First off, I was totally completely wrong about the Autumn thing.
HOO BOY was I wrong.

It is still very much hot-ass beastly humid summer here in Brisbane, with all the frizzy hair and sweaty eyelids that go with it.
When you grow up in a climate famous for rain, you totally romanticize warm climates with their sunny skies and, well why go past sunny skies?
It’s all just bragging after that really.
Growing up in Seattle I remember making an effort to never complain about the heat of summer, don’t take it for granted, savor it as best you can because during those nine months of grey that stretch from October all the way until June? You’re gonna rue the day you stayed inside to watch TV in July that one time when you were 6.

Anyway, still summer. Yes. I had a point.

I think I’ve been wanting a season change not just for a release from the life of eternal sweat-stache but also because a season is about four months and I know that the first four or five months after a move are the hardest part. The dreaded transition.

When the mister moved to the US, it took about four and a half months for us to figure out the basics. Who’s got what job, what bank accounts pay what bills, what shelves or chairs will make everyone feel like they have a hand and place in their home, enough knowledge of the neighborhood map that one person doesn’t feel totally reliant on the other and so on.
I knew in my mind that we were going to face this difficult period again. I knew that we were going to have many of the same arguments with the “Think of my position!” flipped around from him to me, but wow, living it sure is different from knowing it.

I’ve been getting desperate for a season change because yes, it’s brutally hot and that’s not very awesome, but also because omfg I’m so tired of being a beginner that has to ask my husband to explain everything from where that place is to what that guys means by that. Being a beginner totally sucks.

Our life back in New York was made easier on nearly every level by the fact that I earned a VERY healthy level of income for the amount of time I worked.
My work wasn’t easy and it ATE MY SOUL and rendered me useless during most of my off time, but I only had to work about 25-30 hours a week to earn it.
We had enough to never worry about paying for flights, for our wedding planned in a week, for the deposit on a rental or whatever really.
We weren’t rich by any stretch. I’ve guess I’ve just always been flat fucking broke so to go four or five years with enough money to buy any expensive cheese I want whenever I want, well, you get soft. When you have multi-thousands of dollars in savings and no real big expenses, you forget.

So we had this pretty substantial savings built up.
I knew that the move would bring an end to my position of significant cashflow, but I was excited!
I get to have a life! Overseas! I’m gonna be an expat! Look at me all glamorous and worldly!
I can go back to working in the arts because I don’t need to worry about health insurance in universal-health-care-having-Australia! HIGH FIVES ALL AROUND!

So we got here, got an apartment, bought some furniture and went out for lots of incredible Thai food. I was confident about getting a job and getting by and settling in.

But a month or so later when I ramped up the job-hunting efforts, nobody called. A couple emails here and there but nothing panned out.

I’ve never had a problem finding a job. Never. I’ve had more than one period in my life where I’ve had 3 or more jobs concurrently. I’ve learned to scale it back to avoid burnout, but for real, I’m one of those suckers that just likes a project.

By the holidays when it was clear I wasn’t even landing seasonal retail sales work, reality set in, our bank balanced loomed a lot lower than it has in recent history and the blow to my confidence was complete.

The last two months have seen a lot of moaning about homesickness on this website. Hindsight now shows me that although yeah, I really miss New York, most of what I’ve been feeling isn’t about that city or missing it.
It’s about having the basics. Rent paid. Food in the fridge. More than anything, the harmony and comfort of your relationship when everything is pretty much fine.
It’s not that I miss things back in Brooklyn, it’s that I miss having a relatively stress-free home life.

The mister and I still aren’t totally broke. We’re not quite at each other’s throats.
But the pressure. The pressure that we’re living a life unsustainable, that I MUST land a job or we’re going to be looking at a life of toil for him and serious brokenness for the both of us, well, that pressure is good enough.

A month ago I realized that my phone number has been incorrect on my resume this entire time. I hadn’t noticed because I hadn’t memorized it yet.
I can assure you that the magnitude of the meltdown I had that day blew fallout as far as northern New South Wales. Perhaps some of the South Pacific islands even felt ripples. It was that bad.

Suffice it to say, I did my best to backtrack on positions I had recently applied with and wonders that be, got a call the next day and was working four days later.

All this leads me to today. I’ve been working at in a local University bookshop as a start-of-term temporary employee. I’m currently on my third week of a four-week assignment.
Everyone knows the one of the biggest pains in the ass of getting a new job is getting on the goddamn pay schedule. It’s nearly impossible to get that magical timing where you start working and actually get paid something! anything! on the next payperiod. In my experience it takes two, sometimes three pay periods to actually get any freaking money flowing.

I’m not looking for a career in bookshop minding, but I’ve really been enjoying the job while I have it. The people there are all really great, the work environment is really organized and efficient, I get to chat all day and even the broke-ass students don’t seem that stressed out over their threefourfive hundred dollar textbooks.

Tonight as I was leaving another excellent day of work, the boss of the bookshop informed me and a coworker that due to university bureaucracy we wouldn’t receive even the start of our pay until a week after the entire assignment ENDS.
Oh wow, awesome. And stressful. Because now it matters. Now there isn’t enough savings to live on and yes the Mister is making money, but he gets paid in big chunks and another one isn’t due for probably around a month.

So yes, in short, YIKES.

As I walked off campus ignoring the stunning sunset and swirling of thousands of bats leaving their garden homes for the evening sky, I sent a frantic text message to my husband telling him of our impending brokeassity.

I reached the intersection and waited for the crosswalk signal to change and checked my email on my phone.
Inside was an offer. A position that I didn’t even apply for. I woman I met months ago, a friend of the Mister. A cool lady I’ve been trying to figure out how to make into my friend. She’s got a job for me, one I’m very excited about.

So I face a week or two of meetings. The hammering out of details. Figuring out schedules and all that. The Mister and I can limp along until the pay thing works itself out and that’s ok for once. Because now I’m back to that point of feeling that this year will be full opportunities and excitement.

It may not be Autumn yet, but it seems that the season is changing regardless.

Because I may be wrong, but I’m pretty sure I just heard a click.
A soft subtle one that came in through the window on a breeze with a cool thread running through it.

This time last year it was winter in my life. February in New York City. A totally brutal month as the novelty of winter clothing and snow and staying home is gone and everyone wants it to just damn end so we can get on with our lives.
The seasons that followed unsurprisingly were spring, summer and autumn. But then we got on an airplane and suddenly it was summer again.

Now though?
I could easily be mistaken having no frame of reference for this part of the world, but as of today, I think it just might be autumn.

I believe in karma.
I don’t mean I’m a buddhist or that I have any sort of academic, philosophical, or theological background in the subject, I simply believe that people get what they deserve. It’s kind of a non-denominational spiritual justice really.

I’ve been told that I’m an “old soul” because my karma tends to be REALLY quick. For example, I once absentmindedly walked out of a newstand with a magazine under my arm, realized a block later that I stole it and promptly dropped the damn thing in a puddle.

I have endless stories that parallel that one.
It’s almost a joke in my life that if I screw up, something will fall from the sky and straight onto my head moments later. Because I suffer from a ridiculous quickness of karma, I’ve found myself questioning what I did anytime something absurdly unfortunate happens. Usually, I can identify something I said, did, didn’t do or whatever that will give further weight to ‘My life is a slapstick comedy for the powers that be’ theory.

This time? This time I have no idea what I did or said or who I pissed off.

Internet, the last 24 hours of my life has been held an impressive array of disgusting insects invading my personal space.

It all started last night. The Mister and I were both feeling a little crappy so we went to bed early.
As usual, despite being totally wiped out I couldn’t fall asleep.
I went for my usual method of dealing with insomnia which essentially entails pretending to be asleep and hoping sleep will happen. As is completely normal it wasn’t working.
I peeked an eye open just as a huge cockroach walked past my nose and over the rise of my pillow.
I spazzed out and jerked upright but managed not to scream bloody murder.
I knew the Mister was desperate for sleep and I try to be considerate of sleep needs since I’m pretty desperate for the stuff myself.
I considered turning on lights to seek the beast out, but I knew that really, it’s pointless. It’s midsummer in the tropics. We sleep with our windows open because it’s really hot. The roaches here? They ALL fly.
The occasional bug is a part of life and waking up my grumbly partner just as he’s fallen asleep to swat at a bug that will only fly out the window in four seconds wasn’t reason enough to risk the argument potential.

I decided to wait his dastardly grossness out from the comfort of the living room while complaining to twitter.
The moment I hit send on my bit of breaking bug-on-pillow-OMFG news, a hand-sized moth flew in the window and straight into my hair.
It was at this point that I decided I was never sleeping again.

Actually, that’s not true. I had to go back to bed, I was expected to get up early to pick up a car the Mister and I were borrowing the next day.
My darling husband doesn’t drive so facing a situation where I would be expected to operate a manual transmission with my left hand whilst driving the car on the opposite side of the road with added sleep deprivation? yeah, no thanks.
Also, all sorts of bugs were getting really excited about hanging out with me in the only lit room in the house and I decided I’d rather just sit in the dark and convince myself that roach already flew out the window, or into the kitchen or somewhere more interesting to roaches than MY FUCKING PILLOW.

Ok this is enough bug story right? Nobody wants to hear bug stories because bugs are gross and nothing sucks more than having to imagine a three-inch cockroach on your pillow.
So how about 300 jumbo-sized larvae all over your kitchen, hallway, and living room floor instead?

BECAUSE GUESS WHAT WE FOUND WHEN WE WOKE UP???

Holy shit internet, do you have any idea how awesome it is when you wake up, think “gee, the floor sure is dirty, I’m gonna sweep it before I even make coffee or, I dunno, put on shoes” sweep half the floor and realize wait. We’re not slobs leaving crumbs all over the floor, those are GIANT MAGGOTS.

NIGHTMARES! NIGHTMARES! NIGHTMARES!

Thankfully, our mango-stealing landlord was hanging around and I hysterically flagged him away from his trash can arranging chores to have him DO SOMETHING about the atrocity that is our apartment, that, by the way I’m happy to move out of, like RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

He came in and declared the slinking vileness (these suckers could really haul ass!) as butterfly larvae due to their large size and relatively small numbers, went to the corner shop and brought us back a jumbo spray bottle of Raid.

Now internet, I’m a vegetarian. I was vegan for over a decade.
I eat largely organic and do most of my household cleaning with baking soda, vinegar and elbow grease.
When I buy a six-pack of rootbeer, I don’t just clip the bird-strangler, I shred the thing into tons of little splintery bits.
I grew up reading Ranger Rick and hugging trees and feeding birds in the winter.

But this morning, when I saw my landlord hand my husband a jumbo bottle of harsh toxic chemicals I was OVER-FUCKING-JOYED.
The Mister gave the house a thorough once-over with deadly poisons that will undoubtedly shorten my lifespan and affect the fertility of our grandchildren but at that moment? Whatever.

We dealt with the wreckage and hightailed it outta the city for a day trip.

Obviously, I need to make some amends. Somewhere along the way, I snapped at someone and they gave me an insect hex.
Further proof (like you need more): look who JUST came loudly stumbling in the door to hang out with my husband’s old adidas slides?

(Internet, Mantis. Mantis, Internet.)

So seriously dudes, I’m WIDE OPEN to suggestions. Do I dose up with more poison? Apologize to the universe for some bug-related sin I didn’t know I committed?
The only thing I can think of that I screwed up on recently was leaving our laundry on the line during a torrential downpour, but I don’t see how that would affect the world of insects.

When will this karmic debt be fully repaid? How many more bugs must fly in my hair? PLEASE MAKE IT STOP.

I love that you are an artist.
I love that you give a shit about the people in your life.
I love that you still do the things people like to say are “just a phase”.
I love that lay in the grass without fear of ants.
I love that are driven.
I love that you are passionate.
I love that you pick flowers from the yard and put them on the table.
I love your stirfry, GODDAMN it’s good.
I love that you’re willing to look out for me when I forget to look out for myself.
I love your dimples.
I love that you dance.
I love that you teach as well as learn.
I love your family.
I love that you love mine.
I love holding your hand.
I love it when you touch my hair the way that you do.
I love it that you waited until I was out of the room to dump that overly-sugared coffee I made down the drain.
I love that you will slay giant cockroaches with your shoe even though you are just as grossed out by them as me.
I love that you trust me enough to let me cut your hair (which looks GREAT by the way)
I love that you know how to throw a party.
I love that you’re not at all a jerk, but you still have a spine and will stand up for things.
I love your shoulders.
I love your razor sharp wit AND your grandfather jokes.
I love how deeply you value vegetables.
I love that you appreciate critical analysis just as much as fart jokes.
I love your hand on my back.
I love your dedication.
I love that when you say you’ll be in touch, you get in touch.
I love the way you present yourself to the world.
I love that you never seemed to let the distance be an issue.
I love that you’re brave enough to leave everything, move around the world and try things out with me.

I love that despite how crazy it seemed, we were right.

Better. It’s getting better.

Today I read a blog post written by an Australian recently moved to NYC.
She’s obviously having a difficult time. Stuggling with money, struggling with work, and scraping by in a city and culture so similar to her own yet so totally foreign in very subtle and surprising ways.

Oh yes, I know that story.

Reading her words, I felt for her.
I left her a comment with some suggestions from my experience, and hopefully she finds something in them.
But it’s not just about tips on how to find a decent job or what metrocard to buy, it’s about being new and feeling frustrated that everyone ELSE has it figured out and is making it work, why can’t I?
I felt for her because I’m living it too.
It was only this week that I figured out which mass-transit card to buy here.

I’m working now and it’s caused an enormous difference in my outlook.
I’m not sure if that’s due to my lessened availability of time with which to fret, or simply the comfort of a routine, but it’s working and I don’t really care why. Things are getting better for me and I’ll take it no questions asked.

The summer is peaking, exploding with color and life.
I’ve really only made one friend so far but she’s totally awesome and I’m lucky to know her.
I will never experience today again so for now, screw my train ticket. I don’t care that I bought the less-than-best option, because I figured it out, the world is alive in acid-bright color and things are getting better.

It’s been a slightly slower start than I hoped for, but today amid many chores and errands I took time out for a snack and in the process crossed an item off my list for the first time this year.

I somehow muscled up the courage to eat it straight, snot-like texture aside.
Wild-grown fruit is totally worth the hype.

Internet, meet Ned.

Ned is a blue-tongue lizard that lives under my house and occasionally suns himself on the cement walk at the base of my porch.
Ned is a big guy, thicker than my wrist and 14″/35cm long. According to Wikipedia, he’s at the top of his class size-wise.

I met Ned myself for the first time the other day when I burst out of the house to check out an unfamiliar bird that I noticed through the window crash-landing into our frangipani tree.
I got about halfway down the porch, saw him, screamed and flew straight back up up the stairs.

Ned was not impressed with my display and continued to sit on the path, flicking his bright blue tongue around and relaxing in general.

Of course moments later the Mister came outside to see what the fuss was about, saw Ned and explained to me that he was harmless despite his giant-snake-like looks.

Since our fateful introduction, I’ve seen Ned nearly every day. Sometimes over by the garbage cans or in the pile of fence alongside the house, but mostly hanging out at the bottom of our steps, waiting for me to come out so I can get a start and he can smirk to himself that I’m such a sucker.

Funny how I never posted photos of New York City until I moved away.
I suppose I didn’t need to, I had it to look at every day, out my window, down my block.

Now though? I’m glad I have these photos.
One of the Mister’s closest friends just arrived in New York. She’s moved into an apartment four blocks from the one that waits for us and she told me yesterday about eating lunch at a restaurant I used to walk past every day.
I’m incredibly excited for her that she’s getting to explore such an amazing city, but I’m also so, SO jealous.

We’re working on our fourth month here. People have told me that homesickness takes about a year to subside.
I thought I had felt homesickness when I left the Pacific Northwest, but this is something totally different.
This hurts like heartache. Like I’ve walked away from a friend or a love.

If we move back will I be overwhelmed by the pace, late hours and disconnection with nature? Will I daydream about year-round outdoor pools and flocks of parrots flying over our backyard?

Just how green is that other grass anyway?