Rebecca Handler

Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose

Back in November, Dave and I attended an expat orientation, organized by Chevron. We learned a few useful tips about Perth, including how expensive cocktails are, and how to choose a medical provider. The agenda was, more or less, What to Expect When You’re Expecting Culture Shock. Thank you Chevron. Next time, please enroll us in family boot camp with a coach named Alastair who can put us on protein smoothie diets, drag our asses up and down San Francisco hills, and yell, “So you wanna live in Australia? SO YOU WANNA LIVE IN AUSTRALIA?”

Welcome to our sporty life. In Perth, small talk is not what do you do, it’s what do you play. Respectable answers seem to include one or more of the following: cricket, tennis, running, swimming, netball, surfing, sailing, basketball, soccer, Aussie Rules Football or field hockey. Within the first few minutes of conversation, Perthians inevitably ask us what sport we’re into. I’ve learned that jokey replies such as “guitar” or “smoking” do not translate well. I’ve also learned that apparently our family needs to step it up a notch.

As soon as my daughters started school here, a mom invited me to meet a group of parents on Tuesday mornings for a “short run.” When I told her I don’t really run, she responded, “Oh, it’s not serious, we only do like 7 or 8K.” We then proceeded to have a back and forth where she thought I was being humble.

Perth will freeze over before I wake up at 5:30am for a “short run,” but some late morning I might be convinced to lace up my sneakers, because right up the street from our house is Kings Park, the Central Park of Perth. The gateway to Kings Park resembles the entrance to Stanford University with palm trees, pretty signage, and a distinct air of grandeur. It is absolutely stunning with both paved and woodsy paths, and has beautiful views of the Swan River.

Someone here told me that sport is mandatory in high school (in Australia, “sport” is singular whereas “maths” is plural. Don’t ask me, I just report it as I see it). I asked this person what all the artsy kids do. I mean really. Really? All kids play a sport? Yes in fact they do, and the sport for artsy kids is weightlifting. Weightlifting.

Australia has six states and two main territories; claiming Australia is fitness-obsessed is like saying all Americans love rodeos. This passion for sports could be specific to Western Australia, because, as many Western Australians have pointed out, if you don’t enjoy the outdoors, why else would you live all the way out here?

We’ve made some progress in the past week. I joined a Masters swim team, Dave went for a run, and Willa registered for netball. Simone, god help us, got outfitted for a mouth guard for field hockey. She is seven years old and weighs 45 pounds. And when we move back to San Francisco, she is going to kick your ass.

So No One Told You Life Was Gonna Be This Way

The loneliness of moving is creeping in. It is neither surprising nor unbearable, but it is distracting nonetheless, like a hole in your sock exposing your little toe that you try to ignore but then you’re talking to someone and you’re like, “I’m sorry I can’t hear you over the sound of the HOLE IN MY SOCK.”

Somewhat predictably, the loneliness is intensified by the business of making new friends. With the relief and gratitude of a budding friendship comes a certain amount of melancholy. A new friend in a new country can be a reminder of old friends and inevitable endings. I remember this feeling from when we moved to Singapore in 2005, and I met Elinor. I knew immediately she was the friend I was searching for, and the friend I would leave behind.

When does someone become a certified, thumb-stamped friend? Bachelorette #1 is a relocated Brit; she is quick and self-assured, but lives 20 minutes away, which, in Perth, is considered a schlep (Perthians have a funny sense of distance. A 10-minute drive is too far, but a nine-hour flight to Japan to ski over a long weekend is no worries mate). Another potential friend has refreshingly strong opinions – an Australian, go figure – and took me for my first real Indian Ocean swim last week where, treading water 70 meters from shore, she remarked nonchalantly, “Something just stung me. Bastard.”

When I was pregnant with Willa and trying to decide whether or not we should have a friend present for the birth, our midwife asked me, “can you be naked and crying in front of her?” In the human-being-coming-out-of-my-vagina scenario, this advice was helpful. However, if I actually abided by these criteria of nudity and hysteria, I’d have two friends. And one of them would be like, “We have to talk about the whole naked and crying thing.”

A college friend of mine kept a stuffed toy rabbit in her dorm room specifically as a test for potential friends. When given this rabbit to hold, do they take a moment and look it in the eye, or do they toss it aside with complete disregard? She swore it was a predictor of character traits like empathy, playfulness, and curiosity.

With little understanding and/or concern for the bigger picture, the kids are the friendship experts. Bored at the beach? Invite someone to dig a hole with you. The boy next door owns a remote control car? Smile and introduce yourself. Friendships come easy and are not overthought.

I’ve got some free time at the moment. I am consciously trying to appear busy enough to be seen as interesting, but not so busy as to appear unavailable. In fact, just this morning I told someone I prefer lunch next Wednesday to next Tuesday when of course both days are wide open. But, you see, this is all part of my sophisticated friendship strategy. And obviously I’ll make friends because I’m a totally relaxed person who never overthinks anything.

50 Shades of White: Living in an Unfurnished House

She wakes up to find her hair in her mouth. She gingerly lifts a finger to her lips and slowly removes her mouth guard. She stretches her arms back over the pillow and then gently, delicately, removes each of her earplugs. She yawns and sits up to find her water glass empty. Fuck, she thinks to herself. Her head falls back on the pillow and she stares at a white wall. She has to pee. She stumbles to the toilet, sits down, and stares at a white wall. Once she’s pulled on her t-shirt and yoga pants, she glides down the white hallway to the white kitchen. “Good morning,” she whispers to no one in particular as her index finger gingerly pushes down on the power button of the electric kettle. As she waits for the water to boil, she gazes out to the living room, to the white walls and the wooden floors. The floor is so hard, she thinks to herself, and the walls are so… big. As she dips her tea bag in and out of the scorching hot mug, she sighs. This house is so empty I can’t wait to be alone with it. Later that morning, she is finally alone with the house. She traces her finger along the back of the temporary couch, and thinks to herself, did I ship the ottoman or did we put that in storage? She opens her laptop to check email. Her breath stops short. There is a message from the relocation consultant. There is an update on your sea shipment. She moans and lets her eyes rest on the white wall. Enlighten me then.

FAQ: Are you working?

We have established that I am currently living in Perth because my husband accepted a job here. You may be wondering, what are YOU doing for work? Is this 1962? Why are you following your husband around like a puppy? What happened to your career?

Thank you for asking this question in such a polite manner. And, like an obedient little golden retriever who is snuggly but occasionally wets herself, I will now address this important issue.

Firstly, yes it is 1962 and I am wearing a corset, chain smoking, and waiting for my hot rollers to set in. Secondly, hi, I’m sleepy.

Last October, when my husband and I were considering moving from San Francisco to Perth, there was one sticking point. The wife has a job. And the wife would be sad to leave her job because it is enormously fulfilling and it is not portable. The kids would be fine. The extended family, however sad, would be fine. The friends, the house, Arizmendi Bakery, they would all be fine without us. But the wife, what do we do with this working wife situation? Wives are such a hassle, with their insistence that they have their own identities and are treated as equal partners. Down with wives!

It was important to Dave that the decision to leave my job and move our family to Perth was my decision, because the last thing he wanted was for me to be sitting in Australia, filled with regret, creating this quokka-dung narrative about how we had no choice but to move to Perth and how I sacrificed my own career for my husband’s. In fact, Dave and I would both be overjoyed if I landed a job that could fund an international family adventure and he could walk the kids to school, go for a swim, and write a blog post. However, I have spent my career working with nonprofit organizations. I have been outrageously fortunate in my various jobs, but all I’m saying is no one has offered to pay my family to move to Australia. Thank you Chevron. This post is sponsored by Chevron. If you need gas, go to a Chevron station. They have clean restrooms and seven flavors of Gatorade.

Tangent Alert!

Nonprofit organizations of the world, please pay for outstanding employees and don’t apologize for it. Talented people will make you even more money, which translates to more programs and services. If your donors don’t like it, they will move on and you can get new donors who agree with your priorities. And you will get these new donors because you will have outstanding employees who create much-needed services for the community. It’s a magical fundraising love circle. Thank you.

Ok, where was I? Oh yes, it was definitely a family decision to move to Perth. And telling my wonderful job that I was leaving felt like a breakup scene in a rom-com where you’re like, “Whaaat? But they have such a good thing going! This makes no sense! I need more popcorn!” But, also like a rom-com, I think there’s a chance we could get back together someday.

So I am now unemployed in Perth. Which coincidentally is the name of my new country album. I have a working visa, which is great news and means I can work for an Australian company. And I may choose to do this. I could also pick up some consulting projects. But I can’t wrap my head around either of these scenarios yet, because we just got here five minutes ago. For the moment, I am happy and beyond grateful with the current situation, which involves exploring the city, trying to write more than 140 characters, and making sure the little people are smothered in sunscreen.

Woman on the Verge

My father loved two things: opera and buying in bulk. I did not get the opera-loving gene, but I do enjoy the adrenaline rush of purchasing 50 items for the price of 10. And I absolutely cannot pass up an opportunity to acquire something for nothing. This might explain why I am the owner of 100 plastic red apples, as well as a previously discarded Ziploc storage bag filled with hand-sewn Barbie clothes.

This tendency also explains the bright red table and three blue chairs that are currently on our front porch. Ask me how much I paid for them. Go ahead, ask me. THAT’S RIGHT! NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU!

Yesterday, over a potluck lunch with our friendly neighbors, I learned about a biannual event happening this week in Perth: Put Stuff You No Longer Need Out On The Verge (Curb) And The City Will Discard It For You. I asked our neighbors, “Say I had a friend who, hypothetically, might be interested in rummaging through items on the street before the city comes to collect? Would this be considered culturally acceptable?” Lo and behold, one bloke’s trash is another bloke’s treasure. Hello Perth, land of magical free things.

Walking to school this morning, the girls and I spotted all sorts of potential goodies: a wooden chest, a white leather couch, four lamps, a toaster oven, a broken bookcase, a red toy fire truck, a wooden planter box, two clothes drying racks. It was as if the entire city had conspired to help an American family whose belongings are on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Given that my husband does not share this same giddiness for free stuff, and that, if it were up to him, his wife would not come home with a trunk full of plastic apples, I controlled myself and did not return home with bookcases and electric appliances. However, the girls and I agreed that the red table on the corner of Onslow and Rosalie would work nicely for art projects and science experiments. I promised them I’d swing by with the car later on that day. By “later on,” I meant AS SOON AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE. The minute I got home, I went straight to the car, popped down the back seats, and raced over to the Site of the Red Table. As I was opening the trunk, it occurred to me I hadn’t exactly thought through how I was going to single-handedly get a large rectangular table in my car. But, as they say in Perth, where’s there’s a will, there’s a friendly Australian pulling over in his car to help.

Back home, I managed to get the table out of the trunk and up the stairs. I promptly went for a stroll to find some chairs in the wondrous store known as My Neighborhood. Three blue chairs were sitting on the verge further up the street. With a deep cleaning and some patterned IKEA cushions, these chairs will be perfect. And then I will sit in one of those chairs, take a swig, and toast Dad.

Memo: Ripley’s Believe It Or Not

To: Western Australia Public Schools

From: Editors, Ripley’s Believe It Or Not

Date: February 27, 2015

Thank you for agreeing to offer the latest edition of Ripley’s Believe It Or Not in your school libraries. We pride ourselves on visually scarring children all over the world, and are honored to be included in the Western Australia school library collection. Please note that this book should be available to children of all ages. In fact, research shows that introducing children to horrific images when they are, say, seven or nine, results in permanent trauma.

We are pleased to offer you several discussion questions for families:

  1. Why do think this man was stabbed in the eyeball?
  2. What did you learn about fluorescent-light fighting in Japan, where professional wrestlers batter each other into submission with long glass rods?
  3. The section on self-mutilation features a full-page color photograph of a Thai man who has pierced his face with dozens of needles. Do you like to eat pad thai?
  4. Xu Tiancheng can do a headstand on a nail for 30 minutes. How long can you do a headstand on a nail?
  5. What is your favorite recurring nightmare?

We are confident that our book will provide lasting memories for your school community. Please don’t hesitate to contact us with any questions. Thank you.

Xeno: Warrior Princess

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My neighbor should be hired by the city of Perth as its official ambassador. She has dropped by with brochures about various outdoor concerts and kids activities, invited us over for lunch, entertained us with stories at the school social when it was clear we didn’t know anyone, and is generally smiley and warm. I am very grateful, and as soon as the weather cools down a bit, I will turn on the Celsius oven and bake her some cookies.

Her behavior makes me think about how few of my San Francisco neighbors I know by name, and how I did absolutely nothing last year when I saw a U-haul pull up across the street, and watched from the garage as a new family moved in. I mean seriously, what is my problem? Why was I ghoulishly hiding in my garage like a freaky pervert? Why did I not walk across the street to simply say, “Hi, I’m Rebecca. Welcome to the neighborhood.” It’s especially weird given that I am a friendly person. And I believe that most people are good human beings who are not going to punch me in the nose. But, as it turns out, sometimes I stand in the garage like a creepy stalker.

When my helpful neighbor in Perth is chatting with me, I occasionally have a really awful thought: she is absolutely adorable. The way she talks about afternoon tea and biscuits, and the way she says, “I reckon” in conversation as if that is a totally normal thing to say. It’s not just with this woman, mind you. I am constantly thinking about how impossibly cute everything seems here. The parrots we see on the way to school, the roundabouts, the school crossing guard with his handheld stop signs, the small orange lockers at the pool, the trail maps in the park, the iced tea served in mason jars, and, the children – my god, these children. What is more adorable than an eight year old in a school uniform with an accent? Nothing I tell you, not all the hand-blown glass miniature hippos in the world. I want to squat down in front of Australia, pinch her little cheeks, and say, “well aren’t you the sweetest little place I’ve ever seen?”

So I’m really hoping for two things here:

1. This feeling goes away.

2. I’m not a xenophobic jerk wad.

This has nothing to do with Australia as a country. This is not a “what an adorable little British colony and I will never take it seriously” feeling. I am not an idiot, and, in fact, the smartest person I know is from Melbourne, so if I were to stereotype based on my own experience, I’d say Australians are savvy and Americans have a lot to learn. I have experienced a similar cute-attack in every other country other than my own. What’s different about this trip is that it’s not a trip. We will be living in Perth for at least two years. So I expect to stop behaving like I’m perusing the Vermont Country Store catalog and actually start living here. But what if I don’t? What if I start collecting adorable crossing guards and storing them in a glass cabinet?

Do people visit the United States and find everything adorable? Do tourists walk around San Francisco and say to each other, “Look at those charming tattooed hipsters and the way they make their darling coffees! They are just TOO precious.”

Fear Factor: Live from Perth

Remember that episode of Fear Factor where a family of four had to go for a drive in a car that was filled with mosquitos? Do you recall the part where the children were screaming and the mother was saying that’s what you get for leaving the car door open all night? And remember the end where they were back at home and one of the children got stung by a wasp, and then there were giant cockroaches crawling all over the back patio?

Humans are mere nuisances who are simply getting in the way of Operation Bug Takeover. These guys have a plan, and they are working together to destroy the human race. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. I just overheard this convo out back:

Mosquito: “Alright, I’d like a status update from each of you. Wilson, why don’t you start.”

Wasp: “Today I stung Human on its back. It screamed like a little girl.”

Mosquito: “Nicely done. Lorraine?”

Beetle: “I made it inside the house with Adam and we hung around by the toilet.”

Mosquito: “Where is Adam?”

Beetle: “He was crushed by Human. But not without a fight.”

Mosquito: “Jerry, stop pacing back and forth and give us your update.”

Cockroach: “Nothing special to report. Just another day of being as creepy as possible.”

Mosquito: “Evelyn?”

Fly: “I am working towards my personal goal of flying in and out of all mouths.”

Ants, in unison: “We can make the letter G on the pavement!”

Mosquito: “That’s irrelevant. Focus, guys, focus.”

My friends, Australia is no place for pussies. I repeat (to myself, in particular): Australia is no place for pussies. I’m not normally that squeamish when it comes to bugs. But this is a large and in charge situation. I am currently checking the bed before crawling under the covers at night. Mind you, I’ve never seen a bug in the bedroom, but I am assuming that’s because they are all inside the mattress (the call is coming from INSIDE THE MATTRESS). I know that once I fall asleep, the cockroaches are slipping into their purple velour jumpsuits, unscrewing their tiny silver flasks, and groovin’ all over my legs. The mosquitos are swinging from the ceiling fans and the ants are spelling out, “Go home Yanks.”

Jews love jam.

Jam on toast is all the rage in Perth. Kids are having jam on toast. Adults are having jam on toast. Right now I am not at all sure 100% sure that there is a wallaby smothering herself in jam and claiming to be toast. So much jam everywhere you look. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that’s weird because there aren’t very many Jews in Perth.

Andronico’s is a magical grocery store on the corner of Funston and Irving Street in San Francisco. Unlike Whole Foods, Andronico’s sells necessities like Cheetos and Diet Coke, as well as organic, locally-sourced, grass-fed, artisanal artichokes or whatever was featured in the most recent issue of Yoga Journal. It is a beautiful store and if they ever pull up my credit card purchases over the last 15 years, I will keel over and drop dead in their glorious cheese department.

One day about five years ago, I went to Andronico’s to buy some pork chops. I had never eaten a pork chop before then, let alone purchased one. I was raised Jewish and pork wasn’t exactly banned in our house, but it certainly wasn’t promoted. My dad’s feeling on pork was that we won’t cook it ourselves, but if it’s served to you in someone else’s home, you best be swallowing every bite of that honey-baked ham. This philosophy is not unusual for a reformed Jewish household, particularly one featuring a Jew who fled Germany in 1938. It’s almost a subcategory of keeping kosher. “No pork or shellfish in this house, but I don’t ever want to hear about you being a prima donna in someone else’s home. You eat what is put before you. End of story.” So why was I then at the meat counter at Andronico’s asking Bobby the Butcher about bone-on versus boneless? Because I married a handsome shegetz who likes his pork, that’s why. A middle-aged lady with glasses standing next to me at the counter overheard my conversation with Bobby and exclaimed, “What? You’ve never had a pork chop?” I said that no, funnily enough, I had never cooked a pork chop because I’m Jewish, I didn’t have pork growing up, it never occurred to me that pork was a perfectly acceptable type of meat, my husband will be excited, and blah dee blah. I thanked Bobby for the pork and the cooking instructions, and walked off in search of whole-wheat english muffins. Ten minutes later, I was checking out and that same lady from the meat counter ended up behind me in line. At this point, she took a jar of fancy all-fruit-cloth-top blueberry jam out of her cart, showed it to me, and asked, “Excuse me, but do your people like jam?” I assumed I had misheard her, and that she had said something about steeples and lamb. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” She repeated, a bit more slowly and loudly, “Do your people like jam?” Umm, what is happening right now? What on earth is she talking about? Who are my people and why wouldn’t we like jam? Who doesn’t like jam? I smiled at her, “Yes, my people LOVE jam.” She sighed with relief and explained that she was heading over to a Jewish friend’s house for dinner that night, and wanted to bring a little something, and my comment she overheard about pork got her thinking oh no what if Jews don’t eat jam, and she didn’t want to offend someone. God forbid she offend someone. I reiterated that jam is a delightful gift and who doesn’t love jam.

My point is, jam is delicious. And I will be eating a lot of jam over the next couple of years. Which is no surprise, given that my people love jam.

Where has all the homework gone?

Where has all the homework gone, long time passing?

Where has all the homework gone, long time ago?

I have decided that I am not allowed to freak out about the future. Worrying about the future feels like the aliens have landed and are using their invisible alien brain hoses to fill my head with The Unknowable so I’m distracted and don’t notice that they are trying on my high heels and drawing on the walls. So I am TOTALLY NOT FREAKING OUT about the fact that just a few weeks ago, my children were enrolled in a wonderful Chinese Immersion School in San Francisco, spending at least 45 minutes a night on homework, and now they are coming home from their English-speaking school and jumping in the pool. And obviously I AM COMPLETELY FINE WITH THAT, WHY WOULD YOU THINK OTHERWISE?

Yesterday, I attended a presentation given by Simone’s teacher and learned that Simone will not have homework this year, or at least the kind of homework we are used to. Listen to this load of koala dung: “The aim is to inspire children to want to learn.” Huh? She’s seven years old people. Time to man up. Where’s the testing and the homework? What is this about promoting a desire to learn? We are Americans and that means we work hard and then we get stuff. (insert robot arms gesticulation) I. Do. Not. Understand. School. Without. Homework. What. Is. The. Point.

There’s a list of spelling words for the week that come home every Monday but it is “up to parents” how and when we want to review these with our children “because every child learns in his or her own way.” (robot arms) What. Are. You. Talking. About. Need. More. Direction.

I came home from the presentation feeling elated at first. Finally. Kids can be kids. I mean, look at this school. Swim lessons. Hip hop dance classes. Maker classes. People, there are chickens. Clucking, feathery chickens that the kids have to take care of. Willa and Simone will probably have a blast at this school. Their teachers seem to love teaching and greet the kids with huge smiles and bear hugs.

And then I pulled out my laptop and googled “chinese tutors perth.”