Rebecca Handler

o n e w o m a n p a r t y

Rebecca Handler

Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose

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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

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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

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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?

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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

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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.