The Winter of Our Disconnect (18 page)

Sussy tells me the technical term for this is “try-hard.”

My expulsion from iParadise meant I had to navigate outside the loop in more substantive ways, too, reinforcing—or perhaps simply revealing—how “out there” my global positioning actually was. I’d relied on my iPhone as a kind of feeding tube, delivering a steady stream of updates from the world I was craving to connect with. The podcasts, e-mails, and applications from Up Over that I devoured helped to keep me satisfied. But they also nourished the delusion that place—actual, physical place—could be rendered irrelevant. Could be repealed by information. And, even worse, that that was okay. That it didn’t matter much where you really lived, as long as you were at home in your head. Between the earbuds of your mind.

Without the iPhone to fill the empty spaces, I felt uncorked. Not depressed. More sort of decanted. Drained. At the same time, as much as I’d loved the sensation of carrying the world around in my pocket, I’d forgotten how heavy it could get. The obligations that being in the loop exacts—to be perpetually on call and responsive, to keep
up
, for God’s sake—are oppressive too. And, rather paradoxically, exclusionary. The messages that aren’t getting through while you’re checking e-mails in the bathroom, or taking calls from under the beach umbrella, or watching a video clip of
Anna Karenina
on the station platform are something you never think about when you’re inside the loop.

 

 

Sometime around month three, Sussy had declared with characteristic intensity that it was “impossible” for her to walk to the deli for a carton of milk without her iPod. “Then ride your bike,” I suggested icily. But the truth was, I understood how she felt. In the first couple of days, walking pod-less for any distance greater than from the front door to the driveway weirded me out too. With nothing to listen to, the prospect of taking my usual walk to the beach with Rupert—something that normally wagged both our tails—loomed as more of an endurance test than a treat.

Just as my grandmother used to say she felt naked without her clip-on earrings, initially I felt naked walking down the street without my headset. But my ears adjusted swiftly to the shock. They started accepting other inputs: wind, traffic sounds, birds, the clatter of Rupert’s tiny claws on the footpath, even—disorientingly at first—the sound of my own hair rustling. The ocean itself, audible as roaring white noise from a surprising distance away. Other sensory channels were also opening up and starting to receive signal. Those almond-shaped optical fibers on my face, for starters. It turned out there was actually quite a bit to see once you opened them up for business.

Taking exactly the same route I’d traveled hundreds, possibly thousands of times over the years, I started seeing details I’d never noticed before. A vegetable garden planted like a well-kept secret atop a limestone outcrop. The sign outside a big old house that read “T. Dire Lodging House” (a boardinghouse?! In my neighborhood? In my
century
?). Some adventurous child’s teddy bear peeking down through the branches of a tall tree. A house, featureless on first glance—its brick façade the color of cheap foundation—sporting a weather vane of a matador and a charging bull. A derelict driveway haunted by the rusted-out ghosts of Jaguars past. A water feature in which a dozen long-legged, van Gogh-worthy irises stood wavering, as awkward as debutantes. A Jack Russell resting his elbows on a soccer ball. Like, who knew Jack Russells even
had
elbows?

I’m not saying my powers of observation magically went into turbo-boost. I didn’t suddenly develop some poetical acuity that enabled me to see eternity in a grain of sand. I didn’t spend hours eyeing squirrels and loons, or doing play-by-play for ant wars, as Thoreau did at Walden Pond. (“They fought with more pertinacity than bulldogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was ‘Conquer or die.’”) I had my kids for that.

But placing myself deliberately outside the loop was an eye-opener, nonetheless. In every sense.

 

Allowance day via automated transfer. S. blew the lot on new phone: ninety bucks got her “the second cheapest Nokia” (as first cheapest out of stock) and ten dollars’ worth of credit (200 texts or 200 brain cells, whichever comes first).

First SMS to Andy in UK, who replied, “Please, please tell me this is Sussy!” Sweet! Still struggling to get my black-and-white head around concept of trans-hemispheric texting. “I don’t get it. How can you afford that?” I demanded to know. S. glanced at Anni and smiled an indulgent, what-do-you-expect-on-the-dementia-ward? sort of smile. These Rip Van Winkle moments are killing me.

 

 

 

S.’s phone credit GONE. Finito. 200 texts in 24 hours.

 

 

 

Living-room coffee table, once so “adult” (expensive mags, coffee-table books, artful objets ...), now a cross-generational mish-mash of Scrabble, sax music, pads and pens, textbooks, empty Coke cans. I like it.

Funny how nobody ever “lived” in the living room before. Then again, we never “familied” in the family room either. We surfed there.

S. and A. heading out now for McDonald’s to do homework. WTF?! I explode. Apparently they have Wi-Fi there, and anyway—as everyone keeps reminding me—“THIS WHOLE THING WAS YOUR IDEA!” It’s a big event now, homework. Fake tan. Outfits. Extensions. Beg to be driven there. (“We ARE doing homework, Mum. And after all ... THIS WHOLE THING WAS YOUR IDEA.”)

 

 

 

New sax endurance record: four hours (between lesson, practice, and jamming with friends). Improvising to “Cantaloupe Island” tonight, B. morphed from kid with talent to pro. It wasn’t practice. It was ... music.

Parent-teacher conference at S.’s school. Hate these. The place seethes with f/t mums with manicures and tennis-club calves—earnest, high-earning couples with luxuriant heads of Liberal Party hair and high-thread-count daughters. Literally feel like a migrant.

Met S. in library, where I discovered her writing her English essay. OMG. (Usual work mode: propped on pillows in bed, surrounded by drinks and snacks, her hands flying over the keyboard like some invalid virtuoso.) All teachers spoke of “big improvement” in work habits and results since the start of term—i.e., two weeks before being rendered screenless. Coincidence? I think not.

 

 

 

Last day of term. S. slept from two (when she got home) to six, when I did. Then out for junk food—an event to mark the start of holidays—and home for Scrabble (S.’s suggestion).

“Is it okay to use this ancient dictionary?” S. asks dubiously, picking up our big red Webster’s. Did she think it would be in Elvish or something? “It’s hardly ancient,” I point out. “It’s a paperback. I got it in high school.”

Long pause. Could see them looking at each other as if to say, “Exactly ... loser.”

Lasted three turns each. B.’s attention span particularly worrying. “Is CEM a word?” he kept asking. I reminded myself to keep nose-breathing.

Later, S. hauled out old bag of photos for an impromptu session of Facebook 1.0. They were mostly b.c.—first marriage, first home in Australia, early couple, friends, etc. Stunned and almost bewildered by the evidence that I HAVE LIVED MY WHOLE LIFE HERE. That I was A BABY when I arrived. A tall baby, admittedly. I thought I was so old back then. I thought I knew everything. I’d never even heard of my pelvic floor.

 

 

 

Good Friday, or “Crap Friday,” as Bill has suggested rebadging it. HUGE holiday here in the world’s most secular nation, for reasons lost, like the holy grail, to the mists of time. It’s the kind of day, alas, that media were made for.

Figuring out what to do with literally nothing to watch OR buy a challenge even for me. Eventually decided to redefine myself as “sick” (as opposed to simply “unpleasant”) and took to bed to read and drowse.

B.’s ill temper approaching Old Testament levels—so young and yet so grumpy!—relieved when he lit off early for Matt’s after a fight with me in which he demanded $50 worth of reeds. Returned early afternoon with renewed restlessness.

“I need technology,” he moaned. I nodded sympathetically and patted his back.

“Do you want a hot water bottle?” I asked. The look he gave me was not pretty.

Eventually resorted to reading to him, as he claims to be “between books.”
Lolita
evidently defeated him after a few chapters. “The French bits were annoying. And I like books where something happens.” LOL!!

Eventually handed over my beloved Sedaris. Anything for peace!

 

 

 

Did Easter shopping, dyed eggs, and made chocolate bunnies with Suss. S. and A., in their boredom, sang karaoke hymns and washed each other’s feet—“What? We learned it at school”—and convinced Bill they’d cowritten the Sydney Carter hymn “Lord of the Dance,” which he promptly pronounced “crap.”

 

 

 

Easter Day. Welcome happy morning!

“Only that day dawns to which you are awake,” etc. Suss up at eight-ish, came in bed with me to read papers (she reads papers now, speaking of justification by faith) and leaf through
God Stories—
inspiring tales of divine intervention, and a ripper read. At nine a.m. she reminded me it was time for church.

She is messing with my head now.

Walked to St. Paul’s—gorgeous, hot morning, mercifully brief sermon—then back to discover A. & B. happily munching basket contents for breakfast, B. having written me a “sorry” note for yesterday’s sullenness, complete with tacky Jesus sticker. Later, in honor of the day’s festivities, allowed girls to take videos of themselves dancing. All sat down and attempted to play Tiddlywinks (“It’s hard!” Suss cried).

After lunch, when Mary and kids came, Sussy and Torrie (aged fifteen) got out the watercolors, while Anni and Ches walked to the beach with B., who called later to request a sleepover (and enjoy brief resurrection experience with the DS, no doubt). Filled with the spirit, and quite a bit of Semillon Sauvignon Blanc, I said yes.

 

 

 

From
The Telegraph
:

“The fifty-year-old singer, a known health fanatic, would spend up to four hours a day in the gym before taking her children to Kabbalah religious meetings, according to friends. Breakfast was low-fat smoothies and suppers would consist of steamed fish and vegetables, while television was regulated because Madonna believed it harmed her children’s development.”

S. excited to learn that Madonna’s kids don’t watch TV either. “I didn’t know you liked Madonna,” I say. “I don’t,” she replies. “She’s a creepy loser.”

Sometimes I feel exactly the same way, minus the compensatory thigh muscles.

 

 

 

Bill and Suss fistfighting over
Lolita
access even as I write. (NB: Suss takes French and now that she wants to read it, Bill has suddenly gone all postmodern.)

Monopoly tonight with B.’s friend Jake, B., Torrie, and self (S. painting toenails in the peanut gallery) on battle-scarred board: Only original token left is sports car (stand-ins include old Parcheesi piece, wishing stone, button, and Trivial Pursuit pie slices)—at least I don’t get stuck with the iron anymore—and half the deeds are missing too (some replaced with handwritten facsimiles circa 1998—others simply memorized).

They say Monopoly reveals who a person truly is. Oh, God. Not that.

Bill morphs into consummate capitalist hyena, complete with Foghorn Leghorn accent (“Two hun’red dollahs? Ah say, ah say, ‘Kitty litter’ son.”) Only Anni can Trump him at his own game—and I do mean Donald.

Am not unsympathetic. I too went through a Monopoly phase myself back in the summer of ’68 (till my folks called in the National Guard). Pretty much ever since, though, have nursed a secret loathing of all board games. So the truth is, The Experiment hasn’t so much forced the kids to play Monopoly. It’s forced ME to play (i.e., “THIS WHOLE THING WAS MY IDEA”).

Shocked that we had a blast. Especially loved it when Bill called Torrie at 8:15 p.m. to ask if she wanted to come over and play, and she arrived on our doorstep at 8:16. Afterward, B. and Jake (age sixteen) played Connect Four and built a tower of wooden blocks. What? No wading pool?!

 

 

 

Friends freaking re: my iPhonelessness. Twice this week have met anxious-looking loved ones for coffee. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember, and I had no way to contact you!” Interesting. Since when did it get so hard to remember a coffee date without appliances? “I
am
allowed to write stuff down,” I reminded them a little huffily. To be fair, I was ten minutes late on both occasions. But then, I’m
always
ten minutes late. A text to say so would be redundant.