tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5183381695059989672024-03-14T16:51:36.456+10:30Yank in AustraliaLaugh along with me as I share stories of my life as a transplanted American now living in Australia. This is a light-hearted look at adjusting to a new life in a new country. Perfect reading whether you live in Australia, are considering a move or trip to Australia or just love this beautiful country of Oz. Australians will also enjoy seeing their country thru a foreigner's eyes. #yankinaustralia #humor #Australia #American #Aussielingo #travelAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-55887587317420972702015-07-18T18:55:00.000+09:302015-07-20T08:59:44.797+09:30METRIC BLUES<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCo4Q6dhl6VpfeozvpnQLjkqYrFhxHpyPU04xRfetkcxpMaBnw2yLv4LoUcBhN6SLYPPkFzWcM5JPSYGXqIqGkbUg_OnFQKHJLh7ettpVwM8tnjFNgX89VUdFecb2tkIhQzFqRkMCos4/s1600/2-21-14+at+Brighton+Beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCo4Q6dhl6VpfeozvpnQLjkqYrFhxHpyPU04xRfetkcxpMaBnw2yLv4LoUcBhN6SLYPPkFzWcM5JPSYGXqIqGkbUg_OnFQKHJLh7ettpVwM8tnjFNgX89VUdFecb2tkIhQzFqRkMCos4/s320/2-21-14+at+Brighton+Beach.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A great day for a walk on the beach in winter!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span id="goog_1218677585"></span><span id="goog_1218677586"></span>I have a confession...<br />
I don't understand the metric system!<br />
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In fact, to be quite honest, I have absolutely no idea what so ever how the metric system works! Okay, I'll pause right here to give you time to quit laughing...<br />
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...still waiting.<br />
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...are you finished, yet?<br />
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Oh why, oh why didn't I pay more attention to our intensive, "week-long" instruction on the metric system in high school math?! I can still remember breathing a great sigh of relief when we moved past it. After all...who needs to study metric, anyway?! It's not like we'd actually use it!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzDobGuSdziTRcG3HyaRf5TJPcC0TKVxZMppCNu8tSoYq0FpEpmXcj8lrJdtLrVrptCk5uE_z6rHsNRawCH0Dkw8RzhabQ3rN2JHouzOcCB-gkTFsK9OAZejOJF45QIsJQsed-mRMVN7w/s1600/gobsmacked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzDobGuSdziTRcG3HyaRf5TJPcC0TKVxZMppCNu8tSoYq0FpEpmXcj8lrJdtLrVrptCk5uE_z6rHsNRawCH0Dkw8RzhabQ3rN2JHouzOcCB-gkTFsK9OAZejOJF45QIsJQsed-mRMVN7w/s320/gobsmacked.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Math was actually my favorite subject, believe it or not, and I always earned good grades in it. I even went on to graduate from college with a BS in Accounting having taken Calculus and Math Analysis (a very difficult class), getting A's and B's in both of them! In spite of my love for math, I draw a complete blank when discussing the metric system. <br />
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Living in the U.S., it really doesn't matter if you understand metric because most of us don't have a clue about it. So you see, I fit right in! In fact, if you ask the average American about kilometers or grams they will look back at you with a blank stare! (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8E_zMLCRNg" target="_blank">Cue the sound of crickets!</a>) The thing is, Americans understand each other when we discuss inches, yards, miles, gallons, pounds and Fahrenheit, even though it's like a foreign language to the rest of the world! <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijAIMFlEwrCspIJiwJvYGYKGr6exZ-QXhnaYr8l50XveUkHuGqECr1igqrRyqryJBMAt52FEwgRSURsY6JEBtrzCVNeMOxsb2vDelEy-k2myp6CKAAV9IseQk1rCGxSGfd-a2m1CBclJk/s1600/metric+countries+using+it+and+3+who+dont.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijAIMFlEwrCspIJiwJvYGYKGr6exZ-QXhnaYr8l50XveUkHuGqECr1igqrRyqryJBMAt52FEwgRSURsY6JEBtrzCVNeMOxsb2vDelEy-k2myp6CKAAV9IseQk1rCGxSGfd-a2m1CBclJk/s320/metric+countries+using+it+and+3+who+dont.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Non-metric countries are in pink</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span id="goog_1218677612"></span><span id="goog_1218677613"></span>But now...I live in Australia and, much to my dismay, have joined the metric world! In fact, since becoming an expat, I have come to the grim reality that most of the world is metric except three...yes, that's right...THREE countries! <span class="_Tgc">The only remaining non-metric countries in the world are the United States, Liberia, and Burma!</span> Jealous yet? Isn't that an enviable list you wish you could join?<br />
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I still remember my husband explaining to me, "You do realize that the whole world is metric except the U.S.?" To which I replied, "Really???" I was shocked! <br />
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Is it possible that Americans live in a bubble like the rest of the world thinks we do? Maybe so. But in our defense, we don't realize it. I guess we have the impression that everyone lives like we do. Think about it...if all you have to compare with is what's around you, then you just assume that what you experience is the same for everyone else.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTd23uncCUgE87vvAzAi0JGKnRSofkKsFvaL1c-O5k42j6aJLDOJ_ZD9Xa29_3-0byawhLQ8AMuWC0NYYlh3_Y0G8VsQ73zI9uw07BiKnTnCWRTE-RK2PIgPoTKihO_HNrWXd46Bn73XQ/s1600/fruit+and+veg+shop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTd23uncCUgE87vvAzAi0JGKnRSofkKsFvaL1c-O5k42j6aJLDOJ_ZD9Xa29_3-0byawhLQ8AMuWC0NYYlh3_Y0G8VsQ73zI9uw07BiKnTnCWRTE-RK2PIgPoTKihO_HNrWXd46Bn73XQ/s320/fruit+and+veg+shop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Well, no matter what the reason, I have been in a metric blues state of mind since moving to <span id="goog_1218677626"></span><span id="goog_1218677627"></span>Australia. I purchase my gas...er...I mean "petrol" in liters...I mean "litres"! In the local supermarket I have to convert the price of tomatoes from kilograms into pounds to figure out if it's a good price. I drive my car in kilometers per hour, instead of miles per hour. And don't get me started on understanding the temperature outside!<br />
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My poor husband! I don't think he realized he was marrying a metric-challenged wife! I guess instead of asking me, "Will you marry me?", he should have asked, "Do you know metric?" At least then, he would have known what he was in for!<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-2588942818100757602014-09-15T22:02:00.002+09:302014-09-15T22:14:09.884+09:30BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8bjkVrI0Nu0drZM9DBsfepUtlLDhOpSv4ookP45kiilo7VW6U-90zKJNWZcibrw9fo9rAVzG874kAxko-rNaFFfHmrpa_pK9H8a9fGMo7qhPKjgMtSDUgqmKAATJHt1A408HU67Rmk-M/s1600/sick-people+in+the+movies+vs.+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8bjkVrI0Nu0drZM9DBsfepUtlLDhOpSv4ookP45kiilo7VW6U-90zKJNWZcibrw9fo9rAVzG874kAxko-rNaFFfHmrpa_pK9H8a9fGMo7qhPKjgMtSDUgqmKAATJHt1A408HU67Rmk-M/s1600/sick-people+in+the+movies+vs.+me.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Well…I am sick with the flu! No, I’m not trying to gain your
sympathy or ‘well wishes’, but to explain why I have been on a television and
movie feeding frenzy! At first, body aches were so bad, all I could do was cuddle
up with my heating pad in bed or in my recliner (yes, I have one of those!) and
sleep the day away while wishing my mom was here. Seems, it doesn’t matter how
old you are, when you’re sick, you still wish you had your mother to take care
of you!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As the sick days passed by and my body aches began to
subside, I realized I needed something to do to entertain myself while I lay in
my recliner for days. Funny, this is something so many working people dream
of…laying around the house with absolutely nothing to do for days, but to tell
you the truth…it gets quite boring and makes me long for the days of going out
for a dreaded dental appointment…at least I’d be getting out of the house!</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6uPhqycJvjAx154fv16aDqT2JGwPAu2AcKxqNPlF5cLOy8EtFmiAC_HX7dclpIi3TMyz1dTg0lPErYf2e2RbRQqBuILgnaq_a42cBPCikXbfIdD3DvN7Tcwd0fcQAEVjXDdc2SENK6Y/s1600/sick+Kleenex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6uPhqycJvjAx154fv16aDqT2JGwPAu2AcKxqNPlF5cLOy8EtFmiAC_HX7dclpIi3TMyz1dTg0lPErYf2e2RbRQqBuILgnaq_a42cBPCikXbfIdD3DvN7Tcwd0fcQAEVjXDdc2SENK6Y/s1600/sick+Kleenex.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, there I sat with absolutely nothing to do, except
blow my nose so much that I was creating an enormous mountain of Kleenex that
would give Mt. Everest a run for its’ money! So in my boredom, I decided to
look through my PVR (in the U.S.
it’s a DVR…in Australia
it’s a PVR) for movies and T.V. shows I recorded but have never watched. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgXtHywi0nZ3OqCHbZ6KQF_km3XvzJu64QnuNxwNajeSdDteaavrbaUEXZxmm26sdl2dwaUNiKLAruJxG1SK7_gvjIG5LuRVwUqfDPn5lZv3rKFuqtA3xaxcjVJ2tLlw-WDTE6Df-547Y/s1600/PVR-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgXtHywi0nZ3OqCHbZ6KQF_km3XvzJu64QnuNxwNajeSdDteaavrbaUEXZxmm26sdl2dwaUNiKLAruJxG1SK7_gvjIG5LuRVwUqfDPn5lZv3rKFuqtA3xaxcjVJ2tLlw-WDTE6Df-547Y/s1600/PVR-1.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is an example of what you'll find on my Facebook page</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As I
proceeded through ‘East of Eden’ starring James Dean and ‘Secretariat’ (a movie
I really wanted to see in the theaters when it came out, but never got a chance
to), I eventually made my way to ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’. Yes, I’m probably the
only one in the world who hasn’t seen it! And what a perfect day to do so, while
laying around sick looking like Bridget did in the opening segment of the
movie. All I needed was the soundtrack to “All By Myself” and I could have
recreated the scene in my living room! </span><br />
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRa_fDH8H6Q1EoaMxZAwYVSUTg_OmszRZQefMV9edlvJGk03K5MGsPrzbzgQebGmKPi-WHcJDGscCDyX8zmf_A0axCQu3iVP0nIGzJhwZ3WM506g5TZilrye8NG_Bg0bnvjR5JFRLLmfg/s1600/sick,+All+By+Myself,+Bridget+Jones's+Diary2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRa_fDH8H6Q1EoaMxZAwYVSUTg_OmszRZQefMV9edlvJGk03K5MGsPrzbzgQebGmKPi-WHcJDGscCDyX8zmf_A0axCQu3iVP0nIGzJhwZ3WM506g5TZilrye8NG_Bg0bnvjR5JFRLLmfg/s1600/sick,+All+By+Myself,+Bridget+Jones's%2BDiary2.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a>So as I was watching this adorable movie, I kept hearing familiar
‘Australian’ words such as ‘full stop’ and ‘barrister’. Not to mention the fact
that they ate ‘beet root’ and anything curried. They even celebrated Christmas
with paper crowns from ‘poppers’ (you’re lucky if you get the gold crown!) As
the movie continued, I began to see so many similarities of my life here in Australia
when it dawned on me…I had been right all along! I hurriedly got up…well…maybe
more like stammered in my weakened condition and hollered up the stairs toward
my husband in my, squeaky, frog-like tones, “Honey!” </span>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My dear, sweet husband, out of sight in his man cave
upstairs, raised his head from his Saturday morning, newspaper-reading ritual
and responded, “Yeeeeees,” his deep voice resonating from above.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJnpgu78gvW4Tv3rL1wsiRciTFM5RUSHgFgHNdC8KWHEvc8bfb8sDmWF3nZ_6WCtKv-gtb8vVrnG9aA4jA0b03NCQ-3BVl2tvfADtvfJz59g8yYCbcliGIOqt0HjTOs2PODcKes6xDxs/s1600/keep+calm+and+speak+in+British+accents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJnpgu78gvW4Tv3rL1wsiRciTFM5RUSHgFgHNdC8KWHEvc8bfb8sDmWF3nZ_6WCtKv-gtb8vVrnG9aA4jA0b03NCQ-3BVl2tvfADtvfJz59g8yYCbcliGIOqt0HjTOs2PODcKes6xDxs/s1600/keep+calm+and+speak+in+British+accents.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a>“I’ve been right all along…you really ARE a Pom!” (This is
what Australians call someone from England.) It’s probably good to
know at this point that to call an Australian a Brit is a form of insult. Not
that being British is bad, but they don’t like to be called anything than what
they are…Australian!</span></div>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size: large;">To appreciate my comment, you need to understand that my husband
and I have had long-running banters between us, teasing each other incessantly about
how we say things, our accents and the different words we use, (hence my <a href="http://'Yank In Australia' Facebook page with the 'Aussie Word of the Day'" target="_blank">'Yank In Australia' Facebook page with the 'Aussie Word of the Day'</a>). One of the
things I tease him about is his accent. It’s not a round Aussie accent that
you’d hear from <a href="http://Paul Hogan" target="_blank">Paul Hogan</a> when he tells us he'll throw another shrimp on the barbie. No…my husband’s Australian
accent is a little more refined than that…rather British sounding, I think.
Could it be because Adelaide
was founded by the British? Maybe. Of course, my husband always argues that he sounds Australian and that I'm crazy...well, maybe... but if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck then...I'll let you decide!</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8emA9kfuGw_tePDdk9XMjtl2g7-EzLe6pLysnRs8nQ3C-SXE0K8nUTDwWsnq8vIwxv-qg8XUuyUTmO0occN70mmBE18byWMJqae_7IErhaJV-ULXi8bgPh6afcYqdOV5DcKrsQLHo7Y/s1600/sick,+All+By+Myself,+Bridget+Jones's+Diary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8emA9kfuGw_tePDdk9XMjtl2g7-EzLe6pLysnRs8nQ3C-SXE0K8nUTDwWsnq8vIwxv-qg8XUuyUTmO0occN70mmBE18byWMJqae_7IErhaJV-ULXi8bgPh6afcYqdOV5DcKrsQLHo7Y/s1600/sick,+All+By+Myself,+Bridget+Jones's%2BDiary.jpg" height="129" width="320" /></a>So now, here I am, 6 days into my flu with no end in sight,
looking as lovely as Bridget Jones in her Christmas-red, penguin flannel pajamas.
I think I need to Youtube <a href="http://All By Myself" target="_blank">All By Myself</a>. I feel a lip sync coming on!</span><br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-45051938690764181022014-06-01T15:35:00.000+09:302014-06-05T07:16:55.933+09:30THELMA & LOUISE - Part 3, or ...WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfCt0E_X9c5kzNyPhY6SxhTQqmINd5RVOcfqh8Igbd3CFfqLxSDU6VCGWnU6OWr-jk8wsB846Dab5vUUdxS8ptJGqbTdN-b-MDcv6jH6_yj4uw-UfcD1J7xDWxY4hzOwTVl_Pt7pT5WEQ/s1600/Mom%2527s+First+Visit+to+Oz_0028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfCt0E_X9c5kzNyPhY6SxhTQqmINd5RVOcfqh8Igbd3CFfqLxSDU6VCGWnU6OWr-jk8wsB846Dab5vUUdxS8ptJGqbTdN-b-MDcv6jH6_yj4uw-UfcD1J7xDWxY4hzOwTVl_Pt7pT5WEQ/s1600/Mom%2527s+First+Visit+to+Oz_0028.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I blurred out the obvious. You can thank me later!</td></tr>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This was my mother’s first time to visit me
since moving to Australia,
so I decided to show her around a bit. Instead of flying directly to Adelaide where I live, I drove to meet her at the Melbourne airport so we
could drive back along the Great
Ocean Road. It was during this trip that we
saw…well…let’s just say, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”…or at least it
does until I take a picture!</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwQZRnaFK1CFgpzks8derZ9w1F3YlceSDe27kVNij2siannC6oHQcKkAioi1OxhXDLvlVUD-DK3OiL36LyHau-CHRNB9hYYnF95RIUiMKUt4DnupE09fkF5jBt3Je9VXz7VofVcrIXPk/s1600/Mom's+First+Visit+to+Oz_0031+blank+license+plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwQZRnaFK1CFgpzks8derZ9w1F3YlceSDe27kVNij2siannC6oHQcKkAioi1OxhXDLvlVUD-DK3OiL36LyHau-CHRNB9hYYnF95RIUiMKUt4DnupE09fkF5jBt3Je9VXz7VofVcrIXPk/s1600/Mom's+First+Visit+to+Oz_0031+blank+license+plate.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After spending our first night in Torquay, (pronounced
'tor-kee') we awoke in the morning, grabbed some breakfast, took some quick
photos, and then headed out for another day on the road, stopping where ever
our hearts wandered. The sun was shining, wind blowing through the sunroof, and
Mom and I singing along to the country music playing through my sound system.
Life was good until...sound effects please! (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bW7Op86ox9g&list=PLw01Uu0WRyeDfr0lLE5qnnZCM-4UKQhAv&index=2" target="_blank">dun dun dunnnn!!!!</a>) we stopped at Bells Beach!</span></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzCTuotkQ8uX1JSwtznwEwOJecCRFpr4KfUqjXl5WFAbduedblR10K6PQUhic7TqiAu3bB1FS2G33hvxormKjRTUBQxh1zbmZP0m9S3Fr4pn1OWoPMZBVDbiEo00FnPYKz6WGElsu-Nw/s1600/Mom's+First+Visit+to+Oz_0023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzCTuotkQ8uX1JSwtznwEwOJecCRFpr4KfUqjXl5WFAbduedblR10K6PQUhic7TqiAu3bB1FS2G33hvxormKjRTUBQxh1zbmZP0m9S3Fr4pn1OWoPMZBVDbiEo00FnPYKz6WGElsu-Nw/s1600/Mom's+First+Visit+to+Oz_0023.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was excited about taking Mom there. It was definitely one
of the highlights of the road trip I had planned for her because Bells Beach
is a surfing mecca and Bucket List destination for surfers around the world;
and home of the world’s longest-running surfing competition. Every time you
arrive at Bells Beach,
you are surrounded by surfers, not only from Australia, but those who have
traveled from the far reaches of the world in order to surf their dream beach.
What you don’t typically see is someone exposing their nether regions! <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fyz21LVPYaQ&list=PLw01Uu0WRyeDfr0lLE5qnnZCM-4UKQhAv&index=3" target="_blank">My eyes! My eyes!</a></span></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">All I can say is, “What is seen, cannot be un-seen!” My poor
mother! I took her on this road trip so she could see the gorgeous Australian
coast line that runs along the Great
Ocean Road. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Well, she definitely got an eye-full!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfcuFG5IRjrjzGoBpsY1cryao3s8OPqN1M_Vq_ycUGSUhvQqAL875FLzCfUdsjFdRA2yj25_fQpeS89z3NsRtIhPl38BoLW6yblQG3ATvsWCqlGxzcoII1IML9eoNAvbRiB2pgl7fWa4/s1600/Mom%2527s+First+Visit+to+Oz_0030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfcuFG5IRjrjzGoBpsY1cryao3s8OPqN1M_Vq_ycUGSUhvQqAL875FLzCfUdsjFdRA2yj25_fQpeS89z3NsRtIhPl38BoLW6yblQG3ATvsWCqlGxzcoII1IML9eoNAvbRiB2pgl7fWa4/s1600/Mom%2527s+First+Visit+to+Oz_0030.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I went to grab my camera to discretely take a photo of him
because there was NO WAY I was going to miss this moment MADE for blogging! Fortunately,
we only saw his backside, which he wasn’t in a hurry to hide, giving me ample
time to take my photo. I pointed my camera in his direction while looking in
another direction, in hopes that others in the parking lot wouldn’t take notice.
I was so afraid I would be mistaken for a pervert! Miraculously, I got the
shot, he was none the wiser, and I wasn't arrested for taking pornographic
photography! Maybe I should get a job as a private investigator, since I
obviously have nerves of steel when picture-taking! ‘Yank In Australia P.I.’ I
like the sound of that!</span></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Ah...Australia,
where men wear budgie smugglers and change in public. Obviously a country full of men
who aren’t afraid to show off their junk! </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At least he did us a favor not
having a hairy back! </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-69735238017247740772014-05-31T15:46:00.000+09:302014-06-08T07:16:03.352+09:30THELMA & LOUISE - Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRwU7K-NinuXIG3io5rO6NNylaXXEmjCy1Ah_8ILAZ3iq-d1swHdAtvmgY7sBSJH5RGGpJReMsPlLh1NdOJtcS_5mYPQndme3x_USYflIgFUZwf22QpQo7icjCDaPKiNwagwQp0GsDKQ/s1600/melbourne+airport+VH-OQJ-Qantas-Airbus-A380-800_PlanespottersNet_222054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRwU7K-NinuXIG3io5rO6NNylaXXEmjCy1Ah_8ILAZ3iq-d1swHdAtvmgY7sBSJH5RGGpJReMsPlLh1NdOJtcS_5mYPQndme3x_USYflIgFUZwf22QpQo7icjCDaPKiNwagwQp0GsDKQ/s1600/melbourne+airport+VH-OQJ-Qantas-Airbus-A380-800_PlanespottersNet_222054.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, after driving from Adelaide
to the Melbourne Airport
to pick up my mother who was visiting from the U.S., we headed out to our first
stop of our 'Thelma and Louise' road trip…Costco! Yes, that’s right! Costco! Anyone who
knows me, knows that I LOVE Costco! When I lived in the States it was part of
my regular shopping pattern, so being able to visit the Costco in Melbourne is almost like
visiting home for me because it’s so familiar. Now that I live in Adelaide, to my dismay, the nearest Costco is an 8-hour
road trip to Melbourne!
I so miss some of my favorite American must-haves that I can’t get anywhere
else…like Kirkland
salsa (I purchase it by the bucket load!) “orange” cheddar cheese, Reese’s
Peanut Butter Cups…not to mention a Costco hotdog (which is different in Australia than the U.S.) and a berry smoothie.
Mmmmm…my mouth is watering just thinking of it!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuVUoDjIOp_UDH3Fq6_IQvShA0m9hMxXYTsC4gGOHCAbntn8OAF9Hkvhz3LhMZdseuoCiAbyS2kYYFaxtYpXdxdbXGezUUIaSc8b07VnFZ7Za0yW_gTn6jfx7ZMiLPOFGuyvrZn5w4mc/s1600/Napean+Country+Club,+Mornington+Peninsula_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuVUoDjIOp_UDH3Fq6_IQvShA0m9hMxXYTsC4gGOHCAbntn8OAF9Hkvhz3LhMZdseuoCiAbyS2kYYFaxtYpXdxdbXGezUUIaSc8b07VnFZ7Za0yW_gTn6jfx7ZMiLPOFGuyvrZn5w4mc/s1600/Napean+Country+Club,+Mornington+Peninsula_0003.jpg" height="81" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Won't find meat pies on the menu in the U.S.!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">My poor husband! I know I drive him absolutely crazy at
times when we are on vacation. Being relatively new to Australia, I
don’t have a great sense of where things are in relation to another. You know,
the way you can estimate in your head how long it takes you to get from home to
a nearby city. For instance, I know that it takes about 3 hours to drive from Portland, Oregon to Seattle, Washington.
I even know the roads and highways to get there without having to use a GPS. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhouhVY_LyDbn-khT9kWXrJIri4PSodZ_pkJOUCr2_Xn5nE6AmAArDoJ6QoM-7lOg06idGIz0KpMisgfsw1VbGmkGG32IXRgpkrHfGjjswR-8OOnJBHz6WYrYW1DaIzfFSFuZJnAyzaekI/s1600/Napean+Country+Club,+Mornington+Peninsula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhouhVY_LyDbn-khT9kWXrJIri4PSodZ_pkJOUCr2_Xn5nE6AmAArDoJ6QoM-7lOg06idGIz0KpMisgfsw1VbGmkGG32IXRgpkrHfGjjswR-8OOnJBHz6WYrYW1DaIzfFSFuZJnAyzaekI/s1600/Napean+Country+Club,+Mornington+Peninsula.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.costco.com.au/index.shtml" target="_blank">Costco Melbourne</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, when my husband and I are on vacation even remotely
close to Melbourne,
I ask him, “Are we close enough to stop by Costco?” To which he’ll reply,
“Costco is 5-hours out of our way.” And then he knows what’s coming next. In a
voice reminiscent to a little girl asking her daddy for a pony, I reply, “Five
hours? That’s not too bad, is it?” Believe it or not, sometimes my adorable
husband gives in because he knows how important it is to me to stock up on my Kirkland salsa supply and
get my berry smoothie fix. What a guy!</span><br />
<br />
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size: large;">So now that Mom is here, and we find ourselves in Melbourne, I insist that
we make a detour to Costco before heading out to our final destination of the
day...beautiful Torquay, (pronounced “tor-kee”). My poor Mom, having just
traveled about 19 hours across the Pacific, is now having to traipse around
Costco, even though there is one just minutes from her home! She’s a real
trouper willing to do so because she loves me. And besides…we need food for our
road trip!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lifeguard bollards tower over my Mom in Geelong, Victoria</span></td></tr>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-size: large;">After about an hour in Costco we were very hungry, but
decided to skip the Costco hotdogs and hustled over to <a href="http://www.intown.com.au/feature/geelong-waterfront-top-10.htm" target="_blank">Geelong</a> for a quick bite to eat. Was THAT a
mistake! We arrived there hungry and ready for a late lunch (around 2:30pm),
with our stomachs rumbling like Mt. St.
Helens before it erupted! (A volcano where we live, that
erupted in 1980.) To our dismay, we found that all the restaurants along the
waterfront were CLOSED! What??? Is that possible? Apparently so! Turns out they
all close down after lunch for a few hours and re-open for dinner. We had hit Geelong at precisely the
wrong time of day. It was a bit hard to comprehend because in the States
nothing closes like that, so it took us by surprise.
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<![endif]--><span style="font-size: large;">Disappointed, we quickly looked at the adorable and
whimsical statues (bollards) that dot the waterfront of Geelong. These statues are actually quite
historical having been made out of huge wooden pylons recovered from the Yarra
Street Pier which was destroyed by a fire in the 1980’s, and depict historical
icons of the area. All I know is they make great photo-ops and tower over my mother!
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQOm2Pi1HEn76UIbXJ6q_qIgWUj5LeMskQs2NNgxA_82PiBgmZR72c-cEQe7NEV6FN6oSnvVF327y7dmDrJdbaEFk0yc5ynnOsoycuiJGh-P8iAJeMYAOa6-hbYkHai-2o_hf2vnAtlI/s1600/Mom's+First+Visit+to+Oz_0018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQOm2Pi1HEn76UIbXJ6q_qIgWUj5LeMskQs2NNgxA_82PiBgmZR72c-cEQe7NEV6FN6oSnvVF327y7dmDrJdbaEFk0yc5ynnOsoycuiJGh-P8iAJeMYAOa6-hbYkHai-2o_hf2vnAtlI/s1600/Mom's+First+Visit+to+Oz_0018.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghwW6JjE2GPcWIZIysS7SPFzd2ivtKvXlWJC-kHZyErIWb7jURXuZfUe7mWA6qJs1aYct64maF-Hi9N2wWh1MMlVCJHkjGzcUVSnC7MyZMWiowzZrZxuEk1t6Q-oX_BJEkklPPp9uzczg/s1600/mojito.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghwW6JjE2GPcWIZIysS7SPFzd2ivtKvXlWJC-kHZyErIWb7jURXuZfUe7mWA6qJs1aYct64maF-Hi9N2wWh1MMlVCJHkjGzcUVSnC7MyZMWiowzZrZxuEk1t6Q-oX_BJEkklPPp9uzczg/s1600/mojito.jpg" height="320" width="198" /></a>Hungry and tired, Mom and I quickly headed to the surfing
capitol of Australia,
Torquay, home of brands like Rip Curl, Roxy and Quicksilver. There, we stayed
at the luxurious <a href="http://www.wyndham.com/hotels/australia/torquay/wyndham-resort-torquay/hotel-overview" target="_blank">Wyndham Resort</a> with crisp, clean white sheets and room
service. Is anything sweeter? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After enjoying our dinner (called ‘tea’ in Australia) and
showering off the travel of the day, we sipped on mojitos over ice which we purchased
earlier at Costco and reminisced over our day. We had both traveled long distances and
enjoyed our reunion at the Melbourne
airport before heading to Costco. We learned that we can’t always count on
restaurants being open when we are hungry. And we discovered that we really
like mojitos!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Now where did I put
my sombrero? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com20Torquay VIC 3228, Australia-38.325576689713756 144.31779826985172-38.328690689713753 144.31275576985172 -38.32246268971376 144.32284076985172tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-25663754646356166062013-08-26T09:54:00.000+09:302014-02-10T14:43:17.664+10:30THELMA & LOUISE?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvKhKNBsZomDIpRGeKs0L2-UGSNZyzDBW3kTmv-Nqazw09-TDCSTMuOBw0Yr7Qv-JrBgpIhrqnffBdkR6ChEeRuo_M0UHzkpoJCDOQTNTPKD1CqBe-jE9k4j__KB-xZi64YrM4l0wvIw/s1600/1005149_595724350462190_1434222335_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=595724350462190&set=a.405369656164328.97078.405275162840444&type=1&theater" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvKhKNBsZomDIpRGeKs0L2-UGSNZyzDBW3kTmv-Nqazw09-TDCSTMuOBw0Yr7Qv-JrBgpIhrqnffBdkR6ChEeRuo_M0UHzkpoJCDOQTNTPKD1CqBe-jE9k4j__KB-xZi64YrM4l0wvIw/s320/1005149_595724350462190_1434222335_n.jpg" height="213" title="Yank In Australia-it's a bloody long way" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/yankinaustralia" target="_blank">Find me on Facebook:</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my favorite people in the whole world came to Australia to
visit me recently…my Mom! This was not her first trip to this beautiful
country, but it was her first time since I moved here. Many of you who live far
from home…far from your family…know exactly how happy I was to have her visit
me here. I’m often asked by Aussies, “How do you like living in Australia?”
to which I pause and uncomfortably ponder… “Hmmm…do I tell the truth or what
they want to hear?” </div>
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Don’t get me wrong. Australia is a wonderful place to live
with its gorgeous coast line, beautiful blue oceans and some of the nicest
people you will ever meet…including my in-laws! But there is one huge problem
with it…to use some Aussie vernacular…Australia is a “bloody long way"
from home! It takes me on average 27-29 hours of traveling door-to-door from Adelaide, South Australia
to Portland, Oregon which means that I can’t just fly
home for the weekend, because it takes longer than that just to fly round trip!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE71POGThjFS-AypEMni_iScxoBM8kwHfQGixBK7NzitZbUDy1EnETMMP3MLUD6yVAwmOGF6Gr1XlYee42mCTPQ3XRwRSFpGrCkmVQChhdTsF1o-ARgblhH-ohXU2OgBGNYgmpCa6PZmk/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE71POGThjFS-AypEMni_iScxoBM8kwHfQGixBK7NzitZbUDy1EnETMMP3MLUD6yVAwmOGF6Gr1XlYee42mCTPQ3XRwRSFpGrCkmVQChhdTsF1o-ARgblhH-ohXU2OgBGNYgmpCa6PZmk/s1600/3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the movie: Thelma and Louise</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, with Mom finally coming for a visit, the typical
question emerges… “Now what?!” What places am I going to show her while she’s
here? She definitely wants to see my home and the town that I live in so that
when we are Skyping she has a better sense of where I am, but what else? She’s
been to Australia
before and seen many of the have-to-see sights. Well, Mom and I decided to go
on a Thelma and Louise road trip without the drive off the cliff at the end! <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8gmei9Xe-sTwPijrlAptE-Mb1htzSS7FOMTaJKnYxM72TXiaTCMXIsW6gQzyUCKoYm83hlQFf0ruJaXwiDG7RMfDGftcxqTTTfWy25SVVuV-jffNpogSXYkev_ia055YO6YFMHzkEYE/s1600/Beach+Trip+w.Gma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8gmei9Xe-sTwPijrlAptE-Mb1htzSS7FOMTaJKnYxM72TXiaTCMXIsW6gQzyUCKoYm83hlQFf0ruJaXwiDG7RMfDGftcxqTTTfWy25SVVuV-jffNpogSXYkev_ia055YO6YFMHzkEYE/s320/Beach+Trip+w.Gma.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Dre packed up and ready to go!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We are used to road trips together. As my kids were growing up,
we would pack up “Dr. Dre” which was a huge, blue Chrysler Aspen SUV with
sparkling chrome wheels and all the extras; truly my most favorite vehicle I
have ever owned! The four of us would drive to the Oregon coast for food, relaxation and fun.
My kids would sit in the back with our 3 dogs, (I had 2 white poodles and Mom
had a white Bichon) along with enough stuff to make it look like we were moving
interstate with all our belongings! In variably I would pop in my Shania Twain
greatest hits CD and Mom and I would sing “…Man, I Feel Like A Woman” at the
top of our voices. My poor children were so embarrassed and would beg us to
stop, which of course, made us sing even more! But I digress…<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5xMSfZkgki8KmIAbkVDW5Ywt0LmeSmIQ00JA01v6gFkiL1YYF9pkB-PLPaipMR2Iqh3mL1oCKyB0HANx-MBZFOJqXj0YQBAV4xcLnvN_oWYMyB_ogWNop1f4gVVnANqTda5NISY_2_Pg/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5xMSfZkgki8KmIAbkVDW5Ywt0LmeSmIQ00JA01v6gFkiL1YYF9pkB-PLPaipMR2Iqh3mL1oCKyB0HANx-MBZFOJqXj0YQBAV4xcLnvN_oWYMyB_ogWNop1f4gVVnANqTda5NISY_2_Pg/s1600/2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great Ocean Road, Australia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
With our decision made, the plan was to pick Mom up at the Melbourne airport and we would drive back to Adelaide via The Great
Ocean Road. If you have never been there, it is a “must see” in Australia…the mother
load of all road trips with so much beauty to see. It is 243km (151 miles) of
breathtaking vistas, cockatoos in Lorne, quaint little beach towns and the
famous Twelve Apostles along the south-eastern coast of Australia between Torquay
to Warrnambool.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, the day came for me to drive to Melbourne…over 8 hours
of fun in my red sports car driving with the sun roof open, tunes blasting,
wind thru my long hair and singing at the top of my lungs. Life. Is. Good. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was having a fabulous time as I passed through my favorite
little town of Keith.
Everything was great until…(<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bW7Op86ox9g" target="_blank">cue the suspenseful sound effects, please!</a>) I neared the Victoria border. One
thing about driving through South
Australia is your average speed is 110km until you
drive through a small town, in which the speed dramatically drops to 80km or even 60km or
lower. Many tiny remote towns, barely a "blip" on the map, have you drop your speed where, if you sneezed, you’d blow
right passed it and not even notice you were anywhere near civilization. Well,
that is exactly what happened to me and somehow I suspect I'm not the only one! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWO7JDLk09p-1BS6D8KzB1DZvAzs-Ikw6bt5oH3sxZX20KDHa1JVlCpPMQJ-j-wUXgB8NQHW1HKDiPHYjwoEmsvQ-imJI-FMV-JS6wFyA9RGXwBwq1lfSwhHT1S9MpwJXoWsIG14n87g/s1600/Our+Wedding+Day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWO7JDLk09p-1BS6D8KzB1DZvAzs-Ikw6bt5oH3sxZX20KDHa1JVlCpPMQJ-j-wUXgB8NQHW1HKDiPHYjwoEmsvQ-imJI-FMV-JS6wFyA9RGXwBwq1lfSwhHT1S9MpwJXoWsIG14n87g/s320/Our+Wedding+Day.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My happy little car!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, I did not sneeze. Instead, I was lost in my “performance”
with Pink as back-up and somehow missed the change in speed. The only thing
that made this spot on the road look remotely like a town was a road sign and the speed trap
waiting for me! Unfortunately, my “concert” was so loud I didn’t hear my GPS
“yelling” at me to slow down. Suddenly, I noticed a slight change in my
surroundings, the GPS flashing at me and I slammed on my brakes…but not fast
enough! Yes, you guessed it…I became the next victim of the town’s speed trap!
Over $300 later, and my duet with Pink suddenly ended, I was back on the road to
pick up my mom. Hmmm...I wonder if she'll pay for my ticket!</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-85129126640581375962012-11-05T20:36:00.000+10:302013-08-26T05:42:01.551+09:30POSTIE BLUES<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLYsi9zxcbEEBQkuxa8zc11LcvU5tB7Lg4rND6JyzGBv0P1xNCgntoOpB-5vzNLA18CRImj1f7iV7C2Y-9n3GcwD7hxfFwWBh1UWRU3lKdWWzkZzQ_AnYclJT5xgTE2rugjLlaZZDeA8/s1600/pink+mailbox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLYsi9zxcbEEBQkuxa8zc11LcvU5tB7Lg4rND6JyzGBv0P1xNCgntoOpB-5vzNLA18CRImj1f7iV7C2Y-9n3GcwD7hxfFwWBh1UWRU3lKdWWzkZzQ_AnYclJT5xgTE2rugjLlaZZDeA8/s320/pink+mailbox.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gone are the days that I could take my outgoing mail to the
curb in front of my house, place it into my mailbox and hear the “screeeeech”
as I push the mailbox door closed and another “screeeech” as I place the red
flag up for the postman. Those of you who live in the States can relate to
this, can’t you? Well, believe it or not, you are probably the only ones in the
entire world who do! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who knew when moving to Australia that such a mundane,
everyday task that I took for granted in the States would be so much different
here! What makes it so unusual, you ask? What is so different that I would find
the need to write an entire blog posting about it? Well…hold onto your
hats…drum roll, please…We don’t have outgoing mail picked up at our homes! In
fact, Australians have NEVER had such a luxury! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(And I suspect most of the world!) </i>I know…I know! Are you in
as much shock and disbelief as I am? What’s even more sad is that our cute
little red flags on our mailboxes are as rare as hens teeth! <i>(An Australian
expression meaning, “They don’t exist!!!”) </i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsYgm95mYvHcpEWNIPzXPsF3HXUw-7WcnB7h09ltjLn2qmwiBCC9EMc_ZCK4l0YLyRumabYjw13HeQhTuc3sKJ7sV40bmzJBGpGdYSyPgahJYCVMz6UNnxvn3l3-upa09aZTrtZxPEDs/s1600/little+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsYgm95mYvHcpEWNIPzXPsF3HXUw-7WcnB7h09ltjLn2qmwiBCC9EMc_ZCK4l0YLyRumabYjw13HeQhTuc3sKJ7sV40bmzJBGpGdYSyPgahJYCVMz6UNnxvn3l3-upa09aZTrtZxPEDs/s200/little+girl.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once again I am faced with my own inadequacies adjusting to
my new life in Oz as I sheepishly ask my Aussie husband a question that I have
known the answer to most of my life. I am immediately reduced to a 6-year-old
little girl in pigtails when I ask him, “How do I mail a letter?!” Let’s just
say I no longer have the luxury of making a last-minute sprint for the curbside
mailbox in my bathrobe and slippers…letter in hand…hurdling over the white
picket fence in my front yard like the next Olympic hopeful in training before
my mailman gets there!<i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(Come on, you know you’ve done that, too!)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnX__Sbqd4BzIul3qKaEhaPnBNHNNE4AA7HP5vjTs9ommeB7f5bGeNB8q3LspbNuivdtV2gt8V7pewpyUDBBBoRvOz1Rd9buWxcFxJYk4s30jzTbkNSWE-V0kpRGdtQLHz6VRtacbRM0Q/s1600/mailboxes+for+blog_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnX__Sbqd4BzIul3qKaEhaPnBNHNNE4AA7HP5vjTs9ommeB7f5bGeNB8q3LspbNuivdtV2gt8V7pewpyUDBBBoRvOz1Rd9buWxcFxJYk4s30jzTbkNSWE-V0kpRGdtQLHz6VRtacbRM0Q/s200/mailboxes+for+blog_0006.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My local post office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, I have to drive to the post office and wait…and wait…and
wait in line <i>(sounds like the U.S. postal service)</i> until I hear, “Yes, please.”
<i>(Aussie speak for “next!”)</i> As I hand the postal worker my mail over the
counter, I come to the realization that I have no idea how much postage is here.
But then again, postage charges change so often in the States, we hardly know
how much it costs to send a first-class letter there, either!<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Oh well, I just wait for my total, give
them money in exchange for the stamps I am handed, walk to the nearest mailbox
<i>(Aussie’s call “letterbox”)</i> and breathe a sigh of relief that I have completed
my task at hand.</div>
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We don't always have to go to the post office, though. We can load up on stamps at many stores and place letters in mailboxes around town. But what's the point? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I already have to drive to a letterbox to drop off my mail, so I might as well go to the post office and take care of it all at one time. Besides, there's one conveniently located in the mall near my home where I do all my grocery shopping. <i></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6QsxkOlWE-rrFw9lxT2cb4Um27MujlDABvCssh0XQzryuxfqGALWWKHJ9r8Oy6JERXAmdpyf9HFj1MONeMlE-QdXhIRgyX_zN0C98SI8OFuRL4b8pe_Rd1Osv6iwLC5Md-VFJ7Nt5V7E/s1600/postie+blues-postie1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6QsxkOlWE-rrFw9lxT2cb4Um27MujlDABvCssh0XQzryuxfqGALWWKHJ9r8Oy6JERXAmdpyf9HFj1MONeMlE-QdXhIRgyX_zN0C98SI8OFuRL4b8pe_Rd1Osv6iwLC5Md-VFJ7Nt5V7E/s200/postie+blues-postie1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Australian "postie"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess that explains why the postmen/women <i>(called "posties" in Australia)</i> have a different form of transportation here. They all ride motorbikes <i>(every schoolboys dream job!)</i> with saddlebags to carry the mail. They scoot around from home to home, dressed in their fluorescent yellow clothing and their motorbikes <i>"whirrrrring"</i> about, delivering our mail and our all-important junk mail. I don't know how any of us would live without junk mail transforming our kitchens into a waste dump of "need-to-be-recycled" piles of paper that we have never read! It's nice to know that some things never change no matter where you live, I guess!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMDixqnaq4WmXL1kCeQ3VW1xGhAGm5NAY4qW8Z0IEghDJRlbtLdKzXkTih9da-AcbvCVlT5nrNI8ZJ4sff5-896YHtUmMq6bqY1qjaxk8wE7StsV6wk7fgM3hn1Zm1HHDjS0-4nba6jsM/s1600/postie+blues-postie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMDixqnaq4WmXL1kCeQ3VW1xGhAGm5NAY4qW8Z0IEghDJRlbtLdKzXkTih9da-AcbvCVlT5nrNI8ZJ4sff5-896YHtUmMq6bqY1qjaxk8wE7StsV6wk7fgM3hn1Zm1HHDjS0-4nba6jsM/s200/postie+blues-postie.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay. So I have to deal with this new way of sending mail. I
guess it’s not so bad. As long as you don’t have some other surprises for me. I
mean, next you’ll be telling me we don’t get mail delivered on Saturdays! ...Gulp!
I was only kidding! Are you serious? In Australia <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(and again, probably in most of the world)</i> we go an entire weekend
without mail service! Now I am facing one of American’s deepest postal
nightmares! This same thing has been discussed in the States in order to cut
back on costs, but Americans meet the idea kicking and screaming. In
actuality, not having mail delivered on Saturdays isn’t so bad! It’s a blessing
in disguise, really. At least it’s one less day that you have to deal with the junk mail!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmHk-B8G1X28oMJPadwxshXfCD4tgmQQl-fSnUEBSqTgK6rM_B5JhEy9DltsoIEkkGBGBPrJDQx75ETTQPHN5y-GbbLPxq2cBrGoBst7xU7EbUhN2oembIr1emiMO6_slWfqS0IVimvg/s1600/postie+blues-hurdler2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmHk-B8G1X28oMJPadwxshXfCD4tgmQQl-fSnUEBSqTgK6rM_B5JhEy9DltsoIEkkGBGBPrJDQx75ETTQPHN5y-GbbLPxq2cBrGoBst7xU7EbUhN2oembIr1emiMO6_slWfqS0IVimvg/s200/postie+blues-hurdler2.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All in all, I guess it’s not so bad dealing with the
different postal service, here. Not having Saturday mail isn’t as big of a deal
as I thought it might be. However, the Australian Post has done a disservice to
the country as my hopes for an Olympic gold medal in hurdling have been dashed without my
regular and necessary sprints to the mail box to keep me in tip-top
performance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Oh well, at least my neighbors will be shielded from the horror of
me running down the street with nothing on but my bathrobe!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com92tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-85471520490391124152012-08-14T16:18:00.001+09:302014-06-01T16:22:24.168+09:30DISCIPLINE IS A BAD WORD!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6AfKaw8a0ikgc1ETCpubrX_j9LLPDvxx5JpNkuvwtBmmxXrIS3zqyhkCykfc9kC7z_w4q72Jth7j2KMZ60Pk2Uz7P6qKly6QGbC3NN9XDlAO1htko72uiiEAexCoy_sY48e_dHXob1c/s1600/discipline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6AfKaw8a0ikgc1ETCpubrX_j9LLPDvxx5JpNkuvwtBmmxXrIS3zqyhkCykfc9kC7z_w4q72Jth7j2KMZ60Pk2Uz7P6qKly6QGbC3NN9XDlAO1htko72uiiEAexCoy_sY48e_dHXob1c/s320/discipline.jpg" height="308" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Discipline" conveys such negative imagery!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I need your help! My husband, Ashley and I were recently discussing the word
"disciplined" the other day and we found we had very different
definitions of the word.<br />
<br />
Ashley is a very disciplined and determined person. He is very
athletic...has been his whole life. He works out just about every day. He tries
to eat healthily. In fact, he rarely eats at fast food restaurants (maybe twice
a year) and drinks plenty of water. I, on the other hand am a self-professed
couch potato (see my blog "Grampians Champions") who hates to
exercise and only does so under duress. I eat my fair share of chocolate and
love a good flame-broiled Whopper WITH french fries from time to time. Truth be
told, I'd eat it a lot more if I could get away with it not showing up on the
scales. And worse than anything...I'm a Coca-Cola addict! So now I ask
you...which of us is disciplined?<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Before you make up your mind, please hear me out! Granted,
Ashley is definitely disciplined. I give you that. But I suggest that I am very
disciplined as well. How you ask? How is it possible that a couch potato could
be disciplined in the slightest? Well, it all depends on your definition of
discipline. Most people think of things that…let’s face it…aren’t exactly fun
things to do in life. I mean…who really enjoys running? Seriously! Yeah, I
know, there may be a few weirdo people who enjoy it (no offense intended to my
running readers), but most people would agree that it’s not on their top ten
list of things to do in life. In fact, it’s probably not on their top one
hundred things to do! And when reaching for something to drink…would you like a
glass of water or a cold, frosty beer or soft drink…perhaps even an adult
beverage? I’m not asking what “should” you reach for…but what would you prefer?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new definition of "discipline"</td></tr>
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Ahhhh…now you’re getting closer to my definition of
"disciplined". I like to think that I am disciplined in having FUN! In fact, I’m
quite good at it! An expert, I might add! Yes, when comparing running to sitting
around watching a good movie on TV, I’d choose the movie every time! When
choosing to eat an apple or yummy, melt-in-your-mouth piece of chocolate,
something tells me the chocolate would win. And when choosing between a glass
of water or a tall, ice-cold-moisture-dripping-down-the-glass
Coca-Cola…well…you get the idea!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of
my choices prove my dedication to the task at hand…to enjoy every moment of life
and choose to be happy! </div>
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I’d say my definition of discipline wins out over the blood,
sweat and tears of Ashley’s definition every time. So let’s eat, drink and be
merry doing nothing, for tomorrow we will diet! No…not really! That would go
against my definition of fun! Let’s hear it for discipline …the new, fun and fabulous
word in the dictionary! No longer will it conjure up images of drudgery,
boredom and “un-fun”! Hip! Hip! Hooray!</div>
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So once again, I ask you…who is more disciplined? Before you
answer that, let’s see…it’s after noon and I really need to get out of my
bathrobe and get dressed for the day. I’ll check your responses after my nap! </div>
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Come and find me, "Yank In Australia" on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-3039361201394147872012-06-16T12:46:00.000+09:302012-06-18T06:41:23.533+09:30BUDGIE SMUGGLERS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have a question to throw out into the great cosmic void…
“Why, oh dear God, WHY is it okay to wear budgie smugglers in public, in Australia?” Not
only are these skin-tight, band-aid sized pieces of fabric worn, but they are
worn PROUDLY! I mean…what’s up with that?!</div>
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I grew up always being aware of the existence of this
particularly miniscule-sized item of men’s clothing. After all, Ken (Barbie’s
boyfriend) wore them! They have also been famously worn by super heroes like Superman. (With the body to pull it off I might add!) And to be fair, these garments are worn today by
competitive swimmers, but even then they have a specific place and purpose for
wearing them! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqCRwenPjmCndymnNCQ64yflYlb_ZPEoYe9gW3iBDvKVQjYgQI7zBzRc97AZZyKN0oSI2XWFP1jucVbBCHOLYDvH02_r7H1hQe7sj535MOUg74cacKOa92K27J5zIx1GzspoQsCeE_fg/s1600/budgie+smugglers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqCRwenPjmCndymnNCQ64yflYlb_ZPEoYe9gW3iBDvKVQjYgQI7zBzRc97AZZyKN0oSI2XWFP1jucVbBCHOLYDvH02_r7H1hQe7sj535MOUg74cacKOa92K27J5zIx1GzspoQsCeE_fg/s320/budgie+smugglers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On my recent trip to Lorne, Victoria, Australia April 2012</td></tr>
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What exactly, is a budgie smuggler, you ask? Well, Americans
know them generically as Speedos! Aussie’s affectionately refer to them as
“a-4-letter-word-rhyming-with-Rick bathers!” Yes, that’s right! When you wander
out onto the iconic beaches of Australia
to enjoy the sunshine, beautiful white sand beaches and blue ocean waves, you
might also find yourself unintentionally ogling an Aussie man, butt naked,
except for the postage-sized swimsuit covering his…uh…er… “budgie!” Instead of
gazing upon the gorgeous, scenic surf and sand, you might find yourself wanting
to look the other way!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJUXnrzL3rINDn037xLODkJdM0tlTZTe151VKxoHUkKmBUHdWe4QVmwuM44CUuEneWDHhLoNy2R2DCHRdY5iRCVUuNgFcfjPSkIGpWAWH2Gk8FfzaXGF8xH9PzdudyMqZ8L8SwHTBjzs/s1600/speedo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJUXnrzL3rINDn037xLODkJdM0tlTZTe151VKxoHUkKmBUHdWe4QVmwuM44CUuEneWDHhLoNy2R2DCHRdY5iRCVUuNgFcfjPSkIGpWAWH2Gk8FfzaXGF8xH9PzdudyMqZ8L8SwHTBjzs/s1600/speedo.jpg" /></a>At this point I find it necessary to defend the men of Australia.
Fortunately not all of them feel it is important to parade their “stuff” on the
public beaches in front of women and children. In fact, most of them do not!
(For which I am most grateful!) Most are wise enough to know that they could
potentially scar children for life! Besides, what’s the point of wearing one if
we are too embarrassed to look!</div>
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I grew up at the beach…a tourist destination on the Oregon coast, and I can
honestly say that in spite of growing up there, I managed to go throughout my
life without being “blessed” by seeing a Speedo worn in public! So why is it
that some Aussie men find sharing their glorious naked bodies with God and
everyone a totally respectable thing to do? I mean, where’s the Australian
tourism industry when you need them???!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ZtTYlGZx928y2W1DWtjiRW9oOF7YrmRFA-z9iZqD9XBI8Kb6hMS6FhOyXmNoBRRxpqMvf-OXz63RjRtLJhHZ4ZRTLmqqe9GC-mxd1EsbMl2EqZ5yu4jpByXGMdiM3CVaGsv96u7tFh4/s1600/budgie+smugglers-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ZtTYlGZx928y2W1DWtjiRW9oOF7YrmRFA-z9iZqD9XBI8Kb6hMS6FhOyXmNoBRRxpqMvf-OXz63RjRtLJhHZ4ZRTLmqqe9GC-mxd1EsbMl2EqZ5yu4jpByXGMdiM3CVaGsv96u7tFh4/s320/budgie+smugglers-1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Be sure to join me on Facebook!<br />
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Yank-in-Australia/405275162840444</div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-1320779863027970652012-05-09T17:02:00.000+09:302012-05-10T17:44:51.882+09:30BELLS BEACH, BABY!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bells Beach, Rip Curl Pro <br />
The world’s longest running (since 1961)<br />
and most prestigious world tour surfing event <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQc-AaVYUKA_CJRBjbeW-f9fD6sRWAFrLi8zIJionI2QGwOY02Nbyfmfh96VPwjt-ATYQmEQ9Z7Y2xcLwjoJKVeK2_GqmmgDq29lb_RHxMc0Yc7q6Ues_Db0a2o1aD5ms5WrfNbOz4fTE/s1600/Bells+Beach+Rip+Curl+Pro+2011+poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQc-AaVYUKA_CJRBjbeW-f9fD6sRWAFrLi8zIJionI2QGwOY02Nbyfmfh96VPwjt-ATYQmEQ9Z7Y2xcLwjoJKVeK2_GqmmgDq29lb_RHxMc0Yc7q6Ues_Db0a2o1aD5ms5WrfNbOz4fTE/s320/Bells+Beach+Rip+Curl+Pro+2011+poster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My husband Ashley and I recently returned from our holiday
travels. He’s a phys-ed teacher and Athletic Director of a high school and with
year-round school in Australia, he gets a 2-week holiday (which Americans call
“vacation”) every ten weeks. We had been looking forward to our vacation to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bells_Beach,_Victoria">Bells Beach</a>
for about a year now. In fact, it was exactly one year ago that we had taken
our two teenage boys on holiday and traveled home via <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Ocean_Road">The Great Ocean Road</a>. As
we passed iconic Bells
Beach we couldn’t help
but notice all the traffic surrounding it. Turns out it’s the venue for the Rip
Curl Pro, one of the most sought after titles on the World Championship Tour
held every Easter. We turned off the main highway in an attempt to see all the
excitement, but the traffic was too thick and we had a schedule to keep in
order to get home. With ten hours of driving looming before us, disappointed, we continued on our journey but couldn’t help but think about what
it would be like to return some day to see the competition of every surfer’s
dream. </div>
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A couple of weeks ago, Ashley and I hurriedly packed up our car (without the boys
this time), filled up on petrol and gas (our car runs on two fuels which is
nice for long road trips) and drove from our home just outside of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adelaide">Adelaide,South Australia</a> to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Torquay,_Victoria">Torquay, Victoria</a> (outside of Melbourne.) We spent over 8
hours in our car driving along 750-plus kilometers (or over 460 miles) of straight highway covered
in “bitumen” (pronounced “bich-oo-men” and Americans would call “asphalt”)
across wide-open Australian plains, dotted with gum trees and the occasional
dead kangaroo on the side of the road! Yes, that's what I said, "dead kangaroo!" Sorry to be the one to break it to you, but kangaroo are to Aussies what deer are to Americans. We love to see them in the wild, but fear hitting one with our car for the damage they cause. We talked about our kids, laughed about the way we pronounce words differently,
(did you know that in Australia,
“walk” and “fork” rhyme?) And we even made plans on how we would grow our new
<a href="https://www.sendoutcards.com/daynascards/">SendOutCards</a> business in both America
and Australia.
We have dreams like everyone else does and know this is the vehicle that will
finally change everything! We sang along with The Jets and the Beatles…watched
“Two and a Half Men” on DVD…well, I watched and Ashley listened! And we never
ran out of things to talk about! Life’s great when you’re married to your best
friend!</div>
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Along the way we passed little tiny towns that if you
sneezed, you’d drive right passed and never notice they were there. In fact, there
was one small town in particular that totally captured my imagination! It was obviously owned by a guy who loved this little spot on the South Australian map. I mean, this guy’s
name was all over the place; he owned everything! His name was on the seed company,
the deli, a meat shoppe and pharmacy. He even had the local footy club named after him!
It seemed, no matter where you looked, his name was there! I was so impressed;
I figured he had to be some millionaire who decided to settle in the middle of
nowhere (or as Aussie’s would say, “beyond Whoop Whoop” which is a fictitious
place a long way away) simply for the love of being there. He obviously had
quite a big heart and a love for this tiny community to support so many businesses
that would sustain the livability there. As we drove through, I couldn’t help
but wonder who was this guy? Did he grow up there? What kind of a
philanthropist must he be? And then it hit me... I saw his name on the hospital
and realized <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keith,_South_Australia">Keith</a> wasn’t the name of a guy…it was the name of the town! “Doh!”
I guess I was having one of my Homer Simpson moments! Come on, you can’t tell
me you’ve never caught yourself thinking something incredibly stupid like this
before! At least I have the guts to tell the whole world! “No guts, no glory!”
I always say. Well, I don’t always say that, but it sounded good! =)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remaining grandstands on Bells Beach</td></tr>
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We made it to Torquay in one piece and the next day,
walked along the <a href="http://greatoceanroad-torquay.com.au/wp-content/uploads/scs-walking-trail.pdf">Surf Coast Walk</a> from Torquay to Bells Beach
and back. Along the way we took in beautiful vistas of crashing waves against
rocky headlands below and eventually made our way to Bells and to our
disappointment the surfing competition was the week prior! As we arrived, they
were still taking down the grand stands. Oh well…next year maybe. It actually
turned out to be okay because this way we had the beach all to ourselves taking
a leisurely stroll and soaking in the magnificence and the beauty as the roar
of the pounding surf on the gritty sand filled my head. About an hour had passed as I stood amazed and hypnotized by
the wonder and majesty of it all, taking pictures of every wave. My poor husband just stood around patiently
waiting for me to get my fill, knowing how important the ocean is to me. I could easily have stayed there all day just
staring at the waves pounding the beach, but even my husband, as willing as he is to make me happy, has his breaking point!<br />
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Interesting fact: There is a classic surfing movie
called “Point Break” set at Bells
Beach. Wikipedia says, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Although the final scene of the film <span style="color: black;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Point_Break" title="Point Break">Point Break</a></span>
is set at Bells Beach, the scene was not filmed there. Bells Beach
is a straight stretch and the beach in the film is a cove with spruce trees
atop a hill. The actual location of the film was a beach called Indian Beach,
in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_and_Clark_National_and_State_Historical_Parks#Ecola_State_Park" title="Lewis and Clark National and State Historical Parks">Ecola State Park</a>,
located in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannon_Beach,_Oregon" title="Cannon Beach, Oregon">Cannon Beach, Oregon</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States" title="United States">USA</a>.”</i>
Guess where I’m from originally??? If you’re a regular reader of my blog, or
happen to know me in person than you definitely guessed it…I’m from Cannon Beach, Oregon!
How cool is that?!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Geelong life savers...you'll also need to search for the sailor,<br />
pirates, a brass band, a mail carrier, artist and swimmers! </td></tr>
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Not to be deterred, we spent the next week looking around
some of the other coastal towns nearby. I especially loved <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geelong">Geelong</a>…such
a pretty city nestled in Stingaree Bay at the gateway to the Bellarine Peninsula
with their darling, 7-foot-tall, <i><span style="font-style: normal;">obelisk</span></i>-like statues dotting the
waterfront. We also got our dose of surf culture in Torquay, the <span class="st">birthplace of iconic brands Rip Curl and Quicksilver. </span>Torquay
is alsoVictoria's
surfing capital where the beach-based culture is at its strongest. We visited <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Split_Point_Lighthouse">SplitPoint Light House</a> at Aireys Inlet and walked around <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Kilda,_Victoria">St. Kilda</a> and Luna
Park in Melbourne.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Off The Great Ocean Road, Split Point Light House at Aireys Inlet, Victoria<br />
I took this photo. Isn't it pretty? </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDeuCzFI368x66f0Bh0Cn8fNygR-z89AWbzsiUVJEFNh4WsYzT2oWINjxIjlN9i7MUZ04h696BCNCoZtmZCXucny9LL0Wu5s9VOS8xo_R-jz4-9kBkELy8iiM5nIZm8UU-RtjNkAFtLA/s1600/Lorne_0030.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDeuCzFI368x66f0Bh0Cn8fNygR-z89AWbzsiUVJEFNh4WsYzT2oWINjxIjlN9i7MUZ04h696BCNCoZtmZCXucny9LL0Wu5s9VOS8xo_R-jz4-9kBkELy8iiM5nIZm8UU-RtjNkAFtLA/s200/Lorne_0030.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
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Another highlight for me was spending a day in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lorne,_Victoria">Lorne</a> where
we not only discovered Erskine Falls but had some close encounters with
cockatoos! One thing I have never gotten tired of is seeing cockatoos flying
freely in the sky. Back home in the States the only way you see these beautiful
birds is behind bars! Never do you get to see them the way God in His infinite
wisdom intended…with their large white wings spread open, flying across the bright blue sky.
Living in Australia,
we get to see cockatoos quite regularly. In fact, Australians are a bit<br />
“ho hum” about them to tell you the truth! They think of them as noisy, messy pests because they squawk loudly and chew into telephone wires. But to this Yank, all I see is the bird who starred in "Baretta" (starring Robert Blake 1975-1978) and I want to snap pictures wildly, like some paparazzi chasing after a movie star!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now imagine these are cockatoos staring you down!</td></tr>
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So, you know how it is, when you go to the beach and
throw bread into the air, how the seagulls all fly in at your feet waiting for
their next morsel? Well, in Lorne it’s exactly that with a twist…the cockatoos
do it too! My theory is they were trained by the seagulls on how to get a free
meal. Now they just have to be taught to say, “Mine! Mine! Mine!” like the
seagulls in the Disney film “Finding Nemo”. This <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4BNbHBcnDI">scene</a> is actually set in Sydney's Darling Harbour with the iconic Harbour Bridge and Sydney Opera House in the background. It’s one of my classic
all time favorite lines in a movie! Puts a smile on my face and a chuckle in my
heart!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowHZKMjHyeD5rLXJIn-91EoNYqgskNg1t-3jHAHb2yXiV1JjDO1VLWFK4G9UzW4L-YBBTq_8NErRmdZduM91r89JDtLIfSoFI1VbF7TpA2rpNwTjgW0dG1QuonwkEAxqGxsEcXOyQUl0/s1600/The+Birds,+starring+Tippy+Hedron,+directed+by+Alfred+Hitchcock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowHZKMjHyeD5rLXJIn-91EoNYqgskNg1t-3jHAHb2yXiV1JjDO1VLWFK4G9UzW4L-YBBTq_8NErRmdZduM91r89JDtLIfSoFI1VbF7TpA2rpNwTjgW0dG1QuonwkEAxqGxsEcXOyQUl0/s1600/The+Birds,+starring+Tippy+Hedron,+directed+by+Alfred+Hitchcock.jpg" /></a>So the cockatoos of Lorne are not only beggars but they are in-your-face
beggars! Seagulls will at least keep a respectful distance, but the cockatoos
have no problems flying right up to people and stealing their lunch out of
their hands, as we saw them do while we were there! One older woman...probably in her 70's was feeding them, when they decided to start landing on her! The poor woman had two on her shoulders and one on her head and they were wildly flapping their wings about, messing up her hair. It was reminiscent of the scene in "The Birds" when Tippy Hedron was attacked by seagulls! Needless to say she won't be feeding the birds in Lorne again any time soon!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Costco, Melbourne, Australia...looks like the one back home in Oregon!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Similar menu...except for the prices and the "Aussie Meat Pie"</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Before we left Victoria,
there was one last thing this Yank had on her Bucket List...as long as we were
near Melbourne
we had to go shopping at Costco! Oh yeah!!! We don't have a Costco in Adelaide yet, so shopping at the Melbourne location is always a highlight for me. (Yes, I get to use my Costco card from the States!) Last year when we took our boys
with us we shopped at Costco and my son Andrew and I ran around like it was Disneyland! We pushed the oh-so-familiar "normal" shopping carts...er, I mean "trolleys" (see my blog posting "What's Wrong with the Trolleys?") up-and-down every aisle and I took pictures as though we were at a memorable tourist attraction! (Well, to me we were!)
We laughed and enjoyed every second of it as we ate our Costco hotdogs and
sipped on berry smoothies! Ah…that was the life! It was very reminiscent of our American lives that we miss back in the States.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBC3fFEhlYwihoUV4hyZbhaOrbEZiPGEsR7UhKuVAdq9O7yhyphenhypheni858vJsYCi8kVJhtgqmz6jYmUj1tFbTdukcu7IKqGUZM1FTzhJqRmC_Sww5LiIhtTyHxlJ2VvMbI4T7E1RpfnE8z1sG8/s1600/dsc08125.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBC3fFEhlYwihoUV4hyZbhaOrbEZiPGEsR7UhKuVAdq9O7yhyphenhypheni858vJsYCi8kVJhtgqmz6jYmUj1tFbTdukcu7IKqGUZM1FTzhJqRmC_Sww5LiIhtTyHxlJ2VvMbI4T7E1RpfnE8z1sG8/s320/dsc08125.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love the view of Melbourne from Costco!</td></tr>
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Well, Ashley and I spent a couple of hours shopping there and $450 later,
we finally left! My poor credit card got a huge workout on that visit! The only really…and I mean REALLY disappointing thing about
our Costco run is that the food court happened to be closed the exact week we were
there for renovations which meant no hot dogs and no berry smoothies! Argh!!! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiUue_yiIwVdUuhsgCC0_AB2dLfA7hDbncF3gpzDJg_32G7I4YkrhAYPtXZWAsf0bh-mej7DUHWaINGTaG_R-vmyEVgok9gTaM1JjeLxvJJ_9szKV-GzpTyshFf-HO2a97RQA9GSnYxnE/s1600/Keith,+South+Australia_0027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiUue_yiIwVdUuhsgCC0_AB2dLfA7hDbncF3gpzDJg_32G7I4YkrhAYPtXZWAsf0bh-mej7DUHWaINGTaG_R-vmyEVgok9gTaM1JjeLxvJJ_9szKV-GzpTyshFf-HO2a97RQA9GSnYxnE/s400/Keith,+South+Australia_0027.jpg" width="400" /></a>Well, our trip is over and we have settled back into life as “normal” but the memories of Bells Beach, Costco, over-friendly cockatoos in Lorne and a man named Keith will forever stay in my
mind.<br />
<br />
You can also find me on:<br />
Twitter:<br />
www.twitter.com/daynatrueman<br />
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www.pinterest.com/daynatrueman <br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com7Adelaide SA 5000, Australia-34.9287264 138.5999453-34.9807934 138.5209813 -34.8766594 138.67890930000002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-75765297293264513722011-10-15T12:59:00.000+10:302012-05-10T13:17:33.810+09:30GRAMPIANS CHAMPIONS!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I’m a self-proclaimed couch potato. Okay…there…I admit it! You got a problem with that? Well, my husband does! Ashley’s a high school sports coordinator and phys-ed instructor and very fit. In fact, this week he competed in the <a href="http://www.australianmastersgames.com/">Australian Masters Games</a> in track and field and medaled in all of his events, including a gold in the pentathlon! In spite of loving me a lot, he says I need an “attitude realignment” to change my ways. He’s finding it very difficult to coach me toward a “healthier lifestyle.” Can you believe it? He says I’m “hard work!” Could he possibly be right? Nahhhh! I think he just needs to lighten up, hop off the treadmill, put his feet up and enjoy a Coca-cola and Nacho Cheese Doritos with me!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-6z_cxuqxksz7gr5687QIF_JhB8ChvKQ0Jn4QNNVDNIanoJqWYv0SLHB8O08I6BRfB1cvCBOUanYNv4L9aTXMcUmWrcLGZeK05LTWRiuxRAS_kl8Hb1Bo3cMcSSsjeoxNLwuZeI6zyE/s1600/Masters+Games-Day+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-6z_cxuqxksz7gr5687QIF_JhB8ChvKQ0Jn4QNNVDNIanoJqWYv0SLHB8O08I6BRfB1cvCBOUanYNv4L9aTXMcUmWrcLGZeK05LTWRiuxRAS_kl8Hb1Bo3cMcSSsjeoxNLwuZeI6zyE/s200/Masters+Games-Day+3.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ashley's 2011 medals</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gold medal in the pentathlon!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bronze medal in the high jump!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haystack Rock, Cannon Beach, Oregon</td></tr>
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My dad owned a grocery store on the Oregon coast. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Some of you may already know this if you follow my blog</i>.) Any way, he would get up in the mornings and race into the town of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannon_Beach,_Oregon">Cannon Beach</a> where our store was located so he could open it up by 9am. In his haste, he would never eat breakfast until he opened the store and felt hunger pangs rumbling in his stomach. Not having the time to prepare anything, he would just reach for what ever was handy off the shelves. Every morning you could find him gulping down a Diet Coke and a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos which he often boasted was the “Breakfast of Champions!” We used to always say that he ate so many preservatives he would never age! He was a funny man and enjoyed life to its fullest.</div>
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I’m telling you all of this so you might have a better understanding of just how I became the way I am. My husband says this is a “convenient cop-out and I have the diet of a person with a short life span!” To which I reply, “Lighten up and eat your bag of Cadbury chocolates!”</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the top of Hollow Mountain</td></tr>
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So how did this self-proclaimed couch potato end up at the top of Hollow Mountain in <a href="http://www.visitvictoria.com/Regions/Grampians.aspx">The Grampians National Park</a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(in the heart of country Victoria, Australia) </i>without a nearby car park in sight? Can you believe it? My husband decided to take this couch potato on a 3-hour hike! All this exercise is NOT my idea of a perfect vacation! Just where is the lounge by the pool, sipping cool drinks and napping under the cabana?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An easy stroll in the beginning...</td></tr>
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Well, to my chagrin, we started out on our journey.<br />
“So far…so good!” I thought to myself. As it turned out, this hike was more like taking an innocent lamb to the slaughter and I was the lamb! </div>
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As our hike progressed and became more difficult, I figured it was probably the worst it would get because, let’s face it, we were on a hike, right? Wrong! About two-thirds of the way into our hike, we faced a daunting task, climbing up a 70-degree rock face! I took one look up at what lay ahead and decided it was time to turn around! I was not prepared to make this my final resting place! I began to plead with my husband that we couldn’t go any further. It’s one thing to climb up, but “What goes up must come down!” I was very concerned that I wouldn’t be able to get back down and would find myself on the National news as helicopters lifted me to safety! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before my steep ascent on the rocks behind me... </td></tr>
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After much gentle coaxing, my husband encouraged me to face my fear and keep going. Why, oh why didn’t I pay more attention in gym class? My fit husband easily climbed on ahead and waited for me at the top as he waved his arms and boasted, “I’m the Grampians champion!”</div>
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"Rub it in!" I grizzled to myself. Suddenly I found myself alone. Do I reach up and climb or turn around and head for the nearest couch? Gulp! I guess I climb!</div>
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After much whining, I made it to the top and guess what? There was ANOTHER 70 degree rock face to climb! Will this couch potato ever get a break??? Well, we had gone too far to turn around now, so I just grinned and bared it, hoping against all odds that I wouldn’t become fodder for the evening news!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cell phone interrupts the silence</td></tr>
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After further climbing, we made it to the top and had lunch. There we were in the middle of nowhere, what felt like the top of the world. It was so beautiful, peaceful and so quiet. All we could hear was the sound of a hungry fly wanting a piece of our lunch and then… "Rrrrrring!" Wouldn’t you know it…Ashley’s cell phone! Boy, THAT would never have happened 20 years ago! Sometimes technology can be a real bummer! It was his son, wanting to chat. There was only one thing wrong with this climb besides the obvious cell phone ringing and wondering how I would get down! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cute shops in <a href="http://www.visitvictoria.com/Regions/grampians/Destinations/halls-gap.aspx">Halls Gap, Victoria, Australia</a></td></tr>
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Just the day before, we were wandering around the cute little town of Halls Gap where we are staying. It’s a little town nested in the foothills of The Grampians mountain range. I had seen a picture of Hollow Mountain on display and wanted to get that same photo for myself. In fact, the image of the picture is what inspired me to keep climbing when I wanted to give up! So here we were at the top of Hollow Mountain and the photo op that I had been searching for was nowhere in sight!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside view of the crevasse we had to crawl through</td></tr>
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As we began our descent, it wasn’t too far and we found a crevasse. At the end of the crevasse was the photo op I had been searching for, but now I had to face another fear! Besides being claustrophobic <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(which started on a missions trip to Russia in 2000), </i>I also have an intense fear of spiders here in Australia <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(regular blog followers already know this!) </i>So now what? Do I go around the crevasse and skip the photo that I had been looking for or squeeze inside hoping I’d make it out the other end? Well…a picture’s worth a thousand words, so here’s what I chose…</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside Hollow Mountain. I did it!</td></tr>
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To make a long story short, we made it back to base without a single injury and I am so proud of myself! I have photos of me doing things I never thought I’d do and have such a sense of accomplishment. My husband is proud of me and life couldn’t be better.</div>
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Now…just where did I put those Doritos?</div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-49330158861638982462011-09-30T21:57:00.000+09:302012-05-10T12:54:43.606+09:30WHAT??? NO CENTRAL HEATING?!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYPABB9xriLuoj8exDOhER3WV5wR4ENFSKULebir2h8S12RaHC50SeYp2PJM-UjPjYD3mDpHn3IK8KOoUSr3Bh-p0n28amxfRXcgioU5lW2eSwGw-P-wsUsMsN24LqEQvwlXjBvtepRVY/s1600/thermostat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYPABB9xriLuoj8exDOhER3WV5wR4ENFSKULebir2h8S12RaHC50SeYp2PJM-UjPjYD3mDpHn3IK8KOoUSr3Bh-p0n28amxfRXcgioU5lW2eSwGw-P-wsUsMsN24LqEQvwlXjBvtepRVY/s1600/thermostat.jpg" /></a></div>
"What do you mean, we have no central heating?" I can still hear my question reverberating in my head as I ponder what once would have been an unimaginable question.<br />
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Growing up in the States where most homes have central heating, I just assumed that it was a normal thing. It’s nothing that I ever thought about, really. I guess when you grow up with things a certain way, you just assume everyone else has life similar to yours. Such is the fodder for my Blog. So many things that once were normal are no longer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWS5yex9PDBIVTwGsGN0EhyphenhypheniyPX7W3rmJGYv8joUWyDiyfie_km6xoi9jeZPD-pafv2UAlPQErWfB8h86owN34_vsn19WJmd9T2SMkV2oiHOgfACpey84lo0MmDVIQ2ytZjSTlni05_8/s1600/beach4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWS5yex9PDBIVTwGsGN0EhyphenhypheniyPX7W3rmJGYv8joUWyDiyfie_km6xoi9jeZPD-pafv2UAlPQErWfB8h86owN34_vsn19WJmd9T2SMkV2oiHOgfACpey84lo0MmDVIQ2ytZjSTlni05_8/s1600/beach4.jpg" /></a>Let’s face it, when I mention that I’m living in Australia, what kind of life do most NON-Aussies imagine? A life of endless days of sunshine, blue skies and surf, white sandy beaches, and hot, dry land? What about living in this great Land of Oz in the winter? What images conjure up in your head? More of the same, right? If you find yourself nodding in the affirmative, you have so much to learn young whippersnapper, so keep reading!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxp2w_1ucI74GWGcbCmdN1o2HrJ-hjxbzHyw3znYN5Iv3CqHdfI3UR-1ageKIZujYIN2bIr4ugBPkcSiO_yw5XwFBhd-WFRJuFN2nYdwzmU-P4zTMgHddsnW3QtHvvZSpm4USj1BmBCpA/s1600/parka+and+mukluks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxp2w_1ucI74GWGcbCmdN1o2HrJ-hjxbzHyw3znYN5Iv3CqHdfI3UR-1ageKIZujYIN2bIr4ugBPkcSiO_yw5XwFBhd-WFRJuFN2nYdwzmU-P4zTMgHddsnW3QtHvvZSpm4USj1BmBCpA/s1600/parka+and+mukluks.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parka and Eskimo mukluks</td></tr>
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Actually, the winters here are quite mild. The problem is, when you live without central heating, the inside of your house tends to be about the same temperature as it is outside! When we go to bed, the thermostat isn’t set to maintain a comfortable temperature throughout the house as we sleep. Instead, the wall heater is turned off and the house temperature quickly drops. So when we have a night that dips to 5 degrees Celsius (that’s 41 degrees Fahrenheit for my American/metrically-challenged readers!) I wake up to a house that’s so cold, that I find myself ice skating on my tile floors, doing a twirl and double Axel on my way to my coat closet to grab my parka and mukluks for warmth!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi02iGUqOJ033Mt1V9pMj2elbJGBvIJDiDL4bN4ysbStaluQSoh1HVRlXWsBlw0Fx7Kv3ex9_tQTYSYJbzvSCSqBJzzPS8elyhtM0Kntf8H2Wtjvd-GVj5MPn28oY_Fy1WQDPV66BvJJEY/s1600/Falls+Creek+finest+ski+resort+in+Oz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi02iGUqOJ033Mt1V9pMj2elbJGBvIJDiDL4bN4ysbStaluQSoh1HVRlXWsBlw0Fx7Kv3ex9_tQTYSYJbzvSCSqBJzzPS8elyhtM0Kntf8H2Wtjvd-GVj5MPn28oY_Fy1WQDPV66BvJJEY/s320/Falls+Creek+finest+ski+resort+in+Oz.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.skifalls.com.au/">Falls Creek</a>, finest ski resort in Victoria, Australia</td></tr>
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You may think I’m exaggerating, but really I’m not far from the truth! I used to wonder why Aussies invented the Ugg boot, (which, by the way look very similar to mukluks!) I mean, why would they need such a warm boot made out of sheep skin when they live where it sunshine’s 365 days of the year? Ahh….there’s where your imagination has led you astray! You see, it isn’t sunny here 365 days of the year. It’s not a land that never sees rain. In fact, you might be surprised to learn that parts of Australia even have SNOW! But I digress…<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ3e57miTdShtJcZFC_KLcfi8PHvkTLPar7ngg8LIflpI2k_sKnjIwXoKrB2C0UeAa9VhxhZV0PDxEFXQh3qJ-nP29dEC2M2IMHNk9GPq4g6bYsldzHBpBq2uDuMoMpYgWDCmtnUGovU/s1600/Laura+Ingalls+Little+House+on+the+Prairie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJ3e57miTdShtJcZFC_KLcfi8PHvkTLPar7ngg8LIflpI2k_sKnjIwXoKrB2C0UeAa9VhxhZV0PDxEFXQh3qJ-nP29dEC2M2IMHNk9GPq4g6bYsldzHBpBq2uDuMoMpYgWDCmtnUGovU/s1600/Laura+Ingalls+Little+House+on+the+Prairie.jpg" /></a></div>
While house hunting recently, we found that most houses in our half-million-dollar-and-up price range had no central heating! Seriously, how is it that you can spend that much money on a house and not expect to heat your home efficiently? Of course it came to no surprise to my husband since he grew up here, but you had to practically pick me up off the floor as the reality of my situation began to sink in! I didn't know this was even possible in this day and age! I thought gone were the days that people had one heating source, (their fire place) to warm their house. Just where is Laura Ingalls when you need her?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuYUhMehFkF5bnw7kjqAmaK5VxVZqk7ngW_wW-twFzJ7mkUmSxQy8ZfaM0FNLu3Nv-jcCOw8tieZG-UeKeRsSxPHDgDMUQE5b0A9iVn1C0qP3t3_UfIIdLc8iA1mqvJMWZkhK9yA6h1zo/s1600/Australia+New+Zealand+Map3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuYUhMehFkF5bnw7kjqAmaK5VxVZqk7ngW_wW-twFzJ7mkUmSxQy8ZfaM0FNLu3Nv-jcCOw8tieZG-UeKeRsSxPHDgDMUQE5b0A9iVn1C0qP3t3_UfIIdLc8iA1mqvJMWZkhK9yA6h1zo/s1600/Australia+New+Zealand+Map3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I live in Adelaide, South Australia!</td></tr>
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I recently found a statistic that in New Zealand, our neighbor to the south, only 5% of homes have central heat, and New Zealand is colder than Australia! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(I tried to find the same statistics for Australia without any luck, but included this information so you have an idea of what I’m dealing with. Do you feel sorry for me yet?)</i> I guess it’s because houses are designed more to keep the heat out. They just don’t worry about the cold here. Not only are houses built without central heating, but most homes have single paned windows (I didn’t even know those existed any more!) and don’t have fireplaces! In fact, most Aussie homes have awnings and black-out curtains on every window to keep the sunshine out on hot days. See what I mean? They are more concerned about keeping houses cool to the detriment of keeping them warm in the winter.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREFwkeAZtstuP9uy5bnnMwNJFkQExQ-TR9pKix05pCQaSfSeNET7yFTFiD4sufCqeXMSfVhXiD_BZnYHACvFS2i0D2ECfYqSE6PmNTU0NgJQ7eFc1DrkTWm0Pa8Zs1LYG5oKqZqDO6QQ/s1600/img_0769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREFwkeAZtstuP9uy5bnnMwNJFkQExQ-TR9pKix05pCQaSfSeNET7yFTFiD4sufCqeXMSfVhXiD_BZnYHACvFS2i0D2ECfYqSE6PmNTU0NgJQ7eFc1DrkTWm0Pa8Zs1LYG5oKqZqDO6QQ/s320/img_0769.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My neighborhood in Tigard, Oregon, winter 2008</td></tr>
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So here I am, spending my first winter in Australia and I never once imagined that the winters here would be colder than back home in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tigard,_Oregon">Tigard, Oregon</a> where temperatures often drop below zero Celsius for the day’s high! In order to keep warm at night in Oz, I have an electric blanket which is nothing like those back home. Electric blankets don’t lie on top of you. Instead, they look like a huge heating pad that slips under your sheet and you lay on top. It takes a little getting used to, but they do work well which keeps me from complaining (Aussies would say, “grizzling”) about the cold at night. I know my husband appreciates that!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9OyaURSEdCr0bRautYmW03oDEj-FPnuIcnyGtuywgYmWBpAk665apmvf8Z88H99FE9vjLywU3r58F6SSTgOc2gt9mQ7ABRcr-YYqBYM2M92gLxiV-ZEqsD-SsOBgCMsuuA5dLrTFQ4Q/s1600/frosty+the+snowman+melting1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9OyaURSEdCr0bRautYmW03oDEj-FPnuIcnyGtuywgYmWBpAk665apmvf8Z88H99FE9vjLywU3r58F6SSTgOc2gt9mQ7ABRcr-YYqBYM2M92gLxiV-ZEqsD-SsOBgCMsuuA5dLrTFQ4Q/s1600/frosty+the+snowman+melting1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A very melted Frosty the Snowman...</td></tr>
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When I wake up in the mornings, in order to avoid hypothermia I quickly throw on a turtle-neck (called a “skivvy” here), sweatshirt (Aussies call a “jumper”), jeans (they call them “jeans” here…sorry, that’s supposed to be funny) and my Ugg boots, throw some blankets over me and cozy up to my wall heater until the frost melts off my nose, much like Frosty the Snowman on a warm day!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyKvCWAIR3LeGJxniMLFNBDTMAO6jSghvATmd4Mh1mbEDxtff5VKn5JBJjWkx3T-q0Gk1VNVpv_apx1hpYZPkT_L-E360fVfmUc3I2Jk-LVdnbrB1x-LES_kI3AIFTaAt6ZWo9IP_vgI/s1600/Our+Heater.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyKvCWAIR3LeGJxniMLFNBDTMAO6jSghvATmd4Mh1mbEDxtff5VKn5JBJjWkx3T-q0Gk1VNVpv_apx1hpYZPkT_L-E360fVfmUc3I2Jk-LVdnbrB1x-LES_kI3AIFTaAt6ZWo9IP_vgI/s320/Our+Heater.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of two heaters for our 2-story home</td></tr>
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Peering out from under my blankets at my husband in hopes of sympathy and compassion, I shiver with teeth chattering and say, “I’m fra-fra-fra-freezing!” Of course my Aussie husband, walking around in shorts and a t-shirt just to prove a point would respond, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not cold at all!” He’s just saying that, so he doesn’t have to turn up the heat! I guess I should be thankful for running water and electricity!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVbiEBt4nwkGOcvAHI9BxeRXdu8x2ury7vz01pwrjqAqNjvyhOHI9eA0XDVI0seK4YFoPfKBEicy7jQLYXT61ELzJ1CdMy-WBKUMI1ORKGiH2C54444oRJPbYQsj-P0YKd0j6uER8ngA/s1600/winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVbiEBt4nwkGOcvAHI9BxeRXdu8x2ury7vz01pwrjqAqNjvyhOHI9eA0XDVI0seK4YFoPfKBEicy7jQLYXT61ELzJ1CdMy-WBKUMI1ORKGiH2C54444oRJPbYQsj-P0YKd0j6uER8ngA/s400/winter.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is soooooo my husband and I!</td></tr>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-58494002825326159572011-08-07T00:46:00.000+09:302012-05-10T12:47:18.615+09:30WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE TROLLEYS?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0xa2HUOzjcMZzNJ0AAn-kXUYF9dVCht6r_0AgSRYVrg9mXMzEYpTM6xnsSUQJTkoH0zcZQMP0l5GPiZEf0O9H1DuCHg-H1xg2bboZbqUtK15XtDOlKYzIqjO5FxAUERL7LSepeuk8S8/s1600/grocery+cart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0xa2HUOzjcMZzNJ0AAn-kXUYF9dVCht6r_0AgSRYVrg9mXMzEYpTM6xnsSUQJTkoH0zcZQMP0l5GPiZEf0O9H1DuCHg-H1xg2bboZbqUtK15XtDOlKYzIqjO5FxAUERL7LSepeuk8S8/s1600/grocery+cart.jpg" /></a>I have been using grocery carts for as long as I can remember. My parents bought a mom-and-pop grocery store in the tiny town of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannon_Beach,_Oregon">Cannon Beach, Oregon</a> in the 1970’s-Brady-Bunch-era. I began working in our store and as a result, began maneuvering grocery carts with great expertise at a very young age. I not only knew how to steer them up-and-down the aisles of our store, but also learned how to use them outside on slopes and the rough terrain of our parking lot. I knew how to stack them, assist customers with them and even learned how to twirl on them. I guess you could say I was a grocery cart aficionado…and I was only in 5<sup>th</sup> grade!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQr80UDg2xp2dGsqeTNGrkqugZ0mjbHbLVyFykUYDbhxMlUEXaAwsw1IhlrIzNSKwo_tQjcDUmOlg4zGdpr_kf7b2nEdJiILtcEVuxlhb4Vc397J6Tc4n9wqTEs8Iaz6moReleVpQ7pBw/s1600/Mariner+Market+Christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQr80UDg2xp2dGsqeTNGrkqugZ0mjbHbLVyFykUYDbhxMlUEXaAwsw1IhlrIzNSKwo_tQjcDUmOlg4zGdpr_kf7b2nEdJiILtcEVuxlhb4Vc397J6Tc4n9wqTEs8Iaz6moReleVpQ7pBw/s1600/Mariner+Market+Christmas.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our family grocery store at Christmas time...</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTn4x7do_zWHz8ku13bKkNZ69t8_hgpm9otNoscpS5-zFk_kK66Fxq75ODK9Sr0jRADVerwCJadCyJbmK2Opv0yZmhHiso3fVay50OYa6kdQBiHxq0RH2v_0TWBikVHWs32CFEfHisQw/s1600/grocery+cart3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkTn4x7do_zWHz8ku13bKkNZ69t8_hgpm9otNoscpS5-zFk_kK66Fxq75ODK9Sr0jRADVerwCJadCyJbmK2Opv0yZmhHiso3fVay50OYa6kdQBiHxq0RH2v_0TWBikVHWs32CFEfHisQw/s1600/grocery+cart3.jpg" /></a></div>
So why am I bragging about my grocery cart expertise at the young age of ten? Why would you care about my enthusiasm for them? Well, fast-forward about 30 years to my life now in Australia and you’ll understand why. Every time I place my hands on the plastic-covered-handle of the smooth metal baskets, I am reminded of the wholesome life I had growing up on the Oregon Coast. I am reminded of my parents’ store, the Mariner Market. I am reminded of what has made this piece of machinery a timeless marvel of human invention. That is…until I begin to steer the darn thing!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjekeMZMYTNGuwbvTKE8n7d7r2Zfm2j4EXl3YkvnM8SEIPGCaeh7atk4r-yTDCNwrGVsHjgm00Q5YZutm6s4O2VZ_TQehoUjoCFapRjWK0ke_1ORNxt-eAcVC43k0wdOiZ38B3wUL7b-UY/s1600/grocery+cart2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjekeMZMYTNGuwbvTKE8n7d7r2Zfm2j4EXl3YkvnM8SEIPGCaeh7atk4r-yTDCNwrGVsHjgm00Q5YZutm6s4O2VZ_TQehoUjoCFapRjWK0ke_1ORNxt-eAcVC43k0wdOiZ38B3wUL7b-UY/s1600/grocery+cart2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You wouldn't see this in Australia!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Have you ever paid attention to the way a shopping basket <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(another name for grocery cart)</i> is controlled? Besides the necessary component of a capable person “behind the wheel”, there are certain mechanics that make it easy to operate…namely, the two front wheels that turn from side-to-side and the rear wheels that are stationary, allowing for perfect steering and control. Even a child can do it!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4L2ImWI1gTpnnOVuC93YFCK4kzUfOBzqMdkIS1X_V-rjDCbBaehfn5r19tFyjyEcPJ9T5zBRFkchMqsN18TJKNlIy9T5hvgTpwJ2i13M3dvFryh7bmLpaVxixZse1tdRzxPueHvxR80U/s1600/grocery+cart20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4L2ImWI1gTpnnOVuC93YFCK4kzUfOBzqMdkIS1X_V-rjDCbBaehfn5r19tFyjyEcPJ9T5zBRFkchMqsN18TJKNlIy9T5hvgTpwJ2i13M3dvFryh7bmLpaVxixZse1tdRzxPueHvxR80U/s320/grocery+cart20.jpg" width="320" /></a>Well, in Australia “shopping trolleys” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(as they are called here)</i> run with all four wheels that turn side-to-side, turning this self-proclaimed “grocery cart expert” into a disaster behind the wheel! It’s one thing if you are “driving” it in a straight line, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(anyone can do that!)</i> But what happens when you want to turn down an aisle for your favorite cookies? Well, all four wheels turn leaving the “driver” with a basket catapulting down the aisle sideways…or as I like to put it…catawampus! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(My Aussie husband swears this isn’t a real word and laughs at me every time I use it!) </i>I’m telling you, steering a trolley with all four wheels turning is like attempting to safely steer your car out of a tail spin on ice…it’s almost impossible without a negative outcome!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhft_jcbs-y9oIIJJv8QfRUmdjd0g0msmC-V8MFcIOUVyFMkmJ_yJghL9t17NN2jrr43L6OP6UFGpaCawHU7-b6kefzsOdcyiGu2hu49ZsFAndMX-gWrLqYgRw0iDCW77DOHgqw8VY2rT4/s1600/grocery+cart12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhft_jcbs-y9oIIJJv8QfRUmdjd0g0msmC-V8MFcIOUVyFMkmJ_yJghL9t17NN2jrr43L6OP6UFGpaCawHU7-b6kefzsOdcyiGu2hu49ZsFAndMX-gWrLqYgRw0iDCW77DOHgqw8VY2rT4/s1600/grocery+cart12.jpg" /></a>Case in point…even though Australians have grown up with this tricky way of steering their trolleys; they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> have trouble controlling them. In fact, I recently saw a report on the telly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Aussie for “television”) </i>that explained how insurance claims are on the rise due to hit-and-run trolley accidents. Let’s face it. Trolleys are often very difficult to control. But I don’t want to blame Australians for their inability to steer their trolleys…anyone would have difficulty no matter where they grew up! The problem is the inherent flaw in their wheel design!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhju4_VLVND6sHuwWpTEiAu_3pakr_azXbVHHqjVRB09J97bHNnKjRQ4kiuiNSx1D40FSKm2iumJBikQxEmBKvV9pmbWsSikl9rkttVmLBSA_QcXG10I8TTnwxVyHyFrWxx5ypK08Gg4oA/s1600/grocery+cart23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhju4_VLVND6sHuwWpTEiAu_3pakr_azXbVHHqjVRB09J97bHNnKjRQ4kiuiNSx1D40FSKm2iumJBikQxEmBKvV9pmbWsSikl9rkttVmLBSA_QcXG10I8TTnwxVyHyFrWxx5ypK08Gg4oA/s1600/grocery+cart23.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My husband is such a show off!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I first moved here, I quickly realized I was in over my head trying to push a trolley. Every time I had to turn the darn thing I was in a panic…blood-pressure rising…heart racing. Just WHAT is the proper speed to push a trolley when turning down an aisle without it going catawampus? I would fight and fight with it, struggling to make all the necessary turns up-and-down all the aisles…nearly running over a child and a display of canned food on special. What a fine mess that would have made! Finally, I started making my poor husband push the trolley; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(in fact, I still do)</i> since he has been managing these hard-to-handle trolleys a lot longer than I have. Not to mention the fact that he insists, “There isn’t anything wrong with our trolleys!” To him I reply with a bit of sarcasm, “Yeah, right!”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1f1q1GDQrI-kRHxWNc8TK1K9XVHXvj99pdmxjGgAKBkgFYW9stNgXrOTHDnSA8jJTj5CoHBECIAFq_Mp0dDI496JaP-qbeh75x-tVFueXKL9KS2y6QFnaZempPISSLjWLMfs69Uj0Ko/s1600/grocery+cart24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1f1q1GDQrI-kRHxWNc8TK1K9XVHXvj99pdmxjGgAKBkgFYW9stNgXrOTHDnSA8jJTj5CoHBECIAFq_Mp0dDI496JaP-qbeh75x-tVFueXKL9KS2y6QFnaZempPISSLjWLMfs69Uj0Ko/s1600/grocery+cart24.jpg" /></a>The worst place to push a trolley is outside in the parking lot where even minor slopes leave the white-knuckled shopper terrified! Their clenched hands desperately holding on to the handle in their feeble attempt to push their catawampus basket in a straight line hoping to avoid parked cars and children! There have been many parking lot conversions as shoppers eek out a short prayer under their breath toward heaven, “Oh God…ohhhhhh God…. Oh God! Nooooo!!!” Keep this in mind next time you decide to visit this great Land of Oz in your rental car. Just make sure to add additional insurance for parking lot disasters!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscj_p9ZN4z1VB8aTKAqwCH9pX_GN9zSRx1W_Hscarhar9Pnh46IgWjA6RZe1a86XgnVi4ZfpQBtvK7aD97T61PtjvsgwsxJymYAleds1hZ03s5ngusS5A2iKQoSOCTFwW8Cn10Bk53wU/s1600/grocery+cart21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscj_p9ZN4z1VB8aTKAqwCH9pX_GN9zSRx1W_Hscarhar9Pnh46IgWjA6RZe1a86XgnVi4ZfpQBtvK7aD97T61PtjvsgwsxJymYAleds1hZ03s5ngusS5A2iKQoSOCTFwW8Cn10Bk53wU/s1600/grocery+cart21.jpg" /></a>This gets me to thinking…perhaps Australia should issue permits for capable trolley drivers. Every Aussie could go through a myriad of physical tests to prove they can handle an out-of-control trolley. They could be tested on their ability to turn sharp corners while reading their shopping list. There could be “the slope test”; pushing a full trolley in a straight line across a downward slope, with varying degrees of difficulty. The “never-let-go test”; a shopper’s heavily weighted trolley runs catawampus down a steep slope as the terrified shopper hangs on for dear life slaloming between the parked cars like a downhill skier racing between flags. There could even be a “wind tunnel test” to mimic the shoppers’ degree of difficulty in pushing their trolley across a sloped parking lot in a downpour of rain and intense wind. Aussie’s who want the “advanced permit” could be tested on their one-handed steering ability giving them the right to sip their favorite iced coffee <i>(very popular here!)</i> while shopping. Of course, crash dummies would be used in the place of children for all tests. And don’t even get me started on tourists…who would have to hire “taxi drivers” for their trolleys!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht00MyZrbO_TB1HpYjPAEu7yJ0YzLSlvjN97dPbGrNEYZI1ewPeEeGWPst7qR6lQOH9gAjjAa5edxI_NEZ_pr4W-NuElfZMcp6lH6r9yBdDuzozKjE0dXcU8eRb6UhtGnTffjeNcHe358/s1600/grocery+cart25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht00MyZrbO_TB1HpYjPAEu7yJ0YzLSlvjN97dPbGrNEYZI1ewPeEeGWPst7qR6lQOH9gAjjAa5edxI_NEZ_pr4W-NuElfZMcp6lH6r9yBdDuzozKjE0dXcU8eRb6UhtGnTffjeNcHe358/s1600/grocery+cart25.jpg" /></a></div>
I can see it now, the local security guard at every mall, like a scene from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1114740/">Mall Cop</a>, will be fitted out with flashing lights in which to pull unsuspecting shoppers over asking them, “Do you have a permit to operate this trolley?” Finally…security officers will have something to do! ;-)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLDJZ65VgSkik6HofL8GdlmTVUGzBbde0et3T55cpUnYh73SRg_DptDw7FIzAPB0O2dhB0OUDmkjQywRnoCZplB8tUxr9RID5mW99lTm8jUJTA4xbON4hrjblAYq5vtD5J4APM9BesdPY/s1600/images8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
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So, if trolleys are so difficult to control, this begs the question…why don’t they fix them? Why don’t they simply make the back wheels stationary and avoid all these problems? To this I reply… “I have NO IDEA!”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7QchqH-VmSRV20YmDXcxFAWV_B4wmLtJvuwW6OHnXSkhLuo64uOMLoqeQp71oJUEmGR7ctiT1CM29jFeSouZkvp9J4v1V__04o1YKQNW2IfLdD4fOOgl8eFZYObUYdVYXVlAOd9QTWC4/s1600/grocery+cart5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7QchqH-VmSRV20YmDXcxFAWV_B4wmLtJvuwW6OHnXSkhLuo64uOMLoqeQp71oJUEmGR7ctiT1CM29jFeSouZkvp9J4v1V__04o1YKQNW2IfLdD4fOOgl8eFZYObUYdVYXVlAOd9QTWC4/s1600/grocery+cart5.jpg" /></a>Well…it’s time to head out to the shops <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Australian lingo for going to the grocery store.)</i> Anyone care to join me? I’ll let you push the trolley!<br />
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-82513369364868866962011-07-27T22:03:00.000+09:302011-08-29T10:51:11.927+09:30LAND OF THE CLOTHES LINE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnHJbgIUzAFpmjFVFFpzSuL9Dfomm58S_mIQUFzHBQ-1uMNoj8UYxpc1As9CQhvchI4CjxoTNpwSPB3C-CjeLIx0jhbtk9nkdHQ2bBKu1ywcH0eA1mxdU0QKBP-xp_df04LgvFt-d2Ow/s1600/hills-hoist2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnHJbgIUzAFpmjFVFFpzSuL9Dfomm58S_mIQUFzHBQ-1uMNoj8UYxpc1As9CQhvchI4CjxoTNpwSPB3C-CjeLIx0jhbtk9nkdHQ2bBKu1ywcH0eA1mxdU0QKBP-xp_df04LgvFt-d2Ow/s1600/hills-hoist2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowxklA42Y28GrteLf_F_CVd9ORn9hbLHcBQ-8VM_9lHY0bJrY5IZIeToxPfHCFyKNANcqkHQpGYSsJYahx6SU8Jg7jT59glGtiqB2YYUxFi57j5KlpcZaZ10sM0SRL305fI6YwJixOaA/s1600/hills-hoist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowxklA42Y28GrteLf_F_CVd9ORn9hbLHcBQ-8VM_9lHY0bJrY5IZIeToxPfHCFyKNANcqkHQpGYSsJYahx6SU8Jg7jT59glGtiqB2YYUxFi57j5KlpcZaZ10sM0SRL305fI6YwJixOaA/s320/hills-hoist.jpg" width="320" /></a>The clothes line. What image goes through your head with those three little words? I remember my grandmother having one in her back yard when I was a little girl. It was painted green; I guess to “beautifully” blend in with the grass in the back yard. It looked a bit weathered, paint chipped from the years of use. It stood tall through the torrential Oregon rains and the occasional winter snowfall. Yes, my grandmother used her clothes line for years until the day she got herself a dryer. Well, that was the beginning of the end for “Old Faithful.” It continued to stand in the yard, now ignored and neglected except for the times we, her grand children, would hang and twirl on it like it was an amusement ride, the plastic lines falling off of it one at a time until it was bear. Eventually, after all its years of service, Grandpa removed that old clothes line from the ground and unceremoniously disposed of it. No one seemed to take notice. After all, Grandma now had a dryer! <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The only other time I remember seeing a clothes line in my life was the occasional hotel that would have one in the bathroom. You know the kind? You could pull it out from the wall…just one line…that would stretch across the bathtub, perfect for hanging wet swim suits used in the pool. I used to think, “What a wonderful invention. Wish I had one over my bathtub as well.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpuShsxt8UgoCv48yAzOaz1O8PBqUA8mPEnIwhKWPsRiCbJkkjcfXOt365D7mIx-GCH5QnohEnZIOd54i6TnV07hd3EuczRTiAz9xVdEsJXAHSt7d1is-7Dx7WSghe41syHb_Q2Bp3S0/s1600/clothes+line2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpuShsxt8UgoCv48yAzOaz1O8PBqUA8mPEnIwhKWPsRiCbJkkjcfXOt365D7mIx-GCH5QnohEnZIOd54i6TnV07hd3EuczRTiAz9xVdEsJXAHSt7d1is-7Dx7WSghe41syHb_Q2Bp3S0/s1600/clothes+line2.jpg" /></a><br />
Now fast-forward to 2011 and you’re living in Australia, land of sunshine, blue oceans, white sandy beaches and…you guessed it…land of the clothes line! Every house in Australia has at least one! It’s very reminiscent of Europe, seeing clothes hanging out to dry in the very efficient Australian sun and heat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was recently Skyping with my mother, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(she finally got Skype and this was our first time seeing each other since I moved to Australia),</i> showing her our new house. I “took her” outside my French doors to show her my terraced garden and slate steps leading up to our pool. As I turned to walk back down the steps she caught a glimpse of it… “Is that your laundry?” she asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwVO6VNXQI8BYCL3eeUvUAyxFL3-51OJ1dbujUqy-_BQSoLCO_zGCRSlUsbWJCjyxXAFMm2k6MvfjKj_EhtCKMIr7Or7Ql9qjePjX3f_aAd-zPEd_2sSdicgoS-VxYSdaRp0tPCKRfruA/s1600/clothes+line3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwVO6VNXQI8BYCL3eeUvUAyxFL3-51OJ1dbujUqy-_BQSoLCO_zGCRSlUsbWJCjyxXAFMm2k6MvfjKj_EhtCKMIr7Or7Ql9qjePjX3f_aAd-zPEd_2sSdicgoS-VxYSdaRp0tPCKRfruA/s1600/clothes+line3.jpg" /></a>“Yes, Mom” I said with a sigh and an added roll of my eyes, “that’s our laundry.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What’s it doing outside? Isn’t it winter there? Won’t it take a while to dry?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, Mom…about 2-3 days.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even though it’s winter here right now, that doesn’t stop Aussies from hanging their clothes out to dry. In spite of the cold and rain, we do get our fair share of sunny days in the middle of winter. I had told her stories of my laundry hanging out to dry, and it’s also been fodder for some recent blog updates, but today was the first time she could actually see it first hand! I guess a picture’s worth a thousand words, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0kZhwg-3QN9UQseleZMrNaGDTwM3uXuny2pQ2W9JL9Gd-paV260XEhtPW4VJ6vxRN881SheFthz0dk64i-Q_hF8Q5QopCndkHRIxDAqn-IYWwNo-K0v_w_-a8GM4N6KV5aTBdkbp7-QE/s1600/clothes+line5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0kZhwg-3QN9UQseleZMrNaGDTwM3uXuny2pQ2W9JL9Gd-paV260XEhtPW4VJ6vxRN881SheFthz0dk64i-Q_hF8Q5QopCndkHRIxDAqn-IYWwNo-K0v_w_-a8GM4N6KV5aTBdkbp7-QE/s1600/clothes+line5.jpg" /></a>I proceeded to apologetically tell her, “Ashley (my husband) put some sheets on the line to dry.” My poor husband. He so desperately wants me to be happy here and believes part of that will come as I assimilate to the Australian way of life, but I begrudgingly dig my heels in…kicking and screaming most of the way! What can I say; I love modern conveniences like the dryer! If God didn’t intend for us to use them, He wouldn’t have allowed us to invent them, right? I know, this is slightly flawed theology, but you get my drift!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, so where was I? Oh yeah…I was Skyping with Mom and showing her our new home when I turned my laptop in the direction of our fireplace (a rarity in these parts!) Mom suddenly stopped me and asked, “What’s that? Is that clothing hanging by the fireplace?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gulp! She discovered something I hadn’t had the guts to share with her before…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJEqF6-qAUCzibr2bOEW8tLABczivLJOZmBHdaFJNebpdbl14GaDBUfLiPtXnZwWrzPYRXIYcBTPrnz8MCxSyGdsCzoeFwgaSFTNOlXHJ82LohByH_r5gdXyuJcO4HnnYZFRsts7b6Oo/s1600/clothes+line15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYeE6m2Abtb0n3GQvXFFH0K4pG8OZ6yfGbZMTKgbDfopWBM6aJhl_jvfAsQUm2rSJ_QSQUnrFlkSAm2_4EPqG7MuVkDHzQvV2eMYVbbuKnps7tO5huZDW7dLN1jFzzn2fXvMA-yG1R8w/s1600/clothes+line19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYeE6m2Abtb0n3GQvXFFH0K4pG8OZ6yfGbZMTKgbDfopWBM6aJhl_jvfAsQUm2rSJ_QSQUnrFlkSAm2_4EPqG7MuVkDHzQvV2eMYVbbuKnps7tO5huZDW7dLN1jFzzn2fXvMA-yG1R8w/s1600/clothes+line19.jpg" /></a>“Oh Mom,” I sheepishly replied, “that’s our INDOOR clothes line,” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(…a free-standing sculptor of metal that allows you to hang a full load of laundry in a small space.)</i> It was standing there, in all its glory, in our formal living room, full of laundry! At that moment I was faced with the impenetrable truth before me; I could not lie to her. I blurted out, “They’re really hard-core about hanging their laundry here!” I was hoping for some compassion from my mother. Instead, she busted out laughing with a belly-laugh I hadn’t heard from her in a long time. She just couldn’t get over the Ninja-tactics used to dry laundry in winter when we have a perfectly good dryer in our laundry room!<i> (Note: pictured here is the indoor clothesline I use in my home. It's obvious I got this off the internet since I'm never smiling when I'm using it. Looks pitiful, doesn't it?)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I must admit, I do resist Aussie ways and enjoy running my clothing, especially towels and socks in the dryer. But my husband insists it’s too hard on his clothes and fears shrinkage from the heat, so I continue to hang his clothing in the middle of winter. In my desperate search for the quickest way to dry clothes indoors when I don’t have central heat (don’t get me started on this. I’ll save that for a future discussion!) I came up with the perfect solution…dry them hanging in front of the gas fireplace which is one of two heat sources for our house that is about 3,000 square feet! Oh my…is this what the Pilgrim’s went through, drying clothes by the fire? What time warp am I in? Next I’ll be fishing in the nearby stream for our dinner. Help!!!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HRnrwZOxtpWy64m4V4r7lzc8JGvxLbRE96oucEpZkicTcU2RrkRvDP4ZvI2N-2NRZFWTs33hjuT9SouPGfWusHYsNzqrVDFwt1g1hNBxbMlPb-LQjuFlLZzIiKQGfagLOB3KUmRO_Ko/s1600/wilma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Okay…so now not only does my mother know the truth, but you do as well. Yes, we avoid using our clothes dryer even in the winter. Yes, we hang our clothing in our formal living room to dry. Yes, I’m a complete failure when it comes to coping with this Fred-Flinstonian way of doing laundry. But I do love it here. At least we have enough sunshine and warmth to dry our clothing outside, year-round, in the fresh Australian air. Can’t say that about the weather back home in Oregon!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXuNAfSrXEg0Y1K4f8khrWS8dlu8BdoRP45wTRY22OZ8rFX1KpBDcl6tHqPA63LWifwsYvVwJe9wUYPCi7kah18rPvJkDwBPkjKOcav6516ahSrEePaq-SY95KFfZneGbXnZNuKymetlE/s1600/clothes+line20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXuNAfSrXEg0Y1K4f8khrWS8dlu8BdoRP45wTRY22OZ8rFX1KpBDcl6tHqPA63LWifwsYvVwJe9wUYPCi7kah18rPvJkDwBPkjKOcav6516ahSrEePaq-SY95KFfZneGbXnZNuKymetlE/s1600/clothes+line20.jpg" /></a><br />
<b>...I guess I should be thankful it doesn't snow here!</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-17387150043452763792011-07-04T20:46:00.000+09:302011-09-12T09:38:54.286+09:30THE CLOTHES DRYER...MODERN ART? - Part Deux<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV34qN578A3cd2zzJOhVsJaH2Fu3WfAlmjKzkXM7QH-YHtj4V40Ms0rbFhWY6KLreGpdA-cCnvRQbg2OanNHgBttm-x3FbdijW0azGwS-xxnsA81eWSQbYi58JzaAI6kHg1Mqgnaes6HM/s1600/dryer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV34qN578A3cd2zzJOhVsJaH2Fu3WfAlmjKzkXM7QH-YHtj4V40Ms0rbFhWY6KLreGpdA-cCnvRQbg2OanNHgBttm-x3FbdijW0azGwS-xxnsA81eWSQbYi58JzaAI6kHg1Mqgnaes6HM/s1600/dryer.jpg" /></a>Okay! Will someone please remind me why I don't use my perfectly good clothes dryer? Yes, it is small…about half the size of my dryer in the States, (which may be an overstatement of it’s actual size.) It’s so small that three large towels max it out to capacity. In fact, it’s so small…How small is it you say? It’s so small, that if it was any smaller, Barbie would be using it to dry Ken’s boxers! It is because of its size that Australian’s typically hang them on the wall above their washers! Can you believe it? A clothes dryer hanging on the wall, gathering dust (because it’s rarely used) like some piece of modern art…like a sculpture designed by Michelangelo himself!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkX1_vV7tzOlGI_Um91nUoJuY9NN0FO3A-Vu8eggyJlDTEkW3KPi86hBhNgzsWiZerEmJujHiRgF-QNGDo88uExj0quVHva01Da3mUFHoIkIjMupNMuHfjj17sKRehSxLppS3KHcl7czE/s1600/clothes+line23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkX1_vV7tzOlGI_Um91nUoJuY9NN0FO3A-Vu8eggyJlDTEkW3KPi86hBhNgzsWiZerEmJujHiRgF-QNGDo88uExj0quVHva01Da3mUFHoIkIjMupNMuHfjj17sKRehSxLppS3KHcl7czE/s1600/clothes+line23.jpg" /></a>So...I have a question that I'd like to throw out into the cosmic universe... “Why do I continue to hang my clothes out to dry now that we are heading into winter and the weather has decidedly changed to cool, damp and rainy?" Believe it or not, but the change in weather doesn’t stop Aussies from hanging out their clothing to dry. They just watch the weather reports on television a little more closely to determine the best day to do laundry. In fact, the weatherman often will describe a sunny day in winter by saying, “Today would be a great day to put the laundry out.” Can you believe it? Getting laundry advice from the weatherman!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpfL5WsjYwhLaon5l6jX5wcBBB1aIdOkxPPWaGlhvuyn-YQc4WBCY-boPE3cUyYV-qsDcKKjlI7OKUuB8Fm-Dvu5CZnV876kMe6Nnnk0hxYBpKM08doxcKMUoB9grtZWGWk647zB8Phg/s1600/clothes+line6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpfL5WsjYwhLaon5l6jX5wcBBB1aIdOkxPPWaGlhvuyn-YQc4WBCY-boPE3cUyYV-qsDcKKjlI7OKUuB8Fm-Dvu5CZnV876kMe6Nnnk0hxYBpKM08doxcKMUoB9grtZWGWk647zB8Phg/s1600/clothes+line6.jpg" /></a><br />
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In the winter, timing is everything!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSx1uCoYujGGJ-eeSIp77nGCHjPju-zrnqe68Gh_6vOXeF_fiNXaoAeoMk5DGn-6GU5aDu4SL6UKBeZEp6Hs4GY8erEro65sEBwHmxOl89yJ9qcsObomO7oLaU8oOC_aWeGcDGMq0UVI/s1600/clothes+line22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSx1uCoYujGGJ-eeSIp77nGCHjPju-zrnqe68Gh_6vOXeF_fiNXaoAeoMk5DGn-6GU5aDu4SL6UKBeZEp6Hs4GY8erEro65sEBwHmxOl89yJ9qcsObomO7oLaU8oOC_aWeGcDGMq0UVI/s1600/clothes+line22.jpg" /></a></div>Today started out a bit chilly and overcast with some drizzles, reminding me a lot of my home in Oregon, but the drizzles had stopped (unlike Oregon) so I decided to hang the laundry out to dry...this is where I went wrong! What on earth makes me believe that I can dry my wet laundry outside on a day that’s reminiscent of a rainy day at the beach back home? Of course, I didn’t have any good explanation for this so I shrugged my shoulders and dismissed it with the old, “When in Rome do as the Romans do” cliché, in hopes that would improve my attitude about doing something that made no logical sense. So, instead of throwing my damp clothes into a dryer, I boldly turned my face to the wind, reached into my laundry basket, sunshine on my back, as I squeezed the clothes pins one at a time, to hold each piece of laundry snugly into place until the basket was empty. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoOYMvv2GUSVQzgIzEJYjLYVGd9Yu-TsNmIZkS-ZVlyktaaSq51KCXnx2MKAEN6YmzvNcZlwZhflKxWf30zaq5IrQIKQyZx1-rLjsh5K21AnzU0DUE4dYoND7v9nWt01CdtcHZLe8ybg/s1600/sun+breaks+between+clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoOYMvv2GUSVQzgIzEJYjLYVGd9Yu-TsNmIZkS-ZVlyktaaSq51KCXnx2MKAEN6YmzvNcZlwZhflKxWf30zaq5IrQIKQyZx1-rLjsh5K21AnzU0DUE4dYoND7v9nWt01CdtcHZLe8ybg/s1600/sun+breaks+between+clouds.jpg" /></a>Once I had completed my task, I headed back into my warm, dry house and found myself to be a bit prideful for such an accomplishment. Not only did this dryer-using, never-hung-laundry-out-to-dry-American bravely face the elements successfully hanging my load of laundry in true Aussie fashion, but I managed to do so between storm clouds! You see? With a bit of meticulous planning you can take advantage of the sun breaks and hopefully find your clothes dry before the next burst of rain.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTf6j1wPcyGyxJnwFAFU4sjMAmEkEWBoc6yXRfldlnJ5ICYm7insIpuBD_ymJFWGmdI8fUovSeZ1KMtff2gOcwVjzz_urh65OnwpJq47ZJuIdGNqP4aZcRfYw_Omn50e444wqFNWBQlv0/s1600/clothes+line8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTf6j1wPcyGyxJnwFAFU4sjMAmEkEWBoc6yXRfldlnJ5ICYm7insIpuBD_ymJFWGmdI8fUovSeZ1KMtff2gOcwVjzz_urh65OnwpJq47ZJuIdGNqP4aZcRfYw_Omn50e444wqFNWBQlv0/s1600/clothes+line8.jpg" /></a>At that point, I peered through the window, admiring my laundry hanging beautifully on the line as it soaked up the bright sunshine and fresh air of the day when all of the sudden…oh, oh…something I hadn’t planned on… “Nooooo!” I cried, as I watched a bird land on my freshly washed laundry and before I could run outside to shoo it away…you guessed it…the stupid bird pooped on my laundry!!!! Okay, that is something my mother never taught me in “Laundry 101” classes growing up. It made me start praying for the rain that I had been so determined to avoid a few minutes earlier in hopes it would undo what the bird had just done!<br />
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<b>Like I said…timing is everything! I’m sure that’s what the bird thought!</b><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-67284066732902978872011-03-04T20:28:00.000+10:302012-05-10T12:41:03.376+09:30THE CLOTHES DRYER...MODERN ART?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPGQD1ESxusKT51b_6W7uzi9yXZFVhBP2OGrkpTBaKZ65bGJH-vPBkNae6KpcI781hhThXnlETMpABk94E6zRq8ws8MrZ1edB4Tm6134mqdrIuAausZ1OJvR_jiqo756iGaOy13VYRkGc/s1600/clothes+line13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPGQD1ESxusKT51b_6W7uzi9yXZFVhBP2OGrkpTBaKZ65bGJH-vPBkNae6KpcI781hhThXnlETMpABk94E6zRq8ws8MrZ1edB4Tm6134mqdrIuAausZ1OJvR_jiqo756iGaOy13VYRkGc/s1600/clothes+line13.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span>When was the last time your grandmother hung her laundry out to dry? I guess a better question is…when was the last time you hung YOUR load of laundry outside to dry? Or better yet…when was the last time you hung your clothes outside in the DARK? I can tell you this was me just last night. “Why?” you ask. “Why would you hang your clothes out to dry when you have a perfectly good clothes dryer?” Ahhh…there’s the Million Dollar Question!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYX3QY4AWU048naIal2bWN9gs7GGrO6_kG05OHuBQPwtmJQDIr99OZLTJCqDjGH1Ui4TI9dVXDjYSimwaS6i4JkVg7oZdlQ7Tyvp4s9_C6NKvW16YbDgY60wadd74sKbfIgxUsPdtjpbg/s1600/clothes+line25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYX3QY4AWU048naIal2bWN9gs7GGrO6_kG05OHuBQPwtmJQDIr99OZLTJCqDjGH1Ui4TI9dVXDjYSimwaS6i4JkVg7oZdlQ7Tyvp4s9_C6NKvW16YbDgY60wadd74sKbfIgxUsPdtjpbg/s1600/clothes+line25.jpg" /></a>I couldn’t believe it…it was dark, and there I was standing outside in our backyard in the dim glow of a lone light bulb (Aussies call them “globes”) glowing from inside the laundry room and a laundry basket full of wet clothes by my side. As I stretched out to grab each item, along with two clothes pins to put them neatly on the line, (I can’t believe I actually have a use for clothes pins again!) I couldn’t help but wonder what unseen critter was hanging out in the grass, in the dark of night, to have me for dinner…er…um…“tea” (another Aussie term)! You know that “little kid” feeling, when you get the creepy-crawlies suspecting every bug…every spider…every SNAKE to jump out of the dark and eat you alive? All that would be left of me when someone eventually became concerned of my whereabouts were my flip flops (they still call them “thongs” here), my clothes and my half-empty basket of wet laundry! Gives me the creeps just thinking about it!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU-zmwp9YpNhj08qrAnArXMA3BVBJ61JXgjy_jIjPZkR2gI2LXuV_L_9tsfGDVH2lR71WQVn-dAtrQVQ-h3EmqIUqfufHQF1JGkCNZe-b-llX0xpJ0EWebhS6mzJ8iFo7Y6NAghjgJT8/s1600/clothes+line29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU-zmwp9YpNhj08qrAnArXMA3BVBJ61JXgjy_jIjPZkR2gI2LXuV_L_9tsfGDVH2lR71WQVn-dAtrQVQ-h3EmqIUqfufHQF1JGkCNZe-b-llX0xpJ0EWebhS6mzJ8iFo7Y6NAghjgJT8/s1600/clothes+line29.jpg" /></a>Another perfectly good question is why was I hanging the laundry out at night? Why not wait until morning? Well….you know that wonderful smell that permeates your laundry room when you open the washer after allowing your clothes a few days to sit there waiting to be dried? You know…the sour smell that reminds you of something pleasant like baby vomit? Well, back home in Oregon, I could “accidentally” leave my clothes in the washer for 2 days…3 days tops (no I never did that…just pretending for dramatic effect! =) and still be able to throw the clothes in the dryer with no problem. A dryer sheet to help mask any possible odor issues and the laundry was good to go! Well, here in Australia things are quite different. It tends to be a bit warmer here than in Oregon, (go figure!) so the sour smell of rotting clothes begins at a fairly rapid pace…much like the speed that ice cream cones melt in your hands! So, hanging laundry out at night is a regular practice here; just don’t get me started about the creepy-crawlies that get all over your clothing in the dark! I just have to shove those thoughts out of my brain and think of something happier, like a root canal!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmckkD4qYraMPr_u9zE19JZaZW7lbNeFJOSvU0N4agIosQzs2zyVLwBQIWalzZrzZ-6Knp9JHZhu4iQFOMNuKN0NHD-yCX3NL7V0r_VeVvTzVbEGpiz1RP8Fz1qFSsGs7gReRbQZKwXQg/s1600/hills-hoist5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmckkD4qYraMPr_u9zE19JZaZW7lbNeFJOSvU0N4agIosQzs2zyVLwBQIWalzZrzZ-6Knp9JHZhu4iQFOMNuKN0NHD-yCX3NL7V0r_VeVvTzVbEGpiz1RP8Fz1qFSsGs7gReRbQZKwXQg/s1600/hills-hoist5.jpg" /></a>Yes, Australians LOVE their clothes lines! In fact, almost every home in Australia has one in their backyards that is regularly used! One clothesline is celebrated above all the others; the “<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hills_Hoist">Hills Hoists</a>” is a height-adjustable rotary <span style="color: black;">clothes line</span>, invented in <span style="color: black;">Adelaide</span> by Lance Hill in 1945. So proud of this invention that it was ceremoniously included in the opening ceremony of the 2000 summer Olympics in Sydney!</div>
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Fortunately, they still use another old invention called a laundry trolley, which is a cart on wheels that lifts your laundry basket to about hip level so you don’t have to crouch and bend to get your clothing from the laundry basket on the ground.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmsdi5BAEvGV1OQtf8Ms7ZXp3mYZAU21FBv18fqJVJ_yDrMM2WVE3bVLKGCE_6d1KJX7FSIW9JTu4RPRooqI4UeQdCA4jMAs0Wb35YcMQIvG_vN61ik5tV1skZj4D5H48J_N1WnyjYqz8/s1600/clothes+line33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmsdi5BAEvGV1OQtf8Ms7ZXp3mYZAU21FBv18fqJVJ_yDrMM2WVE3bVLKGCE_6d1KJX7FSIW9JTu4RPRooqI4UeQdCA4jMAs0Wb35YcMQIvG_vN61ik5tV1skZj4D5H48J_N1WnyjYqz8/s1600/clothes+line33.jpg" /></a>So here I am, living in this wonderful Land of Oz and just where is my clothes dryer? You’ll never guess…go ahead…take a guess… like Dorothy in <i>The Wizard of </i>Oz, it’s somewhere over the rainbow! Actually, it’s somewhere over my washer…hanging on the wall in the laundry room! I kid you not! This square object, covered in dust since it isn’t used regularly, is hanging on the wall like a piece of art!<br />
<b>...Perhaps I should remove it from my wall and put it up for auction at Christie’s!</b><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-17726251511471477522010-12-18T13:33:00.000+10:302012-05-10T13:25:08.953+09:30DRIVE ON THE LEFT...WALK ON THE RIGHT<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEize-XWbeCRe72R4vovfFxxBQ4Xg_hx-n3zG-7REuTzdzVpl5Cq1i7oTTsm6NadXsBTQ54HM8fE4NmxJilRmo12gLOcVkk2nKk_nT3O3vNPT7wZ8IeNEQBJk3xD_oKCgJfwES-Ib-Yrpkc/s1600/Drive-On-The-Left-Sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEize-XWbeCRe72R4vovfFxxBQ4Xg_hx-n3zG-7REuTzdzVpl5Cq1i7oTTsm6NadXsBTQ54HM8fE4NmxJilRmo12gLOcVkk2nKk_nT3O3vNPT7wZ8IeNEQBJk3xD_oKCgJfwES-Ib-Yrpkc/s1600/Drive-On-The-Left-Sign.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.visitvictoria.com/Regions/Great-Ocean-Road/Destinations.aspx">The Great Ocean Road</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span>I have just one cosmic question to throw out into the Universe: “Why doesn’t the whole world drive on the SAME side of the road?” I don’t care who’s right or wrong; I don’t care if it’s on the right or the left…just choose a side! It would make life so much simpler for those of us who travel and spend life straddling two countries that drive on opposite sides of the road. Try as I may, I’m just not ambidextrous when it comes to driving!<br />
<br />
Shortly after I arrived in left-driving Australia, a 29-year-old visiting Frenchman was on trial for driving on the wrong side of the road (France drives on the right) hitting a 20-year-old driver and killing her. The judge gave the driver, a suspended 18-month jail sentence having compassion on him for having to live with life-long guilt, knowing he had ended the life of a young woman. Perhaps she would still be alive if the whole world just agreed to drive on the same side of the road.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHzph6hk2ZctJgIejnS7qfCvMEsYVoQjfi5hvnahPAj9AITGHQFnpdNQKTL1B2OGS2jjf8g1Ym2zf3sJm39zsUTebk3jqCfsted5_qAZl7xb4uAl7L1WOXj9MOroSssGuKGKjlH4hMF8o/s1600/driving+accident+April+2010+frenchman+kills+aussie+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHzph6hk2ZctJgIejnS7qfCvMEsYVoQjfi5hvnahPAj9AITGHQFnpdNQKTL1B2OGS2jjf8g1Ym2zf3sJm39zsUTebk3jqCfsted5_qAZl7xb4uAl7L1WOXj9MOroSssGuKGKjlH4hMF8o/s1600/driving+accident+April+2010+frenchman+kills+aussie+girl.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.adelaidenow.com.au/news/south-australia/frenchman-eugene-georges-letoublon-avoids-jail-over-death-of-young-driver-asha-woods/story-e6frea83-1225922198503">20-yr-old Asha Wood killed by visiting Frenchman</a></td></tr>
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<br />
Australia tries to help those of us who are "right-handed-driving-impaired" with signage from time to time. For instance, when you drive the windy Great Ocean Road (which we did last April), you will see signs along the way reminding you of where you are...in case you had forgotten! It really is easy to forget at times. There are so many gorgeous places to stop and look at along this two-lane road, (like The Twelve Apostles), that when you get back in your car, it is so easy to hop on the right hand side of the road without even thinking! I'm embarrassed to admit how often I do this, especially when there are no other cars on the road to give you a hint! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcewy4E8AZMV0_hB7VRCOYAW1x591JRidwabZng94WblO4pYXMyQ5oHrVL9VBBlPuOSRt2pbJdSgz7ruSfJIRcsX5Nq9VcB5q2AwSNgMebPMkrLdGDKJg-1BoTMsfoRdaZSJWWmY1cXEo/s1600/dsc01358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcewy4E8AZMV0_hB7VRCOYAW1x591JRidwabZng94WblO4pYXMyQ5oHrVL9VBBlPuOSRt2pbJdSgz7ruSfJIRcsX5Nq9VcB5q2AwSNgMebPMkrLdGDKJg-1BoTMsfoRdaZSJWWmY1cXEo/s320/dsc01358.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here I am in Ireland...they wrote notes on the streets just for me!</td></tr>
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When I was in left-driving Ireland last year, I didn’t do any driving, but I certainly did my share of walking. Did you know that when drivers drive on the opposite side of the road you are used to, that it affects the way you walk? Actually, it affects the way you cross the road and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dublin">Dublin</a> knows it. That’s why the cross walks are painted with the words, <span style="font-family: Arial;">Look Right </span>or <span style="font-family: Arial;">Look Left,</span> assisting the weary international traveler who is “walking impaired.”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSY3kZsUQsq68E8Bk7bZbhNW1aPyXhC0qvb25DqX5HPUUU5hc0phYmma7NDRaXlGechkavnrdngKpVkX_lERcpf6ZSQp92p0TNSbGLMEgZSmFDdWUfy_KM25Nd6soZAZLjY8Cg60ylN54/s1600/driving13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSY3kZsUQsq68E8Bk7bZbhNW1aPyXhC0qvb25DqX5HPUUU5hc0phYmma7NDRaXlGechkavnrdngKpVkX_lERcpf6ZSQp92p0TNSbGLMEgZSmFDdWUfy_KM25Nd6soZAZLjY8Cg60ylN54/s1600/driving13.jpg" /></a><br />
Okay…so I grew up in the U.S. where traffic drives on the right side of the road. When I was a child, I grew up hearing my mother tell me over my shoulder, “Don’t forget to look both ways!”<br />
“Mo-om,” I whined, “I am!” <br />
“And remember to look to the left just before you cross,” she continued.<br />
<br />
Well, now I find myself in Australia. Every time I come to a cross walk, I get so confused; my head spinning with so many questions…What side of the road are the cars driving on? Which way should I be looking? As the questions flood my mind, hesitation sets in as I struggle to make the correct decision. In spite of all of this, I can’t tell you how many times I just about stepped in front of a moving vehicle! After so many close calls, I finally started repeating to myself before stepping off the curb, “Look right.” A lesson I learned well from my time in Ireland.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqL8_xEpikQQPUyDpRxjVhToUpGce87WxWAj5n4V8QIkFqnk1syLmw3RZwhn2onEnhRYcGl6gL3ig176ld7nCSHgttqlJNDykeCTaKQSdK2RVyrSpDjfr2GUe3_-nJT12l6CPG_cWNN0/s1600/driving9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqL8_xEpikQQPUyDpRxjVhToUpGce87WxWAj5n4V8QIkFqnk1syLmw3RZwhn2onEnhRYcGl6gL3ig176ld7nCSHgttqlJNDykeCTaKQSdK2RVyrSpDjfr2GUe3_-nJT12l6CPG_cWNN0/s1600/driving9.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This guy looks just as confused as I am!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, now I think I have everything under control. Always drive on the LEFT. The driver’s side of the car is always on the RIGHT. Before I cross the road…<span style="font-family: Arial;">Look Right</span>. When I walk on a road, walk on the RIGHT side, facing the oncoming traffic. I’m a pro, right? Wrong! I neglected one more rule of the “road” when walking. When walking on the sidewalk or the mall, or down a corridor…walk on the LEFT! Argh! Left… right… left… right. Now I’m really confused! I thought I always had to walk on the right, and now I find I always have to walk on the left as well? The simplest way to explain this is to imagine yourself in the mall…we walk as though we are cars in traffic. Rather than trying to explain it further…think about it!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZxKkMX9d7Op_lc16Of0jCyBnkxlEA1xt8k-7domKgR1XK4duOKqPlXmVVJDnWMw_qIjUIA05xoEwY30fYF-J3bNErD11oUnLtFy1GXRqN5rTgThxAKb5DwKLzPMnCHyIvk5aRo56Y5g/s1600/driving11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFZxKkMX9d7Op_lc16Of0jCyBnkxlEA1xt8k-7domKgR1XK4duOKqPlXmVVJDnWMw_qIjUIA05xoEwY30fYF-J3bNErD11oUnLtFy1GXRqN5rTgThxAKb5DwKLzPMnCHyIvk5aRo56Y5g/s1600/driving11.jpg" /></a></div>
Are you as confused as I am? Now do you understand why I started out this entry to my blog with the cosmic question, “Why doesn’t the whole world drive on the SAME side of the road?” If they did, there wouldn’t be a need for this blog entry and there wouldn't be a song called, “Pedestrians is Another Word for Speed Bump!”</div>
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<b>Time to face my fears and go for a drive! Care to join me?</b><br />
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-12356693583217260682010-11-17T11:31:00.000+10:302011-08-19T19:49:35.668+09:30NO FLIES ON ME!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJ4RZvhta8lmOxt1mtKEo7kOLnta3X-K7SvUap1c6giUTSjyhOdp5IsMwKQZgIwmfJ4Do-F478O-glNrfOK7DU7lOqZMdb7SmjJrBYTj5YJHYTmfFNhZE5O_M5jtfFhXBEqvFanllFTY/s1600/flies6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJ4RZvhta8lmOxt1mtKEo7kOLnta3X-K7SvUap1c6giUTSjyhOdp5IsMwKQZgIwmfJ4Do-F478O-glNrfOK7DU7lOqZMdb7SmjJrBYTj5YJHYTmfFNhZE5O_M5jtfFhXBEqvFanllFTY/s1600/flies6.jpg" /></a>I never thought I would say this but…“I miss the common American housefly!” I know…you’re thinking that I have completely lost my mind! I admit, I know how this sounds, but stick with me a minute. Sure, the housefly is loud and can be quite annoying, but at least they are well-mannered, they mind their own business and are easily trained<br />
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“Easily trained?” you ask in utter shock. Yes, I said, “Easily trained.” I accidentally found this out one night as I was in bed attempting to sleep. A pesky fly had decided the night was still young and he had partying to do! He tried his best to befriend me and keep me company. To his chagrin, I was not interested in being entertained, so after a while he gave up and decided that his “vocal styling” would sweetly lull me to sleep.<br />
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So how do you rid yourself of this pesky varmint? Just how, exactly, is it easily trained?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0jXOq3QzKfRF_AOGpa-WbyVSrgHQXvG1r2bNm7Oy4_HsQRIX_5WTXGBGcYoz4HLtZmf-068T-QjkToUPqvTsS6m9vKlsYOeGLCq105efxy2mFstceKTathr6LvJuRjIP1zEft50yQh8A/s1600/flies8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0jXOq3QzKfRF_AOGpa-WbyVSrgHQXvG1r2bNm7Oy4_HsQRIX_5WTXGBGcYoz4HLtZmf-068T-QjkToUPqvTsS6m9vKlsYOeGLCq105efxy2mFstceKTathr6LvJuRjIP1zEft50yQh8A/s1600/flies8.jpg" /></a>I have to warn you, this only works at night, but if you turn off all the lights in your bedroom and then turn on a hallway light, the fly will chase the light and leave your room. At that point, you quickly slam your bedroom door behind him and…voila! The housefly is no longer your best friend! Since I discovered this trick, I no longer share my bedroom with a fly that sounds like an airplane coming in for a landing! <i>(Bet you didn’t think you’d actually learn something while reading my blog, did you? It’s okay, I won’t take it personally!)</i><br />
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So, as annoying as the American housefly is, why do I appreciate it so much? A better question to be raised is, when was the last time you spent time with the Australian blowfly? These unwelcome critters make the American housefly seem rather sweet; as though you’d like to keep them as pets and give them names!<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqpuD9r_Y69wiRvj7ISa8YImlH4avSir_-QzJ6YJcjLwSQtRKR63knGEQ4T3IhCEg7EZr2tQ63sm0guV8bu9mrAbc6FK0qovcrk8ZWr21Kt-SlCxIMrzDbEHKCkGoe6OOk7NXUlvjDGY/s1600/flies5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqpuD9r_Y69wiRvj7ISa8YImlH4avSir_-QzJ6YJcjLwSQtRKR63knGEQ4T3IhCEg7EZr2tQ63sm0guV8bu9mrAbc6FK0qovcrk8ZWr21Kt-SlCxIMrzDbEHKCkGoe6OOk7NXUlvjDGY/s1600/flies5.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great Australian Salute!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEzoA2w0Iju55HcNxcgemhyEMS4pAJGbX8rsM5Z-7-JV8imbb8MOoMQsk6_Q6wzgN3r0zbza7OUm1VMzcHFRObXncSeicelnDEEYtCvgDq1ktXIHexBCRw2q5f19WCeV-kUX4zsc6LEqw/s1600/flies7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEzoA2w0Iju55HcNxcgemhyEMS4pAJGbX8rsM5Z-7-JV8imbb8MOoMQsk6_Q6wzgN3r0zbza7OUm1VMzcHFRObXncSeicelnDEEYtCvgDq1ktXIHexBCRw2q5f19WCeV-kUX4zsc6LEqw/s1600/flies7.jpg" /></a>I have never seen such a “friendly” insect before. Flies, here in Australia, are very determined and don’t take “no” for an answer! For some reason, they like to fly up to you and land on your face (<sigh>…always the face.) No big deal, right? Wrong!! In the time it takes you to wave your hand in front of your face to ward of the little devil, the fly jumps off and immediately turns around for another landing in the same spot…again…and again…and again! This “game” with the local flies is so common that the Aussie’s have given it a name; “The Great Australian Salute!” They become so bothersome that local news reporters don’t wave them off. Instead, they just let the fly stay on their face throughout their report, sending it a mixed message that it must somehow be welcome!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QdMjJ3mki2gh9amIix0H8pvq_VfchowEQVG-LToc20mxBREc_2kIEriWLxZoXHMHn-6Exc4OxU_mDP7JtksxsQHOGexKn7hclrEIE-toEl4YVNdh9XHzzYuKdcJa4g78_EVWLgadseQ/s1600/flies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QdMjJ3mki2gh9amIix0H8pvq_VfchowEQVG-LToc20mxBREc_2kIEriWLxZoXHMHn-6Exc4OxU_mDP7JtksxsQHOGexKn7hclrEIE-toEl4YVNdh9XHzzYuKdcJa4g78_EVWLgadseQ/s1600/flies.jpg" /></a></div><br />
When I go outside for my jog and am bothered by such a nuisance, I am not too proud to wave, in <i>my</i> case, The Great <i>American</i> Salute!” In fact, I’m half-tempted to purchase one of those big brimmed hats with corks hanging off the end for my own piece of mind! Rather attractive while jogging, wouldn't you say?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqaUmh1H7Qaio0uUm3mSJ-uEODrstlBMQaIvWSQIZG-FLmkTN0ZO4erfWsdWBHXT3G_hDFT4dVkCNPsXTvqDUcvJ-ravhLyG5zw-ugMOAYO0ShPHMfLT7shR_8iXU7Y96ZaolRZAYLhs/s1600/flies3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqaUmh1H7Qaio0uUm3mSJ-uEODrstlBMQaIvWSQIZG-FLmkTN0ZO4erfWsdWBHXT3G_hDFT4dVkCNPsXTvqDUcvJ-ravhLyG5zw-ugMOAYO0ShPHMfLT7shR_8iXU7Y96ZaolRZAYLhs/s1600/flies3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes...those are Australian flies!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So what does one do when faced with such an annoyance? “If you can’t beat 'em…join 'em!” I have decided to change my perspective. In order to not be so annoyed by these “friendly” little buggers (no pun intended), I like to consider them “Australia’s Official Welcoming Committee.” Every time they land on me, it’s as though they are saying “Hello, and welcome to Australia!” Only problem is, they have very poor communication with their home base and don’t tell the others that I have already been greeted. Because of that, every blowfly in the country feels it has to land on me, hang on for dear life, and give me their official, yet persistent, welcome to Australia “hug!” <br />
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<b>...Here’s hoping they drop like flies!</b><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-61149169021204251602010-10-22T19:11:00.000+10:302011-08-28T17:43:57.042+09:30GOT KETCHUP?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKVIFH62WowRC-qqjlZpJA3Wj38dNakaxSGAynTPRiByD74l3VYyj691thA6oXzgOwIezwIT_ci2oeGHe_JWtzcvH8IpbNckV1RmCUxHcVnmYCkrMscSqSWzTwB5BcoYc23Fl5R3lTXI/s1600/Heinz-Ketchup-Ingredient.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKVIFH62WowRC-qqjlZpJA3Wj38dNakaxSGAynTPRiByD74l3VYyj691thA6oXzgOwIezwIT_ci2oeGHe_JWtzcvH8IpbNckV1RmCUxHcVnmYCkrMscSqSWzTwB5BcoYc23Fl5R3lTXI/s1600/Heinz-Ketchup-Ingredient.jpg" /></a>There is something about American's and their love of ketchup; especially Heinz ketchup! We tend to eat it on just about everything; from hot dogs to hamburgers, to the proverbial french fry. In fact, we don't just eat ketchup on our fries; it's more like we eat fries WITH our ketchup! To quote my friend Katherine, french fries are "just a delivery system for the ketchup," and she's not the only one who thinks so. You will even find American's eating ketchup on odd things like broccoli, eggs, and salmon. You name the food and I'm sure some American, somewhere eats it regularly with ketchup! What can I say? Without apologies...Americans LOVE their ketchup!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRvde1SJ9mn9EUtnWGoA6zRaKQNH3PtJ4nXVgV48UhKCH_p3Fe3Bjj7MfB3kA7Er_g6DiJXC97h1q-_ylG7OLwuNcV5LdbwjFmYRFTCy2tCV6WsAlp_nlUPVwfDNSTf-e-b_CqzmcjyO8/s1600/i+put+ketchup+on+my+ketchup.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRvde1SJ9mn9EUtnWGoA6zRaKQNH3PtJ4nXVgV48UhKCH_p3Fe3Bjj7MfB3kA7Er_g6DiJXC97h1q-_ylG7OLwuNcV5LdbwjFmYRFTCy2tCV6WsAlp_nlUPVwfDNSTf-e-b_CqzmcjyO8/s1600/i+put+ketchup+on+my+ketchup.png" /></a>Not only do we eat ketchup on just about everything...we eat it in mass quantities! So much so, that many hamburger places in the U.S. provide ketchup out of huge containers with a pump so we can pump as much ketchup on our food as our hearts desire. Of course, there are the traditional ketchup packets which work great when using the drive-thru; however these small packets don’t quite fulfill our need for ketchup, so we tend to get large handfuls of them as we race through the drive-thru.<br />
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So now, this ketchup-loving American finds herself in Australia, where, first of all, they call it "sauce." Hmph! This isn't just some generic “sauce” Aussies...it's KETCHUP…yummy…wonderful…ketchup!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6tHMp8KtrVoPBeKHl9JcG9SXxqBgJVPgy8CoP2Uj1ceEoitt5migtK-SetGHA5OqX1B6erAJeAcZNuVbP8xQBcFftO9FCVCT4ZNBCWsg79Cv0vwD-sh_1w58skA0V8WOvzBGUUleFW8/s1600/McDonalds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6tHMp8KtrVoPBeKHl9JcG9SXxqBgJVPgy8CoP2Uj1ceEoitt5migtK-SetGHA5OqX1B6erAJeAcZNuVbP8xQBcFftO9FCVCT4ZNBCWsg79Cv0vwD-sh_1w58skA0V8WOvzBGUUleFW8/s1600/McDonalds.jpg" /></a>Well, after 5-6 weeks here in Australia, I started missing home and the things that are familiar to me, so I decided to go to McDonald’s. First of all, when you are far away from home, there is something so wonderful about stepping into a McDonald’s. I must admit, I was never a huge McDonald’s fan back home, but now that I’m here, I visit one as though I’m a Muslim returning to Mecca! As soon as I step through the doors with those familiar arches I am awestruck. I feel like I should be whispering in such a “holy” place! Ah…home of the Big Mac, large fry and the $1 hot fudge Sunday…what else could be sweeter? I step up to place my order and… “Ahhhh!” the fright of my life…sticker shock! The menu here is pretty much the same as at home…but the prices are enough to send this American to the bank needing a loan to pay for her Hamburger Value Meal!<br />
<br />
After placing my order, I wait about a minute for it to be ready…about the same as America…so far…so good! Then I look down at my meal. The first obvious problem is the size of the large pop <i>(or “soft drink” for you Aussie’s!)</i> It is so obviously…...small! The large drink here is the size of our medium drink in the States. Back home, when we order a large pop, we expect a LARGE…32 ounces <i>(that’s twice the size of a large in Oz)</i> of glorious, ice-cold fizzy stuff; and I can get it for $1 back home! And don’t even get me started on the Super-Size soft drink! But I digress. This story is about ketchup…or lack there of!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillpWYj5HmIS_j7mnEVb2v6e61rVOTo_p3nJ_CA82fFlS1qgTA-wGo0FtD_GExqTS6EJMCcQWtL7ItpEgHgh7MAL74eiATb5KBj7Q4h4uMVVtABlf2CDA_XsQk_H7BmTEMuw6xEzVBWdg/s1600/heinz-ketchup-pommes-ad1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillpWYj5HmIS_j7mnEVb2v6e61rVOTo_p3nJ_CA82fFlS1qgTA-wGo0FtD_GExqTS6EJMCcQWtL7ItpEgHgh7MAL74eiATb5KBj7Q4h4uMVVtABlf2CDA_XsQk_H7BmTEMuw6xEzVBWdg/s320/heinz-ketchup-pommes-ad1.jpg" width="320" /></a>So what's up with Australian's and their “sauce?” Why do they use it so sparingly? Are they allergic to it? Is there a ketchup shortage that I don’t know about? Here in Australia, when you ask for ketchup with your meal, they include a couple of packets. I’m sorry, but that’s only enough ketchup for 5…maybe 6 french fries! I mean…what am I supposed to do with the rest of my fries? Here, they make you beg for your ketchup, like Oliver wanting more porridge..."Please sir, may have some more?" Then after all your humiliation they reach into their “vault,” out of reach from the customers and hand you not two...not three...but ONE more ketchup pack. Undaunted, I ask for more, explaining to them that I'm an American and we love our ketchup and that I really need more to go with my large order of fries; so they hand me only TWO more packets like they are doing me a favor! Not wanting to face any more humiliation, I sheepishly walk off trying to decide the best way to ration my ketchup supply throughout my meal. What can I say? They have left me with no other alternative than to drive around with a ketchup bottle in my car!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6I_iL5vzC82OJEW7VX3QMGbnCzGY1fLOtHET-3U3_fQsIO2GQBj8oSzwCodfzQiYS3AHCRetzYH2FzLQIOOXkCPrH0LcUwhMeJ494TWclWAWydVDNlBELc2JoJ0m44Jkbx7qsfZAWySU/s1600/McDonalds3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6I_iL5vzC82OJEW7VX3QMGbnCzGY1fLOtHET-3U3_fQsIO2GQBj8oSzwCodfzQiYS3AHCRetzYH2FzLQIOOXkCPrH0LcUwhMeJ494TWclWAWydVDNlBELc2JoJ0m44Jkbx7qsfZAWySU/s1600/McDonalds3.jpg" /></a>Yes, ketchup is like gold here, with McDonald’s being Fort Knox! <i>(For my Aussie readers, this is where </i><i>America</i><i>’s gold is kept.)</i> Makes me want to go to McDonald’s drive-thru and out of desperation threaten, <b>"This is a stick up...give me all your ketchup!"</b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-43595669408541803022010-09-17T11:23:00.000+09:302011-08-19T19:32:36.971+09:30COCKATOOS AND DISCO MOVES<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicughqB3pzB4P3CIv2k0PZy5mW9SH8Mn0nvvOlIBtRSvr71x-X-ErXsIsCJIcJJNHYUAYNNkL2idMe-qua5gFOiSH4DASv7r1yzRr3ueHjOadWrBXHmh0QtA2Q58VI0D44tjLTC1Ale3k/s1600/cockatoo11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicughqB3pzB4P3CIv2k0PZy5mW9SH8Mn0nvvOlIBtRSvr71x-X-ErXsIsCJIcJJNHYUAYNNkL2idMe-qua5gFOiSH4DASv7r1yzRr3ueHjOadWrBXHmh0QtA2Q58VI0D44tjLTC1Ale3k/s1600/cockatoo11.jpg" /></a></div>When was the last time you saw a wild cockatoo flying freely in the sky? To many Australians, this is an everyday occurrence, much like seeing a crow fly to an American. Rather "ho-hum" wouldn't you say? Let's face it, the only way we Americans see cockatoos is either in a zoo, or caged up as someone's pet bird. Never do we see them flying...wings spread magnificently in the air. <br />
<br />
On my last trip to Australia, back in December, we drove the highway from Adelaide to Sydney for New Year's Eve. On the way, we stopped at a little town...just a little blip on the map...but a very significant spot to Aussies. We stopped at Gundagai...well, 9 miles from Gundagai, <i>(pronounced "goon-duh-gye"</i>.) An historical monument and tourist center was built there to celebrate the deep history of the early pioneers and a poem that they recited over the decades. Australian children read it in primary school; often referred to as the "Dog on a Tucker Box" (a "tucker box" is a lunchbox.) <i>(for the poem, see:</i> http://members.canb.auug.org.au/~stmcdona/tuckrbox.html ) <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7HCi-G3WExV_F_aYAwo-jyA4rCoT8wfh7PGOyJphQNbS0-3zC4nYG2WIgJ0trv5sJwFblitxYDCGzs1ntC92Yav4cNZxVKV7umYmdSbv4COGOMpZi7ZkpP94oRLHOBZDOguqwp3E_Eg/s1600/cockatoo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7HCi-G3WExV_F_aYAwo-jyA4rCoT8wfh7PGOyJphQNbS0-3zC4nYG2WIgJ0trv5sJwFblitxYDCGzs1ntC92Yav4cNZxVKV7umYmdSbv4COGOMpZi7ZkpP94oRLHOBZDOguqwp3E_Eg/s1600/cockatoo2.jpg" /></a>It was there that I had my first encounter with cockatoos in the wild; hundreds of them filling the trees! We had stepped into the park surrounding the "Dog on a Tucker Box" monument when I heard the sounds of birds...so many birds...all hanging out together and chatting like a large gathering of ladies at a Mary Kay convention! They had their yellow cheeks like perfectly placed blush and their eyes outlined in black as though put there by Mary Kay herself! They were strutting their stuff with plumes stretched-out like they were showing off their latest hairdo. It was quite the spectacle!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5HkLYr9Mo119FeySIuyTjATlH4kViGQ8oz3uxS5qLwjdC7xYdbc1RJY5vJGf2oy7-s4fin4eSDNAW02t1VvOipytxuQdgsQ65BFarl6sshb5ntCvBekQeJile1OIwDd4ScqO-13HY3k/s1600/cockatoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5HkLYr9Mo119FeySIuyTjATlH4kViGQ8oz3uxS5qLwjdC7xYdbc1RJY5vJGf2oy7-s4fin4eSDNAW02t1VvOipytxuQdgsQ65BFarl6sshb5ntCvBekQeJile1OIwDd4ScqO-13HY3k/s1600/cockatoo.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7OyvfJ5ietGTrW5N7w09YEKl1GLPSTk74e9blYVxkYowqzhLlbZOhnotN1yyns6bEgOQKQ12vr63iGwTtBImFo_jb0OmIIqUKuqOsp3Veb9rdR-RaQ2GYGTGT-lMfFi-7PhKo0PpA5cs/s1600/cockatoo10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7OyvfJ5ietGTrW5N7w09YEKl1GLPSTk74e9blYVxkYowqzhLlbZOhnotN1yyns6bEgOQKQ12vr63iGwTtBImFo_jb0OmIIqUKuqOsp3Veb9rdR-RaQ2GYGTGT-lMfFi-7PhKo0PpA5cs/s1600/cockatoo10.jpg" /></a></div>I was literally awestruck as my eyes took in their beauty. It was though I had stepped into a fairy tale that had actually come true! I felt like a little girl who just met the real Cinderella at Disneyland! I had this dumb smile on my face like a Cheshire cat and walked around with my face pointed to the sky saying "ooh" and "ahh" as though I was watching fireworks on the 4th of July! Rather silly, huh? This may sound ignorant, but I never realized that cockatoos flew around wild. Well, it's not that I didn't realize it...it's just that I had never thought about it before. Of course, they have to be wild! I mean...they have to come from somewhere, right?<br />
<br />
Up until that point, my only close encounter with a cockatoo was at my mother's house! She had a pet cockatoo named Tuts, (she inherited him when a friend passed away.) He was a sweet bird to look at, but definitely had a mean side to him. If you stood too close to his cage he would bite at you like you were today's lunch! Mom always knew how to deal with him; she could feed him and tend to his very large cage the size of an apartment! (Well...maybe not quite that big!) but anyone else was considered a potential meal! Let's just say I kept my kids very far away from his cage!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsXXa-P4J5zgq8KNiK6aZqx-Ch5omYUeZr2pwKXrS69LTU65dqkGypTCCynF7VDGk0c0U3N4GwupsqzlRO58g_rfUIXEa8v_ts8ecXmG0zm2CY0wNPhjkgMuLuoi_g-kTKoR6H_2aemo/s1600/cockatoo13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsXXa-P4J5zgq8KNiK6aZqx-Ch5omYUeZr2pwKXrS69LTU65dqkGypTCCynF7VDGk0c0U3N4GwupsqzlRO58g_rfUIXEa8v_ts8ecXmG0zm2CY0wNPhjkgMuLuoi_g-kTKoR6H_2aemo/s1600/cockatoo13.jpg" /></a>Every now and then, Tuts would start strutting his stuff with his white feathers glistening like John Travolta on the dance floor in his white disco suit! He could be quite entertaining with his head bopping up-and-down, until that is...he started his vocalizations of "Stayin' Alive!" Have you ever heard a cockatoo squawk in a small contained space like a living room? It's enough to leave your ears ringing and you begging to hear your teenager's loud rock music blasting on the stereo speakers for some peace and quiet!<br />
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Poor Tuts. I guess he was meant to be in the wild along with the thousands of cockatoos that fill the Australian skies. <b> </b><br />
<b>...He could have used his disco moves to pick up chicks!</b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-39791148586763962192010-09-15T10:34:00.000+09:302012-05-10T13:33:38.030+09:30IT'S BAAAAAACK!!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0F2lz71qUOMIwaO_T3x8LZNWBehHHzFuomy_PitpfDMyg8-JcQzcOoZ0OQb1ib1rWW1j7Q7_IYvv8Q9QftUDDvNHVM9Rah8NtDhIMd1xutuwxtXVrATx1dye13DdN_tiM2oq1moN6jU/s1600/spider+web2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0F2lz71qUOMIwaO_T3x8LZNWBehHHzFuomy_PitpfDMyg8-JcQzcOoZ0OQb1ib1rWW1j7Q7_IYvv8Q9QftUDDvNHVM9Rah8NtDhIMd1xutuwxtXVrATx1dye13DdN_tiM2oq1moN6jU/s1600/spider+web2.jpg" /></a>We went out tonight to look at a car we are interested in purchasing for me...a cute Peugeot convertible. After seeing it up close, we decided it was just too small for our needs and we headed home. By the time we returned, it was dark outside so I immediately went about the house closing the blinds.<br />
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I headed to the sliding glass doors first of all, and then quickly moved to the kitchen blinds, reached out and.... "Aaaaaaaaahh!!!" as an unexpected high-pitch rang out of me.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxRUUFWGE92tn5BPCgK5nXpfEi9wH6EcHNAlX4eRl_5sVT7cAMXz5tfIhi5cF5KZbG-QVrl8Rxfohj4NXaP-DmIa7x8oQwLJjX5sjjV8-uzAUSGQ2_Esv14Fg-fYWd3Ip9al-oudSRGE/s1600/Haystack+Rock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxRUUFWGE92tn5BPCgK5nXpfEi9wH6EcHNAlX4eRl_5sVT7cAMXz5tfIhi5cF5KZbG-QVrl8Rxfohj4NXaP-DmIa7x8oQwLJjX5sjjV8-uzAUSGQ2_Esv14Fg-fYWd3Ip9al-oudSRGE/s1600/Haystack+Rock.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haystack Rock, Cannon Beach, Oregon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I haven't heard myself squeal like that since I was 10-years-old! I was in the meat department of my dad's grocery store in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannon_Beach,_Oregon">Cannon Beach, Oregon</a>,<i> (on the west coast of the States.)</i> I was holding a razor clam freshly dug from the sand that morning, terrified of what it might do. My dad had just given me instructions on the "fine art" of cleaning clams; something I was more than happy to never learn. <i>(You have to understand...I was a girly-girl and did not like things that were slimy, dirty or just plain gross!)</i> As he described in great detail how to clean the clams, I grew more and more tense...fearing the point where he would hand the mountain of clams, as high as Mt. Everest, over to me.<i> </i>(Now I know that the pile of clams wasn't that high, but to my 10-year-old eyes, it might as well have been!)<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3aPKB3Relot0h7yuWcEHv0gwYt2cyGq_jMZO9j1Qy_CFWAt2UKWe6tJTLGU8ebCGXWxgI-B28a0YmRwID2yGjm1iKS7Jtk1dXMLr0QmyJqN7OtQeI0LkSUFt52pT525wbcTkST2qoJ4/s1600/razor+clam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3aPKB3Relot0h7yuWcEHv0gwYt2cyGq_jMZO9j1Qy_CFWAt2UKWe6tJTLGU8ebCGXWxgI-B28a0YmRwID2yGjm1iKS7Jtk1dXMLr0QmyJqN7OtQeI0LkSUFt52pT525wbcTkST2qoJ4/s1600/razor+clam.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a slimy razor clam...YUCK!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, now it was my turn...I reached out with great intrepidation for the first slimy razor clam, assuming it was dead. As I held it in my small hand, I slowly grabbed on to the scissors and cautiously placed it on the clam for my first incision. As I gently squeezed the scissors, the clam...obviously still alive...tensed up and moved! Jumping backward, I squealed out in that high-pitched little-girl scream like you would typically hear emanate from playgrounds and threw the clam, along with the scissors, across the room like Orel Hershiser<i> (one of the most famous pitchers of Major League Baseball)</i> on the mound! My dad asked me what was wrong. Tears streaming down my face, I cried, "It moved!" That was the last time my father ever asked me to clean razor clams.<br />
<br />
But I digress...<br />
<br />
Well, tonight there were no tears, but definitely the squeal of a 10-year-old little girl as I ran out of the kitchen as fast as my feet would fly. I couldn't believe it! My deepest, darkest fear just came true...the spider had returned! Please don't tell me he thinks my kitchen window is his new home. Or, as my sister put it, he is scoping the place out planning his next heist of valuables! <br />
<br />
Since my post a couple of days ago about this furry intruder, I have learned that it's a Brown <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRV4d9LCawU&feature=related">Huntsman Spider</a>.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjHduK4w5Qx26zULj-sDVCoEPEFXwGLprn2DmHOFsC-lwmYx8jaRcbAUllY73_hSXQxiuFS36PMy5ys3O42ELli9SopzOpkEedUSSW14Z06DrK23JXjUMHEZ9XIXGQ9sImMbucbhUJMs/s1600/huntsman+spider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjHduK4w5Qx26zULj-sDVCoEPEFXwGLprn2DmHOFsC-lwmYx8jaRcbAUllY73_hSXQxiuFS36PMy5ys3O42ELli9SopzOpkEedUSSW14Z06DrK23JXjUMHEZ9XIXGQ9sImMbucbhUJMs/s1600/huntsman+spider.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">brown huntsman spider</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
No, that's not me holding my new...um..."friend"; I wouldn't be crazy enough to do that! I got this picture off the internet because I didn't have the clarity of thought to take a picture in my terror. But now you can clearly see why I have been quite bothered by him. You will also see that my descriptions of "hairy", "gargantuan" and "tarantula" were not overly exaggerated! I'm telling you...he's big enough to eat the Empire State Building in New York City! (Okay...maybe that was a bit exaggerated!)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5OJCATelRr4GR6GvcrhgnEh5huVNGgPrIgZcnvrGDHiH35VI_SSBROlNrtWxRXPVY8S_jXA1AfkokjNJKcSskmPaE_SCJCJXu_WYVToUWPhQDqmuSe-JfuaketoHFwHv53fAVyxZ_FpM/s1600/funny_huntsman_spider_in_my_shorts_parody_t_shirt-p235249619466537100q6yv_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5OJCATelRr4GR6GvcrhgnEh5huVNGgPrIgZcnvrGDHiH35VI_SSBROlNrtWxRXPVY8S_jXA1AfkokjNJKcSskmPaE_SCJCJXu_WYVToUWPhQDqmuSe-JfuaketoHFwHv53fAVyxZ_FpM/s320/funny_huntsman_spider_in_my_shorts_parody_t_shirt-p235249619466537100q6yv_400.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Australians at least have a sense of humor about their 8-legged monsters...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To tell you the truth, I had wondered if he would return. Every time I enter my kitchen I carefully peer into the window, making sure I am not being stared down by my hairy peeping-tom. Once I see that the coast is clear, I proceed about my business, throwing an occasional glance at the window...just to be sure he's still not there. I guess he interpreted my "squeals of fear" as "squeals of delight" and thinks he's welcome!<br />
<b>...Time to get out the vacuum cleaner!</b><br />
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-44248713081948490292010-09-14T12:38:00.000+09:302012-05-10T15:50:45.151+09:30WHO HAS THE ACCENT?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw42U24ob4UqGItIga30oIlGkMYxDx7Or-ZEl8SO0jVlAYq1c-HUnGPYjV9tx87teUkLN1zo4euL1zjClxMAFq9s4YDRDgzKG9DUDq8PbmVFq475zwXsIlcoKdZFnt4OvH700Bw6yCzZ8/s1600/north+american+satellite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw42U24ob4UqGItIga30oIlGkMYxDx7Or-ZEl8SO0jVlAYq1c-HUnGPYjV9tx87teUkLN1zo4euL1zjClxMAFq9s4YDRDgzKG9DUDq8PbmVFq475zwXsIlcoKdZFnt4OvH700Bw6yCzZ8/s1600/north+american+satellite.jpg" /></a>It has been my long-held, fundamental belief that everyone in the world has an accent except me. It wasn't a conscious decision that I made...just something that I have always felt down deep inside. <i>(In my defense, Wikipedia describes North American English as being "more homogeneous" within the boundaries of the U.S. and most Americans tend to feel the same way I do.)</i> There are variations of the North American English accent such as on the East Coast with those from Boston (Massachusetts) or The Bronx (New York) as well as the south in Texas or New Orleans (Louisiana), two totally different southern accents. My "accent" however, is the more homogeneous accent in America...the kind you hear as you sit across the table from your girlfriend chatting over coffee. It's the same accent you hear in the movies and on American TV news and programs. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc9k6BBIbrfvg_yghQViiWf8Tg3kOzCeXP1SJTLEyR591r6stpilJNYgzujQBgSF4WJYQNuVOZvhlgBJaFyzCXm03oggDHS9x5aY3c2t4ECH2X7EnK9nNgFEURNj-b2Xk_44MV52B8WY/s1600/north+american+dialects10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc9k6BBIbrfvg_yghQViiWf8Tg3kOzCeXP1SJTLEyR591r6stpilJNYgzujQBgSF4WJYQNuVOZvhlgBJaFyzCXm03oggDHS9x5aY3c2t4ECH2X7EnK9nNgFEURNj-b2Xk_44MV52B8WY/s1600/north+american+dialects10.jpg" /></a>So now I find myself in a land where everyone has an accent except me. Hmmm...is that possible? Suddenly I am faced with the realization that every time I open my mouth, the people around me think that I am the one with an accent. I know logically, this is the case. I totally understand why all Australians would think that I have an accent, because clearly I don't sound like them. That having been said, who can say who really has the accent? Whose way of speaking is the "purest" form of English and all others are a variation of it? This question can leave your head spinning much like the age old question, "which came first, the chicken or the egg?" <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0D7L05kmyzO8OyI1bLwxKVIWMXYFrT70Ku5MPGutX9OZ_Q0hTzmD6EI93I1T6HMM28F-R9Z04LuGh4xq2xib9UdLn5gD2T7HUbf1J_HUpiJ2PGISO20kVg3ERsLaekT0JxdxwalPwf0/s1600/north+american+dialects6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0D7L05kmyzO8OyI1bLwxKVIWMXYFrT70Ku5MPGutX9OZ_Q0hTzmD6EI93I1T6HMM28F-R9Z04LuGh4xq2xib9UdLn5gD2T7HUbf1J_HUpiJ2PGISO20kVg3ERsLaekT0JxdxwalPwf0/s1600/north+american+dialects6.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hehehe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now I know what it feels like to be a foreigner, (an unusual feeling for this born-and-raised American who rarely left the U.S.) Here in Australia I may look the same and can blend in with everyone but the minute I open my mouth I certainly don't sound the same. In fact, I stand out like a sore thumb! I try to explain that I'm not from around here, (like it wasn't obvious the second I opened my mouth!) I bumble along trying to fit in yet the moment I feel my confidence rise, either my "accent" gives me away or I mistakenly use American words that aren't used here.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODrZaKwd_P9jbHfy2TBICmNaKG99dNfRro1zyhuIxx77dBAdsxdlbs6zsH-edHZIlJQX2VLU842eVBOVylH-VSDDinlSmT4FvxQ_CzURUfroaFK8u_PrvJ37GCNwFJJFYKUiPsL2EEnI/s1600/subway2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODrZaKwd_P9jbHfy2TBICmNaKG99dNfRro1zyhuIxx77dBAdsxdlbs6zsH-edHZIlJQX2VLU842eVBOVylH-VSDDinlSmT4FvxQ_CzURUfroaFK8u_PrvJ37GCNwFJJFYKUiPsL2EEnI/s1600/subway2.jpg" /></a>At the mall, I walked around and felt so self-conscious about my "accent" that I hardly spoke a word. I just wanted to fit in and not be so obviously different. I eventually found myself in the food court for lunch. Eureka! American franchises McDonald's and Subway were amongst the other choices that were unrecognizable. Surely I will be able to order something, blend in, and feel like my feet have briefly touched U.S. soil. I stepped up to the Subway counter to order my foot-long ham sandwich.<i> (Side note: Why do they say "foot-long" when the entire country uses the metric system?) </i><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBGuRSSgdbyKmyaAnl75i4JkjExBlWFxMtle04ACZYON0f3DiH6LYnrH84G-PhOgp1fr0s6xHCjQ9aj7E0tbuoIL6gYcOqBwhCHpo_p_wOFnHlqWW0AVL6NrU_bXmjGV6_DNJkA8sxYw/s1600/subway3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBGuRSSgdbyKmyaAnl75i4JkjExBlWFxMtle04ACZYON0f3DiH6LYnrH84G-PhOgp1fr0s6xHCjQ9aj7E0tbuoIL6gYcOqBwhCHpo_p_wOFnHlqWW0AVL6NrU_bXmjGV6_DNJkA8sxYw/s1600/subway3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">napkin, aka. serviette</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i> </i>As I strolled down the veggie counter telling the clerk what to add to my sandwich, I stumbled into a deep crevasse as I attempted to tell her I wanted green pepper on my sandwich. You see, here in Australia they don't have "green peppers"...they have "capsicum." Same thing...just totally different names. Of course, I already knew that, but at that moment in time when I was put on the spot, the word "capsicum" escaped me. After a few brief and embarrassing moments, I had to point to those long green slices and sheepishly say..."I'll have some of those." As I paid for my sandwich I dropped deeper into the crevasse as I asked for a "sack" for my sandwich so I could take half of it home with me. The clerk looked at me like I was from Mars! "Er...um...I mean...a bag." As I reached for a "napkin" (which are "serviettes" here) I realized I had a long way to go in order to blend in if I can't make it through a simple Subway line!<br />
<b>...So much for feeling like I fit in!!!</b><br />
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-68482963740723227842010-09-13T12:21:00.000+09:302012-05-10T15:48:06.477+09:30SPIDER IN MY WINDOW<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzTCXQz3hj0knM-0uwrsUtPrldRwFYZhsHe3Nrcs2PBW_N7YjulFStGMZWIUER4hiptfM1LsO2oJJexhA1SDfPIi2idd67k0MZPDDz2ZqCBL_0oz3UpSeGh0mZhaO3AU3HJ8_H_XTui4/s1600/Through+My+Kitchen+Window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzTCXQz3hj0knM-0uwrsUtPrldRwFYZhsHe3Nrcs2PBW_N7YjulFStGMZWIUER4hiptfM1LsO2oJJexhA1SDfPIi2idd67k0MZPDDz2ZqCBL_0oz3UpSeGh0mZhaO3AU3HJ8_H_XTui4/s320/Through+My+Kitchen+Window.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I woke up this morning and went downstairs to begin making breakfast. Before doing that, however, I went around to open all the blinds to let in the morning daylight. I opened the first set of blinds that cover our sliding glass doors, peered up into the morning sky to see what weather we had in store for the day...lots of clouds with a touch of blue...not bad! I then went to the kitchen window and what to my wandering eyes did I see, but a visitor...a very LARGE visitor!<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguG_rqrCogB-B6mMpT-XoSwOas2IvMd-Gf52dT-ng4QZ_GYV3mmuHatpZsHkxHGl2wAjS0I_30f8vVMiCL3JSD_-SM0wMfhw6aENJPIGMPCbfQvceQzfQzIc0-hpVcFS5If8i-6Od6_3c/s1600/spider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguG_rqrCogB-B6mMpT-XoSwOas2IvMd-Gf52dT-ng4QZ_GYV3mmuHatpZsHkxHGl2wAjS0I_30f8vVMiCL3JSD_-SM0wMfhw6aENJPIGMPCbfQvceQzfQzIc0-hpVcFS5If8i-6Od6_3c/s1600/spider.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">click on<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uA1K4KG4_WM"> link </a>to view commercial...</td></tr>
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You must understand...from the time I was a little girl, I have hated creepy, crawly things with eight legs. My dad would be jolted by my screams into his "Knight in Shining Armor" routine to defend me from the clutches of the evil intruders. Of course, there are the smaller versions that, as I have grown into adult-hood, I learned to bravely face and smash to their death. There are the Daddy Long-Legs that don't particularly creep me out. Probably because they tend to move very slowly and gently, and let's face it...they are mostly long skinny legs with a teeny-tiny body. Then there are the larger variety...the kind I refer to as "meaty". You know the kind...when you squish them, you can feel their bodies crack under the pressure of your fingers (preferably with a very large tissue between you and the spider!)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0GxmnUkG-9AS9fzhdfck_bSiR0-f66z1PXDUafRHUUk14d_J8p3UHufazQtchSXG54DM_gThbGE-6yOslAFO-fqz-ic5vvP5l3ynawfR3dfLLYFd509ZX9Rj0xnk8t03rJ-A9JTYEk4/s1600/vacuuming.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0GxmnUkG-9AS9fzhdfck_bSiR0-f66z1PXDUafRHUUk14d_J8p3UHufazQtchSXG54DM_gThbGE-6yOslAFO-fqz-ic5vvP5l3ynawfR3dfLLYFd509ZX9Rj0xnk8t03rJ-A9JTYEk4/s1600/vacuuming.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great spider killing technique!</td></tr>
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Well, the meaty spiders I learned to either squash with a large shoe about 100 times their size, or my typical means of disposal is to get out the vacuum cleaner! I much preferred this method because it was not only neater (meaty spiders tend to leave nasty, bloody spots on your walls), but it was much safer as it put several feet between the spider and myself. I would use a very long attachment and suck the spider inside, and then put the nozzle into the carpet for additional suction to insure the spider met it's death, deep within the bowels of my vacuum cleaner.<br />
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But I digress... <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrynUjq8VH-YTqy6bX0bdovWXc9BP5SvrKS8Wt7OfGa3FcYhv2JIgI5ID8qU72eucb0XwN7f_ywDeERKOZaTLLIHu2SI1Ckh8dUaVaDvL-xcy6lI65Vle5I2jZYyx5dz5CqpoW_oNwUs/s1600/huntsman.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrynUjq8VH-YTqy6bX0bdovWXc9BP5SvrKS8Wt7OfGa3FcYhv2JIgI5ID8qU72eucb0XwN7f_ywDeERKOZaTLLIHu2SI1Ckh8dUaVaDvL-xcy6lI65Vle5I2jZYyx5dz5CqpoW_oNwUs/s320/huntsman.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRV4d9LCawU&feature=related">Huntsman spider</a> similar to the one in my window.</td></tr>
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So, I'm sure you have guessed by now that the "visitor" in my window was a most unwelcome...most unwanted guest! Unfortunately, this was not a small spider...it wasn't a Daddy Long-Leg...it wasn't even a "meaty" spider...this was a tan-colored spider of gargantuan proportions! I would put it in the tarantula family...about 3-inches across with long, meaty, hairy legs. I don't think my vacuum cleaner would be up for the challenge, as the spider would probably put up a death-defying struggle like a super-spider on steroids eventually tearing the vacuum out of my hands and turning it on me!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQqsBJjqAvuUhMEhZuBFMHEWXr-yZxppRgqV85dz6cunpnUQWXYR8WUac7cRudM0Xv6MmLBqsjFBGRRImJmC_fmJG40BtKq0aDtOxfvB97UbsBvPJUHnUJw8sBV2BHLYKVV1-MSyQBgrg/s1600/spider+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQqsBJjqAvuUhMEhZuBFMHEWXr-yZxppRgqV85dz6cunpnUQWXYR8WUac7cRudM0Xv6MmLBqsjFBGRRImJmC_fmJG40BtKq0aDtOxfvB97UbsBvPJUHnUJw8sBV2BHLYKVV1-MSyQBgrg/s1600/spider+web.jpg" /></a>The only saving grace is the spider was snuggling up between the window and screen...fortunately, still outside! I closed the blinds, hoping it would die or simply go away, but every time I checked on it, much to my dismay it had changed positions (clearly signifying it was still alive!)<br />
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Well, I went for my 2 1/2 mile jog/walk which I do every morning. However, this was not my typical walk as the spider was very much on my mind. Now, instead of enjoying my morning routine, I found myself afraid of the grass and bushes. Some of the trees and shrubs dip low enough that I need to bend down a bit to get under them. Before, I didn't care if they touched my head, but now, all I could think of is what other large creatures were lurking on leaves that might find their way into my hair or climb up my legs. I just kept moving, hoping the speed of which I was traveling would make it impossible for any potential hitch-hikers to grab on!<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvOLUlcK7HCDfjn3WDa1Tis9cZWEcTYn9uxKdS1VgMtpwi73k8W-PxeZ4U6cbBpTCmMXAcD8VgcK_gJbLYmmSAkdYyP8Bp55gCZSXnYngzV9KHpVfPfn0_ZFLAyQa5h2xEeAA6dP47sjI/s1600/spider9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvOLUlcK7HCDfjn3WDa1Tis9cZWEcTYn9uxKdS1VgMtpwi73k8W-PxeZ4U6cbBpTCmMXAcD8VgcK_gJbLYmmSAkdYyP8Bp55gCZSXnYngzV9KHpVfPfn0_ZFLAyQa5h2xEeAA6dP47sjI/s1600/spider9.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">front door mat for all spider visitors</td></tr>
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I returned home, and slowly opened the blind to find that my "visitor" had overstayed it's welcome! Ugh! Will he never leave???<br />
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Well, fortunately about an hour after returning home, I found he finally disappeared from my window. He must have finally realized that he wasn't welcome here.<br />
<b>...Took him long enough to get the hint!</b><br />
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<b>check out this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRV4d9LCawU&feature=related">youtube video link</a> if you want to see how big and scary huntsmen can get! </b><b><br /></b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com246tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518338169505998967.post-49640487378660371992010-09-09T17:04:00.000+09:302012-05-10T15:55:38.543+09:30AUSTRALIA, HERE I COME!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLGMTo_yfI9ouVIK1zTv5ANVzpdGI20C4lsPSNEFgo-ePJ-qbPqL1a803wCD5RMQQcMdITHF2YDuQIC_pZCCbXZbH-idzy-7fKNHJweAeXUaUtA6GBgccF-M1p5ZHyjamzG7rVFNj2a1U/s1600/usa+flag5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLGMTo_yfI9ouVIK1zTv5ANVzpdGI20C4lsPSNEFgo-ePJ-qbPqL1a803wCD5RMQQcMdITHF2YDuQIC_pZCCbXZbH-idzy-7fKNHJweAeXUaUtA6GBgccF-M1p5ZHyjamzG7rVFNj2a1U/s1600/usa+flag5.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b>WELCOME</b></span> to my blog where this "Yank" (that's what Australians call us) will be sharing the adventures of being an American living in a new land. What is it like to transition from the U.S. to Oz? What are my many new experiences and what is it like to be "different"? What everyday tasks are now complicated? Read my blog and laugh along with me as we enjoy the many humorous stories of trying to fit in!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20ojt8x5O2Mrczc9LS3LF2LYr6S1KUwflOV9F4OJceb9jdOAia738RhFalipXSwrIGeZ_RVzIjP5KBaFpv-uebwaRn7-Tji2AHFVhnezFPn28-RUaeWQCTw3GBBBZjqoNoH5lpEQ6ps0/s1600/to+blog+or+not+to+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20ojt8x5O2Mrczc9LS3LF2LYr6S1KUwflOV9F4OJceb9jdOAia738RhFalipXSwrIGeZ_RVzIjP5KBaFpv-uebwaRn7-Tji2AHFVhnezFPn28-RUaeWQCTw3GBBBZjqoNoH5lpEQ6ps0/s1600/to+blog+or+not+to+blog.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b>WHY CREATE THIS BLOG???</b></span><br />
...for my friends and family to keep up with what I'm doing.<br />
...for those interested in moving or traveling to Australia, giving you a chance to learn and giggle from my mistakes and experiences.<br />
...for Australians to see their beautiful country through fresh new eyes, so as not to not take the little things for granted.<br />
...for a LAUGH...hey, I'm trying to make light of my situation! =) <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAp_UtaSu6RoYidNfum0DRx4X3LZx7q2lFmvuzqS7SiPYoWYitJ05EEn9Rcx_u42Yu5A5F8vorVFOnlzBpAfvKXs1W8VZLrYR2OCW2lzfoohIqG9e1QGiVx6O1jJcHoGTSkh4QiYIGIF8/s1600/air+new+zealand3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAp_UtaSu6RoYidNfum0DRx4X3LZx7q2lFmvuzqS7SiPYoWYitJ05EEn9Rcx_u42Yu5A5F8vorVFOnlzBpAfvKXs1W8VZLrYR2OCW2lzfoohIqG9e1QGiVx6O1jJcHoGTSkh4QiYIGIF8/s1600/air+new+zealand3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On board Air New Zealand</td></tr>
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So...let's begin! <br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>BEST ROUTE TO FLY TO OZ...</b></span><br />
After several trips flying to South Australia from the U.S. I have finally found the perfect route! Flying through San Francisco, then New Zealand and continue on to Australia. (By the way, I flew <a href="http://www.airnewzealand.com.au/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=ppc">Air New Zealand</a> for the first time and LOVED it! From the professionalism of the crew to the glass wine glasses...everything was top notch!)<br />
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When flying from the U.S. to Australia (or Oz), you typically have two choices...fly through Los Angeles or San Francisco. When given a choice, you should really fly through San Francisco (SFO). The complication typically arises when maneuvering between the domestic side of the airports to the international side. Los Angeles (LAX) is cumbersome and difficult, especially when you aren't familiar with it. SFO on the other hand is fantastic! They just spent millions of dollars on a new international wing and obviously put a lot of thought into the needs of the traveler. Not only is it an easy walk to the international wing, but my favorite part is that you stay behind security, unlike LAX. Why is that important you may ask? Because once you have struggled with taking off your shoes and every little piece of metal on your body...once you have fidgeted with your laptop bag in order to remove your laptop for inspection...once you have been stripped down, searched and a wand waved over your entire body because you look "suspicious"...once you have gone through all of that humiliation, you don't have to go through it again in SFO. You do, however, have to face it again in L.A. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8FW4a8TvdNPL0HYTpzo3TLhNyOidojaVVgk46RYernIs950yyU2c2CWSazze7g3sx3EnE1yqZMcKMRDXQtJCT6Th-RrSnrG_F-B4pm8z03hbmqp4vnJhU_g_qNHnf_yz6GEvUe02umFw/s1600/air+new+zealand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8FW4a8TvdNPL0HYTpzo3TLhNyOidojaVVgk46RYernIs950yyU2c2CWSazze7g3sx3EnE1yqZMcKMRDXQtJCT6Th-RrSnrG_F-B4pm8z03hbmqp4vnJhU_g_qNHnf_yz6GEvUe02umFw/s1600/air+new+zealand.jpg" /></a>This last trip, I flew United from Portland, Oregon and transferred to Air New Zealand for my flight through New Zealand and then on to South Australia. Once my bags left my hands in Portland, I didn't have to touch them again until I arrived in Oz. What's great about that? I did not have to face customs until I arrived at the smaller airport in Oz. Typically, most flights are through Sydney, which is a huge airport. You have to struggle with all your bags...going through customs, passports and tickets in hand and then have to figure out how and where to catch a bus or train to get from the international wing to domestic (if you are flying within Oz to your final destination.) Not to mention...do you have Australian dollars on hand to help speed you through the process?<br />
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Bottom line...the route through San Francisco and New Zealand is the easiest most stress-free way of traveling to Adelaide and this wonderful world of Oz.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07389413199285599563noreply@blogger.com4