The Advantages of Leaving Portofino’s

According to the laws of my visa, I’m only permitted to work in one place for a maximum of six months. This being the case, in order to avoid a deportation notice, I have concluded my days working weekends at the restaurant Portofino’s.

Although it would make for a unique story to be able to truthfully claim that I’ve been kicked out of a country, I can’t think of a less exciting way than “I worked in one place for a bit too long.”

I’m disappointed to be leaving the job, restaurant, coworkers and best Australian Italian food I’ve ever had, but I’ve realized there are also many advantages to quitting.

• I’ll have more time for productive activities

Napping

Watching TV

 

Napping while watching TV

• I’ll have more time to enhance my knowledge and skills as a child caregiver.

• I won’t have to hear another customer ask when I’m planning on returning to Canada.

• I won’t have to rack my brain when someone asks for things like capsicum, prawns, or a stubby.

• I can stop explaining to people that we don’t carry Foster’s. (Oh, nevermind, I never had to do that.)

• The K-Mart pants I purchased for said job will never have to see the light of day again.

Makeshift button

• Portofino’s was not just a restaurant, but hosted wedding receptions as well. Never again will I have to:

               -Watch people pretend to know the words to YMCA.

               -Watch people pretend to know the moves to the Electric Slide.

               -Watch another belligerent conga line (Australia has yet to

                  find out that this dance is no longer popular.)

               -Hear a string of “Dancing Queen,” “Staying Alive,” and the

                  Chicken Dance.

               -Bear witness to the horror that is wedding speeches. (Hey,

                  great story, you should tell it at parties. Oh, you just did.)

               -Get hit on, asked out, or invited to participate in a

                  threesome by a drunken guest.

• I can throw out The Shoes.

 

The Benefits of Living with a Chef

Seeing as my last post was seen by the household chef himself, I’ve been in a bit of hot water lately. And it’s quite unfortunate to be blacklisted by the person whose house you live in. So, in an effort to not be exiled back to America, I’ve decided to make a follow up: the benefits.

• You’ll never run out of places to put your cold foods!

• You learn to make exquisite meals for his children!

• Every knife in the house is amazingly sharp!

     

• Any tool you could ever want to use is right at your disposal!

Whether it’s for culinary use or not

• You have your own personal chef!

Chef Richard, what’s the soup du jour?

 

• You’ll never have to worry about being out of food!

• When you do get low on supplies though, and think that there’s nothing for dinner and you’ll have to go hungry, he manages to combine random ingredients into an upscale feast!

I don’t know how he does it.

• You’ll eat so well, you forget peanut butter and jelly ever existed!

….just kidding. As if.

 

The Downsides of Living with a Chef

 

• You will find the strangest foods in the house.

 

 

 

• There are the most intricate utensils you’ve ever seen.

 

Bird cage?

 

Back scratcher..?

Ummm...

 

• Mass quantities of random foods

Watching too much "True Blood"?

No wonder they laughed when I told them I'm vegetarian.

 

• When you try to cook for his children, even if you make top-quality meals, they just won’t appreciate it.

 

 

• This happens: 

 

Yikes!

 

 

• Suddenly your own rendition of spaghetti doesn’t seem so appealing.

 

 

• There are so many refrigerators??

 

 

 

 

• Every knife in the house is WAY too sharp.

 

 

 

• He refuses to make you peanut butter and jelly.

 

 

Peanut Butter and Jellycious

Today, I did something I have never had to do in my entire life. In all my twenty four years, of all the people I’ve met, things I’ve done, and places I’ve been, I have never had to do this. Until now.

Today, I had to defend peanut butter and jelly.

Peanut butter and jelly, a staple in the pantries of individuals around the nation; young families, newlyweds, bachelors, old couples, the impoverished, the wealthy, and anyone else with any sort of taste buds (or hunger).

Peanut butter and jelly is a quintessential part of life.

This is the sandwich I not only grew up with, but survived on throughout college, vegetarianism, and living on my own.

Something I think most people can relate to.

There’s even a SONG about it (You know, about first having to crush the peanuts, then smash the grapes, etc, etc).

Actually, there’s multiple songs advocating its glory (baseball bat, anyone?)

So naturally it was overwhelming for me that these people, this family I have been living with for over six months, couldn’t understand the prominence of peanut butter and jelly. It was like having them try to convince me that rugby is more entertaining than football. Or that HobNobs are tastier than Oreos. Or that The Beatles were greater than N’Sync.

My British host parents, however, not only couldn’t fathom the thought of it, but told me over and over how disgusting it sounded.

“Why would you put peanut butter on a sandwich with jelly–??”

Why WOULDN’T you?!

I tried to explain how the salty texture of peanut butter perfectly complimented the sweetness of jelly, making it the most Utopian sandwich. Ever.

But they looked at me like I was trying to sell them grapefruit with chocolate pudding. Or a ketchup milkshake. Or yeast paste.

And this is coming from a culture that dines on black pudding and haggis (both delectable, they insist).

As of now, I have put aside my ween-Bonnie-off-of-Dora-the-Explorer-and-get-her-more-into-CSI mission and am now fully focusing on converting her to peanut butter and jelly. Sure, Australian peanut butter tastes like the filling of those Nab crackers, but it’s better than going through life without it at all.

She must avoid the inevitable brainwashing against this delicacy that she will encounter from her English parents.

So for the rest of her life, while her whole family is dining on sheep’s stomach, Bonnie will be begging for a box of Uncrustables (assuming Smuckers ever listens to my plea to send their products down here).

I have always been open with the cultural differences that I’ve faced here. I never criticized when I saw children riding to school in kangaroo pouches or when my fish and chips came with a side of Vegemite. But to not be willing to accept the absolute greatest thing since sliced bread (or perhaps the reason sliced bread was invented) is where I draw the line.

And once I can convince them that pig’s blood isn’t actually gourmet, they will learn to love peanut butter and jelly.

 

How to Celebrate your Third Birthday

Step one: Make birthday cupcakes.

 

 

Step two: Ruin birthday cupcakes. Order a cake instead. Tell everyone you made it anyway.

The temptation to take a bite a blame one of the kids was overwhelming.

 

 

Step three: Invite all your friends over.

 

 

Step three alternative: Have your mother invite all her friends and their kids.

 

 

Step four: Put on exorbitant amounts of sunscreen.

 

 

Step five: Play games.

 

 

Step six: Break out the pinata

Brittany--ours was way better.

 

 

Step seven: Have your friends (ie Mom’s friends’ children) try to hit pinata

 

 

Step eight: When your friends fail, have your older brother do it instead.

Success!

 

 

Step nine: Open presents

 

 

Step ten: Leave the party once all the gifts are open.

 

 

Step eleven: Reluctantly get dragged back out.

 

 

Step twelve: Sing happy birthday. If unable to blow out the candles, have other children help (if they’re not too busy picking their nose).

 

 

Step thirteen: Pass out from too much birthday excitement.

 

Night of the Living Ducks

As I’ve mentioned before, Bonnie has a lot to do throughout the day. We’re both all over the place, and barely get a moment to relax. But on a rare occasion, like if a luncheon gets cancelled or a meeting is pushed back, we have some free time. Moments like this we get to decide what we’re going to do with ourselves; and it’s at these moments that Bonnie wants to feed the ducks.

It sounds innocent enough. It’s a fun activity, allowing us to spend some time in nature, out of the house and under the sun. After all, we always have lots of leftover or stale bread, so we might as well donate it to the hungry birds down the street.

But by hungry, I mean ravenous. And by birds, I mean demons.

It’s not a fun activity.

I. Hate. Feeding the ducks.

It’s Australia, Bonnie. Let’s go to the beach, or ride a kangaroo. WHY do you want to feed the ducks again?

Every time we arrive, it always starts out so harmless, and I start to wonder why I dreaded it so much. It’s just a few ducks meandering around the lake, kicking around grass and discussing social injustices. They’re very friendly towards us when they see us coming down the hill. We then begin tearing off little bits of bread and tossing it to them, making sure everyone gets a piece. Ducklings get a slightly bigger tear.

 

After a few minutes, I start to smile, relax, even enjoy it. I secretly chastise myself for not wanting to come, and commend Bonnie for such a good idea, grateful that she was so persistent in encouraging me to come along.

The ducks immediately sense that my guard is down.

I don’t know if they have a specifically strong sense of smell for stale bread, they can hear their other duck counterparts getting generously fed, or they can just sense when strangers have invaded their territory.

But they come from all over. Some emerge from the murky water, some come from behind, some drop down from the sky.

 

I’ve seen ducks appear out of thin air.

Hmm, this reminds me of...

 

 

We slowly begin to forget our escape plan.

 

While I’m rapidly trying to get rid of my bread and throw it as far from us as possible, Bonnie is still naively breaking off crumbs and tossing them just inches away. She doesn’t even notice them voraciously closing in.  Part of me always wonders how close they’ll actually get to her (will they pull her into the depths of the lake? If they bite her does she turn into one of them?), but I end up tucking her under my arm at the last moment and fleeing for our lives.

No swimming?

 

No problem.

 

I then fling her over to the nearby playground, sobbing (her sobbing, not me. Well, usually), for the sole reason that it’s guarded by a four foot tall fence around the entire perimeter.

Here she suggests we unwind and ease our shock of just seeing our lives flash before our eyes by hanging out on the swings.

This usually does the trick, and by the time our pulses have gone back to normal, the ducks have retreated. I make sure the coast is clear (by sending Bonnie out first), and then hustle to the car.

Next time I think we’ll skip the ducks and go to the alligator pond. It would be silly to risk our lives again.

 

The Car Seat Specially Designed for People Who Hate their Children

I have experienced a car seat invented by someone that hates children and wants them to suffer.

Car seats are created to keep children contained within the car while in motion and, in case of an accident, safely in one spot.

Not that I ever gave these devices much thought, but had I been confronted with the idea, I would have been in full support.

Until I came across a car seat only Miss Hannigan would approve of.

Meet: Bonnie’s car seat.

 

It looks fairly harmless from the outside. Nice shape, cute design, all the right equipment.

It’s everything you need out of a car seat.

 

That’s what I thought at first, too.

But let’s take a closer look.

These are the straps used to contain a child’s shoulders in the seat in case of sudden braking.

 

They look innocent enough.

Little do you know, on the other side hides instantly heated rubber strips.

 

At first exposure to the sun, the rubber pads on the straps immediately begin to get hot, not unlike a stovetop that’s just been turned to high.

One side gives the impression that the straps are friendly and non-threatening, luring any child into its detrimental grasp. The second the other side touches human skin, however, the child’s skin is instantly singed.

Each encounter leads to kicking, screaming, and frantic 911 calls.

But, if you’re strong enough to push through the screams of agony and third degree burns, you now have to buckle the child in.

Two metal hooks must be fitted together and clicked tightly into the buckle to be secure. These two hooks, if not used correctly, will create scars in the thin skin of a child, gash through it, or bite (no, seriously, bite) off a fingertip.

 

Not only that, but the prongs must be clasped together over the child in exact precision. If they don’t meet just right, the prongs will jut out in every direction, aggressively daring anyone to mesh them together incorrectly again.

 

I know, I know, putting two metal pieces together isn’t rocket science.

This shouldn’t be a big deal.

And it’s not, if you’re buckling in a stuffed duck. Or a child saturated with Valium. But normal case scenario: trying to put them on over a squirming, screaming, and scalded toddler already infested with the malice of the car seat.

Or, scenario #2: a toddler in the I-can-do-it-myself stage, refusing to let anyone else fasten her in, unknowingly seated in an absolutely-no-child-can-possibly-put-this-on-herself car seat. And therefore…will-spend-the-next-ten-minutes-wrestling-with-it-until-you’re-both-in-tears-and-don’t-even-remember-where-you-were-trying-to-go-in-the-first-place.

Honestly, it’s-absolutely-exhausting.

But let’s say you’re lucky enough to have safely strapped in the child, regardless of how flustered, burned, or scarred she is. Keeping her in is yet another hurdle.

For whatever reason, these straps are remarkably simple for kids to get their arms out of.

Not that I’m an expert on car seats, but in my opinion, that sort of defeats the purpose.

You’ll be halfway down the road, trying so hard to remember to drive on the left side, when you look back and there’s a two-year-old flailing around like a night crawler on the end of a fishing line.

 

You can’t really blame the child, however, for trying to flee the evil holding her down.

So, in the future, don’t trust someone that hates children to teach them, care for them, have them over to a ranch house in Neverland, or manufacture car seats for them.

 

 

Note: No ducks were harmed in the making of this blog.

Well…one was.

 

My Only Complaints About Australia

Australia is a beautiful country. It’s got great beaches, fascinating wildlife, and who can complain about those accents? But as for any country (except America), there are a few inevitable flaws. These are just a few of the grievances I’ve come across in the past five months.

• The heat

What do you mean it's February??

• Vegemite

• None of the bartenders are amused when I ask for a Foster’s. Turns out it’s NOT Australian for beer.

• The constant fear of hitting a kangaroo is overwhelming.

• No free refills??!

• Their coffee is horrendous.

Does Starbucks do overseas delivery?

• The ants. are. everywhere.

• They ALL think I’m Canadian.

• Their version of ketchup, is so thin, bland and watery, they can’t even justify calling it ketchup, but tomato sauce.

to-MAH-to sauce

• Their mayonnaise looks like glue.

 

• They don’t even have mustard…apparently they’re just really not into condiments.

• Still, no one can give me a straight answer. Is this a country? A continent? An island??

• Walking around barefoot in public is completely acceptable.

No shirt, no shoes, and everyone still gets service.

• Movies, TV, and news takes much longer to get over here (Whitney Houston is still alive, right?)

 

The Plumber Always Rings Twice

Bonnie is a very busy person. If she’s not in Play Group, she’s got a lunch date. If she’s not at gym class, she’s booked with story time at the library. She’s constantly on the go, and as her personal assistant, agenda coordinator, and chauffeur, neither of us are home much during the day.

Today, however, she had to move some things around as the plumber was due around 10:30 to fix the garbage disposal and we had to be home to let him in. Bonnie and I spent the morning in the garden, getting some long overdue tasks done out there, such as feeding the snails and baking scones out of grass and daisies.

At one point while we were watering the dandelions, Bonnie managed to water herself too, so I had to strip her down to her Minnie Mouse knickers.

Then later we turned the radio on inside, simply as background noise for our political discussion in the sandbox.

Before I knew it, I heard the dog barking and run inside. I was still reeling over Bonnie’s strong right-wing opinions, so she made it in long before me. When I finally got inside, I saw she had already opened the door for the plumber, not bothering to shut it behind him. As the dog is prone to running away for hours at the first chance she gets, I instinctively start urging them to shut the door (perhaps more authoritatively and shrill than normal as I was trying to compete with the radio).

Once the front door was secured, I soaked in the reality of the situation. The plumber had been greeted by a naked toddler, a boisterous shitzhu, and an au pair shouting at him, working hard to be heard over Wiz Khalifa.

I tried to soothe the atmosphere with my best I-actually-do-have-social-skills smile, but he still looked like he had just walked in to the set of Jersey Shore on a Friday night.

Unsure of whether to try and redeem ourselves or continue on with our Young, Wild and Free morning, we turned off the radio and gave each other well-this-is-awkward, now-what? side stares. Or maybe Bonnie’s was more of a plea to go back outside. I can never tell the difference.

I vouched for turning some smooth jazz on, in hopes that the plumber would just assume he had merely imagined hearing Perth’s Top 40. Which had been amped up, not to volume 10, but 11. I then politely asked Bonnie to retrieve some conservative garments before returning.

The three of us stood in the kitchen, not unlike the Brady Bunch kids (and Tiger), to give our guest a solid don’t-judge-a-house-by-its-greeting impression. At the time, I thought we saved our image pretty solidly, keeping the household name shiny. Looking back, however, the plumber was probably creeped out, not just by the fact that we changed our demeanor so quickly, but also that we stood watching him for the remainder of his visit.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that after two and a half painfully long and dragged out…minutes, he left in a blundering hurry. Just when I had been about to offer him some lemonade or tea or grass and daisy scones, he careened to the front door, mumbling something about not having the right tools and that his “company will give you all a call at some point.”

Well, conservative clothing off, back to the sandbox, back to the snails. And I mean, now we know how to keep strangers away. And ensure that the garbage disposal never gets repaired.

 

We’re Going on Baliday

I just returned from a five day holiday in Bali with a fellow au pair. There were hundreds of laughs, stories, and unexpected surprises, but here are the highlights.

 

• Nearly drowning from the torrential downpour that came on the first night. Oh, and every day after that. I guess that’s what we get for going during the rainy season.

• Catching a ride with Melanie, the six-year-old elephant at the elephant park.

• Jordi and I getting stopped on the street by a group of Asians asking for us to take a picture. No, they weren’t wanting us to take one of them…they wanted a photo with us. Now I know how celebrities feel. It’s exhausting.

 

• Getting hassled by every shop owner whenever we walked by. Luckily enough, they ALL seemed to want to make a special deal just for me. Maybe I really am a celebrity.

 

• Seeing how many Bintang (the beverage of choice in Indonesia) shirts I could acquire.

• Five dollar massages. Enough said.

 

 

• Stopping on the side of the road to feed monkeys.

• Drinking Luwak coffee. Don’t know what that is? Morgan Freeman does.

 

• Receiving offers for *magic* mushrooms

 

• Hundreds. And hundreds. Of mosquito bites.

• Having eternally dirty feet

Confession: these are not my feet. I forgot to take an actual picture of them. But I think this gets the point across.

 

Yup. It was bali-stic.