The creature

Some days, it's hard to ignore the creature in my head that whispers things I don't want to hear. Maybe it's because the truth hurts, I don't know.

This creature whispers that I'm lazy because I've been in no hurry to return to teaching. That I'm lazy for being put off by the idea of searching for, and then juggling a job, day care, and a school run. Plenty of people do it, why can't you? What's wrong with you?

It hisses that I'm a financial burden to J, and the reason why we still can't get ahead. All your doing - stop making excuses. Just get a job already.

It reminds me - frequently - that I'm pathetic. When did you become such a passive lump? When did you start relinquishing important decisions to others? You're not just 'going with the flow'... that's just you in denial. Stop sleepwalking. Stop 'letting' life happen and take control.

It also whispers that I'm not good enough with my girls, that they deserve more of my attention. Engage, engage, engage. Stop going on auto-pilot.

This creature is not my friend, but I listen anyway and suspect it speaks the truth... I have an uneasy feeling I've been taking a backseat in my own life, and for a while at that. Hardly the model of being pro-active.

So... Operation Find-An-Evening-Job is underway. I'm not sure how exactly, when all my qualifications and certificates are sitting in an unidentified box, stored away in Sydney (packed away by accident in the newborn-induced fog shortly before The Big Move). I figure that if I can get some references emailed to me, that will be a start, and then I can look into private tutoring - adults who need help with their English grammar, vocabulary, pronunciation and so on. I've tutored before and it seems the most ideal fit for now.

Hopefully, when Operation Find-An-Evening-Job is successful, that creature in my head will leave me the fuck alone. It's been a little over two years since I last worked and contributed financially, and I think that's part of the problem with where my head is at these days.

I don't value myself as much, and something has to give - that something is me, so I can stop feeling as though I'm only taking.

Wish me luck.

IKEA love

I love - no, make that adore - IKEA.

There. I said it.

(Not such a fan of the upper case letters here, though. I feel like I'm shouting, but I'm pedantic and like to refer to names properly... so, upper case it is.)

It's something about walking through all the displays, so bright and full of promise... Yes, your home could be the epidemy of funkily organised, no matter how small it is. Well, that's what is whispered into my ears when I visit. There's usually a substantial amount of caffeine under my belt.

IKEA has saved our broke arses on many occasion. I don't understand the snobbish resistance that some people have to it. Things for the home that are designed to look nice, and also happen to be affordable? What's so bad about that? I can't justify blowing three or four grand on a sofa, when there are decent ones around for a fraction of that.

I'm not fussed at the thought of untold thousands having the same furniture pieces in their home, because there are a million ways to personalise a space and make it your own.

Maybe it's the weekend rush crowds that deters some - granted, that does put a damper on the experience. I'm lucky that I have the option of going during the week, although that means dragging the two little ones along, and that can be its own special brand of hell.

I also laugh when I hear people complain about assembling IKEA furniture. I actually enjoy it, and am well-practised from many, many purchases over the years. Sure, it can sometimes be the same as embarking on a large 3D puzzle... but the instructions have never let me down. I don't consider myself particularly gifted, but am guilty of feeling a little smug when I hear people say the flat-packs are wrought with problems (they're not).

For many years, whenever we brought home a flat-pack, I used to shoo J away so I could do it myself. Really. There was even one time - not long ago - when I managed to go, purchase, bring home, and assemble two small bookcases in 36ºC heat... and I was 36 weeks pregnant with Miss Pie. I put that moment of madness down to severe nesting - induced from having just moved house and wanting to pretty things up a bit. These days, however, I'm somewhat lazier (and more tired), so now I sometimes 'allow' J to do be the handyman. Isn't he lucky I'm so nice?

You're probably getting a deeper sense of how I feel about IKEA now.

When we moved to LA, we decided to mostly start from scratch in terms of furniture. We didn't want to potentially wait three months for our shipping container to arrive - we needed beds and so on immediately. Such a big move had a lot of upfront costs, and despite having a generous relocation budget from J's employer, we still needed to watch the pennies. It made sense to get much of what we needed from IKEA.

The first week that we were here, we stayed in a hotel in Burbank. It was walking distance to IKEA. Every day, I trudged over - with both girls - to stock up on bedding, pillows and kitchen basics that we'd
need immediately after moving into our apartment. Every day, I returned to the hotel, with Miss Pie's stroller weighed down by as much as was safe to stack under and on top. I received a lot of funny looks in that hotel foyer.

By the end of that week, the kindly greeter just about knew all our names and even I had reached saturation point with IKEA.

These days, IKEA is a ten or fifteen-minute drive away. I don't go often enough, mostly because it's less fun when carting along a toddler and preschooler. When I do go, the Faery loves to go to the childminding play area... but that one hour always zooms by too quickly. Then there's the matter of Miss Pie. The older she gets, the less happy she is to be passively pushed around in the stroller. This means IKEA missions are hasty ones, best completed before one of them loses the plot.

Yesterday was Sunday, and J suggested I go do a solo-trip to IKEA to grab a couple of little things we'd been wanting. I think I may have left a smoky trail in my wake.

Crowds? What crowds? All I knew was that I wasn't pushing a stroller through the store, and that made all the difference. I disappeared into the nooks and crannies of the display studio apartments. I opened drawers and cupboard doors. I sat own on various seats. Fingered shower curtains. I had no intention of purchasing any of these items, but did those things just because I could. No bored or stroppy kids. Me time.

I was oblivious to any hustle and bustle. I felt free.

Half a dozen photo frames, and a box of Anna's Ginger Thins later, I emerged.

Deliriously happy. It's the simple things in life, right?

I'm going to do that more often.

Globetrotting and physical links

My parents have only recently acquired passports, and having grandkids living overseas was a big factor for them. They've never had any real yearn to visit foreign places.

For as long as I can remember, I've had a list - a mile long - of places to see. Some of which are the standard destinations most people dream about, and others a little more exotic.

During my university years, I never doubted that I would head overseas as soon as possible, and a year after graduating, I had enough airfare saved up for a trip to the UK. It wasn't my original destination that I'd begun saving for, but J was keen to try and gain more experience in his chosen field. The UK had the best opportunities for him, so with working holiday visas under our belt, we said our goodbyes to Sydney on a wintery day - and a day later - stepped into a summer heat wave in London.

We had no idea how long we'd stay for. Maybe six months. Maybe a couple of years.

It ended up being nearly five years. In that time, J had managed to get work visa sponsorship, and we got hitched on a wet spring day in London. I worked - briefly - in catering at London Zoo, followed by a lengthy stint in a pub, before doing a little more study and finally moving into English language teaching.

In those five years, I managed to also visit more than twenty countries. Some were amazing, some were not so impressive. Many of these places I visited together with J, but quite a few I travelled around, solo. None were particularly exotic, but I always made sure to get off the beaten track when I could.

Package tours have never appealed to me, so the only time I ever used a travel agent was to purchase my very first flight to London. The rest of my travels were pretty much based on word of mouth and the contents from my beloved Lonely Planets and Rough Guides. While I haven't exactly been trekking through the Himalayas, I never needed anyone to hold my hand either.

I love travel. I love - literally - losing myself in another place. One of my fondest memories is of arriving in Venice, without a map, and deciding to wander around for a few hours before buying one. Hearing old church bells chime as I crossed small bridges, peeked around old cracked corners, gazed down dark green canals and inhaled the smells in the air. Not having a clue where I was. Hearing the hustle and bustle fade within just a few streets off the main tourist drags, and encountering nothing but the sound of trickling water from a fountain in a small, deserted piazza. Did I mention that I love Italy?

I may only have thirty-six hours in San Francisco coming up, but I cannot wait. I want to lose myself again.

For a long time, I wondered where I got my love of travel from. It certainly wasn't anything from my childhood. Then on a visit back to Australia, after I'd been overseas for three or four years, I learned that my grandmother had travelled extensively when she was younger.

I never knew her. Sadly, she died of breast cancer, many years before I was born, and I've only ever seen a handful of black and white photos of her. To learn that she had a love of travel was a wonderful thing to hear.

She worked her way as a nurse around the world, back in the late 1940s and early 1950s, when single women rarely travelled. Australia, Papua New Guinea, Sri Lanka... winding up in England for a while. I now have her stamped, card membership for Hostelling International in the UK - so different from my own plastic card membership.

This yellowing piece of card is precious to me. It's the physical link to a woman I never knew.

I wonder what conversations she and I would have, if she were still alive today. What stories would we exchange and share?

I wonder just how much of her is in me.

Grand Canal, Venice - 2000