Rebecca Handler

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

Nonfiction

Greet, Pray, Love

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A friend of mine keeps a handwritten address book. Next to a name she scribbles a note like “hip” or “knee.” She says it’s because she’s older now, and everyone has a thing, and it’s polite to remember the thing so you can ask about it.

I need a book to keep track of greeting protocol – one cheek, two cheeks, a quick hug. When I meet people for the first time in Perth, it’s easy – we shake hands. After that, it gets tricky. As far as I can tell, there’s no standard Australian greeting. I’ve gotten the one cheek kiss, the double kiss, and my least favorite, the awkward stand-there-and-wave. To complicate matters, there are tons of ex-pats in Perth and every meeting requires quick calculus. Look there’s Grace. Oh, here she comes. What do I do? Let’s see, she’s Scottish but married to a Dutch guy. They just moved here from Hong Kong, aaah, awkward wave it is!!

The well-known adult-to-child greeting, the high five, is evidently a North American phenomenon. I have stopped high-fiving Australian children because they think I am about to slap them. I am not going to attempt a fist-bump.

My parents used to have a friend I am going to call Victor. Whenever Victor and his wife came over for dinner, he would shake hands with my father, pat my brother on the back, and wave to me as I hid behind my father’s legs. Then he would turn to my mother and kiss her on the lips. Like, really kiss her. I don’t recall an open mouth, but it was definitely more than a peck.

There was nothing fishy going on and Victor wasn’t a sleazebag. In fact, he was one of my favorite family friends. It’s just that in Victor’s World, an appropriate greeting between a man and a woman involved mouth-to-mouth. As I got older, I learned to dodge his lips and go in for a hug.

In San Francisco, my default greeting was a hug. That’s not working here. The other day, I could have sworn a new friend was emitting major hug-me vibes. As I went in for chest-to-chest contact, I could feel her cringe but it was too late. This hug was happening and it was going to be uncomfortable for both of us.

I hugged Simone’s classmate recently. When I pulled back and caught her eye, I realized I had become Victor.

Winter is Coming

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If you are reading this in San Francisco, I am writing you from the future where it is 15 hours and two seasons later. It is fall in Perth and getting darker by the minute. The trees are dressed up as Vermont, and the sidewalks are covered with inedible berries which, when stomped on, make it look like all the world’s Fig Newtons pooped simultaneously.

It has been pouring buckets the past few days. Perth is effortlessly lush and green, sashaying around in her emerald silk nightie. Oh this old thing? I just threw it on.

It is 5:30 pm as I type this, and it’s pitch black outside. All I hear is a chorus of very loud crickets. From the look and sound of it, I should be staggering around trying to find the bathroom at a campsite. But instead, here I am, in a little brick house in Perth, participating in normal daytime activities.

To celebrate the change in seasons, yesterday I got in a serious funk. I am not using that as code for depression. I am using that as code for what-happened-to-my-life-please-just-give-me-a-minute. The funk was brought on by the fact that Bunnings doesn’t carry a certain kind of adhesive hook. The funk was exacerbated by the viewing of The Lego Movie, which was so unbearable it made me feel like we need to speed up global warming so the next species can take over because they will never create something as hideous as The Lego Movie.

I used to think Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) was something that some dude made up so he wouldn’t have to do the dishes. “Brad, honey, can you clean up?” “Sorry babe, my Seasonal Affective Disorder is acting up again so I need to watch football.” But it’s amazing what moving to Australia will do to a Northern Hemispherian. My body feels seriously out of whack. I want to eat nothing but cream-based soups, and my bones feel mushy. I am waking up with sheet creases on my face, and I have made three chicken casseroles in the past week.

So yesterday I cried in my room for awhile, and then announced to Dave that if we ever move abroad again, it will be for MY job and HE will need to go to Ikea and sweep the floor for the eleventh time today so help me god can everyone just lean over their placemat. And then he said sounds like a plan and we watched Veronica Mars and ate some cherries and I started to feel better.

Designer Vagina

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There’s something fishy going on in Western Australia, and I’m not talking about the sharks. Over the last few months, I have seen many ads in newspapers and in the windows of medical clinics for something called the Designer Vagina.

Apparently our vaginas have been bad. Very bad. They have had sex and many of them have birthed babies. Our vaginas work hard and sometimes feel a bit bushed. As our vaginas get older, they want to rest, eat frozen Snickers bars, and watch The Golden Girls.

But ladies, our vaginas are evidently in danger of becoming a bunch of lazy koalas. That is why God invented the Designer Vagina. And by “God,” I mean doctors. And I’m not putting this one on the guys, because let’s face it, we women are perfectly capable of coming up with new ways to torture ourselves.

Unfortunately, the Designer Vagina is not a store that sells Gucci tampons and Prada vibrators. According to one Perth clinic’s website, the Designer Vagina is, “a surgical procedure that involves reducing the labia minora or inner lips to achieve an aesthetically more pleasing shape or appearance.” In other words, a vajayjay nip and tuck.

Obviously there could be functional reasons for getting a labiaplasty, and by all means, vaginas should not hurt and hooray for doctors who can help vaginas feel less ouch-y and more chillax-y. But Designer Vagina ads are not directed at women who have serious cootchie issues. With phrases like “youthful appearance,” “regain your femininity,” and “feel more confident in your appearance,” you and I both know what’s going on down under. One ad promises, “Feel more comfortable in a leotard.” Thank god. I’ve been feeling so uncomfortable in my leotard. I’ve always assumed it’s because I’m wearing a fucking leotard, but now I see that it’s my un-designed vagina.

Apparently the Designer Vagina procedure became popular following the advent of the Brazilian wax. Because, you see, once you remove all of your pubic hair, your vagina might look, um, kind of weird. And clearly, the most logical response is not to simply regrow your hair, but instead undergo major surgery. That’s like spilling a glass of grapefruit juice, and rather than cleaning it up, you paint your table pink.

Have I been living in a warm, wet cave? Is this happening everywhere? Sadly I assume it is. But the in-your-face advertising strikes me as very Australian. Get your snatch stitched mate, don’t be such a pussy. Like driving on the left side of the road or living in a world without burritos, I’ll get used to it. Our first few weeks living in Singapore, I was startled by all of the ads for whitening creams, as well as packs of cigarettes featuring photos of cancerous tongues. But soon, all the weird stuff started to feel normal, and before I knew it, I completely regained my femininity.

What’s On

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Almost every night after the kids are in bed, Dave and I refill our wine glasses and settle in for some TV time. We are trucking our way through Veronica Mars, a show that somehow we missed when it first aired. Kristen Bell is a private detective, solving and resolving crimes in 42 minutes. Veronica is sassy, brainy, and locks up date rapists. It’s just too bad that she keeps getting back together with Logan Echolls, the mopey son of a man who once trapped her inside a refrigerator and set it on fire.

I love Gogglebox, a show about people watching TV. Like many great reality shows, it is originally British. I’ve been watching the Australian version on Thursday nights on Channel Ten. The marketing for Gogglebox was clearly the last agenda item at the network meeting, after “Clean Up the Scan Folder on the Shared Drive.” This is the only explanation for Gogglebox’s tagline: “The TV Show About People Watching TV.” Each episode begins with the following:

Every evening in Australia, more than four million of us choose to spend the night in front of the telly. But have you ever wondered what other people are watching? Find out what people thought about what was on in the last seven days.

Rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it? But who cares that the promotion of this show was cobbled together by interns. It’s awesome!

Gogglebox depicts ten different living rooms across the country (to represent a cross-section of Australian life?). There’s a couple in their fifties who like to poke each other adorably, surfer-looking best mates Adam and Symon, Wayne and Tom who drink martinis and stroke their lapdogs, two embarrassed teenage girls on the couch with their parents, you get the idea.

All of these good-natured people are watching an equally diverse set of shows: the news, an episode of Real Housewives, a cooking show, Game of Thrones, a rugby match. We simply watch them watch and respond to the TV. It’s like Beavis and Butt-Head, except they’re not cruel idiots.

The Gogglebox households are filmed via remote-controlled cameras with the crews in a separate room. As a result, the people seem very natural. They comment on the shows, occasionally being snarky but mostly just being curious. They turn to each other, sometimes to say things that have nothing to do with what they’re watching (“Love, are you picking up the kids tomorrow?”). I know they know I’m watching. But I swear it feels like spying on nice people having a cozy night on the couch. OH MY GOD MAYBE THEY’RE WATCHING ME WATCHING THEM WATCHING TV.

Willa’s favorite show is called Letters and Numbers, a game show where two contestants compete to unscramble words and solve math problems. One refreshing aspect to the show is its Game Show Pretty Lady is a mathematician. The losing contestant gets a dictionary. The winner gets to come back and compete on the next show. And if you win six times, you get kicked off and… wait for it… a dictionary.

I am thankful for many things lately and one of them is television. This might be an outdated notion, but I believe the purpose of television is entertainment. A show doesn’t have to mean anything more than that. Mad Men, Girls, and Modern Family are considered to be important shows, carrying the weight of historical and cultural evolution. Good for them. They’re great shows. But if I’m in a place (say, Perth) where I need a distraction (say, from a major life change), give me a show about people watching TV.

Bloody Hell

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Commonwealth nations can easily be identified in two ways – their excitement about the birth of a royal baby, and their passion for netball. Just a few months ago, I had never heard of netball, a sport similar to basketball but with no dribbling. Netball’s like a game of catch and shoot, with lots of running in between. In primary school here in Perth, netball is a popular girls’ sport. The players wear their school uniforms with their hair pulled back in high ponytails. At a glance, a netball game appears as if the cheerleaders have taken over. Give me an F! Give me a U! Everyone off the court so we can show you how it’s done!

Willa inherited her dad’s attitude towards new activities: if other people have learned this thing, that means it’s learn-able, and therefore I can learn it. It’s one of my favorite things about her. Netball sounded like fun, so she decided to “have a go.” She had her first game this morning.

We woke up at 6:25 a.m. so we could get to the court in time for the pre-game warm up. It’s Saturday. Willa is nine years old. But we are in Perth, and we are not going to be the lazy Americans that sleep past sunrise and miss out on all the sportaliciousness.

The game was held at Matthews Netball Centre, a sports facility that, like many gyms and fields in Perth, is large enough to host five simultaneous Super Bowls. Getting in and out of the parking lot was like Pearl Jam at the Shoreline, circa 1995. There were approximately 50 netball games going on at once. It was a sea of ponytails and skorts.

The game was fun to watch. Except for the part when Willa flew through the air and landed face-first on the court.

I like Australia. So far, living here has been thoroughly enjoyable. But today, when I saw my child slide across the cement on her bare knees and chin, my inner voice became a raging xenophobe. Fucking Australia with their fucking version of basketball and their fucking giant crows that wake me up at dawn.

I ran over to Willa, rested my hand on her back, and asked her to lift her face off the pavement. It was bloody. But I could see she’d be ok. She spent the rest of the game on the sideline, icing her chin and knees. Her teammates kept calling out to her during the game. “You ok, Willa?” They were worried. After the game, they shared their own stories of blood and bruising. Parents were just as kind and concerned. One mother told us every scar on her body is from netball, and she loves the game.

Simone likes to touch the scar on my knee from when I fell off my bike when I was 10. She wants to hear about the blood, and how my mom was running a bath and couldn’t hear me crying. We talk about how our bodies tell the stories of our lives. Willa might end up with a scar. She’ll tell people she used to live in Perth and she played netball. It’s an Aussie thing.