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...