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There was a piece of steak in my chicken pie. It was not supposed to be there. The pie was called Chicken and Mushroom Pie.

I bought the pie at the Taylor Road IGA. IGA stands for Independent Grocers of Australia. The one on Taylor Road does not sell pepperoni and I often forget that.

Today I am wearing my Hillary t-shirt. On Tuesday I blocked emails from the Hillary Clinton campaign because I was angry that my t-shirt hadn’t arrived yet. On Wednesday my t-shirt arrived.

There is a woman in my needlepoint class who recently mentioned that she is 97 years old. My friend and I stared at each other in disbelief. Then we thought maybe she had said 79 but we’re not sure.

On the bathroom countertop is a small piece of metal. It is shaped like the outline of a rectangle with one side missing, a hurdle for a tiny track and field athlete. I found it on the bathroom floor two weeks ago and confirmed it is neither part of the sink nor toilet.

This piece of metal will remain on the counter for another week. Then it will be transferred to the junk drawer where it will join other unsolved metal bits. We won’t throw it away because we might need it someday.

I can’t tell the difference between two girls on my daughter’s hockey team. They look nothing alike but for some reason I always confuse them. This embarrasses me.

My ex-boyfriend’s mother was named Sue. It may have been Pam. I always confuse the names Sue and Pam.

A young child’s science project was entitled Is Anything More Sour Than A Lemon? She surveyed family members and found that limes are sourer than lemons. Sourer is the correct way of saying more sour but it doesn’t sound like it.

I bought new shoes last week. As I was removing my old shoes to try on the new ones, the strap on one of my old shoes broke. I had no choice but to buy new shoes.

“He’s consistent with his lifting in the snatch, but unpredictable in the clean and jerk.”

Lasha Talakhadze from Georgia is about to lift 258 kilograms and become an Olympic gold medalist. At the moment however, the Australian commentators are concerned about the weightlifter’s clean and jerk. (Naturally his snatch is not a worry.)

I love the Olympics, and they could not have come at a better time. Need a break from the madman running for office? Pole vaulting! Too cold and cloudy for you in the southern hemisphere? Synchronized diving! Our household is deeply committed. We are eating bowls of chili in front of the television and shouting at each other from across the house. “The Maasai Warrior is on! You can practice piano some other time!”

Australian coverage of the Olympic games is prioritized as follows: First, is there an Aussie in this event? If not, Equestrian. I have watched many horses jump over many things, and still my only question about this sport has not yet been addressed. How did all these horses get to Rio? Also, my husband would like to know why the humans get medals when “it’s the horses that do all the work.”

I miss the prepackaged mini-documentaries in the American coverage, where you get to know the pet store manager who lives down the street from a sprinter, and the mental health challenges faced by the goalie’s husband. In Australia, why learn more about an Olympian when horses can jump over log fences?

Here one asks, “Who are you going for?” and not, “Who are you rooting for?” which means something altogether different. My daughter and I were talking about a field hockey game between the United States and Australia. She asked me, “Did we win?” and I asked her who she meant by “we.” She responded, “Australia of course.” We’ve been living here awhile now.

I love the bodies, the tiny ones that flip over like green beans in a hot skillet and the big ones that throw the discus. I meditate on the human body’s potential while eating Tim Tams and checking my phone during the commercials. The other night I decided to leave wet clothes in the washing machine because I was too lazy to walk across the room. I made this decision as I watched the women’s 400-meter individual medley.

I used to have a job where I spent the entire year preparing for one annual event. I raised money, solicited volunteers, ordered supplies, and worked with the local police department to redirect traffic. After the event was over, I remember the juxtaposed feelings of pride and emptiness. I think about the competitors’ post-event thoughts, how they feel flying home from Rio or returning to their town in Brazil. All that preparation, over in a flash. What I’m saying is that I am exactly like an Olympic athlete.

He does it. Lasha Talakhadze lifts 258 kilograms, the combined weight of the Final Five gymnasts. It’s a new world record. He looks exhausted and electrified as the barbell crashes to the floor and he shakes his fists. I wonder what he’s going to do next.

Winter turns Perth from a perky cheerleader into a goth girl smoking under the bleachers. Yesterday, I stepped in a deep puddle and had to slosh home to change my shoes. A white cockatoo nibbling on seeds in my neighbor’s driveway raised his head as if to say, “Loafers? Really?”

For most of the year, the city sparkles. Sunshine bounces off windows and sunglasses. The Swan River suggests the aftermath of a collision between two cargo ships transporting tinsel and sequins. But come July, things get dreary around here. The river darkens and the big Aussie sky hangs heavy with clouds. The stars, typically celestial exhibitionists, become painfully shy.

Rainstorms are frequent and severe. If heaven exists, all angels in the southern hemisphere are hard at work on an assembly line, tasked with dumping buckets of water onto their descendants. I frequently gather soccer balls, hula hoops, and Frisbees from the front patio so they don’t blow across the street. This makes me feel purposeful and foolish, like a Floridian refusing to evacuate. A lone kookaburra often perches on the telephone pole outside our kitchen window and shakes his feathers repeatedly.

One perk of all the rain is the prevalence of rainbows. When I see one, I always wonder about the first person who observed this marvel:

“Jerry, you’ll never believe what I saw this morning when I left the cave to collect more berries.”

“What did you see, my darling?”

“An enormous, colorful belt across the sky. It was there one minute and gone the next.”

“Stop messing with me, Darlene. What’s a belt?”

Today I had neither plans nor motivation, so I went to the beach. It was too cold and blustery for swimming, so I wrapped myself in a puffy coat, long scarf and a beanie. I looked like a Mongolian baby.

If you head west on Eric Street from Stirling Highway, you reach the top of a hill and then suddenly, the Indian Ocean is in front you, massive and turquoise. As I got closer to the coastline, I could see and hear the waves crashing. The water evidenced a dangerous and angry Mother Nature at the end of her rope.

The beach was free of humans but the water was not. At first I was shocked to see surfers, but then I remembered in Australia, people are either brave or foolish, depending on your perspective. Four daredevils were being thrashed about awfully close to the rock jetty that protrudes from Cottesloe Beach like a giant’s index finger. I could hear them hooting with either terror or glee, and as I walked down the beach clutching my scarf that was determined to fly out and join them, I kept an eye on those boys.

My thoughts, like rainbows or sudden gusts of wind, were there one minute and gone the next. I thought about bicycles and how I wished I enjoyed them more. I thought about my daughter’s tree costume, whale sharks, Pauline Hanson, and whether or not rooibos tea would taste good with almond milk. I thought about the French gymnast with the broken leg.

And then, standing on the beach watching the surfers, one thought consumed the others like a tsunami. What if I’m doing all the wrong things? As my eyes began to fill with tears, I heard a loud rumble and within seconds, it started to hail. I took off my glasses and stuck them in my coat pocket and began to stumble in the direction of my car. The ferocious wind pushed me sideways. I could taste salt water on my lips. I looked out to where the surfers had been just moments ago, but I couldn’t see through the storm.

I slammed the car door, tossed my soaked beanie on the passenger seat and peeled off the wet paper maché previously known as my scarf. I checked my phone and ate some almonds. There was no way I was driving in this storm and besides, I needed to see the surfers.

I turned on the radio. It was Etta James. “You smiled and then the spell was cast. And here we are in heaven, for you are mine at last.” I remembered when my young cousin sang this song at her Bat Mitzvah, and how shocked I was to hear such a big voice come out of such a small person.

Soon the rain stopped. I counted four surfers and drove home, grateful for all the little things and mystified by the big ones.

Notes left on cars should fall into one of two categories: 1) I’m sorry I smashed your side mirror call me, or 2) 25% off Psychic Palm Reading. A hot pink handwritten post-it declaring “Terrible Parking” does not fall into either of these.

First, the facts. This was a grocery store parking lot, spots tightly crammed together, and I pulled in between two sedans, so it couldn’t have been that bad let’s be realistic.

Did the author of Post-It: A Memoir in Two Words try to pull in next to me but couldn’t? Did my slightly slanted parking job trigger her obsessive-compulsive disorder? Was she unhappy that the store ran out of muesli? Did she leave a note in the produce section because the carrots were not arranged in a perfect pyramid?

I bet she was talking on the phone at checkout.

My daughters had jumped in the back seat before seeing the note, so after I got in the car, I turned around to show them. “Guys, look what someone left me.”

“That’s mean,” said the younger one.

“Did you do a bad job parking?” asked the preteen.

“You tell me. Come look.” The three of us got out of the car and stood behind it, tilting our heads and staring at the back bumper as if it were contemporary art.

It was not my finest work but terrible? Please. I’ll tell you something terrible. There are these duck-like birds called coots that live at the lake near my house. When coot chicks beg their mother for food, the mother sometimes pecks or starves them to death. That’s terrible. I sometimes mention the fate of these birds to my children when they start asking me when dinner will be ready.

“I guess you’re a little over to one side,” said the younger one, peeling a cheese stick.

“Who would write a note like that?” said the preteen, having rejoined Team Mom.

We got back in the car, buckled in, and started to back up. “That’s her! That’s her!” said the younger one excitedly, pointing to a woman walking past holding a bouquet of sunflowers. I told her it’s impossible to tell and she said, “Well she looks grumpy. I bet she did it.”

“Should I roll down the window and yell, ‘Terrible Flowers!’ at her?” I asked my children, who were instantly horrified by the reminder that their mother is always mere seconds away from extreme embarrassment.

“Mom! Don’t!”

I asked them what sort of note would have been more helpful to leave on someone’s car window. I suggested something like, “Next time, please park more towards the center of your spot. It made it difficult to pull out. Thanks.”

“How about no note?” they said. No note would have been fine too.