new me land.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

the other surry

When you live on a peninsula, you stay on a peninsula. That's the deal with peninsulas.

I live on a peninsula. Around every corner, down every block, up every street, is everything I need. A smile, a sunny day, greener grass, a view of that bridge, a friend, a hug, my coffee, dirt, a play date, a chalkboard footpath, Thursdays, the perfect little book store, a fat person to make me feel thin, a thin person to remind me I'm not, six bottle shops because grocery stores don't sell alcohol here, access to a ferry, bright green wild Australian parrots that make you never want to blink again.

Free birds!

But. One can only not blink so long before you suddenly do and you're snapped out of your I-got-everything-I-need-and-I-don't-need-much haze. Birds, boats, overpriced alcohol, my weight, loitering near the very best sellers that are written by everyone but me, those days after Wednesdays, chalk on the bottom of your shoes, children, being dirty, the coffee queue, so much embracing, that one foe, views, weeds, squinting, smiling. Sometimes it all gets to be too much.

And sometimes you just need a really good paper store.

So you have to leave the p word.

And you have to take two mates with you.

And you have to go to Surry Hills like Pixie 2, the American, and I did.

Surry Hills in an inner-city suburb of Sydney that features off-beat designers and cool housewares and PAPER. It is there that I found my new favorite paper shop. The one I've been looking for for almost two years. New Zealand does manuka honey. Not tags and twine. I have been deprived. Until now.

Paper 2. Lame name. Worse website. But the store? I want to stick it on my peninsula.

Paper porn below.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

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.