Goodbye Party: Part II

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I love celebrating. The arrival of May introduces Kim Fest, a month-long birthday celebration in my honor (have a party planned in May? We all know it's really just another excuse to pay tribute to my birthday!). The Holiday season brings on Christmas parties galore. When I got my last job, I planned celebratory happy hours, dinners, parties, and a vacation to Charleston in honor of the momentous occasion.

So you can imagine that something as big as our moving away from Atlanta would not slip quietly by without the appropriate amount of festivities. Last Saturday got the ball rolling, but since then Will and I have had office lunches, dinners with friends, and a whole other party! Last night we met up with friends at Twisted Taco to hang out for one of the last times. The cool part about it? The bar had a mechanical bull. And Will and I rode it.

Will's ride was slightly more graceful than mine. He, being the athletic demon that he is, can pretty much handle anything physical that comes his way. Even a wrenching, writhing, bucking, foaming-at-the-mouth mechanical bull.

I, on the other hand, have never been blessed with the gift of athleticism. And I have to say, the mechanical bull experience was probably one of the more embarrassing things that I have been through in quite some time. Just ask the crowd who saw my butt crack—and thought it was the funniest thing ever—as I was trying to mount the thing... which in and of itself was a very difficult task. It took me about five minutes to even get on it... a lot of seemingly wasted effort for a ride that lasted a total of 2 seconds.

As I stared at my nemesis, Bill the Mechanical Bull, I could have told you in advance what was going to happen: I could have told you that I was not going to be able to get on the dang thing. I could have told you body parts that should never see the light of day would possibly be exposed for all to laugh at. I could have told you the ride would last the equivalent of a blink.

I could have told you all of this. But you know what? All of those (very good) reasons—reasons that, had I been sane, would normally have been more than enough evidence to convince me against the decision—didn’t seem so daunting last night. Staring at Bill the Bull, I knew that this was my first test: could I put aside my fear, pride, and self-preservation to jump into a once-in-a-lifetime experience with both feet?

This was a cross-roads for me—an opportunity to make the uncharacteristically "brave" choice, or a chance to once again recede to the back of the room where I have spent oh-so-much-time watching others make the choice that I have never had the courage to make. If I said “no” to Bill, I knew that my hopes for Australia would be just that much harder to attain. If I couldn't make the brave decision now, what made me think that just by virtue of being in another country I would automatically "grab life by the horns," so to speak? We would be moving into a shadow-version of Australia, living in another culture but not actually living it. That sense of victory that comes from vanquishing a fear and accomplishing something new would remain elusive, forever overshadowed by trepidation.

So I said “yes”—not once, but twice. As soon as Bill threw me, I got right back up and rode him again (after another five minutes of huffing and puffing my way onto his back… and after a kind member of the audience provided me with a sweater to tie around my waist!).

Symbolic? Maybe a little. Will and I spent our last hurrah like the cowboys of yore’, roping and riding a bucking beast across the plains of America into the wild unknown. But it was symbolic on another level as well—bravery reigning victoriously over fear, hope for the future triumphing over the shackles of the past. The beauty of understanding what it really means to live life to the fullest.

And you know what? It will be one wild ride.

Goodbye Party

This weekend was our goodbye party. It was quite the time, with people from every part of our lives showing up... kind of like a mini wedding! There were siblings, some of my Nashville girls, Atlanta friends, Vandy friends, work friends... apparently it was the place to be.

Here is a picture of Will and me with our American paraphernalia on. I know what you're thinking: aren't you saying goodbye to the United States and moving to Australia, or am I confused about the entire point of this blog? No, friends, you are not confused. My lovely friend Amanda, the hostess of the party, had the ingenious idea to throw us a Goodbye Party From the States! (not to mention they didn't have Australian decorations at Party City)

Thanks to all for making it a fun time! We are going to miss you!

Checklist

As you can imagine, moving to Australia is a large endeavor, and lists have become a necessary tool in order to keep all of the details straight. But when you make new lists on a whim, as I tend to do whenever I think of something else that needs to be done and I don't have an old list readily available, things can tend to get rather out of control. Throughout the past few months I have made a thousand lists: reminder lists on post-it notes strewn around my desk and home; mini-lists in various notebooks; more specific lists in Word documents on my computer.

And then there’s the master list. The bible of our to-dos. The big-daddy of them all.

The Headache List.

If something is not on the Headache List, it will most likely not get done. And if that particular thing happens to be important… well… we have our passports, our visa, and our plane tickets, so in the grand scheme of things exactly how important could it really be? (so says person who just wants to get out of the country and can’t imagine anything that could stop her)

Thankfully the nature of to-do lists is such that there is a true sense of completion upon crossing items off. And, also thankfully, Will and I have been diligent about accomplishing things, so we have been able to cross off quite a few items.

Quick side note: I would like to take two seconds to let everyone know how impressed I am with my husband (he doesn’t know I’m doing this). Unlike myself, he’s never embraced the beauty of lists, and he’s definitely never before undertaken something quite so daunting as moving outside of the United States, so I had my doubts as to how he would handle all of the many to-dos. But he has been my saving grace in this whole process. He has owned the Headache List like it is his own baby, and has taken it upon himself to wage war on all items that have had the devastating destiny to be listed within its pages, scouring them from the face of the earth. Congratulations, babe, you really are Rambo!

[Return to actual post] In fact, we have been able to cross off so many items that I find my detail-oriented list not so detailed anymore. Somewhere along the way, the details dwindled down to just a few items, leaving in their wake only the things we really have no control over.

• Rent the house (the real worry of the hour)
• Sell Will’s truck (FYI, we sold my car… and we didn’t have to pay a deductible for the hit and run that happened a couple of weeks ago! Hallelujah!)
• Work our last days
• Finish painting the master bedroom (back in February when we first moved in we got so tired of painting that we left a giant white spot where the dresser used to be… and we totally forgot about it until we moved the dresser out. Surprise! This is a detail, but I still thought it should be added to the list)
• Finish packing our bags and boxes with stuff that we can’t pack until we’re actually leaving
• Say goodbye to friends and family that we have not said goodbye to yet
• Get on the plane

We still have plenty to do, but most of it will work itself out with or without us (besides painting the master bedroom… and packing… and getting on the plane). But compared with what we could have to do, we are in a very good place. In such a good place, in fact, that we have unwittingly backed ourselves into somewhat of a waiting game. And I hate waiting games.

Six days and counting.

Shopping

I have been a psychotic shop-a-holic lately. And I can actually say that without fear of loud guffaws emanating from readers everywhere because really, under normal circumstances, I am pretty tame in my purchasing habits. Sure, there’s the occasional spree where I lose all self-control (for some reason everything’s just fitting right that day!), and when gazing at the aftermath, make the decision to hide all receipts and credit card bills from my husband. But those are relatively few and far between.

Lately, however, I’ve been completely out of control. In the midst of applying my favorite lip gloss, I remember that they may not have this particular brand in Australia. So I head to the computer and order three replacement tubes—just in case. Or when putting on my favorite tank top, I can’t help but think of how much I love it, and how it would possibly be the end of the world if this tank top were ever to have a dryer mishap or a coffee stain fiasco. So, just in case, I peruse the Old Navy web site and order no less than ten—yes, TEN!—tank tops just like it (in different colors, though, so don’t worry, I’m not being excessive). Or better yet—I dropped $100 at Victoria’s Secret because I momentarily convinced myself that they will not have bras that fit right in Australia, so it is an absolute necessity to purchase three replacements. You know, just in case.

Now this is turning into quite a problem, considering I have a two-bag, seventy-pound limit on my worldly possessions looming over me. Will and I have begun packing our suitcases and I am amazed at how quickly you can reach that cut-off… and I still have a few online orders that haven’t arrived!

Will and I have not made it much of a secret that we’re using this Australian chapter as a sort of renouncement of consumerism… a chance to live simply and spend money on once-in-a-lifetime experiences versus luxury objects. But I’m slowly realizing that it doesn’t count as a renouncement if you merely stock up on consumerism before you go and just live off the hoarded bounties while you’re over there. Isn’t that missing the point?

Yes, yes it is. But it made me confront a truth I have been running from for awhile: I am involved in a very tumultuous love-hate relationship with consumerism. Sure, I can demonize it and blame the ever-growing problems of America on it all I want, but I can’t do so with a clear conscience because, truthfully, a little part of my heart loves the comforts that a consumerist-driven society have invented. There are so many pretty things to buy! And so many choices! When growing up in Brazil, I would go into the grocery store and find never more than four varieties of cereal (Frosted Flakes, Corn Flakes, Choco Krispies—but not regular Rice Krispies—and occasionally Fruit Loops, in case anyone was wondering). Once back in the States I would spend hours in the cereal aisle alone, just taking it all in. And let’s not even talk about how much time I spent in the shampoo aisle, studying what each product promised to do for your hair. Is “lustrous, silky locks” what I’m going for, or “shiny, supple tresses” more like it? (By the way, after countless hours reading—and trying—pretty much every shampoo product known to man, I’m pretty convinced that they all do the same thing). Regardless, it’s amazing what our society offers us.

Now I don’t mean to sound as if I believe Melbourne is a hole-in-the-wall, Outback-like town devoid of all luxuries and consumerist goods, because I know that’s not true. And it’s probably my lack of faith in westernization that’s causing me to write this post at all (hey, I have baggage! Four types of cereal for fourteen years… how would you react?). But, as much as I hate to admit it, it scares me that I most likely won’t be able to find my favorite type of conditioner over there, or the mascara that I always use, or even something so seemingly insignificant as garlic salt (I’m sure they have garlic and I’m sure they have salt, but have they ever been ingenious enough to put them together???).

It’s nothing I won’t be able to get used to, but it’s like ripping off a bandaid.

You just gotta do it.

Expatriate: Part I

Expatriate. It’s such a thrilling, evocative word. This one word encapsulates various things that I have always wanted to be but fall tragically short of. Like what, Kim? Well, since you asked…

Mysterious: Although I have tried to introduce the principle of “keep people guessing” in my life, I’m way too talkative and usually end up spilling even more emotions than I would have if I had not been trying to keep people guessing.
Thrilling: I work for a direct mail company. While this is a good job, it’s not exactly edge-of-your-seat, bated-breath material.
Dangerous: Seriously, the most dangerous thing about me is that I do tae-bo… watch out, world!
Intriguing: Did I ever have a blog before? Case and point. And while the jury is still out as to whether this current blog is intriguing or not, well… you guys keep coming back at least!
Defiant: Just the idea of standing up to someone (especially scary people) makes me hyperventilate.
Rogue: My husband Will is one of the most passive, unassuming people I have ever met, and yet I followed him to Atlanta. What does that say about me?

You see? I alone am not that exciting. But attach the word expatriate to my name and holy bonkers, Batman! Suddenly I am following in the footsteps of masters like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and Edith Wharton. Suddenly my favorite pastime is sitting in cafes on balmy summer evenings sipping coffee and wine, discussing the politics of my mother country and influencing the natives of my adopted country with my wit and unique way of seeing the world. Suddenly I have the opportunity of making friends with “people of means,” while I myself am content in my station as an eccentric writer who is poor in worldly goods but rich in life experiences.

I think I’ll print business cards with my new title:

Kim Stone, Expatriate

It’s funny how one word can change your whole perception of your life. Before, when I was just Kim Stone, I was allowed to live like an average person—never striving to break the mold, content with knowing what to expect in the years to come. I had no cool title, so there was nothing to live up to. But now, now that I’ve been branded with this new name, average isn’t good enough anymore. I actually have to make choices that deem me worthy of coolness.

Honestly I’m a little scared that I won’t be able to live up to my new station in life. I can already imagine my first test: seeing a beautiful new Coach purse in a shop window. Will I be able to resist, choosing instead to remember that this money has been allocated for an amazing trip to Indonesia? Or when car shopping—will I be able to choose the rickety but ripe-with-character Land Cruiser versus the brand-new Land Rover I have been eyeing for months now? Or when I have the opportunity to go skiing in New Zealand—will I be able to conquer my fear of careening down an unimaginably steep slope, with no hope of stopping except by sacrificing a limb, all for the opportunity to gain the experience of a lifetime?

Titles create expectations, whether they are expectations you apply to yourself or expectations others ask of you. Will I really be able to live up to all of the connotations that the term expatriate has set for me? I hope so. I know that people will continue reading this blog because they are hoping for me to relate the cool experiences, not the purchase of a Coach purse. And I know that I myself will not be satisfied with this whole adventure unless I feel that Will and I have savored it to its maximum potential. Does this mean we’ll make the exciting, exotic decision every single time? Probably not. But it does mean that we’re on the right path. The path to mystery, thrills, danger, intrigue, defiance, and roguishness. And if we don’t make it all the way there… well, Coach purses are nice, too.

Homage to the House

Our poor house is empty. While once a strapping display of HGTV inspiration and personal touches, it is now leaning towards the naked, bare end of the spectrum. And it makes me sad. We were here for such a short time, so many of you never had an opportunity to see it. For those who were planning to visit but never had the time, or for those who might be looking for a place to rent, or even a little bit for me, who is just looking for a chance to pay homage to the home I had so little time to enjoy this time around, here is my tribute.

Yikes!

Shark attacks, anyone? Will might have to rethink his surfing plans...

Darcy Down Under Goes to Live With Her Grandparents

Hi! My name is Darcy Stone and I live with my parents in Atlanta, GA. Well, they’re not really my parents—they’re not furry enough—but they do a pretty good job of filling in.

I love our life in Atlanta. Mom and Dad and I do a lot of fun things together. We go to the park, we watch TV together (they have a big TV and sometimes it looks like there are little people in our living room, but then when I bark at them they don’t pay any attention to me), I follow them all around our house, I get to sleep in their bed, and they let me bite their hands.

They even make me try new things that I'm kind of scared to do.

Overall it’s a pretty good life.

But then Mom and Dad said that we were going to take a trip to visit Grandma and Grandpa.

I got really excited because I love visiting my grandparents. Grandma goes on walks every morning (while Mom and Dad are still sleeping) and she takes me with her, and then she gives me lots of treats and teaches me tricks. I try really hard to learn the tricks for her, but sometimes I have a hard time paying attention and I start running around really fast. And then I get tired and I can’t learn anything.

So I was excited for the trip. Of course I don’t love everything that comes with traveling. Mom always gives me a bath before we go anywhere, even though I think I smell fine. But she doesn’t listen.



And then there’s the actual trip. It’s hard for me to sit still for a long time, but I try really hard for them.

If I’m really good, sometimes they let me chew on their Starbucks straws.

But we finally got there, and I had a great time visiting my grandparents. We played, and I ran around their house, and I met a dog next door who was kind of grumpy and didn’t really want to play with me, so I decided to hide in case he came looking for me.

Finally Mom and Dad were ready to go home, and I was ready to go home too. I was tired! But this time it was weird. Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me jump in the car with them.

Mom kneeled on the ground to talk to me. She said, “Darcy, you have to stay with Grandma and Grandpa for a couple of months. You’re about to go on a really exciting adventure with us, but we have to go first to make sure there’s nothing dangerous for you.”

She told me all about it—that I just had to spend a couple of months with Grandma and Grandpa, and then I would fly on a big plane, and then I’d have to spend one month in quarantine. I asked her what quarantine is. She said, “Quarantine is a place where very special dogs go before they’re about to start a great adventure Down Under! Kind of like special agent training. Once you get out of quarantine you’re going to have lots of exciting adventures with us in Australia, and you’ll have all the training you need to do really cool things.”

Even though Mom was trying hard to be brave, I could see that she was really sad. She had little water droplets in her eyes, so I tried to lick them off. They were salty. Then Dad came up and gave me a hug. He was trying not to look as sad as Mom, but I could still tell.

I decided I needed to be brave. After all, time with Grandma and Grandpa, flying on a big plane, and special agent training didn’t sound all that bad!

“OK, Mom and Dad, I’ll see you Down Under in a few months. I can’t wait! I love you both!”

“We love you, Darcy. You’re the bravest little girl in the whole world.” And with that, they gave me a big hug, got in their car, and drove off.

And now I can't wait to see them Down Under!

(Author’s Note: this is really the prequel to Darcy Down Under—the backstory, if you will. And as I’m sure most of you clever folks figured out, this weekend we’re taking Darcy to live with the grandparents for two months before she’s transported to Australia. Tear. And I do not expect us all to be the brave souls I have depicted in this story. In fact, I expect more along the lines of lots of barking and whining. And I don't know how Darcy will react.)

Taco Bell Obituary

I love fast food: Moe’s, Chick-fil-A, the occasional Dairy Queen Blizzard. But Taco Bell holds a special place in my heart. In fact, when I was growing up in Brazil amidst the fast-food deprivation that many non-US countries force upon you, my dream—the greatest thing I could ever imagine—was moving back to the United States and working at Taco Bell, surrounded by endless nachos bell grande and chicken soft tacos supreme (I was a fat kid). I even went so far as to almost pick a university based on which institute of higher education featured Taco Bell in their cafeteria options. (Instead I settled for Vanderbilt with a Taco Bell right across the street from my freshman dorm. My one complaint is that the store closed too early, leaving only the drive-through as an option. The problem? Freshmen aren’t allowed to have cars at Vandy, and they will not let you walk through the drive-through. Believe me, I tried many a time, hoping on each occasion that a kind-hearted soul would take pity on me and throw me a bone… or a gordita crunch. Never happened. Of course, when you’re craving Taco Bell, you tend to get creative. I still remember the night I asked the people behind me, who happened to be blessed with a car, if I could ride through the drive-through with them.)

I digress.

Now, I was not expecting Australia to have the plethora of fast food options that we as Americans take for granted. But a tiny flame of hope burned in my heart that Taco Bell would be the survivor, that it would have conquered the odds of foreign supply-and-demand and land right-smack next door to the apartment we end up renting.

Alas! it is not to be. Upon researching the global locations of this beloved fast food chain, I discovered the heart-breaking news that Taco Bell met an untimely death in the country of Australia, thanks to Aussies’ disinterest in Mexican fast food.

Here is Wikipedia’s account of Taco Bell's tragic journey into the foreign fast-food graveyard:

Taco Bell first opened stores in Australia in the early 1980s under the name 'Taco Amigo' because the trademark rights for 'Taco Bell' were already used by another company (Similar to the Burger King situation which led to Australian stores being named Hungry Jacks) the venture failed and stores closed down shortly afterwards.

Taco Bell returned to Australia in late 1998, this time under Taco Bell branding, and opened a handful of stores in Sydney, many of which were multi-store restaurants formally standalone KFC or Pizza Hut locations. The venture only had moderate success, and eventually some standalone Taco Bell restaurants were 'split' to offer KFC as well. The Taco Bell dog was used in commercials with promotions such as 99 cent tacos used to encourage customers to try the chain. However, Sydneysiders never really warmed to the concept of Mexican fast food and Taco Bell closed its last outlet in December 2003. Former Taco Bell sites were rebranded as KFC or Pizza Hut.

Now, I can understand how only paying 99 cents for beef, cheese, rice, beans, lettuce, tomatoes, and a delicious flour tortilla to hold it all together may seem a little questionable. But instead of doubting, I choose to embrace it as a miracle. Kind of like the multiplication of two fish and five loaves. And who are we to question miracles?

What is the point of this post, you ask? Well, as we near our departure date, I’ve begun to compose a list of things that I will miss (keep an eye out for a future post). I was going to lump Taco Bell into the list, but then realized that it is too special to me. In fact, it’s a symbol of much more than just fast food—to me it represents life outside of America.

For fourteen years I answered the question “what do you miss most about the United States?” with the long-ingrained response of “Taco Bell and my family” (notice the order those went in… hey, I already admitted I was a fat kid!). And yet again I face a future that is separate from Taco Bell’s. What’s interesting about it is that it’s really a wake-up call that Australia is, in fact, not the United States. So far I’ve been fooling myself into believing that the only differences will be an accent and location, when really it’s an entirely different culture, complete with different tastes in fast food.

Really and truly I am saying goodbye to America.

And that’s OK.

So farewell, Taco Bell. Until we meet again.

Control

Things were going smoothly. Too smoothly. Will got a great job in Australia—relocation included, plane tickets included, two weeks accommodation upon arrival included. Sure, there are a lot of headaches and expenses, but that’s to be expected when you make the conscious decision to uproot your life (especially when you have a house, a dog, and two car payments) and move halfway around the world. The opportunity is worth the price, and overall, I have been pleased with our progress [insert picture here of me patting myself on the back]. I knew we had it under control.

Until this morning.

This morning Will and I woke up, went outside to let Darcy out, and realized that while we were sleeping, someone had backed into my car, which was helplessly parked in our driveway. No note, lots of damage. $1350 worth of damage. Roughly 16% of what Carmax had offered to pay for my car just the night before, an already heart-sinkingly low offer.

Something I had no control over—the rash actions of an unthinking and irresponsible driver—threatened my tightly managed, to-do-list controlled world.

And then it sank in: I have been living under the illusion that I am in control of this future I’ve chosen, when really I have about just as tight of a grip on it as I do on whether my car gets hit in my very own driveway.

The renters that I’m sure we’re going to get, the cars that I’m sure we’ll be able to sell, the dog that I’m sure will just magically be transported to Australia. You know what? I’m not so sure anymore.

Of course, things aren’t always quite as dire as they appear to be. After my mini-meltdown this morning, Will got on the phone with our insurance company (I heart USAA). They told him to file a police report and that they may be able to consider the claim an “uninsured driver” incident, which would result in a $0 deductible. Please God, let it be an uninsured driver incident.

Be that as it may, my point is still valid: the optimistic scenarios I have created for myself could potentially not turn out as optimistically as I am forcing myself to believe.

Is it worth it? Losing control of your finances? Losing control of your career path? Losing control of your house, your cars, your beloved pet?

Realizing that you never had control of it to begin with?

I have to believe that yes, yes, it is.

Protagonists

Those of you who know me know that lately I have been obsessed with becoming a novelist.

I know, I know: only something like one percent of written novels are actually published; writing a novel is a huge endeavor and, frankly, Kim, your track record (the multiple unfinished arts-and-crafts projects, the five almost-blank-except-for-the-first-entry journals, and the several unfinished short stories all stuffed in the dark recesses of your closet) prove that huge endeavors are not your thing; not to mention you can’t come up with a fully functioning idea for a novel to save your life.

All good points. But I’m going to pretend anyway. And this blog will be kind of a test.

What’s great about a blog is that the protagonists are already decided for you. I don’t have to go through any lengthy character sketches, emotional research on how a real character would react, or build an imaginary character biography in order to bring the protagonists to life. Will and I are it. And if you didn’t like the protagonists, you wouldn’t be reading this blog.

So here they are: the cast of characters you will come to know and love for as long as this blog is in existence (and if it’s anything like the five almost-blank-except-for-the-first-entry journals, that won’t be very long. Let’s hope the blog suffers a better fate).

Will

The dashingly handsome hero, hell-bent on upholding justice, defeating evil, laughing in the face of danger, and rescuing his damsel in distress from emotional meltdowns, overwhelming to-do lists, and difficult math problems. Born in the rolling foothills of Tennessee, Will is a civil engineer by day and rogue secret agent by night. His interests include football, surfing, beer, illustrating Darcy Down Under, long walks on the beach, and Kim.

Kim

(the narrator of this fair tale)

The breathtakingly beautiful heroine, intent on making the world a better place through closely-guarded friendships, harebrained ideas like moving to Australia (which she has long harbored but never thought would actually happen), and the occasional throwing of a brilliant party. Born in Mississippi (which she tells very few people) but raised in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, Kim is not a stranger to international adventures. Her interests include international travel, beaches, going out to eat at great restaurants, chocolate, wine, running, writing, reading fantastic suck-you-in type books, long walks on the beach, and Will.

Darcy

The impossibly cute, extremely furry, entirely mischievous puppy dog who looks like a polar bear. Born in Atlanta, GA, Darcy is the one thing that Will and Kim believe they have done 100% right since their marriage in September 2008. With a knack for getting into trouble, Darcy’s primary role in this tale will most likely be that of comic relief. Her interests include begging for your food (especially ham), rawhide bones, ice, and large stuffed animals.

Now that we have been introduced to the characters, any good novelist knows that their story must start off with at least a few vignettes of the hero at home. You know, the part where everything is peachy keen and you think how great the hero has it and how it sure would be lovely if things could stay like this forever. Except they never do. The call to action comes and throws the hero’s life into a pitch of confusion, conflict, and chaos.

Subsequent posts, up until February 2, will provide insight into the “heroes at home” (though a true “hero at home” depiction would have occurred before actually making the decision to start the journey; what is actually being represented now is “preparation for the heroic journey,” and will therefore contain its own share of confusion, conflict, and chaos).

Most of you are probably anxiously awaiting the real action that will begin when we actually get to Australia, but all in good time, my friends. Good things come to those who wait.

Announcement

Yes, the rumors are true. Sound the trumpets. Bang the cymbals. We are finally doing it. And no, the “it” in question is not getting on the blogosphere train about five years too late.

Will and I are moving to Australia. Yes, Australia… the big blob-like continent half-way around the world. And boy, does it feel good to get that out in the open! After sneaking around for the past couple of months, biting my tongue every two seconds when about to chime into a conversation with “Oh, but it will be summer in Australia when we move down there” or “Darcy’s going to love playing with the dingos,” everyone finally knows the truth. And it feels good. And I won five dollars from Will when I proved that I could keep a secret for that long.

But let’s get the obvious questions—the elephants in the room, if you will—out of the way first. I put together a handy-dandy little Q&A section that will hopefully answer several of the more popular questions we’ve been getting:

Q: What are you thinking?!
A: We are thinking we will have a really good time living in another country for a few years… experiencing another culture (especially a culture involving a beach), learning another language (especially when that other language only involves a slight modification in accent, the occasional word that embarrassingly means something completely different than what you thought it meant, and, in truth, is not another language at all), and in general living up our constantly-dwindling twenties.

Q: When are you leaving?
A: Monday, Feb. 2

Q: How are you going to support yourself?
A: Will got a job doing exactly what he does here! Except by the aforementioned beach.

Q: Didn’t you just buy a house? Are you seriously going to try and sell in today’s market?
A: No, we’re working with a property management company to rent it out and, well, manage it while we’re away. If you know anyone who wants to rent a townhome in Brookhaven, send them our way!

Q: Kim, what are you going to do to carry your weight in this relationship? It sounds like Will’s doing all the work!
A: How observant you are, my friendly readers! Yes, my magnificent husband is shouldering the pig in order to bring home the proverbial bacon, while I do nothing more than ride on his coattails into an exotic life of mystery and international intrigue. Of course, I’ve assured him that I have grand aspirations of becoming a best-selling author and Australia is vital in my character research. Darcy Down Under would be a shell of a story without the “down under” component.

Q: Speaking of the little furball, what are you planning on doing with her?
A: Darcy, our precious Westie, is overjoyed at the prospect of starring in her very own Darcy Down Under children’s series. Of course, actually getting her “down under” is less than thrilling. We’re on step 8 of the 20-step process (yes, there are more steps than even AA, but is a process that is more likely to lead to alcoholism than detract from it) in getting her ready for travel, and once she gets there she will be quarantined for 30 days before she can actually join us on our adventure. You see, friends, unlike the United States rabies doesn’t exist in Australia, and they are terrified of the possibility that it could be brought over. Apparently having nine of the ten deadliest snakes in the world is perfectly acceptable, but a barely-existant disease, supposedly carried by a fifteen-pound fluffy white dog who has hardly ever been out of our house, is a matter of national security. And don’t even get me started on the paranoia of tuberculosis.

Q: Are you guys cruel animal haters? How could you let the dog you claim to love be in quarantine for 30 days?
A: Hey, don’t hate us, hate rabies. If anyone wants to sponsor a Run for Rabies, we will gladly donate.

Q: Last I checked Australia is a pretty big place. Where are you living in this vast country?
A: We are living in Melbourne. It’s supposed to be the capital of culture, entertainment, and sports—all things we love but could be better at.

Q: Can we visit you?
A: Of course! If you have $1500 just burning a hole in your pocket, we would love for you to look us up! (I love how flippantly I say this, secure in the knowledge that only a small handful of the hundreds of people who have expressed interest in visiting us will actually go through with it. I’m sure the joke will be on me when everyone actually shows up at my doorstep!)

So hopefully this has answered some of the most pressing questions for the time being. Both Will and I are extremely excited about the adventures that are to come, and equally excited about sharing those adventures with you in this blog. And despite my sarcasm above, we really do hope that you will really come visit us and have your own adventures to boot!