Rebecca Handler

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

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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.

Beep

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Few things make me sadder for the state of the human race than self-checkout at a grocery store. If someone had told me self-checkout was alive and well in Australia, I may have decided not to move here. I was too busy thinking about schools and neighborhoods to focus on the critical issue of whether or not I will need to weigh my own limes.

To me, patronizing a store and having zero human interaction makes me feel like Tom Hanks befriending a volleyball. Removing humans from certain equations makes sense (driving, anyone?). But when it comes to my food, it feels good to hand over my money to a beating heart, preferably one that is in the body of a smiling human. Thank you for providing me with this food so I can feed my family. Particularly in the age of online shopping, there is a reason I go to a physical location to spend my money. (I’m Miss Cranky-Pants, I’ll be here all week.)

Most days in Perth, I walk to our neighborhood grocery store, Farmer Jacks, to pick up a few things for dinner. Farmer Jacks sells six different brands of agave nectar, and employs real people who are lovely and like to talk about squirrels and roller coasters. But occasionally there are days, like today, when I’m out and about so I swing by Woolworths, a national grocery chain that has decided to trade in customer satisfaction for really cheap milk. “Look at those suckers bagging their own groceries. Who cares that they’re wasting plastic bags and dropping jars of pickles on the floor? We get milk from robot cows and it’s 56 cents a liter, moohaha.”

Standing in line for self-checkout feels like waiting for someone to step on your toe. It’s humiliating and makes no sense. My heart went out to the old lady in the blue coat wrestling with the scanner gun, and I am a chump for not offering to help. But, toddlers should not teach babies how to fly if you know what I’m saying. So I watched this eighty-five-year woman reach down to pull her Weet-Bix out of her basket and try to locate the little scan-able doohickey. It made me sad.

Finally it was my turn. I spent five minutes scrolling through the produce list trying to find the price for red bell peppers before I remembered I’m in Australia and they’re called capsicums. I hope that sweet lady was watching me through the window thinking karma’s a bitch. But of course she wasn’t. She was on her way home to have a bowl of cereal and read about Australia’s new prime minister.

Everything you can imagine is real.

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I can be a little grumpy about museums. Going to a museum creates a sense of stress in my body, like visiting a dog shelter. Look at all of these glorious things, stuck behind locked doors. There’s too much to see and it’s sterile and crowded.

But the Museum of Old and New Art (MONA) in Hobart, Tasmania is to a museum what a bicycle-riding unicorn is to a stick of gum. It opened in 2011 and is the pet project of David Walsh, a Tassie who made zillions in professional gambling and, instead of blowing it on pool boys and cufflinks, proclaimed, “You know what this Australian island state needs? A crazy museum with all the stuff that I like. What’s that you say? You have an issue with the animal carcass encased in latex that I want hanging from the ceiling? You object to the loud waterfall that spells out random words pulled from the web? You are offended by the hundreds of plaster cast vaginas? Well, start your own museum and shut up about what constitutes art.” (This is a direct quote from my fantasy of a city council meeting).

The museum is free to Tasmanian residents and $20 for visitors. It sits on a hill in Hobart, and is accessible by bus, car or preferably a ferry with a full bar and attractive Tasmanians wearing spiffy gray MONA jumpsuits (I asked one of them where I can purchase such a magnificent jumpsuit and he told me you only get one if you work on the ferry. My traveling companion, my brother, then asked if he could get a ferry job for one day and run off with the jumpsuit.).

MONA sits on several acres of lush vineyards. Walking up the hill, there are a few hints of what lies ahead. The parking lot has two reserved spots for “God” and “God’s Mistress.” There is a large trampoline covered in bells manned by a staffer who encourages every visitor to “have a go.” There are beanbags on a stage, a cast iron “teepee cathedral” and a glorious wine bar that opens at 9am (ahem). And because you are in Tasmania and not New York, London or Paris, there are no throngs of people fighting their way in. It is just you, your brother, and a handful of European tourists, who will come face to face with some of the weirdest art on the planet.

There is no signage at MONA. No artist statements on the wall, no titles. Upon entering the main building, Daniel and I were encouraged by a smiling, blond gentleman to take the elevator three stories below ground to pick up our customized iPods that would offer more information about each piece “if you want to learn more. Some people don’t.”

Once underground, we gaped at staged photographs of naked homeless people, pulled open drawers to reveal old photographs and pieces of twine, watched a video of a woman vigorously brushing her hair, and tried to avoid walking past a five-foot tall horrifying doll standing on one end of a giant seesaw.

We walked through a tunnel to a participatory exhibit, by Marina Abramovic, called Rice and Lentil Counting, where for over an hour, I sat on a wooden bench wearing a lab coat and noise cancelling headphones, separating and counting a pile of rice (3,662) and lentils (1,188).

Entering a room at the far end of the museum, I suddenly held my breath. We had arrived at the shit show.

The MONA piece de resistance is Cloace, or what the locals refer to as the poo machine. It is part of MONA’s permanent collection, which my brother and I decided means that it will be shown for a few years and then will be lovingly placed in a permanent storage unit never to be seen again.

Minus the artsy fartsy (pun intended) lingo, Cloace is a large machine that imitates the human digestive system. It was created by a team of scientists and engineers, led by a Belgian artist named Wim Delvoye who is now living in China due to the fact that his home country takes issue with his current endeavor, tattooing live pigs (typical Belgians with their ethical end-of-life treatments and commitment to chocolate). A MONA staffer is tasked with feeding Cloace two meals a day, prepared by the museum café. She told us Cloace does not respond well to alcohol so it only drinks warm water. Cloace digests a small amount of meat every day but generally prefers raw greens. Cloace is more or less that dinner party guest.

Every day at 2pm, without fail, Cloaca poos. Real poo comes out of a metal tube onto a glass plate. Poo. On a plate. At a museum. It makes me positively giddy.

On the return ferry, watching the clouds move across the sky, I felt transformed. What was all of that? It was all so beautiful and grotesque. I felt disturbed and thrilled and not at all grumpy. This was the museum I had been waiting for.

Tasmania sits quietly off the coast of Victoria. It is about the size of Massachusetts, with one-tenth the population. The city of Hobart is cradled between the mountains and the harbor. They have the best oysters and whisky in the world, and their infamous Devils are even creepier than you imagine. The people are good-humored and kind; many of them have long bushy beards. Tassie’s beauty took my breath away. And it wasn’t just the poo.

The Anatomy of Funk

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I woke up in a funk. Different from the funk I had a few months ago when my throat was killing me so I took cold medicine and stayed in bed staring at the heating vent, realizing it looked just like the profile of a baby lion. And unlike the I’m-living-in-another-country funk. This was the funk where the people you love most in the world appear to be incredibly irritating and you need to leave the house as soon as possible to avoid saying very mean things.

I’m a pretty happy person. Granted I’m no Mary Lou Retton, but I generally feel content and grateful. But today I felt angry, and no it wasn’t a female issue. The molehills felt like mountains and GOD HELP ME WITH THE CRUMBS EVERYWHERE WOULD IT KILL YOU TO USE A PLATE WITH YOUR FUCKING PEANUTS.

Please, a word on crumbs. Why is it that I can sit in someone else’s home completely unaffected by crumbs, but yet in my own house, the crumbs stare up at me from the floor like tiny Donald Trumps, screaming in my face?

I called my friend Elaine and asked if she’d meet me for a run, warning her I was in a horrible mood. “I’m always in a crap mood,” she said happily. “Let me just get changed and I’ll meet you at the park.”

Grabbing my headphones, I left the house. This type of funk required extra consideration in the music department. Lorde and Yo La Tengo felt too tender, and Beyoncé only amplified my anger when I recalled her lip-synching at the Giants Stadium last year. I expected Johnny Cash to be a safe choice, but that lonesome whistle was not exactly blowing my blues away. The Beastie Boys came through of course. Don’t you tell me to smile, you stick around I’ll make it worth your while.

The friend and the exercise helped. Though dragging myself up the stairs to my front door, I still felt hazardous. So I turned around and kept walking. I ended up at the library where I sat in a beanbag and read a children’s book about a talking dog. I wandered over to the nonfiction section where the final selections of a Young Artist contest were being displayed. There was a bright yellow multimedia piece about the pressures facing teenage girls, and a very realistic illustration of a cat. I stared at the cat for a while, mesmerized by the details. Willa would love this picture, I thought. I felt my brain unclench.

I’ve walked home from the library so many times, I’ve memorized the storefronts on Rokeby Road. There’s the law firm, the shop that sells Eileen Fisher nightgowns and $90 throw pillows, the physiotherapy office, and the Moroccan café with the cappuccinos dusted in chocolate. So today, I was surprised to see a newly opened shop showcasing giant bins of dried beans and coconut flour. Hypnotized by the promise of artisanal pickles and macadamia doukka, I wandered in and bought some nuts. On the way out, I noticed the name of the store – Angry Almond.

When I got home, Dave and Simone were on the couch eating Doritos, watching Howl’s Moving Castle. Willa had gone to a friend’s house. “I bought some almonds,” I said quietly. “Welcome back,” Dave said.