Anniversary Dates. Always Disastrous.

Anniversary Dates have so much pressure on them to be incredibly, stupendously romantic they often implode. A girlfriend told me recently, “I have cried more on anniversary dates than I have kissed!”. Usually, she said, out of sheer disappointment because she built up expectations so high no one human being could possibly fulfill them.

Guilty.

Yet, sometimes the thought of having to create the best date in the galaxy makes me want to stay home. Too hard. But then I fret that if we stay home on special occasions we will never do anything together and then when the children move out we’ll be near strangers with me farting in one room and the Dimple snoring in another and it will be way harder than if we had just got off the couch occasionally.

Which is why I decided we had to go out on our recent wedding anniversary. The Dimple was doing a course 85 miles away so instead of coming home, I planned to meet him half way at a New York style Steak House complete with bossy waitresses whose hair is piled higher than the shrimp cocktails. With no cell phone the Dimple suggested we rendezvous old school style – which is way more romantic – at 7.30 at the bar.

It would be just like our days in New York. We would talk. We would laugh. We would marvel at each other’s perfectly cooked steaks. We would melt into each other’s carnivorous smiles.

Two dear friends were set to babysit, due at ours at 6pm. At 5.30pm our water disappeared. Argh. You can’t leave babysitters with no water for washing popcorn faces or flushing the loo. I called the Other Camp Dad and he brought his children over to mine, and then raced off to figure out why.

By 6.30pm, no babysitters. The dear friends rang to say a tree had fallen over at the start of our eight mile driveway. No way around or over the bugger.

He doesn’t look like much but this inconsiderate trunk meant no way IN to the woods, which meant no way OUT.

I called the Steak House and explained that a tall man with twinkly eyes who spoke funny would be waiting for me but I could not get there. The surly waitress asked me to repeat my message, “A Big Tree Is Down. He’ll Know What I Mean!”

Unfortunately the Dimple had other things on his mind and instead of going into the bar, he decided to wait for me in the car-park. For an hour.

Meanwhile, back at home, the Other Camp Dad had returned after finally fixing the water problem, but I had to send him out again with a chainsaw to chop up the tree so the Dimple could eventually get through when he finally got the message to stop waiting for me.

So there I was, watching the Berenstain Bears with four children under five, fish-net stockings on under my dressing gown, thinking Happy Fucken Anniversary.

Man. Did we try too hard? Was Mother Nature having a joke – no trees had fallen on the road all winter so why on that day, right when the babysitters needed to get through, did it happen? Or did we need to remember to have more dates – research says DO IT – instead of piling pressure on that auspicious day once a year?

By the time the Dimple got home I had two glasses of wine in me. We ate the meal I made for the babysitters, finished off the bottle and then we laughed. And laughed. And laughed. It was, without a doubt, the most disastrous non-date. Ever.

Yet, there had been something accidentally romantic about not being able to connect: me hoping he got the message from the waitress, him fretting I had run off the road but had no means to find out. That does not happen very often because everyone is aware of what everyone is doing all the time. There is an app for tracking family members’ whereabouts every second. The few hours of not knowing sparked something in us. Appreciation. Gratitude. And dare I say it, ardor.

This one’s for you, Dimple.

We are constantly being forced into learning a truth here. Stop Trying To Control Everything. As a small, Chinese man (Lao Tzu) said 2413 years ago, ‘When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.’

And that, ladies and gentlemen, turned our non-date-at-the-steak-house into one of our best nights we have had, at home, in the forest.

14 Uncomfortable Things To Know About Moving Countries With Young Children

Advice lists are annoying. I never read them. Or guide books, instruction manuals and tags about how to wash clothes. I never read anything about moving a young family across continents because I am the kind of person that doesn’t want to know and then, when I’m in the thick of it, wonder why on earth I did not find out. Why was I only swept up in the idea?

Below is a list for those who are wiser than me and like to be prepared.

1. Everyone loves the first two months. It’s new. It’s exciting. It’s just as exciting as it was getting out of your old life, because it was all going to stop once you boarded that plane. You will be blissfully unaware of what’s next.

2. You will hate it. Sometime around six months. Loneliness, doubt, what-in-tarnation-did-we-do will kick in as your old life seemed so mystical, full of really important things like friends.

3. If you’re the primary caregiver – at home – you will envy your children and partner wallowing around in new friendships. Then you will start saying helpful things like ‘When we’re back home…’ This will annoy your partner no end. And your children will not understand because as far as they’re concerned, they are home.

4. Having an accent gets a lot of attention but it also advertises a transient nature: you came and that means you will leave. People will be hesitant about investing in you so be relentless in the pursuit of getting yourself one friend. They will save your sanity.

5. Always have an out clause. If there is no end date then agree on a time-frame. We had 18 months because we both agreed we could survive anything for 18 months. However don’t mention this to anyone because if you sail through this date without returning home, nobody will believe anything you say anymore.

6. Likewise, assuming your house, school or car is not important because you’ll only be there for 18 months is dangerous. One year can suddenly turn into three because you will want to prove to yourself that your new place has not beaten you, you can hack it, and you will need to stay until you feel like you have. Then, of course, you won’t want to leave.

7. If you move into a fully furnished house then invest in one thing in your own taste. You will love this thing a ridiculous amount and will want to take it home – so don’t buy a couch. Buy a cushion.

8. Go before your children start school – when they still think everything you decide is cool. But ideally, don’t go with a baby. And certainly not when you’re pregnant. Even an 18-month old is tricky. And two-year olds are nightmares on planes. But three is not perfect. And four is too close to school and once they’re five you want to be settled. These are the reasons you will tell yourself not to go. There is no perfect time to turn your life upside down.

9. If you do not plan on drinking wine every night then do not change EVERYTHING at once, such as moving from a busy Capital of one country to the middle of a 2000 acre forest in another.

10. Even if you despise the national anthem, pretend. Lip sync. It’s very easy to walk around thinking this is not my country. If you have an expressive face try not to think this too often. Especially if you want to make friends. See point 4.

11. Your children will speak funny and say things that make you wince. Like mom. Get over it. You will find yourself saying things you disliked as a child, like dagwood sandwich, because your mother said them and you miss her.

12. Nothing replaces grandparents. Write letters. Send useless bits of art for their fridge. Keep them present, tell stories, Skype, use FaceTime. Apparently children who have a clear foundation of where they come from are more stable later in life. Don’t replace the guilt about taking the grandchildren away by saying you will be home soon. You won’t.

13. Get a pet. Even a hamster. Not getting one because one day we’re leaving will soon tire as an excuse. If you don’t want the hassle of flying the pet home then get one you can eat. Or give away. Or will get eaten.

14. If you’re driving on a different side of the road remember that in a moment of panic you will resort to what you know best – which will be the wrong side. When getting your new driver’s license have your child vomit in their car seat on the way there. It will be the fastest driving test you, or the instructor, has ever taken.

In summary, all the reasons you hated your new place will become things you love. Picturing yourself going back will have this stumpy feeling about going back. Not forwards. But it’s not going back to a physical place or people you love, it’s going back to what you were all like before you left, simply because you have all changed. It’s impossible not to when you halt one life and dive into another. That’s what adventures do. Remember, conflict propels life. Variance, friction, uncomfortable new territory is not always fun but it takes you to a new place of feeling like You Cracked It. Separately and Together. It makes you stronger. Closer. Braver. Bendier. Weirder. And if not, at least you can turn it into a good yarn to explain why the children speak funny.

Trying Not To Screw Up The Daughter

When I overheard a friend talk about how beautiful our daughter was on New Year’s Eve, she looked at me like it was an affliction. “She’s more than three-year-old cute,” she said, the whites of her eyes large with pity. “She’s classically beautiful.”

Oh dear. Not the classically beautiful daughter. We all know where that’s heading. She won’t develop her wit. She’ll be a nightmare teen with a platoon of boys hanging around. She won’t push herself intellectually because she’ll charm her way into everything. She’ll get really fucked up about her beauty thinking her feet are too big. Or something.

When the ‘Dactyl was born a nurse observed how big her feet were for a girl. She couldn’t walk, barely had a breath and she was already categorized. Lovely eyes but did you see those hooves?…

It’s a tough road being a girl. We need a good sense of humor to laugh about anything that’s not perfect. Or anything that is.

Parents say that talking to daughters about self and body image is more terrifying than the birds and the bees these days, for fear of saying the wrong thing. For starting a dysfunction.

Lisa Bloom suggests the way we talk to little girls is not helping. We focus on how they look, not what they think or do which makes them focus on how they look.

Last year, ABC News reported half of three to six-year-old’s worry about being fat. I didn’t miss the one there; it’s no longer 13 and 16, it’s under 10. There’s a girl at Bob’s school who won’t eat lunch because she’s trying to get skinny. Like Mom. She’s five.

It’s scary. All I want is to get it right because the mothers are always blamed for getting it wrong.

I think of my lovely daughter – to me she is utter perfection, like Bob – and I can’t bear the thought of her dysfunctioning. Hating herself. Or any part of herself. I want her to love who she is as a whole person, not as a physical classification system. And discover big feet are fantastic for kicking balls and cycling down really large hills. And to learn well-tuned wit gets just as much attention as long eyelashes.

As I’m about as sporty as a flamingo we decided on soccer and ballet lessons: grace, speed and teamwork.

The ‘Dactyl chose a shocking pink tutu we bought at the Boonville Fair for her first ballet class, with black footless tights and a green and purple top. She loved her outfit until we got inside and saw all the other 3–5 year old girls in soft pink leotards with floaty skirts over white tights and ballet shoes. Never having done ballet I did not know it would be so serious.

As the class began, she would not let go of my leg and the only way to get her to DO anything was for me to DO it too. Stretching, I lamented wearing long bold stripey socks under my boots which were being waved about like candy canes. I also wished I had not worn pigtails that day.

The other ballet moms sat lined up like a judging panel at the end of the room. None of them had pigtails.

The next week, with the right ballet outfit on, I hoped it would be better but the ‘Dactyl would not get off my lap. Together we had to trot, prance, plié, point our toes in first position and leap through another forty-five minutes. I dropped my basket a few times and could not get my ribbon to twirl. Un-coordination in a three-year old is adorable. In a 42-year-old it’s just agonizing.

She cried the subsequent weeks and did not want to go. Starting to dread ballet lessons myself, I talked to the Dimple about it.

“I want her to grow up enjoying what her body can DO, not how it looks.”

He pointed out she’s only going to enjoy her body doing something that she enjoys. “And,” he said, “She hates performing.”

Oh yeah.

In my eagerness to get it right I was ignoring who she is. The ‘Dactyl refuses to hit piñatas at parties because she has to whack the stupid swinging thing IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. At her recent 4th birthday party we bought out the cake, camera at the ready, but there was no birthday girl as she was hiding under the table. We sang Happy Birthday to an empty chair. That’s our darling girl. Classically beautifully bashful.

Our birthday girl. Why is it always the ugliest fru fru dresses that become the favorites?

“We might screw her up by forcing her into classes,” said the Dimple.

Not to mention the mother.

I suspect upcoming soccer season will require me to pretend I have dribbling skills to get her on the field.

For now we’re having dance parties at home.

On Mondays she works with Dad in the forest while I take Bob to school. That, the Dimple assures me will keep those beautiful feet on the ground.

Last week the ‘Dactyl put on her favorite (completely hideous) dress and asked if she looked bootiful. I was dying to say YOU LOOK LIKE A MARSHMALLOW CAKE but I’ve listened to Lisa Bloom and concur, talking about how girls look All The Time messes up their sense of self.

I answered with a question. “Where are we most beautiful?”

She put her little hand over her heart. “In here mummy,” she said, which made my own heart prance, plié and leap all around the room.

Slotting – Kind Of Like Slutting But Not Really.

Gazing at friends on the red carpet at The Hobbit premiere in New Zealand, I felt strangely envious. Facebook is a bitch sometimes, showing me where I’m not. I LIKED those pictures with a thumbs up, but I didn’t actually like it at all. It made me hanker for my old hood in Wellington. Instead, I was here in Northern California, not in Jimmy Choo shoes but gummies in the rain. It was a bad case of FOMO, and wasn’t just the fancy-ness I longed for but that sense of belonging to a creative vibe.

According to Maslow us humans don’t fare well without love and a clear picture of where we slot in. Which was part of my motivation to do something other than be a fascinating, incredibly-talented, most-interesting mum.

I couldn’t believe the Worst Storm in Ten Years was scheduled for the night of our African event. And actually not just one storm, but three, backed up like a gang of thieves. The biggest was the width of us to Denver, three bleedin’ states away. Big enough for flood warnings, for highways to close – so our African dance instructor, Maria, couldn’t leave her house – and for a pile of rocks to slide onto our 8 mile driveway. I nearly gave myself a bladder infection trying to move the largest one. As I heaved, I cursed. Listen up, storm. I’m trying to create something OUT OF THE WOODS so stop trying to keep me IN THE FRICKEN WOODS.

The yelling did not help the lifting but it felt good.

Sometimes, a girl just doesn’t want to wear gumboots.

Because of the storm we had to discuss things like no power. No stereo. No gorgeous lights framing the room. Somebody suggested we dance with those headlamps hikers wear. Yeah, right. Like a room full of miners.

“If I need shitty weather I’ll get you to plan an event,” joked the Dimple, reminding me about Bob’s 4th birthday. Not even his dimples could get me to smile.

There was a recommendation to postpone but everyone had been working so hard, gratis, towards that date. Alyssa, our clever designer put it on the flyers, and Alida checked if off 200 times with the printing. All the ZUMBA instructors – Tabbi, Kristi, Dakotah, Kamala, Janette, Matt, Martine and Brittney – had been talking up that date, selling tickets for it and performers from other towns had it in their diaries. Feeling tenuous about being the only bloke amongst gyrating women, it was also the date the Dimple had agreed to be the film and lighting guy. Postponing was not an option.

Turned out the Dimple was not the only guy. Nor was I the only person on the dance-floor. As luck would have it, the gang of storms broke up and there was a window of calm hugging that Friday evening.

Word had got out. People came in. Teens with tribal face paint danced next to women in their fifties shaking jingles around their bottoms, surrounded by every age in between. The dance-floor was busy and really HOT.

The Dimple’s lighting was perfectly late-night-saucy, and with three cameras rolling he worked the hardest that night. I had forgotten what a clever tech guy he is, it’s not often we get to see each other doing something other than parenting. I was blown away he did so much. For me.

Half way through the night, a friend, Cindi, came up and said “Holy crap, you did it!”

I felt delighted by the magic of it all but not because it was a success, or that I did my best in terms of effort, but because I felt part of something much bigger than me. It was humbling. I started with an online invite for 37 people, and then a passionate bunch of women spread the word: the ZUMBA gals plus Sarah, Delphine, Paloma, Heather, Rebecca, Cindi and Rheta until we reached 600. People got behind it for nothing. No pay. The instructors rocked the stage. The crowd, who all said screw this storm, rocked the night. And we all danced for something bigger than us. We raised enough money to send 40 African girls to school for a year – thanks to some of YOU too.

“Correction,” I said to Cindi. “We all did it!”

Finally, I’ve slotted in and found some awesome; I had been searching in the wrong place, it was not in me but everyone around me.

Here’s the start of the night. That’s the Other Camp Mum, Kristi – who also likes to Get Out Of The Woods – minxing on stage far left, with Kiri, Tabbi, Janette and Brittney:

Does My Butt Look Big In This Continent?

If it all turns to crap I’ll go help the poor hungry people in Africa. That’s what I used to think. My trusty back up plan. Africa laughed at such a notion. If it has all turned to crap then please don’t bring your shit here. We don’t need any more.

Many folk think they can change Africa, but more often than not, the hot dusty continent ends up changing them.

Once upon a stinking hot day in Zambia, south-east Africa, I went for a run. It was early evening, just before the enormous burnt sun would drop like a grapefruit out of the sky, plunging everything into darkness.

About half way around my loop through miombo woodlands, with legs and lungs feeling like lead, a bunch of children ran up and mimicked my lumbering style. Some had flip-flops on, others sprinted effortlessly past me in bare feet yelling ‘Mzungu, mzungu!’ then bursting into laughter. Great, I thought. I came here to get away but I can never get the fuck away.

On a previous run, a gaggle of nuns had taken the piss out of me too. The head nun, in true Whoopi Goldberg fashion, swung her hips from side to side and yelled “WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?”

A white woman jogging – in the middle of the hot season – was comedy. With nobody chasing me, it seemed absurd. You’re running away from your home so you can then run back towards it? The children’s laughter reminded me how ridiculous I was, not interested in the poor hungry people, but obsessed with shedding an unwanted layer from my bottom.

Yep, I took all my crap with me to Africa.

The only way to stop the giggling was to stop running. The ring leader, a girl about twelve, fell into step with me.

Bridget had enchanting oval eyes and her hair was braided in cornrows that exploded into pigtails on either side of her head. She asked if she could practice English and I decided I could spare a few minutes. Then I had more important running to do.

We talked about school and I asked Bridget what she wanted to be.

“Teacher,” was her reply.

Hardly a lofty career choice, I thought. Easily obtainable in many parts of the world.

For Bridget, becoming a teacher was about as likely as becoming a polar bear expert. She told me her Father would take her out of school at 14.

Being a naïve schmuck, I kept probing. “Why?”

Those big brown eyes met mine. “Dowry.”

Bridget’s sister, Jocelyn. She would be 15 now.

Her Father could not afford to keep her – not In School OR At Home. She would be sent off to another village for the rest of her life. Not to become a teacher, but a wife.

A cocktail of guilt and gratuity burst over me. I felt grateful kiwi fathers encourage careers for their daughters, not dowries. And I felt guilty I had been so annoyed. Bridget wanted to connect with another piece of the world; a different life.

There was no more running that day, just lots of practicing English on the side of the road.

Ever since, girls’ education in Africa has had a special drawer in my heart marked NEEDS ATTENTION. African girls have a lot taken away. They are more likely to be sexually assaulted than attend high school, married before their 15th birthdays and fall pregnant before their bodies are ready. Then they have that fun thing called childbirth to get through.

* But an educated girl will marry later and have a smaller family. For every year she stays in school her income will increase by 10%, she will invest 90% back into her family, and ensure her children go to school, just like she did. An educated girl can change her life.

Our African dance event – THIS FRIDAY, NOV 30th – is growing. Every cent raised goes to girls in Ghana. $50 sends one girl to school for a year.

Some of you have asked about donating, so I’ve set up a link here.

As for me, I’ll be there shaking my everything. Africa taught me that an extra layer of lard on the butt is perfect for something: dancing.

* Thanks to Do It In A Dress for the stats.

I’ll Take High-Fructose Corn Syrup Fuelled Candy, Thanks.

Even Gaga, the Queen of costume, feels the pressure.

Somebody should rename Halloween, Hell-o-weed; that’s what the Mums need to get through it. The PRESSURE. Especially in the United States of Constant Reasons to Decorate The house. The kids start talking about who they’re going as in July. Then there’s the changing of mind period which lasts all of August, September and most of October: Luke Skywalker, R2D2 or Yoda (for Bob). Princess Leia, a frog or any princess (for the ‘Dactyl). And you’re not really a proper Mom in Mendocino unless you make costumes for the whole family. Even better if you crack a theme or politically astute idea, like going as Monsanto with mutating GMOs.

Our theme was not clever or unique, yet still stressful. Bob put on my first Luke Skywalker shirt – looking freshly woven from Planet Tatooine – when he broke into frantic scratching. “Too itchy.” Then there was persuading the Dimple to get into the short-legged, quite tight Darth Vader costume I picked up. “It’s meant to be snug,” I said, as he surveyed his lop-sided package. He needed bribes.

If the ‘Dactyl had to be a princess then Leia, Leader of the Rebels was my kind of royalty but white, glossy fabric is hopeless on a three-year-old. Especially one that insists on wearing it immediately .

As for Chewy? The hair. The groan. And particularly challenging for me: the height.

Fortunately, the Dimple saved me with an original idea.

Darth Vader ruled an Empire and owned his own Death Star. Some up-for-it chic would have looked beyond the heavy breathing and plastic forehead. Surely. Power’s an aphrodisiac.

Mr and Mrs Dark Side were often baffled how their kids ended up so good.

Introducing Mrs Darth. She had an annoying habit of dressing like her chap but she was quite good with a lightsaber.

Gluttonous Halloween all happens on one street here. Residents of the aptly named Wall Street hand out between 900 and 1000 pieces of candy per house. We found this disturbing until we experienced the alternative. The trick.

After completing a game at the Fire Station, Bob was not given chocolate, but a real live goldfish. In a cup! Of course the Dactyl had to play and soon she was handed her own goldfish in a zip-lock bag. Instantly christened Luke and Leia they excitedly showed off their winnings.

“Great trick,” muttered the Dimple, holding the cup, while I got the bag. Crikey, give my children sweets full of food colouring, genetically messed with wheat, aspartame, preservatives, high fructose corn syrup, additives, palm oil, pig hooves. But not fish!

Darth Vader does not look formidable holding a goldfish. His new wife – not the kind to carry a handbag – cannot strut powerfully next to him sloshing a zip-lock.

“Shit, where are the fish?” became our line along Wall Street.

Utterly brilliant trick. And it got worse.

Luke and Leia were the kind of fish that are fed to other tank fish. Disposable. Easily killed. Not being big on marine biology we didn’t know that. They made it home and into a bowl. Bob was thrilled. He’d been dying to get another pet since the chickens’ massacre. Unfortunately Luke didn’t make it to breakfast; we found him in the morning upside down in the bowl. Bob was so upset he cried all the way to school.

The trick that never ends. Give the small unsuspecting children fish that will DIE!

Leia joined Luke 48 hours later generating more tears.

I read somewhere that people without pets shouldn’t be trusted. Too selfish. What about people who keep killing their pets? Narcissists?

The Dimple and I joked that night about being bad parents – pigs, chickens, fish; all dead – and unfortunately Bob overheard. Now he’s repeating the line and the ‘Dactyl’s chiming in. “Mummy and Daddy are bad. BAD PARENTS!”

Will this trick never end?

At least we can say that we completely got IN character for Halloween. That’s right, Jedi children, Daddy and Stepmommy are on the Dark Side of The Force. Never trust us with your pets. Next year, please, just take the firkin’ treat!

PS. That Mrs Darth is a bit of a publicity slut. It’s disgusting how she pushes her famous step-daughter. Here they are in the local rag. Pre-fish.

No. Everything Is Not Awesome.

People tell us it’s AWESOME we come from New Zealand. Like, wow, we totally arranged where we were born.

Recently, somebody told the Dimple he was awesome for driving our kids to school. Like, wow man, you actually got in the car and like, buckled up, then put it into drive and you know, drove there. If that’s awesome then what’s making out at the top of the Empire State Building at 10pm when the guards are sleepy?

The slutty adjective has snuck into my vocab for ridiculous things like a well-made coffee; a sign apparently I’ve become Americanized. The reality is, however, I’m feeling particularly un-awesome.

Back before the Dimple, the ‘Dactyl and Bob, when I had a fancy-pants career I was flash on paper – I know, because my Mother would tell her girlfriends, ‘Oh yes, She lives in New York, gets flown to London and nearly met Debbie Harry.’ Awesome, Mum. Now I am a mother in the woods who talks about her children. Whoop de doo. It’s all very idyllic being in the trees but now what?

“At least you’re a GOOD mother,” the Dimple tells me.

Well, duh. Yeah.

I get up and like, feed the children, make their lunches, and you know, put the car into drive and like, drive them out of the woods and into school. Hardly inspires awe.

We had some people over for dinner recently and I had nothing to say. No thoughts. Cripes, I said to myself, I’m the most un-interesting I’ve ever been.

Searching for genuine awe, I thought I found inspiration in my current book, Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. In it, a four-year old-girl, Ruby, spends a night alone in the woods and goes from petrified to pacified by a cosmic Mother-Nature-ish presence. ‘She [Ruby] remembered every word spoken directly to her deep core by the calm voice that protected her all night. The voice echoed in her head, and after that night she became like one born with a caul over one’s face, knowing things others never would.’

Awe!

When I told the Dimple I wanted to sleep in the woods and KNOW THINGS OTHERS NEVER WOULD, he sighed. “You know the book’s fiction.”

Of course. But I liked the idea of feeling scared, in awe, petrified even. Feeling fearful hasn’t happened since we drove home with a new baby wondering who let us out of the hospital.

So, the Dimple suggested his old cabin, the one where he wished for us.

Once I got my sleeping bag, duvet, two pillows and fluffy blanket set up on the bed and a parade of candles for company it was very snug in that dilapidated cabin. I was not going to KNOW THINGS OTHERS NEVER WOULD being comfy.

Fortunately, not found in our woods.

Outside, on a cliff edge above the chatty river I sat in the dark. Redwoods rose like burly giants all around and the reins on my imagination slackened as my mind wandered over to the drawer marked FREAKY SHIT. Out popped: bears, ‘coons, mountain lions, and last year’s Rambo murderer. The Camelot fable about frisky stags gang-raping a woman in a forest loomed and I slammed that drawer shut. Not that kind of AWE.

Closing my eyes to spooky darkness, I tried meditation. Breathing. In and out. Goodbye thoughts. In and out. Fortunately, I’d had some recent experience in the No Thoughts department.

Then it happened. I meditated.

Holy Smoke, I’m doing it, I thought. I’m meditating! In and out. I am doing it! I am having NO THOUGHTS and this time it feels great! Come on cosmic calm voice, in you come. Can’t believe it! Wait until I tell my bro, I meditated! I am interesting. I am awesome…

And suddenly I was no longer meditating.

It wasn’t fear that eventually drove me inside, but a numb bottom. Expecting a cosmic experience still awaited me, I melted into the frothy bed. But there was no mystical dawn. No intergalactic sleep walking. No celestial inner-voice animal-sprite guardian speaking to me in my dreams. The next morning I was startled by the Dimple arriving – not in the rules – wondering when I would be returning home so he could go to work. It was 10am.

Crap. What sort of story was that? I went into the woods and… slumbered.

Later, confessing to the Dimple I’d been feeling un-interesting, he reminded me I used to KNOW THINGS OTHERS NEVER WOULD about important stuff like vodka. And Africa.

Oh yeah. Back when I wasn’t a mother.

The truth is, a voice did speak to me in the woods. Well, it’s not even a voice, just something I KNOW deep down but been ignoring because it’s scary. Ever since we’ve been here I’ve had one foot in New Zealand and one foot in California. Neither here nor there. Not wanting to let go of home or embrace my new country I’ve been hesitant about getting amongst it because, you now, one day we’ll leave. But in doing so I’ve lost myself. I will never feel awesome unless I BE wherever I am. To KNOW THINGS I need to get out of our safe ‘coon-filled woods and plonk myself in Mendocino (which is like the Coromandel but triple the population). Be here not there.

I’ve returned to the old jewel in my heart – the continent not the spirit. Africa got under my skin when I lived there – and the Dimple’s before we knew each other – and it’s like having cake crumbs in the bed; you just can’t shake it. It turned me inside out and somehow, after being rubbed raw, I felt grateful. Thanks Africa for the most uncomfortable experience of my life that changed me forever. Here’s some love back.

I’m expecting a bottom like this after dancing all night.

We’re holding a dance party fundraiser to send girls in West Africa to school. The good news is, educating girls is fashionable right now – AIDS is passé – thanks to the good people at Do It In A Dress and Half the Sky, backed by Olivia Wilde, Susan Sarandon, Diane Lane and America Ferrera.

The bad news is I only know 37 people in Mendocino, none of which are Olivia Wilde, Susan Sarandon, Diane Lane or America Ferrera. The odds of filling a hall are against me. At least if I fail it will only be publicly in front of every single person I know here. Awe! I guess that will be a story next time people come over for dinner.

And if the dance-party doesn’t make me feel awesome then I have to get the Dimple back to New York and up the Empire State Building before it closes again…