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It's the week leading up to Mardi Gras Party! In keeping with the spirit, I'll post some outrageously camp things all week.
Here's the first installment, courtesy of the Big Gay Sketch Show. Enjoy!
Small Talk: At the Bar (click image for the jump)
Once again, the famous Sydney weather is back!
Awaking to a clear and wond'rous blue sky, my first thought was cycling. It has been a long, wet summer in Sydney (not that there's anything wrong with that), and that makes a breezy, sun-filled day especially gratifying.
I jumped out of bed, fixed the fellas some scrambled eggs and toast, gulped some coffee and headed for the bike lockers. Zane, desperately needing a little activity that doesn't involve either a Wii or television remote, came along. We headed south from our house in Waterloo, through the industrial areas in Zetland and Mascot (thankfully deserted on a weekend day), around the Sydney International Airport terminal, through the Rockdale Wetlands area and stopped at the Kyeemagh Boat Ramp.
Mark met us there in the car, and we locked up our bikes and all drove a few blocks to Brighton Le Sands for some fish and chips.
After our grease fest (followed by some eye-candy for desert on the Botany Bay beach), we returned to the bikes. Zane had decided he'd had enough riding and wanted to head back with Mark. Not me. I was in no way finished.
Mark, his face red with frustration and cursing like a debauched seaman, finally got Zane's bicycle in the backseat, and they piled in the car and headed homeward. I remounted my Mongoose and took off to see if I could find the bike path that follows the Cooks River.
With a little help from my Nokia Navigator, I finally discovered the path and cycled over to Canterbury. At this point I thought I should probably unbuckle my weekend-warrior gauntlet and head back to Waterloo before I did myself in.
All in all, I think I rode 50 to 60 kilometers today. I guess it's no wonder that my legs are a bit jiggly...and that this glass of wine tastes so good.
See this guy's fingers, hand and arm in slo-mo? That's kind of how I feel right now.
Nah, don't ask.
... as my grandma used to say. But it's a good tired.
My first Beastly Indulgence booth at Mardi Gras Fairday went very well. I met some great people and had a chance to work on many wonderful dogs.
Thanks to all those who brought your pet for a massage or just to say hello...and especially to Mark, who helped me put the booth together and to friends and family who pitched in throughout the day to help it run efficiently!
I couldn't have done it without you.
... but at least it's finally happened.
Prime Minister Kevin Rudd's formal apology to the members of and those affected by the Stolen Generations can be found here.
Thank you all for your comments on the last post. I know it was quite a vent, and I do feel sheepishly better now. You guys are the best.
I will pick up and move ahead.
Things will turn around; they always do.
...and I'm feelin' good
As many know, I've been looking for work.
What some don't know is that I'm sick of it. Sick to death. And I'm burned.
To this point, I've been somewhat cryptic on this blog when it comes to specifics about my pursuit of a career. Now, given that I'm "over it" [apologies for the 90s flashback phrase], I have nothing to hide really. Plus I need to vent. If you're not in the mood to hear it, you might want to just visit some of my favorite blogs linked on the left. Undoubtedly, they'll be far less whinging in nature.
First of all, let me state that I do not overestimate the availability of jobs in my field. I am a trained musician, and even without the need to watch the various Idol permutations, I know that life in this industry is tough.
Having said that, it hasn't discouraged me from pursuing my craft all these years. The bulk of my studies in secondary school, as well as nearly all of my tertiary education, has been in music. A few years ago, after spending 20+ years as a singer with various side jobs of one sort or another, I decided to return to university and obtain terminal degrees in music. This was done for a few reasons: in order to stop splitting my focus between music and some other type of job, to obtain qualifications to begin teaching at the university level, to achieve a relative degree of stability, to begin saving for retirement years, to have a commute that didn't require boarding a train or plane.
I had held off teaching in higher-ed for many years, having always opined that one needs to spend some time working in the field before moving on to train and nurture others. Then, as I approached the age of 40, I figured that all of my work as a professional performer, along with various honors like a Fulbright scholarship and summa cum laude status, were all indicators that it was now time. I embraced the opportunity to begin sharing the knowledge and experiences I had accumulated with new generations of budding music students. At long last I could work full-time in music.
Unfortunately, this hasn't panned out. Granted, circumstances have taken me in a somewhat different direction than I anticipated, in that I now have a wonderful partner and stepson and have moved across the globe to a really fab, but woefully expensive, city. But what I didn't account for was that there would be no jobs for me in Australia. None.
Even if I had accounted for that, would it have made a difference? No. I would not have called it quits on a loving and meaningful relationship, simply because I didn't readily see an immediate career trajectory for me in the country to which my Australian partner was forced to return because of antiquated, conservative immigration laws in my own home country.
"Gee, sorry, Mark & Zane, I love you both, but you're not worth it." Uh, no. Not my style.
So I moved and held out hope that, given my experience, talent, encouragement from colleagues, and a fairly impressive curriculum vita, something would turn up. Nothing has. In the nearly three years I have been in this sunburnt land, there have been a total of three positions open in the field of tertiary music teaching. Two of them were out of my league, for despite my degrees, I don't have the university teaching experience to be head of department yet. The other position, a fill-in for someone on maternity leave, I didn't even get an interview for.
There are probably many reasons for this. It could be that, at the time of most of those applications, I was only a temporary resident (more on that in a bit). It surely has to do with the fact that Australia has a much lower population than the U.S., resulting in very few jobs to begin with. I'm positive that it also has to do with the different set-up of music departments within higher-ed institutions, which means there are fewer jobs in my specific field. There's also the fact that music (and the arts in general) are only given lip-service in public and most private primary and secondary schools, resulting in a lack of need for certified music teachers that the aforementioned higher-ed music departments would train. (You think it's bad in the U.S.? You have no idea.) Heck, it could even be a case or two of anti-Americanism. Whatever it is, it has been frustrating. But I've held my head high and waited.
In August of last year, I had served my immigrant time and was granted permanent Australian residency, which means I can freely travel in and out of the country without having to reapply for more migrant visas and/or risk losing my right to be here. It didn't affect my right to work, for even as a temporary resident, the status I received when I immigrated here as Mark's partner, I had the right to work legally. Strangely, however, some places (like Qantas) have internal policies that state they will not hire temporary residents. I don't know how that can be legally justified, but apparently it is.
So, following a number of difficult and sometimes tearful conversations, Mark and I both decided that it was time for me to begin looking for work in the U.S., where the jobs in my field are. We decided, jointly, that my overall mental well-being included job satisfaction, and it was evident that the likelihood of achieving that in Australia was diminishing with each passing month. Sitting outside of academia for more than a year or two after receiving one's doctorate is professional suicide. As in Marcus Aurelius's river, the strong current of time is rapidly bringing this deadline worryingly close. As a permanent Australian resident, I could spend the academic year working in the U.S. and the other time back here with my hubby and son. It wasn't ideal, but it was work.
I have now applied for around 15 academic positions in the U.S. For whatever reason, be it my residency in Australia, an über-competitive job market, a glut of recent choral conducting DMA graduates, my age, a misguided sense of skill and talent, or a sad mixture of the above, I have had one nibble. Actually, it was a bite. As I've written before, I was one of three candidates flown to this particular university for what was, in the end, an unsuccessful interview.
After I recovered enough from the sting of getting only a dryly formal rejection e-mail and not a phone call as they'd promised me upon departure from their hallowed halls, I sent a request to two members of the committee for some feedback to find out where I might improve in what I hoped would be subsequent interviews at other institutions. One of the committee members is a fellow choral conductor, with whom at the time I seemed to connect well enough in such a friendly and collegial fashion that I could call upon her for all kinds of professional advice. I've received nothing, however...not even a reply that, unfortunately, due to legal constraints they weren't able to go on record with any kind of interview feedback, in which case I'd have understood and thanked her for responding anyway. Now, instead, I'm checking out voodoo-doll-making books from the local library.
I have been waiting for the universe to help point me in a direction that suits my skills and talents. Waiting to find my niche. I thought this was finally it. I'm not naive, in that I realize how silly it is to call it quits after one failed interview, but the whole experience has presented a firm challenge to the faith I have always placed in my own skills and ability. I am seriously questioning whether it's worth it, but then again, what would I do instead?
A blogger buddy recently offered words of sympathy and recommended I start thinking laterally. That's not a bad idea. I do have some things up my sleeve, but it's difficult moving to a blank slate after sinking so much time, effort and money in the pursuit of a specific goal without having had the chance even to try it.
Not to worry, however. My gumption will return. Someday.
I'm going to talk politics.
Now you don't get this from me very often. Don't believe me? Just have a look at the amount of posts in the Politics category for TBC. I'll give you a second.
See? Well anyway, you will now.
Before I begin, I should say that like Kate in the movie Dodgeball, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. Reading President [hard swallow] Bush's proposed budget makes me not only sick, but also...also...wait, is there a term for anger mixed with outrage mixed with frustration so intense that it makes one want to cry? If so, that's what I feel.
The NY Times reports that even many Republicans feel the proposed budget is a sham (my words and unashamedly paraphrasing in nature) that has a less than likely chance of obtaining approval from Congress.
Care for some juicy, stomach-churning nuggets culled from its pages?
The results?
Need a bucket?
Caveat: Those afraid of spiders might want to turn away.
Or not. I, myself, am a self-confessed arachnophobe, but something happened earlier today that convinced me to buck up and pluck up.
This morning, while dodging rain on the way to the recycling bins, I noticed something particularly unusual in the greenery that borders the walkway to the bin room in our parking garage. Above the hedge and between the trees, a few curled leaves seemed mysteriously to hang suspended in mid-air. As I looked more closely, I could see they were really attached to some spiderwebs, wet and glistening.
Now the presence of spiders in the dense foliage around our townhouse is certainly nothing new. There are at least seven to be seen on the way to the garage. (Yes, I've counted them.) And I'm sure that all of us who live in the fourteen units comprising our apartment block have experienced the mania induced by trailblazing through silky fibers while walking the various footpaths, especially after dark.
For a while now, I have had a love-hate relationship with these octopedal critters living in our homes and gardens. I love that they pose no threat to people and pets and that they eat flying insects, but I also fear them. Over time, I have come to admit that my fear of harmless spiders is irrational, most likely stemming from a memorable childhood encounter with what my parents thought was a brown recluse spider. I think their panicked reaction, along with the unpleasant appearance of the creature that had crawled from its resting place on the handrail of our front porch onto the warm comfort of my 7-y/o hand, has had a lasting effect on me. Brown recluses are bad news, there's no question about it, but chances are this wasn't one. True to their eponym, these spiders don't normally live in highly exposed places.
I used to stand and shiver for minutes when I saw any type of spider. Now I only do that on occasion, like when I walk through a web a night, which used to result in a wicked dance and strip show to remove the offending creature that I was sure must be crawling up my back. These days I simply shake and sputter for a few seconds and figure I'll just hit the hysterics when I actually feel it crawling on my neck. Okay, I'm shivering now.
Anyway, back to this morning's encounter. For some reason, these curly leaves I saw captured my attention. Initially, I thought that perhaps a dead leaf had blown into the web and stuck there, but I saw a few more of them and realized that it must be something other than coincidence. Then, with growing wonder, I suspected that the colorful garden spiders I was used to seeing had grown sick of the constant rain and snatched a box-hedge leaf to keep themselves dry. Whatever it was, the geek in me found it fascinating and I welcomed the opportunity to forego Affable YouTube Monday for something a little different and potentially more interesting to post on TBC.
I took advantage of a brief pause in the rain, grabbed the Canon Ixus and rushed back outside to take a few photos. Afterward, I jumped on the 'Net to do a little research, and I discovered that what I'd seen wasn't really an umbrella for the garden spiders (aka, St. Andrew's cross spiders), but rather a typical home for completely different genus of spider, known commonly (and unsurprisingly) as a Leaf-curling spider. In fact, after I read this, I reviewed the photos I had taken and realized that the St. Andrew's cross spiders were actually perched on their webs, fully exposed to the rain.
Intrigued? There's some good info on Australian orb-weaving spiders here.
Disgusted? Perhaps you'll find a soothing balm here.
The mystery begins (Click pics to enlarge.)
Leaf-curling spider in its home
A St. Andrew's cross spider, enjoying the rain
Leaf-curling spider, safe from the rain
Despite how much I like Australia, there are still many things I miss about the US.
Like MADtv.
Thank God for YouTube.
