perth

The Call Is Coming from Inside the Tent

I once taught myself to like cottage cheese by eating one spoonful every morning for a month. In the beginning, I would gag. Between the chunky consistency of milk gone bad, the yellowish liquid layer on top, and a smell that manages to be both innocuous and rancid, there is not much to like about cottage cheese. But after a week or so, my taste buds relented. It’s not so bad. At the end of the month, I was dumping half a container into a cereal bowl and topping it off with a splash of canned peach juice. Mission accomplished. I am a person who enjoys a bowl of cottage cheese, I thought to myself, trotting off to middle school in my mint green Converse.

So help me God, I will become a person who enjoys camping.

There are many reasons to dislike camping but here I will present two of them: sleeping in a tent and serial killers.

Tents are annoying and they smell bad. Putting up a tent is like trying to tie a Moby Wrap around your torso while standing on one foot under a waterfall. Tents come with long metal rods that you must shove through skinny plastic sleeves, and when you do this incorrectly, you must remove the long metal rods, throw them on the ground, and whimper as you strive to read the faded instructions in the quickly disappearing daylight. When you want to enter your tent, you have to first unzip the “door” and then step in awkwardly like a toddler learning to walk up stairs, only to find your clothes splayed out before you in various states of disgusting. You find one sock but not the other. You don’t change your underwear for three days. It’s all an embarrassing mess.

Dave strongly disagrees with me on this next point, but serial killers are rampant at campgrounds. I don’t need data to back me up because it’s common sense. If your hobby is, say, flying kites, you are going to spend time in large, open fields with few tall obstacles. If you are more into, say, chopping people up into little pieces, you will seek out a remote location where you will find your victim waiting for you in a poorly assembled tent with limited cell reception. Dave and I once camped in South Dakota and I saw several serial killers.

When our friends Rochelle and Geert learned we had not yet camped in Western Australia after living here over a year, they took it upon themselves to help. Rochelle is originally from Perth and moves through life with a sense of exasperated goodwill. It’s not that she assumes people are stupid, but she knows, with plenty of evidence, she was put on this planet to help people be less dumb. Her husband Geert is Dutch, which is pretty much all you need to know about him. I don’t fully understand what he does for a living, but it involves managing the operations of massive construction vessels. He moves seamlessly between taking an emergency call in the middle of the forest to helping four children navigate white water rapids on kayaks.

Rochelle chose the Collie River as our destination, which is about two hours south of Perth. We drove for miles on a bumpy red dirt road and claimed a campsite right next to the river, a location that felt very covered-wagon-gold-rush and also took care of the grime problem. Majestic jarrah trees surrounded our tents, and the river sounded like wind. At the adjacent campsite was a large family gathering, which made me feel better about my odds in the serial killer scenario.

The weekend had many wondrous moments, including a large black lizard spotting, the starriest of starry skies, and most notably, a kangaroo bouncing through our campsite. I loved watching my daughters dismiss scrapes, splinters and bug bites in favor of sprinting through the forest and jumping in the river with new friends. I am grateful to Rochelle and Geert for not once referring to me as a pussy. Likewise, I am in awe of my nature-loving-happy-camper husband who did not throw me in the river at midnight when, in a tent-induced panic attack, I tried to blame him for my inability to chill out. (“WHY DON’T YOU SAY WHAT I WANT YOU TO SAY?”)

Learning to like cottage cheese was much easier than this business of camping. But I am determined.

Leave Them Kids Alone

“And now let’s hear from Alastair, a Year Eight student. He enjoys math and rugby.”

Alastair walks up to the podium and thanks us all for coming. He is tall, blond and tan, wearing a white dress shirt, necktie, and shorts. “I love it here. I’ve learned loads from every subject. There’s heaps of sports and clubs.”

“Thank you Alastair. Next up is Anjali. Anjali wants to be a scientist. She lives in the country and travels more than an hour each way to school.”

“I used to think I had the IQ of a pear. It turns out, pears are quite smart,” Anjali giggles. As she returns to her seat, I notice her shiny black braid cascading all the way down her back. My mind wanders. Does Anjali need to wake up even earlier to do her hair, or does she braid it on the train?

The Year Eight String Quartet starts playing Vivaldi’s Spring. I decide that Anjali does not braid her hair on the train.

If we are still living in Perth next year, my daughter will start secondary school in Australia. Having ruled out girls-only and religious schools, we are left with few options. Today I am visiting the Perth Modern School (“Mod”), a magnet public school close to home.

Mod’s tagline is “Exceptional schooling. Exceptional students,” a sharp contrast to Australia’s tall poppy syndrome, the tendency to belittle others’ skills and accomplishments. The campus is large and grassy. The students wear blazers and lug heavy backpacks across a courtyard. The school is funded by the state. Teachers are paid well and there are ample resources and activities.

The principal approaches the podium and looks out at the crowd of apprehensive parents. She tells us not to worry about the three-hour exam our children will be taking next month. “It’s designed to be hard. Just make sure they have breakfast.” She exudes warmth and strength. I can equally imagine her teaching an art class for seniors or running a country.

As she’s talking about the school’s curriculum, photos are projected on a screen behind her. Kids in front of blooming cherry blossoms! Kids on a trip to NASA! Kids on stage in pirate shirts! Kids with seeing-eye dogs! Kids in the library!

I glance down at my information packet and see the phrase, “Delivering leading edge learning to gifted students.” I think about raising my hand and asking what leading edge learning means but decide I don’t care that much, and anyways, I would probably sound like a dick.

The quartet plays again. More Vivaldi. I check my calendar. Tomorrow I’m visiting a tiny private school that provides each student with a laptop and something called a “personalized learning plan.”

Everyone starts clapping. I skip the morning tea and walk to my car. I have an urge to pick up my daughter from school and take her to the beach. We could play in the waves and dig a hole. We could make a big mess.

Two Stories

One

“I never wanted to tell you this but I stopped doing those yoga videos.”

“What?”

“You know how I go downstairs after dinner and do those videos?”

“I know, your yoga.”

“You always say it’s good for me.”

“But I hear it on, that gay guy telling you to breathe.”

“Yeah it’s on, I put it on. I just don’t do it. I lie down on my mat and do nothing.”

“That’s good for you Beth, that’s meditation.”

“It’s not meditation. I stare at the ceiling at all that chipped paint and that stupid light fixture. That nasty piece of gum stuck in the corner. I know Steven stuck it there, that time he stayed with us when he was on his way to Nevada. He had sex down there you know that right? He had sex with that girl, the one from the video store. Anyway, the point is that I’m not doing yoga.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“I don’t know. I’m just sick of it. I’m sick of all of it.”

“Come here, baby.”

“No.”

“Get over here. Sit down. Listen. I don’t give two shits that you hate yoga.”

“I don’t hate yoga.”

“You know what I mean. You think I’m sitting up here thinking my wife is so cool for doing yoga? No, I’m not thinking that. You know what I’m thinking?”

“No.”

“Ask me what I’m thinking when you’re downstairs not doing yoga.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’m so fucking lucky. I just had a delicious dinner with my beautiful wife. My daughter’s got a great job in the city and just bought herself a car. My back hasn’t acted up in awhile, I’m sleeping good, life is good.”

“Oh Brian.”

“Don’t oh Brian me. I’m just being honest. You want some tea? I’ll make you some tea.”

“I’ll get it.”

“You’re not getting anything. You’re gonna sit there and have some tea. And then you know what we’re gonna to do? Ask me what we’re gonna do.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We’re gonna leave those dishes right where they are, and then we’re gonna go upstairs and go to bed. And tomorrow we’re gonna throw out that yoga mat and go see that fancy dresses movie you’ve been bugging me about.”

“Oh my god. You are ridiculous.”

“I’m ridiculous? Sit down. Breathe.”

Two

“I always knew that someday I’d see you again.”

“Come on.”

“No I’m serious, Jess. When was that time? Three, four years ago? I stopped in to return that video from my uncle’s house. Some yoga thing. I thought no one was here. You were putting movies back on the shelves. You called out from back there. You were wearing that stripey sweater and those cute black glasses. You said I couldn’t possibly imagine how many people were asking for that Demi Moore movie. You told me to guess, I should guess how many people. Just in that one day.”

“How can you possibly remember that?”

“You asked if you could help me with anything. I was just returning my uncle’s video but I stayed to look around. You showed me the new releases section and I think it was like Dances with Wolves or something like that. My aunt was like why did you rent this. I don’t even remember watching it, cuz all I could think about was you and how I was gonna go back the next day to return the movie even though it was a two-night deal.”

“I was glad you came back.”

“Yeah me too. We had fun that night.”

“Even though your uncle’s basement was freezing. My god Steven, you remember how cold it was? You thought I was being shy but I was freezing. My tits were literally frozen.”

“You just didn’t want to take your shirt off.”

“You’re insane.”

“You were chewing gum.”

“You made me spit it out.”

“When I got back in town the other night. I asked my uncle if that cute girl from the video store was still working there. He said as I matter of fact she still is.”

“How long are you in town for?”

“Depends.”

“I manage the store now.”

“You were basically doing that before, weren’t you?”

“No but for real now. The old manager left so they asked me to do it. About a year ago.”

“Good for you.”

“I get to decide on all the signs, make the schedule. I get to hire people. And you know… I need someone to cover this one girl’s shifts for a while. She just had a baby.”

“I like movies.”

“Name ten movies right now.”

“Kiss me.”

“Ten. Go.”

“Star Wars.”

“So predictable.”

“Shut up. Star Wars, Back to the Future, Raiders of the Lost Ark… that crocodile movie, the one with that knife guy… Rambo, Lethal Weapon, Die Hard…”

“Holy – Name one foreign film.”

“Oh come on.”

“Then how about a movie with a female lead?”

“Shit.”

“I don’t remember that one.”

“Shut up, I’m thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Demi Moore! That Demi Moore movie!”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Am I hired?”

“Will you stay for awhile?”

“If you keep looking at me like that.”

______

(Inspired by Catherine Lacey’s Stepping Into Fiction workshop at the Perth Writers Festival last weekend. Our assignment was to write two stories: one that begins with, “I never wanted to tell you this but…” and another that begins, “I always knew that someday I’d see you again.” Catherine is the author of the wonderful novel Nobody Is Ever Missing.)

Bogan Bingo

The first thing I notice at Bogan Bingo is the bouncer’s fake tattoo: “Dilligaf.” I ask him what it means. “Does it look like I give a fuck?” he growls. Wow, that’s rude. As I make my way to the bar, it makes sense.

The event, held at our local primary school, is a fundraiser for suicide prevention. The invitation had stated, “Bogan Bingo gives everyone’s inner Bogan a chance to escape for the night. There will be beer, wine, pies, sausage rolls and sauce.”

I am wearing denim shorts, a Balinese beer tank top, sheepskin boots, purple eye shadow, and a tattoo with the name of my high school sweetheart. Dave is wearing more or less the same outfit, minus the makeup. One of our friends is in a Jack Daniels t-shirt that was a gift from his mother. Another has big hair, big cleavage, and a tattoo that says, “No Ragrets.” I spot close to 100 mullet wigs, a handful of fake pregnant bellies, and one pack of menthol cigarettes. We’re drinking white wine that tastes like Jolly Ranchers.

You Give Love a Bad Name is blaring on the speakers and bingo cards are scattered on our foldout table. The emcee yells out numbers followed by helpful hints: “Seventy-six! Eat a bag of dicks!” There’s also some call and response: “I say Up The Bum, you say No Babies!”

Bogan is a word that gets tossed around frequently in Perth. It’s a derogatory term for someone who is considered low status, unsophisticated. Rebel Wilson hit it big with Bogan Pride. A popular show here is Upper Middle Bogan. In America, Bogan translates to “white-trash” or “redneck,” two words I stopped using sometime in the early 90’s, along with “retarded” and “Benetton.”

Although Bogan is used by ladies in pearls to describe ladies with belly button rings, it is more often used by people who identify as Bogan. At the bar, a woman in an Aka Daka (AC/DC) t-shirt tells me she feels affection for the word because it describes her family. Her friend leans in, agreeing, “Bogans like to have a good time.”

Last week, I asked a few Australian children what they think of when they hear the word Bogan. “Heaps of tattoos and piercings,” one giggled as she reached for a biscuit. “They’re really loud, and they like cars,” another said. At needlepoint class, I asked my fellow students if they’d go to an event called Bogan Bingo. Looking up over her bifocals, Hazel said, “It’s in bad taste.” (She’s from England.) “Take pictures,” she added.

Dave nudges me. “This is amazing,” he whispers as I take my meat pie out of its plastic wrapping. A song I later learn is called Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again comes on. Everyone chants, “No way! Get fucked! Fuck off!”

I don’t think I’d attend a redneck-themed party in the U.S. I’d feel it was, at best, in poor taste, and perhaps offensive. Some Australians believe that Americans take certain things too seriously (what to say and how to say it) and other things not seriously enough (gun violence). I guess we’re livin’ on a prayer.

The Bottle

I had a friend many years ago who was from France. We met in Singapore, where we’d visit each other in our air-conditioned apartments and watch our babies eat bananas. My friend wore seersucker dresses and plastic headbands, and was shy in that way non-native English speakers can be sometimes. I told her we should speak in French so I could practice. She’d laugh at me when I began every sentence with “I am going to,” and would interrupt me in English to say, “Now I am going to speak in English.”

One day, while watching our babies gnaw on wooden puzzle pieces, my friend shared some good news. Her younger sister was coming to visit. The sister was 14 and this would be her first time flying alone. My friend told me all the things they would do together in Singapore. “She wants to try spicy food,” she said, “and go on the Night Safari.” Then she paused, and asked quietly, “Can I tell you something?” Of course, I said. Tell me.

“My sister takes a bottle before bed.”

“Like a baby bottle?”

“Yes. My sister drinks a bottle before bed.”

It turns out that her mother just never stopped giving her sister a bottle of warm milk. And now she was 14, and still had a bottle every night. No, she did not have any disabilities. No, she was not still nursing. No, she did not tell anyone about this. Not a soul.

My friend hadn’t lived with her sister for many years, and was wondering whether or not the bottle would also be coming to Singapore.

I was thrilled with this piece of news. It seemed so strange, so wonderfully foreign. I couldn’t wait to meet this girl, and felt both guilty and gleeful that I was privy to her secret.

I met the sister at a barbecue. She was beautiful and slightly awkward – your average teenager. I kept glancing over at my friend, trying to catch her eye, hoping for a clue.

“What ever happened with the bottle?” I finally had a chance to ask, after the sister had returned to France. “Oh yes,” my friend said casually, “She brought one but didn’t use it. At least I don’t think she used it. I saw it in her suitcase.”

I remembered this story today, as I walked to pick up my daughters from school. My friend’s sister must be in her mid-twenties by now. I’m guessing the bottle finally faded away, as do so many elements of childhood.

Hardship

Ghaith is a Syrian refugee who fled to Sweden, by way of Lebanon, Turkey, Greece, Serbia, Austria, and Germany. He left his wife and mother to try and build a life for them that won’t involve car bombs and streets littered with body parts. He walked for miles, hid in train bathrooms and pickup trucks, and helped care for a pregnant woman and her toddler on a tiny boat that barely made it to shore. He cried when he finally reunited with his brother he hadn’t seen in three years.

I read Ghaith’s story in The New Yorker, from the comfort of my bed that was shipped from San Francisco to Perth by a company that wants to help ease my transition to a new country.

I recently chaperoned a field trip to the Freshwater Bay Museum, which, despite its name, is neither an aquarium nor a museum. It is an activity center where children can experience the lives of Australian settlers in the 1860’s. Twenty-four children in polyester blue school uniforms scrubbed tea towels on washboards, made scones out of crushed wheat, and were assigned new names like Emma Atkinson and Benjamin Sutton.

The children were asked to line up single file and take a seat in a classroom that was decked out with wooden pews and slate boards. “Girls up front, boys in back.” Pip, our tour guide who, up until this point, had been patient and kind with the children, tied on a white apron and announced she was now Mrs. Herbert.

Mrs. Herbert checked fingernails for dirt and slapped desks with her ruler. “Are you being naughty, Sarah Gallop? Do you want me to whack you?” “No.” “No, what?” “No, Mrs. Herbert.”

The children were given a spelling test. Pip asked for a volunteer to pretend to have failed. My daughter’s friend Daisy raised her hand high. Mrs. Herbert said, “Charlotte Yates, you have done very poorly on this test. Come here this instant.” Mrs. Herbert reached behind her desk and pulled out a tall cap with the word “Dunce” on it. For the remainder of the class, Daisy faced the wall, giggling with delight.

“Let’s play Olden Days!” Simone yells out to Daisy, as they run to our house after school, zipping past kookaburras and jacaranda trees. “I’ll be the student and you be the mean teacher,” Daisy commands, tossing her backpack on the floor and pulling off her sneakers. For hours, the girls speak very sternly, pretend to whack each other with rulers, and write the alphabet over and over. I knock on the bedroom door and ask if they want a snack. They tell me they’re not allowed to eat. “We might get whacked!” they shriek.

I’d bet my life these girls will never spend a week on a tiny boat with scared strangers, vomiting into ziplock bags and tossing them overboard. But I’ve never had to bet my life.

Oy to the World

When my younger daughter was six, she informed me, between mouthfuls of frozen peas, “There’s no such thing as Santa. It’s the parents.” I leaned over the table, looked her straight in the eye and said, “You are correct. Now please don’t tell anyone.”

And just like that, the ancient Jewish ritual known as Don’t Ruin Christmas was passed down to the next generation.

I admire Santa’s pro-nice, anti-naughty platform. But Santa will never squeeze himself down our chimney. I can explain this to my children in one of two ways– either a) he doesn’t exist or b) anti-Semitism.

Being Jewish this time of year is like being in a rowboat at night, looking up at the stars and feeling content, when suddenly a cruise ship passes by, with its twinkling lights and booming music. The same rowboat that felt comfortable a minute ago, suddenly feels small and insignificant.

This is not a sob story. I love Hanukah, and I love celebrating Christmas with my in-laws (via Skype, sniff). I just don’t want to do it every minute of every day in the month of December and, oh hey while we’re at it, also November.

Here in Australia, Christmas is full on. As my friend Anthony puts it, “It’s all about barbies, beer and the beach, what’s not to like?” Excellent point, mate. But in Oz, there is no Thanksgiving to serve as bouncer. The holiday has been in full swing pretty much since the beginning of November. And not just in coffee shops and department stores.

My daughter’s public school classroom features a theme each term around which activities and lessons are planned. So far this year, the themes have been Marine Life, Planets and Space, and Dinosaurs. This term? Christmas. My daughter will be making ornaments, learning carols, and drawing pictures of a bearded man in a red suit who she knows either a) doesn’t exist or b) anti-Semitism. I asked a Muslim mother how she handles things at the school and she sighed in that way you might if you found yourself in a rap battle with Jay-Z.

Another classroom recently launched “Santa Countdown” or, if you don’t celebrate Christmas, “Countdown to The Day Everything is Closed and You Forget Why But Then You Remember.”

Religions are like diets. There are many to choose from, and not choosing one is also a healthy option. Some households might be vegetarian, or paleo, or everything in moderation, and it’s all fine with me as long as you’re not ripping up my front lawn to grow your special beans.

Some people like to say that Christmas is not a religious holiday. But those people usually celebrate Christmas. Celebrating Christmas in a classroom alienates children who do not celebrate this holiday in their homes. I repeat. I repeat the sounding joy.

The 24

A wall in the shower is covered in gray tile. One of the little hexagons is cracked in such a way that it looks like the profile of a wolf. You stare at it while soaping your armpits, and think if your life were a Miyazaki movie, the tiny wolf would come to life and follow you around, protecting you from evil spirits. It would say things like, “Let your heart guide you,” and rest on your pillow at night, its green eyes glowing.

You buy a newspaper before waiting for the bus on St. Georges Terrace. You signal the 24 and it comes to a halt. “G’day,” says the driver. “Hello,” you respond, as you fold your newspaper and brush off some crumbs on the front seat. It’s after lunch, and the bus carries just a few other passengers.

A woman with bright pink cheeks gets on at the next stop. She looks out of breath. You notice the woman’s hair, long and white, with pink and purple streaks. The woman holds her SmartRider card up to the scanner, and sighs with relief when it beeps.

You open your newspaper. Something horrible has happened in Paris. A map with tiny stick figures compares the number of attackers to the number of victims. You sigh. What the hell is wrong with people. You get a text from Cassy. It’s a link to a video of cats being startled by cucumbers. “Try this with Finn,” Cassy writes. You chuckle. France has declared war on terrorism.

Someone has pushed the button signaling the driver to pull over at the next stop. The back door opens and a piercing scream breaks the silence like a meteorite crash in the desert. “It’s ripped off! It’s all gone!” You look behind you and realize the scream is coming from the woman with the white hair with the pink and purple streaks. Tonight you will use the words “freak accident” to describe to your children what happened to this woman. The bus door has ripped off the entire nail of her big toe.

A passenger runs over to her. “Come with me,” he says calmly, in thickly accented English, “I’m going to help you.” He holds up the woman as she stumbles over to the bus shelter. Her foot is covered in blood. The woman is sobbing.

Through the window of the bus, you watch the man as he helps the woman onto a bench and props up her bloody foot on his knee. The blood is getting all over his pants. The woman is shaking and howling in pain.

The bus driver joins them outside. He crouches next to the woman and leans in to say something to her. He reaches into his pocket and offers his handkerchief to the man who quickly wraps it around her foot. The driver boards the bus for a moment to call someone. “One of my passengers is hurt. We will be here for a while. Yes. Thank you.”

You remove your wallet and phone from your purse and search the pockets for Band-Aids, coming up with nothing. You leave your purse and the newspaper on your seat and go outside. You ask the man, still holding the woman’s foot, “Can I call someone? Do you need an ambulance?” He says no, the woman just called her husband. He is on his way.

You sit down next to the woman with the white hair with the pink and purple streaks and rest your hand gently on her back. “It will be ok,” is all you think to say. She collapses back into your palm, and starts to cry again. “I can’t believe this happened,” she moans, “I’m supposed to go hiking in January.”

One by one, the remaining passengers disembark. An older lady has tissues and stories of awful toenail injuries from when she was a ballerina. “Toes heal quickly, trust me.” A passenger with a long blond ponytail is on her way from waitressing downtown to coaching gymnastics. “I’ll be late but it doesn’t matter.” A young man dressed in all black comes over to the bench and hands the woman an unopened bottle of water.

You feel bad about not having any Band-Aids, and say to the man with blood on his pants, “You should be a doctor.” He blushes. “I hope to be one soon.” It turns out he’s in medical school up the road. Everyone laughs, including the injured woman who shakes her head in disbelief, “What are the chances?”

The husband arrives. “Oh Junie Bug,” he says sweetly, putting his hand to her cheek. His wife starts crying again. “All these people took such good care of me.” “Of course they did, Junie Bug, of course they did.”

Everyone says goodbye to the woman with the white hair with the pink and purple streaks and gets back on the bus, returning to their original seats. You read the newspaper the rest of the way home. Many of those people in Paris were at a rock show.

Later that night you take a shower. You stare at the wolf and think about scary things. Then you think about all the kindness, all of the people looking out for each other.

I Woke Up Happy

Ladies, if you didn’t come to work, I need you to leave right now. Work those hips. I see you over there acting like you’re tired. Are you ready? Work.

Who writes the lyrics to Zumba songs? A five-year-old playing Mean Boss?

I’m not supposed to be thinking about what’s on the stereo. I am meant to be learning very complicated dance moves in an exercise studio at the Next Gen Club in Kings Park, Perth.

My friend Lucia is an irresistible saleswoman with toned arms and a contagious laugh. She loves her weekly Zumba class and invited me to join her. Lucia’s wearing her party pants – neon print spandex capris – so I know she means business. I am wearing black leggings and a panty liner, my go-to outfit for any activity that might require excessive jumping.

Zumba has its roots in hip-hop, salsa and meringue, so I know this class will feature a lot of booty shaking. Scanning the room, I make an unfounded assumption that I will be able to keep up with these ladies.

The regular Zumbies are in the front row. Jo from Facts of Life is sporting baggy, gray Hammer pants, and her friend is wearing a black t-shirt with the phrase, “I Woke Up Happy.” They are smiling ear to ear and greet the instructor with the kind of affection normally bestowed upon baby penguins in hand-knit sweaters. The teacher is a stand-in for Goldie Hawn in the second half of Overboard– effortlessly sexy in loose-fitting clothes and no makeup.

The music starts. We’re sidestepping and clapping. I can totally handle this.

A minute later, I’m trying to roll my torso in a way that is supposed to be sexy but when I do it, it looks like I’m dodging a tetherball. There’s pivoting, lunging, kicking, and lots of hair flipping. I think of the Joseph Campbell quote I saw in a bathroom stall, “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” I do some shoulder shimmies.

The regulars are nailing it. Their movements look relaxed and natural, and their faces are glowing with sweat and delight. They make a lot of eye contact with each other. During a song that, based on its relentless chorus, I’m guessing is called “Fed Up,” we do this dance move that involves punching your elbow to the side as if fighting your way onto the subway. The regulars think this gesture is hysterical and give each other looks like, “So happy to be rid of that loser, right? I showed him.”

During a break between songs, I turn to Lucia, “This is hard.” She smiles, “It’s like a party.”

The Day I Wanted Another Baby

One potential hazard of spending a lot of time by myself is lingering thought. Since we moved from San Francisco to Perth, the time I spend alone has skyrocketed. Overall, this has been a surprisingly welcome turn of events. I am at risk of turning into a happy hermit, making up new stew recipes and dreaming of becoming a lighthouse keeper.

When I’m folding clothes, or sitting on the couch writing, or buying deodorant for every member of this household because everyone needs to please start wearing deodorant at all times, a question or idea will inevitably pop into my head. And then it will not leave because I am very un-busy and there is no one else around. This question or idea – sometimes trivial, occasionally disturbing – will sit front and center raising its hand, “Call on me! Call on me!” What was the name of that girl in middle school who threw my Velcro wallet in the toilet? Why do so many fundraising videos feature someone showing words on flashcards? I wonder what my dad’s body looks like right now, underground.

Recently, walking home after school drop-off, a thought sashayed into my head like Olivia Pope entering the oval office. I want a baby. We should have another baby.

I went for a run. We should have a baby. I showered. I really want a baby.

I texted Dave, “I want to have another baby.” He texted back, “Do you want to meet for lunch?”

I couldn’t meet for lunch because I was going back to school to tutor children in reading. I was excited about introducing a seven-year-old boy to Maurice Sendak.

I’ll eat you up – I love you so. I want a baby. Throughout the day, the thought grew and grew, until the ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around.

What is this about, I wondered. I am done having babies. My daughters are eight and ten, wonderful ages for chatting, traveling, and generally doing things without the panic brought on by the gorgeous but nagging presence of an infant. There is no more, “We’d love to go, but the little darling is still napping.” I am 42, an age where it might still be possible to get pregnant; making the deliberate decision not to feels a bit like turning down the chance to do a somersault on a trampoline. I could potentially make this happen.

As it turns out, one way to kill the idea of having another baby is to get in a stupid, unrelated fight with the father of this what-if baby and leave the house, thus celebrating my capacity for spontaneous exits. My body is no longer the main food source for any human being, nor is anyone relying on my presence in order to fall asleep.

I drove straight to the Windsor Cinema on Stirling, bought a glass of SSB (Semillon Sauvignon Blanc, the Corona of Western Australia), and scored an aisle seat to the movie Burnt. I ripped open the Snickers bar I had stolen from my daughter’s Halloween stash just before my great escape. A man sitting behind me was enthusiastically telling his friend about his dog Marcello who was recently prescribed some pills “so he can get down to his maintenance weight.”

You will never see the movie Burnt (I forbid it) so allow me to summarize. Bradley Cooper portrays a chef who is – wait for it – a narcissistic jerk. He throws food against the wall, yells at the cute guy from The Americans, and grabs Sienna Miller by the shirt-collar and screams in her face. Later in the film she kisses him, because nothing’s sexier than an abusive boss.

I left the movie theater and walked back to my car. The air was warm and, thanks to the Indian restaurant nearby, smelled pleasantly like curry. I didn’t need to go home right away, but I wanted to. My family is there. They’re all sleeping soundly. And will continue to do so, all night long.