Housing Crisis

Housing Crisis


I just looked in the mirror and saw a smudge of dark chocolate coating my upper lip. Red wine stains my teeth. My reflection is that of a woman on the edge. I’ve indulged three of my vices tonight – chocolate, red wine and watching fat people on TV (a 651-pound American lost 331 pounds. If nothing else, you can watch his story and think, ‘Thank God I’m not that guy. Now, where’s my snack?’) The reason for the solitary pity party: What started as a crap afternoon morphed into a shit storm of Kiwi cow dung. Here’s the rub: I hired the cows. I orchestrated their, ah-hem, movements. This is a mess of my own doo-doing (pardon the pun - I couldn't resist).

Before you stop me, let me tell you – you cannot have my job: Own Worst Critic. I’ve loafed long and hard to get where I am today. I’m damn good at this job, and not about to give it up. It pays nothing and has no tangible benefits – no vacation, expense account or wardrobe allowance. Plus, I’m on call 24/7. Unless, that is, I decide to stifle the critic. Tonight, there’s no stopping Mean-zilla.

Here’s the fine mess I’ve created: I decided several months ago to extend our stay in New Zealand. I spent hours re-applying for visas, paid school tuition through the end of the year, and thought I had a place to stay until next spring. The last part, the place to stay part, changed radically within the past couple weeks when my flat mate decided to sell her house to return to the States. This is what happens when you live in someone else’s home. A meeting between an ex-partner and a couple attorneys can change lives within hours. The kids and I were only supposed to stay here until mid-July, anyways.

So I’m hunting for a new place to stay in Mount Maunganui and have nothing but a string of "Sorry, no..."'s filling my gmail inbox. In the States, it would be like searching for a rental home on Martha’s Vineyard, Cannon Beach or Palm Springs two months before high season. Inventory is scarce. Prices are high. Good luck, mate.

And now, it feels as if the universe is shouting, “Go Home!” Because I do, in fact, still own a home in Spokane. I home that I, before my own sands shifted, even told my renters I might consider selling next spring. Might. I didn’t say “will.” There’s a reason for that. Things change.  A world adventure starts becoming more real. I don’t want real. Not that I can’t handle real, it’s just I’ve already solved 573 problems while traveling the past year. #574 can bugger off without me.

Admittedly, I’m piling on problems. I’m a piler, mistress of “worst case scenario.” Because I haven’t found a house or apartment in all of the TWO DAYS I’ve searched, I’m already picturing the kids and I sleeping in a rusted VW van near the beach. I’m wearing dreadlocks and cooking beans for breakfast on a hot plate. Or, we’re living in a backpacker’s, swapping stories and bedbugs with wool-hat-wearing globe-trotting hippies. Or maybe we’ll become motel people whose address is a room number. All these scenarios are unlikely, because, God willing, I’m not living with the kids in any of those places (I like staying in hostels and motels; I just wouldn't want to live in one for more than a week). A trip across the Pacific would solve lots of issues. America is full of family and friends with spare rooms, even entire fully-finished basements, where we could stretch out while waiting for our home in Spokane to become available.


Tonight, I wallow. My already short fuse, lighted by the uncertainty of our living situation, smoldered and burned even more when Finley, during an ill-timed, too-close-to-dinner shopping trip, pocketed a second "free" set of rubber wristbands the sales guy at a trendy men's store said the kids could have, after I bought a shirt. I clutched Finn by the arm and made him return the extra bands. I confiscated his first set. He cried, screamed and threw a fit. He then begged for a banana at Countdown (grocery store). Finley only begs for banana when he's starving.


The kids chowed reheated leftover macaroni and cheese before bath and bed. I could only concentrate on not losing it. "I wanna go home; I wanna go home; I wanna go home," was all I could think. Fi and Finn chose a library book called "Mr. Underbed" for a bedtime story. I read while trying and failing to keep it together: 


                   "It's very uncomfortable sleeping on the floor under your bed every night [sniff] Do you mind if I join you? [eyes watering] asked Mr. Underbed politely." [drip, drop on the pages]

"Mommy," says Fiona "Why are you sweating on the book?"
"I'm not," I respond. "I'm crying. Mommy's having a sad night." Fiona later hugs me and tells me I should go to bed. She's a wise one, that Fi.


Instead of taking my 7-year-old's advice to retire immediately, I pour myself a glass of Shiraz that's been sitting in an opened bottle of wine about a month. It'll do. I sit on the couch with a nugget of dark chocolate to watch TV. An enormous man is sweating, swearing and grunting at his skinny personal trainer on "Extreme Makeover: Weight-loss Edition."  I relax enough to believe I can phone The Boyfriend without sobbing into the receiver. Just as we start talking, I hear "thump, thump, thump..." One of the kids is pounding the bedroom wall. I burst into their room, where Fiona says, "It's Finley." I tell Pete, "I gotta go. Call you back later." I drag a small mattress from beneath the bed and slide it into the laundry room. The flat mate asks if she can help. I let her take Finley to the laundry, where he falls asleep on the mattress with a pillow and blanket. 


I'm pissed (not drunk "pissed," but angry)- at myself, for changing plans, at Finley, for being a pain in the ass, at The Boyfriend, for living with not one, but four flat mates. At myself, again, for falling for someone who lives like a university student. No one can help us out of this jam.

I ask myself – what’s the point of this living-abroad-exercise? To make new memories. We’ve done that. For the kids to finish the school year in New Zealand. We’re half-way through. For me to write half my book. I’m only two-thirds into the first chapter. To spend more time with our friends and The Boyfriend. I’m dodging that last one, because in a way, this housing crisis gives me an out. I can skip town before making any decisions. No decision is a decision.

I hope I do find a two or three-bedroom flat or home near the kids’ school that’s neither too pricey nor too decrepit. I hope we’re able to stay at least through the end of the year. I've given myself a month to house-hunt before booking a flight to North America. 


The fact I’m contemplating pulling the plug on the Kiwi dream is not a referendum on New Zealand or our friends, not the least of whom is The Boyfriend. It’s simply a reflection of a mum who’s solved one problem too many, has met her personal Rubic’s cube and decided she lacks the mental energy to solve it.

And maybe, just maybe, she needs to GO TO SLEEP. 'Night.