I am determined to lose weight. The reasons are numerous and they really aren't important here so I won't list them. What is critical is the word 'determined'. I ramped up my exercise-for-the-sake-of-exercise to 250% of what is was in October. The sun came up at 5:30a.m. and I was out the door at 5:45a.m. I kept half an eyeball on my food intake and set this as my course.
Three months later I had not lost any weight. Not a single ounce. Disappointed, I made a slight change to this already changed equation of my lifestyle. I resumed the pleasure of a few small cookies in the evening, if I felt like a little treat. One month later there still was no change in my weight...in either direction. It was time to up the ante. I needed to put both eyeballs on the food half of my lifestyle equation. I went to see a dietician on the advice of my general practitioner.
The misgivings I had before the appointment were hardly assuaged by the first meeting. The national health service doesn't pay much so she wasn't offering much in the way of customized advice. The pre-printed sheet outlined a miniscule breakfast, a lunch that consisted of a slice of bread with either tuna or peanut butter on it plus two (2) cups of celery and carrot sticks, and a supper that consisted of a tiny bit of meat or cheese plus a half (½) cup of cooked pasta [have you measured a half cup of pasta lately? TINY] and two (2) cups of cooked vegetables. Could a ballerina exist on this? But, as I am determined, I give this lack of joy a try. I don't have the patience for measuring everything all the time--my eyeballs work well enough--but I will keep a very basic food diary. And I will try some of the mostly unsatisfying but recommended commercial snack options she suggested plus a few more adjustments she would certainly approve of. And stayed dedicated through to the first follow-up appointment two weeks later.
I had lost a paltry 1.3 kgs / 2.8 lbs. in those two weeks. Is that all? Despite the copious amounts of vegetables, and exercise, I still have more in common with Jabba the Hutt than with Margot Fonteyn.
"Well," the dietician says, "middle-aged women like yourself are also dealing with reduced estrogen, lowering metabolism rates..."
WHAT!!?! MIDDLE-AGED??!? I have been 29 for more years than I can count. How does three decades of life equal middle-aged? There's impertinence for you. I have never been called "middle-aged." Hmmmmpph.
"...as I told my mother, expectations really need to be tempered. You won't look like Elle MacPherson by the end of the month."
The good news here is that I managed not to eviscerate her tiny, barely post-adolescent self on the spot. Instead I let her be impressed by my food diary and nutrition comparisons of snacks she recommends versus the ones I appreciate. And for my troubles, I received a minute amount of customization on my eating plan.
A friend (slightly older than 29) recently confided that on her well-known diet & nutrition program she has lost 30 pounds in the last 11 weeks. I am happy for her. I just wish it wasn't going to take 11 months for me to accomplish the same thing. sigh.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Monday, March 3, 2014
Cinema Culture Gap
One can learn a lot from watching foreign films. They can say so much more about the culture and character of a people than a tourism marketing video. How do they view their life? Their environment? What is their reaction to the good and evil that comes their way? And do they really wear those funky costumes we see in publicity stills? Truth is, no matter how many Danish films one sees, the true Dane will always be beyond one's grasp if films are the only measuring stick. Sure you can follow the storyline and laugh at the obvious jokes while scowling at the identifiable villains. But there will be smaller cues, reasons for behavior, significance of art or set pieces, specific clothing worn and other markers that will lost if you are not in sync with the culture already. Read: you were raised there or lived there for significant time.
This is why I get nervous when some U.S. films make it overseas. I know that the story will not be truly understood as told. People like to think that because they have watched Dallas, Dynasty, Dukes of Hazzard, Days of Our Lives and visited Disneyland they completely understand the American psyche. They are convinced they can watch an American product and not measure what they see against their own cultural yardstick. As I watched the Oscar award winning 12 Years A Slave in a media screening, I knew this film would be misinterpreted from opening to closing credits. This film does not ask the question, "Is slavery wrong?" Of course it is, that is a given up front. This film does not assert that all slave owners were cruel, evil wretches--some weren't (Benedict Cumberbatch's character, for instance) but everyone was mindful of the cheap labor it provided as an economic necessity. (Cheap labor being a topic of business concern to this day.) At its core, this is a story of a man's painful journey from freedom to slavery and back again.
Movie reviewers here in Australia, whether on TV shows, magazines, large daily papers or small community weeklies, all seemed to view 12 Years A Slave in the same way. Let me share one example that reflects most reviews. This excerpt was written by West Australian (newspaper) movie reviewer Mark Naglazas.
"This adaptation of freed slave Solomon Northup's memoir...has been described as the Schindler's List of the country's original sin--and rightly so. 12 Years A Slave tells an enthralling individual story..., the appalling treatment of blacks by whites in the founding years of a nation that we hold as the symbol of democracy. (Director Steve) McQueen keeps his distance, giving us the full force of the horror but forcing us to reflect on white man's inhumanity to black man."
I won't nitpick on his poor history (this movie's era is almost a century after the "founding years of a nation") but I am astonished that modern day Americans are being taken to task for an institution abolished by the U.S. Federal government 150 years ago. [The sins of thy father's father's father's father's father.] I am absolutely gobsmacked by the hubris of Australians who dare to claim a higher, enlightened path when talking about "white man's inhumanity to black man" when the Australian Federal government waited until 1967 --over 100 years later-- until fully recognizing Aborigines as human beings with full citizenship! [Throw away those dog-tags, 'black fellas'.] So intent on looking for the splinter in someone else's eye that they fail to notice the log in their own. Unbelievable.
But the culture gap flows in all directions. I really like the movie, Saving Mr Banks. But I found myself startled by the depiction of the protagonist's father Travers Gibb, played by Colin Farrell. Travers Gibb is portrayed as a hard-drinking, reality-avoiding, Peter Pan wannabe. Ninety years later, this is exactly how Australian men were described to me by a friend after I announced I was marrying an Aussie. Contemporary Australians may disagree with the description but image beyond its borders remain.
I enjoy watching foreign flicks every now and again but I'm a little wiser in their interpretation now.
This is why I get nervous when some U.S. films make it overseas. I know that the story will not be truly understood as told. People like to think that because they have watched Dallas, Dynasty, Dukes of Hazzard, Days of Our Lives and visited Disneyland they completely understand the American psyche. They are convinced they can watch an American product and not measure what they see against their own cultural yardstick. As I watched the Oscar award winning 12 Years A Slave in a media screening, I knew this film would be misinterpreted from opening to closing credits. This film does not ask the question, "Is slavery wrong?" Of course it is, that is a given up front. This film does not assert that all slave owners were cruel, evil wretches--some weren't (Benedict Cumberbatch's character, for instance) but everyone was mindful of the cheap labor it provided as an economic necessity. (Cheap labor being a topic of business concern to this day.) At its core, this is a story of a man's painful journey from freedom to slavery and back again.
Movie reviewers here in Australia, whether on TV shows, magazines, large daily papers or small community weeklies, all seemed to view 12 Years A Slave in the same way. Let me share one example that reflects most reviews. This excerpt was written by West Australian (newspaper) movie reviewer Mark Naglazas.
"This adaptation of freed slave Solomon Northup's memoir...has been described as the Schindler's List of the country's original sin--and rightly so. 12 Years A Slave tells an enthralling individual story..., the appalling treatment of blacks by whites in the founding years of a nation that we hold as the symbol of democracy. (Director Steve) McQueen keeps his distance, giving us the full force of the horror but forcing us to reflect on white man's inhumanity to black man."
I won't nitpick on his poor history (this movie's era is almost a century after the "founding years of a nation") but I am astonished that modern day Americans are being taken to task for an institution abolished by the U.S. Federal government 150 years ago. [The sins of thy father's father's father's father's father.] I am absolutely gobsmacked by the hubris of Australians who dare to claim a higher, enlightened path when talking about "white man's inhumanity to black man" when the Australian Federal government waited until 1967 --over 100 years later-- until fully recognizing Aborigines as human beings with full citizenship! [Throw away those dog-tags, 'black fellas'.] So intent on looking for the splinter in someone else's eye that they fail to notice the log in their own. Unbelievable.
But the culture gap flows in all directions. I really like the movie, Saving Mr Banks. But I found myself startled by the depiction of the protagonist's father Travers Gibb, played by Colin Farrell. Travers Gibb is portrayed as a hard-drinking, reality-avoiding, Peter Pan wannabe. Ninety years later, this is exactly how Australian men were described to me by a friend after I announced I was marrying an Aussie. Contemporary Australians may disagree with the description but image beyond its borders remain.
I enjoy watching foreign flicks every now and again but I'm a little wiser in their interpretation now.
Friday, February 28, 2014
A Walk Along The Foreshore
I have really stepped up my exercise routine from whenever to one and a half hours, five days a week. I power walk along the Swan River southside foreshore and use some of the community fitness equipment along the way. In the last four months I have lost not a single ounce [grrrrrrrrrr] but early every morning I am treated to some great visuals. Get your sneakers on and walk with me:
Wildlife : The animal kind. There are a million white cockatoos walking around--yes, walking. They wattle to feed before terrorizing the innocent from the sky. You have to work at not stepping on them. I never see the cormorants feed. They usually just stand on the retaining wall with their wings open hoping to warm up in the early morning sun. Look almost like pterodactyls posing for a movie still. Now, the pelicans can be fun to watch. They scoop their long bills into the water and take in a few gallons of water. Slowly they squeeze the water out of that big, fleshy pouch and then gulp, gulp, gulp the remaining fish. This always attracts seagulls looking for some quick chum or escaping fish for breakfast. There is the usual game of black swans, the very signature of Perth, gracefully swimming in pairs and confident of their place in the sun. Finally, on a noteworthy day, a pod of dolphins will make their presence known. Sometimes just their fin shows and sometimes they happily breach the water. Everyone likes to see dolphins although those hardcore exercisers will only stare as they zoom past instead of slowing down to admire.
Humans : The wildlife kind. Surprisingly many of these for so early in the morning. Most are the garden variety walkers, joggers and runners accompanied by friends, dogs or their own thoughts. There is no shortage of Lycra-clad cyclists zooming along on the parallel bike path. The other day I saw a dad taking his daughter to school...on a tandem bicycle! On weekends you'll see the Over 30s Road Runners taking the weekly foot race that rotates between the parks in the metro area. These folks are actually mostly over 50 and enjoy field events once a month also. Just watching them exhausts me.
Early morning (and lunchtime and after work) are good times for personal trainers and fitness instructors to meet their clients. The year-round moderate weather in this region really encourages fitness sessions anytime, anywhere. It is becoming ever more common to see small groups of people led in exercise by a trainer who
sees no reason to buy or rent premises when congregating on public property is absolutely free and nicer to look at. But some municipalities are starting to have a problem with this. There are so many private classes conducted on public lands that city officials are worried about liability. These communities are now looking to license these exercise 'businesses' with a further requirement of carrying insurance. Tough break for the folks who get paid to watch others sweat.
And finally the vision that reminds me once again that I am in a different place. We are all familiar with the image of corporate executives staying lean, mean, shrewd business decision making machines in their thrice weekly, early morning squash sessions with other corporate colleagues. Save the sweatbands, small rackets, and tiny spaces for there is a whole different image for those same high flyers here in OZ. At six o'clock in the morning, the Aussie executive is out water skiing with his cronies. You can't miss them--very middle-aged men with sturdy legs and (ahem) solid stomachs clad in neoprene suits take turns skimming the top of the water behind an expensive speedboat. I suppose that if they lived on the ocean, these same captains of industry would be surfing the waves at the same hour. Totally cracks me up.
O.K., exercise time is over. Let's get some breakfast.
Wildlife : The animal kind. There are a million white cockatoos walking around--yes, walking. They wattle to feed before terrorizing the innocent from the sky. You have to work at not stepping on them. I never see the cormorants feed. They usually just stand on the retaining wall with their wings open hoping to warm up in the early morning sun. Look almost like pterodactyls posing for a movie still. Now, the pelicans can be fun to watch. They scoop their long bills into the water and take in a few gallons of water. Slowly they squeeze the water out of that big, fleshy pouch and then gulp, gulp, gulp the remaining fish. This always attracts seagulls looking for some quick chum or escaping fish for breakfast. There is the usual game of black swans, the very signature of Perth, gracefully swimming in pairs and confident of their place in the sun. Finally, on a noteworthy day, a pod of dolphins will make their presence known. Sometimes just their fin shows and sometimes they happily breach the water. Everyone likes to see dolphins although those hardcore exercisers will only stare as they zoom past instead of slowing down to admire.
Humans : The wildlife kind. Surprisingly many of these for so early in the morning. Most are the garden variety walkers, joggers and runners accompanied by friends, dogs or their own thoughts. There is no shortage of Lycra-clad cyclists zooming along on the parallel bike path. The other day I saw a dad taking his daughter to school...on a tandem bicycle! On weekends you'll see the Over 30s Road Runners taking the weekly foot race that rotates between the parks in the metro area. These folks are actually mostly over 50 and enjoy field events once a month also. Just watching them exhausts me.
Early morning (and lunchtime and after work) are good times for personal trainers and fitness instructors to meet their clients. The year-round moderate weather in this region really encourages fitness sessions anytime, anywhere. It is becoming ever more common to see small groups of people led in exercise by a trainer who
 |
| Lunchtime fitness in the Park |
And finally the vision that reminds me once again that I am in a different place. We are all familiar with the image of corporate executives staying lean, mean, shrewd business decision making machines in their thrice weekly, early morning squash sessions with other corporate colleagues. Save the sweatbands, small rackets, and tiny spaces for there is a whole different image for those same high flyers here in OZ. At six o'clock in the morning, the Aussie executive is out water skiing with his cronies. You can't miss them--very middle-aged men with sturdy legs and (ahem) solid stomachs clad in neoprene suits take turns skimming the top of the water behind an expensive speedboat. I suppose that if they lived on the ocean, these same captains of industry would be surfing the waves at the same hour. Totally cracks me up.
O.K., exercise time is over. Let's get some breakfast.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Canning Show 2013
I do go on a bit about the Perth Royal Show (state fair equivalent here in Western Australia) but there is much to be said about the county fairs like the Canning Show. To be fair, I was never really big on county fairs back home. They seemed to be poor distant relations to the state fair rather than the local celebration that they actually are. My tune has changed a bit. I still like huge playground atmosphere of the Big Show but my tolerance for crowds, noise and extraneous nonsense has lowered significantly. A local show offers a manageable experience for those with very small children, crowd or mobility issues.
The Canning Show, like other regional shows or county fairs, has a little bit of everything: rides for kids, buskers and entertainment, a few animals, bakery and art competitions, cotton candy and worthless treasures to buy, hawkers selling wares and someone in a back room counting money. Almost hiding is the hobbyist exhibition hall. Various societies are happy to show off their lace-making, embroidery, model trains, little airplanes, taxidermy skills and model police car collections. They also dearly wish to boost their membership numbers from within the viewing public...if the public can make it up the hill to the hall.
Of course my appearance at the Canning Show is, well, mostly about my canning efforts. Yes, I do go on a bit about that also. This year, out of nine entries (including two photographic entries I was utterly mad to enter) I received two (2) First Place winners and two (2) Third Place winners in the Preservation division.
The Canning Show, like other regional shows or county fairs, has a little bit of everything: rides for kids, buskers and entertainment, a few animals, bakery and art competitions, cotton candy and worthless treasures to buy, hawkers selling wares and someone in a back room counting money. Almost hiding is the hobbyist exhibition hall. Various societies are happy to show off their lace-making, embroidery, model trains, little airplanes, taxidermy skills and model police car collections. They also dearly wish to boost their membership numbers from within the viewing public...if the public can make it up the hill to the hall.
Of course my appearance at the Canning Show is, well, mostly about my canning efforts. Yes, I do go on a bit about that also. This year, out of nine entries (including two photographic entries I was utterly mad to enter) I received two (2) First Place winners and two (2) Third Place winners in the Preservation division.
 |
| Judge didn't save much for me. |
The winners were Strawberry Jam which the judge used for a scone demo
later (also known as "staff breakfast") I had just enough left in the jar to spread on one piece of toast
when I got it back and Red Cabbage ( I reworked a loser
at the Royal Show
into a big winner at Canning.) Third place holders were the Apple Butter and Fig Jam. The figs were raining from a neighbor's tree, so I caught a few and put them through their paces. My first effort with that fruit and the PRS judges liked it also.
My cookie entries went nowhere. They tasted the gingerbread star but ignored the
apricot swirl and the fruited oatmeal. Less far than those went were
the
brandied marmalade and OPAL-orange, pineapple, apricot and lemon marmalade. Again, the judges at Canning didn't always agree with the PRS judges but that's OK. I'm good with four winners. 
A big surprise for me was when one of the executive committee (who helped empty
my strawberry Jam jar in the demo) asked if I would help teach a jam
making class in January. Gee whiz! At first I thought, "There are MANY
people who are much better than I am" and after more thought realized
that my jam journey is more contemporary to the newbies who will be in
the class than folks who have been
around for a hundred years. Presentation plans are forming in my head.
As are plans for 2014's entries. Mango jam is already first in the queue.
The Twelve Days of Christmas...Day 18
O.K. the Epiphany (twelfth day of Christmas) was last week but the nativity scene was still up at my church this morning. I don't mind, it's friendly and its creativity is mesmerizing. The young Spaniard priest in our parish was responsible for its design and a new element was unexpected. Circling about the bottom of the display are tubed lights: one green and one blue. You've seen this tubing containing relay lights in shop displays or around the car chassis or license plates of certain young men who like to announce their arrival on the road. Rather question-raising these racing lights when first seen but after awhile they seem to add a vital dynamic element to a motionless vignette.
While we are talking about twelve days, I was completely surprised to learn that there is a real story speculated behind the song, The Twelve Days of Christmas. For me it was always a bit of an endurance exercise because of its length and the stretching required of one's memory. What nationality are those hens? How many geese? Where are those pipers piping (hopefully not near me)? Why are the lords leaping anyway? The only interesting part of it was to see each year how much it would cost to assemble this gift list. Some group or other always made the calculations (they rented ballet dancers instead of getting real lords of the realm, the cheaters) and announced it to the press. Like anyone was planning it for me. Yeah.
This seemingly endless ditty was a "catechetical tool for teaching children the basics of the faith" during the sixteenth-century English Reformation when tenants of the Catholic faith could not be openly taught. It must have been very comical to see my jaw drop when I read that: a partridge in a pear tree symbolizes Christ on the cross. Two turtle doves refers to the Old and New Testaments. Three French hens has duo-explanations in the three gifts of the Spirit, "Faith, Hope and Love" or, because French hens were so valuable, represent the gifts of the three wise men. Four calling birds recall the four major prophets of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and Daniel and/or the Gospel writers of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Those five gold rings represent the first five books of the bible and the six geese laid six days of creation. The seven swimming swans refer to the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit (1Cor 12:9-10) and those eight milk maids represent the same number of beatitudes on the Sermon on the Mount. Nine ladies dancing were the nine fruits of the Spirit (Gal 5:22-23) and those ten leaping ballet lords count the Commandments. We have left eleven pipers representing the eleven faithful apostles and finally, twelve drummers counting the twelve points of belief expressed in the Apostles' Creed.
Really? I must have missed a lesson somewhere because the TDofC usually told me I'd have to wait an agonizing five and a half minutes before the next song. I don't think the nativity will see Day 19 ( I forget the reason why it is still here now) but I rather appreciate the challenge its design and the song provided this season.
While we are talking about twelve days, I was completely surprised to learn that there is a real story speculated behind the song, The Twelve Days of Christmas. For me it was always a bit of an endurance exercise because of its length and the stretching required of one's memory. What nationality are those hens? How many geese? Where are those pipers piping (hopefully not near me)? Why are the lords leaping anyway? The only interesting part of it was to see each year how much it would cost to assemble this gift list. Some group or other always made the calculations (they rented ballet dancers instead of getting real lords of the realm, the cheaters) and announced it to the press. Like anyone was planning it for me. Yeah.
This seemingly endless ditty was a "catechetical tool for teaching children the basics of the faith" during the sixteenth-century English Reformation when tenants of the Catholic faith could not be openly taught. It must have been very comical to see my jaw drop when I read that: a partridge in a pear tree symbolizes Christ on the cross. Two turtle doves refers to the Old and New Testaments. Three French hens has duo-explanations in the three gifts of the Spirit, "Faith, Hope and Love" or, because French hens were so valuable, represent the gifts of the three wise men. Four calling birds recall the four major prophets of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and Daniel and/or the Gospel writers of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Those five gold rings represent the first five books of the bible and the six geese laid six days of creation. The seven swimming swans refer to the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit (1Cor 12:9-10) and those eight milk maids represent the same number of beatitudes on the Sermon on the Mount. Nine ladies dancing were the nine fruits of the Spirit (Gal 5:22-23) and those ten leaping ballet lords count the Commandments. We have left eleven pipers representing the eleven faithful apostles and finally, twelve drummers counting the twelve points of belief expressed in the Apostles' Creed.
Really? I must have missed a lesson somewhere because the TDofC usually told me I'd have to wait an agonizing five and a half minutes before the next song. I don't think the nativity will see Day 19 ( I forget the reason why it is still here now) but I rather appreciate the challenge its design and the song provided this season.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
FRUITCAKE...Magnificent and Maligned
Yesterday that most Christmas of confections arrived in my mailbox. A fruitcake. Hold it a minute, you say, Christmas was two weeks ago. Well, yeah, and this fruitcake was mailed four weeks before that but it went from Texas to France first before being redirected to Perth, Australia. But that's another story. Can we get on? This slice is winking at me.
Now if you, gentle reader, are in North America the very word "fruitcake" tends to elicit a derisive snort. Oh, what a shocking reputation it has as a Z-grade foodstuff. The universal holiday whipping boy. Everybody has a family story or joke of how the same indestructible-in-a-nuclear-blast blob of dubious origin is now used as a doorstop or has been passed from relative to relative for the past six years. Few confess in public to actually eating it. And I have to admit there are some very scarey versions being sold to an unwary public. I've tasted some of them. Ewwwww.
Contrary to this reaction is the one fruitcake receives in the hands of the British (or any of their colonies.) It's sold year round and happily served with tea. Family recipes are guarded jealously and the competition at bake-offs and shows is fierce. Such is a measure of its esteem that it is the traditional wedding cake in the British realm. Even I'm chuckling at that one.
The well-traveled fruitcake that was sent to me came from my eldest brother's favorite bakery in Texas. He swears by the Collin Street Bakery and is happy to spread the good news. And it is tasty even if the the company is confused between Paris and Perth. It makes the journey intact. (O.K., no mean-spirited jokes here, thank you.)
I don't remember how I came upon my favorite but its charms are apparent as soon as one opens the lid. This fruitcake is made by monks at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Trappist, Kentucky and have been around since 1848. (No mean-spirited jokes here either, thank you.) The secret to their success (besides prayer)? Each cake is soaked in Kentucky bourbon. Jim Beam to be exact. To answer that question now in your mind: the inventory of bourbon is very carefully monitored. In keeping with tradition (I married an Australian) I ordered this for my wedding as a secondary or 'groom's cake'.
It's a funny and absolutely true story-- if a bit colorful-- about this order. It hadn't arrived early, so Kev was dispatched to pick it up at the post office before he drove up for the wedding. His far-from-refined Aussie accent was unfamiliar to the postal worker and I'm afraid there was a bit of a communication gap.
Kev: "Oiym heer to pik up a coiyk."
Postal lady: "Excuse me, sir?"
Kev: "Oiym heer to pik up a coiyk. Should be whyting for myee."
Postal lady: "Sir, we do not use that kind of language around here!"
Kev: "Oi?"
It was a few moments before each understood that Kev was there to pick up a fruitcake, not a female of a certain religious faith. He started to speak a bit more clearly after that.
Now if you, gentle reader, are in North America the very word "fruitcake" tends to elicit a derisive snort. Oh, what a shocking reputation it has as a Z-grade foodstuff. The universal holiday whipping boy. Everybody has a family story or joke of how the same indestructible-in-a-nuclear-blast blob of dubious origin is now used as a doorstop or has been passed from relative to relative for the past six years. Few confess in public to actually eating it. And I have to admit there are some very scarey versions being sold to an unwary public. I've tasted some of them. Ewwwww.
 |
| ©Collin Street Bakery |
The well-traveled fruitcake that was sent to me came from my eldest brother's favorite bakery in Texas. He swears by the Collin Street Bakery and is happy to spread the good news. And it is tasty even if the the company is confused between Paris and Perth. It makes the journey intact. (O.K., no mean-spirited jokes here, thank you.)
 |
| ©Gethsemani Farms |
It's a funny and absolutely true story-- if a bit colorful-- about this order. It hadn't arrived early, so Kev was dispatched to pick it up at the post office before he drove up for the wedding. His far-from-refined Aussie accent was unfamiliar to the postal worker and I'm afraid there was a bit of a communication gap.
Kev: "Oiym heer to pik up a coiyk."
Postal lady: "Excuse me, sir?"
Kev: "Oiym heer to pik up a coiyk. Should be whyting for myee."
Postal lady: "Sir, we do not use that kind of language around here!"
Kev: "Oi?"
It was a few moments before each understood that Kev was there to pick up a fruitcake, not a female of a certain religious faith. He started to speak a bit more clearly after that.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Boxing Day in OZ
It's absurdly early in the morning yet the shopping mall parking lot is jam packed. Automobiles are illegally parked on sidewalks and under shade trees with so many more hovering and circling to find a spot of their own. Frantic shoppers dodge the vehicles as they trot for the mall entrance. Inside, even earlier arriving shoppers are already standing outside the entrance to the major department store. The line extends the entire length of the glass front and stands eight people deep at any point along the line. Necks crane, eyes strain and mouths gape. A faint buzzer sounds. The doors open. The masses stampede into the interior. Shoe sale at Nordstrom's? The Day After Thanksgiving--also known as Black Friday?
Nope. It's Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. It's a legal holiday here in OZ so most businesses are closed. And what to do on a day off? Go shopping. There is no "official" start of the holiday shopping season here as Black Friday indicates to American consumers. But Boxing Day is extremely well-defined and well-fixed in the Australian mind as THE day to catch big bargains. Didn't get what you want yesterday? It's on discount today. Hurry! White goods, clothing, perfumes, bedding, fry pans and Christmassy stuff for next year are all marked to move. The socks and underwear section seems rather empty (you didn't get enough "jox & sox" under the tree?) but the buying frenzy is on. It's madness, I tell you, and not for the faint of heart. Thought you were safe shopping online from home? Nope. One of the major department stores websites crashed because of the heavy traffic on it. Seems kind of backwards to go so ga-ga after the fact but this feverish exercise in post-holiday commerce could be an Olympic sport in this country.
Speaking of sport, you have Boxing Day options in this category although both are spectator events for mostslugs citizens. The Sydney to Hobart Race starts on December 26 and will finish a few days later for the super yachts but a week later for sailors in much more humble dinghys. The aerial shots of the beginning of the race are spectacular and TV coverage does stay live for awhile to show the big guns in action. There are many different classes being competed in so the little guys aren't completely out of contention for a prize. Not much for water sports? How about Boxing Day cricket. Cricket is on morning, noon and night--the long and short versions of this baseball-y game--for those who can't get enough of this sport. Watching it on TV where one is close to a fan and the fridge is far more comfortable than buying a ticket to see it in person. But there are always the tragics who prefer to sit in the hot sun for seven hours for this slow-as-a-glacier action. In fact, it's tradition for many folks to do just that.
Now, the question still rolling through your mind: how did Boxing Day get its name and what does it mean? You'll get a lot of hemming and hawing when you start asking this question because most people just don't know. It's British origins have gotten awfully muddled over time. The explanation that seems to sit well with most people is that the day after Christmas was spent putting money into various poor boxes as a gesture of good will to the less fortunate and gratitude for your own financial blessings. Other translations are less magnanimous.
So how much of the above did I do? Not much. I did drop into the grocery store which was near empty of staff, shoppers and food (last minute locusts cleared off the shelves two days earlier) and picked up the real bargain of the day. Fresh turkeys were being sold at an 80% discount. Roasted in in the cool of the evening and popped the meat into the freezer. Our meal planning is set until 2014!
Nope. It's Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. It's a legal holiday here in OZ so most businesses are closed. And what to do on a day off? Go shopping. There is no "official" start of the holiday shopping season here as Black Friday indicates to American consumers. But Boxing Day is extremely well-defined and well-fixed in the Australian mind as THE day to catch big bargains. Didn't get what you want yesterday? It's on discount today. Hurry! White goods, clothing, perfumes, bedding, fry pans and Christmassy stuff for next year are all marked to move. The socks and underwear section seems rather empty (you didn't get enough "jox & sox" under the tree?) but the buying frenzy is on. It's madness, I tell you, and not for the faint of heart. Thought you were safe shopping online from home? Nope. One of the major department stores websites crashed because of the heavy traffic on it. Seems kind of backwards to go so ga-ga after the fact but this feverish exercise in post-holiday commerce could be an Olympic sport in this country.
Speaking of sport, you have Boxing Day options in this category although both are spectator events for most
Now, the question still rolling through your mind: how did Boxing Day get its name and what does it mean? You'll get a lot of hemming and hawing when you start asking this question because most people just don't know. It's British origins have gotten awfully muddled over time. The explanation that seems to sit well with most people is that the day after Christmas was spent putting money into various poor boxes as a gesture of good will to the less fortunate and gratitude for your own financial blessings. Other translations are less magnanimous.
So how much of the above did I do? Not much. I did drop into the grocery store which was near empty of staff, shoppers and food (last minute locusts cleared off the shelves two days earlier) and picked up the real bargain of the day. Fresh turkeys were being sold at an 80% discount. Roasted in in the cool of the evening and popped the meat into the freezer. Our meal planning is set until 2014!
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