Moving on.

When Seven was six months old, the owner who was never going to sell put our flat on the market. So I had a bee in my bonnet about moving on. I didn’t want people traipsing through our flat during open homes. We had a baby!

Adam and I looked at several places, but we couldn’t agree. Adam thought a character cottage was too small. I hated a Lockwood house with fruit trees in the garden.

The next day there was an ad in the newspaper for a three bedroom house with timber floors in the village. 

I rang and asked the owner if the house had a bathtub or a fireplace.

“There's no bath. I’m not sure if the fire even works. And the garden is a jungle,” S said.

“We’ll take it.”

“Go and have a look,” S said. She gave me the address, spelling out the unfamiliar street name.

Adam and I put the baby in his car seat, and we drove up the coast to the house. Remarkably, we both liked it, and we were lucky enough to be chosen as tenants.

It was a private 1940s house, on a corner, a block away from the beach, at the park end of the village. You could see the sea from the front deck and the bedroom, and through the French doors in front, which nobody ever used. Everyone used the back door, which was not as picturesque an entrance, but whatever. 

You could also see the sea from the kitchen, and even from the back deck, if you knew the right way to look. We only had a couple of big afternoon birthday parties at our house, but we always said its “open plan” had a good “flow”.

Seven and I lived in this house for seven and a half years. Of course, while we lived there, the house went through some changes. The lounge and the dining room traded places –  a couple of times. Seven’s nursery eventually became the spare room/office.

Using the open fireplace filled the lounge with smoke and set off the smoke alarm. Adam put in a used wood burner that we bought on Trade Me. He spent years taming the jungle in the garden. And he put a door on the garage, which became his “man cave”. (Or “where all his stuff had to go”.) Seven went to the village Playcentre (the co-op preschool).  I made new friends. 

The night President Obama was elected, there was a gale. The French doors swung open and banged against the side of the house. This caused their panes of glass to shatter. So, the owners put in new double glaze windows.

Adam painted three sides of the house. Apparently, the owners didn’t have the money or the inclination to pay him to paint the fourth side.

When Seven grew too big for a baby bath in the shower, we bought a used cast iron bathtub on Trade Me. We put it in the kitchen. There was nowhere else for it to go.The bathtub never had a tap – we filled it by using a hose from the laundry sink.

Seven started primary school. Then he changed schools, so instead of walking with Seven to school, we had to drive. Our marriage ended, and Adam moved out.

The owners bought a new dishwasher. They built a new privacy fence on the front deck. We quibbled over the garden since Adam was no longer looking after it.

“I promise I won’t let it become a jungle – like it was when we moved in,” I said.

Every year the owners raised the rent, by three or four per cent, to keep the house at “market rate”. Before our marriage ended, Adam and I said year after year, “If the rent goes up by much more, we will move on.”

But we didn’t move on. We felt our rental was nicer than other rentals. Sometimes we even felt a bit clever or smug about it. 

And yet, other houses have baths with taps, and insulation. And more manageable gardens. And off-street parking. And street names we don’t need to spell. Those houses are in the school zone. And are cheaper.

This year when the owners raised the rent (I'm embarrassed to tell you how much the rent had become, but it was too expensive for me), just like that, it was time for me to move on.

When I first looked at my new house, I waffled a bit, but I knew it was the one. 

My new house was built in the 1940s. It's not in the village, but it's in Seven's school zone, and it has a bathtub with a tap, and a heat pump. You can see the sea from the driveway, or from Seven's room if you know how to look, and it has a very easy garden.

Thank you, kind beautiful people.

Dear Small, But Devoted Readership:

Thank you, kind beautiful people. You know who you are.

Soon you will be receiving a postcard full of heartfelt thanks from me via snail mail. Something you can put on your fridge. I will use (and keep confidential) your PayPal shipping address. If this is the wrong address for anyone, please email me.

I am so grateful, you lovely people. I am thinking New Age thoughts about you. Wishing you lifetimes of happiness, health, and good fortune.

--
I know these are bad times for lots of people. I am still mostly out of work in rural New Zealand, and I need help. I hate that I don’t have a book to sell you. All I have right now is this blog. My blog of two years, which I have written for the love. That is, FOR FREE.

If you happen to have lots of disposable income, and you are wondering which nonprofit charity to support, may I suggest Juli and Six of Wellington Road? I only ask because I don’t know how I will make it through the next month.

Maybe nobody knows how they will make it through. But clinging to this precipice is scaring me.

My income has been reduced since Adam and I separated. But my landlords, who enjoy bleeding stones, have raised my rent. (They raise my rent every year. They like to hear me whimper.)

I need to move to a cheaper house. This is probably a good thing, as we aren't happy with Six's school. (More on this in another post.)

In the meantime, there’s the rubbish bill and car maintenance and doctor’s visits. I need to pay someone to mow these stupid lawns. Six needs winter clothes and school supplies. It is past time to order firewood (the method by which we heat our house in winter).

In New Zealand, the cost of living is high. Housing prices here are among the most expensive in the world. Petrol is not cheap either (about US$8 a gallon). There is no such thing as a spontaneous trip to the mall. I MUST combine trips. Food is also expensive (US$10 for a gallon of milk).

I consider my budget so carefully. When Six is with me, we have wholesome meals. But on the weekends, when Six is with his dad, I try not to buy anything. I make a game out of it—how cheap can I eat?

I am working it all out. But I don’t want to choose between firewood and food. I am on the dole, but the benefit only goes so far. Same with family assistance. I am underemployed.

I don’t like putting this out there. No, I don’t have a book. I would love to sell you one. But I have creative skills, a broadband internet connection, and a post shop. Hire me? If you have a spare twenty, will you drop it in my tip jar? (It's in my sidebar.) Let me know what I can swap for money.

P.S. If you are local, maybe you want to buy some of my stuff? YOU CAN CLUTTER UP YOUR GARAGE WITH MY STUFF.

Checking in.

Well, instead of posting my usual drivel here, I've been trying to write a novel for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Trying because Adam has been working Saturdays, and I'm stuck solo parenting. Last weekend I fell behind in my word count, and I’m struggling to catch up. I’m not sure that I will make the deadline. Because I can’t multi-task. Or stay up past 11PM. Boo-hoo.

Last Sunday we had a power outage at Wellington Road. It was an individual fault, our second in five years. I was supposed to be baking a cake for the cake stall at the school fair. But, no. Instead we put the meat and fish that I had just bought in the chilly bin (Kiwi for cooler). And made coffee on the camping stove.



And there was the school fair. Sans cake.







How am I supposed to write a novel when life keeps interrupting me?

--
Yesterday was Thanksgiving. As you can imagine (and I've probably mentioned), Thanksgiving in New Zealand is pointless. There are no comparable Kiwi holidays. But Adam humours me. Because on holidays I turn into a sentimental sap.

The weather has just turned scorching hot. Spring lamb on the barbecue, asparagus, and strawberries make more sense than a big roast dinner to celebrate an abundant harvest. Some years I have plans to create a merry and festive Thanksgiving ritual. Of course none of these plans actually happen. Maybe next year.

I am grateful for the abundance of good things in my life. Even more so after the recent tragedy with the 29 Pike River miners in New Zealand. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Guy Fawkes Night.

Guy Fawkes Night marks the celebration of a failed plot to assassinate Protestant King James in 1605. (The plan was to replace him with a Catholic head of state.) As part of the Commonwealth, New Zealand celebrates Guy Fawkes Night, but it is just an excuse for fireworks.

In the cities, there are public fireworks displays, but Guy Fawkes is really a night for amateurs. For a few days before Guy Fawkes, fireworks are on sale to the public. (The range of fireworks that are available doesn’t include firecrackers or rockets.)

--

Friday was Guy Fawkes Night. On his way home from work, Adam bought a box of fireworks.

It had been a scorching hot day, but at 7PM an enormous bank of clouds was rolling in from the south. The wind began to pick up. Gales are common in the Roaring Forties, and we are accustomed to fickle weather on Guy Fawkes Night. Adam is adept at lighting fireworks in wind and rain.

Wellington went forward with its fireworks display. But the conditions up the coast were bad. We decided to postpone setting off our own fireworks.

"We'll do it tomorrow night," I said.

Five was disappointed and tried to stall. When the rain began to bucket down from the night sky, there were tears. The gale blew down the street sign. (This happens from time to time.) There were several power cuts.

But by Saturday afternoon, it was calm enough for Adam to build a bonfire in shelter of the back garden. (It is lovely to sip a glass of wine by the bonfire.) We ate fish and chips, and while we were waiting for it to get dark, we roasted marshmallows.

A bonfire in the garden is almost better than camping.

When it was dark, we could see a few stars. Neighbours from all around began to light their fireworks. We moved to the front garden, which has more open space. Adam lit the wicks of the fireworks that Five chose from the box. The fireworks had names like Gemini and T.N.T. There was noise and light and the smell of gunpowder. And then inside for hot cocoa before bed.

Giving up on Halloween.

Oh, Halloween. I used to be so excited about designing costumes and buying kilos of lollies (Kiwi for candy). I festooned fake cobwebs about the house, and made tombstones out of polystyrene.

Not this year.

Halloween used to be my favourite holiday. Over the years, I've stubbornly persisted in celebrating it. In ninth grade, I was the only one who wore a Halloween costume to school. When I moved to San Francisco, their Halloween was my mecca, and made my obsession with witches and haunted houses look tame (if not quite normal for an adult).

Halloween parade in San Francisco

But since moving to New Zealand, a country with no reason to celebrate Halloween, I've been going through the motions. I mean, despite my best efforts.

I had already given up Thanksgiving and July Fourth. But I tried to keep Halloween in my heart. I did my best. Halloween was like my Christmas. Or my Rocky Horror Picture Show. Because Halloween is the ultimate day for theatre geeks, creative types, and what polite people call eccentrics.

However (as you know), in New Zealand, Halloween happens in the spring. The days are getting longer. The idea of Halloween (the spirit of it, if you will) is completely counter to the season that it is actually in. There are no spooky bare trees or other metaphors for death. The earth is teeming with life. There are baby birds, baby lambs, and green grass.

And against this spring tableau, imagine two dozen children (tops) who are possibly wearing costumes hastily purchased an hour ago at the $2 Shop. They are wandering around in broad daylight, among wildly blooming geraniums, hoping to find the odd couple of families in the village who are participating in that “American holiday”.

Last year, I decided to turn Halloween on its head, and make our garden into a fairy grotto. I thought it would make more sense to have an Easter-ish approach to a Southern Hemisphere Halloween. Needless to say, this idea was a flop.

“What are you, a beer wench?” asked Adam.



“I am a scary fairy,” I said, with my teeth clenched.

Celebrating Halloween feels slightly (or to be honest, completely) ridiculous. I always imagine Adam and I will have a big “fancy dress” party at Halloween. We will turn our house into a haunted castle, and make the kids carve pumpkins (which are not in season), and dip their hands into cold spaghetti. There will be a bonfire in the back garden. Our party will be like the Peanuts.
Adam is lukewarm about my Halloween ideas. “I think my sister is planning a lunch on Sunday, October 31st,” he said.

Who has a family “do” on Halloween? Yes, that’s right. People who don’t celebrate Halloween.

So, I give up. I’m not going to force Halloween on people any more. On Halloween, we will close our curtains. We will pretend we aren’t home. (Just like all the other Kiwis.)

A run in the park.

A while ago, Dana wrote a post about her running route. I promised to bring my camera on a run, and write a similar post. And here it is. . .

I run 5km three times a week in the park next to our house. Running around here means lots of hills. (And some of the hills are intense.) But I am rewarded with stunning views in the park.

Living by the beach means running along the coast, and there is nothing better than running by the sea. Here is my route, starting in the park.























The playlist for today's run:

Memories, David Guetta/Kid Cudi
Young Blood, Naked and the Famous
My House, Kids of 88
Just a Little Bit, Kids of 88
Don't Stop the Music, Rihanna
Just Dance (Trevor Simpson remix), Lady GaGa
Get Shaky, Ian Carey Project
That's Not My Name, The Ting Tangs
Paris is Burning, Ladyhawke
Dance Wiv Me, Calvin Harris/Chrome/Dizzee Rascal
Bonkers, Dizzee Rascal
15 Step, Radiohead

Now it's your turn, for anyone who walks, runs, or cycles. The next time you go, bring your camera. Post the highlights, along with your playlist. Go on. It's fun.

Wild weather.

Heavy torrential rain has set in. The sea is boisterous, and the wind is roaring. We live in a rural village, and it’s not unusual for us to lose power during a storm. There could be a slip (Kiwi for landslide), or there could be flooding. I’m worried our power might go out before I can publish this post.

“Why didn’t you write the post when Five was at school,” Adam asks.

“Apparently, I need the pressure of the deadline,” I reply.

Wellington is in the roaring forties latitudes. It is exposed to strong winds through the Cook Strait. Gales and heavy rain are common. If you visit Wellington, you will notice how weathertight the houses appear. Houses have to be made to stand up to wind, rain, and of course, earthquakes.

It is almost midnight as I type this post. It is satisfying to be warm and dry inside during a storm. I will fall asleep listening to the wild weather.

My big night out.

It was a rainy Saturday night. The playcentre was having a fundraiser at the hall in the village. I had a slight cold, but I still felt like I should go. And maybe it would give me something to write about on my blog.

"I thought you were sick," said Adam.

It was too late to get a sitter. When I left the house, Adam was lying on the couch by the fire, sensibly nursing his cold, and watching a movie. Did I really want to go out? I asked myself.

I drove carefully through the rain and parked my car near the hall. At the door, I said hello to A., who was standing outside with a group of people.

I looked inside the hall. Tables were arranged in intimate groups in front of the stage. Everyone was dressed up. I felt like I had stumbled into a private dinner party in my gum boots. Showing up alone on a Saturday night seemed like a faux pas. I should be here with someone, I thought. H. said hello, and I saw V. and T. get up from their tables.

I had a panic attack. This village is too small and insular. I wish I could be anonymous.

I fled to my car. I got in and sat stupidly in the dark, listening to the rain falling on the roof of the car. I took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. I should go back, I thought. I’m already here.

Through the passenger window, I watched the people standing outside the hall in the yellow glow of a street light. The eave of the hall sheltered them from the rain.

I imagined asking Twitter for help. No, I couldn’t tweet about this. Hiding in my car was too pathetic. I checked the time on my phone. It was 10pm. I didn't want to miss the Nablopomo deadline. I had two hours to publish a post on my blog.

I drove back home.

"That was quick," said Adam.

“Have you ever been afraid to go to a pub or a party?” I asked.

“No, I just work through it,” Adam replied.

"Hmph," I said.

Notes from a country bumpkin.

Ever since I read this article, I have been thinking about how vulgar and country-bumpkinish Americans are. (This is obvious to everyone outside America.) Geoff Dyer, the author of the article, claims that nonetheless Americans have a certain charm. He admires how Americans aren’t afraid of being overheard. (This is just a polite way of saying Americans are too loud.) And how Americans are polite. We are overly polite, actually. So many pleases and thank-yous. (No, these good manners are not a sign of sophistication.)

After the naughts, I am still feeling fragile. I am not as ashamed of being an American as I used to be. But I’m not exactly proud. Americans are supposed to be proud. (Go USA!) And a real American would not want to live outside the U.S.

So, there is this inward shame and cringing that is probably common for expatriates. There is also something in me that can’t accept being vulgar and country-bumpkinish. Even if there is also something charming about me. (I am kind of charming. Modest and humble, too.)

For the last eight years, I have been juxtaposed with stoic, mumbling Poms (Kiwi for English people), who can’t quite conceal their loathing of vulgar American me. And I used to think the problem was me. I am too introverted. There is so much social awkwardness in my most mundane attempts at conversation. I used to be a waitress, so why can I not (at the very least) plod around bringing people cups of tea? And why can’t I have aristocratic manners like the Duchess? (I look like her, don’t you think? No? Adam doesn’t think so either.)

Source: Wikipedia

I have finally realized the problem isn't my personality. And it isn't my upbringing. My socially awkward encounters are because of the inferior stock of my ancestors. They were the underclass in Europe. They were probably serving maids and indentured servants. (OK, some were escaping famine, or wanted religious freedom.)

It’s not a surprise (or my fault) that Americans don’t have aristocratic manners. It's not in our blood. And yet. Maybe, just maybe, the problem is actually the Poms' class loathing.

“I could have told you that,” said Adam.

--
Edited to add. Most of my friends in NZ are, uh, English (perhaps of a certain class). Look out for the next article in this series: New Zealand, the Great Egalitarian Society That Isn't Really.

This bohemian life

On a recent post at the excellent Irretrievably Broken (you should be reading this blog), there is a description of a “bohemian” childhood in Montana, where wood was used for fuel, and everything was hung outside to dry.

Wait one hot minute, I said to myself. That's our life. We use wood to heat our house. We hang our washing out on the line, to dry in the wind and sun.

We are bohemians!

Our house is shabby, but it is made of native timbers like rimu and maitai. And we live on a coastal plain surrounded by hills. There are daffodils, poppies, nasturtium, and geranium bushes in our garden. We have pohutukawa trees and flax bushes. We watch tuis swooping in the kowhai trees down the back. We pick apples from fruit trees, and make apple sauce or apple crumble. And we pick cape gooseberries and make our own jam. We bake our own bread.

Most people have large vegetable gardens. They might have a spa bath outside, maybe sheltered by rose bushes. And they probably have a studio in the shed out the back, where they paint, or practice piano. They might knit, or sew.

Sometimes we go fishing at the beach. Or we collect driftwood to make into furniture. We pick up shells to scatter on garden paths. Sometimes our neighbour’s chickens wander over to our garden. Someone might ride his horse up our street and back to the paddocks in the park. And our neighbours are interesting bohemian people—artists, musicians, writers, expatriates.

Walking home along the beach after dropping off Five at school.

--

Edited to add: Sorry about the crap photo, but I was trying to capture the essence of the waves. I thought the waves looked like plumes. Or how plumes should look. (Instead of, you know, plumes of oil in a ecological disaster that just keeps getting worse.)

The new routine.

I’m finally getting the hang of the new routine. But it’s been like training for a triathlon. I've been struggling with it, especially the part called Getting Ready for School. Apparently, I'm not able to do anything the night before. (Or set the alarm half an hour earlier.)

Waking up, getting Five dressed, getting him to eat something ANYTHING, packing his lunch, helping him decide what to bring for News. Getting dressed myself. I have rather cleverly (I think) been wearing my workout clothes to school, so (in theory) I can go for a run immediately after Drop-Off.

By the time Drop-Off is achieved, I need a six-hour break to recover. I don’t know why this is all so difficult for me. The other mums don’t seem to be having this problem. I think I need a vacation. (Alone. In Tahiti.) Or I need a car. Not that Five would let me drive him to school. He is obsessed with riding his bike, or his scooter.

--
So Getting Ready is a mission (almost impossible). And I'm anxious during the Pick-Up. We live in a small, rural village. The parents of the junior students go to the school to Pick Up their kids. We enter the school grounds, and we sit (or stand around) while we wait for the kids. And we make small talk.

Most of these people are very nice. But it’s a lot of conversations about the weather, how the weekend was (or will be), admiring people’s younger (i.e., not yet school-aged) children. Most people want to spin a yarn with their acquaintances. I should enjoy talking to other adults IRL, right? RIGHT?

Flixster - Share Movies

--
I love weekends. My Mother’s Day was lovely. I lay in bed with my laptop and drank coffee, while my boys made me a pancake breakfast. Then I got to talk to my wonderful mother for almost TWO HOURS. And when the boys went to the park, I had the house to myself for ANOTHER HOUR. So, it was pretty much like Every Day. Without Getting Ready for School. Which was bliss.

--
BTW, thank you for your kind comments on my last post. I was traumatised by the allergy tests at the hospital (a follow-up to skin prick tests). But I guess my post came off more grim than I'd intended. There just isn’t anything funny about hospitals, is there? Never mind.

Going to school.

In New Zealand, you start going to school after you turn five years old. That's right. The day after your fifth birthday. (Don't ask me. I guess it's a British thing.)

When you start school, you are called a new entrant. I gather that the new entrants' class is like kindergarten in the US. (I just don't get the NZ school system.) But you stay at school from 9AM until 3PM. (The entire day.) This seems long for a five-year-old. I mean, just look at the little boy in the photo. Can you believe anyone that little goes to school?

Anyway, the child is almost five years old. I should give him a pseudonym. Like, Elvis. (It's not a dumb name. I don't care what my husband says.) For the last few Fridays, Elvis has been going on school visits. He's doing so well. And I love his teacher, which is a plus. (I hope it's a love that will last. Maybe I should bring her chocolates.)

The big surprise? The transition to school has been difficult. For me. (You're surprised, right?) I’m happy for Elvis. I'm so proud of him, as he achieves this next step towards independence. But, at the same time, I feel depressed. I used to hear about the empty nest, and I thought it was dumb. (Of course, I was a teenager. I thought everything was dumb.) The first time I dropped Elvis off at school, I cried.

I feel better now. But why does everyone tell you parenting gets easier? They LIE. (Unless you, reader, are a new parent. Then, it’s true. It gets easier. Really!)

I'm overwhelmed.

In my last post, I wrote:

I am far behind in my life. I am caught in quicksand. Would someone please haul me out of here? I need to do a million things, and it's overwhelming. I'm sinking!

But I deleted that paragraph. It just seemed too whingey. Or too personal. I don't want to admit that I’m overwhelmed. And I don't really need to be rescued.

There is a lot going on at Wellington Road. The child is about to start school (another post), we have a birthday party to plan, other social obligations on the calendar, gifts to buy, financial challenges. Autumn is here, and there are chores to do. You know, life.

So, yeah (yawn). I’m overwhelmed. I don’t want to break down tasks into steps, and tick items off a To-Do list. I just want to stay in bed and read your blog. (Yes, yours.) Or chat with you on Facebook. (Yes, you.) Or hang out on Twitter. (I love you, Twitter.) I'm depressed. What happened to summer?

And do you remember when I wrote that post? About the big 'D'? Well, it’s time for an update:

--
You keep talking to people. If you bring it up yourself, it is OK. But if someone else brings it up? An acquaintance, who you may, or may not, have talked to first? (You don’t really remember. You wonder if she reads your blog.) This person forces you to talk about it, even if you don’t feel like talking. Awkward. And people ask, is there anything we can do? To help? Like babysit? Which is nice, right? But it feels intrusive. Because you aren't even separated yet. And you are all, if I need help, I will ask for it. But you say this gently. Because you are more surprised than angry. Isn't this what you wanted? To talk about it? When the child acts like a monster, people say, he’s acting like that because of problems at home. And you say, I don’t think so. And you don’t.

You realize you don’t want to talk about your marital problems. You understand why it’s a taboo subject. People bring their own baggage to the conversation. So you only talk about it with your therapist, behind closed doors. And you keep a stiff upper lip as you go about your life. Especially if you live in a little village in New Zealand that is prone to gossip. Also, your family doesn't want to talk about your problems. This may be a good thing. You pretend that everything is OK. You carry on a facade. You fake it. Which is what everyone does, from time to time, in marriage. (Isn't it?) But it's difficult for you, and not only because you are a lousy actress.

--
Adam and I are still talking. He wants to work on things, bless him. I am still doubting. But we have put the issue on hold. For now. We are still married. We are still living together.

--
Maybe this is what you sometimes do in a marriage. If you need to deal with a life transition.

Kiwi Christmas tree.

The Pohutukawa blooms at Christmas time.

A right turn in ghastly weather.

The weather was ghastly. I couldn’t see across the street. But I had an appointment with the hairdresser.

After the hairdresser's, I went to the supermarket (because people like to eat). Then I headed home.

To get back to the village from the supermarket, I needed to make a right turn* (from a give-way sign) onto State Highway 1 (a four-laned dual highway).

While I was waiting for a break in the traffic, the jerk behind me started honking his horn. HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! Like I had fallen asleep, or like I was busy texting, and I had forgotten to turn. HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

I'm not going to put up with this, I said to myself.

I put my car in park, opened my door, and marched over to the jerk's car. He rolled down his window. He was a 20-something,.

"The weather is ghastly. I can’t see a thing,” I said. “You'll just have to wait."

"You've had three chances to turn," the jerk said. He was clearly not expecting to be confronted by a weird American lady.

“It’s my call!" I said.




--
*Note: In NZ, we drive on the left side of the road.

DIY update.

Recently Last month, I mentioned some DIY projects that had not been completed at Wellington Road.

Well, I don’t want to brag, but my amazing husband Adam (who looks like Brad Pitt) wants me to give you an update. We now have:

a new bathtub and

a new washing machine.

But what will you nag me about? My amazing husband asked (sarcastically).

Don’t worry, pumpkin. I’m sure I’ll think of something.

Halloween is too American.

In previous years, when I have tried to get people interested in, say, a Halloween party with fancy dress (Kiwi for costumes), people have said, We don’t celebrate Halloween. It’s just too American.

Now their kids are older, and these very same people are like, We’re going to trick-or-treat. And did you know? Halloween is Irish, not American! Well, Halloween does have pagan roots. HELLO!

Halloween down under is just a bit silly, when the DAYS are getting longer, and all the flowers are blooming. It’s more like being in a fairy grotto than anything spooky. It would make so much more sense to have Halloween on 30 April.

For the last few years, I have played spooky music, dressed up as a witch, and jumped out and scared the 24 kids who stopped by to trick-or-treat. By the way, 24 is an epic number of beggars. So now I’ve got a reputation for celebrating Halloween. Hey, let’s go to that weird American lady’s house. I'm looking forward to a record turnout. I'd better go buy some lollies.

Spooky flowers. Boo!

Animal control.

SCENE
The child and I are walking home from Playcentre. A nanny and her child are walking home with us. We pass the school, and all the school children are outside. It is noisy.

The child and his little friend are walking next to the school fence, about five metres from the footpath. A brown dog (maybe a Pinscher) comes bounding down the footpath. The dog runs down to the children by the school fence. A minute later, a woman appears on the footpath.

Me: Your dog is supposed to be on a lead.

Woman: He’s friendly.

Me: How am I supposed to know that? I don’t know you, or your dog. (In fact, I think I recognize her. It's a small village)

Woman: I called out to you.

Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. (angry at myself for apologizing)

Woman (calls her dog): See, he’s friendly. (The dog comes. She tries to get her dog to sit)

Me: It can be scary for small children, having a strange dog approach them.

The child: I wasn’t scared.

END SCENE

Springtime can kill you.

Spring in NZ is like the second winter. Except I am trying to wear my spring clothes.

The fickle weather has turned rainy and cold, and I have cabin fever, and there are only a few sticks of firewood left.

Over the school holidays, I have been trapped. All the other mums seem to be full of energy. They are cleaning their houses from top to bottom, going on excursions every day, visiting extended family, and getting ready for Christmas. I feel so restless. I just want to fly away and be somewhere else.

Yesterday, I roused myself from my stupor, and a couple other mums and I took our kids to the museum in Wellington. There were a million people there. We looked at the exhibits inside for 30 minutes, and then we retreated to the cafe for lunch.

While we were in the cafe, we heard a rumour about another tsunami warning for Wellington. I was determined not to be neurotic. I’m not going to post any more silly status updates to Facebook, I said to myself. Because I have learned that people totally over-react.

So I texted Adam and asked him if he had heard about a tsunami warning. He hadn’t. He suggested that if we needed to, we could go to the top floor of the museum. Very funny, Adam.

One of the other mums was sort of freaking out too. She didn’t seem comforted at all when I said that a tsunami in Wellington would be like a snowstorm in Miami.

She said the wave could wrap around the North Island, and we agreed that it is the force of the wave, not the height. And we didn’t even have our civil defence supplies with us. And the museum is RIGHT ON THE HARBOUR.

The other mum called some of her geologist friends and asked them about the tsunami, but her friends didn’t reply.

Meanwhile, we were looking at the outdoor exhibits with the kids. I hesitated. I suppose I could ask Twitter, I said.

I tweeted:



And five lovely people on Twitter replied straight away, and they all said the warning had been cancelled. And I told the other mum that very reliable people on the Internet said the warning had been cancelled. And she was all, OK, but I think it’s time to go home now.

I tweeted:


Because Twitter is awesome.

And then I was left once again to ponder important things like, is cancelled spelled with one or two L’s, and why does it seem like Jay McInerney is writing everyone else’s blog. Story of my life.

Tsunami warning!

This morning, after the big quake in Samoa, NZ woke up to tsunami warnings.

On TVNZ’s Breakfast, the Civil Defence spokesperson was asked what we should do.

“Er, I guess you need to turn on your radios and be ready to evacuate," the poor guy stammered. If you are going to be a spokesperson, please have a way with words.

I live a block away from the beach. A tsunami is possible in my area. My phone book even has a helpful section about what to do if one lives “in a zone at risk":

Is that a tsunami? Quick, run for higher ground!

Some people in the village have told me they are worried about what to do in a tsunami. Ironically, these same people are not prepared for an earthquake.

An earthquake is extremely likely in the village. Since, you know, we live on a FAULT LINE. A tsunami is just a little more likely than, say, a snowstorm in Miami.

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I made the mistake of posting a status update about the tsunami on Facebook:

The tsunami is unlikely to affect my area. I'm still ready to evacuate. Because I'm neurotic.

Most of the comments that I received were variations of “Thinking of you” and “Keep safe”. I am concerned that my friends on Facebook don’t “get” my sense of humour.

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As usual, the tsunami in NZ turned out to be Much Ado About Nothing. The first wave to hit NZ was measured at about 40 cm (15 inches).

Bracing for the tsunami on the front deck at Wellington Road.

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Edited to add: You can help the victims of the earthquake/tsunami in Samoa by making a donation to the NZ Red Cross.