I know! Right???
You’re all thinking, “Since when did anybody think you were moving to Australia?”
The short answer would be, “Never.”
But we all know I’m not good with the short, so here’s the extended version: for about five minutes (okay, maybe two or three days) a week or so ago, we thought there might be, with a little luck, the remotest possibility that the hubster could get a 2-3 year position in The Land Down Under.
We also all know that I hate moving. And? I HATE flying. But for the chance to live practically on the beach, with winters that feel like our springs and summers that feel like our summers (more or less)? For the chance to attend events in the Sydney Opera House, watch international surfing competitions (there have to be surfers out there who look like Thor, right?), and take small excursions into the outback? I mean, not too far into the outback, because I love me some running water and flush toilets, but still. And speaking of flush toilets . . . for the opportunity to flush a toilet and watch the water swirl backwards?? Who wouldn’t get on a plane for that?
Plus? Assignments such as these allow one to keep one’s house, so we’d have a home to come back to.
And? They speak English in Australia! But I think we all knew that already.
Still, my children would come back with exotic accents (because I’d probably put them in public schools there) (for the cultural experience, of course) (not because I’d want to spend my time reading on the beach) and stories to tell, and I’d have all kinds of great pictures and material for the blog, so maybe I’d start writing on a regular basis again, and the beaches . . . did I mention the beaches?
But, as I said, we are not going. Apparently even that remote possibility we thought might exist never did.
Did you know that in much, if not most, of the Midwest, all the state parks and the like close at dusk. Melbourne beaches, however, are open 24 hours. You don’t have to be a drunk monkey to appreciate the implications.
While I’m on the topic of things we aren’t doing, here are a few more:
First: We aren’t planning to be taken up in the rapture this evening. By the way, was that all supposed to start at 6p.m. Eastern, Central, or Pacific? I’m still confused about the details. Or is God going to start on the east coast and work His way west, abiding by man-made time zones? That seems unlikely, no?
Anyway, it’s not that we think we are horribly evil people who have no chance, it’s just that we believe: a. Nobody knows when Christ will come again; and b. The rapture (you know, when all the righteous believers just zip on up to heaven, leaving the rest of the world behind and, theoretically, cars careening on the roads and planes falling out of the sky (when the drivers and pilots get taken up)), no matter when it is supposed to happen, is an interesting bit of fiction theory to which we do not subscribe.
Aww, don’t get your undies in a twist. Nine.9 out of 10 of my readers think the Joseph Smith “story” is fiction, so we’re even, okay?
Second: We aren’t visiting back home like we should be at this very minute. McH went to bed sick last night and woke up sicker this morning, when we were supposed to be leaving. I finally got him to eat a meal at diner time. Thank heaven for the miracle that is hot and ready pizzas. Between his decrepitness, germs, and all the germs that have apparently been incubating and brewing at my parents’ house, it seemed best to stay home.
Because we are not visiting back home, Third: we didn’t go to my nephew’s baptism, and Fourth: I will not be going to drool over see Thor with my friends tonight.
As you can see, we are not doing a whole lot today.
Oh, I just checked the time. Thor starts in an hour.
And if God is going by time zones, it’s too late for me. See? I told you I wasn’t going.
I did weed some landscaping today. Did you know that thistles and dandelions just really don’t hold the same appeal as Australian beaches?
Oh, right, you did.
Anyway, I hate weeding (hmm . . . I hate a lot of things today: moving, flying, weeding . . . whatever), but I must admit, I felt a little bit like Scarlet O’Hara out there, working my land, gaining a greater appreciation for it, and explaining to my girls that some of the weeds are edible (because, you know, as God is my witness, I will never allow them to go hungry again ever). I really do love our house and our property here. Really. And today was absolutely, perfectly gorgeous weather-wise, so it was all good. But no worries, I’m not making myself a new dress out of curtains.
After the weeding, I took the oldest two to see the new Pirates movie. Meh. That’s about all I can say about that one. After the movie we stopped at a shoe store just to check it out. I almost bought some shoes that were “Fergalicious.” Seriously. As cute as they were, and as on sale as they were, I decided that: a. they weren’t that comfortable (almost, but not quite); and: b. I couldn’t wear anything with “Fergalicious” stamped on the foot bed. I mean, what if I was in some accident and one of my shoes got knocked off and then somebody retrieved it for me and was carrying it back to me and happened to see the “Fergalicious” in it and then I had to make eye contact with them to say, “Umm . . . thank you, but that is not my shoe,”?
Because I am a 40-year-old, married, mother of five. What else could I say? I mean, other than, “What do you mean the matching shoe is on my other foot? You aren’t making any sense. Everything looks so dark. Why do you sound so far away? I think I need an ambulance . . .” Then, of course, I’d have to faint. Or at least pretend to.
It all just sounded like way too much to go through for a pair of shoes.
So, Fifth: I’m not sporting new, Fergalicious shoes today.
Tewt the Newt thinks that was a wise decision.