The Knackered Truth

Wellington Harbour

I knew it'd be hard moving to a new country. What I didn’t consider was how hard it would be as a new mom (mum?) in a new country.

My first year as a mom in America, I was already living far away from family so even though they were a three-hour plane ride away, I felt like I could handle it for the most part. However, I was endlessly tired. Oops, I mean knackered, as they say in New Zealand (for the longest time I thought my Kiwi friends were saying they were naked which made me feel very awkward).

I didn’t think about how tired I'd be moving my family overseas. It was hard living on my own in the past and putting myself out there; making new friends, living fearlessly. Now I had to try to do that with a wee human attached to my hip. And I didn’t think about how much my son would change and how the challenges of the first year of his life were passing, only to progress into newer challenges (hellllooooo tantrums!).

When we arrived in New Zealand a little over a year ago, we didn’t have furniture for the first three months. Our house was not insulated so living without furniture made our new home a large, empty freezer. Thankfully some coworkers of my husbands pitched in a few items to help us get through but we had to get out of the house multiple times during the day in order to stay sane.

We bought the stuffed bear upon arrival. Needed something comfy!

Bought the camping chair and lamp. Wooden chair borrowed from a coworker

Driving on the other side of the road was not as hard as I imagined. At first, being on the left felt wobbly, but it became relatively easy when following traffic. It was parallel parking and turning that gave me the most fright. Only one time, and that was ten months into living here, did I make a left turn to find myself on the right side of the road. Luckily, on this usually heavy-trafficked road, there was only one car and he laid on the horn for quite awhile as I swerved. It only lasted a few seconds, but was enough to raise my blood pressure.

My husband driving our rental car upon arrival

I’ve actually really liked making my way around the city (but don’t get me started about my most-unflattering-ever NZ driver’s license photo). There are some bad drivers here who make Boston drivers look good, but for the most part, they’re friendly.

I find them to be fussier about signaling (indicating with the indicator which I often get confused with the wipers as they’re on the other side of the steering). And I find most of them to be welcoming to those of us trying to merge on to the motorway. Most offer a wave in appreciation if you allow them through, something I'm not used to seeing in the States.

Maneuvering my way up and down and around the narrow roads, I am reminded of the roads in Jamaica where people (school children, too) walked straight on into the traffic and trusted that the driver wouldn’t hit them. Here, pedestrians are diligent about cross walks, but I do see people risking their necks by stepping out into heavy traffic. This is not a “sue-happy” country. It just seems there is this unspoken trust, “you won’t hit me”. And if you do stop in the middle of the road to let them walk in front of you, they're baffled but appreciative.

So to settle us into the Wellington life, my son and I would try something new everyday. Soon we found a favorite park by the ocean, a spray pool/swim class, a local library stocked full of Hairy MacLary books, and the Te Papa museum, among other fantastic places. Te Papa is THE place to go in the winter. The best part: it’s free! Pay for parking! That’s it! And to make it even better, they have “imagination stations” set up throughout just for our wee ones to discover on their own. What a wonderful education these children are receiving, along with the inner message that learning about and exploring their world is important.

We eventually found our way to a tumbling class at the reccenter. The class provides mats, climbing structures, a trampoline, balance beam, and more for him to roam. The best part, after the class you get to spend as much time as you want in the pretend town, Tiny Town. Kiddos can maneuver their way through the little town with ride on cars and bikes, little playhouses, and a bouncy house. No need to know what side of the road to be on.

Before I sound like a tour guide for Kid Friendly Wellington, I am mentioning these places because they have been a wonderful introduction, not only to being a mum to a toddler, but to the current women in my life. Without these friendships, I would not be able to live here. Truly. The women, who have become family to me, are some of the most brilliant, confident, artistic, compassionate, women I’ve ever met.

They have welcomed my family into their lives with open arms. I don’t think I could even begin to put into words all that they have taught me. One of my best friends happens to be an American who has lived here for a few years. I remember the first conversation I had with her she said, “If you make a Kiwi friend you will have one for life. They are fiercely loyal.” I have found that to be true. We share parenting stories full of tears, laughter, and sometimes a bit of whine (and wine). Any doubts I may have about motherhood, they are the perfect guides. When I'm knackered and can't go on another hour, they cheer me on. Even my good mate who isn't a mum, will be a beautiful mum someday because she's absolutely wonderful with my boy.  They are the type of women I want my son to learn from and I am so grateful he looks to them and knows he can trust them.

As I think about the trials of moving to a new country with a toddler, still relatively new to motherhood, I think about what a pleasure it has been navigating Wellington. Don’t get me wrong: I'm not wearing rose-colored glasses. I’m well aware of potholes everywhere. But so far, it feels to me like Wellingtonians look out for one another, just as we moms do. 

For now, a year into this move and two years into parenthood, I’m happy to say I've found my way.

Mother Earth

Waiting to hear Dr Goodall speak

Sunday afternoon, my friend and I attended a talk at the Michael Fowler center in Wellington. The speaker: Jane Goodall. 

As we made our way through the crowd to our seats, I was happily overwhelmed by the wide range of generations in attendance surrounding us. Some with white hair, well into their seventies; some younger generations sporting baseball caps, probably college aged, and even kiddos as young as three. The majority filling the seats were probably thirty-somethings.

After a brief greeting from a member of  Wellington Zoo staff and the mayor of Wellington, they introduced Dr. Goodall, who approached the podium. I'd only ever seen pictures of her and for some reason her signature hair was her most recognisable feature, at least from a distance: long, soft, greyish white pulled into a low ponytail. Behind her, a large screen projected her bigger for those of us in the upper levels to see.

She greeted with a Chimpanzee calling-- the way chimps announce to their pack their presence. Chuckles among the crowd, Jane Goodall smiled with lips together, not revealing teeth. This call familiar for her a sound perhaps, of her home in Gombe. 

Moving on, I don’t think there's any better way for Dr Goodall to begin than by sharing a story about her mother. As a young girl she'd bring worms into bed with her. Her mother, instead of getting upset with the dirt in bed, reminded that worms “need the earth to live” and helped her daughter bring the worms back to the dirt. For Goodall, this was the beginning of a deep understanding and appreciation of her environment and thus, led to her physical anthropologist career.

As Dame Goodall thanked her mother from the stage, I witnessed a mother in the row in front of me reach to pat her teenage daughter's hand. Her daughter returned the gesture, holding her mother’s hand. 

Dr Goodall spoke about her studies among a chimpanzee tribe, observing good mothers and bad mothers, the difference mostly attentiveness and playfulness. She spoke about how the chimpanzees care about and use their home to help them survive. Obviously we humans are more intelligent than them, so why don’t we use our wisdom to care for and respect our home as well?

While waiting for Dr Goodall, we are graced with this picture of David, I believe

 What caused me to pause and reflect was my favorite quote from the day, “When humans reach their full potential, the head and heart will be in harmony.”

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with my own hypocrisy. But Dr Goodall made it clear she wasn't there to make anyone feel guilty. She did not push her beliefs. There was no accusatory tone in her message or finger wagging. She was only there to share her observations.

The 80-year-old woman travels 300 days a year, remarking that everywhere she goes she has friends: in nature, in animals, in the people she meets. In the many children she meets, she sees anger and even violence over what has happened to their sacred home that we, the older generations have wounded. But in many of them she also sees hope, courage, and determination to make a difference. And she reports, “they are" making a difference.

With that, the audience thanked her with a standing ovation. To my left, a teenage girl accepted a tissue from her mother, both wiping away tears. It was clear this event was in honour of her mother, our mothers, their mothers, and Mother Earth.
Still appearing on the big screen, she slowly glanced at the hundreds standing before her, hearing her message. Quietly she said into the microphone, “That is enough to maintain hope”.

Afterward, I had to buy her latest book, Seeds of Hope. Not just for myself, but to give to my son as he gets older, a lover of all things nature. He’s the boy who stops to smell the flowers even if they are weeds. He’s the boy Jane Goodall refers to when she says there are future generations full of hope that we can replenish and nurture our nature.

With the purchased book in hand (after waiting in line for thirty minutes or more) my friend and I merged to a different line for a signing, which took another thirty-forty minutes. They were moving people through quite quickly, no dedications, only signing her name, so it didn’t take long. 

halfway through the line for signing

My turn to step up, I had to say something even though it felt we weren’t supposed to. I handed her the book, page open to sign, “I'll give this to my son.”

She glanced up to make eye contact- her hair no longer the focal point of recognition, overpowered by the kindest eyes I've ever seen- and in her hushed voice said, “Wonderful.”

Her assistant beside her asked, “How old is your son?”

Surprised I was spoken to and not ushered aside, I said, “Two.”

The assistant said, “Oh probably a little too young for the roots and shoots program then…”

Dr Goodall finished signing, handed the book back, and without missing a beat of conversation jumped right in and said, “Oh no, we have children that young who join… preschool age,” she said as our eyes locked.

The assistant continued to speak but I didn’t hear. I knew at any moment another person would pull me away to keep moving, so as I was very slowly walking away I just said, “He’s a helper.”

Jane Goodall smiled, “Is he?”

I continued, taking baby steps away, “He likes to pat-pat trees.” She grinned as I walked away. I managed to hurriedly get out one last “Thank you”.  She smiled and nodded again.

A very brief exchange but one leaving a lasting signature in my heart. My friend and I walked out onto the street; both of us giddy and full from Dr Goodall’s speech. Hopeful. 

Dr Jane Goodall signing copies of her book, "Seeds of Hope"

Looking into Dr Jane Goodall’s eyes, incredibly compassionate eyes maintaining the innocence of a child, inspired me not to become discouraged or hardened. She's reminded me the importance of perseverance, compassion, and hope. She's inspired me to accept the dirt in life and turn it into knowledge. She's shown me of the importance of observation- you never know what might inspire you just by watching others. Embrace warmth, know it's okay for there to be mistakes and flaws- as long as there is a desire to make it better. Hopefully my son will carry such messages, too. 

Resilient, enlightened, hopeful and caring… Mother Earth... Dr. Goodall.

I must honor her mothering spirit. 

For more information:

Jane Goodall Institute's Roots And Shoots Program

Jane Goodall Institute

What We Can Do

Pocket of Grief

I have a lot of things to be emotional about these days. Anyone who knows me knows that I have always been someone who values emotion, no matter how difficult, as it’s there to make me pay attention. While trying to process my present emotions, I keep going back to an old, private writing of mine from 2010 titled, “Pocket of Grief”.

I have this little pocket of grief that is a part of me. It’s where I hold the pain from whatever may be having an affect on me at the time; from lost relationships with loved ones to death of friends and family members. It’s there for me to acknowledge but not to let consume me. I'm not concerned about emptying the pocket as it has become a part of who I am. But right now, I feel that pocket may be overflowing.

Since becoming a mom two years ago, I can’t seem to hear or read any stories that involve the abuse or death of a child. I think this is a pretty “normal” response for new moms, but I actually weep when I hear such ordeals. This is probably one reason why my job as an addictions counselor was more stressful for me after giving birth.

The latest grief added to my pocket is about the kidnapped girls in Nigeria. I realize violence is something that occurs on a regular basis over there and I cannot bring myself to hear too much about it. I don’t think it’s choosing to live in denial, really, but I think it’s that I don’t know what to do about it. A rally was held in our city and while I wanted to go, I’m actually glad I didn’t (toddler nap time). My good friend, Patricia Sexton participated in the rally and wrote about it. And what I read from her experience, I would not have been able to stay. Her blog post was enough to bring me to tears.

This morning I read about more violence by the Boko Haram group in which according to the CNN report, "Even nursing mothers had their male infants snatched from their backs and shot dead before their eyes," the local leader said. What are we supposed to do about this? Now that I’ve read this I am affected by it, my pocket of grief overflowing and I can’t do anything with this information accept cry about it.

So I write.

There are so many stories like these around the world that are untold. As we hear more about them, how do we keep our grief from overflowing?

Last night, I watched my son play with plastic milk bottle caps. He was so focused on sorting them from one cup to another. When it got too easy using his fingers, he chose to use a toy spatula from his play kitchen. I studied his face: his eyes darting from one cup to another, his lips parting and then breaking into a smile at a successful drop of the cap into a cup, then his shriek of joy in getting all the caps sorted. Tears came to my eyes as I thought of how much he has grown into a little person. My baby is now a little boy.

And then I thought of the stories of abuse I read about in the news.

The Santa Barbara killings that occurred a few weeks ago absolutely broke my heart for everyone involved. Not just sorrow for the victims, but also for the boy who struggled with a severe personality disorder and mental illness. And, for the families.

I can’t help but to think about the many stories I heard in my career; the stories of drug overdoses, of suicide. Suffering. Addicts wanting their high more than the love of their family or friends. These people started out as babies. Babies who had a mother or mother figure in their life who fought for them to thrive, who had hope that they would find peace and happiness in their lives.

Yet the baby is now an adult and the adult is in love with their addiction. And when that happens, nothing else can get in their way. They hurt and the hurt piles up because they know deep down their family hurts now, too. But they are too far gone into their addiction so they keep going… and they refuse any sort of love the family has to offer. Add a personality disorder or other mental health issue to it and the idea of help becomes hopeless.

The baby is gone just like that.

I think about the life these mothers give- the mothers of Nigeria, the mothers of the deceased in CA, the mother with a child struggling with illness- they bring a miracle into this world; they sacrifice to ensure their babies survive… and then lives are gone.

My pocket of grief overflows thinking of all the struggles that are out there in the world. We’re all searching for the answers, searching for help and trying to maintain hope. None of us really know what to do; we have ideas, but we don’t really know how to help.

I wish there was more I could offer. All I have to share is my pocket of grief.

Whether you’re in Nigeria, South Korea, Ukraine, the US, or New Zealand… I hope your pocket of grief doesn’t overflow and that you find a way to remember that at one time, we were all just babies.

Intermission

I'm in New Zealand! Where are you?

My search for Joe Wellington has come to a halt. I’m stuck. I don’t know what the next move should be.

The phone number I had for a 'J Wellington' in the region continues to ring, unanswered. And I try it frequently.

I’ve come to the conclusion that his last name must not be Wellington. Although I was pretttttty pretttttty sure (Larry David-style of sure) that was his last name, I just don’t know how it could be when I can’t find anyone matching his description with that name.

Or perhaps he just doesn’t live in New Zealand anymore.

In this day and age of technology, social media, how could he be so difficult to find? I’m open to suggestions if anyone has any of how I can continue this search.

So where does this leave me, and where does it leave this blog?

I’m not certain.

What I do know is that in my search for Mr. Wellington, I’ve uncovered some pretttty pretttttty old (Larry David-style of old ) writings of mine that have stopped me in my tracks. Moments in my life that I remember perfectly and am grateful to have that document that time in my life. While I’m all in favor of “living in the moment”, sometimes things are so eloquently said in the past that ring true for the present. 

So for now, I will stop with my search for Joe Wellington. All those men on the street I stare at as I pass them will not need to be scared of me any longer. The father at tumbling class will not need to avoid my gaze. No more crazy car chases.

It is time to move on...still open to finding Joe Wellington...

But let's get personal. 

I'm going to allow my vulnerability to create whatever it desires. In the next few months I will be sharing some more personal writings.  Some old, some new. Same blog name. Joe Wellington has inspired me to write. He has motivated me to take risks and get involved. 

I hope all of you will continue to join me during this intermission and remember... if you find Joe Wellington, you better let me know!

The Spirit of a Mother

This post is completely unrelated to Joe Wellington. As was the last post I made. But I enjoy that this blog has taken on a form of its own, exploring life and appreciating little gifts here and there as I walk this journey. And, I guess it’s not entirely off-topic, as Joe Wellington wasn’t created out of thin air. I’m sure he adores his mama.

Lately, I find that any moment I can have to myself doing whatever I want is very hard to come by. My son is almost two and very spirited. It takes a lot of energy to keep up with him, and enough patience that would qualify me to be a Zen Buddhist monk.

So a girlfriend and I, who has a son the same age, decided to do a swap one day every week in which one of us has both boys while the other does something for herself. It may only be for an hour or hour and a half… but to me, it is a heavenly hour and a half.

This week, I was able to submerge myself into that heavenly moment of tranquility. I didn’t have a plan but I knew I was going to be able to leave my son with our friend so that I could find something to do. The weather being hit or miss, I decided to test the weather Gods and head off for a walk along the sea. I was able to sit on a bench and watch the waves crash against the sea wall for a good fifteen minutes before the hard rain fell. A sheltered bus stop gave me some relief until the wind picked up and I ran to my car.

I sat for a moment, listening to the rain pound on the car and wondered where I should go next. A café? A store for shopping? But I became mesmerized watching the rain and the hardcore, determined joggers fight their way along the parade through the rain and wind to their stopping point.

Then my stomach started to tighten and guilt tempted me to drive away and find something to keep me busy. However, knowing my son was okay, I stayed put. My stomachache increasing, I tried a quick meditation to help relax. But I couldn’t. My mind continued to think… think… and think… and I wasn’t even thinking about anything in particular. But I could not rid the guilt.

I reclined the seat back and saw a clearing in the clouds. The sun poked through for a moment and I breathed along with the racing puffy clouds above me. “Aotearoa”, or “Land of the long white cloud” is where my husband and I live, 9,000 miles away from our mothers.

In that moment, I thought about being a mum and how funny it is that I didn’t know what to do with myself once I actually had a moment to myself. Have I completely forgotten what it feels like to just sit, alone with my thoughts? Am I that attached to my son that I can’t allow myself to relax even when I know he’s in good hands? Apparently the separation anxiety goes both ways.

These thoughts led me to examine the term “letting go”. I’ve often heard the term, mostly in relation to unhealthy situations, specifically around addiction, but it is now taking on a new meaning for me as a mother. Am I supposed to start the process of “letting go” even though he is only two? How is that possible?! He still loves his little stuffed doggy, still prefers to be rocked at night, still cries for a cuddle when he’s uncertain or hurt… how am I supposed to let go?

That’s when I came to this conclusion: as a mother, I don’t think I will ever let go. I don’t know that any of us should officially ‘let go’ of our sweet little ones (even if they’re in their thirties now!). I think, as adult babies, we will always need to be loved, cuddled, and comforted by our mothers.

Unfortunately, there are some barriers (see aforementioned ‘unhealthy situations’) to this philosophy… BUT I suggest we mums look at it in a different way: How about we trust? We say ‘let go’ by trusting that someone greater is watching over our babies (even the adult babies!). We trust that somewhere, deep down, our babies will always know and feel our love. They might not be aware that it’s there, and they might not ever want to acknowledge it, but a mother’s love never disappears. This, I know. We are all imperfect beings, all of us mothers doing the best we can, wherever we are, but it is always with love.

Sitting in my car, listening to the rain, watching the waves, I relax and enjoy my time alone, trusting that my son certainly knows how much his mama loves him.

Then I think of my mom, on the other side of the world. And I get tearful when I think of her love. I get so emotional about it that I can’t even put it into words. Her love goes beyond any realm of understanding.

And I’m sure your mother’s love does, too.

Uncovering Kindness

photo: AnneFrank.org

Last week I watched a YouTube clip of the US Capitol’s dedication to a sapling tree on their lawn. This wasn’t just any sapling; it was from the chestnut tree that Anne Frank gazed at while in hiding in the Netherlands during WW2.

What does this have to do with Joe "Wellington"? Not much except he was a kind soul. And because I journaled like crazy growing up thanks to Anne Frank's influence. I wrote about my time in San Francisco. Yet, no mention AT ALL of Joe. Isn't that bizarre?

I’ve always had a fondness for Anne Frank. Her story, her light in the time of such darkness is a reminder not only of an evil time in history, but for all of us to take a step back and appreciate what we have in the moment. Her diary is an inspiration to us to remember that we can control our thoughts and how we look at the situations we're in. Her message of unconditional love, no matter what one is faced with, will forever be at the core of my being.

So what does unconditional love mean? I think it’s a true gift to be able to love and respect someone even if opinions are not in alignment. That's the beauty of friendship. That's the beauty of people, in general. The beauty of life. We learn. We grow. We challenge each other to be better than we already are; we support passions; we encourage happiness; we practice forgiveness; and we provide comfort in times of sadness.

A year ago, I left a job I loved working as an addictions treatment counselor, more specifically, an assessment counselor. Not only did the clients challenge me, but also I discovered great lessons watching colleagues interact with one another. On a daily basis, I was faced with some sort of aggression. It was a very hard job to always wear protective armor to help shield against negativity while maintaining a compassionate stance. Nonetheless, I looked for something about each person that I could admire. And that was how I was able to do my work. Let me be clear that it was not easy. Even the people who spewed hatred my way or didn’t have a sunny disposition, I learned from. They were my teachers. I try to maintain this philosophy on a daily basis, even though I’m not working in the field any longer.

There are people out there who easily dismiss others because they are different from them or they say something that sounds “stupid”, don't agree with their political views, or whatever the reason. The people who cast others aside easily, I find, are perhaps just unable in that moment to allow their own vulnerabilities to surface. They're afraid to pay attention to it because it stirs something in them that causes unrest; not a fault, either. That can also be something to honor. Everyone learns in his or her own time. The perceptions we have about life and others is something that happens organically, at each individual’s own pace. It’s not something that can be forced.

Anne Frank, living in turmoil, was blessed to have a mature insight into humanity at such a young age. It was a necessity for her to seek solace in trusting that something greater than all of THIS is in charge. She held on to her faith that there is goodness out there and that we will all be taken care of. 

And she coped by writing. Her writing was her best friend.

Practice kindness. Anne’s story reminds me that kindness should be the foundation of our existence. Realistically, I don’t know if this is possible. As imperfect humans, we react either positively or negatively. What if, then, we just don’t react? What if we remain unattached to all things, even our interactions with others? I’m not suggesting inaction, I’m saying just remain neutral, honest, and open in our engagements. What if we just let things be instead of trying to control the outcome?

I’m going to challenge myself to let things be as they may and only be responsible for my feelings and actions, always with a kind heart.

Thank you, Anne Frank for helping me uncover my kindness. And thank you for allowing me this space to ramble. 

p.s. Where is Joe Wellington?

No Answer

Image thanks: madam-zelda.blogspot.com

Remember the post about a month ago (Discovering Courage) in which I found two phone numbers for a possible J. Wellington? I was able to rule out one number and left with an unanswered ring on the other. My anxiety peaked at that time as I tried dialing the numbers…

Well, I’m happy to report that the second phone call was much more relaxed.

And I was still met with NO ANSWER.

Brrrrinnnng brrrrinnng brrrrinnnng was all I heard.

Not so fun (sigh).

The last few days I've been thinking a lot about Joe "Wellington" and our brief time together. I reread through my San Francisco journal, just in case there was something I missed. No luck. I've been trying to remember things that were said, things we did, and it all seems to lead me toward dead ends.

One cool thing we did: saw a psychic. She gave us readings separately, Joe waiting for me while I went because I didn’t want to walk back to the hostel in the dark alone.

I believe in the gift of clairvoyance. I have very dear friends, who I admire, who have that gift. But there are some psychics out there who give these people who have the true gift a bad name. The psychic I saw in San Fran was one of those.

She wanted my money. All of it. And she even asked me for it! After reading my cards, she said she would keep a candle burning for me until I returned with “all the money you have” and continue the reading. She was even so bold to ask me how much money I had. Of course, I didn’t tell her. If I did not return, she said she would blow out the candle and apparently I would be met with misfortune…? I can’t remember exactly what the consequence was, but I didn’t return. Maybe that’s why I can’t find Joe Wellington?

This instance is important to me now because I feel like these past few weeks I’ve had questions remain unanswered. And I don’t even know what the questions are, if that makes any sense. There is just a general, open-ended, search for meaning happening in my life right now. The Existentialists out there can appreciate that.

I’ve had horrible writer’s block. I feel antsy when I don’t write, and I want to write about everything… but nothing has been flowing. I began several posts but none felt right. I couldn’t find the answer to my non-question. Ha!

The weather change makes me feel like Thanksgiving is right around the corner but it’s only May. It brings on this intense homesickness that I can’t seem to shake and the only reprieve I find is that I know we’ll be heading to the States in only a few months. But again, that lingering sorrow just tugs at my spirit. Again, looking for answers.

Along with the homesickness, comes this aching loneliness. Lonely for what exactly, I don’t know. Perhaps, just lonely for a connection. My social life has been scattered, with friends laid up with illness, filming, or working, or just busy getting ready to hibernate for the winter. I’m constantly with my son so I shouldn’t feel lonely (?). Yet, I’m still looking for answers.

I remind myself that sometimes the answers lie in the not knowing; the uncertainty; the unmotivated; the loneliness; the insecurity. So I wait. I practice patience. I allow myself to sit with all these thoughts and pent up creative energy that is festering until it can ooze out of me at the right time. My purpose is just to enjoy all of it. Let it sit, let it float out there in the universe, and the answers will come.

As I replay in my memory the moments shared in San Francisco 1998, I wonder what the answer will be... Where’s Joe Wellington?

Me with Joe Wellington in 1998. He was real!

Brrrrinnng brrrrinnng brrrrinnnng is all I can hear in my head right now.

Maybe not having an answer is enough.