Feeling Crook

Warning: This article contains intimate digestive details. If you have a delicate constitution, you may want to pass on this entry. I know some of you are going to read it despite my warning and will probably never look at me in quite the same way again. Just be happy I have not included any pictures.



I normally have a stalwart digestive system. I typically eat anything and everything and with one notable exception in Mexico, rarely suffer ill consequences. Of course, I personally do not consider outrageous flatulence to be an ill consequence. I find farting to be more of an endlessly entertaining by-product of digestion.

However, last Sunday afternoon my lower intestines were suddenly seized by the most outrageous pain I have ever experienced (with one notable exception in Mexico). The entire lining of my digestive tract was ablaze. It felt like rodents had climbed up my ass and made a nest inside my transverse colon. By nightfall I was in tears.

“You probably just need to take a big shit,” said my husband, clearly all awash with sympathy.

I followed his advice the next morning, but experienced no relief from my agony. My entire abdomen was tender and it hurt to the touch. The simple act of walking sent spasms of pain through my gut with each footfall. I called in sick to work and spent the next two days in bed.

Come Wednesday, I was still feeling quite delicate, but I was bored to tears (Australian day time television is a horror show) and now my back was sore from lying down, so I decided to go to work anyway. For the next few days, I limped around the lab with a distinctive slouch in an effort to cushion my internal organs against the pain that still gripped my digestive tract, prompting my boss to inquire as to whether I might have a giardia infection. I dismissed the idea, since I had not been drinking from any mountain streams lately and because I did not have diarrhea – in my mind two inseparable prerequisites for a giardia infestation diagnosis.

But then, an extraordinary thing happened. I took a shit. Nothing extraordinary about that. What was extraordinary was the color. Because of my adventurous eating habits, I have produced a veritable rainbow of excrement, my personal favourite being a brilliant atomic red after eating some chili-lime-peanuts in Mexico (note: this was not related to the ‘notable exception’ mentioned above), made especially memorable because it was produced al fresco in an arroyo during a camping trip. However, I have never before fabricated a turd that was such an intense shade of yellow. The color was so striking, that it immediately sent me to the Internet in search of answers.

Now, I know the Internet is home to numerous unfathomable obsessions, and I fully expected to come across plenty of shit-fetish websites. What I did NOT expect to find on the Internet was a thoughtful and intellectual community of people who like to engage in outrageously humorous discussions of one of the human body’s most basic functions. Which brings me to the real purpose of this article: I would like to introduce you to my new favourite web-site.

http://www.poopreport.com/

This site is certainly not for everyone, but if you enjoy hearing gruesome details about excremental misadventures, then you will certainly find this site entertaining. If you’ve ever bragged about the quantity or quality of your own movements (mom), then you just might find a few humbling anecdotes amongst the links. And if you love really bad puns, you will not be disappointed.

After wasting the better part of two working days goofing around on my new favourite website, I eventually learned that yellow poop has two primary causes. One is a harmless condition called Gilbert’s Syndrome involving the improper breakdown of red blood cells. I also learned that yellow poop (especially if it is greasy and floaty, ahem) is a classic symptom of a giradia infection! Further research on giardia uncovered the fact that one may not have any or all of the symptoms and that it can be contracted from other sources besides contaminated mountain streams, such as swimming pools or Sydney Water.

As much as I enjoy discussing pooping issues, I am absolutely appalled at the idea of producing the stool sample required for an official diagnosis of giardiasis. According to the CDC, the infection may run its course in 2 to 6 weeks, and that one of the side effects can be dramatic weight loss of up to 10% of one’s body weight – which just so happens to be the amount of weight I gained last month eating super burritos and bacon while in America.

Hmmm, poop in a bag and take antibiotics or suffer a few cramps and lose weight?

I’ll have to ask my new on-line community what they think…meanwhile, I have been slouching around the house singing “Oh, Giardia!” to the tune of the Canadian national anthem.

20 Years On

It was twenty years ago today (well, in America anyway) that two worlds collided over a microfilm reader in the periodicals department of the San Jose Main Library (before it was the Martin Luther Chavez Library or whatever politically conscientious name it now has). It is weird, looking back now, to think about the future that was about to grow out of that hormone-fueled encounter. It has been one hell of a journey so far, with doings and goings beyond my imagining. Good Lord, what will the next 20 years bring?

More frequent trips to the emergency room, no doubt...

Happy Anniversary, Darling.

2008 Sydney Bitch Fest

I've long heard stories about the enormous colony of giant fruit bats (also known as flying foxes) that spend their days roosting in the tree tops of the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney, but I've never gone looking for them - though I have seen them in the evenings when they take flight en masse and head off to raid the night flowering plans of neighboring suburbs. The spectacle is truly amazing as the twilight is blotted out by thousands of lumbering silhouettes gliding slowly towards the horizon. It seems that a creature so large should have to flap its wings quite rapidly to remain airborne, yet these rodents of the night sky seem to drift along with the smallest of efforts.


Indeed, I still was not looking for them last Sunday as I crossed the gardens on my way to the Art Gallery of New South Wales to take in some of the exhibits on display as part of the 2008 Biennale of Sydney (if anyone can offer a hint as to how to pronounce 'biennale', I would be most appreciative - it rattles around in my brain in a most uncomfortable fashion). Australian capitols frequently indulge in city-wide themed art festivals involving a variety of venues and mediums. "Billed this year as a celebration of the defiant spirit...The theme of the 16th Biennale, Revolutions – Forms That Turn, suggests the impulse to revolt, a desire for change, and seeing the world differently." Seeing the world differently is one of my favorite past-times, so despite the warnings from my 'frown radar', we headed down to the city.


My facial muscles quickly descended into a deep frown as I viewed a video installment of a woman beating a bicycle with a club in her apartment. I was kind of smitten with a big white button that, when pushed, rang a series of very loud and very harsh bells distributed throughout the gallery. However, I can't say that either exhibit really challenged my perception of the world. I did really like the collection of chalk drawings on the outside of the gallery, though. This one was my favorite:





Oh yeah, the bats...

So, as we crossed the gardens and descended into a deep grove of trees, I heard the unmistakable chatter of a gazillion fruit bats. I swear, they must be the bitchiest species on the planet. The following video does not strive to capture the magnitude of the colony, as it would have quickly become a boring survey of tree after tree filled with bitchy brown ornaments. I did, however, attempt to demonstrate the crabby exchanges between individuals that seem to serve as entertainment through the long day. The god-awful honking in the background came from a palm tree filled with ibises. (I have a video of them also - available on request - but it did not come out very good and besides, they are really ugly birds!)

Crossing Over

As the bus rounded the corner in front of Central Station, I spotted the most glamorous looking woman standing in the chill morning sun. She was wearing black high-heeled leather boots and black slacks. Her long legs vanished beneath a stylish cream colored knitted cloak. Her long brown hair curled gracefully around her neck from beneath a cream colored knitted beret. She turned to look down George Street. She was a he.

I have to say, Sydney has some of the best-dressed transvestites I have ever encountered.

Jiggity-Jig

I would need to take the next week off from work in order to compose any sort of cohesive narrative of the last week of my US visit. Returning to San Jose is always a whirlwind experience, and since unforseen circumstances abridged the duration of that leg of our journey, I felt like I was squishing a 7 day schedule into a 76 hour time slot. Many conversations were cut short; many important things left unsaid.

I feel the need to summarize the experiences of my first trip back home in 1.5 years, to somehow draw a few poignant conclusions that would either justify all of my life’s decisions or ignite a shining beacon that points the way towards my destiny. But if I am learning one thing about life (my life anyway), it is that I should make good friends with uncertainty, doubt, and ambiguity as they will be my constant companions on this earthly trek. I am tempted to say that I simply need more time to process the jumble of emotions experienced over the last month, but I know that in reality, I will never quite ‘figure it out’, because feelings don’t obey the rules of reason.

So, instead, here is a jumble of random conclusions and observations that is in no way meant to be comprehensive or definitive:

1) I am absolutely bored to death with conversations about the price of gasoline.

2) Cats are disloyal sluts who will sell out 13 years of care and affection for a little bit of canned tuna.

3) With the exception of using the windshield wipers to indicate a turn, my brain adapts easily to driving on either side of the road. Being a pedestrian is an entirely different matter.

4) The food in America is delicious – as evidenced by the fact that, once again, none of my clothes fit. But I did have 30 days of remarkably wonderful bowel movements.

5) People who barf on airplanes suck.

6) Nothing cures a crying jag like fearing for one’s life, for example, when an airplane nearly rattles itself apart shortly after take-off.

7) Roberta’s tacos al pastor still rock my word (See #4 above).

8) Sniffer beagles seem to really enjoy their work, but what happens when they get too old? Does Australia provide a nice retirement plan, or are they adopted out, and if so, would they always be peeing on your groceries?

9) Intensive research abroad has reinforced my conclusions regarding Australian toilets (see #4 above.)

10) I nearly wept when I removed my perfectly unwrinkled jeans from my clothes dryer.

11) Political campaigns that last 1.5 years are a preposterous waste of time, money, and valuable brain space. My adoration of the Australian election system has been rekindled.

12) Travelling from winter to summer is invigorating, but returning to winter is a complete shock to the system.

13) Americans are egocentric, gullible, and crass – but they are also very creative, which means the above terms can be construed to indicate that Americans are also confident, open-hearted, and do not readily submit to frivolous rules of etiquette and social convention. I was surprised that I was not more irritated by them (as I often am here, oddly). It was an amazing relief to instinctively know the proper way of behaving. Here, I feel that I am constantly making some sort of embarrassing guffaw that only reinforces the generally ill opinion of Americans held by many Australians.


We got back to our apartment early this morning and the door slammed behind me with a woosh of finality. I knew the trip would go by quickly, but looking back, it feels strange that a month full of intense impressions and emotions can fit into a place as tiny as my brain. After a little nap, we took the train downtown for lunch. Slightly dazed by fatigue, I was contemplating my definition of home and considering all the places I have lived that still feel like home to me. I wasn’t sure if returning to Sydney felt like ‘coming home’ or merely like ‘coming back’. Then, in the middle of the lunch time crowds, I felt a quick tug at my elbow. It was my friend, Valerie.

“Hey! Hi. How was your trip? Welcome home.”

Green Things

I am currently staying at a green hotel just outside the Napa Valley. Actually, it is beige, mostly. How did the simple word ‘green’ come to represent such a complicated movement? In my poorly organized mind, I always give the credit to Kermit the Frog and his enduring mantra, but then sometimes I just think it is all a bunch of marketing hoopla. Nothing detracts from the fundamental value of a good concept like marketing hoopla. Granted, good ideas need to be disseminated to the masses, but how can you trust a system that makes people believe that cookies are for breakfast and invading sovereign nations is acceptable foreign policy?

I can feel your curiosity burning through my (complimentary!) wireless connection…you are dying to know what makes a hotel green…Well, the most distinguishing feature is the six large LCD monitors in the lobby which show the current water and electricity usage of the property as well as an estimation of CO2 generation. One is forced to ponder if that includes the heat output of said monitors. Another critical component of managing a green hotel is to replace all the in-room bibles with copies of “An Inconvenient Truth.”

The skeptical cynic in me wants to poke fun at the whole green scene because of the silly extremes to which people stray in order to feel better about their very existence – like mandating the use of compact fluorescent light bulbs without establishing an infrastructure to recycle the 5 mg of mercury contained within each bulb which is trickling into the groundwater beneath landfills as I type. However, another (less exercised) portion of my personality wants to embrace and celebrate the notions of environmental sustainability, social responsibility, and ecologically friendly business practices.

So, I take comfort in drinking Fair Trade Certified Organic coffee that was brewed in a plastic drip pot. I am happy to reuse my towels after my 20 minute shower. I smile at the efficiency of the solatubes in the hallways that replace electric light during the day as I slide my card-key into an electronic lock. I feel pleased knowing the room was constructed with low volatile organic paints and sealants as I drink beer and eat too much pizza. I admire the graceful swans gliding across the frog-filled lagoon of recycled water – even as I toss greasy Fritos into the water…because everyone knows swans love Fritos…

However, my amusements have limits. I must question the informational value of assigning an earthy-sounding name to each room, particularly since that name is embossed onto plastic placard beneath each room number. We are staying in the muskrat room. I am not especially pleased with the thought of paying a premium rate to share my vacation amenities with large odiferous rodents, but it turns out that the only sign of the critters is an informational card featuring a picture of the planet.
Did you know that muskrats can remain underwater for up to 20 minutes and can swim forwards and backwards?

Printed on recycled paper with soy-ink, of course…

Two Sides of a Coin

A crisp morning breeze stirred the branches of the mighty oak out side my balcony window, as I snuggled down deeper into my blankets. A choir of chipper birdsong erupted out of the fading darkness. I smiled and let the various calls of this avian oratorio draw my imagination out into the gentle glory of the newly dawning day. I thought forward onto my day with gratitude, optimism, and anticipation as my imagination drifted from chirp to whistle to twitter.

SLAM! went the sliding glass door. "Damn noisy birds. Up so early. All that racket driving into my brain like a million little needles. Why do they have to get up so early and make so much noise when I am trying to sleep? Christ, I swear it quieter in St Leonards."


Is this an example of complementarity or incompatibility?

A Case for Beer

Aside from religion, politics, and sports, perhaps no other topic polarizes nations more than beer. For the most part, I consider myself to be an impartial observer (UN appointed) in the battle of brewed beverages. I have never tasted a beer that I would classify as objectionable, unless you count that time when I didn't realize the can had been used as an ashtray or possibly that garlic beer…

I know that American beer suffers a lot of harsh criticism throughout the civilized beer-drinking world, and I will not deny that descriptors such as 'weak', 'piss-water', and 'so lacking in character that one must drink it ice cold so that it freezes the taste buds off of one's tongue' are accurate and occasionally amusing.

In defense of American beer, people often employ terms like 'crisp', 'refreshing', and 'perfect for drinking all day long while watching rich sober people drive around in a circle for large sums of prize money'.

I don't really want to argue the relative merits of any particular brand or method of intoxication. Diplomat that I am I see and appreciate all sides to any argument. I think this may be an example of how prejudice and attachment to familiar tastes might serve as an obstacle to the enjoyment of a perfectly wonderful experience (mind you, this works both ways, as know plenty of Yankers who have strong opinions about European style beer despite having never sampled it). However, after extensive personal research, I must concur that there is something decidedly wonderful about drinking a cold, light beer under a hot summer sun…er, make that 12 cold beers.

There is also something decidedly wonderful about being able to buy 30 beers for $13.99.

Wild Life Survey - Morning Update

When I got out up there was a large fuzzy spider floating in my bedside glass of water. I am grateful that for once I did not awaken in the middle of the night with a throat-crushing thirst. Wriggle-and-jiggle-and-tickle inside her indeed!

I had a cup of coffee with wild turkey...no, not the whiskey. Three adult hens escorted their very recently hatched flock of baby turkeys through the front yard, teaching them to scratch for acorns and look so cute that Robert throws turkey chow into the yard every morning. What is the term for a baby turkey? Is it a turkelet? Please let it be turkelet...

There is a large window in the shower. This morning I bathed with a small herd of deer grazing in the side yard. A young buck with a broked-off antler stared at me as he chewed up some bushes. In fact, he stared at me so intently that I began to feel uncomfortable and felt compelled to draw the curtain for the sake of my personal modesty.

The Vacation Within

We never did much exploration of the local surrounds while we lived in Shingletown, (if you are really bored, check out the forum discussions at the bottom of that link...yikes, that worst of Americana on display!) Primarily because the homestead is darn pleasant, we found it unnecessary and uncomfortable to ever leave it. For years I have been itching to visit the quaint coastal town of Trinidad. With the power of the internet (and available credit) at my fingertips, I booked us a cozy cabin and away we drove down the curvy highway following the Trinity River westward to the Pacific. We stopped occasionally to evaluate the rapids just listen to the refreshing whoosh of clear running water.



Upon our arrival, I was delighted to discover that our little lodge sat atop a cliff above the Sea Lion Lounge, a collection of rocky islands layered with tons of barking blubber. I reckon if one is annoyed by the sounds of groaning marine mammals, one would certainly not build one's house along Patrick Point Drive, because that party went on all night. Sorry, they were too far away to get a clear picture, but the rocks below were covered with seals and sea lions.







Aside from eating heaps of Mexican food, one of my other objectives for this USA visit was to spend some time in the company of redwood trees. I find these gentle giants of the forest to be completely restorative to my oft-harried mind. This shot didn't come out so well, but I am actually standing in the burnt out middle of an enormous tree that is now surrounded by a fairy ring of youngsters.

It was a rare and glorious sunny day around Eureka Bay, an area notorious for being blanketed in a thick fog. Don't be fooled, though. It was still chilly.

The next morning we drove down to Arcata to peek at a former residence then our the South Jetty to dine at the famous Samoa Cookhouse. Like most restaurants that have their own postcards, the quality of the food was second to their ambience and historical value, although personally, I thought the food was quite good - I normally never eat pancakes and I quite enjoyed every bite.

Don't you just adore the enduring optimisim of the human species? Personally, I don't think I could outrun that wave. Not with a belly full of pancakes anyway.

Home Stuff

My home is no longer my own.

During our stay in Australia, our friends Robert and Holly have been care taking our rancho in Shingletwon, CA (I always make that typo...). They welcomed us home last Friday evening with an extravagant and delicious BBQ dinner party. Overwhelmed with emotion already, I stepped back from the cheerful bustle of the gathering and observed that our friends have slipped very successfully into the life we left behind - in fact, more successfully than we had ever done. They have been able to make their way in this rural community in ways that we never could. They have made friends of our acquaintances. They have made a life where we merely lived.

I walk around my house, still decorated with the artifacts and accoutrements of my life and feel my own personality like an outsider. These objects are familiar, yet they tell a story of person I don't quite know and not at all the same story told by my collection of discarded treasures back in Sydney. Each of these objects comes with a story, a history, a memory, a feeling. I ache with nostalgia as I remember the taste of the dinner in Austin when we got that picture, or the smell of the streets in New Orleans when I bought that skeleton chest, or the angle of the sunlight through the campfire smoke when we bought all those little bobbly-headed turtles from that snot-covered boy in San Felipe and we were so pleased with ourselves because we talked him down 5 pesos before we realized how petty was the accomplishment.

I am proud of the contents of my Sydney apartment because they represent frugality and resistance to conspicuous consumption, but I as I look around at my collection of stuff, I feel a strange arrogance - not for the items themselves nor of my ability to own them, but for the rich tapestry of my personal history that they represent.

But then nothing deflates arrogance like a cat. Not that I expected any sort of of welcome from The Cow, but the slightest hint of acknowledgement would have been nice...she certainly had plenty of acknowledgement for Robert when he opened that can of wet food, which evidently he does every night, which certainly accounts for her reassignation of affection.

Yet further illustrates the many ways in which my home is no longer my own.

Level Orange

Not enough can be said about the dismal state of air travel in America. Security screening is a humiliating and confusing process. Normally, I plan for the chaos and dress appropriately: slip on shoes, no belt, minimal carry-on items, but a late night drinking row coupled with an early morning flight and the last-minute acquisition of a bulky delicate item was a recipe for fiasco. I am not a particularly well coordinated person on the best of days, and at 5 am after two hours of driving and a mere one hour of something vaguely resembling sleep, I had all the makings of a Lucille Ball sketch as I tried to untie my shoes, slip off my belt, remove my laptop from its case while juggling my photo ID, boarding pass, and a large rectangular hat box holding my grandfather’s fedora. I almost had it under control until I was told to remove my sweater, then everything went flying in all directions. I made a quick if not awkward recovery and settled myself at the gate.

And speaking of sleep, what is it about being on vacation that allows one to function on such miniscule amounts of sleep? I fear I am racking up some serious REM debt as I have had a total of 20 hours of sleep (and none of that would I consider ‘quality’) in the last 9 days. By my calculations, that puts me 52 hours in the hole. I fear I am on the verge of psychosis, which is a little vacation in and of itself. At least I will look sharp in my fancy new hat.

Stranger in a Familial Land

I often lament having grown up outside the circle of my extended family, mourning the security of a strong network of cousins, aunts, and uncles surrounding a core of grandparents – and then I return to small-town Ohio and instantly appreciate the cultural smorgasbord that is my life. My Norman Rockwell fantasies fade in the light of petty squabbles, ceaseless gossip, and outright meddling. There is nothing like spending a few days with your family illustrate the origin of some of your least favorite personality traits.

I have come to Ohio to attend the wedding of a cousin, who as it turns out, is quite a celebrity in the farming town of Fayette. I won’t bore my non-relational readers with details of the ceremonies aside from reassuring the bride that those goofy little mishaps that seem so frustrating today - like when the priest (who, by the way, manufactures dynamite as a hobby) forgets your name - will indeed become the treasured moments that you cherish tomorrow. Regardless of the numerous protocol deviations, it was indeed one hell of a good party. I truly enjoyed spending the evening with my family, even if they were their best behavior.

Except for Grandma:

Stranger in a Familiar Land

One of my initial observations, aside from how delicious American bacon tastes, is how much my identity has become intertwined with my status as an expatriate minority, that is, on being an outsider. Suddenly surrounded by familiar accents and a shared national identity, I am merely one of the gang. It’s not like I have forgotten how to be an American – I can be just as rude as the next person – but I do feel a little saddened by my change in status. Being in a tourist town, people ask where I am from, and I cannot resist answering “Australia” in an attempt to maintain some degree of specialness among the throngs. It turns out, that living in Australia is far more interesting here than it is there. But this is no surprise, being aware of America’s antipodean infatuation – even if the general population (and evidently my spell checker) is unfamiliar with that particular word.

I walk the Streets of San Francisco (with a bow-bow-chicka-chicka soundtrack playing in my head), infatuated with the sights and scents of this not-quite alien landscape that is far more colorless in person than in my memory. The smell of green-bud and urine are not quite so pungent on the city sidewalks of Sydney. Kevin isn’t sure if there were always so many kooks and panhandlers on Market Street, or if he has just become desensitized by the civil cleanliness of Australia. The police look mean, probably to cover up their fear and disgust for the refuse of society they must face each day. San Francisco is erased from my list of places I might like to live some day.

We stroll through the shops comparing prices. We have to be escorted out of the Shoe Pavillion, as we have doubled over in hysterics at the price of trainers (aka running shoes). I buy a year’s supply of my favourite skin care products and spend the rest of the afternoon making exclamatory statements. Shopping for undergarments is one of my least favourite activities in the world, but as I walk through the door of Victoria’s Secret, I am swarmed by helpful women with tape measures asking intimate questions about my support needs. Oh yes, I remember now…it is called customer service. I am reminded of it again when our smiling waitress asks if everything was all right and could she get us anything else. The cost of dinner and drinks is about the same – including the tip.

But I know that this strangeness is nothing compared to what lies ahead...

Touchdown

My heart did a tiny somersault when I spied the mountains of Central California through the frosty plane windows. I would have been more excited, but it is difficult to muster a lot of enthusiasm after 13 hours of contortion and some Hall of Fame Flatulence. I’ll spare you that description.

Perhaps it is a sign of the dwindling economy, but the airports on either end of our journey were sparsely populated, making our transition through immigration and customs a near pleasant experience. Despite my fatigue and disorientation, getting onto BART was nearly effortless, and it was fun to contrast this modern form of mass transit to City Rail.

Mind you, I really do enjoy commuting by rail in Sydney, but there is a special place in my heart for the Bay Area’s rapid transit, especially now that it goes somewhere useful. It only cost $5.35 US to get from the airport to Powell Street Station – which to be fair, is about the same price as to get from St Leonards to Sydney International, if one was not required to pay a $10 AUD ‘Gate Fee.’ I was pleased to note there was not one bit of graffiti on BART, nor were the windows etched with tags, though Kevin seemed to think the car smelled like ass. Evidently, his sense of smell on the plane was faltering.

I was approaching delirium when we exited at Powell Street, but was thrilled to discover our hotel was just across the street – indeed, we could see it from the station. With remarkably uncharacteristic efficiency, we settled our first order of business:

And then we took a deep nap.

Carry On Bloggage

I’m not especially fond of essays detailing trans-Pacific flights, especially if they include detailed descriptions of the gummy roast beef entrée or of the 2-year old incarnation of Linda Blair seated four rows in front of me, but really, I have always wanted to pull out my laptop in transit and pretend that I had something very important to do. So, I decided to write a blog entry as I enjoy the comforts of my personal entertainment system, which for me include an unlimited supply of ginger beer and rum and Gone With the Wind on video on demand…fiddle-dee-dee. We are fortunate enough to have a row of four seats between the two of us, which means we can take turns sprawling out and I can keep the flight path details on the screen next to me. Oh, and I see it is about time for the alternate title for my in-flight blog:

Crossing Over to Today

We boarded our flight at 2 pm on Wednesday, and now, all of a sudden, it is Midnight on Wednesday…a rare chance to live a day all over again. I think I shall spend the wee hours drinking rum and ginger beer and watching Technicolor movies. I am tired of my laptop now. Talk to you tomorrow.

And Away

There is a dark cloud hanging over Sydney this morning...

I'm not trying to be poetic. There really is a single grey cloud floating over the harbour. The otherwise blue skies look like good flying weather.

I was up most of the night, not so much from excitement as simply wrangling with my intermittent and recurrent insomnia. Of course, I am excited, though at this point I am mostly anxious about the flight and of the landing. No one is coming to pick us up, so dazed and disoriented we will make our way to a hotel in the city via public transport. I would like to state for the record, that we had offers of airport retrieval from friends that live up to 80 miles from the airport, yet my allegedly very best friend in the world couldn't be bothered to take an hour off of work to fetch us from 13 miles away. My feelings are very hurt by this, but I am a big girl and if I can manage to get myself halfway around the planet, I can certainly walk make ti to BART and then walk four blocks through downtown San Francisco with my enormous amounts of luggage with a cranky husband in tow. Well, at least I will earn myself a martyr card to be played later. (Note to self: in the very unlikely event that this friend should ever come to Sydney, be sure to supply her with instructions on how to ride City Rail. Wouldn't want to weigh her down with welcoming hugs and kisses at the airport after such a journey.)

Well, I'd best finish my packing and complete my morning rituals. And see if I can get Kevin out of bed...we leave in an hour and a half.

About Australia Post

Australia Post has the brilliant business practice of charging money to NOT provide services. I hope the Postmaster General never gets wind of this scheme. For a mere twenty-six dollars, I can NOT receive mail while I am on vacation.

Australian banks still keep banker’s hours, making it extraordinarily difficult for employed persons to engage in banking activities, like depositing checks. Oh, there ARE express deposit slots – conveniently located inside the lobby of the bank. After several weeks of not being able to make it to my bank between 10 and 4, I called customer service for their mailing address and was advised against sending checks by post (snigger). Instead I was told to go to Australia Post and deposit my checks there. Ever so much more convenient, as the post office is open from 9 to 5.

Similarly, I called my bank to inquire about getting a bank draft (aka a certified check) to pay for some bureaucratic process and was told that such a service would incur a fee if performed by my bank. However, I could go to Australia Post and use my debit card to get a bank check for free.

I went to my bank and tried to mail a parcel, but they just stared at me without humour.

Like the US, Australian mail boxes are filled daily with an inordinate amount of junk mail in the form of store flyers, restaurant menus, and real estate adverts. Unlike the US, junk mail is delivered by private contractors. I daresay that the bulk billing of junk mail by the US Postal Service is the sole reason why they are the only financially solvent government agency. I am utterly confounded that Australia Post continues to let this enormous revenue stream go untapped.

It is a favourite past-time of Australians to secure signs to their mail boxes proclaiming NO JUNK MAIL. I receive much pleasure from depositing my own junk mail into these boxes.

To be fair, there is one completely adorable facet to Australia Post: Postie Bikes.

T minus 3 Days and Counting

I am positively vibrating with nervous anticipation about our impending return to the US. I suppose I should be channeling that energy into some productive activity like doing laundry or cleaning my bathroom, but as soon as I walk into another room, I forget my intentions then wander around in a daze for a little bit, then I come back to the computer to search for some needed peice of information (such as the duty rates on Australian wine) but as soon as I log onto the internet, I forget what it was I was wondering about and become anxious that I should be doing something more productive.


Wheeee!

Happy Birthday Xin!

Sorry?

Last night there was a high speed police chase along a major commuter artery during peak hour. The police shut down portions of Parramatta Road during the 16 km pursuit, completely stuffing up traffic. Approximately 20 police cruisers were involved in the offensive. The suspects were apprehended after smashing their stolen SUV into a smaller car.

According to the evening television news, the driver has been charged with "using a motor vehicle to avoid apprehension." The two passengers of the car have been charged for "being carried in conveyance without the consent of the owner." Isn't that so much more charming than saying "riding in a stolen vehicle"?

According to the morning radio news, the NSW Police Department has issued a formal apology to the citizens of Sydney for having caused any inconvenience during the evening commute. It made me feel warm and fuzzy.

Can you just imagine the LAPD having that press conference?

Morning Visitor

I awoke as the first rays of dawn came streaming in through the wall of glass that is the North side of our bedroom. The red-gold light spilling in from the East cast an unmistakable silhouette across the closet doors. I bolted out of bed and grabbed my camera. It didn't even flinch as I pulled open the door and crept out onto the balcony. It eyed me with curiosity as I walked slowly towards it until it was no more than an arms length away. I felt a distinct vibration of arrogance as it cocked its head and posed for me. I reckon with a beak like that, a kookaburra really doesn't need to fear much.

Hearfelt Thanks

Thanks everyone who voted for my sister in the Pin-up girl competition.

She won!

And the big prize?

Bragging Rights.

Thanks again. My mum is very proud (though she still grumbles about the tatoos.)

Pussification

Whilst flipping through the channels this morning, we could not resist a brief pause upon hearing the voices of two American announcers. I am certainly no fan of NASCAR Racing, but Saturday morning programming selections are rather limited with the next most interesting program being the Greek News Hour. And so we watched for a few laps, if only to hear the soothing buzz of high octane engines wasting precious resources while soldiers over seas die to procure futures of crude oil.

One of the first things I noticed is that when the announcers cut to a commercial break, the Australian feed simply continued showing the race without commentary (to which Kevin remarked “Great! They found a way to make NASCAR even more boring?”). I cannot decide if Australia has not fully grasped the economic implications of having paid commercial airtime for 3 out of every 5 minutes of a sports broadcast, or if their reverence for athletic competition supersedes greed. Either way, it is a decidedly civilized tradition. American football games are typically shown here without all of the annoying commercial breaks, like immediately after a change of possession and whenever a time out is called. For a live broadcast, the cameras just keep showing the action on the sidelines; for a re-broadcast, an entire game may be viewed in under two hours! Rugby League games consist of two 40 minute halves, with zero commercial interruptions during play. Truly, it is a far more civilized approach to televised sports.

The second thing I noticed about NASCAR was the unusual and unlikely sponsors of the cars. Mind you, having already stated that I am not a NASCAR fan, I was still quite surprised to discover the complete and total pussification of the sport with regard to the complete and total absence of sponsors representing the alcohol and tobacco industries. It seems NASCAR has gone the way of Las Vegas in bending over to court the family-friendly politically-correct dollar. I suppose it was inevitable, maybe even wholesome. Nonetheless, I find it disturbing to see race cars sponsored my Quick Cuts, Clorox Bleach, and HAAS Avocados from Mexico (who new a breed of avocado had so much extra cash.) I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before there will be cars with hoods adorned by nauseating ads for Huggies, Kotex, and Monistat.

And since I’m having a rant, why the hell are there race cars sponsored by all the branches of the US Armed Forces, including the US Border Patrol? I understand that those particular government agencies have some sort of a budget for public relations and recruitment, but I think there needs to be a serious congressional review of their budgets if they are able to spend one million dollars for prime placement of their message on the hood of a race car. Am I the only one who thinks that may constitute a gross misuse of tax revenue?

And who the fuck thinks, “Hey, The US Army hasn’t won a race all season! I think I’ll sign up to have my balls shot off in Iraq!”

Happy Hour

There was a period in Australian history where pubs only served beer between 5 and 6 pm, the intention being to discourage drunkenness and facilitate evening meals of family togetherness. The result, however, was that for one hour each day, pubs were chocka-block with men guzzling beer in order to get as drunk as possible before driving home. No greater creativity is applied by mankind than in finding loopholes around inconvenient laws. In this case, the men would save their empty glasses accumulated throughout the hour and race to get them filled at 5:59, giving rise to the colourful phrase “The Six O’Clock Swill.”

One consequence of this ill-conceived public policy was the proliferation of pubs and hotels. Fortunately, this occurred during one of the more pleasant periods in Australian architectural design, so that today, nearly every intersection in the city and in many suburbs is adorned with one to four beautiful art deco style buildings, with curved windows and ornately tiled exteriors. What I find amazing is that, given the small population of Australia in the early years of the 20th century, so many publicans could squeeze adequate profits out of one good hour to remain viable. This says something profound about Australia’s love affair with beer, which saves me from having to actually say it myself.

The legacy of the Six O’Clock Swill is a bountiful selection of conveniently spaced pubs most suitable for crawling across town in any direction. One is never more than a short city block from the next beer. Most of the old pubs have been renovated or “gentrified”. Swanky furniture and mood lighting have replaced wooden stools and rickety ceiling fans, but the exoskeletons sugges the grandeur of the bygone era.

Some of the pubs retain their original interiors, clinging to the hope that shabby will become chic, or more likely, for lack of funds in the face of impending destruction. This is especially true along a desolate stretch of Parramatta Road in front of the old Foster’s Group Brewery (earmarked for major re-development), where shabby has completely yielded to decrepit. If you ever want to get rid of a tattered old sofa, simply drop it in front of The Abercrombie or The Claire Hotel and they will give it a loving home within their dark and musty interiors.

However, these daggy pubs do have some of entertaining graffiti:

Shamless Begging

My sister Chloe wants to be a May's Naughty Knitter Bad Girl Pin-Up...Please stop by and vote for her: http://freakknitter.typepad.com/knit_girls/vote.html

I think she wins a hank of yarn and some good publicity for her store.

Thanks!

ANZAC Day (and Some Tangents)

Today is ANZAC Day, which marks Australia's victorious defeat at the hands of the Turks after a minor navigational miscalculation landed them upon the fateful shores of Gallipoli during World War I. After spending the morning in somber reflection and respectful remembrance, Australia further commemorates the occasion by eating cookies, gambling on coin tosses, and drinking huge amounts of beer. Huge amounts of beer.

This our third ANZAC Day in Australia, which gives us the odd sensation of having some personal history here. Our first ANZAC Day (during our two month scouting mission prior to our relocation) was spent in the neighboring state of Victoria, birthplace of Australian Rules Football. In Victoria, the highlight of ANZAC Day is the annual rivalry between The Collingwood Magpies and The Essendon Bombers. For whatever reason, Aussie Rules Football is largely ignored in New South Wales (and the rest of the country for that matter) where Rugby League is the preferred sport.

Which brings to mind one of those peculiar differences in language that frequently results in much sniggering at the expense of Americans. Although the US is certainly cognizant of multiple connotations of "root", it is typically the word of choice when one wishes to express one's enthusiastic support for a particular sporting franchise. However, employing such phrases as "I root for The Rabbitohs" takes athletic dedication to an entirely new level.

And since I have completely lost the point I was intending to make with this article, allow me to conclude with another piece of linguistic advice. If the sealant in your bathroom needs replacing, be sure to ask your apartment manager to fix the 'silicone', because you will get some mighty funny looks when you barge into his office complaining about the caulk in your bathtub.

How Very Australian

Overheard in a crowded restaurant:

"Are you drinking drinking with lunch?"

"Oh, no! I'm just having wine."

The Joys of Public Transport #3

I like to ride on busses that have large advertisements pasted over the side windows. The ads are sheets of plastic with zillions of small holes in them. From the street they appear seamless. From inside the bus, one is aware of the holes even as one’s brain fills in the small little gaps and completes the scene that is unfurling beyond the window. Thus, as I watch twin schizophrenic brothers pissing on each other’s feet outside the Greater Union Cinema, I appear only as an enormous fizzy bottle of Sprite…of course, that may be how I look to them on any given day...

I especially like riding behind these adverts on rainy days, like today. When the tiny holes are filled with water, the world is a blur of color and shape.

On these days, I imagine that I am a myopic honey bee, on my way to work.

Well I Been Down So Very Damn Long

Spending large sums of money always makes me anxious, but my heart was absolutely pounding out of my chest as I hit the "pay now" button to purchase two round trip tickets to San Francisco. Perhaps my palpitations had less to do with the $4,000 than the mix of nervous excitement at the thought of going home after 1 and 1/2 years in Australia.


I am thrilled by the prospects of visiting with my family and friends, petting The Cow, saying 'hello' to all my 'stuff' so hastily abandoned, eating buckets of Mexican food, and seeing some of my favorite places, smelling some of my favorite smells, and hearing some of my favorite sounds.

But I am also a little frightened.

My anticipation is already straining under the weight of unavoidable scrutiny as I must reconcile my memories against reality. As I experience frustration and annoyance with life in Australia, I invariably romanticize life ‘back home’. This visit is sure to be wrought with emotion and tension as one by one my fantasies either blossom or fade in the face of actuality.

Will nostalgia propel my destiny back to the homeland?

Or, will disillusionment reshape my outlook on this antipodean life?

Most likely, there will be a little of both, and I shall be eternally adrift on the shifting sea of unstable convictions, where the direction of my life is determined by the currents of happenstance and the winds of whimsy.

Stay tuned to find out.

Small Pleasures

I feel I have been a little hard on Australia lately, so I thought I would make ammends by way of a list of things I really, really really, like. In no particular order:

1. Rainbow Lorikeets

I have about 20 hours of video of lorikeets eating. Their cheerful twittering makes me feel happy in a way that nothing else does. My mom sent me cherries for Christmas and I couldn't resist sharing them. I like to share. And lorikeets like to eat. Indeed, they get quite bitchy on the mornings when I neglect to put out bird seed or leftover bread soaked in honey (I know, it's a no-no...I probably shouldn't eat it either). When I move back to the states, I want to breed rainbow lorikeets.

2. Fruit Markets
Every little neighborhood has at least one well stocked fruit market, usually between a bakery and a butchery. I think this is a far superior way to shop for sustenance than driving to a mega-market, fighting for parking, buying two weeks worth of groceries, then ending up with a cart full of imitation processed food that doesn't quite fit together into any sort of meal plan. And they are pretty, too.

3. Monks in the City
I wonder if he is listening to something spiritually uplifting, or if he is rockin' out to Guns 'n' Roses...Sometimes Franciscan Friars get on my bus. They look like big bottles of Frangelico, only they don't smell quite as good.

4. The Gore Hill Cemetery
I'm always a little surprised at how many cemeteries here are wild and and unkempt, but this one is my favorite. It is filled with gigantic spiders that spin enormous webs across the walkways - just above head height. How do they know how tall a pedestrian will be? 1917 was a very tough year to be an Australian of any age, but especially a young man.

5. Geckos
OK, so geckos aren't uniquely Australian, but they still make me very happy, especially when I see them eating mosquitoes and hear them making kissing noises.

6. The State Library
Aside from this irresistible statue of a drooling pig, I like the library because it has a cat for a mascot. Trim is the first cat to circumnavigate Australia by ship. He was the first mate of Captain Mitchell, the namesake of a gorgeous building with stain glass windows and marble floors that makes you want to tiptoe and whisper.

7. Aussie BBQs
I don't especially care for snags, but the sheer volume of meat, coupled with competitive enthusiasm feeds the legend that is the Aussie Barbie. There really ought to be a national team. They would easily win the world cup with fried onions alone.

8. Pharlap's Heart
So revered is the antipodean counterpart to Sea Biscuit that various parts of his remains are on display in museums all across the country.

9. Tattoos That You Have To Pretend Not To Be Staring At
There isn't really much else to say about this, except for the obvious comments about the effects of aging on a woman's thighs and the unfortunate consequences that will have on these otherwise immortal pin-up girls. Mom - if Chloe gets one or more of these, it is not my fault.

10. Graphic Warning Signs
One can only hope that this is a precautionary measure and not the result of an unfortunate incident involving a soggy free fall onto the jagged rocks below. More demented minds might hope otherwise...

11. Beer

By Request

Dedicated reader Darcie made a cultural inquiry as to the offensiveness of the euphemism 'beaver' in regards to female genitalia. Lest you worry about what odd thoughts occupy the mind of my dear friend, know that her curiosity was prompted by the following commercial recently yanked from the airwaves here in Australia, and now making quite a stir in the blogosphere:



My extensive research (I asked three Australian women and one Chinese man) yielded the conclusive conclusion that Audra has the uncanny ability to embarrass the crap out of Chinese men. However, the women were agreed that in no way were they offended by the term 'beaver', though it is not a term they employ in their daily vocabulary (perhaps because there are no beavers in Australia?). Indeed, as far as I can gather from the blog chatter, the only thing offensive about this commercial is the Americanization of Australian advertising - though I cannot imagine an American tampon commercial referring to feminine anatomy as "down there", much less comparing it to a small river dwelling rodent renowned for its ability to fell trees with its teeth. (Please note the tremendous restraint I am applying in avoiding any tongue in cheek remarks about damming the flow. If you are disappointed by my reticence, I suggest this.)

In truth, Australians are offended by very little, apart from the Americanization of their culture, particularly through the influence of television and movies. The disdain for American advertising is exemplified by a recent commercial in which a team of bank directors have hired an American ad agency to promote their home loans. The American agency comes up with a garish and obnoxious campaign which visibly nauseates the bank directors and clearly pins the blame for rising interests rates here on the US. (Australians love to blame the US for every little thing that goes wrong with the world and the economy. As if there was no such thing as predatory lending here...and that is not even considering that ALL mortgages are variable rate to some degree - currently ~9.4% following 12 consecutive rate hikes. Oh, and home mortgage interest is not a tax deduction. But I digress.) In the end, the bank opts for a plainly spoken under-statement about the quality of their home loans.

Oddly, Australians vocally welcome other immigrants to bring their traditions to the cultural potluck. They are keen to attend festivals hosted by Africans, Indians, Italians, Chinese, and others, but any attempt to recognize the pleasures associated with Halloween or the Fourth of July are met with harsh criticism. (OK, you know I am joking about the Fourth of July, right? I hope?) The Australian media loves to ramble on about how the American media (in the broadest sense of the word, not just news outlets) has contaminated so many facets of Australian culture that the nation is losing its uniquely Australian identity as evidenced by 1) drastic changes in vocabulary - particularly lamented is the decline in the use of colorful Australian colloquialisms such as "A bit more choke and you would have started", 2) diminishment of the Australian accent - blamed wholly on movies and The Simpsons (I think there is a Simpsons Channel on Foxtel), and 3) results of a recent poll that showed a surprising number of young people believe that in an emergency they should dial 911 (here, it is triple zero).

In NO way am I attempting to defend the drivel churned out by American movie studios or the rancid television shows that play to the lowest common denominators of society (BTW, since living here, I have realized that many of my least favorite TV shows are actually rip offs of crappy British shows, but when Australia rips them off, they tend to overlook that fact.) I am the first to admit that the US does not show well in our exported media, but here they make it sound as if there is some evil American machine with an agenda to assimilate their very being. Turn off your bloody televisions, ya wankers. You don't have to watch it!

This seething dislike for American culture clearly stems from the Tall Poppy Syndrome so inherent to Australian values, and perhaps the one facet of their culture that will not, can not be dissolved by American influences. I don't think Australians appreciate how much America really, really likes them. Ask any American and they are sure to express their desire to visit Australia. We are absolutely charmed by you. I am formulating an analogy of our countries based on two brothers - the older one who defied his parents strict rules and left home at 18, struck out into the world to become a free and wild success while the younger one stayed home and cared for the frail aging parents, and who, although successful in his own right, actively cultivates resentment for the carefree recklessness of his older brother. (For a wonderful and more detailed treatment of this fascinating subject, I recommend The United States vs Australia.)

As a follow-up question to my elaborate survey, I enquired about the existence of a uniquely Australian euphemism for female genitalia. But I reckon it is pretty difficult to come up with a clever ad campaign for tampons based on the Map of Tasmania.

Nougat

1:30 am

Awakened by the sound of chatter, I rolled over and opened a bleary eye to my husband. In a very clear voice he said:

"You know everyone is always taking about the nougat."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know, the nougat. The creamy white stuff, with the pistachios. The nougat."

"Are you awake?"

"Yes, I'm awake, and I'm talking about the nougat. Nougat. NEW-GAT."

"What about the nougat?"

"You know, they have those GI Joe's now...made out of nougat."

"You are NOT awake."

"What do you know? YOU grew up in one of those pretty nougat gardens."

"Kevin, wake up and go back to sleep."

"Nougat..."

"Ugh."

Easter in Australia

No other holiday brings Christians out of the closet like Easter. Not even Christmas. After all, Christmas is merely a birthday, whereas Easter is a shot at forgiveness, redemption, and a one way ticket to Heaven – certainly worth the price of a two hour church service once a year.

In Australia, Easter is the one time of year where you can find cinnamon in baked goods. I never realized how much I took cinnamon for granted, but it is not a flavouring widely used here. When I compare cultural notes with Australians who have travelled in the US, there is almost always an exchange about the relative abundance versus absence of cinnamon (usually followed by an intensely emotional discussion of the merits versus the horrors of pairing peanut butter with chocolate – this from people who think spreading a bitter tarry film of rancid dead yeast in between two pieces of white bread constitutes a sandwich.) However, at Easter, the bakeries are filled with the delicious aroma of cinnamon wafting from trays of hot cross buns.

According to my extensive research (none), no one really knows the story of hot cross buns, of why they have a cross on top, or why they are typically only eaten on Good Friday. I am inclined to believe there is a pagan origin to this tradition, but I don’t want any of you sending me links to Wikipedia in support of this. (As an aside, I would like to point out this article and make a footnote reminder to revisit the topic of political correctness, which Australians seem to think was invented by Americans for the sole purpose of annoying them – and despite their blustering, it will happen here eventually.)

As part of our cultural immersion experience, Kevin and I bought a package of hot cross buns – but really only because we discovered the existence of fruitless buns (i.e. no ‘sultanas’ aka raisins) and also because we happened to be in Queensland and heard that Coles was giving away free bullets with every pack. (‘Pulled from the shelves’ my ass, but they were marked down considerably!) I would like to report that they were awesome, but they were just fluffy dinner rolls with a hint of finely ground cinnamon, and the cross was some weird sort of dough and not the gooey sweet icing we had expected. However, any food that serves as a vehicle for melted butter is O.K. in my book.

But, I digress. I did not mean to write another article about hot cross buns. I meant to write an article about the bizarre liquor laws on Good Friday.

Australian society – and I say this with heartfelt respect and admiration – is extremely alcohol oriented. And lest I be accused by my Australian readers of being a judgemental American, I back up this statement with the fact that every news broadcast for the last month has featured a headline (headline!) story discussing the role of alcohol in Australian society. I have performed exhaustive field research on this subject, and hope to complete my thesis by the end of the year, but for the present, I will share my observations about drinking on Good Friday.

First of all, I must point out that liquor stores are open on EASTER SUNDAY, but are closed on GOOD FRIDAY.

Most businesses are closed on Good Friday, which is an official public holiday (along with Easter Monday, but that is another topic.) All bars are closed, however many pubs open in the evening. Last year, in New South Wales, we were informed that every purchase of alcohol must be accompanied with a food purchase (although this may have been a rule peculiar to the particular movie theater we were in at the time - oh, by the way, you can drink in movie theaters here). This year in Queensland, we were issued a meal ticket with a time stamp before entering the pub. We were allowed to drink for one hour before being required to order a meal. We could then drink for one hour after ordering our meal. After two hours, we were required to leave the premises. Managers checked our tickets every fifteen minutes to make sure we ordered our dinner and then promptly gave us the boot. The streets were jammed with displaced half-drunk tourists who didn’t know what to do with the rest of their Friday night.

On Easter Sunday, it was business as usual for the pubs and bars.

I reckon it makes some sort of sense that Sunday should be a day of celebration, since Christ came back from the dead to save us and all, but it seems if ever there was a time when a Christian needed a drink it would be on the occasion marking the atrocities perpetrated against one’s saviour. But apparently, Good Friday is a somber day that is meant to be suffered in sober contemplation of one’s sins, preferably on a full stomach.

So, why is it called “Good” Friday?

Revisionist History

Today marks the anniversary of the day when the Irish loaded all their snakes onto convict ships and sent them to the new colony of Australia. Without snakes, the tiny emerald isle was soon over run with killer gerbils, so everyone came to Australia to get them back. But the snakes had slithered off to the outback to eat bilbys and other small marsupials, and the Irish people soon became very thirsty and hungry, but they couldn't find a Guinness or a decent meat pie anywhere. They had no choice but to open a pub. On every corner. To celebrate, they declared a national day of public drunkenness, but named it after Saint Patrick to lend credibility to the event.


Indeed, on my way to work, the patios of Paddy Maguire's and Scruffy Murphy's were already overflowing with sloppy louts sporting green and orange jester hats or giant foam shamrocks.

Come to think of it, what the hell am I doing at work?

A Bad Ending to a Good Day

Splish! Splish! Splish! Splish!

Each step leaves a foot-shaped puddle of water that quickly reabsorbs into the hall carpet as I shuffle tired and grumpy into the kitchen to make coffee. I don’t think I ever fully appreciated the functionality of a bath tub overflow drain. Until now.

However, I do have a new appreciation for the genius of elevated floors, as the sight of water cascading down the sloped tiles that form the transition from bathroom to bedroom is indeed a beautiful sight, even if it did launch me into a complete frenzy of futile behaviors involving towels and a squeegee.

In the wake of last night’s flood, one might suppose I would have made peace with the unlikeable drain in my bathroom floor. Unfortunately, I keep it covered with a bath mat. While this does prevent the intermittent discharge of disagreeable odors, it renders it completely useless as an escape route for the 30+ minutes of forgotten bathwater that breached the confines of the bathtub while I was immersed in the ‘absolute final last director’s cut, and I really mean it this time, unless I run out of money or think of something else I can do to ruin an otherwise perfectly lovable movie’ version of Bladerunner.

Sydney is a particularly moldy city. Fortunately, the humidity of summer has eased somewhat in the last few weeks, so I am disproportionately hopeful that the bottoms of the closets will dry out before a thick growth of mildew takes root.

Note to self: Don’t store toilet paper on the floor.


On the lighter side, Kevin and I discovered yesterday that we can walk to the beach! Granted, it is a 6.5 km 2 hour walk, but doable nonetheless. We might have done it quicker, but Military Road is lined with myriad interesting shops and restaurants, all of which required my scrutiny.

Balmoral Beach is a clean and quiet cove on Middle Head (not to be confused with North Head or South Head) in Sydney Harbour. This suits me well, as I can pretend I am swimming in the ocean only there are no dangerous waves or undertows. We picnicked on a low stone wall beneath a giant fig tree.

Nothing creates a feeling of belonging so much as running into someone you know in a remote location. As Kevin and I discussed the astronomical odds of seeing our friend Gerry on that beach, we did instead encounter one of his associates from work. Perhaps not unexpected, as he is known to frequently patrol that particular stretch of beach in search of accommodating skank, using his young children as bait.

Fortunately, a convenient bus route connects Balmoral Beach to our neighbourhood, thus sparing us the 6 km return walk. Regardless, I was in desperate need of a bath by the time we made it home…

Creepy Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys

I am a big fan of trivia. In the US, my favorite television show is Jeopardy. Too cheap to pay for cable (aka Foxtel), here in Australia I must settle for a quiz show on public television called the Einstein Factor, a show in which the contestants get to choose their own personal, and often esoteric 'special subject'. In Round One, they have 90 seconds to answer 15 questions pertaining to Austin 7 Cars, The Films of Martin Scorcese, The reign of Peter the Great between 1683-1684, or Nick Drake. (If I go on, I'll pick Raiders of the Lost Ark...or Molecular Biology.)

The three contestants work in cooperation or competition with "The Brains Trust", three ostensibly educated and respected scholars. Now mind you, I have absolutely no problem with racial epithets in general, and certainly none when they are directed towards The French (or Canadians, or especially French Canadians), but I was mildly shocked to hear one of the scholars on last night's show employ the phrase currently serving as the title of this entry.

I mean, it's one thing if you are a politician, a cartoon character, or The New York Post, but it seemed completely out of place on an intelligent quiz show. And, the addition of the word 'creepy' to an otherwise popular phrase added a touch of malice that caused me provocation. However, I guess I was most startled because the word 'monkey' has been volleyed around the press recently, as a result of the heated and controversial month long (if not longer) cricket match between Australia and India, in which one of the visiting players called Andrew Symonds 'a monkey.' (sniggers withheld) This incident made me think of one of Howard Cosell's famous blunders.

How delicate and precise has our language become when a word may be freely applied to one race but not another? Certainly, monkey is not the only word that fits this context, but...oh, what is the point I want to make here...?? I guess I don't want to be startled by the use of such an innocuous word on television, and I certainly don't want to listen to it debated from hell and back on the sports segment of the morning news. Besides, you don't see The French pitching a fit about it.

But maybe that is because they are a bunch of cheese eating surrender monkeys...

Peripheral Vision

Just before we left the US, I sent out an email to everyone in my very extensive address book announcing our departure and linking them to my blog, should they want to keep in touch or follow along vicariously. From the number of people that ever leave comments on my blog (mostly people I have met virtually or with a few notable exceptions in the flesh only since my adventure began), you might never suspect that I maintain fairly regular contact with over 150 people that I have ‘collected’ over the years. Granted, I am no Aunt Bette, who managed to remember and mark the birthday, anniversary, and any other card-worthy event of EVERY person she EVER met in her entire life (God Bless and Keep Her), but I do try. I send post cards and Christmas cards (most years) and while I do get personal satisfaction from keeping this electronic diary, every entry is written with fond thoughts for all the people I know/love who might be reading it.

Oddly enough, I know for a stone cold FACT, that the people I consider my absolute closest friends – those I have known since 3rd Grade (Oscar!), or Junior High (Beki!), or High School (Kathy!) do not, and WILL not read my blog. Ever. I reckon they think that anything I have to say to them should be said in person, and honestly, a few words just sprung to mind. I suspect Sofia might read, but I know she is busy, and I know Doug checks in on occasion when he is not too busy cracking one under the table over Lindsay Lohan mug shots or picking his mother up from the drunk tank at Elmwood. I also know that a lot of my friends and family (except maybe Lee and anyone born before computers existed, except Mom) read my updates with any regularity, even though, for various reasons they do not leave comments or write to me very often. At the bottom of my inbox is a pile of old emails that I just can’t bring myself to delete. Maybe because I think that one day they will serve as a reminder to follow up with someone, or maybe they are people I just don’t want to lose. Well, evidently, I too am floating around in the bottom of other people’s inboxes.

Last week, I got an email from one of those people at the bottom of my inbox. I wrote a long list of praises here about him, but I had to delete it, not only because it sounded like a eulogy (all about how he made my mother and my grandmother cry at my high school graduation), but because I truly he believe that one day he will be a senator or maybe even president (or at least a circuit judge in Fresno) and that a mention on the blog of an accused (but acquitted) felon might not serve his best interests in the long run. He wrote to me because he is turning 40 this year (I believe he was the baby of our graduating class) and something I wrote about it last November resonated with him (although he thinks it is for different reasons – he’s wrong – they are the same reasons!) I replied, reciting the sentiments expressed above, and he replied with surprise that I felt that way about him, having assumed he existed only on my periphery. Interestingly, I have always been under the assumption that I only ever existed on the periphery of his (and every one else at that damn school) as well.

And this is what got me to thinking enough to get to writing…on the value of collecting people who knew you when you were young, even if they are people who simply knew you when you were younger than you are today. Life races by so quickly, and so often we only have time to focus on the road ahead. But the periphery of our lives are filled with people who occasionally catch glimpses of our true selves as we whizz past. The human brain has the amazing capability to create whole pictures from many small parts. The unexpected addition of a new part can sometimes redefine the image you had of yourself. Say, for example, you are attached to an image of yourself as a nerdy outcast; it can be eye-opening to learn that someone you thought was cool thought of you as intelligent, witty, and brave...even if she thinks of herself as a nerdy outcast.

I feel compelled to end this with a call to action - to tell you to reach out to some long lost acquaintance and tell them you thought they were all right, or that you thought about them at all and then I might have made a pitch to leave me a note letting me know you stopped by for read. But, as I was searching for links for this post, I came across a similar plea on Eddie's blog, and I quickly realized my own shortcoming in leaving comments for other people, and then I felt silly for begging for attention. So, I must persevere to consider that I write for myself and me alone, for the satisfaction of working out my own triumphs, fears, and insecurities, and simply be ever so grateful to anyone who takes the time to sift through the effluent of my mind.

Thank you.

And Happy Birthday, Sam.

Spam, spam, spam, spam...

Dear Readers,

I really didn't want to do this, but my blog has become the target of a really nasty spammer who adds nonsensical comments to my posts in a spineless attempt to draw traffic and back links to his own worthless website. It takes me considerable time and effort to remove this gibberish from my blog. Regretfully, word verification has not prevented this asshole from posting his trash.

Therefore, I am now forced to enable comment moderation. This means that when you post a comment, it must first be approved by me before it will appear on the blog. So if you don't see your comment right away, don't re-post it 5 times. Unless I am travelling, I should be able to moderate my comments frequently throughout the day.

I hate to do this, because I know so many of you are already reluctant to post comments (whether because you can't be bothered to let me know you are reading, or because you are too high and mighty, or simply because you have nothing to say - I do not know).

Hopefully, I will only have to do this for awhile until this spammer gets bored with me. So thank you for your cooperation and for all your feedback. It is the highlight of my day to log on and know that my efforts have not merely been absorbed into the ether.

Cheers,

Audra