for the love of alice

Moving house.  That’s what they call it when you move in these parts.  I call it a pain in my ass and why do I have so many tube tops? 

We moved house again last weekend.  That’s four times in under sixteen months.  Do not do this.  It takes a lot of time and too many boxes and there is almost always regret on the other end when you unpack something you never should have packed in the first place.  That list is long for me, and always begins and ends with a tube top.  

When we moved to Auckland from Los Angeles in September 2010, we had a plan.  One to two years in New Zealand (for husband’s career and family belly fluff) and then we’d come back to the States (for my career and Target). 

In January 2012 we shoved that plan into one of my stretchy bands of cloth that I always pack and never wear, and moved it to Sydney.  The plan was not happy.  Our bank account was livid.  By the time February rolled around, aka the month we realized money doesn't grow on magical trees, we were paying rent on three places to live.  Do not do this.  If Zagat reviewed housing decisions, it would look like this.

1.  Auckland home (NZ).  They gave three months’ notice two months before they left.  $$$

2.  North Sydney high-rise (AU).  They broke their lease two days after they started it.  $$$
3.  Temporary tiny in Balmain (AU).  It was temporary and tiny but mandatory since they broke a lease with two kids and had no car yet to sleep in.  $$$

$$$ + $$$ + $$$ =  Lots and lots and -- let me really stress this part -- LOTS of dollar signs, right out the window.  

But that was then and dumb, and this is now.

And now!  We are done moving house.  We found a great house to call home.  In the same neighborhood as temporary tiny so school, friends, standing order at local coffee shop all remain intact.  My tube tops are all unpacked and put away never to be seen again (or until I become ridiculously redundant and move again).  And my boys?  They have won the kiddie lottery.  This house has a huge giant attic bedroom for my guys to share.  Hugely huge.  And I rent so this isn't bragging.  It's reporting.  They run laps in this cavernous room.  A whole corner is devoted to who-can-make-the-tallest-Lego-tower contests.  Stomp rockets are launched on a daily basis.  That's not to say this room isn't without its problems or closets.  My sons only wear folded clothes and if you're anywhere near the outer perimeter of the room and you're taller than an eight-year old, you will hit your head on the sloped ceiling forty times a day.  But a few shirt creases and a couple of head bonks are worth it.  It's a great room and one that would make Greg Brady and his bead door wish they never made that episode.

And in the end, isn't that what life is all about?  Having better life episodes than those bunch of Bradys.  I think so.  And I'm pretty sure Alice would agree.

On one side, Max's corner.

Way, way, way on the other side, Charlie is off the grid. 

there are no words

But, man, are there a lot of pictures!  

Our first hundred days.  In Sydney.

These guys.

This guy.

Our fish market.

The bridge that Oprah touched.

Charlie and his school hat hit Bronte Beach.

View from the zoo.

This is what chlamydia looks like.

Charlie and his daily activity of tormenting an Ibis.

Scootering at Bondi Beach.

Darth Maul and some other guys.

A younger Aussie version of Martha Stewart.

Just a roo.

The Cross City Tunnel.
At $5 a pop, it is always this clean and empty.

My new favorite artist:  Marise Maas.

1st goal e-ver!

Charlie is the one over-stretching in the middle.

One guess.

Shelly Beach in my shoes.

One of the smaller Australian spiders.

Max cannot not put up the bunny ears.

You can't escape them.

Charlie multi-tasking with cricket gear.

Our Anzac Bridge.

Seconds before that bad wet dog trampled my good dry purse. 

The one day a year where it is legal to bet on a coin toss.
We won $40.  And then I lost $40.

It's true.

let's not talk about my organs

When you move to a new country, what do you do? Explore? Shop? Have surgery? Same.

I had surgery this month and not on my boobs. Long story fragmented: shattered kneecap in Los Angeles three years ago, wired back together, life went on, hardware broke in New Zealand right before we moved to Sydney, and ouch.  As much as I hated the thought of surgery, the reality of being shredded from the inside out with every step from poke-y broken wire bits was worse. So I found the surgeon with the best Australian accent and a date was set. That was that.

And then the public service announcements began.

These public service announcements.



It was Donate Life Week in Australia and the loved one I lived with didn’t know diddly about my wishes.  Not because I’m mean or an organ hoarder or all rotten inside, but because I never wanted to put that sort of thing out there.  Into the universe.  Where it could accidentally manifest itself into reality like things you put out in the universe always end up doing.  But I was about to have surgery.  And we’ve all seen Grey’s Anatomy.  What if the surgeon with the best Australian accent wasn’t actually a doctor but a nut job who couldn’t cut a cake and things didn’t work out so well for me and I ended up with the brain activity of a carrot?  Then what?

This thought haunted me.

Then came date night.  In our living room because I have no idea where they keep the sitters around here.  My husband and I were watching the most genius show e-ver.  Homeland.  Is he a terrorist? Is he not? We don’t know! When all of a sudden that PSA came on.  Again.  With all the questions.  And the music.  And the oh so sad faces.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  Without giving it a second thought, I turned to my loved one and gave him a look.  A look that pretty much said it all.  

A look that said this: 

Listen up, Loved One.  I'm only going to not say this once.  If something bad goes down and I can’t make decisions for myself, you know what to do. You know you know what to do.  SAVE ME!  Find the best doctors in the best hospitals, shake them by their doctor coats, and tell them to SAVE ME!  Send home the slackers.  Weed out the weak.  SAVE ME!  Make sure no one gives up.  No scratching heads wondering what to do next.  No talking about topics other than me or the saving of me.  SAVE ME!  I want baseball caps turned backwards, sleeves rolled up, dream teams assembled.  If Patrick Dempsey is free, get him in there because he or his handsome character might have a solution.  Don’t mock me.  SAVE ME!  Heroic efforts, out-of-box thinking, throw money at the problem, whatever it takes.  I’m going to need everyone to come together for this one goal, one purpose, one moment, and SAVE ME!  But.  Sigh.  If after all of that, there is absolutely no chance that I can be saved and I have a carrot for a brain and this has been confirmed by no less than five doctors and Patrick Dempsey, then you know what to do. Scoop me out like a cantaloupe and save the others.  Save them.

My husband's look in response said this:

Wha-?

And Homeland was back on.  As Carrie went bonkers from being off her bi-polar meds and my loved one reached for my hand, I knew.  He had heard everything I didn't say.  And this, my friends, is one of the many reasons why I married my husband instead of Patrick Dempsey.