Rebecca Handler

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

Nonfiction

Just Do It

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This past winter – meaning July and August, which feels so really-come-on – my eight-year-old daughter decided to join a field hockey team. A popular sport in Australia, played by both girls and boys, field hockey is referred to simply as “hockey,” because, well, there’s no ice here.

At first, the Rockets were coached by an incredibly kickass mom, so kickass in fact, that she left the team mid-season to go work as a lawyer for the United Nations in Rome. Welcome to Australia, where gorgeous muscular women get up at dawn to bike 50 kilometers before managing a hedge fund and baking meat pies.

A dad took over coaching duties. He warned us he’d have to miss two games; he travels a lot for work because he is the best hockey player in the world. I am not exaggerating. This humble and not unattractive man has played in three Olympics and several times, has been voted the most valuable hockey player in the world. In the words of my husband, “It’s like our daughter joined a basketball team coached by Michael Jordan.”

Needless to say, the Rockets had a good season. At the end of every practice, the coach would challenge all twelve players to a game, which was like watching an Olympian play against a bunch of kids. Games were regularly held in the pouring rain, and players would stumble off the field, covered in mud, to exchange their slobbery mouth guards for orange slices and gummy snakes.

A few weeks ago, I became aware of a social hockey league, an opportunity for kids to maintain their prowess during the off-season, and parents to have access to an open bar on Friday nights. Many of the Rockets were booked with life-saving classes or crocodile wrestling or whatever these kids do in spring, but I managed to recruit two girls and six boys – enough to constitute a team.

The night before the first game, it dawned on me that in the midst of recruiting and filling out paperwork, I had forgotten something fundamental. “Simone?” I asked, “Do you think I’m supposed to be the coach?” She laughed hysterically, “Mom, you don’t know anything about hockey.”

“THAT’S WHY I’M PANICKING.”

She was still chuckling when I tucked her in. “I’ll help you,” she reassured me.

I stayed up late googling “field hockey rules,” and printed out diagrams and practice drills. Bored with reading about penalty corners, I resolved to be one of those coaches who focuses on life lessons and doesn’t get bogged down by technical details. I’ve watched Friday Night Lights. I’ve worked on teams before. I survived business school.

I arrived at the first game, clipboard in hand, ready to inspire. I met the parents, welcomed the players, and suggested they “go run around the field and hit the ball back and forth.” Do you even “hit” a “ball” in hockey? That was all I had planned for warm-up drills, so I breathed a sigh of relief when the umpire rounded everyone up to start the game.

Over the next hour, I tried to sound official, yelling out words of encouragement like “Nice job Rajat!” and “Emma, maybe you should move over a little?”

Luckily, although kids need rides to hockey games and money for hot dogs, other than that, they’re doing just fine without us. To my relief, “social hockey” means that all parents take turns coaching. So this week I get to hang back with a beer and watch another parent panic.

Dear Bush Flies

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I think there’s been some confusion. Allow me to introduce myself. I am a human being. I am not the tail of a horse, nor am I a recently deceased possum. My mouth is not a cave in South Dakota with family spelunking hours. While I appreciate your interest in the vocation of ear, nose and throat medicine, and wish you well in your studies, my orifices are not currently offering internship programs.

Yes, I am aware that it is spring in Australia. I have sat on park benches mesmerized by baby ducks, and just yesterday I successfully dodged the magpie heading straight for my ear. Nature is exploding here in Perth, with bright purple blossoms and parrots squawking at dawn. I’m even getting used to the white flowers in Kings Park that smell “like a gym bag,” according to one local resident.

I understand that in your lifespan, everything needs to happen yesterday, and by yesterday I mean the time of your great-grandparents. But your frenetic pace is becoming tiresome. You are reminding me of this girl I knew in college named Rachel who wanted to hang out all the time, and eventually I had to tell her that our friendship was becoming more of a burden than a pleasure and then she told me you’re a total bitch and I told her I have many faults but I’m definitely not a bitch and then she said I hate you and I said if you hate me so much then why do you always want to hang out? My point is, it’s too much.

A shout-out to the ladies. I understand you female bush flies need protein in order to develop your ovaries, and I am honored that you think so highly of my saliva. I also know that you are programmed to hang around animals and wait for them to digest their food so you can lay your eggs in their poo. But you see, that is disgusting.

You are lucky to live in Australia, one of the few countries in the world with more cattle than people. Cows are much more easygoing than humans, and my guess is that they wouldn’t mind at all if you flew in and out of their ears all day long. Plus, they bathe much less frequently and poo a lot. You would love them.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Not Talking About It

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My brother was one of the first people I told I was pregnant. I asked him when I should break the news to Mom. He reminded me, “Just know that once you tell her, that’s all she’s going to want to talk about.”

It was good advice. Talking about doing something generally causes more anxiety than actually doing it, particularly in the case of big life changes like having a baby or, I don’t know, living abroad.

When we decided to move from San Francisco to Perth, we told our kids right away. The expat blogs convinced me that if our children heard it elsewhere, they would feel betrayed and develop permanent trust issues, dairy intolerance, and a fear of rainbows.

Our news spread quickly and, as a result, the kids engaged in a three-month long conversation called How Do You Feel About This Vague Scary Thing? My older daughter declared, “I’m ok with moving. I’m not ok with talking about it all the time.” I suggested she politely tell people she’d rather not discuss it, but she convinced me that was dumb advice. Our move affected people, and that is a good thing because it means we matter to them.

I don’t recall a lot of “How do you feel?” when I was growing up. At dinner, my father would ask inexplicably specific details of my day (“How many minutes did it take you to walk from Chemistry to English?”) and my mother would make statements like, “That school is falling apart” or “She sounds boy-crazy.” When my grandfather died and I saw my dad cry for the first time, my mother whispered, “He’s crying because his father died.” She did not say he’s crying because he’s sad.

Years later, in a psychology class, I learned about naming our own feelings, a topic that is now standard in American kindergarten curriculum. On the first day of school, I feel excited. I feel scared. Despite my best intentions, my patience level inhibits regular encouragement of my children to name their feelings. Eat your dinner. You love beans.

When we landed in Perth, the relocation chatter soon changed to Why Do You Sound Different? I contemplated distributing a fact sheet: We are Americans. We are here temporarily. We don’t like your vegemite but we love pavlova.

It has been almost nine months and we are now in something, instead of before or after something. There is a calm that has entered our home – the comfortable chaos of everyday living. We are back to life. There’s nothing to discuss. So let’s talk.

Folly

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Gigi Hadid is an American supermodel and is the face of Seafolly, an Australian swimwear company. Seafolly ads featuring Gigi Hadid are all over Perth in magazines, at bus shelters, and on billboards.

There’s just no way around it. Gigi Hadid is drop dead gorgeous. She’s like Scarlett Johansson if Scarlett were always up for a game of beach volleyball. She has blond hair, full lips, and eyes that convey a combination of sleepiness and ass-kickiness, sort of like the actor who plays Puck in Glee.

In the Seafolly ads, Gigi has perfected two looks. One is the look of preoccupation. She’s busy but doesn’t mind stopping for a photo, as long as it doesn’t hold her up for too long. This look is often characterized by the use of an accessory – a duffel bag, a polaroid camera – and she appears to be on her way somewhere. Probably to a climate change convention.

Gigi’s second Seafolly look is more in the traditional supermodel style of, “I am a little bored but I also want to make out with you.” She is usually playing with a strand of her hair and reclining in a beach chair. She’s glistening with sweat, undoubtedly because she’s nervous to make out with me because I’m super-awesome.

Today I was at a mall in Perth to buy pants for my daughter. After an unsuccessful trip to Country Road, I turned a corner and there was Gigi Hadid, splashing in the water, looking over her shoulder like, “I’m just headed out to sea. Did you want something?”

It was an actual Seafolly store. At last. Through the window, I could see rows of bikinis, many of which I recognized from all the ads. It’s getting warmer here, which means I will be at the beach more often. I could probably use a new bathing suit. Yes I could definitely use a new bathing suit.

I walked into Seafolly and took three bathing suits into a dressing room. I undressed and pulled on a skimpy navy blue bikini. I adjusted the straps and took a good look at myself in the mirror.

Now I am about to tell you something that will shock you. Because it shocked the hell out of me.

I am not Gigi Hadid. I look nothing like Gigi Hadid. Really. There are zero similarities between Gigi Hadid and myself. If Gigi Hadid walked into your house, you would not think, “Well hello Rebecca, what’s in your duffel bag?” Not even for a second.

This is a not an embrace-your-body situation. My body has more or less been embraced. It does not need a video of women clutching their post-baby tummies. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m just saying that on this particular day, that is not what was going on in that dressing room.

What was going on is that all of those ads worked. Gigi Hadid got me into a Seafolly store, trying on bathing suits. Her hair, her attitude, and her glistening shoulders, all of it possessed me into thinking the only thing separating me from a supermodel was a navy blue bikini. I was actually surprised to see me in the mirror, wearing a surprised expression on my face and little else.

I wish this story ended with me buying the bathing suit. But $150 is too much to spend on something that won’t actually turn me into a spellbinding mermaid. So I left the bikini in the dressing room and drove home. Lauryn Hill was on the radio. Can’t take my eyes off of you.

One Time at Band Camp

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We are an American family living in Australia and we are trying new things. This week, some of us tried walking to school by ourselves, and some of us tried going to work when we were sick. Some of us tried parking in a lot where in order to exit you need to have memorized your license plate number, and if you don’t know your license plate number, you end up angering a woman wearing a hot pink scrunchie.

Last week, the new thing we tried was Band Camp.

My daughter plays the keyboard in a band – less Duran Duran, more Mr. Holland’s Opus. Forty children meet up before school to play a variety of instruments and learn songs by the Beatles and Tchaikovsky. The talented bandleader has an equal amount of gorgeous white curls and schtick-jokes; he is turning these kids into proper musicians, and showing them how fun music can be.

Australia is big into fun. Are you having fun doing it? If not, then why are you doing it? It is a cultural ethos that I love and also struggle with, particularly when it comes to the kids. Don’t we need to teach our children that hard work combined with a healthy dose of dissatisfaction pays off? Don’t they need to suffer in order to succeed? Since moving to Perth, I am constantly reminded that, as it turns out, joy is a critical component to learning. (This no-duh moment was brought to you by Tim Tams, the greatest cookie of all time.)

Every year, the “band mums” coordinate a weekend getaway at Nanga Bush Camp, a well-known destination to Western Australians who did a lot of scouting in their childhoods. Nanga is located about 100 miles south of Perth, near the town of Dwellingup that has an art gallery where you can buy felt brooches and a cat sculpture titled Chairman Meow. While the band members have marathon practice sessions, their families go on long walks and sit around playing Uno and drinking instant coffee.

After almost crashing into a kangaroo (note: do not drive on a curvy, desolate road at dusk), we arrived at Nanga Bush Camp somewhat traumatized in the pouring rain, and discovered that we would be spending two nights in what essentially is a log cabin prison. Imagine a building about the size of a six-bedroom suburban home, but instead of walls there are curtains that haven’t been cleaned since 1968 and instead of beds there are tiny wooden slabs on which you roll out your sleeping bags. There is a basketball hoop in the main room and two fireman’s poles, presumably to encourage loud play at all hours. Seventy-five people snoring, farting, arguing and giggling. All we were missing were Ouija boards and an epic round of Spin the Bottle.

As an aside, to the parents of the boy who was singing the Disney classic “A Whole New World” at midnight: your son is adorable, and I look forward to seeing him on Broadway. But until then, please tell him that his late-night unsolicited singing almost caused an American woman to have a certain kind of breakdown that would have resulted in an arrest.

At Band Camp, we played by the river and walked on a tightrope. There was a Family Cabaret Night with skits and ukuleles and a certain American family singing “Norwegian Wood.” We square danced and tried to drink just enough wine so that we’d fall asleep on our wooden bunks but not get up every three hours to pee. It was fun.