My God, has it been a Month?!

The teasing, mercurial weather-makers here! The day will dawn sunny, rain ten times before noon, then blossom as a gorgeous midday before deteriorating into a torrential afternoon downpour that clears for a stunning sunset to offset the full-on evening storm. My window is coated with sheets of water as rain blows sideways and whips around the house. It makes for a melancholy night, particularly given the oppressive continuing chill, offset by a candle on my desk and Pavarotti singing through iTunes. My roommate calls this season of unpredictable, frustrating, moody, and evocative weather "the female days."

The funniest anecdote of the week explains how I got two holes ripped into the seat of my favorite jeans. A few evenings ago, I spent the night on the couch at a friend's house. I woke up to find the house empty. My friends had all departed for work, locking the doors behind them. In a brilliant feat of fire-escape-prevention, whoever did the doors on the house installed deadbolts that require keys to unlock. Inside and out. The screen door? That too required a key. So, I opened every window in the house (upstairs and downstairs... not sure how the upstairs was going to help me) looking for one that opened wide enough for my head to fit through. The best I got was one of those crank-open things that creates a jaunty angle between the brick mantle outside and the interior window frame, which was about four feet off the ground. If successful, I would be standing in a flower bed in the front yard. If unsuccessful, I'd be a good story for the local fireman, and my back would be contorted in a brand new way. Ten inches to make my escape. I tried calling all three members of the household, but they were at work, forty-five minutes passed, and I needed to get to class.

The scene that ensued is eminently qualified for YouTube. After taking out the window screen, I took off all excess layers of clothing, did some rudimentary "I'm about this wide" measuring, and tossed my belongings outside in hopes it wouldn't start raining before I was able to collect them. I rockclimbed up onto the ledge, and--feet first--started to slide out towards freedom. I got stuck at the hips. I wasn't too big, mind you... it's just that between the odd muscle contracting (stabilizers engaged), and the sort of wedging of ass-cheek and pelvic bone while doing a full back bend and trying to support my upper body without pulling the top window down on myself... well, I was a little cramped. It was nothing that a little wiggling and thrusting and cursing couldn't supersede. Boobs got stuck too. That just took some jamming and gradual stuffing- inside to outside, like a medieval mammogram. And then I just did the limbo out the rest of the way, nicking the chin only enough to jerk my head back and whack it into the brick behind me. Freedom! And torn jeans! I do wish someone had taken a video so I could apply for my dream job with the Cirque du Soleil.

The rain outside has stopped. Stars are out... for now.

ANZAC Gambling

All of Australia held a moment of silence Sunday morning for ANZAC Day, which honors the country's veterans and fallen soldiers. There was a beautiful dawn service at the war memorial downtown, and most Aussies celebrated the day with commemorative brunches and copious booze. In true Down Under fashion, the national holiday extends through the Monday workday, allowing everyone to take full advantage of ANZAC Day barbecues and bar specials.

I spent Sunday night with some new friends playing that traditional Aussie game, Texas Hold 'Em. Winner takes all, and I won! I credit a year and a half of sailing with card sharks whose nightly entertainment consisted of Whist, gin rummy, and cribbage. I must also thank dumb luck and a fortuitous pair of 10s at 2:30 in the morning. Regardless, I walked away with the money to pay off the damnable quarantine officers who stand between me and my personal belongings when and if the boxes ever arrive. Word from the freight shippers is my stuff will be in Adelaide tomorrow noon. I am far too beleaguered by the long wait to hope this forecast is true.

In other news, I have found potentially useful inroads to the Adelaide mafia network. There's this phenomenally wealthy regular at the restaurant where I work; we'll call him Blaine. He drives around in a 7-series BMW and, according to gossip, paid cash for a Mercedes to placate his wife when she found out about one of the mistresses. Blaine keeps separate houses for wife and mistresses. He has also run up a several-thousand dollar tab at the restaurant, and my boss is pretty irritated with the situation. I wondered at first why we keep serving Blaine, tolerating his smarmy requests for lap dances and endless need for whiskey and cokes. I didn't appreciate how he gets away with bringing his weekly girlfriends to our cozy neighborhood establishment. I sat down for a cocktail with Blaine on Friday night, out of boredom and amusement. Now the world is just a little less hazy.

Blaine makes all his money betting on horse races. He is -I'm told- Australia's wealthiest "punter," possibly in every non-football sense of the word. No surprise that he has access to some serious muscle, specifically in the form of a big guy named "Johnny." And of course he's familiar with the regional criminal hierarchy. He can, off the cuff, name the leaders of the "families" in Adelaide's suburbs, and I'll wager he's got special friends, lady and otherwise, in every major town on the continent. He wears a heavy gold ring with a massive diamond horseshoe and a horse head where the Superbowl insignia ought to be. I can think of a couple locals who would look good with that logo imprinted in their foreheads.

Not that I would wish for that sort of thing.