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.