The Move

Moving across the world has been an experience. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that my eye twitched with stress for seven weeks straight. SEVEN WEEKS.

I didn’t manage all that well.

I barked at my family, consumed ibuprofen like candy, ate and drank with abandon and finally surrendered. That was the worst. That was when the fog settled in.

I’d wake up each morning with a belly full of worms and I’d wait. Like a drug, I’d feel the haze seep into my consciousness and slow the panic. I was tired all of the time. I watched my life unfold from an emotional distance that was unsettling but not so much so that I did anything about it. In the fog, there was safety. I escaped there.

In the weeks leading up to our departure, we put our beloved cat on a plane to Canada, had a massive garage sale which was attended by the every batshit nutter within a ten mile radius. We saw dentists, doctors, orthodontists and optometrists. We sold our cars and (gulp) our Harleys. Nine days before leaving the country, we went on one last motorcycle trip with close friends while my kids bid farewell to their dad. Four days later, we moved out of our house and into a hotel and like a complete idiot, I continued to home school. The stress was overwhelming.

Finally, the day came for us to leave and our first stop was Canada, to see my family. We stayed with my brother and his lovely wife for a couple of days. Still, the fog didn’t lift, for which I am enormously grateful because this time at the end of our visit, as I waved goodbye to them, like I have a million times before, I felt something splinter inside.

Next, we took a ferry over to mum’s house in Victoria and invaded her space for several days. My eye twitched like a junkie and we laughed a bit speculating that it was my mother's power to make me crazy but the truth is, she was gorgeous. The geographical distance between us had never bothered me in the eighteen years that I’d been gone from Canada and the reality of travel these days is such that she will likely be able to fly to Auckland faster than she has been able to travel to Arkansas but there is something about having the expanse of the Pacific Ocean separating us that gives me pause. Selfishly, I want her to emigrate to New Zealand.

While in Victoria, I was able to briefly catch up with two of my girlfriends from high school. Although we didn’t get a lot of time together, I was reminded of how fortunate I am to have these people in my life who love me unconditionally and drop everything to see me when I’m in town, in spite of the fact that I really suck at staying in touch. I love them and miss them.

We left Victoria and took another ferry across to Seattle where a third girlfriend from high school (that I haven’t seen in TWENTY FIVE YEARS) met me. She left work, traveled south the three hours from Vancouver, on a Friday, during rush hour traffic, to have a cocktail and catch up for a few hours. I am still awed by that. I have missed her too.

Early Saturday morning on October 1, 2011, Dallas, the kids and I boarded a plane for Honolulu where we would spend the next nine days trying to peel away the layers of stress that had enveloped us for the better part of two months. As the nose of the plane lifted off the ground, I felt the first hints of relief from the perpetual weight on my chest. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and comforted myself with the knowledge that the hardest part was over.

We were on to our new adventure.

Note

Hi.

There is SO much to share with you and I'm not trying to be a dinkus maximus but I won't be able to post until after the weekend.

Hang in there with me.

I'll bring cocktails.

Tick, Tick, Tick

Time hasn't really had much meaning for me this year.

When I thought I had a handle on it, I found it skipping away just beyond the reach of my fingertips.  I yearned to harness it.  I wanted to break it up into smaller, more manageable chunks and elongate every moment.  I've tried everything to slow it down but I give up.  I am resigned to sit quietly as it whooshes past, leaving me barely able to comprehend the date I see each morning on my desk clock.

For nearly ten months, Dallas and I have been planning our departure from America.  I have coped by immersing myself in work and focusing on just putting one foot in front of the other.  It was a good plan up until Labour Day and then, something gave way.

I'm not sure if it was the change in temperature or the mad scramble to tie up loose ends like doctor and dentist appointments but whatever the catalyst, I have suddenly found myself walking into our garage to get water only to become disoriented when faced with the newly empty space where our fridge once sat.  I have several panic-filled moments each day worrying who will do my hair in Auckland.  I've been to see the same girl, my friend, in Arkansas, every five weeks for the last ten years.   I study maps of the North Island of New Zealand trying to memorize the spaghetti-like twist of the different roads wondering how long it will be before their bends become familiar. 

Moving is scary.

Moving is harder as one ages.

When I arrived in San Diego, California on April 3rd, 1993 with a suitcase, a backpack and almost nothing else, I was electrified with the possibilities that my new life would certainly offer.  Eighteen years later,  I am wife to an amazing man, mother to two beautiful children and president of my own company.  The United States has been very, very good to me.  

And now, America will afford me the unique option to split our time with another country so my husband will be whole and so my children will be graced with a huge chunk of world as their oyster.  With a Canadian mum, a Kiwi stepfather and being American born, Dylan and Liv will be able to live and work in Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the US and many European countries.  How's that for opportunity? 

My only complaint is time.  I don't seem to have enough of it and what is available seems to pass too quickly to file away into memory.  Now begins the next major phase of my life and I am concerned that when I'm older and the frenetic pace has slowed; when the occasion comes to reflect upon this newest adventure and what it meant for our family, I won't remember.  

And I want to.  

I want to savour every delicious second of this journey.

I Remember

With the approaching ten year anniversary of September 11th,  television programming, print media and the internet have been rife with reflections of that ill fated day.

I have avoided most of the coverage because a decade later, the wound is still raw.  I find my breath unexpectedly catching in my throat, my chest tightening and the sting of unshed tears collecting at the corners of my eyes.  How is it that ten years later, the horror, the disbelief, the mourning and the deep, throbbing, sadness still remain?  

I was home from work, sick with pneumonia and pregnant with Olivia on September 11, 2001.   I turned on the Today show and within a few moments, the coverage switched to the north tower.  It was on fire.  Apparently, a small commuter plane had crashed into it.  I remember hoping that there would be survivors on the floor that sustained the most damage.  Then, with millions of other people, I watched as United flight 175 crash into the south tower, live, on television.  

What the hell is going on with air traffic control?  That was my first thought.

But seconds later as the videotape was replayed and it was evident that it was a commercial plane and the newscasters used words like, "concerted effort" and "attack", the truth of the situation became undeniable.  The first tendrils of panic filled my belly.  I called my mum in Canada.  Together, we watched the tragedy unfold.  

I've been down to visit the WTC site on every visit I've made to NYC since that day.  And each time, it is like a kick to the gut.  It just never gets any easier.  I didn't lose anyone that day and I personally don't know anybody that did but it doesn't matter. 

On September 11th, 2001, everything changed.  

There is not a single, good, thing that came out of the events of that day.  The unity that we felt as a nation in the aftermath faded all too soon.  There is no silver lining. There are no great cosmic lessons that have been learned.  There is only war and intolerance and death and debt and grief and mourning and fear and suspicion.  

I hope that one day, we will heal enough to be an uncompromising force for world peace.  Until then, we will rebuild and remember the 2977 innocent people who died.

Depreciation

Let me tell you something about selling used furniture, appliances and the like.  They aren't worth squat.

Seriously.

First, there is the stainless side by side fridge that we bought a few years ago to the tune of about $1800 bucks.  Today, we'll be lucky to get $600 for it.  I will never buy another stainless product again because you can't keep the bastards clean.  They are a fingerprint nightmare.

Then, we have our front loading washing machine.  I spent DAYS researching that purchase until I came up with a Frigidaire unit which promised performance without the huge price tag of the fancier LG and Bosch models. After rebates and incentives, we shelled out just over $700 but I felt smart and informed, until today.  A little web surfing tells me that even offering free delivery, we probably won't see any more than $200.

And the list goes on and on.

The point, I suppose, is that at the end of the day, why do any of us buy anything new when we can pick up good quality near new items for a song?  Of course, there is that sticky little "used" part.  One can never be sure how someone has utilized their fridge ( Jeffrey Dahmer comes to mind) and I can only imagine what badness could be tossed into a washing machine but I'm pretty sure that with the exception of beds and underwear, used items offer a superior value to their brand new counterparts.

If we are going to retire like The Millionaire Next Door, I'm thinking that the hubby and I had better cultivate a different mindset...... less consumer and more producer.

Personally, I think I will kick off my newfound financial enlightenment by combing through the used merchandise adverts listed on New Zealand's "TradeMe".   I'll plan to pay special attention to those that say, "Moving Overseas" because, you know, that's where DEPRECIATION lives.