Rained Out

I realize I’ve been complaining about the weather quite a bit lately, and apologize for my obsession, but this non-stop rain is becoming an all-consuming fact of my life.  It never seems to stop.  Sure, it may decrease from the ever-popular monsoonal downpours to a dreary drizzle, but the wetness never actually ceases.  In fact, this is now the wettest December recorded in Brisbane in 150 years, with only seven days of respite this entire month.  The other twenty have been nothing but rain, bringing the monthly total rainfall to 17.5 inches, which is just absolutely insane.  So, now you can possibly understand why this is all I can think about and write about.  Its constant presence is taking over my very being and beginning to dominate every facet of my life.

I could deal with the rain while I was still working.  Yes – it was annoying, but I could focus on my work.  But now I’m done working.  I’m on holidays and Mouse is here with me.  We’re supposed to be spending our time camping, lying on the beach, and frolicking in the water.  No such luck.  The torrential downpours are thwarting all of my carefully made plans.  Our Gold Coast Christmas was ruined; instead of soaking up the sun on Broadbeach, we ended up holed up in our hotel room, watching bad television.  And we had to forget about camping in Byron Bay; we drove past our campground to find that it was totally flooded.  Agh!  So now we’re stuck in my little apartment, wishing for better weather, and wasting away our last days in Australia.  How incredibly frustrating!  This was not how I imagined our last days “Down Under” to play out…

Merry Christmas to Me!

Christmas Day is finally here.  I don’t think I’ve anticipated the arrival of Christmas morning this much since I was six and desperately yearning for Santa to bring me a Cabbage Patch Kid.  Last night, I felt like that kid again, barely able to sleep, tossing and turning, waiting for the sun to peak over the horizon and the day to begin.  But this Christmas, my present isn’t an object, it’s my Mouse.  After months of being separated, I finally get to pick him up at the airport.  After countless days of wanting, wishing, longing, and missing, we’re about to be reunited.  I can already see his smile and hear his voice.  All of the stress and anxiety I have been feeling is gone and has been replaced with the calm of pure happiness.  My wait is over.  My heart is complete again.  I couldn’t ask for a better gift.

Great Expectations

It’s Christmas Eve and I am a big ball of nerves.  I know I’m not the first person to stress during the holidays, but this is a first for me.  Usually, I don’t have much to worry about come Christmas.  But tonight, I’m wound so tight that I feel like snapping at any moment.  I’m anxious and skittish.  I’ve been running myself ragged, trying to prepare for Mouse’s arrival, and am exhausted, but I can’t seem to make myself stop.  It’s been nearly four months since we’ve seen each other and I’ve become obsessed with making everything perfect.  I want the food to be perfect.  I want the weather to be perfect.  I want my hair to be perfect.  I want our airport interlude to be perfect.  I want the entirety of his trip to be perfect.  (Do you see what I mean?  I am a woman on a mission to perfection.)  I’ve spent this entire week readying for his arrival.  I’ve been planning and prepping meals, packing our gear to head down the coast, and primping and preening myself.  I want everything to be just so.  The problem is, I’ve built it all up so much in my head that reality will never be able to compare.  And, let’s be honest, nothing ever goes as planned.  There is absolutely no chance that our holidays will reach the desired peak of perfection I’ve dreamt up for us.  So, I’m going to do my best to let go and relax.  I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine, watch a sappy chick flick, and attempt to unwind.  It doesn’t do me any good to stress about the impossible, after all.

Two Days and Counting...

It’s the twenty-third of December, which means Christmas is only two days away.  It just doesn’t seem possible.  I’m seriously having a hard time believing it.  Sure, I can look at the calendar and see that Christmas is nearly here.  And the usual commercial cues are everywhere, announcing its impending arrival.  Houses and yards are festively decorated.  The shops are displaying all of their holiday wares.  The shopping mall will be open for the next thirty-three hours, hoping for hoards of last-minute shoppers.  We even had our work Christmas party last weekend, for heaven's sake.  No matter.  It still doesn’t feel like Christmas to me.

I know the weather is a major factor in my state of denial.  Lately, it vacillates between sweltering tropical heat with suffocating humidity and torrential monsoonal downpours, neither of which seem very Christmas-y to my North American self.  It’s much too hot to bake anything, so Christmas cookies are out.  My apartment isn’t decorated, either.  There is no tree to light up my living room or presents underneath.  (Why bother?  We’re headed down the coast.)  I haven’t even gone Christmas shopping this year.  (We’re giving each other the gift of international travel.)  

So, with Mouse not arriving until Christmas morning, I am simply unable to get into the holiday spirit.  It still seems too distant and abstract for me to feel any sort of excitement.  I’m sure this state of blasé “bah-humbug-ness” will transform into sheer holiday bliss as soon as I see his face.  I’m confident the spirit of the season will hit me at that moment.  But, until then, I have to keep reminding myself that the holidays are here…even if it doesn’t seem possible.

I Don't Need A Pity Party

People’s reactions are quite amusing whenever they learn Mouse has been gone since September.  Their jaws drop and eyes pop.  They usually let out some small exclamation of surprise and/or pity.  And they always look incredibly sorry for me.  I can see it in their eyes.  They have this look that says, “Oh, you poor dear.  You’re relationship is over and you don’t even know it.  You must be in denial.”  They might try to mask their thoughts and offer words of support, but it’s always there, just below the surface.  I know what they’re thinking.  I can feel the pity oozing from their pores.  In some ways, I understand.  Our current living arrangement is anything but normal.  Most relationships couldn’t withstand being separated by thousands of miles for an extended period of time.  But, then again, we’re not most people.

We didn’t plan for it to happen this way.  This was supposed to be our adventure, not mine alone.  But life doesn’t always go as planned.  We couldn’t have guessed that he would break his ankle, require a lengthy hospital stay, and an even more lengthy rehabilitation.  But this is exactly what happened and we were forced to deal with the repercussions.  His injury changed everything, so I understood when he was ready to go home.  Thankfully, he also understood that I was not.

It isn’t always been easy being so far apart.  After so many years of living together, and being such an integral part of each other’s everyday lives, his absence can be hard to swallow.  There are days when I miss him so much I feel like my heart is being wrenched from my chest.  There are days when I’m so lonely I’m sure the aching will never dissipate.  But those days are few and far between.  Most of the time, life is good.  I’ve come to appreciate this time to myself and can recognize the benefits of doing some of this on my own.  It’s given me time to reconnect with who I am.  It’s given me time to re-establish my individuality.  And, most importantly, it’s allowed me to forge friendships that I wouldn’t have otherwise.  So, while none of this was planned, it turned out to be a good thing.  I don’t need anyone’s pity.

He’ll be back in just a few days and I’m incredibly excited to see him.  I miss his smile.  I miss his energy.  I have more adventures planned for us and can’t wait to get exploring.  And, even though I fully appreciate these past few months, he is my heart and home, so I can’t wait to share more of my life with him.

Readjustment

It’s strange, but it doesn’t feel like I’m really done with my Aussie nursing experience.  It just doesn’t seem possible.  I know I’ve turned in my badge and said my good-byes, but it still hasn’t sunk in that I don’t work there any more.  Rather, it feels as though I’m on my days off and will be expected back soon.  I’ve woken with a start every day, checking the time, ready to hop out of bed; until the sleep-induced cobwebs clear and I remember that I’m not late.  Right now, there’s no such thing as late.  (A difficult concept to embrace.)  I nearly had a mini panic attack yesterday, when my phone rang in the wee hours of the morning.  For a split second, I assumed it would be my charge nurse, inquiring as to whether or not I was planning to work my shift.  Of course it wasn’t, but my heart didn’t stop pounding until I heard my friend’s voice on the other line.  It’s funny how a little bit of social conditioning can so easily and deeply penetrate one’s psyche.  I wonder how long it will take me to get out of the habit of feeling like I should be at the hospital.  I wonder how long it will take for my body to readjust.  I imagine when Mouse arrives and my life begins to feel like less of a limbo, it will all hit me.  Until then, I just have to relax and embrace my newly-attained unemployment.

Social Hypocrisy

I am such a hypocrite.  I don’t mean to be, but I can’t help it.  I went out all weekend – a house party on Friday and our ward Christmas party last night – but I don’t like that he’s out tonight.  I know I cannot expect him to stay in when I don’t, but I wish he would.  I wish he weren’t out with his new friends, whooping it up.  I wish he were sitting at home, wallowing in a state of misery, born of missing me.  (A little narcissistic, yes?)

In all honesty, I don’t really have a problem with him being out; it’s just that I am feeling a little miffed.  It may only be a little cocktail party, but he’s there and I’m not, so I’m feeling left out.  It’s silly.  I chose to be here and am happily doing my own thing, but I hate the idea of him having fun without me.  I hate the idea of him meeting new people, creating a new life, and developing a new social circle without me alongside for the ride.  We’ve been together so long now that I had begun to take such things for granted.  But now that were thousands of miles away from each other, it’s all changed.  Now it irks me that I’m not able to do these things with him.  It makes me grumpy knowing he’s laughing and chatting with people I’ve never even met.  Never mind that’s exactly what I was doing all weekend.  Like I said…  I’m a hypocrite.

Last Day

I can’t believe today is my last day of work.  It seems like just yesterday, I was freaking about my visa status.  I remember the stress and urgency of it all.  I remember exactly how scared I was to start my first day.  I can still feel my heart pounding and my palms sweating as I walked into the hospital’s massive lobby.  I remember meeting everyone and hoping that I would fit in.  And now this experience is nearly complete.  It feels like I’ve just begun to settle in, hit my stride, and get comfortable; now it’s time for me to go.  It doesn’t seem possible.  I knew this wasn’t going to be permanent, but I never imagined it would fly by so quickly.  It’s bittersweet, really.  I’ve truly enjoyed my time here, and I’m going to miss it.  But I am ready to go home.  I’m ready to go back to American nursing, even if it is a tad more stressful.  And, more than anything, I’m ready to be rid of these ridiculous uniforms…

Apparently, Summer = Snakes

“Summer has arrived, and that means the snakes are running rampant.”

I had been innocently preparing my evening meal the other night, when this disturbing news was broadcast as a sound bite to promote one of the local news programs.  I didn’t want to believe what I was hearing, but there it was, unmistakably blasting from my television during prime time.  I hoped the anchorman was joking and a punch line would quickly follow.  No such luck.  The joke never came.  Nothing.  He didn’t even smile, so I can only assume he was dead serious.  He continued, providing even more disturbing news.

“Australia is home to thirteen of the world’s deadliest snakes.  Which one can you expect to encounter in your backyard?”

Great.  That’s just what a girl who is deathly afraid of snakes needs to hear.  Not only are the snakes running rampant, but also they’re also deadly.  That’s wonderful.  I know Australia is filled to the brim with the creepy devils.  I had just fooled myself into thinking they stayed far, far away from the city.  (Isn’t that why I pay such steep rent?)

Maybe I should have stayed tuned to learn a little more, but I had heard all the information I need.  Now, I see snakes everywhere.  I see them lurking in the shadows.  I look for them hiding in trees.  And I’m oddly leery of any sticks lying on the ground, half-convinced they might spring up and bite me.

So far, I’ve been lucky.  I haven’t been bitten and haven’t even encountered a live snake.  My workmate wasn’t so lucky, though.  She recently came into work all flustered because an eight-foot python had taken up residence on her front porch the previous night.  Luckily, her neighbor called the snake-removal people, and they were able to catch it, but I can only imagine how frightening that scenario must have been.  I don’t know what my reaction would be if I looked out my window to see a snake that size peering in.  I imagine it would involve some form of uncontrolled panic attack and little bit of pants-peeing.

Realistically, I understand snakes are a part of living in Australia, especially in Queensland.  But the rational side of me cannot make up for my deep-seeded fears.  So, I pray that as summer ensues, my life will continue to be as snake-free as it has been for the past several months.  Because, in my book, no snake is a good snake.

The Wedding Cake Project: Part 2

OK.  I will be the first to admit this isn’t the prettiest cake I’ve ever made.  In fact, if a cake looking like this appeared at my wedding, I would be pretty disappointed.  I might even be forced to hide it and make a mad dash for the grocery store.  It is definitely lopsided and the crumb layer didn’t hold all the chocolate crumbs in place, giving it a very messy, haphazard look.  But I’m not going to stress.  That’s the whole point of my experiment, right?  I’m not going to be able to do everything perfectly the first time, so I need to vet all of the issues beforehand.  So much of baking is trial and error; I need to cut myself a little slack and focus on the positive.  Taste-wise, this cake is a winner.  I based it off of the classic Nutella and Strawberry Crepe and am incredibly happy with the flavor profile.  It has the perfect balance of chocolate-y richness and butter-y lightness, topped off with strawberries.  The aesthetics are a minor problem that can be easily corrected.  And, quite honestly, the next time I make this cake I will be in a much more controlled environment, and will have the proper baking gadgets at my disposal.  Saturday was just an impossible day to put together a cake.  It was so hot and humid that the butter cream was separating as I mixed it and was melting as I spread it on the cake.  I tried chilling it in the fridge to make it firmer, but my poor, little refrigerator just couldn’t keep up.  I was fighting a losing battle.  But, in the end, I was able to create something delicious for my friend’s birthday and that makes me happy.  See below for the recipe if you want to give it a try.

Chocolate Sour Cream Cake with

Nutella and Vanilla Butter Cream and Strawberries

The Oprah Effect

It’s official – the Aussie Oprah obsession has gone completely over-the-top.  I thought it was bad enough when she first announced she was coming out here.  Everyone was in a twitter and it seemed to be the only thing the news programs and talk shows could drone on about.  But now that she’s actually stepped foot on Australian soil, the infatuation has reached new heights.  There have been daily travel updates, detailing her exact whereabouts and activities.  There is a constant running commentary on where she eats, what she wears, and what she says.  The Oprah overload never ends.  Don’t get me wrong; I like Oprah as much as any other woman on this planet.  (I would kill to be an audience member on her Favorite Things show.)  But this total adoration is slightly disconcerting and almost creepy.  She is only human, after all.  And there are other things on the news to report.  (For example - the massive flooding taking place all over the country.)  Of course, good luck explaining that to all of the major news networks, who have set up camp at the Sydney Opera House today, where she is taping two shows.  They are dedicating more coverage and media analysis to this than they did the Prime Ministerial election.  It’s insane!  I finally had to turn the television off because I couldn’t take any more of the love fest.  It was just too much Oprah-lovin’ for me to stomach.

A Dangerous Game

Have you ever the played the mind game where you think about what your parents were doing when they were the age you are now?  Chances are, they were much more settled and domestic than you are.  I’ve found it’s a dangerous venture that can open up a minefield of self-doubt and judgment, so I try not to do it too often.  But sometimes I just can’t stop my mind from wandering and going to that place.  Yesterday, as I flipped through the pictures of my wild ‘n crazy Aussie friend’s birthday extravaganza, was one of those times.  I couldn’t help but take note of how different my life is from my mother’s.  At 32, Mom was fully entrenched in motherhood, with three small children, a husband of fourteen years, and a house in the country.  Here I am, same age, still unmarried (although happily engaged), flying solo in a foreign country on the opposite side of the world, and prancing around in shorty-short hot pants and thigh-high tube socks in public on a Saturday night.  I don’t think we could get more different.  (I also think I should point out that my crazy get-up was warranted, as it was a sports-themed costume party, so everyone was dressed wildly.)  Don’t get me wrong; even in these moments of introspection, I have no regrets.  I absolutely love the life I am living.  I don’t think I am cut out to lead a life of domesticity.  Despite that, I cannot help but make comparisons and wonder how I turned out to be the person I am.  It’s like I fell from the tree and rolled into a completely different orchard.  I guess I’m not the first person to feel this way.  Children grow up and go their own way every day.  I just don’t think everyone does so by donning red lycra…

One Big Ball of Sweat

Oh my goodness!  It is bloody hot today!  And when I say bloody hot, I mean bloody hot.  This is the kind of heat that creeps in and permeates every nook and cranny of my life.  It’s that sticky heat born of high humidity and a tropical climate, making me feel like I’m never dry and constantly stinky.  I start sweating the moment I get out of the shower, so I know I’m fighting a losing battle.  And since air conditioning is a rare luxury out here, I have little hope of any type of relief.  There is nothing I can do about it.  I was even dripping sweat just frosting a cake this afternoon.  (Sadly, even my butter cream was sweating.)  Yes - it’s that ridiculously hot.  It was bloody hot like this yesterday, too, which leads me to the irrefutable conclusion that summer has finally arrived.

It’s funny how the seasons can change so seemingly quickly.  Logic tells me that the weather has been working up to this moment for months now, but I swear it’s pounced upon us without warning.  It seems like I’ve spent the past several months feeling like a drowned rat and wishing the rain away.  The locals kept promising it would eventually dissipate.  People raved about the absolute beauty of spring in Brisbane.  First, they swore the rain would be gone by September.  Then, they vowed October.  And when November was still sopping wet, they shook their heads in disbelief.  Sure, there were a few nice days here and there, but spring was too well hidden in a shroud of rain to truly make an appearance.  And now, suddenly, it’s summer.  I wish I could say the heat chased the rain away, but that’s not the case.  The clouds are heavy with precipitation even now, threatening a massive storm.  Even though I’m over the rain, I’m almost looking forward to it, as it might help bring the temperature down a few notches.  I’ve got a cake to decorate, after all.

Emotional Exhaustion

Nursing can be exhausting.  The patients, their families, even the doctors, all take their toll on me.  I can handle the physical exhaustion.  A good night’s sleep is all I need to remedy that.  But the emotional exhaustion is a different story; it doesn’t fade so easily.  It gets to me - it permeates my brain, infects my soul, and drags me down.  It makes me feel so much older than I am.  Yesterday was so thoroughly draining that I could barely pull myself out of bed this morning.  And, as I sit here mulling it over, I still don’t feel right.

Maybe I take things too personally, but it’s hard not to.  I’m supposed to be an advocate for my patients.  How can I do my job when the doctors won’t listen?  I would like to believe they’re the experts and they know what’s best, but I’m afraid this isn’t always the case.  I’m the one who watched this patient slowly deteriorate throughout the day.  I’m the one who saw her slip deeper and deeper into the abyss.  Maybe the doctors are right.  Maybe her symptoms are simply a part of the post-operative healing process, and will resolve of their own volition.  But a nagging suspicion tells me this isn’t so.  I was always taught that medicine should be proactive, not reactive.  So why are they simply waiting for the other shoe to drop?  Why are they happy to let her be until she becomes compromised?  It seems irresponsible. 

Most of the time, I try to avoid comparing American medicine to Australian medicine.  These are vastly different medical systems with vastly different schools of thought.  And, quite honestly, who am I to say which is better than the other?  I don’t have the statistics to prove or disprove either one.  But, as a nurse trained in the American system, it’s gut wrenching to see this type of thing happening.  Maybe my patient wouldn’t fair any better with more aggressive treatment, but I can’t stand feeling so helpless.  It makes me so angry.  But for now, all I can do is watch this situation unfold.  I hope my instinct is wrong.  I hope I go into work today and see that she’s improved.  I hope, I hope, I hope…

Crisco Isn't Just for Cooking

“Is Crisco populah in the U.S.?” asked one of my Aussie friends the other day, as we lazed about after work.  It seemed like a strange question, since we weren’t even talking about cooking, but who am I to judge?  I thought about it for a moment. 

“I guess so,” I replied.  “My mom used it when I was growing up, but I prefer real butter.”

She gave me the strangest look.  “What ah you talking about?”

I clarified, “It’s a brand of shortening.  You know – you cook or bake with it.”  It seemed pretty obvious to me, but then I remembered brand names were rarely the same out here.  I wracked my brain, trying to remember if I had seen similar products in the local grocery stores.  Then it dawned on me she might not be referring to a food product at all.  How embarrassing.  “Wait.  What are you talking about?”

Almost simultaneously, we realized we were talking about vastly different things and burst out laughing.

“I’m talking about a Christmas lay-by company, ChristCo.” she explained.

Ahh!  That would explain odd look she gave me upon hearing my first answer.  Turns out, ChristCo. is a lay-away company that allows people to make small, monthly payments throughout the year.  Then, at Christmas, they receive a themed holiday basket of their choice; it could contain toys, or food, or even booze.  There’s a basket for everyone, making it pretty popular out here.  It’s really quite a brilliant idea, and is certainly much more exciting than shortening.  I really do learn something new every day.

Picky, Picky, Picky

Sometimes work just makes me want to scream.  I enjoy my job, really.  Overall, this has been a great experience.  And I truly do like and respect the majority of people I work with.  Even more importantly, I appreciate the hospital’s commitment to nurse education and training.  I often wish this had been my first job out of nursing school.  I would have learned so much.  But, I’m not a new grad and I don’t need the same training or supervision.  I know how to insert an NG tube.  I know how to change a PICC dressing.  I know how to care for a tracheostomy.  I’m experienced and competent.  I understand that, being relatively new to this unit and Aussie nursing, I still need to prove myself and my skill level from time to time.  I understand my superiors must be confidant I am competent to care for my patients.  I even understand that a lot of my hoop jumping is the result of working for a government agency – such organizations breed regulation and conformity.  What drives me insane, though, is certain people’s insistence that their way is the only correct way.  I must twist the gauze just so, otherwise I’m not doing it right.  (What!?!)  Proper education is one thing.  Being obsessively controlling is a completely different story.  Some days, it’s all I can do to refrain from rolling my eyes.  Some days, it’s all I can do to stop myself from making snarky comments.  But, that’s exactly what I do.  I smile and nod, acknowledging my superior’s expertise at said skill and do my best to comply with his/her instructions.  I just have to remind myself that this is all part of my learning experience.

Stupid Rain!!!

It’s mid-morning and the skies are already ominously foreboding.  Even though it poured buckets throughout the night and into the wee hours of the morning, the clouds are still heavy with precipitation.  I’m sipping my coffee and staring wistfully out the window, begging and pleading with the weather to cooperate.  It’s been ages since I’ve had a Sunday off and I have big plans for the day.  I’ve been wanting to attend Sunday afternoon drinks at The Brisbane Powerhouse for ages – it’s this incredibly stylish, weekly event on the waterfront – and today is finally my chance.  The problem is, it’s an outdoor event, and so any amount of afternoon rain just won’t do.  No one wants to have a cocktail while getting soaked, after all.  I don’t care if it rains this morning.  I don’t care if it rains later in the evening.  I just can’t have it raining in the middle of the afternoon.  Is that too much to ask?  All I can do is hope and pray the weather gods take some pity on me and show some kindness.  I have friends to meet up with and a beautiful silk dress that’s just begging to be worn.  It promises to be a perfect Sunday, if this incessant rain will just take a brief pause.  My fingers are crossed...

The Best Surprise of All

Of all the things I expected to experience here in Australia, rediscovering the sheer joy of having girlfriends was not one of them.  I expected kangaroos and koalas, playing in the surf, and adventure, but, quite honestly, I never once thought about the friends I would make.  And yet, here I am, reveling in the unmitigated bliss of actually having girlfriends. 

I don’t mean any disrespect to my friends back home, because they mean the world to me, but after leaving Denver, I was starved for girlfriends and girl time.  Vegas was a tough place to make friends.  And the few friends I did have often worked opposite schedules, making it even tougher to meet up.  My social circle felt so limited that it seemed nonexistent.  I spent a lot of time alone.  I missed grabbing drinks with the girls and having a good gab session.  I missed having someone to shop with and lunch with.  And now I have that. 

I get texts on my days off to meet up in the city for power-shopping sessions.  I meet friends for coffee and breakfast and lunch and Friday night dinners.  I go to parties.  I have reasons to make cakes.  It’s so nice to feel like a part of something.  It’s even nicer to feel like I actually fit in.  It’s all been an incredibly pleasant surprise. It’s a shame all of this is temporary, because I’m finally having the time of my life.

My Great Pumpkin Caper - Bourbon Pumpkin Cheesecake

It’s funny – as much as Aussies love their pumpkin, they’re baffled by it being used in sweet applications.  In the “land down under”, pumpkin is eaten as a vegetable and is only used in savory dishes: pumpkin minestrone, pumpkin curry, pumpkin pizza, pumpkin cannelloni, roasted pumpkin and feta salad… the list could go on and on.  It’s everywhere.  If I put my mind to it, I could probably sample a new pumpkin dish daily.  As a pumpkin aficionado, I’m in heaven.  But, as the holidays are underway, I’ve been craving the traditional, American use of pumpkin in pies, muffins, and other sweet treats.  This mystifies my Aussie friends.  Whenever I mention pumpkin-anything as a dessert, they wrinkle their noses and look at me with a mixture of confusion and disgust, as they just can’t imagine pumpkin as anything but a vegetable.

Since several of us planned to hold a mock-Thanksgiving dinner last week, I decided this was a perfect time to introduce them to the deliciousness that is sweet pumpkin.  The host had already committed to making a traditional pumpkin pie, so I offered to make my tried-and-true Bourbon Pumpkin Cheesecake.  I figured if this didn’t win them over, nothing would.  Everyone was skeptical at first, but thanks to my solid baking reputation, most gave me the benefit of the doubt and took a small slice.  I’m happy to report several went back for seconds, and a couple of people even asked for the recipe.  Sweet success!!!  I can’t tell you how excited I was that my little experiment worked.  Making this cheesecake was a time-consuming project, so I would have been fairly disappointed if it was all for naught.  Luckily, that didn’t happen.  It’s not often I’m able to share a little American culinary culture with my Aussie friends, so this was a rare treat for me. 

**See below for the recipe.**

The Casualties of Night Duty

My apartment looks like a war zone.  If I didn’t know better, I would swear that a bomb had gone off in here.  My bed isn’t made.  My clothes are strewn everywhere.  The dirty dishes are piled up in the sink.  This place is atrocious.  I’m almost embarrassed to admit I live here.  The sad thing is, I’m really just too tired to care.  Such are the casualties of night duty. Every last drop of energy has been sucked from my body and my care level has dropped to zero.  All I want to do is lie on the couch and doze off into a television-induced coma.  It’s a sad state of being, but after three long nights at the hospital plus Thanksgiving thrown in for good measure, I’m zapped.  So, here I am, wallowing in my own filth, watching reruns of American sitcoms.  The whole situation would make me feel pathetic, if I had the energy to waste on such emotions.  Instead, I’m just numb.  I can only hope that a good night’s rest will boost my spirits and energy levels, because this is just plain depressing.

There is Nothing Fun about Working Weekends

I don’t think anything makes me feel like more of a social reject than working weekend night duty.  My shift doesn’t start until 9pm, so I end up sitting at home, killing time, tormented by the sounds of my neighbors’ merrymaking.  As I try to prep for a long night at the hospital, I’m stuck listening to their loud music, even louder conversations, and uproarious laugher.  Call me silly, but I end up feeling like a lonely, old spinster, listening to the world having fun without me.  It’s pretty depressing.  I know working nights and weekends are simply a part of being a nurse, but that knowledge does little to ease the pain of feeling like the only person in my neighborhood that’s not having fun.  The drive to work doesn’t help much, either, as I’m confronted by hoards of people out and about.  I watch enviously as they socialize on rooftop bars and verandahs, sipping on drinks and chatting with friends.  It’s tantamount to torture.  But, since I’m stuck with these shifts, I just have to remind myself that every weekend isn’t like this.  There are times when I get to dress in my weekend best and join in the revelry.  There are times when I’m the one having fun.  This just isn’t my weekend.  (Come to think of it, neither is next weekend.  Ugh!)

My Aussie Mock-Thanksgiving

I have to admit, it was kind of weird prepping for Thanksgiving dinner in a sundress and eighty-five degree heat.  The meal was delicious and I was grateful for this small slice of Americana, but everything about it felt odd and disjointed, like being wrongly placed into a strange dream sequence in an art-house movie.  The balmy weather outside was screaming for warm-weather food like salads and BBQ, not the heavy comfort food associated with Thanksgiving.  Pumpkin pie may be perfect on a chilly, autumn afternoon, but it just seems out of place in the middle of summer.  Nonetheless, there I was baking pies, making casseroles, and mashing potatoes.  The sweat rolled down face in the sweltering kitchen, reminding me why sane people don’t bake in the heat of summer.  Don’t get me wrong, none of this actually stopped me from enjoying myself and feasting, I just felt a little off all day.  Regardless, it was still great to spend the day with friends and pretend for a while that I wasn’t so far from home.  I’m grateful to everyone who put forth the effort to see me through this very American holiday.  It made me feel a little less homesick and a little more connected to the life I’ve established out here.

Movember Blues

Movember.  No – that’s not a spelling error; it’s an actual word.  (Kind of.)  As the moniker for a month-long prostate cancer fund-raising effort here in Australia, Movember has become a widely accepted term.  Men are supposed to grow ridiculous mustaches throughout November and collect pledges to shave it off at the end of the month.  For some strange reason, the idea has taken off like wild fire.  It is now an incredibly popular charity, and has managed to morph into somewhat of a cultural phenomenon. 

Everywhere I go, I see men sporting awful mustaches of all shapes and sizes.  Although I have to admit it’s hilariously ingenious, I can’t help but find the whole thing slightly disturbing.  Let’s face it - very few men actually look good with a mustache.  (Tom Selleck excepted, of course.)  Most end up looking like scary child molesters or pervy porn stars.  I’m convinced the attractiveness quotient of Brisbane men has steadily decreased as the amount of upper lip hair has increased.  Ick! 

Oddly enough, I had become so accustomed to seeing everyone with their moes, I had nearly forgotten about Movember.  It only dawned on me last week, after picking my stateside friend up from the airport and driving her into the city.  We passed a billboard advertising the hairy charity, which reminded me to warn her about all of the odd facial hair she was about to see.  Imagine if I had forgotten!  She would have spent her entire visit thinking Aussie men had a strange affinity for moustaches.  Too funny!

Thankfully, the end of November is quickly approaching, which means that the end of Movember isn’t too far behind.  I cannot wait for these guys to shave their moes!  It will be nice to be able to, once again, assess men at face value, rather than constantly wondering if they are closeted porn stars or just plain weird.

Arachnophobia is Totally Rational

I just about had a heart attack tonight.  No joke.  I had just finished washing my face, when I looked up to see a heart-stoppingly large spider staring me down.  I have no idea what kind of spider he was, but he was big, hairy, and incredibly mean-looking.  So, I did what any sensible person would do – shrieked and ran into the next room.

Don’t laugh – I know what you’re thinking.  I know I should be more accustomed to spiders by now.  I understand that these freaky, eight-legged arachnids are simply another part of Aussie life and I should learn accept it.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  And I feel like I’ve come a long way.  I’ve actually stopped visibly cringing whenever I see the big ones outdoors.  But this is an entirely different story.  I don’t take kindly to creepy-crawly predators lurking on my bathroom walls.

Situations like this are when living alone is particularly loathsome.  I have no one but myself to turn to.  I can’t play the girl card and beg Mouse to kill the spider for me.  I’m stuck.  So, I called one of my Aussie friends to ask for advice.  She recommended the two-prong attack – bug spray and a heavy-duty shoe.  So there I was, doing my best to sneak up on the spider with a can of Raid in one hand and my work clog in the other.  If I hadn’t been so scared, I would have had to laugh at myself.  It was too funny!  I am happy to report, though, that my plan of attack worked.  The menacing monster is no more.  Score one for the arachnophobe!  (Of course, now I’m just paranoid that his angry brother is going to sneak up on me in the middle of the night to exact his revenge.  Eeek!)

A Well-Timed Visit

I apologize for being remiss in my blog-writing this past week.  My stateside friend was in town, making it impossible to find any time to sit and write, which in truth, really isn’t a bad thing.  How can I complain about my life being so jam-packed with fun that I cannot find time to write about it?  In my estimation, that’s a perfect week.

Her visit was perfectly timed and great for so many reasons.  First, I’ve been working my tail off since Mouse’s departure, and was beginning to feel the burn.  I needed a good excuse to take time off and play.  Second, it was my birthday week.  I would have been severely depressed if I had been forced to spend my birthday wiping poo.  Third, I’ve been pretty homesick and her company helped lift my spirits more than I can explain.  Having an old friend in my new world was comforting, like slipping on an old, favorite pair of jeans.

I did my best to play tour guide, although we didn’t do anything overly touristy.  We toured the Sunshine Coast, lazing about Noosa and hiking the Glass House Mountains.  We bush-walked throughout the Tambourine Mountains.  We caught the train to Burleigh Heads, on the Gold Coast. I introduced her to the fun-filled world of caravan parks.  We tackled as many artisan markets as we could find.  I may have failed in my quest to find her a kangaroo, but I think (I hope) I was able to compensate for that disappointment with all of the other fun stuff.

But now she’s somewhere over the Pacific, headed back to L.A., and back to her real life.  Her Aussie adventure is over.  Although my adventure still technically continues, I must now return to usual doldrums of adult life.  I’m back to work and sliding back into my normal routine, which always seems so anticlimactic after a week like this.  Luckily, the dullness will not last long as I already have some more exploits in the works.

An Unlikely Friendship

By all accounts, we shouldn’t be friends.  On paper, it doesn’t make any sense.  If you listed our attributes, and placed our likes, dislikes, beliefs, and disbeliefs side-by-side, you wouldn’t think we would even get along.  She doesn’t drink.  I love my wine.  She firmly believes in a religion that I don’t understand.  She is the most calm, levelheaded person I’ve ever met, whereas I’m prone to being totally spastic.  And yet, we’re the best of friends.  She was my savior that first year in Vegas.  We bonded over sushi, nursing, and our Rons.  She shared my love for the outdoors.  We’re both obsessed with baking, chocolate, and Anthropologie.  We kept in touch when she moved to Dallas.  It’s her fault Newport Beach will be my next city of residence.  It’s funny how unassumingly and easily people can enter into your life.  It’s comforting to know that type of friendship exists. 

She’s on a plane right now, somewhere over the Pacific, headed toward Brisbane.  She’s the only friend who’s actually bothered to call since I moved out here, and yet we still have a lot of catching up to do.  She’s newly pregnant and I need to meet her baby-to-be.  We have a week’s worth of restaurants and hiking and beach bumming to squeeze in.  We have to shop and gossip and explore.  We have a full week of “girl time” – a rare treat that I will not take for granted.  (And we’re doing it in Australia!!!)  So, this week will be spent on the Sunshine Coast and Gold Coast, doing all of the tourist-y sites I won’t usually do on my own.  I’m so excited that I can barely contain myself.

Vastly Different Experiences

A few days ago, I was teamed up with a young, Irish nurse.  One of our patients was an absolute mess, so we decided to clean her up and change the linens before the next shift arrived.  As we worked, we chatted.  “What kind of beds d’ya have in America?” she asked.  I must have looked at her strangely, because she continued on.  “I just think these automatic beds are amazin’.”  She waved the controller around, playing with the buttons.  “We don’t have anything like this back home.  Our beds are still manual.  Ya have to crank 'em.”  I couldn’t help it; I had to chuckle.  The bed she was so enthralled with was ancient by American standards.  I’m pretty sure we stopped using such models in the 1970s, and I told her as much.  We both laughed and continued on with our work, chatting and comparing nursing in Ireland to nursing in the States.

That’s one of the best things about working out here, though – meeting and talking with such a wide variety of international nurses.  I love hearing the first-hand accounts of what it’s really like to nurse in other parts of the world.  The Scottish nurses tell of the strict “Ward Mothers”, who rule the hospitals in nun-like fashion, striking fear into the hearts of all the junior nurses.  The British nurses complain about their ridiculous patient loads, often caring for more than twelve patients at once, including immediate post-operative patients, who require frequent monitoring.  The Indian nurses talk about how the patient’s family members typically stay at the bedside around the clock, providing the majority of the patients cares, so the nurse can focus on more medically-related tasks.  The one Romanian nurse I’ve met tells how the physicians would prescribe antibiotics for inpatients, but because the hospital supply was non-existent, the family members would have to retrieve the medication from the black market.  (Imagine!  In the U.S., patients aren’t even allowed to take their own medications from home.  In Romania, the patients only hope for survival is to obtain medications illegally!)

I find such vastly different experiences and backgrounds absolutely fascinating.  I’ve heard it said that nursing is nursing, no matter where you are in the world, but I have to disagree.  I understand the same basic principles apply, but every country and healthcare system develops its own unique personality and workplace culture.  Nursing in the U.S. is not the same as nursing in Australia, or the U.K., or even Canada.  But I’m appreciative that I’ve been able to learn some of the differences firsthand, as this is knowledge I will carry with me throughout the remainder of my career.

Silverman Blues

The Silverman Triathlon was on this weekend back home.  This means it’s been an entire year since I’ve competed in a triathlon.  To say this feels weird is a massive understatement; it feels unnatural.  I’ve come to define myself by which races I’m training for or recovering from.  My races keep me grounded and give me purpose.  Not training for anything in the past twelve months makes me feel slightly lost.  A big chunk of my identity is missing.  Obviously, I’ve had good reason to forgo training for now.  This year was meant to be about exploring, not training.  I wouldn’t be able to put the proper effort into it and enjoy Australia at the same time.  But seeing Silverman photos still makes me jealous.  I crave the challenge and competition.  I miss the sense of accomplishment.  I know I will be home soon enough and back into the swing of things, which will include a full-blown training schedule, but that doesn’t quite soothe my current itch.  For now, I’m just going to have to make due with my own regimen of running and swimming laps.  More importantly, I have to remind myself that there is more to life than training.

The Wedding Cake Project: Part 1

 Anyone who knows me well knows two very important things about me: 1) I love to bake, and 2) I’m a control freak.  Keeping these ideas in mind, it should come as no surprise to anyone that I am adamant about making my own wedding cakes.  Even if I wanted to hand over control, I couldn’t.  The idea of someone else making my cakes would drive me crazy.  I have a specific idea in mind and am convinced no one but myself can make it happen.

The problem is, I need to practice my cakes before the wedding.  This is one project I’m not willing to enter into blindly.  So, I need to find excuses to experiment and play.  This weekend, one of my lovely Aussie friends hosted a Mad-Hatter Tea Party in honor of her birthday, which I decided was the perfect excuse to try out the Mojito Pound Cake recipe I’ve been dying to try.  Yeah!

Admittedly, it wasn’t easy, especially considering I was forced to work without all of my normal kitchen gadgets.  I didn’t bring any of my gear out here and am not willing to invest too much into my temporary kitchen, so I had to make due with the bare minimum: one mixing bowl, a old-fashioned candy thermometer, and a decrepit hand-mixer.  It was tough.  By the end, my cramped forearm was begging for my standing mixer.

 

But the hard work was worth it.  The Mojito Pound Cake with Rum-Flavored Italian Meringue Buttercream (as imagined by Warren Brown of CakeLove) was absolutely delicious.  I had to change a few aspects of the recipe, as some ingredients weren’t available, but I was still able to pull it off.  The flavors were subtle, but quite surprisingly, it did taste like a well-made mojito.  I’m a huge fan of unique cake flavors, so this one was a winner.  This will definitely make it to my wedding cake menu.  Yum!

See below for the recipe.

Melbourne Cup Antics

So, I have to admit, the Melbourne Cup party was really fun.  (And considering the bubbly was flowing before noon, it was probably a little bit too fun!)  This may have been just another excuse to play hooky and sip on cocktails all day, but it somehow seemed appropriate with all of us dressed up in our Race Day best.  The pretty dresses and extravagant headwear helped elevate it beyond grown-up frat party status to something much more elegant.  The men even wore ties!  Everyone looked so festive and debonair!  (Until, of course, later in the day when all of the dresses and ties couldn’t make up for our cocktail-induced sloppiness.)  But the highlight of the day was definitely the race itself.  It may have only lasted a few moments, and I didn’t really understand what was going on, but it was so much fun.  The energy in the room was electric, with everyone glued to the television, cheering in unison.  Oh – and I won!!! (Woo hoo!!!)  I bet on Americain and won!!!  Now I understand why the Melbourne Cup is so popular – it’s just plain fun.  This is one Aussie cultural phenomenon I am glad to have experienced!

Melbourne Cup Fever

It’s official.  Melbourne Cup fever has swept all of Australia.  As an outsider, I find it utterly fascinating to observe their level of obsession.  Billed as The Race That Stops a Nation, the entire continent is absolutely gaga over this race.  It’s all anyone can talk about: the horses, the breeders, the trainers, the racetrack, the parties, the fashion, etc.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  Sure, Americans have the Kentucky Derby, but it pales in comparison.  The Aussies have taken their love of the races to an entirely different level and have raised the bar for enthusiasts around the world.  Today, the Melbourne Cup is the center of the Australian universe, with everything else orbiting inconsequentially around it.  Today, nothing matters more than “The Cup”.  Thus, at 2:00pm (or 12:00pm, or 1:00pm, or 3:00pm, depending upon where in Australia one is located), the entire country will stand still to watch a bunch of horses run around a track.  Unbelievable!

So today, for purely anthropological purposes, I am playing hooky from work, dressing in my Race Day finest, donning a fabulously feathered hat, and attending my very first Melbourne Cup party.  I would be doing myself a disservice by doing anything else.  I am out here to soak up all of the Aussie culture I can, after all.  And what better way to do so than by sipping on some bubbly on a Tuesday afternoon?  I love it!

**I will be sure to post the party pics later, as the hats alone will be worth gawking at.

A Very Un-Halloween

The Aussie version of Halloween is strange.  It’s here, but not really.  I know that’s a pretty poor description, but it’s the best I can come up with.  I mean, it is Halloween, but not in the same capacity as back home.  The grocery stores advertise for it, in hopes of selling a little extra candy, but that’s really about it.  Jack ‘o Lanterns don’t light up front stoops.  Trick-or-treating isn’t big.  People don’t really dress up.  It’s kind of depressing. I know Americans don’t own Halloween, but we do celebrate it with certain flair.  As much as I love the Aussie way of life, I have to admit I’m more than a little disappointed in their luck-luster treatment of this nothing-but-fun holiday.

So, this Halloween, I was left to live vicariously through Mouse.  As I was getting ready for work this afternoon, he was prepping for his big night out.  And, even though he was merely copying an old costume, I was a little jealous.  I love dressing up.  I also love big nights out.  But instead of joining in the fun, I was readying myself for another afternoon of cleaning poo.  I definitely got the short end of the stick on this one.  (No fair!)  I guess this is one of the prices I am doomed to pay for my Australian adventure.  No Halloween.  Who would have guessed?

The Itch I Had to Scratch

Why Australia?  I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been asked this question over the past year.  Potential employers quizzed me during interviews.  Family and friends queried when I told them our plans.  And everyone (coworkers, patients, everyone) I meet out here asks, often incredulously, stupefied I would leave the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas for sleepy Brisbane.  (Of course I have to remind them living in Vegas isn’t nearly as glamorous as one might imagine.) 

Why did I push for us to come here?  Why was I so determined?  Believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about this.  I’ve wracked my brain trying to figure out exactly what made coming here such a priority in my life.  I know things would be easier if it weren’t so important to me.  Life would be much simpler if I had been happy to continue on as per usual back home.  But that wasn’t enough for me.  I’m not sure why, but it just wasn’t.  Sure, I can cite logical motivations like professional development and life experience, but my need to come out here was driven by much more than any of that.  It started years before I even considered nursing school.  It came from somewhere deep inside, something I can only attribute to an innate restlessness and wanderlust.  Moving to Australia was an itch I absolutely had to scratch.

Maybe it was because Australia sounded so exotic.  Maybe I was taken in by the stereotypical images of sandy beaches and bodacious surfers.  Maybe I was just in love with the idea of it all.  Whatever the reason, coming out here was a priority for me.  I didn’t want to look back on my life and wish I had been brave enough to do something different.  I didn’t want to regret not taking the chance.

As I approach the nine-month mark, I have to wonder if it has been worth all of the stress, expense, and trouble.  Nothing has gone as planned and life out here certainly isn’t what I imagined.  But being here has helped cast a new light on my life.  I’ve learned so much about myself, and my relationship with Mouse.  I’ve learned what it feels like to be a foreigner.  I’ve experienced a different take on nursing.  I’ve formed incredible friendships.  And, most importantly, I’ve had a blast throughout all of it.  So, yes - it was worth it all.

A Much-Needed Victory

I spend a lot of my time as a nurse feeling frustrated.  I get frustrated with the doctors.  I get frustrated with my patients and their families.  I get frustrated with the seemingly never-ending mountains of poo that abound on our ward.  I get doubly frustrated when I don’t see my patients getting better.  Many days, I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.  With all of this frustration weighing me down, it’s a wonder I have the will to get up in the morning.  But then, along comes a patient who reminds me how miraculous modern medicine can be.  It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling, and a sense of pride in knowing we not only helped save this person’s life, but also preserve its quality.

Her story isn’t necessarily unique.  She is a very average, middle-aged woman who was getting ready for work one morning when she suddenly collapsed.  Her husband found her moments later, unable to speak or move the entire right side of her body.  He rushed her to the Emergency Department, where they determined she had suffered a massive, ischemic stroke.  Believe it or not, she was lucky.  She had been found in time and made it to the E.D. in time to qualify for lysis treatment.  It’s risky, but can also produce miraculous results.  When she came up to our ward, she still couldn’t communicate or move her right limbs.  But as time progressed, so did she.  By midnight, she was chatting with me, telling me about her job, and using both arms as if nothing had ever happened. 

I know it wasn’t a really miracle.  I know her recovery was a result of years of medical research and trial and error.  But for me, this was a little miracle.  After a long, hard, frustrating week, I needed a victory.  And there she was, asking me for a glass of water.  It’s ironic how one person’s medical emergency can be another’s epiphany.

My Cure for Night Duty - Pecan Cinnamon-Streusel Bread

Night duty can be hell:  It plays tricks with your body clock, staffing levels drop to a disconcertingly low number, and patients always seem to get worse overnight.  You never know what you’re in for when you walk into the ward.  It may be easy-peezy, but can just as readily turn into a complete nightmare.

One thing I love about night duty, though, is the camaraderie.  Since there aren’t many of us working, we all have to depend upon each other to get through the shift, and we take care of each other.  Working night duty brings a whole new meaning to “team effort.”  Of course, one of the ways we show our love is through food.  (Isn’t that always the case?)  We bring in treats to fuel our sugar cravings and help power us through the inherent exhaustion.

This week, my contribution to our junk-food addiction was a play on the Cinnamon Swirl bread my mom used to bake when I was growing up.  It was always my favorite breakfast treat, so I thought I would play with the recipe and dress it up a little.  What I ended up creating was absolutely delicious… Pecan Cinnamon-Streusel Bread.  It was everything I had hoped it would, and more.  So, see below for the recipe.  I highly recommend you give it a go.  Enjoy!

Pecan Cinnamon-Streusel Bread

 Ingredients:

Bread:

¼ cup butter, melted

1 1/3 cups sugar, divided

1 egg

2 cups all purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

1 cup buttermilk

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

3/4 cup pecans, roughly chopped

Streusel:

1/4 cup white sugar

¼ cup brown sugar

2/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons all purpose flour

1/8 teaspoon salt

6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, diced

1/4 cup pecans, roughly chopped

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350°F (175°C). 

Make the streusel:  In a food processor, combine sugar, flour, and salt and mix to combine.  Add butter and mix until crumbly and the butter pieces are very small, and the mixture resembles sand.  Add pecans and mix to combine.  (This can also be done by hand by first cubing the butter into small pieces and using a fork to combine the sugar and butter.  Then add flour in small amounts, using your fingers to rub the mixture together.  Continue adding flour until the mixture resembles sand.)

Make the batter:  In a large mixing bowl, beat together butter, 1 cup sugar, and egg.  Combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Add the flour mixture to the egg mixture alternately with the buttermilk. 

In a small bowl, combine the cinnamon and remaining 1/3 cup sugar.  Pour a third of the batter into a greased 8X4X2-inch loaf pan.  Sprinkle half of the cinnamon sugar and chopped pecans on top of batter.  Repeat layers twice, sprinkling the top layer with the streusel topping.  

Bake for 45-50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean.  (Hint - If the streusel browns too quickly, loosely place a piece of aluminum foil on top to allow the bread to fully cook.)