Happy Thanksgiving to all my mates and family up over. I am thankful for many things, but first and foremost is the love and support I get from every one of you! You keep me afloat.
In case you aren't sure: No, there is no Thanksgiving in Australia, primarily, I think because the turkeys here are scrawny little scavengers and I reckon it never ocurred to anyone to import the big fat domestic types that will be adorning so many American tables today. Seriously, turkey is a scarce commodity.
But I am being silly.
The real reason they don't celebrate Thanksgiving is that women would have to get up at 2 in the morning in order to have dinner together in time for the Dallas game, which would be at 8:15 am here. Hmmm. I wonder if it will even be on here. Is the pub is open yet? I just may have to take one of my 20 vacation days...or maybe one of my 10 sick days (another reason to give thanks).
From another yank blog:
"Why doesn't Australia celebrate Thanksgiving? Well the short snarky version I generally give folks "back home" is that ummmm, there weren't any pilgrims nor were there any starving Indians to trade with when James Cooke sailed around mapping the coast. Aboriginals, yes. Indians, no. Hence, no Turkey Day."
Has history been re-written AGAIN since I was in elementary school?? Sometimes, I feel the need to apologize on behalf of America. I promise never to use the word 'snarky' ever again - if I ever did.
Of course, the holiday season exacerbates any feelings of homesickness I am currently experiencing, and indeed I find myself longing to be lounging around a cozy-warm living room, patting a full belly, and watching football. (3 games this year! How sweet is that!!) However, I know I am being sappy and sentimental, since I don't especially like the Thanksgiving menu, and even if I were home, I would probably have runn off to Mexico for a shrimp, lobster, and Corona feast. Great, now I'm homesick for Mexico...mmmmm, cheap Corona! ($21 a six pack last night - I had to pass.)
So, no big food-centric holiday to celebrate the harvest - nevermind that it is spring, and the major harvest is mangoes - now that would be amenu I could get behind. However, there is a big drinking holiday this weekend (Who am I kidding, ALL holidays in Australia are drinking holidays!) Of course, I am talking about the federal election. Almost as important as which party will be elected is which election party you will be attending. (For a more technical treatment of the election issues and dynamics, visit my neuroscientist buddy in Brisbane.)
My Aussie friends are aghast when I tell them that in Mexico, all sales of alcohol are banned for several days surrounding federal elections.
"Why??"
"To make sure everyone sobers up enough to go to the polls, and also to help prevent emotions from overflowing when the fixed results come in."
"Savage!"
22 November 2007
20 November 2007
On Turning 40
I’ve heard a lot of women say that their 40th birthday was their most difficult. Thus far, I am approaching that milestone with as much grace and dignity as I might have hoped…with a few concessions…I bought myself a pair of Chinese Converse Knock-offs and I plan to dye my hair bright red. (Allow me to take a moment to extol the many virtues of cheap Chinese knock-offs. They are most likely made in the same factory, by the same tortured laborers, yet they cost $65 dollars less and I do not have to endure the crisis of collective identity that comes with riding a bandwagon. Cheap Chinese knock-offs always have some silly flaw. My Ju*Hang shoes are stitched over the ankle with the number 80 – Jerry Rice, perhaps? – except over the right foot, it is 08.)
Though I have yet to verbalize the experience in print, turning 30 was extremely difficult for me. It was a tumultuous and emotional period in my life. By contrast, 40 seems a nice number – the first digit hard and sharp, the second soft and round, an appropriate metaphor for my current mental state and evolving physical condition..
Birthdays are a natural time for reflection. Perhaps none more so than 40, which in my (and Maude’s) opinion is indeed the most accurate demarcation of mid-life. This last week, Kevin and I have been indulging in a considerable amount of reflection and reminiscence, and I can say with no uncertainty, that I am incredibly satisfied with the first half of my life. It has been rich and full beyond my imagination. While I have no intention of doing so, I can honestly say I could die tomorrow and not feel short changed.
Now, I know the older of you amongst my blogging audience will scoff at this statement, and I fully reserve the right to revise my opinion as my life draws closer to its end – I am cognizant of human nature. But for now, I take comfort and pride in a life lived daringly, if not drunkenly.
Oh, and for all the kindly people throughout my life who have frequently and gleefully told me “Oh, yeah, you’re skinny now, but just wait until you turn 40. Your metabolism will change and you’ll blimp out just like the rest of us.”
Congratulations.
I hope you choke on your maliciously smug prescience.
Though I have yet to verbalize the experience in print, turning 30 was extremely difficult for me. It was a tumultuous and emotional period in my life. By contrast, 40 seems a nice number – the first digit hard and sharp, the second soft and round, an appropriate metaphor for my current mental state and evolving physical condition..
Birthdays are a natural time for reflection. Perhaps none more so than 40, which in my (and Maude’s) opinion is indeed the most accurate demarcation of mid-life. This last week, Kevin and I have been indulging in a considerable amount of reflection and reminiscence, and I can say with no uncertainty, that I am incredibly satisfied with the first half of my life. It has been rich and full beyond my imagination. While I have no intention of doing so, I can honestly say I could die tomorrow and not feel short changed.
Now, I know the older of you amongst my blogging audience will scoff at this statement, and I fully reserve the right to revise my opinion as my life draws closer to its end – I am cognizant of human nature. But for now, I take comfort and pride in a life lived daringly, if not drunkenly.
Oh, and for all the kindly people throughout my life who have frequently and gleefully told me “Oh, yeah, you’re skinny now, but just wait until you turn 40. Your metabolism will change and you’ll blimp out just like the rest of us.”
Congratulations.
I hope you choke on your maliciously smug prescience.
16 November 2007
About Australian Law Enforcement
Police officers in Australia are called ‘constables’. I think that is just so cute. Such a friendly, neighbourly word, constable is.
New South Wales Law Enforcement is always announcing some new campaign designed to highlight a particular area of concern, especially over holiday periods. For example, over the Easter holidays, the police were targeting seat belt infractions. During the Queen’s Birthday Weekend, they were cracking down on sleepy drivers. Last week, the Sydney Police unveiled Operation Summer Safe: targeting drunken louts and anti-social behaviour.
I just love imagining Constables on patrol reprimanding surly youths for sulking and playing too many computer games, encouraging them to join a book club or take up a sport. I think a term like “anti-social behaviour” gives the police a considerable amount of leeway. I am curious to know the legal definition.
Fortunately, since I have not been in any trouble lately, I don’t have much more to say about Australian Law Enforcement. I did have a couple of constables come to the apartment to take a statement from me after I reported a hit and run that I witnessed. They were tiny. Like little munchkin police. Seriously, the smallest police officers I have ever seen. I guess that’s why there had to be two of them. (Come to think of it, Australian Police always travel in pairs, never solo. That is probably a very good idea if you can afford it.) The lady constable took my statement while the gentleman constable said nothing as he sat on our ugly but comfortable sofa and stared at our flat panel TV. Finally, at the end of the interview he said “Gee, that’s a really nice TV you’ve got there.”
So cute.
New South Wales Law Enforcement is always announcing some new campaign designed to highlight a particular area of concern, especially over holiday periods. For example, over the Easter holidays, the police were targeting seat belt infractions. During the Queen’s Birthday Weekend, they were cracking down on sleepy drivers. Last week, the Sydney Police unveiled Operation Summer Safe: targeting drunken louts and anti-social behaviour.
I just love imagining Constables on patrol reprimanding surly youths for sulking and playing too many computer games, encouraging them to join a book club or take up a sport. I think a term like “anti-social behaviour” gives the police a considerable amount of leeway. I am curious to know the legal definition.
Fortunately, since I have not been in any trouble lately, I don’t have much more to say about Australian Law Enforcement. I did have a couple of constables come to the apartment to take a statement from me after I reported a hit and run that I witnessed. They were tiny. Like little munchkin police. Seriously, the smallest police officers I have ever seen. I guess that’s why there had to be two of them. (Come to think of it, Australian Police always travel in pairs, never solo. That is probably a very good idea if you can afford it.) The lady constable took my statement while the gentleman constable said nothing as he sat on our ugly but comfortable sofa and stared at our flat panel TV. Finally, at the end of the interview he said “Gee, that’s a really nice TV you’ve got there.”
So cute.
12 November 2007
The Joys of Public Transport
Girl Sitting next to me: “Stephanie! Hey. Hi.”
Girl Standing next to me: “Oh my God, Angela. Hi. I like, love your earrings.”
Stephanie: “Thanks. I have the flu.”
Angela: “Oh my God, me too. I totally have the flu.”
Stephanie: “Yeah, I was like, totally barfing all night.”
Angela: “Oh my God so was I! I was totally barfing all night, too!”
Stephanie: “Why are you like, going to school today if you like, totally have the flu?”
Angela: “Because, today? In English? We’re watching Pride and Prejudice.”
Stephanie: “Oh my God, I like totally LOVE that movie.”
Angela: “Yeah, I know. I’ve like seen it like ten times.”
Audra, feeling a sudden flush of fever turning to Stephanie: “Would you like my seat?”
Girl Standing next to me: “Oh my God, Angela. Hi. I like, love your earrings.”
Stephanie: “Thanks. I have the flu.”
Angela: “Oh my God, me too. I totally have the flu.”
Stephanie: “Yeah, I was like, totally barfing all night.”
Angela: “Oh my God so was I! I was totally barfing all night, too!”
Stephanie: “Why are you like, going to school today if you like, totally have the flu?”
Angela: “Because, today? In English? We’re watching Pride and Prejudice.”
Stephanie: “Oh my God, I like totally LOVE that movie.”
Angela: “Yeah, I know. I’ve like seen it like ten times.”
Audra, feeling a sudden flush of fever turning to Stephanie: “Would you like my seat?”
05 November 2007
The First Tuesday in November
This morning, the entire train was unified in dutiful contemplation of their ballots. All mobile phone conversations pertained to the critical decisions at hand. Today, Australia, in total solidarity, marched forward to cheer their nominations on toward victory.
Of course, I am referring to the Melbourne Cup.
Described as “The Race That Stops a Nation”, I daresay that in terms of hype and anticipation, the Melbourne Cup rivals, if not surpasses, the Kentucky Derby. For some time, I have been meaning to write about Australia’s obsession with horse racing, gambling, and the wearing of silly hats - indeed, a great number of women here seem to suffer from an Eliza Doolittle Complex.
I was hoping to report from a position of first hand experience. Unfortunately, my plans were thwarted by the (mighty suspicious) arrival of Equine Influenza upon our bonny shores. With swift authority, the government imposed a strict quarantine on horse movement throughout the contry and promptly cancelled most of the qualifying events leading up to today’s preeminent race. (Then the government set up an emergency relief fund for un-employed horse dentists, but that is another subject.) The end result was that only Victorian (Melbourne is in the state of Victoria) horses were able to participate in the Melbourne Cup. The conspiracy theorist in me absolutely whickered.
Nonetheless, in the spirit of cultural participation (not to mention a love of gambling) I embraced the holiday spirit of the event. Following several glasses of bubbly and a catered lunch, I found myself seated in the Bosch Lecture Hall along side my equally enthusiastic colleagues, cheering for randomly selected horses with far more passion than was warranted by my meagre ten dollar buy-in. I must say that Eskimo Queen, Zipping, and Sirmione were total disappointments. I was delighted that Scenic Snot was firmly entrenched at the rear of the pack. (Actually, his name was Scenic Shot, but I took liberties in view of the flu pandemic and his poor showing.) Mahler took an early lead, only to lose in the last few hundred meters of the race as Efficient proved to be appropriately named, having saved his strength for a dramatic come-from-behind win.
The winner of the Melbourne Cup gets over $5 million. Of that, the jockey gets about $350,000. According to the news estimates, Australians wagered over $160 million on the Melbourne Cup Race. (Note that there are only 20 million people in all of Australia.) Efficient paid out at 22:1. The horse got a floral wreath and a free flu shot.
I won $6.
Still, it was more fun than voting.
Of course, I am referring to the Melbourne Cup.
Described as “The Race That Stops a Nation”, I daresay that in terms of hype and anticipation, the Melbourne Cup rivals, if not surpasses, the Kentucky Derby. For some time, I have been meaning to write about Australia’s obsession with horse racing, gambling, and the wearing of silly hats - indeed, a great number of women here seem to suffer from an Eliza Doolittle Complex.
I was hoping to report from a position of first hand experience. Unfortunately, my plans were thwarted by the (mighty suspicious) arrival of Equine Influenza upon our bonny shores. With swift authority, the government imposed a strict quarantine on horse movement throughout the contry and promptly cancelled most of the qualifying events leading up to today’s preeminent race. (Then the government set up an emergency relief fund for un-employed horse dentists, but that is another subject.) The end result was that only Victorian (Melbourne is in the state of Victoria) horses were able to participate in the Melbourne Cup. The conspiracy theorist in me absolutely whickered.
Nonetheless, in the spirit of cultural participation (not to mention a love of gambling) I embraced the holiday spirit of the event. Following several glasses of bubbly and a catered lunch, I found myself seated in the Bosch Lecture Hall along side my equally enthusiastic colleagues, cheering for randomly selected horses with far more passion than was warranted by my meagre ten dollar buy-in. I must say that Eskimo Queen, Zipping, and Sirmione were total disappointments. I was delighted that Scenic Snot was firmly entrenched at the rear of the pack. (Actually, his name was Scenic Shot, but I took liberties in view of the flu pandemic and his poor showing.) Mahler took an early lead, only to lose in the last few hundred meters of the race as Efficient proved to be appropriately named, having saved his strength for a dramatic come-from-behind win.
The winner of the Melbourne Cup gets over $5 million. Of that, the jockey gets about $350,000. According to the news estimates, Australians wagered over $160 million on the Melbourne Cup Race. (Note that there are only 20 million people in all of Australia.) Efficient paid out at 22:1. The horse got a floral wreath and a free flu shot.
I won $6.
Still, it was more fun than voting.
29 October 2007
Fall into Spring
A few days ago, I walked by a dollar store and saw a small display of Halloween costumes and decorations. I was flabbergasted. Halloween is my favourite holiday of the year, and it snuck up on me completely. I felt suddenly displaced, out of whack with the space-time continuum.
For reasons beyond my comprehension, Halloween is not a well regarded holiday in Australia. It seems to be considered the ultimate example of the contamination of Australian culture by American marketing and consumerism. I am among the first to admit a hatred of the marketing machine, and for this reason avoid fabricated Hallmark gift-giving holidays such as Valentine’s Day, Secretary Day, and Mother’s/Father’s Day. And, I concede there is something unsettling in the fact that Halloween is second only to Christmas in consumer dollars spent.
But, Halloween is FU-UN. It is FUN to be ghoulish and macabre (note the proper use of the adjective). It is FUN to dress up and pretend to be someone (or something) else for a day. It is FUN to eat so many Bottlecaps, and Smarties, and miniature Three Musketeers Bars, and Wax Lips, and Pixie Sticks, and Tootsie Rolls, and Junior Mints, and Atomic Fireballs that you shit sugar cubes for a week.
Marketing mania aside, what struck me the most was the simple fact that it doesn’t FEEL like Halloween. Why not, you might reasonably ask? Because it is spring, of course. I get disoriented each time I look at the calendar or catch wind of an NFL score or see a news blip about the World Series then walk outside into warm white sunshine. In the archives of memory and sensation football, Halloween, and the appearance of Christmas decorations are indelibly linked with crisp cool winds, orange slanted sunlight, and the smell of distant wood fires, not with blooming Jacaranda Trees, lengthening days, and the cacophonous din of sexually charged birdsongs.
One of my biggest anxieties about moving to Australia was how I would handle the football jones. Usually, each summer, just before the pre-season, my body begins to physically crave a Sunday spent prostrate on the couch listening to the insouciant chatter of sportscasters punctuated by mindless marketing pitches for beer, cars, and shipping services. Because of the transposed seasonal transitions, that jones never materialized. Nonetheless, when Kevin finally figured out how to “acquire” NFL broadcasts (with the commercials conveniently edited out) I jumped onto the couch with heart-pounding colon-wrenching anticipation…and then I was lulled to sleep by the sweet strains of Al and John, blathering away…
For reasons beyond my comprehension, Halloween is not a well regarded holiday in Australia. It seems to be considered the ultimate example of the contamination of Australian culture by American marketing and consumerism. I am among the first to admit a hatred of the marketing machine, and for this reason avoid fabricated Hallmark gift-giving holidays such as Valentine’s Day, Secretary Day, and Mother’s/Father’s Day. And, I concede there is something unsettling in the fact that Halloween is second only to Christmas in consumer dollars spent.
But, Halloween is FU-UN. It is FUN to be ghoulish and macabre (note the proper use of the adjective). It is FUN to dress up and pretend to be someone (or something) else for a day. It is FUN to eat so many Bottlecaps, and Smarties, and miniature Three Musketeers Bars, and Wax Lips, and Pixie Sticks, and Tootsie Rolls, and Junior Mints, and Atomic Fireballs that you shit sugar cubes for a week.
Marketing mania aside, what struck me the most was the simple fact that it doesn’t FEEL like Halloween. Why not, you might reasonably ask? Because it is spring, of course. I get disoriented each time I look at the calendar or catch wind of an NFL score or see a news blip about the World Series then walk outside into warm white sunshine. In the archives of memory and sensation football, Halloween, and the appearance of Christmas decorations are indelibly linked with crisp cool winds, orange slanted sunlight, and the smell of distant wood fires, not with blooming Jacaranda Trees, lengthening days, and the cacophonous din of sexually charged birdsongs.
One of my biggest anxieties about moving to Australia was how I would handle the football jones. Usually, each summer, just before the pre-season, my body begins to physically crave a Sunday spent prostrate on the couch listening to the insouciant chatter of sportscasters punctuated by mindless marketing pitches for beer, cars, and shipping services. Because of the transposed seasonal transitions, that jones never materialized. Nonetheless, when Kevin finally figured out how to “acquire” NFL broadcasts (with the commercials conveniently edited out) I jumped onto the couch with heart-pounding colon-wrenching anticipation…and then I was lulled to sleep by the sweet strains of Al and John, blathering away…
18 October 2007
Camel Dreaming
Despite my mother’s wishes to the contrary – or perhaps because of them - I was unable to resist structuring our outback excursion around camel experiences. To begin with, I booked us a room at The Lost Camel Resort, so named for a poorly worded legend involving lost wages, lost dreams, lost lives, and of course, lost camels.
Serendipity contributed significantly to the camel theme. On our first morning drive to Ayer’s Rock/Uluru, we encountered a herd of feral camels crossing the road. Mom nearly wet herself with excitement.
The following day, on a hike through the Mulga Gorge at Kata Tjuta/The Olgas, I spied a pile of impossibly white objects lying at the bottom of a side gorge to the left of the trail. Bright white is generally not a colour consistent with the palette of the Australian Outback, thus the pile warranted closer examination. Slipping stealthily off the trail, I scrambled across the slick rock and nearly wet myself with excitement. The immense size of the bones made it immediately clear that a camel had met with an end tragic for the camel but beneficial for the bottom of the food chain. The bones were shockingly clean for their weight…or shockingly heavy for their size. Not shockingly, I knew that I HAD to have at least one of those bones…Unfortunately, the skull was no where in sight.
I would like to state for the record that I in no way endorse the removal of any artefacts, flora, or fauna from national parks, including rocks and shells. I have considerable respect for Aboriginal Lands and Culture and would never willingly or knowingly desecrate any site considered sacred. But then, camels are NOT native to this area, so perhaps the presence of their bones is a desecration and their removal might be a public service.
My conscience was reeling, but I stashed a massive camel vertebra beneath a foot bridge and employed the remainder of the hike to consider the delicate morality of this situation. Preoccupied by my ruminations, we came upon a ranger filling a plastic bag with non-native invasive weeds. Normally, I favour the adaptive advantage of invasive weeds and support their right to colonize new lands. Today I conveniently opted to employ a change of perspective in order to get what I wanted. I happily collected my new found treasure and whisked it out of the park.
In keeping with the theme, I booked a sunset camel ride. It was no small motivator that the tour concluded with beer and camel meat appetizers, which tasted suspiciously like Hickory Farms Summer Sausage, but then maybe I have unknowingly been eating camel meat at Christmas all these years. Camels are frighteningly smelly beasts with notoriously unpleasant dispositions. Our mount, Sullay, proved especially so and was fitted with a mesh bag to keep him from nipping the camel in front of him. There was nothing to keep him from urinating all over himself and the camel behind him.
Speaking with the guides after the tour, I confessed my sin of stealing camel bones. “Oh, was that at the base of Kata Tjuta? Yeah, my boss took the skull.”
Envious absolution was mine.
Serendipity contributed significantly to the camel theme. On our first morning drive to Ayer’s Rock/Uluru, we encountered a herd of feral camels crossing the road. Mom nearly wet herself with excitement.
The following day, on a hike through the Mulga Gorge at Kata Tjuta/The Olgas, I spied a pile of impossibly white objects lying at the bottom of a side gorge to the left of the trail. Bright white is generally not a colour consistent with the palette of the Australian Outback, thus the pile warranted closer examination. Slipping stealthily off the trail, I scrambled across the slick rock and nearly wet myself with excitement. The immense size of the bones made it immediately clear that a camel had met with an end tragic for the camel but beneficial for the bottom of the food chain. The bones were shockingly clean for their weight…or shockingly heavy for their size. Not shockingly, I knew that I HAD to have at least one of those bones…Unfortunately, the skull was no where in sight.
I would like to state for the record that I in no way endorse the removal of any artefacts, flora, or fauna from national parks, including rocks and shells. I have considerable respect for Aboriginal Lands and Culture and would never willingly or knowingly desecrate any site considered sacred. But then, camels are NOT native to this area, so perhaps the presence of their bones is a desecration and their removal might be a public service.
My conscience was reeling, but I stashed a massive camel vertebra beneath a foot bridge and employed the remainder of the hike to consider the delicate morality of this situation. Preoccupied by my ruminations, we came upon a ranger filling a plastic bag with non-native invasive weeds. Normally, I favour the adaptive advantage of invasive weeds and support their right to colonize new lands. Today I conveniently opted to employ a change of perspective in order to get what I wanted. I happily collected my new found treasure and whisked it out of the park.
In keeping with the theme, I booked a sunset camel ride. It was no small motivator that the tour concluded with beer and camel meat appetizers, which tasted suspiciously like Hickory Farms Summer Sausage, but then maybe I have unknowingly been eating camel meat at Christmas all these years. Camels are frighteningly smelly beasts with notoriously unpleasant dispositions. Our mount, Sullay, proved especially so and was fitted with a mesh bag to keep him from nipping the camel in front of him. There was nothing to keep him from urinating all over himself and the camel behind him.
Speaking with the guides after the tour, I confessed my sin of stealing camel bones. “Oh, was that at the base of Kata Tjuta? Yeah, my boss took the skull.”
Envious absolution was mine.
09 October 2007
The Fat Lady Sings
To the horrible tourist from Texas with big hair and steatopygia-
You had no right! You had no right to inflict such agony on your fellow diners! After all, the dinner event was called “The Sounds of Silence” not “The Shrieks of The Banshee.” No one in their right mind would have paid $149 to listen to your shameful caterwauling. Not only was it painful, it was quite disruptive to the digestive process.
Who ever gave you the idea that you could sing? It’s not like you were some celebrity, cheered into giving an impromptu performance by her adoring fans. No. At the incessant urging of your tone deaf husband YOU approached the tour operators and insisted on “treating” the crowd to a couple of songs before dinner.
Just because you can hit a vibrato on every drawn-out note, does NOT make you an opera singer. And what makes you think people on vacation at Ayer’s Rock want to listen to opera anyway? Not that your song selections had anything to do with opera. I don’t mind so much that you mauled “Danny Boy”, as I have never been particularly fond of that song anyway, but I will be forever scarred by the mere thought of Sound of Music after the thorough vivisection you applied to “Climb Every Mountain”, a song that was hitherto quite dear to my heart.
I implore you to carefully consider the health and well being of those around you before you launch into any further mutilations of popular ballads. I nearly broke my mother’s fingers as I wrestled the fork from her hands before she could plunge it into her eardrum. The man next to me actually cried blood. The chef threatened to quit. You are lucky the bus drivers did not abandon us in the desert, though all in attendance would have thoroughly enjoyed watching dingoes rip your throat out.
Please, please limit your future public demonstrations of your wretched vocal talents to the Pig Whistle County Baptist Choir, where your cacophonous ululations undoubtedly help usher your flock unto heaven if only in the hopes of arriving before you just so they may persuade St Peter to rethink any invitations he might be attempted to extend to you.
Kind Regards,
Audra
You had no right! You had no right to inflict such agony on your fellow diners! After all, the dinner event was called “The Sounds of Silence” not “The Shrieks of The Banshee.” No one in their right mind would have paid $149 to listen to your shameful caterwauling. Not only was it painful, it was quite disruptive to the digestive process.
Who ever gave you the idea that you could sing? It’s not like you were some celebrity, cheered into giving an impromptu performance by her adoring fans. No. At the incessant urging of your tone deaf husband YOU approached the tour operators and insisted on “treating” the crowd to a couple of songs before dinner.
Just because you can hit a vibrato on every drawn-out note, does NOT make you an opera singer. And what makes you think people on vacation at Ayer’s Rock want to listen to opera anyway? Not that your song selections had anything to do with opera. I don’t mind so much that you mauled “Danny Boy”, as I have never been particularly fond of that song anyway, but I will be forever scarred by the mere thought of Sound of Music after the thorough vivisection you applied to “Climb Every Mountain”, a song that was hitherto quite dear to my heart.
I implore you to carefully consider the health and well being of those around you before you launch into any further mutilations of popular ballads. I nearly broke my mother’s fingers as I wrestled the fork from her hands before she could plunge it into her eardrum. The man next to me actually cried blood. The chef threatened to quit. You are lucky the bus drivers did not abandon us in the desert, though all in attendance would have thoroughly enjoyed watching dingoes rip your throat out.
Please, please limit your future public demonstrations of your wretched vocal talents to the Pig Whistle County Baptist Choir, where your cacophonous ululations undoubtedly help usher your flock unto heaven if only in the hopes of arriving before you just so they may persuade St Peter to rethink any invitations he might be attempted to extend to you.
Kind Regards,
Audra
29 September 2007
The German-Indian-Mexican-Iraqi Connection
In case I have never made it abundantly clear, I would just like to state for the record that I LOVE beer! Thus, when my mother proposed we attend Oktoberfest, I did not hesitate to reply with a resounding affirmative. The celebration of German-Austrian culture is a thin disguise for the main event - the mass consumption of huge amounts of alcohol. Huge amounts..JPG)
Along the periphery of the venue, I was vaguely aware of the presence of food and entertainment, mostly in the form of bratwurst, potato pancakes, and men clad in leiderhosen slapping themselves to the strains of an accordion, but I was hard pressed to distract my attention from the joyous opportunity to become outrageously intoxicated in the company of 10,000 people wearing silly headpieces such as felt hats, Heidi wigs, and a full American-Indian head dress. I'm not clear on the Indian-German connection, but then neither did I comprehend why a full mariachi had just taken the stage. The reasons were irrelevant. I was so damn excited for a little taste of Mexican culture, even in the midst of schnitzel and Jaegermeister, that I immediately jumped up to stand in the front row and smile at them encouragingly.
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It was from this vantage point that I immediately became aware that something was desperately out of whack. Maybe it was the fact that the music started a split-second before the band had lifted their instruments, or the fact that the suspiciously Caucasian-looking trumpet player (whose Pancho Villa mustache was clearly made of shoe polish ala Grouch Marx) was fingering violently despite the fact that no trumpet sound was coming out of the speakers, or maybe it was the hearty scream of "Ai, Ai, Aiiii" that seemed to come out of no-where, since no performer was making any overtures that could have possibly created such a ululation. Sadly, and with no small amount of disappointment, I realized that I was watching the Milli Vanilli of Mariachi Bands. I applauded graciously, but the magic of the moment had passed and I was now ready to go home.
But, oh we were very far from home. The festival was deep in the heart of the Western suburbs, and if the long train ride didn't confirm this, the abundance of neck tattoos and mullets certainly did. My mother has proved to be very popular with drunk Australian men, and she had soon made many new friends on the shuttle bus returning us to the train station. They soon convinced us that we would be much more comfortable waiting for the train at the pub across the street. Three beers and two trains later, we finally stumbled onto the platform and had a spirited exchange of taunting and trouser dropping with our new friends across the tracks. I defer detailed descriptions of this aspect of the evening to my mother's new blog, because after all, a video is worth ten thousand words and is just damn hilarious.
Not so funny, however, were the group of young Iraqi boys congregating on the platform next to us. As we traded jeers with the men across the tracks, it seemed at first that they were joining in the spirit of fun, but quickly did the tone of their taunts change, and soon they erupted into angry Arabic chants aimed at our friends on the other platform. They were clearly very amused at their own cleverness in being able to hurl insults at others in a language they couldn't possibly understand. Brimming with a confident curiosity born of alcohol and sauerkraut, I diplomatically interrogated the gang for a translation. They were clearly reluctant to tell me, a "foreigner" and a woman just what unpleasantries they had been yelling, but I eventually wore them down, despite their claims that it wouldn't translate well into English. I reassured them that even white people are cognizant of the subtleties of threatening anal rape.
Of course, I am still very disturbed by this scene for more reasons than I can articulate, but I am also very happy to be back in the safe happy melting-pot of the leafy Northern suburbs. I heard on the news this morning, that there was some sort of brawl downtown last night, in which several young men had been stabbed. My thoughts immediately turned to the group of agitated youth who had boarded our train, and I will confess in the pages of this public journal, that I half hope it was them.
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Along the periphery of the venue, I was vaguely aware of the presence of food and entertainment, mostly in the form of bratwurst, potato pancakes, and men clad in leiderhosen slapping themselves to the strains of an accordion, but I was hard pressed to distract my attention from the joyous opportunity to become outrageously intoxicated in the company of 10,000 people wearing silly headpieces such as felt hats, Heidi wigs, and a full American-Indian head dress. I'm not clear on the Indian-German connection, but then neither did I comprehend why a full mariachi had just taken the stage. The reasons were irrelevant. I was so damn excited for a little taste of Mexican culture, even in the midst of schnitzel and Jaegermeister, that I immediately jumped up to stand in the front row and smile at them encouragingly.
.JPG)
It was from this vantage point that I immediately became aware that something was desperately out of whack. Maybe it was the fact that the music started a split-second before the band had lifted their instruments, or the fact that the suspiciously Caucasian-looking trumpet player (whose Pancho Villa mustache was clearly made of shoe polish ala Grouch Marx) was fingering violently despite the fact that no trumpet sound was coming out of the speakers, or maybe it was the hearty scream of "Ai, Ai, Aiiii" that seemed to come out of no-where, since no performer was making any overtures that could have possibly created such a ululation. Sadly, and with no small amount of disappointment, I realized that I was watching the Milli Vanilli of Mariachi Bands. I applauded graciously, but the magic of the moment had passed and I was now ready to go home.
But, oh we were very far from home. The festival was deep in the heart of the Western suburbs, and if the long train ride didn't confirm this, the abundance of neck tattoos and mullets certainly did. My mother has proved to be very popular with drunk Australian men, and she had soon made many new friends on the shuttle bus returning us to the train station. They soon convinced us that we would be much more comfortable waiting for the train at the pub across the street. Three beers and two trains later, we finally stumbled onto the platform and had a spirited exchange of taunting and trouser dropping with our new friends across the tracks. I defer detailed descriptions of this aspect of the evening to my mother's new blog, because after all, a video is worth ten thousand words and is just damn hilarious.
Not so funny, however, were the group of young Iraqi boys congregating on the platform next to us. As we traded jeers with the men across the tracks, it seemed at first that they were joining in the spirit of fun, but quickly did the tone of their taunts change, and soon they erupted into angry Arabic chants aimed at our friends on the other platform. They were clearly very amused at their own cleverness in being able to hurl insults at others in a language they couldn't possibly understand. Brimming with a confident curiosity born of alcohol and sauerkraut, I diplomatically interrogated the gang for a translation. They were clearly reluctant to tell me, a "foreigner" and a woman just what unpleasantries they had been yelling, but I eventually wore them down, despite their claims that it wouldn't translate well into English. I reassured them that even white people are cognizant of the subtleties of threatening anal rape.
Of course, I am still very disturbed by this scene for more reasons than I can articulate, but I am also very happy to be back in the safe happy melting-pot of the leafy Northern suburbs. I heard on the news this morning, that there was some sort of brawl downtown last night, in which several young men had been stabbed. My thoughts immediately turned to the group of agitated youth who had boarded our train, and I will confess in the pages of this public journal, that I half hope it was them.
27 September 2007
The Visitation
We are so very excited to have our first overseas visitor:
We picked up MommaLinda from the airport last Monday at the chirpy hour of 6:20 am (when no less than 6 other flights from California were arriving simulataneously). She was tired, but in good spirits after the 15 hour flight.
The last few days have been a whirlwind of activity, and I have slept better this past week than I have in a long time. On Tuesday, she took the ferry to Manly. Spent the day at the Sydney Aquarium on Wednesday. On Thursday, we met up for lunch at the famous Sydney Fish Markets, where we sipped a bottle of Hunter Valley Semillon and slurped some oysters.
Afterwards, we indulged in a little late night shopping and a cozy pub crawl, where we encountered a rather intoxicated and mildly entertaining Canadian caught in a mid-life crisis of his own making.
OK, so Kevin was not so amused.
For further details of the Adventures of MommaLinda, I refer you to her brand new very own blog - Dydo Down Under.
And now we are off to pet koalas and feed kangaroos...
20 September 2007
Train Games
There is no sweeter feeling than stepping onto the platform just as the whistle blows and hopping onto the train as the door swish shut behind you.
There is no drearier feeling than stepping onto the platform just as the doors swish shut in front of you and the train whispers laughingly out of the station.
Except when that swish is immediately followed by a garbled announcement that the next train has been delayed by 2 minutes, followed 2 minutes later by another garbled announcement that the train has been delayed by a further 2 minutes, followed by yet another garbled announcement as anxious passengers continue to stream onto the platform until you are standing shoulder to shoulder waiting for a train that you know is going to be jam packed already, because the same thing happened at each station up the track as the train, now delayed by 13 minutes, sat in Wahroonga, waiting for “an intruder” to be removed from the tracks, and then when the train finally does arrive, the crowd surges forward thus precluding the progress of the throngs of passengers scrambling to get off the train, because no one wants to wait for the next train that is due to arrive in 2 minutes, because they already got burned on the last train that was 20 minutes late, and dammit, they are going to get on that train if they have to trample old cripples and pregnant women to do it, and you would be polite and step aside, but you are caught up by the momentum of the masses, so you jam your elbow into a schoolgirl with curly pony tails and fling yourself into the carriage, tucking your ass inside just as the doors swish shut and you turn to see the twisted sorry faces of those left behind on the platform already wailing in agony at the announcement that the next train has been delayed by 2 minutes, but at that point, you cannot help but feel a guilt-ridden thrill of triumph that you made it on board and now you get to play:
Train Games
1) Where do I put my eyes?
This may seem like a silly game, but I assure you it is quite serious, especially when you are seated in a row that directly faces the seat across from you. The only way to avoid playing this game is to immediately immerse yourself in a book or simply close your eyes, in which case you run the risk of falling asleep and losing by missing your stop. Sitting in a window seat also gives you an automatic out, as you can easily pretend to be vastly entertained by the scenery, but when the train enters a tunnel, you are promptly forced into play. There isn’t much to look at in a cramped train compartment besides other passengers, and the whole point of the game is to not actually make eye contact with anyone else. To win, you must successfully bounce your focus all around the cabin, never settling on any one person long enough for them to catch you looking at them. I’m not very good at this game, because I like to pick one person and watch them play and they always feel me watching them then shift nervously as I continue to watch their eyes bounce back to see where mine have gone, which pretty much equates to staring, which can often be misinterpreted as:
2) Perving
This is a very popular game, but Australians aren’t nearly as good at it as Americans. Because of the pervasive politeness of Australian Society, a really good perve is almost always done with coy secrecy, and very little blatant flirting actually occurs. I am pretty skilled at this game and have forced many uncomfortable young school boys to change seats.
3) Guess what I had for dinner last night?
This game is best played on very crowded trains where body odours are commingling, but you have to watch out for people who are carrying their lunch – that can throw you off the scent. Indians never win this game, because curry is extremely pervasive. People who burb a lot also never win this game...was it chicken schnitzel and a rocket salad with parmesan? Likewise, anyone who had garlic the night before is usually tagged out pretty quickly, which seems to be just about everyone who gets on at St Leonards.
4) Who farted?
This game is far more popular than I ever would have imagined. However, my natural talents invariably assure me a complete victory.
There is no drearier feeling than stepping onto the platform just as the doors swish shut in front of you and the train whispers laughingly out of the station.
Except when that swish is immediately followed by a garbled announcement that the next train has been delayed by 2 minutes, followed 2 minutes later by another garbled announcement that the train has been delayed by a further 2 minutes, followed by yet another garbled announcement as anxious passengers continue to stream onto the platform until you are standing shoulder to shoulder waiting for a train that you know is going to be jam packed already, because the same thing happened at each station up the track as the train, now delayed by 13 minutes, sat in Wahroonga, waiting for “an intruder” to be removed from the tracks, and then when the train finally does arrive, the crowd surges forward thus precluding the progress of the throngs of passengers scrambling to get off the train, because no one wants to wait for the next train that is due to arrive in 2 minutes, because they already got burned on the last train that was 20 minutes late, and dammit, they are going to get on that train if they have to trample old cripples and pregnant women to do it, and you would be polite and step aside, but you are caught up by the momentum of the masses, so you jam your elbow into a schoolgirl with curly pony tails and fling yourself into the carriage, tucking your ass inside just as the doors swish shut and you turn to see the twisted sorry faces of those left behind on the platform already wailing in agony at the announcement that the next train has been delayed by 2 minutes, but at that point, you cannot help but feel a guilt-ridden thrill of triumph that you made it on board and now you get to play:
Train Games
1) Where do I put my eyes?
This may seem like a silly game, but I assure you it is quite serious, especially when you are seated in a row that directly faces the seat across from you. The only way to avoid playing this game is to immediately immerse yourself in a book or simply close your eyes, in which case you run the risk of falling asleep and losing by missing your stop. Sitting in a window seat also gives you an automatic out, as you can easily pretend to be vastly entertained by the scenery, but when the train enters a tunnel, you are promptly forced into play. There isn’t much to look at in a cramped train compartment besides other passengers, and the whole point of the game is to not actually make eye contact with anyone else. To win, you must successfully bounce your focus all around the cabin, never settling on any one person long enough for them to catch you looking at them. I’m not very good at this game, because I like to pick one person and watch them play and they always feel me watching them then shift nervously as I continue to watch their eyes bounce back to see where mine have gone, which pretty much equates to staring, which can often be misinterpreted as:
2) Perving
This is a very popular game, but Australians aren’t nearly as good at it as Americans. Because of the pervasive politeness of Australian Society, a really good perve is almost always done with coy secrecy, and very little blatant flirting actually occurs. I am pretty skilled at this game and have forced many uncomfortable young school boys to change seats.
3) Guess what I had for dinner last night?
This game is best played on very crowded trains where body odours are commingling, but you have to watch out for people who are carrying their lunch – that can throw you off the scent. Indians never win this game, because curry is extremely pervasive. People who burb a lot also never win this game...was it chicken schnitzel and a rocket salad with parmesan? Likewise, anyone who had garlic the night before is usually tagged out pretty quickly, which seems to be just about everyone who gets on at St Leonards.
4) Who farted?
This game is far more popular than I ever would have imagined. However, my natural talents invariably assure me a complete victory.
13 September 2007
Australian Humor
A koala is sitting up a gum tree smoking a joint when a little lizard walks past , looks up and says "Hey Koala ! what are you doing?"
So the little lizard climbs up and sits next to the koala and they have a few joints. After a while the little lizard says his mouth is 'dry' and is going to get a drink from the river.
But the little lizard is so stoned that he leans too far over and falls into the river.
A crocodile sees this and swims over to the little lizard and helps him to the side, then asks the little lizard: "What's the matter with you?"
The little lizard explains to the crocodile that he was sitting smoking a joint with the koala in the tree, got too stoned and then fell into the river while taking a drink.
The crocodile says he has to check this out and walks into the rain forest, finds the tree where the koala is sitting finishing a joint, and he looks up and says "Hey you!" 
So the koala looks down at him and says: 
"Fuuuu - k dude.......how much water did you drink?!!"
The koala says: "Smoking a joint, come up and have some."
So the little lizard climbs up and sits next to the koala and they have a few joints. After a while the little lizard says his mouth is 'dry' and is going to get a drink from the river.
But the little lizard is so stoned that he leans too far over and falls into the river.
A crocodile sees this and swims over to the little lizard and helps him to the side, then asks the little lizard: "What's the matter with you?"
The little lizard explains to the crocodile that he was sitting smoking a joint with the koala in the tree, got too stoned and then fell into the river while taking a drink.
The crocodile says he has to check this out and walks into the rain forest, finds the tree where the koala is sitting finishing a joint, and he looks up and says "Hey you!"
So the koala looks down at him and says:
"Fuuuu - k dude.......how much water did you drink?!!"
08 September 2007
About Canberra
Canberra and the Australian Capital Territory get an awful lot of bad press around Australia, most of which I was happy to subscribe to until I visited it for myself. The design of the city results from an international competition, won by American Walter Burley Griffin, and consists of a series of large circles housing various buildings of importance connected by long promenades with sweeping vistas between them, all nestled in a bowl rimmed with rocky mountain peaks. On a map, the city resembles a modern art instalment made from old bicycle wheels and discarded lengths of sprinkler pipe.
The intentional and purpose driven layout of the city fuels much of the criticism. While it is true that Canberra doesn’t have the romantic randomness of a city that grew too fast for its infrastructure resulting in tangled multi-road intersections, clogged turn lanes leading into gridlocked shopping centres, and busy freeways that dead end into neighbourhoods with inadequate parking, its orderliness does have a distinctly soothing charm. Traffic flows smoothly, almost effortlessly around the giant roundabouts, and if you miss your turn, you just go around once more until you find it.
The views along the straightaways from Parliament House in the middle of Capital Hill are dramatic and give one the feeling of being at the centre of the universe. The surrounding countryside features beautiful rolling hills and open grasslands and is quite reminiscent of central California, substitute gum trees for oaks. The man-made lake (aren’t most?) does indeed bring the city into focus and opens the views of dramatic lakeside architectural icons such as the National Museum, which I personally find disturbing despite its grandeur.
The intentional and purpose driven layout of the city fuels much of the criticism. While it is true that Canberra doesn’t have the romantic randomness of a city that grew too fast for its infrastructure resulting in tangled multi-road intersections, clogged turn lanes leading into gridlocked shopping centres, and busy freeways that dead end into neighbourhoods with inadequate parking, its orderliness does have a distinctly soothing charm. Traffic flows smoothly, almost effortlessly around the giant roundabouts, and if you miss your turn, you just go around once more until you find it.
The views along the straightaways from Parliament House in the middle of Capital Hill are dramatic and give one the feeling of being at the centre of the universe. The surrounding countryside features beautiful rolling hills and open grasslands and is quite reminiscent of central California, substitute gum trees for oaks. The man-made lake (aren’t most?) does indeed bring the city into focus and opens the views of dramatic lakeside architectural icons such as the National Museum, which I personally find disturbing despite its grandeur.
There is no question that the city might be classified as incredibly dull, but one might as easily employ the word peaceful. The abundance of museums and galleries against the backdrop of a bustling political curtain makes the place seem intellectually cultured. The proliferation of foreign embassies contributes to a sense of worldliness, of being part of something bigger than Australia, yet at the same time produces pleasant feelings of national pride.
…and as I write this, the cathedral bells are playing Amazing Grace…time to get out the Kleenex again…
After the Storm
I swear, the weather turned beautiful as soon as George W got on the plane and left!
07 September 2007
Lest We Forget
In last year's segment entitled “Postcards from Australia”, I remarked upon the proliferation of war memorials scattered throughout the Australian countryside. My sentiments were echoed more poetically by the following inscription:
Yesterday, I learned the reason.
Yesterday, we visited the mother of all Australian War Memorials in Canberra (more on Canberra to follow). Unless you are a war buff, I am certain most Americans have no appreciation of Australia’s contributions to every major war. I will go one step further to wager that most American college graduates wouldn’t even know that battles were fought on Australian soil during World War Two. (I can say that with a fair degree of confidence because, before my visits here, I didn’t appreciate it either.)
Well Australia is keenly aware of their contributions and their collective victories and losses continue to shape their national identity. The personal values of courage, bravery, and honour are a source of pride and are, at least publicly, still prized more than individuality and self-fulfilment. When valour leads to sacrifice, it is important to memorialize the dead and give closure to the family through military burials and grave markers. Over 60,000 soldiers died in WWI, and more than 25,000 were not recovered. Just about every town, locality, or cluster of homes in Australia has a connection to a soldier who was not properly interred. These memorials give the families a place to lay their grief, their memories, and their prayers.
I won’t bore you with a tedious description of the massive collection of memorabilia, souvenirs, or displays that filled the enormous museum, nor will I post pictures of the many really cool dioramas depicting various miserable battles at Gallipoli – especially since I didn’t take any and openly wondered about the Turkish tourists that did so. I also won’t tell you about the theatrical enactments of a night time bombing raid over Berlin and of the attack on Sydney Harbour by three Japanese midget submarines…because in words, I could not do justice to the intensity of the emotions and realizations conjured by the contents of those marble halls. I will simply say, I really should have brought a whole box of tissues with me.
We lingered for the closing ceremony because it was touted as a “must see” in the tourist brochures. I fully expected to be a sobbing mess during the performance of a Final Lament in the Commemorative area surrounding the Pool of Reflection in which sits the Eternal Flame of Remembrance. Fortunately, the lament was being played on a bagpipe by a veteran in full kilt, and the notes were sufficiently flat and cacophonous as to prevent stimulation of the autonomic nerves in control of my tear ducts…that is, until the soldier turned and marched into the Hall of Valour. When the pair of large brass doors clicked shut upon the quiet echo of the final note, I broke into sobs and had to be helped down the stairs.
Yesterday, I learned the reason.
Yesterday, we visited the mother of all Australian War Memorials in Canberra (more on Canberra to follow). Unless you are a war buff, I am certain most Americans have no appreciation of Australia’s contributions to every major war. I will go one step further to wager that most American college graduates wouldn’t even know that battles were fought on Australian soil during World War Two. (I can say that with a fair degree of confidence because, before my visits here, I didn’t appreciate it either.)
Well Australia is keenly aware of their contributions and their collective victories and losses continue to shape their national identity. The personal values of courage, bravery, and honour are a source of pride and are, at least publicly, still prized more than individuality and self-fulfilment. When valour leads to sacrifice, it is important to memorialize the dead and give closure to the family through military burials and grave markers. Over 60,000 soldiers died in WWI, and more than 25,000 were not recovered. Just about every town, locality, or cluster of homes in Australia has a connection to a soldier who was not properly interred. These memorials give the families a place to lay their grief, their memories, and their prayers.
I won’t bore you with a tedious description of the massive collection of memorabilia, souvenirs, or displays that filled the enormous museum, nor will I post pictures of the many really cool dioramas depicting various miserable battles at Gallipoli – especially since I didn’t take any and openly wondered about the Turkish tourists that did so. I also won’t tell you about the theatrical enactments of a night time bombing raid over Berlin and of the attack on Sydney Harbour by three Japanese midget submarines…because in words, I could not do justice to the intensity of the emotions and realizations conjured by the contents of those marble halls. I will simply say, I really should have brought a whole box of tissues with me.
We lingered for the closing ceremony because it was touted as a “must see” in the tourist brochures. I fully expected to be a sobbing mess during the performance of a Final Lament in the Commemorative area surrounding the Pool of Reflection in which sits the Eternal Flame of Remembrance. Fortunately, the lament was being played on a bagpipe by a veteran in full kilt, and the notes were sufficiently flat and cacophonous as to prevent stimulation of the autonomic nerves in control of my tear ducts…that is, until the soldier turned and marched into the Hall of Valour. When the pair of large brass doors clicked shut upon the quiet echo of the final note, I broke into sobs and had to be helped down the stairs.
04 September 2007
Why Stereotypes Exist
or
The Benefits of Micro-Management
Aside from the myriad ways in which his personality, strengths, and weaknesses complement my own, my darling husband Kevin is wonderful when it comes to sharing household chores. He cleans bathrooms, washes windows, and sometimes even offers to cook dinner. I am infinitely appreciative of all his contibutions to our domestic bliss, even if I don't spend goopy hours flattering and praising his efforts.
Thus, last Sunday, my heart swelled from pride and affection, I was able to relax on the couch, wallowing in my hay fever (or horse flu, or whatever it is) with a bottle of wine and a Brad Pitt movie as Kevin courageously donned his hiking gear and began his rugged ascent up Mt Kilimanlaundry. With complete faith and trust, I relinquished all responsibility as he heaved load after load into our savage washing machine.
And then I spent the rest of the week, in a manner reminiscent of a mother chimpanzee grooming her lice infested infant, picking thousands upon thousands of little tufts of fuzz from every piece of black clothing that I own.
But our new grey bath towels are nice and clean...and fluffy.
The Benefits of Micro-Management
Aside from the myriad ways in which his personality, strengths, and weaknesses complement my own, my darling husband Kevin is wonderful when it comes to sharing household chores. He cleans bathrooms, washes windows, and sometimes even offers to cook dinner. I am infinitely appreciative of all his contibutions to our domestic bliss, even if I don't spend goopy hours flattering and praising his efforts.
Thus, last Sunday, my heart swelled from pride and affection, I was able to relax on the couch, wallowing in my hay fever (or horse flu, or whatever it is) with a bottle of wine and a Brad Pitt movie as Kevin courageously donned his hiking gear and began his rugged ascent up Mt Kilimanlaundry. With complete faith and trust, I relinquished all responsibility as he heaved load after load into our savage washing machine.
And then I spent the rest of the week, in a manner reminiscent of a mother chimpanzee grooming her lice infested infant, picking thousands upon thousands of little tufts of fuzz from every piece of black clothing that I own.
But our new grey bath towels are nice and clean...and fluffy.
01 September 2007
Happy Father's Day
Today is Father’s Day in Australia.
I am just as unimpressed with this Hallmark Holiday here in September as I am with it in the USA in June. It’s not that I have any particular objections to the sentiments of the occasion, but I seriously dislike the peer pressure and guilt associated with being too lazy and self involved to post a card or buy a chocolate tool set. I sincerely hope that the various fathers in my life know that I hold them in high regard on every day of the year, and that I would be happy to take them out for brekkie anytime.
I am just as unimpressed with this Hallmark Holiday here in September as I am with it in the USA in June. It’s not that I have any particular objections to the sentiments of the occasion, but I seriously dislike the peer pressure and guilt associated with being too lazy and self involved to post a card or buy a chocolate tool set. I sincerely hope that the various fathers in my life know that I hold them in high regard on every day of the year, and that I would be happy to take them out for brekkie anytime.
Countdown to APEC
My, but Sydney sure is putting up a fuss over a few world leaders!
For the last month, the town has been littered with billboards and public service announcements warning of traffic disruptions, advising alternate routes, and generally telling people to stay away from downtown, or better yet, get out of town altogether during the APEC summit. I’m still not exactly sure what APEC is…I think it stands for Australian Politicians Elicit Clusterfuck.
Preparations have included drills and manoeuvres by various public safety agencies and the skies have been filled with police helicopters. Clearways (long zones of no parking under threat of death) have been established along all major thoroughfares to ensure a smooth commute from the airfields for all the visiting dignitaries. I am highly sceptical that even clearways can unclog Victoria Road through Rozelle, but am glad that I am not responsible for any of the preparations, because I would tell them all to just get on the train, and maybe if the world leaders got a good look at the conditions of some of the old trains, there would suddenly be enough money to put Oscars on the North Shore Line.
In anticipation of the large number of demonstrators that will need to be arrested, Sydney has granted a two-week release to 2,000 prison inmates. I just love that! Release 2,000 convicted criminals in anticipation of crimes that have yet to be committed. That just doesn’t make sense to me, once more proving that I am not qualified to run the zoo.
Since Sydney has been kind enough to give the entire city a day off, we have decided to take advantage of the three day weekend to get out of town. We are going to visit the nation’s capitol simply because everyone we meet tells us how awful Canberra is and why we should never go there. That makes it absolutely irresistible in my book.
For the last month, the town has been littered with billboards and public service announcements warning of traffic disruptions, advising alternate routes, and generally telling people to stay away from downtown, or better yet, get out of town altogether during the APEC summit. I’m still not exactly sure what APEC is…I think it stands for Australian Politicians Elicit Clusterfuck.
Preparations have included drills and manoeuvres by various public safety agencies and the skies have been filled with police helicopters. Clearways (long zones of no parking under threat of death) have been established along all major thoroughfares to ensure a smooth commute from the airfields for all the visiting dignitaries. I am highly sceptical that even clearways can unclog Victoria Road through Rozelle, but am glad that I am not responsible for any of the preparations, because I would tell them all to just get on the train, and maybe if the world leaders got a good look at the conditions of some of the old trains, there would suddenly be enough money to put Oscars on the North Shore Line.
In anticipation of the large number of demonstrators that will need to be arrested, Sydney has granted a two-week release to 2,000 prison inmates. I just love that! Release 2,000 convicted criminals in anticipation of crimes that have yet to be committed. That just doesn’t make sense to me, once more proving that I am not qualified to run the zoo.
Since Sydney has been kind enough to give the entire city a day off, we have decided to take advantage of the three day weekend to get out of town. We are going to visit the nation’s capitol simply because everyone we meet tells us how awful Canberra is and why we should never go there. That makes it absolutely irresistible in my book.
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