Winston wrapped his bare legs around his mother's waist. One hand tugged his white t-shirt down over his diaper, the other a fist, hid his dirty mouth. His eyes darted back and forth, eagerly seeking the contents of the house behind me.
"Hi. My name is ___ ______. I...we...used to live here..."
"Oh, yes of course, ____" I said as I grabbed the pile of mail sitting next to the front door.
"Believe it or not, there is a forwarding order for this address."
"Oh I believe it!" I handed her a stack of letters. "I've dealt with Australia Post before..."
"But that is not why I am here." Winston wiggled in her arms, clearly straining to come inside.
____ explained, apologetically, that she and her husband separated last year. He moved into the city. Winston hasn't seen much of him since, but then, he never really did. For the last year, Winston has been struggling with the concept of "home", continually asking to come back here, back home.
"It's been especially bad the last few weeks...and, well, I just didn't know what else to do...how else to make it clear to him."
"Would you like to come inside?"
She set him down, his bare feet flinching on the cold wet pavers. He rushed toward the door, froze at the threshold.
"See, Winston? Your toys aren't here. Our furniture isn't here. We don't live here anymore. Do you understand? We have a new home. This lady lives here now. This isn't our home. See? Daddy isn't here."
My heart fluttered and sank as I shifted awkwardly in my robe. I thought of my own constantly changing dream scape, of all the locations that represent "home" to me...of how they morph and blend so that some days I wake up not knowing where I am - or where I belong. Yet, I am a grown woman, self-realized who consciously makes the decisions to set my life afloat in the name of adventure. I am not a scared little boy with no stable shoreline against which to measure the tides of change.
Winston peered around the corner of the front door, scanning the living room, soaking in our camp chairs, soiled rug, and the $10 couch I bought off gumtree.com and covered with a moving blanket.
"Yes, Mommy. It's a yucky house." He turned and walked steadily back to his over sized SUV.
Fuck You, Winston.
29 July 2010
26 July 2010
This is NOT an Internet Scam - I Promise
What: Massive Yard Sale/ Bake Sale/ Street Carnival
Why: See Below
When: July 30 - August 1, 7:00am - 3:00pm
Where: 1205 Kimberly Drive, San Jose, CA
How: You go there and spend some money, take away some stuff, eat a cupcake.
You know how sometimes, when you bruise your knee, and then for some reason keep knocking that knee into things more than you normally would? Well, sometimes that can happen to a whole family.
The Kestermont Clan (of which my sister is a contractual member) has been absolutely besieged by health troubles in the last 4 years. I'd list them all, but it would sound like one of my Aunt Bette's Christmas Letters. Of course, how else am I going to elicit enough sympathy to get you off your ass?
There have been multiple surgeries to untangle intestines and fallopian tubes. As often happens with cars and computers, there were a few bits left over that didn't seem to fit when it was time to close the lid.
There were mysterious infections that lead to near amputations.
There were hemorrhoids so large they could only have resulted from the mixture of toxic chemicals and radioactive materials (there is a joke about uranium and coccyx waste in here somewhere, but I can't seem to extract it.)
There have been knees ripped from their sockets like a good greasy leg of fried chicken - if fried chicken wore cute knitted hats with ears and went skiing at Lake Tahoe.
There have been gall stones, and infections, and back pains, and paper cuts too.
But worst of all, last year Papa Kestermont suffered a head injury that put him in a coma and kept him in a hospital for over two months. He's out now, and walking, and joking, and being ornery, but he still needs a lot of care. Momma Kestermont has been managing with a little help.
But last month, she had a brain aneurysm, and now she too needs some help. Now, they all need help.
This crew just keeps smiling and laughing and loving through all of these ups and downs. So please, drop by the yard sale and take away some of their burden.
Thank you.
What: Massive Yard Sale/ Bake Sale/ Street Carnival
Why: See Above
When: July 30 - August 1, 7:00am - 3:00pm
Where: 1205 Kimberly Drive, San Jose, CA
View Larger Map
Why: See Below
When: July 30 - August 1, 7:00am - 3:00pm
Where: 1205 Kimberly Drive, San Jose, CA
How: You go there and spend some money, take away some stuff, eat a cupcake.
You know how sometimes, when you bruise your knee, and then for some reason keep knocking that knee into things more than you normally would? Well, sometimes that can happen to a whole family.
The Kestermont Clan (of which my sister is a contractual member) has been absolutely besieged by health troubles in the last 4 years. I'd list them all, but it would sound like one of my Aunt Bette's Christmas Letters. Of course, how else am I going to elicit enough sympathy to get you off your ass?
There have been multiple surgeries to untangle intestines and fallopian tubes. As often happens with cars and computers, there were a few bits left over that didn't seem to fit when it was time to close the lid.
There were mysterious infections that lead to near amputations.
There were hemorrhoids so large they could only have resulted from the mixture of toxic chemicals and radioactive materials (there is a joke about uranium and coccyx waste in here somewhere, but I can't seem to extract it.)
There have been knees ripped from their sockets like a good greasy leg of fried chicken - if fried chicken wore cute knitted hats with ears and went skiing at Lake Tahoe.
There have been gall stones, and infections, and back pains, and paper cuts too.
But worst of all, last year Papa Kestermont suffered a head injury that put him in a coma and kept him in a hospital for over two months. He's out now, and walking, and joking, and being ornery, but he still needs a lot of care. Momma Kestermont has been managing with a little help.
But last month, she had a brain aneurysm, and now she too needs some help. Now, they all need help.
Thank you.
What: Massive Yard Sale/ Bake Sale/ Street Carnival
Why: See Above
When: July 30 - August 1, 7:00am - 3:00pm
Where: 1205 Kimberly Drive, San Jose, CA
View Larger Map
23 July 2010
Experimente!
I'm not sure which I like better, the product itself or the fact that the package is labelled in Korean AND Spanish.
Well, something resembling Spanish anyway. Just what exactly is a pique nique??
And just how does testosterone make it fattening?
Bad, Bad Kitty LOVES it! I caught her licking the package.
Well, something resembling Spanish anyway. Just what exactly is a pique nique??
And just how does testosterone make it fattening?
Bad, Bad Kitty LOVES it! I caught her licking the package.
17 July 2010
On a Cold Winter's Day
Everyone assures me that this winter in Adelaide has been exceptionally nasty - that it is usually much more pleasant than this. Seems I heard the same story when we first moved to Sydney. I honestly believe we could hire ourselves out as drought busters. Whenever we move to some pleasant climate, they invariably experience their wettest year in a decade.
Despite our intense desire to remain cuddled beneath our cozy doona, I hoisted our asses out of bed and down to the Adelaide Showground Farmer's Market - a delightful collection of local producers and food artisans. In no time at all, my fingers were numb from fishing coins from my pockets, but our little basket was full of fresh crisp produce and recently slaughtered pig parts - because nothing chases away the gloom like a bubbling pot of chile verde, especially when paired with a box of cheap wine.
My chile verde recipe was graciously passed down to me by my most wonderful brother-in-law, Eddie who claims to be a real Mexican although I suspect he is actually a Shriner - although come to think of it, there is no reason the two are mutually exclusive...do Mexican Shriners ride around in mini-low riders? Why do I have trouble imagining Eddie in a miniature anything...
Despite our intense desire to remain cuddled beneath our cozy doona, I hoisted our asses out of bed and down to the Adelaide Showground Farmer's Market - a delightful collection of local producers and food artisans. In no time at all, my fingers were numb from fishing coins from my pockets, but our little basket was full of fresh crisp produce and recently slaughtered pig parts - because nothing chases away the gloom like a bubbling pot of chile verde, especially when paired with a box of cheap wine.
People who have tasted my chile verde invariably ask me for the recipe. To that I say, come spend a gloomy Sunday with me, drinking cheap wine, roasting chiles, and peeling garlic. I realize that is not practical for many of you, so here is the recipe I transcribed from Eddie and keep proudly attached to my refrigerator with magnets featuring visages of His Most Holy of Holies, and three sexually curious sheep from New Zealand (is there any other kind of sheep in New Zealand?).
I don't know why the phrase "creepy cheese eating surrender monkeys" is written on this recipe, but I do know it is critical to the success of the stew. Questions? Sorry, you'll just have to come spend a gloomy Sunday with me.
19 June 2010
Invitrogen Threw Up in My Kitchen
I'm on a first name basis with my delivery driver. Every week, Beau shows up and brings me a box full of marketing from the home office in Melbourne. Two weeks ago, he brought me TWO PALLETS of office supplies, lab demo equipment, and boxes of files packed up by the previous sales rep. Unpacking was like Christmas, except without the good cheer, annoying music, or the smell of ham.
Some of the items were useful, like banners, branded table cloths, utility carts, literature stands, and protein gel boxes...and several shirts covered with animal hair. Others were downright pathological - like reams of expired promotional flyers, a crate of Immunology catalogs from 2006, and two large boxes of squishy toys shaped like water droplets (which are fantastic for throwing at cats). Needless to say, my desk is no longer a tidy surface.
Last night I finally tackled the daunting task of sorting through all the product brochures, attempting to organize them into some useful and accessible system...then promptly returned them to boxes to await further confusion...but mostly to keep Bad Kitty from eating them.
11 June 2010
Cue Ball
I once met a woman and introduced her to another woman, and that simple act set her life onto an unexpected trajectory, altered her destiny. I didn’t know it at the time. We lost touch, just recently reconnected, and she told me of the impact that thoughtless impulse had on her life. It kind of blew my mind…made me feel like a cue ball.
Phwip – clack. Off the rail. Side pocket.
It made me think of other people whose lives I have changed – either by mere circumstance or by coincidental action – and that naturally lead me to ponder the people who similarly impacted my own life. Some people are expected to have a profound effect on the direction of your life. Parents, teachers, mentors, lovers all press against one’s destiny in predictable and unavoidable ways. But sometimes, when you trace back through time along the course you life has taken, you can identify those random interactions, those chance encounters that so clearly mark an intersection of fate that you are forced to wonder – would I be here today if that had never happened?
When I do that, I think of Marc.
Don’t get me wrong – I don’t hold Marc responsible for ALL of that, but there is no question that he broke our perfect rack and sent our eight ball careening down the table.
Phwip – clack. Off the rail. Side pocket.
It made me think of other people whose lives I have changed – either by mere circumstance or by coincidental action – and that naturally lead me to ponder the people who similarly impacted my own life. Some people are expected to have a profound effect on the direction of your life. Parents, teachers, mentors, lovers all press against one’s destiny in predictable and unavoidable ways. But sometimes, when you trace back through time along the course you life has taken, you can identify those random interactions, those chance encounters that so clearly mark an intersection of fate that you are forced to wonder – would I be here today if that had never happened?
When I do that, I think of Marc.
Cap’n Marc – teller of tall tales and dreamer of big dreams. If we had been assigned to any other space in the campground on Key West in December 2000, we most likely never would have forged the friendship that changed our life. We spent a wonderful month going to movies, holiday parades, and rode our bicycles all over that island paradise. We had a Christmas day picnic lounging on the beach and ripped up the bars on Duval Steet for New Year’s Eve. Late one stormy night, as we huddled cozy and warm inside his motor home, drinking white Russians, he hypnotized us with stories of pristine palm-fringed beaches, cheap beer, and juicy tacos. The next morning, we pulled up stakes and drove to Cabo San Lucas - from the end of one road, to the end of another.
The drive across the continent was a blur – save for the brief respite in Austin where we stopped to visit Marc’s Mom and Marc’s Sister – but the journey down the Baja Peninsula was filled with adventure. I remember every dip, curve, and roadside muerto as vividly as if I were driving it now, and I can certainly recall the taste of each and every taco (we stopped for tacos at least 5 times a day). Mile by mile, I fell in love with that stark wild landscape, and when at last Marc lead us out a dirt road to San Pedrito, I felt as though my soul had found its rightful place in the universe.
If we hadn’t met Marc, if he hadn’t shepherded us to Baja, would we have ever cashed out of our dull suburban life in Simi Valley, would Kevin not have broken his leg, would we not have bought the house in Shingletown, would we not have moved to Australia, and would we not be currently enjoying the exciting new careers we are currently enjoying? Don’t get me wrong – I don’t hold Marc responsible for ALL of that, but there is no question that he broke our perfect rack and sent our eight ball careening down the table.
30 May 2010
The Luckiest Couple in McLaren
We bought another car this weekend. This time not so much from anxiety as from necessity, as our jobs no longer afford us the luxury of taking public transportation. The city is a big flat grid, and travel by car is most practical, if not essential. However, we are within walking distance of the Central Business District of Adelaide, so weekend entertainment will not jeopardize my precarious driving privilege.
Of course, the most natural thing to do with a new car is to take it on a long drive, and here in South Australia a natural drive in any direction will land you in the middle of wine country (save for any westerly direction, which will land you in the middle of the Gulf of St Vincent.) We opted to take the scenic route, up into the South Hills and through the quaint German village of Hahndorf - where one can stock up on fudge, cuckoo clocks, strudel, and attitude. We hooked right in the town of Mt Barker, where Kevin works, and dropped into the luscious McLaren Vale Valley (is that redundant?) through golden vineyards and rolling green pastures studded with towering gum trees and shaggy brown cows - who, curiously, were all pointing in one direction, causing me to question whether they might possesses magnetic qualities.
We stopped into the visitor center to collect maps and brochures. The kind lady behind the counter asked if had plans for lunch. We mentioned we were hoping to eat at the d’Arenberg Winery.
“Oh, they are booked out. We’ve had to turn away dozens of people already today.”
“”rrring””
“The d’Arenberg Winery just called – they’ve had a cancellation – someone had car trouble – they can seat you immediately. Is a window seat ok with you?”
We did not hesitate.
“Well, aren’t you the luckiest couple in McClaren” oozed our hostess as she led us across the verandah (which, coincidentally was the name of the restaurant – imagine the odds!) to a table with a sweeping view of blustery vineyards and sun spotted hills.
And the food wasn’t bad either, as evidenced by the number of people with cameras pointed at their plates, who moments later dissolved into puddles of fluttering eyelids accompanied by robust yummy noises – myself included. I can’t wait to burp and savor once more the delicate joys of ravioli stuffed with blue swimmer crab and lemongrass topped with fresh lobster and a brandy cream sauce.
We took the direct route home, an engineering marvel in the face of limited funding. The Southern Expressway is fickle piece of roadway, swinging North or South depending on the current commuter demands. On weekday mornings it is a conduit into the city and reverts to southbound for the afternoon rush. On the weekends, the commute is reversed in order to efficiently whisk city-dwellers off to the vineyards and back again come dusk. Within 45 minutes, we were back home, reversing the new car into the garage…
Oops, well, it’s not quite so new anymore! Obviously, we aren’t the luckiest couple in Adelaide…
23 May 2010
Home Spaffice
I spent most of last week working from my home office - a rather grandiose term for a rescue-chair, a pillow, and a shabby old table from the Salvos. By Friday morning I was practically immobilized with a painful assortment of ergonomic injuries (Thank you to Millie for the Kitty-Cat wrist pad, which came in quite handy towards the end of the week!). By Saturday, the procurement of proper office furniture became a high priority – and while we were out, we figured we’d pick up another car, too.
Now I have a nice big desk and a fully adjustable chair, and I can spend endless hours fiddling with various levers - tilting, sinking, and leaning all accompanied by the satisfying sounds ‘pffft’ and ‘sssst’. As attached as I am to the spartan yet cheery image of my polka-dot tea-pot on my vast expanse of desk, I have no doubt that the surface will soon be covered with note books, receipts, product brochures, and cat hair.
And speaking of cluttered surfaces…while I will bring home the occasional branded mouse pad or poster detailing fluorescently labeled cell-signaling antibodies, Kevin brings me twice weekly bag-loads of sumptuous shower supplies, heavenly hand creams, luxurious lotions, exfoliative elixirs, and luscious lipsticks which dominate my bathroom counter and might give an outsider the impression that I am one high-maintenance bitch!
Last week,(at four in the morning in a frequent fit of stress-induced sleeplessness) I lit a candle, poured myself a wine-glass of cranberry juice, drew a steamy bath and set out to see how many products I could possibly use in one sitting. My normal skin care regimen consists of four products – which I have always considered excessive. However, this time I managed to utilize no less than 13 different organically grown, bio-dynamically cultured, and naturally prepared products! With an approximate street value of 687 Australian Dollars (51,407 Japanese Yen), I felt obligated to be thankful for the ensuing attack of hay-fever that followed my over-indulgent herbal ablutions – but I smelt DAMN good for the next three days… and my skin was absolutely radiant too!!
Soon, I will get out into the field and away from the nocturnal temptations of my executive-bath en-suite...and next week, Kevin gets his new car, so I will get to take possesion of the Hyundai! (...for some reason, I always feel the need to say 'Hyundai!' with an exclamation poin.)...and then we will have the capacity to chaffeur no-less than 8 people around the Barossa - so book your reservations at Spa McKinzie today...and speaking of today, our resident chef, er cook, has prepared an aromatic assortment of pickled red onions and spicy roasted carnitas...wish you were here!
Hyundai!
15 May 2010
Analyze This
After my first day of training on my new job, I dreamed that Kevin and I had been captured by a guerilla drug cartel in the jungle. The leader was a tattooed bad-ass who made us sit and watch while he gave his drugged out girlfriend carnal pleasure using a salmon...but not a whole salmon, mind you, just a nice fillet.
05 May 2010
Movin' Movin' Movin'
The frenzy of cleaning, packing, and all the love-filled goodbyes dissolved as soon as we boarded the plane. We flew across Australia with serene anticipation of our new life in Adelaide, painted on the canvas of our imaginations with soft charcoal lines and delicate watercolors. We settled into our cozy temporary apartment and enjoyed a pizza before drifting off to sleep.
Then morning broke, literally, and the harsh realities of landing in a new city flooded away all the pretty paint.
We went to pick up our car, only to be told it had not yet left Sydney.
“Then why exactly did you pick it up 8 days ago?”
“Aw, look, it had to go into the queue for the truck. It’ll be here in two days.”
Two extra days of a rental car. KA-CHING.
We retrieved the cat from JetPets without too much drama. Then she promptly disappeared into the kitchen ceiling.
House hunting had all the expected frustrations: agents who don’t return phone calls, completely misleading photos, apartments that have been let yet not removed from the web. No units in any of the suburbs we liked, perfect places in the middle of hell. Through a combination of perseverance and compromise, we managed to find a suitable dwelling. A bit out of budget, but we will be most comfortable. KA-CHING.
Then I called our removalist company to arrange delivery of our household goods which had been sent to storage in Sydney until we had obtained a destination.
“Aw, look, I don’t have anything else going to Adelaide at the moment.”
“Well, when can we get our stuff?”
“I dunno. I don’t have anything else going to Adelaide at the moment.”
“Yeah, but when can we get our stuff?”
“I just told you, we don’t have anything else going to Adelaide at the moment. If you want, we can send a whole container, but it will cost you an extra $3,500.” KA-CHING!
“Excuse me, I have to hang up and go cry now.”
I can’t be bothered to bore you with all the painfully dramatic details, but after a hundred phone calls and a thousand e-mails (and ten thousand more tears), we managed to arrange delivery of our stuff 15 days sooner than expected for less money than we had been originally quoted. CHING-KA!
Now we just have to keep our fingers crossed through the weekend that Carlos – some guy Kevin found on the internet – actually delivers our stuff!
I don’t understand why people always feel compelled to tell me how much they hate moving. It’s one of the best weight loss programs I know!
Now if I could just get the cat out of the ceiling…
Then morning broke, literally, and the harsh realities of landing in a new city flooded away all the pretty paint.
We went to pick up our car, only to be told it had not yet left Sydney.
“Then why exactly did you pick it up 8 days ago?”
“Aw, look, it had to go into the queue for the truck. It’ll be here in two days.”
Two extra days of a rental car. KA-CHING.
We retrieved the cat from JetPets without too much drama. Then she promptly disappeared into the kitchen ceiling.
House hunting had all the expected frustrations: agents who don’t return phone calls, completely misleading photos, apartments that have been let yet not removed from the web. No units in any of the suburbs we liked, perfect places in the middle of hell. Through a combination of perseverance and compromise, we managed to find a suitable dwelling. A bit out of budget, but we will be most comfortable. KA-CHING.
Then I called our removalist company to arrange delivery of our household goods which had been sent to storage in Sydney until we had obtained a destination.
“Aw, look, I don’t have anything else going to Adelaide at the moment.”
“Well, when can we get our stuff?”
“I dunno. I don’t have anything else going to Adelaide at the moment.”
“Yeah, but when can we get our stuff?”
“I just told you, we don’t have anything else going to Adelaide at the moment. If you want, we can send a whole container, but it will cost you an extra $3,500.” KA-CHING!
“Excuse me, I have to hang up and go cry now.”
I can’t be bothered to bore you with all the painfully dramatic details, but after a hundred phone calls and a thousand e-mails (and ten thousand more tears), we managed to arrange delivery of our stuff 15 days sooner than expected for less money than we had been originally quoted. CHING-KA!
Now we just have to keep our fingers crossed through the weekend that Carlos – some guy Kevin found on the internet – actually delivers our stuff!
I don’t understand why people always feel compelled to tell me how much they hate moving. It’s one of the best weight loss programs I know!
Now if I could just get the cat out of the ceiling…
29 April 2010
Mary Poppins for President
Since moving to Australia, I – daily – find myself discussing the merits of government involvement in ordinary activities such as regulating child care facilities, determining acceptable levels of corporate pollutionary discharge, and deciding when, where, or how the general public should be allowed to destroy their own health. Normally, I terminate these debates with a shrug and a dismissive proclamation of “Fucking Nanny Government!”
But today, my (weakly held and frequently contradictory) convictions are floundering somewhat against two similar but unrelated news reports. Here (in Australia), the news has been dominated – and by dominated, I mean non-stop commentary from all of the news outlets – by stories about the new and completely-un-debated-in-the-public-sector-law restricting cigarette packages from employing brands, logos, or colors while adding on a $2.40 tax (taking the price to $15.80) per pack. Back home (in Santa Clara County) the news has been dominated – and by dominated, I mean at least two people told me about it – by stories about the new and completely-un-debated-in-the-public-sector-law restricting the distribution of crappy theatrical promotional toys along with Happy Meals.
If they are so unpopular, just who is passing these shitty laws?
I’ll tell you who…Old People!
Old people dying of lung cancer who are fucking sick and tired of stepping on toxic plastic made-in-China caricatures strewn about their tidy homes by their fat diabetic grand-children who are jacked up on high-fructose corn syrup and genetically engineered soy meat-like fillers. How dare they use the government to make laws restricting public behavior!
America, more than any other civilized democracy (and by civilized, I mean not imposed by a foreign military) is completely deluded by the notion of freedom of the individual. No one is more surprised than me to hear myself dismissing the supremacy of the individual. Perhaps it is time to dust off my memories of Alexis de Tocqueville. Evidently he made a greater impact than I have recognized.
But that does not entirely address the issue of a nanny government. Let’s try a metaphor. Say, in order to develop his or her sense of personal identity you give a child a choice between playing with a teddy bear and a bag of marbles. After a quick cuddle, the child decides that sticking the marbles up his nose is more gratifying. After you return from the emergency ward, you give the child the same choice, with the same result. Time and time again, the child opts for the thrill of marble sticking over the safety of a stuffed animal, no matter how enticing you make it look. Would you stand behind the argument that the child must be allowed to decide for itself, even though you spend countless hours and dollars at the hospital every day? Or would you pitch those marbles into the sea?
I am bored with this subject now and have a sudden and inexplicable craving for tobacco, mini-cheeseburgers, and steelies.
But today, my (weakly held and frequently contradictory) convictions are floundering somewhat against two similar but unrelated news reports. Here (in Australia), the news has been dominated – and by dominated, I mean non-stop commentary from all of the news outlets – by stories about the new and completely-un-debated-in-the-public-sector-law restricting cigarette packages from employing brands, logos, or colors while adding on a $2.40 tax (taking the price to $15.80) per pack. Back home (in Santa Clara County) the news has been dominated – and by dominated, I mean at least two people told me about it – by stories about the new and completely-un-debated-in-the-public-sector-law restricting the distribution of crappy theatrical promotional toys along with Happy Meals.
If they are so unpopular, just who is passing these shitty laws?
I’ll tell you who…Old People!
Old people dying of lung cancer who are fucking sick and tired of stepping on toxic plastic made-in-China caricatures strewn about their tidy homes by their fat diabetic grand-children who are jacked up on high-fructose corn syrup and genetically engineered soy meat-like fillers. How dare they use the government to make laws restricting public behavior!
America, more than any other civilized democracy (and by civilized, I mean not imposed by a foreign military) is completely deluded by the notion of freedom of the individual. No one is more surprised than me to hear myself dismissing the supremacy of the individual. Perhaps it is time to dust off my memories of Alexis de Tocqueville. Evidently he made a greater impact than I have recognized.
But that does not entirely address the issue of a nanny government. Let’s try a metaphor. Say, in order to develop his or her sense of personal identity you give a child a choice between playing with a teddy bear and a bag of marbles. After a quick cuddle, the child decides that sticking the marbles up his nose is more gratifying. After you return from the emergency ward, you give the child the same choice, with the same result. Time and time again, the child opts for the thrill of marble sticking over the safety of a stuffed animal, no matter how enticing you make it look. Would you stand behind the argument that the child must be allowed to decide for itself, even though you spend countless hours and dollars at the hospital every day? Or would you pitch those marbles into the sea?
I am bored with this subject now and have a sudden and inexplicable craving for tobacco, mini-cheeseburgers, and steelies.
27 April 2010
I Don't Care About Losing All The Money. It's Losing All The Stuff.
I am too tired from packing for a full-blown rant about stuff...I'll let the pictures do the talking:
December 31, 2006
April 27 2010
December 31, 2006
April 27 2010
25 April 2010
Fee Fi Fo Fum
Australia has an amazing penchant for charging fees to NOT provide service. I will be paying over $80 to terminate my gas and electric service. I would retell the ridiculous argument I had with AGL employee, but I am reluctant to reprint some of the colorful vocabulary I was compelled to invoke – although I am sure the recording of the call will feature prominently at the next staff training session.
Recently, we were charged exorbitant fees to cancel some flights. Fair enough – we knew the risks when we bought the ticket – but now, each time we use the credit for a new flight, we are charged a ‘credit card service fee’. Upon trying to explain that we are not, in fact, using a credit card, we were informed that the fee is to cover the revenue lost from the fact that we are NOT using a credit card. It hurt my brain to even write that.
I have alluded to this topic in a previous rant about the Australia Post – but now I have further information. Not only will we have to pay $26 per month to NOT receive our mail while we are in between addresses, we will have to pay a termination fee to stop NOT receiving our mail…PLUS, we will have to pay $36 per month – retroactively to the date that we had initially stopped receiving mail – in order to have it forwarded to our new address (assuming we ever get one!...but that’s another rant altogether.)
So, for the foreseeable future, in addition to the initial postage paid to deliver a letter to me, I will pay to have it held, then pay to have it not held, then pay again to have it forwarded.
I hope no one at the USPS follows my blog…
Recently, we were charged exorbitant fees to cancel some flights. Fair enough – we knew the risks when we bought the ticket – but now, each time we use the credit for a new flight, we are charged a ‘credit card service fee’. Upon trying to explain that we are not, in fact, using a credit card, we were informed that the fee is to cover the revenue lost from the fact that we are NOT using a credit card. It hurt my brain to even write that.
I have alluded to this topic in a previous rant about the Australia Post – but now I have further information. Not only will we have to pay $26 per month to NOT receive our mail while we are in between addresses, we will have to pay a termination fee to stop NOT receiving our mail…PLUS, we will have to pay $36 per month – retroactively to the date that we had initially stopped receiving mail – in order to have it forwarded to our new address (assuming we ever get one!...but that’s another rant altogether.)
So, for the foreseeable future, in addition to the initial postage paid to deliver a letter to me, I will pay to have it held, then pay to have it not held, then pay again to have it forwarded.
I hope no one at the USPS follows my blog…
23 April 2010
So Gentlemen, Deal Me Out - Do Not Try to Feel Me Out
It comforts me to imagine that the entire Department of Pharmacology is waking up with a collective headache this morning after last night’s farewell party. At least I am not waking up with three broken ribs, like someone I know. Oh the high cost of chivalry.
Perhaps no single word in the human lexicon carries the weight of so much love as the word “goodbye”. It is an unfortunate aspect of emotive biology that we so often neglect to recognize and appreciate genuine fondness and camaraderie until the pressure of imminent departure squeezes deep felt emotions to the surface, where they are aired awkwardly – unless fueled by copious volumes of wine, beer, and handmade pretzels. Expressions of affection and gratitude roll off purple tongues most easily.
Neither are hangovers conducive to articulation of complex emotions. Therefore, do not expect me to blather on about how much I have enjoyed spending time with my colleagues, how much fun it has been working with the students and watching them blossom into free-thinking miniature scientists, or how very special everyone made me feel yesterday - or how sad I am to be leaving all of the wonderful people I have befriended over the last three years.
Besides, saltwater really mucks up my keyboard.
I guess I should drag my defended honor out of bed and make my poor shining knight some fried potatoes to wash down his panadeine.
Perhaps no single word in the human lexicon carries the weight of so much love as the word “goodbye”. It is an unfortunate aspect of emotive biology that we so often neglect to recognize and appreciate genuine fondness and camaraderie until the pressure of imminent departure squeezes deep felt emotions to the surface, where they are aired awkwardly – unless fueled by copious volumes of wine, beer, and handmade pretzels. Expressions of affection and gratitude roll off purple tongues most easily.
Neither are hangovers conducive to articulation of complex emotions. Therefore, do not expect me to blather on about how much I have enjoyed spending time with my colleagues, how much fun it has been working with the students and watching them blossom into free-thinking miniature scientists, or how very special everyone made me feel yesterday - or how sad I am to be leaving all of the wonderful people I have befriended over the last three years.
Besides, saltwater really mucks up my keyboard.
I guess I should drag my defended honor out of bed and make my poor shining knight some fried potatoes to wash down his panadeine.
09 April 2010
Give Up Cards and Dice and Go For Shoes and Rice
Footwear has always been at the forefront of my reasons for loving my current profession. Sturdy, comfortable, closed-toed shoes are an essential part of the uniform of a laboratory scientist. Safety considerations aside, I just feel at my most secure when I have a solid foundation between my un-calloused feet and the cold hard – not to mention uneven – concrete that blankets city landscapes. Sandals, slip-ons, and high heels make me feel vulnerable and off-balance when what I need most is confidence and stability.
But when we move to Adelaide, I will be leaving the lab and embarking on a whole new career in technical sales, a position that requires ‘professional dress’.
…which most certainly extends to ‘professional footwear’
…which I assume means no Fake Chinese Converse High Tops or flip-flops
…which means I have to go shopping.
I HATE shopping.
I am sure some among you are thinking, “Why not just wear simple black flats?”
There are at least 2 million pairs of simple black flats in Sydney, each with a subtle dissimilarity that makes them entirely unsatisfactory. I know because, in preparation for my job interview last week, I tried on every single pair. They are all too pointy, too square, too shapeless, too shiny, too dull, too gaudy, too ordinary, too delicate, too expensive or too ugly. In the end, I settled for cheap ugly plastic mary janes.
I also settled for those little black socky-thingies, which only show a little bit and make a world of difference in the comfort factor of my ugly plastic shoes. Besides, I see some pretty sexy women in expensive stylish shoes with those little socky-thingies peeking out from under the toe box. I despise blisters and I can’t stand my bare toes rubbing against a toe box but I hate nylons, so those little socky-thingies are going to make me very happy.
Although by no means a fashion template, I have nonetheless always had rather particular tastes when it comes to my wardrobe. I like things to fit a certain way. I like my pants to be a particular length, my shirts to cling in particular places, and my accessories to make particular statements. However, I have also always known that there would come a day when I say “Fuck it. These polyester slacks don’t look awful and they sure are comfortable. Besides, they are cheap and come in a variety of mix ‘n’ match colors!”
That day has arrived.
I am having to completely reorganize my mindset about clothing, not just to accommodate my new profession, but also to accommodate my changing body. I am finding it very helpful to think of my work clothes as a mere uniform, and therefore not bound by my stringent expectation that my attire reflect my mood as well as my personality (such as my Red Stag Karaoke Lounge t-shirt). By equating my polyester slacks to my lab coat, I can compartmentalize my compromise and preserve some of my dignity.
Of course, I always hated wearing a lab coat.
But when we move to Adelaide, I will be leaving the lab and embarking on a whole new career in technical sales, a position that requires ‘professional dress’.
…which most certainly extends to ‘professional footwear’
…which I assume means no Fake Chinese Converse High Tops or flip-flops
…which means I have to go shopping.
I HATE shopping.
I am sure some among you are thinking, “Why not just wear simple black flats?”
There are at least 2 million pairs of simple black flats in Sydney, each with a subtle dissimilarity that makes them entirely unsatisfactory. I know because, in preparation for my job interview last week, I tried on every single pair. They are all too pointy, too square, too shapeless, too shiny, too dull, too gaudy, too ordinary, too delicate, too expensive or too ugly. In the end, I settled for cheap ugly plastic mary janes.
I also settled for those little black socky-thingies, which only show a little bit and make a world of difference in the comfort factor of my ugly plastic shoes. Besides, I see some pretty sexy women in expensive stylish shoes with those little socky-thingies peeking out from under the toe box. I despise blisters and I can’t stand my bare toes rubbing against a toe box but I hate nylons, so those little socky-thingies are going to make me very happy.
Although by no means a fashion template, I have nonetheless always had rather particular tastes when it comes to my wardrobe. I like things to fit a certain way. I like my pants to be a particular length, my shirts to cling in particular places, and my accessories to make particular statements. However, I have also always known that there would come a day when I say “Fuck it. These polyester slacks don’t look awful and they sure are comfortable. Besides, they are cheap and come in a variety of mix ‘n’ match colors!”
That day has arrived.
I am having to completely reorganize my mindset about clothing, not just to accommodate my new profession, but also to accommodate my changing body. I am finding it very helpful to think of my work clothes as a mere uniform, and therefore not bound by my stringent expectation that my attire reflect my mood as well as my personality (such as my Red Stag Karaoke Lounge t-shirt). By equating my polyester slacks to my lab coat, I can compartmentalize my compromise and preserve some of my dignity.
Of course, I always hated wearing a lab coat.
19 March 2010
Takin' a Chance I'll Be Respectable and Nice
Whenever Kevin and I are going through tough times, we generally opt for a bit of retail therapy, and the cost of treatment is usually a fair indicator of the degree of stress. When feeling homesick or lonely, we might go to the kitchen store and buy new counter top appliances. While waiting for Kevin to get his broken leg re-broken and re-fixed in English, we impulsively bought a house on 6 acres in the middle of nowhere. Last weekend, we went out to “look” at used cars, and came home with a brand new Hyundai Tucson. I don’t know if that is the vehicle we really wanted, but the 5 year warranty was a soothing balm to our frazzled nerves.
My personal stress levels reached crescendo yesterday morning when I closed the door to my bosses’ office, dropped a box of tissues on the desk and said “Kevin got a new job. We are moving to Adelaide in two months.” Then I grabbed a handful of tissues and used them.
I shouldn’t be too surprised or upset – after all, we’ve been in Sydney for nearly three and a half years. That is almost a record for us. In the last 22 years, we have held 14 addresses in 7 cities, not counting the 8 months we spent on the road calling a different place home each night.
Adelaide is a nice city and I am looking forward to adding a new chapter to my alliterative adventures, but right now, in the midst of the change, and having to see the shock and horror on the faces of my many friends and co-workers, I feel nothing but sadness. I know that once it is all under way, my stress will dissolve into the busyness of re-establishing my life in a new environment. But right now, lingering in that pre-move haze of anticipation and uncertainty, I am absorbed with unavoidable feelings of “pre-nostalgia”.
For those of you who have never made a big move, pre-nostalgia is that heavy feeling of detachment that weighs down upon your daily routine as you reexamine your surroundings from an increasing emotional distance. You think: “Gee, I’ll never eat there again” or “That’s probably the last time I will see her” or “Dang, I’ve been meaning to go there, but I never got around to it.” It is as much mourning the memories that are being left behind as it is a feeling of loss at what might have been but never quite fully materialized.
I know that many of you are mortified at making such drastic and constant changes in your life and are still constantly amazed that Kevin and I do it so often. I confess, in the non-existent privacy of these pages, that I am growing a bit weary of tearing down my life and rebuilding it over and over and over. Perhaps it is a consequence of age or a consequence of my lifestyle, but I find myself increasingly hungry for a place that feels like a permanent homestead, a place I can remodel and re-landscape and re-shape into something that fits MY fantasy, with out the fear of unexpectedly abandoning everything I have established - just for the sake of change.
But then, I start thinking about all the new memories that are yet to come, about all the possibilities afforded from ‘starting over’, the refreshing feeling of a clean slate, and how wonderful it feels to purge the closets and drawers of all the mossy possessions that inevitably gather whenever my stony life is temporary stalled on its downhill roll. I love to throw things out. And I am good at it too. Not only because it feels so liberating, but because then, when we are eventually dazed and befuddled in Adelaide, we can soothe our selves by filling the back of our new car with retail goods.
Oh, and with cases of wine. Did I mention that Adelaide (although unfortunately nick-named “City of Churches”) is located in the center of several of Australia’s best wine regions? Which provides adequate incentive for all of our new (and old) friends to come visit us. As my mom said, without missing a beat, “Cool. Another place for me to come visit you.”
My personal stress levels reached crescendo yesterday morning when I closed the door to my bosses’ office, dropped a box of tissues on the desk and said “Kevin got a new job. We are moving to Adelaide in two months.” Then I grabbed a handful of tissues and used them.
I shouldn’t be too surprised or upset – after all, we’ve been in Sydney for nearly three and a half years. That is almost a record for us. In the last 22 years, we have held 14 addresses in 7 cities, not counting the 8 months we spent on the road calling a different place home each night.
Adelaide is a nice city and I am looking forward to adding a new chapter to my alliterative adventures, but right now, in the midst of the change, and having to see the shock and horror on the faces of my many friends and co-workers, I feel nothing but sadness. I know that once it is all under way, my stress will dissolve into the busyness of re-establishing my life in a new environment. But right now, lingering in that pre-move haze of anticipation and uncertainty, I am absorbed with unavoidable feelings of “pre-nostalgia”.
For those of you who have never made a big move, pre-nostalgia is that heavy feeling of detachment that weighs down upon your daily routine as you reexamine your surroundings from an increasing emotional distance. You think: “Gee, I’ll never eat there again” or “That’s probably the last time I will see her” or “Dang, I’ve been meaning to go there, but I never got around to it.” It is as much mourning the memories that are being left behind as it is a feeling of loss at what might have been but never quite fully materialized.
I know that many of you are mortified at making such drastic and constant changes in your life and are still constantly amazed that Kevin and I do it so often. I confess, in the non-existent privacy of these pages, that I am growing a bit weary of tearing down my life and rebuilding it over and over and over. Perhaps it is a consequence of age or a consequence of my lifestyle, but I find myself increasingly hungry for a place that feels like a permanent homestead, a place I can remodel and re-landscape and re-shape into something that fits MY fantasy, with out the fear of unexpectedly abandoning everything I have established - just for the sake of change.
But then, I start thinking about all the new memories that are yet to come, about all the possibilities afforded from ‘starting over’, the refreshing feeling of a clean slate, and how wonderful it feels to purge the closets and drawers of all the mossy possessions that inevitably gather whenever my stony life is temporary stalled on its downhill roll. I love to throw things out. And I am good at it too. Not only because it feels so liberating, but because then, when we are eventually dazed and befuddled in Adelaide, we can soothe our selves by filling the back of our new car with retail goods.
Oh, and with cases of wine. Did I mention that Adelaide (although unfortunately nick-named “City of Churches”) is located in the center of several of Australia’s best wine regions? Which provides adequate incentive for all of our new (and old) friends to come visit us. As my mom said, without missing a beat, “Cool. Another place for me to come visit you.”
06 March 2010
Me and Steve McQueen**
Feeling a little bit glum today, I broke into our stash of exotic imports…some mini-marshmallows, Frito Corn Chips, and a bottle of Riesling shaped like a poonanny…er, I mean a cat…then I settled down on the couch to watch The Towering Inferno on Channel 99, cuz I love me some Steve McQueen!
I know this movie was hokey even in 1974, and it is certainly still hokey today – but not only does it represent the cradle of genesis of the modern-day action adventure hero, it tackles themes of corporate and personal greed, ethics in engineering, and the perils of pre-marital intercourse (though I really don't see why boffing his secretary should have resulted in the incineration of Robert Wagner’s luscious locks.) And, it is a spectacular tribute to the heroism of American Fire Fighters.
Maybe I am just feeling emotional, but I daresay this movie is much harder to watch post 9/11. Before then, with the exception of the MGM fire, most of us had not seen real people leaping from burning high rises, and it is no less gut-wrenching in simulation.
“Ya’know, we were lucky tonight. The body count’s less than 200. Ya’know, one of these days, they’re gonna kill 10,000 in one of these fire traps…And I’m gonna keep eatin’ smoke and bringin’ out bodies..until somebody asks us how to build ‘em."
And, despite him being a murdering bastard, I am not ashamed to admit that I cried when OJ Simpson rescued Lisolette’s punanni…er, I mean cat.
**Possibly my favorite song in the whole world...
I know this movie was hokey even in 1974, and it is certainly still hokey today – but not only does it represent the cradle of genesis of the modern-day action adventure hero, it tackles themes of corporate and personal greed, ethics in engineering, and the perils of pre-marital intercourse (though I really don't see why boffing his secretary should have resulted in the incineration of Robert Wagner’s luscious locks.) And, it is a spectacular tribute to the heroism of American Fire Fighters.
Maybe I am just feeling emotional, but I daresay this movie is much harder to watch post 9/11. Before then, with the exception of the MGM fire, most of us had not seen real people leaping from burning high rises, and it is no less gut-wrenching in simulation.
“Ya’know, we were lucky tonight. The body count’s less than 200. Ya’know, one of these days, they’re gonna kill 10,000 in one of these fire traps…And I’m gonna keep eatin’ smoke and bringin’ out bodies..until somebody asks us how to build ‘em."
And, despite him being a murdering bastard, I am not ashamed to admit that I cried when OJ Simpson rescued Lisolette’s punanni…er, I mean cat.
**Possibly my favorite song in the whole world...
05 March 2010
Punannies on the Periphery
You know how, when something comes onto your mental radar – say for example Lime Green Corvettes – and then, all of a sudden, everywhere you look, you see Lime Green Corvettes?
Despite popular perception, Australia does not have a Bill of Rights protecting freedom of speech, including freedom of the press. And although you can say ‘shit’ on prime time television, censorship is an everyday reality here, especially when it comes to pornography. This week the sometimes insightful/sometimes pedantic/sometimes puerile television show Hungry Beast proposed the hypothesis that restrictions on depictions of female genitalia has resulted in a skewed public perception of the anatomy of a vagina, which has in turn resulted in an increased demand for plastic surgery in order to conform to the perceived norm.
Evidently, according to the National Classification Board governing soft porn magazines, graphic depictions of the internal labia are forbidden. Thus graphic artists frequently employ photo editing techniques to ensure that all vulvas have a neat and tidy appearance, which, in my opinion, makes them all look about 13 years old.
Apparently, an adolescence spent expending oneself to such images leaves one completely unprepared for the reality of all those ‘extra bits’, and somehow there has evolved a social pressure to have those unsightly folds trimmed away. How THAT graphic video made it past the censors, I am not entirely sure. However, I was intrigued by the notion that censorship can so skew public opinion that it is coercing women into acts of self mutilation. As if I need another reason to abhor censorship…
Yesterday, my grandmother saw her heart specialist and was told that she would not require another stint to repair a collapsed coronary artery. (Who needs a segue?!) Instead, she has been prescribed a vasodilator to help increase the blood flow to her ventricles. As usual, I did a little research on this medication only to discover it is currently in clinical trials to investigate its effectiveness as a ‘cervical ripener’. I am not entirely sure what that means, but I certainly do not want to think of it in relation to my grandmother.
A Google search of the word 'punanny' brought up an image of Ronald McDonald. Oh, please don’t bother to tell me the real reason. I impose my own brand of censorship to create the reality I choose, and in my reality, Ronald McDonald is a cunt.
Despite popular perception, Australia does not have a Bill of Rights protecting freedom of speech, including freedom of the press. And although you can say ‘shit’ on prime time television, censorship is an everyday reality here, especially when it comes to pornography. This week the sometimes insightful/sometimes pedantic/sometimes puerile television show Hungry Beast proposed the hypothesis that restrictions on depictions of female genitalia has resulted in a skewed public perception of the anatomy of a vagina, which has in turn resulted in an increased demand for plastic surgery in order to conform to the perceived norm.
Evidently, according to the National Classification Board governing soft porn magazines, graphic depictions of the internal labia are forbidden. Thus graphic artists frequently employ photo editing techniques to ensure that all vulvas have a neat and tidy appearance, which, in my opinion, makes them all look about 13 years old.
Apparently, an adolescence spent expending oneself to such images leaves one completely unprepared for the reality of all those ‘extra bits’, and somehow there has evolved a social pressure to have those unsightly folds trimmed away. How THAT graphic video made it past the censors, I am not entirely sure. However, I was intrigued by the notion that censorship can so skew public opinion that it is coercing women into acts of self mutilation. As if I need another reason to abhor censorship…
Yesterday, my grandmother saw her heart specialist and was told that she would not require another stint to repair a collapsed coronary artery. (Who needs a segue?!) Instead, she has been prescribed a vasodilator to help increase the blood flow to her ventricles. As usual, I did a little research on this medication only to discover it is currently in clinical trials to investigate its effectiveness as a ‘cervical ripener’. I am not entirely sure what that means, but I certainly do not want to think of it in relation to my grandmother.
A Google search of the word 'punanny' brought up an image of Ronald McDonald. Oh, please don’t bother to tell me the real reason. I impose my own brand of censorship to create the reality I choose, and in my reality, Ronald McDonald is a cunt.
23 February 2010
Spy Cam 2.0
Rumour has it that just prior to he 2000 Summer Olympics, the City of Sydney cleaned up the streets by giving all the homeless people, drunks, and nut-jobs one way bus tickets to the Gold Coast (Australia's version of Fort Lauderdale). Evidently, they have finally made their way back to Sydney, for I have noticed a marked increase in the number of foul-smelling, disheveled, and mentally displaced individuals roaming the streets and parks of the city.
I am an absolute magnet for such people. There is something about my face that says "Come, talk to me!" - possibly it is because I am usually staring at them in wide eyed wonder. Only recently have I begun to master the art of evasion while still managing to make a personal study of them.
Unfortunately, I was not swift enough to get a picture of the completely feral schizophrenic that lately haunts the bus stop at Town Hall Station as he bent over into an empty rubbish bin...partly because I am genuinely scared of him and do not ever want to be the object of his fearsome focus.
I am an absolute magnet for such people. There is something about my face that says "Come, talk to me!" - possibly it is because I am usually staring at them in wide eyed wonder. Only recently have I begun to master the art of evasion while still managing to make a personal study of them.
Unfortunately, I was not swift enough to get a picture of the completely feral schizophrenic that lately haunts the bus stop at Town Hall Station as he bent over into an empty rubbish bin...partly because I am genuinely scared of him and do not ever want to be the object of his fearsome focus.
However, I was able to capture a (blurry) snap of this pungent character. He was draped in an American Flag with a New England Patriots T-Shirt looped over his neck. He also carried with him a small and impeccably clean crocheted blanket and entertained himself by showing a blank peice of paper to pretty girls. Somehow, I managed to avoid his attentions.
21 February 2010
Spy Cam 1.0 - Good Mornin' Little School Girl
I rarely talk on my phone. I type on it a lot, and since discovering it had musical capabilities, I often pretend it is an iPod. In fact, I even call it an iPod (I can hear people in England wincing.) I frequently use my phone to convert temperatures and distances into recognizable digits. Sometimes, I use it as a paper weight.
I recently discovered that my phone is also a camera - albeit, not a very good one. But a camera phone does have the distinct advantage of being somewhat incognito, such that it is possible to snap pictures of complete strangers on the train whilst only appearing to be a modestly incompetent text-o-phobe. With this in mind, I launch a new series of entries featuring random commuters, pedestrians, and other crazy street-people who, for whatever reason, catch my attention. Besides, I have lost my expatriate edge to some degree and am running out of witty cultural observations - as evidenced by the increasing number of deleted posts featuring amusing anecdotes of my cat. (I can hear people in England cheering.)
I recently discovered that my phone is also a camera - albeit, not a very good one. But a camera phone does have the distinct advantage of being somewhat incognito, such that it is possible to snap pictures of complete strangers on the train whilst only appearing to be a modestly incompetent text-o-phobe. With this in mind, I launch a new series of entries featuring random commuters, pedestrians, and other crazy street-people who, for whatever reason, catch my attention. Besides, I have lost my expatriate edge to some degree and am running out of witty cultural observations - as evidenced by the increasing number of deleted posts featuring amusing anecdotes of my cat. (I can hear people in England cheering.)
Despite the protests laid in the previous paragraph, I am still daily enamored by the school children of Australia. Evidently, they travel vast distances each day to attend the best schools. Each school has a distinct uniform - presumably so that if a group of them are misbehaving, you can dob them in to the appropriate headmaster. All uniforms include a hat. I am a big fan of hats and have amassed quite a collection of lost headgear from various institutions. However, I cannot help but ponder the disastrous rebellion that would have ensued had uniforms been standard policy when I was a child in America.
Can anyone who knew me as a child imagine me in that drab cotton dress??
I am pretty sure they were sending text messages to each other.
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