but not limited to, a 60 ft python that enjoys devouring anything that tastes like pisupo. We also have an ADT alarm system installed that will immediately contact the Tafuna substation upon your unlawful entry.
Furthermore, my floor is equipped with a super secret tracking device that records the size and imprint of your sandals. And everyone KNOWS that sandal prints are as unique as fingerprints... if not more so. Thus, stepping into my house is like leaving foot DNA all over my floor.
Please lock the door on your way out.
And I'm a lawyer, and we always tell the truth.
'nuff said.
We will be departing the confines of our warm Vaitogi bungalow on or about June 3. If you'd like to steal anything else, this would be the time to do so as our family will likely be visiting the following locales:
New Zealand;
The San Diego Zoo;
Cleveland/Marietta, SC;
The Vol State;
The Natural State;
The Lone Star State;
and then an extended period of time in the great Palmetto State. (and possible side-trip to D.C.)
However, please watch out for the two ferocious dogs, boobie traps and other beastly weapons, including, but not limited to, a 60 ft python that enjoys devouring anything that tastes like pisupo. We also have an ADT alarm system installed that will immediately contact the Tafuna substation upon your unlawful entry.
Furthermore, my floor is equipped with a super secret tracking device that records the size and imprint of your sandals. And everyone KNOWS that sandal prints are as unique as fingerprints... if not more so. Thus, stepping into my house is like leaving foot DNA all over my floor.
Please lock the door on your way out.
And I'm a lawyer, and we always tell the truth.
'nuff said.
I'm a romantic at heart... really.
I proposed on Valentines Day; George Strait flowed from my voice box and badly played guitar strings posing as music were produced by my fingers.
We've had a lot of Valentines Day getaways. Memphis. Wild Dunes. Ski slopes in Colorado. Matai room at the Tradewinds. Name a state, Name a hemisphere, it seems as if we've celebrated there.
When it comes to V-Day, I'm not completely at a loss. I understand what's at stake.
However, this year I set a record low. We spent Valentines weekend bunking with our kids in their room. Jaime and I shared the romantic metal double bed, with Colt on the twin bed directly 36 inches above us. Ally and Julia were in the adjacent bunk beds.
Nothing says romance like having your 4-yr old climb into bed at 3 a.m., juxtaposed in such a way that her feet are inches from your nose and her elbows somehow inextricably located near your midsection. (BTW... sharing a bed w/ Julia may be traumatic... but at least the bed stays dry.)
I know, I'm a regular don juan. (i don't know don juan... but apparently that mexican dude has style.)
Now, I'm just like the next guy. I hate the pressure that comes with Valentines Day. Fifty years ago, my grandpa was doing well to remember the day and buy a rose. Today, a rose gets you the cold shoulder unless accompanied by 11 other rose friends, a timely gift, and a thoughtful personalized card. (the card is the jackpot, guys)
But, I have to admit. For the first time in many years, Valentines Day was, basically treated like most other days. In my defense, there's not a lot to do on the island. There are no romantic rotating restaurants located 54 stories atop a coconut tree-shaped building. There are no operas scheduled this year. Shoot... we don't even have a romantic horse-drawn carriages. (there are only about two horses on the island, and I don't suspect they've carried anything other than equine diseases for many years.)
I'm embarrassed to tell anyone what kind of present I bought my wife. It wasn't an appliance. But it was possibly worse. Let's just say it rhymes with "scathing mute." (all twelve readers of the blog are now wasting valuable seconds at work trying to figure this puzzle out.)
I'll do better next year. Note to Self: Time to re-learn that King George song, kick the kids to a grandparent, and fly to Europe.
'nuff said
I proposed on Valentines Day; George Strait flowed from my voice box and badly played guitar strings posing as music were produced by my fingers.
We've had a lot of Valentines Day getaways. Memphis. Wild Dunes. Ski slopes in Colorado. Matai room at the Tradewinds. Name a state, Name a hemisphere, it seems as if we've celebrated there.
When it comes to V-Day, I'm not completely at a loss. I understand what's at stake.
However, this year I set a record low. We spent Valentines weekend bunking with our kids in their room. Jaime and I shared the romantic metal double bed, with Colt on the twin bed directly 36 inches above us. Ally and Julia were in the adjacent bunk beds.
Nothing says romance like having your 4-yr old climb into bed at 3 a.m., juxtaposed in such a way that her feet are inches from your nose and her elbows somehow inextricably located near your midsection. (BTW... sharing a bed w/ Julia may be traumatic... but at least the bed stays dry.)
I know, I'm a regular don juan. (i don't know don juan... but apparently that mexican dude has style.)
Now, I'm just like the next guy. I hate the pressure that comes with Valentines Day. Fifty years ago, my grandpa was doing well to remember the day and buy a rose. Today, a rose gets you the cold shoulder unless accompanied by 11 other rose friends, a timely gift, and a thoughtful personalized card. (the card is the jackpot, guys)
But, I have to admit. For the first time in many years, Valentines Day was, basically treated like most other days. In my defense, there's not a lot to do on the island. There are no romantic rotating restaurants located 54 stories atop a coconut tree-shaped building. There are no operas scheduled this year. Shoot... we don't even have a romantic horse-drawn carriages. (there are only about two horses on the island, and I don't suspect they've carried anything other than equine diseases for many years.)
I'm embarrassed to tell anyone what kind of present I bought my wife. It wasn't an appliance. But it was possibly worse. Let's just say it rhymes with "scathing mute." (all twelve readers of the blog are now wasting valuable seconds at work trying to figure this puzzle out.)
I'll do better next year. Note to Self: Time to re-learn that King George song, kick the kids to a grandparent, and fly to Europe.
'nuff said
Somewhere along the way, I became an island snob.
At first, while on the island, I shook hands and said, "hey," to everyone within an earshot. I was active. I purposefully spent time out and about in the community. I tried to integrate with the culture and the community. I spent time learning the local language. I played sports in the local leagues. I adopted AmSam. (or it adopted me)
Now, I've evolved into the stuck-up introvert.
There are tons of new faces on the island, and I don't even try and figure out who they are or what they're doing. I just assume that if they're under the age of 25, they're from WorldTeach (volunteers that come to teach Samoan public schools for a year... kind of like Peace Corp, but better).
If they're 35-50, I assume they're FEMA or tsunami relief people.
If they've got gray hair, tennis shoes, and their pants pulled up just below their sternum... they're tourists or cruise ship guests.
If they're somewhere in between, I assume they're lost.
'nuff said.
At first, while on the island, I shook hands and said, "hey," to everyone within an earshot. I was active. I purposefully spent time out and about in the community. I tried to integrate with the culture and the community. I spent time learning the local language. I played sports in the local leagues. I adopted AmSam. (or it adopted me)
Now, I've evolved into the stuck-up introvert.
There are tons of new faces on the island, and I don't even try and figure out who they are or what they're doing. I just assume that if they're under the age of 25, they're from WorldTeach (volunteers that come to teach Samoan public schools for a year... kind of like Peace Corp, but better).
If they're 35-50, I assume they're FEMA or tsunami relief people.
If they've got gray hair, tennis shoes, and their pants pulled up just below their sternum... they're tourists or cruise ship guests.
If they're somewhere in between, I assume they're lost.
'nuff said.
The Boy takes off today for his first International Swim Competition (w/o parents, no less). It's not the Olympics. But... it's a start.
He refused to shave his head. But he at least let Uncle Josh cut his hair a bit.
He refused to re-learn the American Samoa National Anthem. (GOT to practice that) But at least he can hum it.
He refused to pose for a blog pic in his tightie spandex swimsuit this morning. But, I don't blame him.
He's spent a gazillion hours in one of our island's small pools, training, re-training, and training some more. You know how you get toCarnegie Hall?; the Pool Hall, the Olympics?
Swim Colt Swim.
One more year in AmSam and under the current I.O.C. rules, our kids we be forever eligible to compete in the Olympics for Team American Samoa. Brazil in 2016???
No pressure kid. No pressure.
'nuff said.
He refused to shave his head. But he at least let Uncle Josh cut his hair a bit.
He refused to re-learn the American Samoa National Anthem. (GOT to practice that) But at least he can hum it.
He refused to pose for a blog pic in his tightie spandex swimsuit this morning. But, I don't blame him.
He's spent a gazillion hours in one of our island's small pools, training, re-training, and training some more. You know how you get to
Swim Colt Swim.
One more year in AmSam and under the current I.O.C. rules, our kids we be forever eligible to compete in the Olympics for Team American Samoa. Brazil in 2016???
No pressure kid. No pressure.
'nuff said.
Murphy Quotes of the Week
1 Comments Published by P-Daddy on Wednesday, February 17, 2010 at 8:10 AM.
"My Dad gave me crabs."
- Julia
(upon spending an hour at Airport Beach with my daughter finding hermit crabs for her new crab-arium/crab-zoo)
Sometimes I worry about being a good host. Will our guests be comfortable? Will they enjoy the food? Is the heat going to make their trip miserable? Are they going to get a staph infection? (so far we're about 2 out of 3 on staph infections per visitor) Will it rain too much?
Last week, Josh and Amber came down for a visit from Kotz, Alaska. A trip from the Arctic Circle's -50 degrees Farenheit weather to our balmy and humid 90 degrees of tropical sunshine. Just a slight shift in weather. (insert sarcasm here)
In addition to seeing the island sights, snorkeling, seeing sharks and turtles, eating Samus and LOTS of Carls Jr. (I need to buy stock in Carls), we spent a day or so preparing for Cyclone Renee, a category two hurricane/cyclone/typhoon (there was much debate about the difference in names. Turns out... they're all the same, the just happen to originate in different places on Earth and cyclones spin clockwise while typhoons and hurricanes spin counterclockwise).
We purchased plywood; boarded up the house; stocked up on candles, flashlights, batteries, bread, milk and cereal; we set out trash bins to collect water (in case of a need for toilet water); and we waited and watched. All businesses shut down. All schools were canceled. The island collectively sat and watched the satellite images.
Luckily, the eye of the storm veered about twenty-seventy miles south (depends on who you ask) and spared our island from the most severe winds. Josh and I sat out on our front porch and watched the coconut trees sway as we listened to the occasional snap of a papaya tree. However, damage was relatively minimal across our island. At best, it's an excuse to break out the chainsaw. (I should note a good friend of ours lost their brother-in-law when he accidentally fell from a roof in preparation for the storm.) Our island brethren in the Manua islands (part of Am.Samoa) and Tonga weren't as lucky as our island. The cyclone caused substantially more damage in their neck of the woods.
All in all, the cyclone was a perfect ending to an awesome visit from Uncle Josh and Aunt Amber. They got to experience island living in all its glory. It seemed to be all a host could want. Sun. Fun. And disaster. Welcome to life on the rock.
'nuff said
Last week, Josh and Amber came down for a visit from Kotz, Alaska. A trip from the Arctic Circle's -50 degrees Farenheit weather to our balmy and humid 90 degrees of tropical sunshine. Just a slight shift in weather. (insert sarcasm here)
In addition to seeing the island sights, snorkeling, seeing sharks and turtles, eating Samus and LOTS of Carls Jr. (I need to buy stock in Carls), we spent a day or so preparing for Cyclone Renee, a category two hurricane/cyclone/typhoon (there was much debate about the difference in names. Turns out... they're all the same, the just happen to originate in different places on Earth and cyclones spin clockwise while typhoons and hurricanes spin counterclockwise).
We purchased plywood; boarded up the house; stocked up on candles, flashlights, batteries, bread, milk and cereal; we set out trash bins to collect water (in case of a need for toilet water); and we waited and watched. All businesses shut down. All schools were canceled. The island collectively sat and watched the satellite images.
Luckily, the eye of the storm veered about twenty-seventy miles south (depends on who you ask) and spared our island from the most severe winds. Josh and I sat out on our front porch and watched the coconut trees sway as we listened to the occasional snap of a papaya tree. However, damage was relatively minimal across our island. At best, it's an excuse to break out the chainsaw. (I should note a good friend of ours lost their brother-in-law when he accidentally fell from a roof in preparation for the storm.) Our island brethren in the Manua islands (part of Am.Samoa) and Tonga weren't as lucky as our island. The cyclone caused substantially more damage in their neck of the woods.
All in all, the cyclone was a perfect ending to an awesome visit from Uncle Josh and Aunt Amber. They got to experience island living in all its glory. It seemed to be all a host could want. Sun. Fun. And disaster. Welcome to life on the rock.
'nuff said
I, admittedly, am not a man of science. When Colt asks, "why do cyclones spin clockwise and hurricanes spin counter-clockwise?" I give him the best answer any parent can possibly give:
A. Go ask your Mom, or
B. Google it.
I know... Parent of the Year 2010, here I come.
Still, I have a hard time grasping the concept of the Fan Vortex Phenomenon. (hereinafter referred to as "FVP" because I'm too lazy to keep spelling phenomenon and having spell checker tell me I spelled it incorrectly.)
I installed a ceiling fan years ago in our bedroom. You'd think, the hotter the temperature, the more you would feel the breeze from the fan. Leai. FVP steals the wind.
On hot, muggy, South Pacific nights, it feels as if the ceiling fan, while spinning at four gazillion revolutions per second, does nothing. Somehow, there's an invisible vortex between my six feet separating my bed from the ceiling fan which sucks all the moving air. So, instead of laying peacefully on my mattress at 10 pm with a light man-made breeze blowing through my hair, I'm starving for circulation, contemplating physics, and sweating profusely, (and this before Jaime has even entered the room).
Yet, on cool nights, the fan feels as though it's blowing Arctic air onto my bare skin. I can't explain it. FVP.
If you can explain this, well... give yourself a pat on the back and explain it to your kids. In the meantime, I'll tell Colt to google the answer for me.
'nuff said.
A. Go ask your Mom, or
B. Google it.
I know... Parent of the Year 2010, here I come.
Still, I have a hard time grasping the concept of the Fan Vortex Phenomenon. (hereinafter referred to as "FVP" because I'm too lazy to keep spelling phenomenon and having spell checker tell me I spelled it incorrectly.)
I installed a ceiling fan years ago in our bedroom. You'd think, the hotter the temperature, the more you would feel the breeze from the fan. Leai. FVP steals the wind.
On hot, muggy, South Pacific nights, it feels as if the ceiling fan, while spinning at four gazillion revolutions per second, does nothing. Somehow, there's an invisible vortex between my six feet separating my bed from the ceiling fan which sucks all the moving air. So, instead of laying peacefully on my mattress at 10 pm with a light man-made breeze blowing through my hair, I'm starving for circulation, contemplating physics, and sweating profusely, (and this before Jaime has even entered the room).
Yet, on cool nights, the fan feels as though it's blowing Arctic air onto my bare skin. I can't explain it. FVP.
If you can explain this, well... give yourself a pat on the back and explain it to your kids. In the meantime, I'll tell Colt to google the answer for me.
'nuff said.
Technologically Deficient
1 Comments Published by P-Daddy on Wednesday, February 03, 2010 at 8:43 AM.
In the past four years or so, I've taken a step back from the age of technology.
I have no concept of an I-pad. In fact, it sounds like something sold to Adults on the Huggies' aisle.
I've seen an I-phone once or twice, but fail to see why I'd want to purchase such an expensive telephone with impossible-to-dial numbers.
I've heard the terms 3G and 4G, but I'm not sure I could tell you what happened to 1G and 2G. Apparently, the G-family moved into my neighborhood while I was away and phone companies can't stop talking about during commercials them while I'm trying to watch a football game.
I see people walking with one of those bluetooth earpieces and they seem out of place- a wannabe Trekkie- three hundred years too soon, as if they were trying to impress others with their cool electronic tumor growing out of their ear. Look Ma! No hands.
I tried using a Palm Pilot for a short while... but it never took. Too much Palm hassle, not enough automatic Pilot.
In short, I've seemingly become the grumpy old man content with my pen, paper, and antiquated telephone from 1999. Though... it's odd to type that on my web log. Move over Andy Rooney, I'm about to join you on the old-man bench.
'nuff said.
I have no concept of an I-pad. In fact, it sounds like something sold to Adults on the Huggies' aisle.
I've seen an I-phone once or twice, but fail to see why I'd want to purchase such an expensive telephone with impossible-to-dial numbers.
I've heard the terms 3G and 4G, but I'm not sure I could tell you what happened to 1G and 2G. Apparently, the G-family moved into my neighborhood while I was away and phone companies can't stop talking about during commercials them while I'm trying to watch a football game.
I see people walking with one of those bluetooth earpieces and they seem out of place- a wannabe Trekkie- three hundred years too soon, as if they were trying to impress others with their cool electronic tumor growing out of their ear. Look Ma! No hands.
I tried using a Palm Pilot for a short while... but it never took. Too much Palm hassle, not enough automatic Pilot.
In short, I've seemingly become the grumpy old man content with my pen, paper, and antiquated telephone from 1999. Though... it's odd to type that on my web log. Move over Andy Rooney, I'm about to join you on the old-man bench.
'nuff said.
