“Yes, there’re Americans living in my guest house,” I heard Marian say at the barbeque. It was Christmas and Australians have cookouts for Christmas. Not sure the tradition will catch on in Northern Maine with a couple feet of snow.
We were introduced around as a novelty.
But she is correct, Mr. and Mrs. NT are living in the guest house on her ranch. All sorts of amenities came with the place, too. Laundry in the big house, or at least in the old wing of the big house. We have to do our own laundry. There’s a new white Jaguar in the carport. We don’t get to drive Marian’s Jag. I have a used ute. Marian is a big wheel in some business circles. My only claim to notoriety is that I live in her guest house.
Trash removal comes with the place too. I told some people at the Christmas gathering that Marian takes out my trash. Color drained from faces and eyes shifted back and forth. Oops, another Yankee slip up. Marian piped up, “I have people to do that.”
Ah yes, that would be Dillard, Marian’s husband. Dillard runs the cattle on the place and he too, drives a used ute. We’re mates. He has lots of cow questions which I can’t answer. He doesn’t go much farther than what he needs for parts or to pick up hay. A homebody like that is relieved that Marian is independent enough to shoot out on her own. Not like she’d ask permission anyway.
Fortunately, the subject of sport came up to divert the conversation away from my latest slip up. Australians shorten many words such as Christmas presents to “Chrissy pressies.” They shorten sports to sport, but lengthen math to maths. Go figure. Australian Rules Football is played with a little less protective gear than rugby, which wear only mouth guards. In Australian Rules Football, mouth guards are for wimps. Consequently, so are teeth after a few games. Anyway, it seems that some big shot or other is always inviting Marian to a skybox or an owner’s box to see the “footy”.
Obviously, I moved to the edge of my seat to listen in. That’s polite for eavesdropping.
“I’m just not interested in going to football games. I wish they’d invite someone who’s interested in going. It’s such a chore,” Marian went on.
I thought about raising my hand and calling out “Pick me! Pick me!” but I didn’t. Not sure why, but I’d already spilled champagne on my lap and a little onto the couch where no one saw, and I didn’t want to spill more. The champagne I spilled was a bit of the fourth glass, so I’m rather surprised I didn’t raise my hand and call out. Perhaps reflexes were slowed just a tad. Anyway, I’m not going to an Australian Rules Football game, I’m still allowed in fancy houses, and because I talk funny, I’m still a novelty. I’ll see how long all that lasts.
