We have been trying unsuccessfully for the past few months to get a credit card. My credit rating in the States is good enough to get me a card with a $28,000 limit, but here no-one will even consider my applications. So, we got a debit card instead. Yes that's right: our bank account came with an ATM card only; the debit card is extra. Do you remember the last time you saw an ATM card without a credit card logo on it? Me neither. When the cards arrived, Z called up and activated them. Yay! We can now do things like make on-line purchases and order concert tickets. Today I used my card for the first time to make a reservation at a house down near Wilson's Prom. Like all my credit card applications, my little debit card was rejected. A little panicky, I checked our account and found it adequately stocked with moola. So I called the bank to find out what was going on. I was informed that I hadn't linked the card to my account.
Say what???
Yes folks, it's true. The bank sent me a card, allowed me to activate the card, but never connected the card to any money thereby making the card a completely useless piece of plastic taking up space in my wallet.
April 24, 2007
April 23, 2007
Media Cottons On to Scientists' Predictions
The press is full of bad news about global climate change (I'm not calling it "global warning" any more because every time there's a cold snap, people say, "See? There's no such thing as global warming."). When we got back to the land of newspapers after our trip around the world, I noticed that there seemed to be a lot more news coverage of environmental problems. 'Suddenly' the mainstream papers were talking about fisheries collapse and carbon emissions. That sort of coverage has only increased; it seems almost weekly that an article discusses the seriousness and severity of global warming. I guess the media has finally caught up to what scientists have been saying for a couple of decades now.
A couple of months ago, I came across this article that talks about the larger-than-predicted spike in greenhouse gas emissions in 2006. That has me worried because there are all sorts of positive feedback loops that could kick into action, speeding up climate change suddenly. OK, not as suddenly as "The Day After Tomorrow" but more quickly than current models predict. For a great discussion of these (and a really great scary novel), read "The Weather Makers" by Tim Flannery.
In January, an article in the NY Times quotes Dr. Rees, a cosmologist at Cambridge, as giving civilization no more than a 50 percent chance of surviving until the year 2100. Meanwhile Brisbane is on stage 5 water restrictions - stage 5 of 5. I don't know what happens next. There are very real concerns that hydropower plants supplying Sydney will have to close down if there isn't rain in the 18 months. A couple of months ago, the cover of our local paper The Age proclaimed that the Great Barrier Reef is facing extinction. But don't worry, according to Howard climate change is not a major issue and Australians aren't the biggest emitters of carbon - we're behind the US and China. What he fails to mention is that our total population is around 20 million so it's no surprise that we're emitting less carbon than two vastly more populous nations. Unfortunately, on a per capita rate, we're number two.
There's only one piece of good news I can glean from all of this: I chose the right field. If I'd chosen to study coral reef fish ecology, I'd be seriously worried about job stability. All those days spent diving in cold murky waters may reap a pay-off yet.
File this post under the category: glass one eighth full.
A couple of months ago, I came across this article that talks about the larger-than-predicted spike in greenhouse gas emissions in 2006. That has me worried because there are all sorts of positive feedback loops that could kick into action, speeding up climate change suddenly. OK, not as suddenly as "The Day After Tomorrow" but more quickly than current models predict. For a great discussion of these (and a really great scary novel), read "The Weather Makers" by Tim Flannery.
In January, an article in the NY Times quotes Dr. Rees, a cosmologist at Cambridge, as giving civilization no more than a 50 percent chance of surviving until the year 2100. Meanwhile Brisbane is on stage 5 water restrictions - stage 5 of 5. I don't know what happens next. There are very real concerns that hydropower plants supplying Sydney will have to close down if there isn't rain in the 18 months. A couple of months ago, the cover of our local paper The Age proclaimed that the Great Barrier Reef is facing extinction. But don't worry, according to Howard climate change is not a major issue and Australians aren't the biggest emitters of carbon - we're behind the US and China. What he fails to mention is that our total population is around 20 million so it's no surprise that we're emitting less carbon than two vastly more populous nations. Unfortunately, on a per capita rate, we're number two.
There's only one piece of good news I can glean from all of this: I chose the right field. If I'd chosen to study coral reef fish ecology, I'd be seriously worried about job stability. All those days spent diving in cold murky waters may reap a pay-off yet.
File this post under the category: glass one eighth full.
April 22, 2007
Enculturation
We've been in Melbourne for six and a half months, though it feels like so much longer. I'm pleased to say that I no longer look the wrong way when I cross the street - though I haven't done that for quite some time. I've recently being to perceive cars in American movies as driving on the wrong side of the road. These steps towards being comfortable in Australia are balanced by my inability to hear American accents - they still sound "normal". And every now and then I'm surprised to hear someone near me sound Australian. Last week I called a pub to make a dinner reservation and nearly laughed out loud at the guy on the other end of the phone - he was so Australian. Real okka, if you know what I mean - which you probably don't. In addition to excellent 'roo steak, the same pub offers a bogan burger, a bogan being the Aus equivalent of American white trash. The burger includes a grilled beef patty, breaded and fried chicken, fried bacon, fried potato pancake, and canned beetroot all in a bun with a cocktail umbrella on top. Everything about it screams class. Just thinking about it may be bad for your cholesterol. I had this pub recommended to me by one of my lab-mates. The German post-grad in my office overheard us discussing this and we then had fun trying to define the word "bogan" to someone who had also never heard the terms "white trash" or "trailer trash". I think we got the idea across with some swearing and pantomimes. I'm glad to be a cultural ambassador when I can.
April 15, 2007
The curse of the clothes horse
As I have mentioned before, I lost all my clothes in the mold incident of '06. I have, however, managed to beef up the wardrobe in the past few months, in part on my own, and in major part thanks to various parental figures. One person in particular took me on a wonderfully exorbitant shopping trip where I was bought an absolutely fabulous tank top costing at least three times what I would ever pay for a tank top. It makes my boobs look great and is interesting while not being overwhelming, thereby wearable with pretty much everything: jeans, skirts, work, play. Because it was expensive and because the tag says to, I always wash it by hand. Yes me, washing things by hand. Shocking. I wore it out to the pub last night and so it smelt like an ashtray this morning. Playing at being a dutifully responsible adult, I decided to do some hand laundry this afternoon in an effort to avoid the cigarette smells becoming a permanent part of the fabric. In addition to the tank, I washed my new favourite long-sleeved top from Anthropologie (a birthday present), some French lingerie and a couple of other things. When I do hand laundry, I'm exceedingly careful to keep the colours way the hell away from the lights, which is what I did today. So, I washed and rinsed and washed and rinsed, careful not to rub too hard or wring too much. And then I carried the items out to dry and discovered that my two favourite shirts and my expensive lingerie are covered in big, ugly, brown stains.
Swearing furiously, I returned to the laundry room to soak them again. And that's where Z found me, crying and banging my head against the window. He stood looking at me like you look at something that's about to explode in a big bad terribly no good way. Which is pretty much what I felt like doing, so his concern was justified.
At first I didn't understand what had happened. Then it came to me: the culprit is the fucking laundry basket we use to carry clothes out to hang on the line. It has left brown stains over all our clothes, stains we thought were caused by the oil seal failing on the washing machines we bought from the cheapo dirtbag salesman on Syndey Rd. You know, the three washing machines we went through before finally stomping into the shop and demanding our money back for them and the fridge which was also, at that point, not working. We couldn't at the time understand how three - three! - washing machines in a row could fail on us. Now we do...
Truth be told, I don't feel so bad for giving cheapo dirtbag salesman such a hard time. I mean the fridge really was befucked. And, as Z pointed out, even the repairman thought all of the washing machines were blown.
But my clothes! I feel cursed. What Egyptian goddess of the outfit did I piss off while we were at Karnak? Or is it a Congolese esprit de costume upset that we bought that wooden statue? What the fuck???
Perhaps it's time to have an exorcism. I think I'll begin by feeding that laundry basket to the goats.
Swearing furiously, I returned to the laundry room to soak them again. And that's where Z found me, crying and banging my head against the window. He stood looking at me like you look at something that's about to explode in a big bad terribly no good way. Which is pretty much what I felt like doing, so his concern was justified.
At first I didn't understand what had happened. Then it came to me: the culprit is the fucking laundry basket we use to carry clothes out to hang on the line. It has left brown stains over all our clothes, stains we thought were caused by the oil seal failing on the washing machines we bought from the cheapo dirtbag salesman on Syndey Rd. You know, the three washing machines we went through before finally stomping into the shop and demanding our money back for them and the fridge which was also, at that point, not working. We couldn't at the time understand how three - three! - washing machines in a row could fail on us. Now we do...
Truth be told, I don't feel so bad for giving cheapo dirtbag salesman such a hard time. I mean the fridge really was befucked. And, as Z pointed out, even the repairman thought all of the washing machines were blown.
But my clothes! I feel cursed. What Egyptian goddess of the outfit did I piss off while we were at Karnak? Or is it a Congolese esprit de costume upset that we bought that wooden statue? What the fuck???
Perhaps it's time to have an exorcism. I think I'll begin by feeding that laundry basket to the goats.
Field games
There are certain phrases, casually bantered around any science facility, that make no sense at all if you stop and think about them. Take, for example, one I use frequently: in the field. As in, "I won't be able to catch up over lunch tomorrow because I'll be in the field." Field? What field? When have I ever done research in a field? And what does it mean to be in the field anyway? Wouldn't it be more correct to say on the field?
This really has nothing much to do with anything at all - it's just one of those things I've been thinking about when I'm not thinking about the massive ginormousness of the project that I've signed up to do. I had a three hour meeting on Friday with my supervisor at the guy in charge of running Victoria's marine parks. I left feeling under qualified and overwhelmed, not the best of combinations. It did however, shift the way I think about this project. I no longer think of it as a university course; it's become a research project that I've been hired to execute. Because they are paying me so poorly, they've sweetened the deal by agreeing to give me a nice piece of paper and a title change when I'm done. Perhaps surprisingly, this little change in perspective actually makes the whole thing easier. I like doing research projects - figuring out which questions to ask, how to ask them and then how to figure out the answers - but I'm not sure at all that I like getting a PhD; that sounds far more difficult. So, I play little mind games with myself (and the other self who so pleasantly agrees) and think about the foolishness of language in an effort to make it all feel better.
This really has nothing much to do with anything at all - it's just one of those things I've been thinking about when I'm not thinking about the massive ginormousness of the project that I've signed up to do. I had a three hour meeting on Friday with my supervisor at the guy in charge of running Victoria's marine parks. I left feeling under qualified and overwhelmed, not the best of combinations. It did however, shift the way I think about this project. I no longer think of it as a university course; it's become a research project that I've been hired to execute. Because they are paying me so poorly, they've sweetened the deal by agreeing to give me a nice piece of paper and a title change when I'm done. Perhaps surprisingly, this little change in perspective actually makes the whole thing easier. I like doing research projects - figuring out which questions to ask, how to ask them and then how to figure out the answers - but I'm not sure at all that I like getting a PhD; that sounds far more difficult. So, I play little mind games with myself (and the other self who so pleasantly agrees) and think about the foolishness of language in an effort to make it all feel better.
April 03, 2007
one of us ... one of us ...
In one of my favourite Raymond Chandler passages, he describes a drunk dame setting a glass down on a coffee table saying, "She was eight inches wrong".
I managed to do the same thing today, but with a boat. As in, I launched it but was five metres wrong. Which is to say that the boat came off the trailer and onto the ramp rather suddenly and rather not in the water. No damage to the prop. No crack in the hull. "Just" some big old scrapes down to the lightly shredded fiberglass.
What happened? As I've always done, I disconnected the boat from the tailer before we backed down the ramp. But this is a different boat, a lighter boat, one that's back heavy and, evidently, overly anxious to get in the water. So, it parted with the trailer prematurely. Reuniting boat and trailer would not have been possible without the stranger who stopped to help out. As we began the muscle-aching task of winching the boat back into position, it looked like we might actually be winching the truck down the ramp instead. Fortunately, truck did not share boat's desire to get wet.
My lab-mates, all of whom have been involved in similar "minor" mishaps, say that I'm now christened; I'm officially one of the crew. There wasn't so much grinning or joking from my supervisor when I told him - more standing around the boat and saying, "That's bad."
As bad as the damage is, the timing is even worse. This comes on the heels of an incident last week in which our other boat got swamped. This means that the lab is out of boats at a time when they are needed for field work and when the ocean conditions are actually good.
The day wasn't a total loss as we still managed to go diving - we did a shore dive with an entry that involved dropping over a 5'5" wall and scrambling over several metres of large boulders. The entry wasn't really the problem; it was the getting out that was difficult. My graceless clambering had an audience of 15 Japanese tourists, a Scottish family and a small group of young boys. After spending an hour and a half floating weightlessly, it's difficult to find one's land legs.
I spoke to Lumpkin on the phone when I got home. He cheered me up by sharing one his dad's quotes with me:
I managed to do the same thing today, but with a boat. As in, I launched it but was five metres wrong. Which is to say that the boat came off the trailer and onto the ramp rather suddenly and rather not in the water. No damage to the prop. No crack in the hull. "Just" some big old scrapes down to the lightly shredded fiberglass.
What happened? As I've always done, I disconnected the boat from the tailer before we backed down the ramp. But this is a different boat, a lighter boat, one that's back heavy and, evidently, overly anxious to get in the water. So, it parted with the trailer prematurely. Reuniting boat and trailer would not have been possible without the stranger who stopped to help out. As we began the muscle-aching task of winching the boat back into position, it looked like we might actually be winching the truck down the ramp instead. Fortunately, truck did not share boat's desire to get wet.
My lab-mates, all of whom have been involved in similar "minor" mishaps, say that I'm now christened; I'm officially one of the crew. There wasn't so much grinning or joking from my supervisor when I told him - more standing around the boat and saying, "That's bad."
As bad as the damage is, the timing is even worse. This comes on the heels of an incident last week in which our other boat got swamped. This means that the lab is out of boats at a time when they are needed for field work and when the ocean conditions are actually good.
The day wasn't a total loss as we still managed to go diving - we did a shore dive with an entry that involved dropping over a 5'5" wall and scrambling over several metres of large boulders. The entry wasn't really the problem; it was the getting out that was difficult. My graceless clambering had an audience of 15 Japanese tourists, a Scottish family and a small group of young boys. After spending an hour and a half floating weightlessly, it's difficult to find one's land legs.
I spoke to Lumpkin on the phone when I got home. He cheered me up by sharing one his dad's quotes with me:
There are two kinds of boaters: those who have run aground, and those who haven't yet.Is it still called running aground if you weren't in the water in the first place?
April 02, 2007
Before you buy a house...
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