home again

It was the dead of winter. In Sydney. So probably can't really use 'dead of.'  

It was August.

Sure, it was two months ago but that's not the point, this is.

We were going home for a visit and we were experiencing some serious pent-up excitement. It was to be the first time this family four pack had been back since we left the country in 2010. In Charlie years, half his tiny adorable life. One third of Max's dimple time. We couldn't wait to see our people.

Second up on the emotion list:  scared shitless.

The thing about moving away from LA, with every intention of returning to live in LA, is doubt exists and when enough time and moments and TV seasons have passed and you can't remember for the life of you if The Grove is on 3rd or Beverly, it shows up on your doorstep. Unannounced. With a key. And a real mean point to make.

Doubt:  (real mean-like)  Seriously? LA? LA LA? You're actually thinking of one day leaving Sydney -- this picture perfect postcard place that has those people you now can't live without and those ferries you're always on -- to move back to Los Angeles?

Me:  (suddenly full of doubt)  Huh? Well. One day.

Doubt:  (now way meaner)  LA DOESN'T HAVE FERRIES!

Me:  (still trying to figure out where The Grove is)  What?

Doubt:  Dumbass.

Did doubt just call me a dumbass?!

And with that, you'll throw doubt out the door and chase it with a slam. Because no one calls you dumbass in your own house. To your face. But it will be too late. The damage will have been done, and any time you try to think anything, you will always end up back at the same place:  'Am I a dumbass?' So you'll call your husband to find out the answer only to learn that doubt swung by his office and called him a dumbass too.

Dumbass 1:  I mean, our plan was always to move back. Our friends, our family, my--

(career cut off again)

Dumbass 2:  I know we've always said that, but.

Dumbass 1:  But what? What if we no longer like LA?

Dumbass 2:  What if we hate it?

Dumbass 1:  Or.  (real mean-like)  What if it hates us more?

And that is how a pact between two dumbasses is born. We decided this and nothing else:  We'd go, we'd see, we're reassess.

We landed at 6:15 am in Los Angeles after departing Sydney at 9:30 am on the same exact Saturday. Try to explain that to a six-year old. The husband and I had four blinks of sleep between us because the airport chemist sold me a mislabeled why-am-I-still-awake?! pill. We were exhausted and in no condition to judge a potato chip much less the fate of an entire city but from the moment we were jostled out of LAX, judge we did.

The air. Had thick layers of not blue. Should air have layers? The 405 had no answers for us because it was under construction. Again. How much wider could a freeway get and still be called a freeway? We didn't know so we got off and made the mistake of going through our old neighborhood. Brentwood adjacent. When we lived there, it felt like almost Brentwood. Now that we don't, all we could see was the adjacent. Multiple closed down businesses left for dead. A new ihop restaurant in old Blockbuster bones felt offensive. Abandoned shopping carts desperate for a push. It was depressing. And if Giggles and Hugs couldn't make it in West LA, what made us think we could? That was rhetorical but Coffee Bean didn't care. The giant cup of hotness they served me that made my tongue mad was a statement. A statement that said, "Get out!"

So we got out. Out of Santa Monica. Out of West LA. Out of Brentwood adjacent. And started our journey to Sherman Oaks, to our friends' house, in traumatized silence. Only one hour into visit home, I had bad thoughts. I know my husband had bad thoughts too. My children verbalized other thoughts: "When will we be in America?" Things were clearly not going well in our assessment process.

I stared out the window with worry and not enough sunscreen and WHERE WERE THE FERRIES?!

And then.

We saw our first friend. Our first family. Our children played with their children like it was what they were born to do. The parade of people and all four parents and parties and dinners and cousins and so many kids and the W and birthdays and dogs and my sweet little 96-year-old grandmother on her very last day on this planet.

And that was it.

We were homesick for it all.

Signed,
Mr. & Mrs. Dumbass

Target visit #3.

The airport where one of our children declared to another passenger
in the Southwest boarding line:   Guess what. I'm an American!

J Crew at The Grove.
Corner of Fairfax & W. 3rd.

one wedding and a family reunion (with a side of legoland and a whole mess of birthdays)

Sixteen hours.

That's how long it will take me to get back home.  To get back to Target.  To get back to my friends and family and the 405.

For sixteen hours I will be on a plane.  Up in the sky.  I will watch a lot a lot of movies.  Random TV shows.  Eat some airplane food.  Think about Deep Vein Thrombosis maybe once or twice.  Do some ankle/leg exercises immediately after.  Drink a lot of water.  Go to the lavatory too many times to count, or maybe less, but probably more.  I will break up some kid fights.  Smile at my husband.  Make nice nice with the flight attendants because I was once a waitress and I know.  I will sit in only one seat with not enough leg room and wish I had more.  And then wish I was in my pajamas.  And then wish I was horizontal like those horizontal people somewhere way in front of me.  And then I will stop wishing because those wishes aren't coming true.  Not on this flight.  And so I'll start piecing together all the little unfolding stories around me.  Him and her and how are those pants comfortable?!  And then I will get bored and notice my family is asleep.  So I will moisturize everything.  And find my glasses.  And take out my contacts. And adjust my multiple blankets -- because of the nice nice earlier, I will have at least two.  And this is when I will pull it out.  One half of my tiny over-the-counter sleeping pill and it will be in my mouth and down my throat and absorbed into my bloodstream as I pray beg hope for sleep. And, in this version of that story, I will sleep.

And just like that, I will be back home.  And at Target.  And with my friends and family and the 405.

And that is what I will be doing for sixteen hours in August.

In comfortable pants.

door 13 (@ tedx sydney)

I am more or less inspired by five things.  My friends and family.  People who write well.  The others who don’t.  Actual puppy breath.  Not my hair.  And all of those free on-line TED talks.

Last month TEDx came to Sydney.  I had to go.  I tried to get a ticket but somehow ended up with a filled-out application to volunteer instead.

I nailed it.  

My day started early that Saturday.  Too early, I thought, until I got to the Sydney Opera House and saw the sunrise.  Oh my breathtaking.  If you’ve never seen morning come up over the Opera House, put on your pajamas and look at the picture below.  Look at it!

I am not this pretty at 6 am.

It went uphill from here.

All the food on this day was grown or bred or made by locals specifically for the event.  Produce, meats, butter was whipped up on the spot.  Actual bees were set up in the neighboring park to make honey for the conference.  The food was donated on Thursday and from this edible pile of randomness, the chefs made the most amazing, fresh, healthy meals for Saturday.

I ate a plum the size of a water balloon and the innards of this box.  

#delicious

My job that day was Door 13 of the concert hall.  Behind my door was where you wanted to sit. The sweet seats.  But you only got through Door 13 if this was the door number listed on your ticket for that particular session.  I assume it was to prevent melees and the stampeding of me. Welcome to Checkpoint Charlie.  Only Door 13 people came in Door 13.  Some disoriented Door 14 people were not happy.  All Door 13 people were the opposite.

But I was probably happiest of all the peoples because once the doors were closed, it was an inside job. I got to stay with my Door 13 people.

With the sweet seats.

And with these five badasses.

Joost Bakker.  A fifth-generation tulip farmer intent on saving the world with recycled pee, minimal waste and growing food everywhere.    

David Sinclair.  An Aussie biologist from MIT and Harvard who wants me and you to stop getting old.  But really me.  

Tom Thum.  A beatbox genius who definitely spat on his microphone.  

Ron McCallum.  Adorable, interesting, blind.  Standing ovation by everyone.  

But the unexpected prize of the day and the reason for this post:  the irreverent Kate Miller-Heidke.  A classically trained singer from Brisbane who became an alternative pop artist.  Her voice is magic.  Whether she's doing a cover of The Real Slim Shady or original material.  "The Tiger Inside Will Eat The Child" will make you eat your child.

And my very very very favorite song of Kate's: "Sarah." About a friend of a friend who went missing at a music festival.  It is hauntingly beautiful and a perfect follow up to her lady part story.