Packing the Past or Is It?

This memorial weekend was mainly spent packing up my house. So many emotions are involved in packing a house. I have done it many times. And it is never easy no matter the reason. This time it is because of a divorce. My first divorce I just walked out with my clothes and left him the house and everything. Money and things are not important to me. Never have been, never will be. This time my ex and I split everything 50/50. I swear after packing for hours and hours and hours I wish I just walked out. I started the packing saga knowing that at one point I was going to reach saturation and my perkiness would turn into "when the f*** is this going to end?" I was right. I lasted about a day and a half before I reached that point.

The monotony of packing gives someone like me lots of time think. Oh boy.... That means trouble. So what did I think about? Well packing off course!! How does packing correlate to my life and current situation? Hmmmm. When my ex and I first separated, I was crushed. It doesn't matter that it was the best thing, the act of severing a dream is painful.

When he had decided to move out, I remember going through the act of sifting through the photos with him. I am one of those people who believe that memories should not be rewritten but should be remembered in the context in which they were experienced. When my ex refused to take some of the photos I was upset but that was his choice. And loss. I don't believe in staying in the past; if you do you'll miss the present and the future. But not to acknowledge the past, well it is a choice. There is no judgement. OK, maybe a little!!

It was a difficult few hours as we went through the house, deciding who got what. I shed many a tear as my heart was tearing into pieces. I kept thinking "How can he be so calm?" but then again, he never did show emotion that I could read.

Fast forward 6 months to me packing up because our house finally sold in this soft market. My ex was over packing up his last stuff. Feelings are so different. No tears, no tearing of the heart. We laughed, we joked. How can feelings be so fickle? After 14yrs of marriage? Yes, I have done lots of work dealing with the separation. It was easy being in his presence. That is the word. Easy. There was nothing there. There was no anger. There was nothing.

Being in his presence I saw his "stuff." I saw his anger, his impatience. I felt nothing but compassion. And who knows, from his point of view I still have mine. I felt different. We acted differently together. So I have to believe that something has shifted. The "stuff" is packed.

I don't believe that I have packed the past. It is still there. It is just put aside in a special place in my heart of understanding. Why do we have to let go? What use is that? As I navigate around the packed boxes I am happy.

Pain

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that's bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they're afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they're wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you're letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.” Jim Morrison

Why are people so afraid of the dark side, of pain, of love? Of opening up, of sharing thoughts, feelings? It never ceases to amaze me that we were given a gift of speech and communication and yet we are so confused by it. We struggle so much with it. We find it so difficult to come up with the words to describe what makes us happy for example. What is happiness? Such a slippery concept. Is pain an easier concept? If so, why? Is it scary to you that I can talk about pain? That I feel pain? That I expose my pain in poetry? Pain can be embraced and be a creative part of life rather than debilitating. Words are powerful; they are not to be feared. Feelings, pain, happiness, love, need to be expressed in many ways. Imagine expressing without fear. Live life as you dream it.

What is pain? Pain can be emotional as well as physical. I have both. At times my physical pain is so intense I just want to scream but only I can hear. Chronic pain is debilitating. So is emotional pain. I am not ashamed of my pain. It is my reality. Pain changes. I refuse to let the fear of pain deny me the other side of the coin - love. Who knows when this will happen but I travel hopefully. On my wrist I wear a band that reads "Love Faith Believe Dream." These words remind me to have faith in myself, to believe in the power or the present and the future, dream of possibilities, and that love I have yet to experience is possible.

Awakening

Surrounded by real love
I feel the difference now
The other kind fits not like a glove
But a clumbsy bow

Going down the path of old is cold
Eyes pregnant with tears
Mind and soul numbed and sold
Drama of yesterday awakens no fears

Rooed Awakenings

These are just a couple of poems/verse, whatever you want to call them, that I have written over the last couple of months. These words try to capture the disturbances in time as I dive into the darkness and resurface.

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Why Begin?

Lips unused
Breasts scarcely touched
Tongues rarely connect
Eyes, distant and unreadable
Inside thighs still white
Hidden thoughts disassociate feelings
Sandpaper of anger strips away passion
Why begin?

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Duplicity

Saintly, she saw him,
Loving, always Caring.
Priests cleansed his soul,
sanctioned it whole.
A husband without sin.

Wrong, she saw him,
Touching, always Watching.
Cleansed is not his soul,
fragmented, not whole.
A father with sin.

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On the Back of a Dragon

Warmth is turned back by a hugless reunion
Words are muffled by the noise of the crowd
Concrete floors echo tired luggage wheels
I have arrived

Romantic thought of lover's greetings twist away into foreign signs
Pressure inside builds from confusion
Eyes feel what the mind thinks
I exist between

The dragon remembers, the stomach heaves
The dragon knows, the heart breaks
On the back of the dragon is to fly free — fast and gentle
I climb on

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Stardust

She lived everywhere
You found her online
You chatted for days
The banter breaking into flirts
You met her, her eyes, her intensity

She lived everywhere
She got lost along the way
She still gets shaky
But less and less
You take her in your arms
And laugh with her
She whispers softly, "Go real slow"

She touches your ears
And you watch the rhythym of her breathing
Her lips gently bruise your lips
With your heart beating fast you go real slow
If all your dreams come true
Do your memories still end up haunting you?
Is there such a thing as letting go?
To another place, another realm

And now you're leaving for home
You watch the lights change
You have a choice to make
She lived everywhere
Can she live here?
You remember and you choose
You walk away
She turns to stardust

Power of the Badge

Perth -- Day before I Return to the US

Today I visited another old friend of mine. I met her when I was 16yrs old. She is an amazing woman, and has been a huge influence in my life. But that is a story to be shared over a great bottle of wine.

Driving back along the coastal road, my sister, the policewoman, was doing her usual thing. OK, some background on my sister. She entered the police force May 15, 2006. At first she was on general duty which is frontline policing, such burglaries, assaults, domestic violence, drug issues, and so on. They are the usually the first respondents to a call. The stories she has told. No wonder there are so many "reality" police shows on TV. There are a lot of stupid nuff nuffs out there. Every police person has to spend 2 years in the country; she only spent 3 months in Newman before being transferred back to Perth. Another story in itself.

She was transferred to the Crash Investigations unit. She is now a Crash Inquiry officer. In addition to traffic enforcement, she investigates hit and runs that involve injury or accidents that are considered major damage (over $7000.00).

Driving with her is like driving with a traffic violation handbook. Without turning her head she seems to know what every driver is doing wrong. I now have whiplash as I keep spinning my head around saying, "Where? Which car? That one? What?"

They call traffic cops "road nazis." Hmmmmm, driving with her I can see why -- lol. My sister had promised me a ride in the patrol car. I was so excited. To get to push the "Yelp" button. Yip the button that goes "whoop whoop" is actually labeled "Yelp" (how's that for usability). Unfortunately, that experience did not eventuate, so we practice our own version of pressing the yelp button whenever we see someone doing something stupid, like illegal U turns, speeding, driving without lights at night. This version entails yelling "whoop whoop" at any nuff nuff and then laughing. Juvenile???!!! Absolutely.

Back to the drive along the coast. We are talking, laughing, and yelling "whoop whoop" every now again, when my sister looks in her rear vision mirror and becomes very still. With gritted teeth, she says, "Can you believe that? Driving with an expired registration and on the mobile. And he's not even paying attention to the road." She was pissed. I went very quiet. In WA, it is against the law to be on the mobile whilst driving.

She pulls out her badge from the middle console and twisting her hand behind her she holds it up to the back window. The guy in the car is still not looking out of the front car window. How do you drive and not look out of the front? Where is that "yelp" button? My sister is now getting more pissed. She says under her breath, "Put down the bloody phone you nuff nuf," and waves her badge more wildly. Now she is getting more agitated. Oh boy....

I reach over, take the badge from her, lean over further into the back seat, desperately waving the badge in the back window to get the guy's attention. I want my sister to be laughing again. I desperately talk the guy as though he can here, "I would put down that phone, really I would". Finally, he looks up and suddenly the mobile is closed. Phew!!!

My sister looks over at me and says, "Impersonating a cop, hey?"

Shit. I look at her and retort, "I was an extension of your arm. Let him try and prove that my arm was not your arm." And we start to laugh.

She says, "Today a mobile, tomorrow a seat belt."

To which I responded, "Tomorrow is 'hands behind your head, and spread those legs'." Laughter is a great healer.

Meeting with Shelob in the Vineyard

Margaret River -- Shelgary Vineyard

Early on in the evening I decided to go out for a walk. It was the beginning of a beautiful dusky evening. The kookaburras were laughing, the kamikaze bugs were making their suicidal attacks, the sky was pinkish, and kangaroo poop was everywhere. The vineyard was gorgeous; the rows of vines stretched out row after row and then out across the horizon.

I walked down the rows of the vines checking them out. It was beautiful -- the colors, the smells, and the sense of time hanging in the branches.

I rushed back to get my sister to join me in the walk. It was too beautiful not to share. By this time it was getting darker, but we were still able to see and hear the Australian countryside which has a prehistoric sound to it. Poka, the chihuahua, was springing all over the place. As my sister and I walked down one row of vines we walked into a spiderweb. Now usually I am good with spiderwebs and just peel off the web and move on. But my sister was a little freaked. "OK, where is the spider? How big is it? Damn bloody great spiders! They're everywhere and they get into your clothes and they are as big as your hand." She went on and on as she was trying to get the web off her. I tried to relax by saying it was no big deal but she kept on. So now I was starting to get a little freaked. What did I know about spiders in the country? Bloody hell.

We must have taken about 10 feet when we saw Shelob's web (for those of you who don't know Lord of the Rings, Shelob is the giant, evil spider). It was huge. But then I sighed with huge relief as I saw the littlest of spiders in the middle of the web. I started to laugh which then turned to a gasp as the mother of all spiders climbed up ponderously from the bottom. "Holy crap!!!!" I yelled.

"See I told ya", shouted my sister gleefully. "What did I say."

"Fine you were right, you were so right." I said laughing hysterically. "Shit, does it jump?" as I moved in to take a picture. I was giving myself goosebumps and Poka was trying to jump up at it. I wanted to run as images of Shelob the evil spider kept shooting through my mind, but I needed proof.

Apparently what we'd run into was called a Golden Orb. Their bite is like a bee sting (nice!!). We also learned that there are millions of them around vineyards. Millions??? OK, one introduction was enough.

Koffee Anyone

You can't just get American style drip coffee in Australia. Starbucks or whorebucks opened about 30 stores in Australia over a 4 - 5 year period and ended up closing about 10 of them becuase they weren't doing enough business. I love Aussies!!! What you get is the good stuff based on espresso.

There is the flat white (means 1/3 espresso and 2 parts of properly steamed milk - i.e. milk with a smooth silky texture but no extraneous extra foam). Then there is the latte served in a glass, just like in France and Monaco **sigh** (pic is a latte served in a glass with latte art that I received on Mother's Day at one of my favorite cafes called Tarts). I love that. It's so, pleasurably sensual to see the richness of the layers of the coffee and foam through the glass.

Off course there is the cappucino. Then there is the long black, the short black, the macchiato, the baby chino. And thank god there is no Dunkin' Donuts. And most of the coffee cafes serve wonderful food as well. It is the experience of having a barista make your coffee rather that a barista machine (take that Starbucks!!). Then you get to sit and read, or ponder a thought, or chat with friends, or people watch or whatever. The point is not to rush in, rush out and leave the coffee chilling on your desk at work. My motto is "Don't put something in your mouth that you don't like or love!!!" (Yeah, I know I am opening myself up with this one...)

Quickie Observations -- part 1

Perth -- Any Day

These are just things that I have noticed since coming back.

Burger King is called Hungry Jacks in Australia. Hungry Jack’s® is a franchise of the international Burger King™ Corporation and has operated in Australia since 1971. The first restaurant in the Perth suburb of Innaloo opened on the 18th April 1971. Since then over 300 locations have Hungry Jacks. Why is Hungry Jacks allowed only in Australia? The Burger King™ Corporation embarked on an expansion program opening company and franchised restaurants under the Burger King™ trademark. This strategy was later reviewed in Australia and it was agreed that a single brand was more appropriate and that the 30 year heritage of the Hungry Jack’s® trademark was the most appropriate to move the business forward.

When you go to a petrol (gas) station you can't swipe your credit card at the pump, fill up, and be on your way. Every car has to fill up and then you have to go into the store to pay. This is very inefficient. The lines of cars at certain times remind me of when I was in France in 2000 and there was a petrol shortage. And this is business as usual. Hmmmm. I am suprised that the petrol companies have not studied this inefficiency or that people have not complained.

Old Acquaintances -- Did I...?

Perth - Day Something

Many people ask me if my parents were in the army or diplomats because I have moved around so much. Life circumstances have just been reason enough to make our family very mobile -- moving not only suburbs frequently but also continents. As a result I don't have friends that I have grown up with or many friends that I have kept in contact with. I am not sad at this, although I do admire those people that do have deep roots -- only if those deep roots allow growth. I have the privilege of still having a close connection with one terrific person whom I met when I was 18. He may live in Paris, but I feel that he is always there for me as I am for him. Time and place have no barrier for us. What is it about his and my connection that has kept our relationship going for 24 yrs? Why have I not been conntected to the people I was about to meet for the past 24 years?

Today, I met my friends (do you still call them that after 24 years??) on another beautiful day, at a cafe by the beach. Just to set the scene. There were five of us: my mother, my girlfriend's mother who knew my mother well, my girlfriend, a surprise guest who was an old boyfriend of mine, and me.

When my girlfriend popped out of her car I couldn't believe it. She looked nearly the same; flaming, long red hair, alabaster skin. And the same mannerisms. She had wonderful laugh lines around her eyes, but she was still the same, at least on the outside. It was weird temporal shift. Her mother had aged more; more due to health issues. But, hell she hadn't changed personality-wise. She was as feisty as ever.

When my ex-boyfriend arrived he too looked the same -- almost. He had less hair, was toned (ok ripped, as he showed me his nipple ring and I showed him my new belly ring), and still had those baby blue eyes. I would have recognized them all had I passed them in the street. We started chatting as though time had not passed. But then we knew that time was scrunched into a few hours sipping coffee. And I remembered something that I had heard once, "Everything the same; yet everything distinct." Even after all this time, things appeared the same, but things were distinct and so different.

The conversation naturally drifted to the past. When I dated my ex-boyfriend he was 23 yrs old and a journalist for the Western Australian newspaper. We got into concerts with his journalist's pass -- that much I remember. He told me he remembered the suburb where I was renting at the time -- I didn't. He remembered my roommate -- I didn't. Are you getting the pattern? He remembered where we met -- I didn't. Ruh roh... What did I remember? Hell I was a mess of an 18yr old. I was working in a restaurant from 8am to 3pm, back at work at 5pm to 11pm. I was messed up, exhausted, plus I was leaving on a year's trip around Australia. My mind was not retaining information.

Now you get to laugh at me and sympathize with him. As we were traveling down memory lane, well I had gotten to the stile but there was no lane, I turned to him and asked, "Did I sleep with you?"
He looked at me with those baby blues and said, "Um, yes. Why, don't you remember?"
Crap, I thought. I was so sure that I hadn't.... "Just kidding... joking, off course I remember," and nudged him on the arm. Cripey. My girlfriend was splitting her sides laughing. How does one recover gracefully from that? To keep intact one's elegance and his ego? Ah, screw it. There was no hope on that one. I just smiled and then laughed.

Later on I kept trying and trying to remember. Days later still can't remember. Does it matter? It was a great visit with everyone. My ex-boyfriend is happily married and I got to meet his two wonderful little boys. He is very successful and my girlfriend is undergoing IVF in the hopes of getting pregnant. They are both very happy in their lives.

They both owe me one though. My ex-boyfriend is my girlfriend's closest friend and I was responsible for this friendship as I introduced them to each other 24 years ago. So my legacy was not to be their friend for 24 yrs but for them to be friends. What a gift. Who knows what this renewed connection will bring -- something or nothing. Whatever it will be, these old and renewed acquaintances will not be forgotten.

Wet & Wild

Perth --> Margaret River -- Day Lost Count

Ha got ya with that title!!!! Decide to visit Prevelly Park, a 10 minute drive from Margaret River where my sister and I are spending 3 nights. Last time I was here in Prevelly was in, ooooo ooohhh, that long ago!!! I'm thinking 1986. Back then I went camping with a couple of friends. It still looks exactly the same. The camp ground is still there and the surf is still up. Prevelly is a big surf venue and it is here that the cream of international surfers meet once a year, usually in Autumn when the surf is awesome, to take part in the Margaret River Masters.

It is a beautiful, warm day. And I decide to get wet. Well why not? I can't go naked but I sure can get some of that H2O on me. Like a cookie I dunk myself in the water. Ah, fabulous.

And then I spot a cuttlefish. And a conversation between two people, my sister and I, who know absolutely nothing about cuttlefish ensues.

"What the hell is a cuttlefish anyway?" I ask.

We both look at each other in that kind of look that says, "What you don't know, I thought you would have known. You always talk about cuttlefish as though you know."

"Is it a fish?" my sister tentatively asks. "But it can't be a fish because it looks, well, not like a fish."

Trying to sound intelligent but barely making the pole, "I have no friggin' clue. The only thing I know is that parrots eat it for calcium."

"Duh, everyone knows that" says my sister.

I look at my nails and notice that one is chipped. "But you know what", I say, "they would make a great nail file."

My sister looks at me like my brain has not become a brain. "What?"

I pick up one of the little cuttlefish and proceed to file my nail. It is perfect. "And now I will create fire." I laugh and grunt like a neanderthal.

My sister catches on, and the smart arseness gets bad, but the laughter is good. When is a fish not a fish? Em... okay, er... em... It's not a funny joke, actually it's just a fact... cuttlefish are not fish!

Harsh but True -- The Story of Diablo the Kanga

My sister is a policewoman. Her recent posting was to a country posting in a town called Newman - an open cast iron ore mine in Western Australia, located 1186 km (736 miles) north of Perth. Western Australia is supposedly the richest state per capita in Australia due to the wealth of its minerals. It's a booming town.

Then why with all this money is there this story of Diablo.

My sister responded to a domestic violence call at one of the houses on one of the Aboriginal camps. She arrived at the house and it stunk like it always stinks at an Aboriginals house. On the living room floor she saw the lower half of an adult kangaroo carcass. Off to the right on the kitchen floor she saw a joey and people wandering around ignoring it. She dealt with the domestic and hauled the Aboriginal guy off to another location.

She returned to the office where she told her coworker about the joey on the kitchen floor. The coworker, knowing about the raising kangaroos, knew that at such a young age the joey needed to be in a pouch to survive.

My sister and the coworker went back and told the Aboriginals to hand over the joey or they would be charged under the Animal Protection Act. The Aboriginals were a bit "niggly" (a little upset) so my sister offered to buy them a couple of cases of chardonnay in exchange for the joey. A deal was sealed and the joey was rescued. My sister honored her word and returned the next day with the chardonnay. Apparently one keeps the Aboriginals happy in Newman.

The coworker took over the responsibility of caring for the little Joey, now named Diablo. It is quite an undertaking looking after a kangaroo. According to my sister, for two years the little joey must remain in a pouch, in this case a backpack. In the beginning, any cuddling and handling needs to be done with the joey in its pouch where it feels safe. And the best bit is that as the joey is fed its "nub" must be rubbed in order for it to pee and poop. "Oh come on," I increduously stated and then went directly to do some research. Indeed it was true. "Joeys are normally stimulated to defaecate and urinate by the mother's licking, so after each feed, gently but firmly rub the genital area (its nub) of the joey with a tissue or toilet paper to stimulate the joey. Continue stimulating until the joey stops defecating and urinating. Failure to do this may lead to urinary tract / kidney and bowel disease." To know more about kanga raising http://www.marsupialsociety.org/hand_rearing.html

Diablo now spends his time going to work with the coworker in his backpack. Where she goes he goes. He is in the patrol car with her or some other coworker. Diablo cannot be left alone as he needs to be fed constantly as well as peed and pooped.

Two weeks after Diablo was rescued the local Newman vet called my sister's coworker with another joey who had been rescued from an Aboriginal camp. The coworker took it in but it had contracted some disease from being neglected and died three weeks after being rescued.

My sister has many heartbreaking stories about animals being abandoned and tortured by the Aboriginals. It is hard to listen to the stories and then listen to the Aborignals talk about their love of the land and its creatures when they treat such wonderful wild beings with such disrespect. And the mining company as well. And the law. Everyone has a part to play

The single animal refuge in Newman has no medications, no resources. It is basically a way station. My sister's coworker had to shoot a kangaroo that had been tortured by 6 Aboriginal children -- ages 8 - 14 -- because the refuge has no medications and the ranger was having his guns cleaned. How loud do the voices of the rescued or dead animals have to be before we know that there is a problem and then to create a solution?

A(cute) Accent

One of the very first things that struck me was the strong Australian accent. OK don't laugh. I am an Australian and I am supposed to be used to the Australian accent having lived here, right? But that was 16yrs ago!! I have lived in the US for 16yrs and should have thrown in my aussie accent and become one with the borg. I resisted or so I thought. I left the shores of Australia in 1991. My first visit back was 1996 and much to my horror Australians would ask me where I was from in the US. I was quite upset at that. Apparently resistance is futile. If nothing else, I had wanted to retain a wee bit of my aussieness, cripey. In 2004, I returned home to Australia again, and once again I was asked where in the US I was born.

That was it!!! How could I fight being surrounded by yanks and not take on their accents? No offense. I love the americans that I know personally (yes I am making a quiet point here) and their individual accents. However, replacing my accent with an american one is not me. Taking someone's accent is like taking the sparkle out of champagne, it is like taking the shoes out of my closet. It would be like removing this guy's tatoo from him (I noticed this guy's tatoo as I was walking on the beach one day. He kindly let me photograph it).

This vacation, I have arrived home accent intact. The aussies have not mistaken me for an american. I am making up that my accent is more aussie because I have left behind baggage (an exhusband who is Canadian/American). I am more me now. The bubble is back in the champagne!!!

'Tinis

Perth, Australia -- Day 7


Out to dinner with my sister, mum, and my mother's boyfriend. (Picture: my sister and me at Savinis). My sister loves martinis, very dry ones. She wasn't going to order one because according to her Aussies can't make martinis. They only do wine and beer. Then the waiter announced that the bartender was a specialist in cocktails. Very excited, my sister carefully described exactly how she would like her very dry martini, "Vodka with a smidgeon of vermouth to dust the ice. With an olive." While we were waiting in anticipation for this miracle to appear, my sister explained how difficult it was to find a good martini or any bar that would could make cocktails. My head was buzzing with business possibilities.... But considering that aussies drink wine and beer what would be the point!!!


The martini arrived. As the waiter placed the glass on the table I knew we were in trouble. It was a light brownish color. From the smell of it, I could tell that it had been poured directly out of the Martini bottle. Before the waiter had placed the glass on the table the maître d', who had been flirting with me, saw the look of disgust on our faces and intercepted the glass. He explained, "This is not a martini, let me make one for you." We again proceeded to tell him how to make it. In a vain attempt to impress me, he accepted the challenge. Mr Tiny accepted the 'tini mission.


Back he came with his version of a martini. It was now the color of limoncello, a very yellow color with slight fizz. What the hell??? Did he listen to us? Mr Tiny had failed the 'tini mission. My sister's face after the first sip was priceless. We all had to taste off course. It tasted like a Solo soda. He then asked us if it was any good. Little did know who he was dealing with. We told him that it was not a martini. This was now an hour into the dinner and much repartee had been going on. My mother's boyfriend and he were doing calculus puzzles. He was flirting outrageously with me. Considering that the night before I was being pursued by an 80yr old, being pursued by a 40yr old was making me feel better even if I was 4ft taller than he was. My sister looked me straight in the face and said, "Have you ever tried short?" I think I nearly lost my belly ring I laughed so hard.


My challenge was to get my sister her martini, not to get laid. I took Mr Tiny to the bar and proceeded to teach him how to make a martini. I instructed him to place the Vodka in the ice... "Vodka?" he said increduously and then argued, "Since the martini was first introduced it has been gin." I countered that vodka is now being used and is very popular, more so than gin. Grudgingly he poured a couple of vodka shots into the cocktail shaker. I then looked around for the dry, white vermouth. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him go for the Martini bottle. "What the hell is that?" I asked him. "This is a martini." he said. "No, we are making a martini, it does not come out of a bottle. That is just a brand called Martini, not a martini." Sheesh, this was getting tiresome!!! They didn't stock white vermouth, so I asked him if he had any olives. I assumed they had as it was an Italian restaurant. He said no, so again I said olives, as in Kalamata olives. (I could go on about what smart arse comments I made at this point but suffice to say he lost another foot in height). Now I know they are not the type of olives that are supposed to go into a martini but give me a break here. I was working against all odds. I told him to bring me a little kalamata juice with a kalamata olive. So I made the best dirty martini that I could. Maybe I'll call it a Kalamartini. It had a little oily film on it but when my sister tasted it she was happy. It wasn't perfect but it was a damn sight better than limoncello!!

Jazzing it Up

Perth, Australia - Day 6

This vacation has not been to come over to Perth to party. It has been to do some soul searching and to see family. But a girl has to get out sometime. One of my sister's favorite venues is a quaint little jazz club tucked away in a semi-industrial area, hidden behind a workshop. Called the Jazz Cellar, it has been owned and run for the last 20 years by the trombone player of the Corner House jazz band. He opened it because it was his passion. The Jazz Cellar does not serve alcohol but what people do is bring their own drinks and food. A picnic in a club.

The entrance to the Jazz Cellar is an old British telephone box. Very cool, very retro. For those Dr. Who fans, it was like entering the Tardis, except the Tardis was a blue police box and not a phone box. Nonetheless, something mysterious was bound to happen entering into a Tardis-like device.

The trumpet player, Don, lost half his tongue due to cancer, went through physiotherapy to learn how to speak again, and is now back again as the singer and trumpet player as well as comedian of the band. At the first intermission, Don, told audience, "Time for a wee and a smoke." Hilarious.

Another fixture of the place is an old guy, Robin, around 80yrs old who loves to jive. OK, a slow jive and his MO is to ask females in the audience to dance with him. It was lovely to watch him twirl the ladies around. My mother was asked much to my sister's and my amusement as she has no rythym. My sister and I watched the younger generation dance who thought they had rythym but looked like car crashes about to happen. Watching the gyrations of drunk youth is like watching a drunk behind the wheel of a car; jerky movements trying to navigate around corners only to end up crashing. We even witnessed a few hip checks to the saxaphones that were standing by the sax player. Ouch!!!

My mother and her boyfriend had a blast; dancing, giving the band a hard time, singing...

The old guy, Robin, had now worked his way around to me and asked me to dance. Now my mother may not have rythym but I do. I have no idea where I inherited this trait from but I make up that moving and gyrating hips is my thing. You gotta love honesty as he said after the first dance, "I can usually pick out pick out ladies but you escaped my notice. You sure do have rythym." He didn't ask another lady to dance. I was his dance partner all night and had a blast. He even went up to my mother at the end of the night and said, "Tell the young blonde to be at the Yokine jazz club on Tuesday night." I was fascinated that he thought he had an "in" or perhaps I need to visit a cosmetic surgeon on my return to the US.

Politically Erect

Perth, Australia -- Day 4

Pollies, as the aussies refer to politicians, don't seem to be very smart when it comes to being discreet about their sexual fetishes no matter where these knuckleheads reside. Take Eliot Spitzer, former Governor of New York's, wee indescretion involving bare back anal sex with a prostitute. Unprotected anal sex with a pro!!!! No words to describe how stupid that is when an innocent wife is waiting at home.

The Spitzer story was all over the US news, and now I am in Perth a few months later, sitting in the car and news breaks. The radio announcer announces, "Troy Buswell, leader of the Liberal Party, was caught sniffing a female colleagues chair." The first thought that shot through my mind was "Not another one. Every country seems to have their pollie perverts." And then I got the giggles as an image of a man sniffing a bloody chair seat in an office setting shot through my mind. Just because apes do it as a mating ritual, do we have to do it? And then I thought "Was she not wearing underwear?" Later on I learn that this occurred in 2005. For goodness sakes. Talk about digging up the past. Anything goes. A while ago he was caught snapping a female's bra at work. This man clearly has an issue.

I love the Aussies, for now Buswell is referred to as "The Snedge". Apparently the art of "sniffing or gaining pleasure by sniffing bicycle seats belonging to girls; to sniff or smell something inappropriate" is called "snedging." In the US only serial killers are given dramatic names such as The Slasher, here in Australia, you get nicknamed because you are a bloody idiot with a wandering nose. Gotta love it.