1997
Boyfriend: "Move to Minneapolis with me. You can get a cat"
October 1997: Trip to the Golden Valley Humane Society. We select a lovable orange cat and Dave names him "Wiggum", after Ralph Wiggum of the Simpons. (Think "teacher, my cat's breath smells like cat food".)
1998: Me: "Wiggum needs a friend-please, pretty please with whipped cream and a cherry on top". Boyfriend: "alright".
Thanksgiving Weekend, 1998: We find an animal shelter in the middle of rural Minnesota. We pick out a small orange kitten, born to it's feral mother. We name him Flanders (think "Hidely Ho neighbors! How diddly do you do?")
1999: Newly Weds return from honeymoon to find cat pooh all over the carpeted floor of a no-pets allowed apartment complex. Us: opps-time for Science Diet Sensitive Stomach.
December 2002: Our "family" Christmas Cards are homemade-by yours truly, and feature a photograph of Wiggum & Flanders side by side in the living room window. I carefully pasted santa hat stickers on their furry heads.
2002: We pack up our family (Husband, Wife, Wiggum & Flanders) and drive out to our new home in Sunnyside, Denver.
2003: Me: How about a Dog? Husband: Are you totally sure?
2003: We trek to the Dumb Friends League and find a little black lab puppy Bascom. She rides home on my lap.
Upon arriving at home with dog:
Flanders: Howls, runs and hides in the box spring of our bed. We hardly see him again until we have to pack up and move to our new home a year later.
September 2005- The arrival of our first son Zachary. Our pride and joy. Flanders now appears only after midnight, and remains hidden among the boxes and ruins of our attic.
Summer, 2006: We start to notice the strong stench of cat urine coming from the attic. We know who is to blame.
June 2008: The arrival of Evan. Flanders joins me in the moonlit nursery for midnight feedings when Bascom is snoozing downstairs. We bond.
September 2009: We make the decision to pack up the family and head to Berkeley California. We will now be renters in a much smaller home. We know there will be fewer kitty hiding spots, and that we can't take the risk of soiling someone else's home with cat odor. We make the decision that Flanders will not join us for the next phase. Since he will be all but impossible to find adoptive "parents" for (anyone want a scardy cat, don't touch me, I pee on everything orange tabby?), and the no-kill shelters are not accepting new cats, he will need to go to the Table Mountain Animal Shelter, where there are no guarantees. I feel like I am feeding a lamb to the wolves, sending an innocent convict down death row. He doesn't deserve this.
Im a bad cat mommy.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Open House
I am sitting here in my immaculate, beautiful home. I am waiting. Waiting for the hoards of potential tenants coming to view the splendor of a super clean, charming Victorian. We have worked hard over the past week, organized drawers, updated the kitchen hardware, cleaned out the linen closets, the medicine cabinets, shampooed the carpets and spayed Windex on the mirrors. There is a cheerful bouquet of peach roses on my coffee table, and the toys are put neatly away in the boys bedrooms. Now this is home. I feel proud of this place. I wonder why the heck didn't I do this before?
Here is the problem. It isn't like Field of Dreams. "If you build it they will come". I've built it, my house has never looked so amazing....but nobody is coming. Not a soul. The open house will be over in exactly 40 minutes. I am contemplating running to 38th street with a sandwich board advertising "RENT OUR HOME!!", but I don't have any poster board.
I am panicking at the thought of paying our ridiculous California rent and carrying our mortgage for God only knows how long. I invision our "cushion" getting eaten away, and ending up on a budget that leaves little room for anything other than ramon noodles and Yellow Tail. (Does anyone actually like Yellow Tail?).
Where oh where are my hoards of people? For God's sake-the boys will be home soon, and the house will be pulled apart, the counters will be dirtied, the toys will be pulled back out, the clutter will begin again, and my flowers will die. Then I'll have to start all over again.
Here is the problem. It isn't like Field of Dreams. "If you build it they will come". I've built it, my house has never looked so amazing....but nobody is coming. Not a soul. The open house will be over in exactly 40 minutes. I am contemplating running to 38th street with a sandwich board advertising "RENT OUR HOME!!", but I don't have any poster board.
I am panicking at the thought of paying our ridiculous California rent and carrying our mortgage for God only knows how long. I invision our "cushion" getting eaten away, and ending up on a budget that leaves little room for anything other than ramon noodles and Yellow Tail. (Does anyone actually like Yellow Tail?).
Where oh where are my hoards of people? For God's sake-the boys will be home soon, and the house will be pulled apart, the counters will be dirtied, the toys will be pulled back out, the clutter will begin again, and my flowers will die. Then I'll have to start all over again.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
BFF
I am having a fabulous weekend, and it HURTS. I see everything in a different light now. I see it as loss. Look what great friends you have Rachel, in three weeks, your going to be alone. Look what a great neighborhood you have, in a few weeks-it will all be different.
Last night Shannon and I went out for girls night downtown. It was wonderful, kind of like the old days, but not exactly. When I first moved to Denver Shannon quickly became my closest friend. She and Darren lived directly across the street from us. Neither of us had children and we all had a taste for Coors Light and a good Rockies game under the sun. We started spending most weekends together, and would often get together mid-week for a American Idol and cheap pizza. They were good friends, and easy friends. We never fought, we were neighbors, and we developed a very un-fussy friendship. Over the years, the bonds tightened. We went on vacation together to Costa Rica and had a truly amazing time, full of sun, pina coladas and laughter. I cherish that memory. We had our first babies around a year apart from each other, and then by total surprise were pregnant with our second at exactly the same time, the boys were born two days apart. Shannon was there for me in my darkest postpartum colicky baby moments. We became stay-at-home moms together and joined the same "June babies" playgroup. We both transitioned from partying-DINKS, to coupon snipping parents. So last night we got dolled up and went to my favorite champagne bar on Larimer Square and sat on the patio sipping cocktails. There were a few tears, but mostly we just had fun. We finished off the night in a reenactment of a drunken night out many years ago-ordering two desserts apiece at The Market.
Today was a cool, gray, fall Saturday. Dave went to the mountains with the guys for a golf/poker weekend, and I took Zack and Evan to the annual Sunnyside Music Festival. As soon as we arrived I found our neighbors and sat down to lunch with them. Moving on I met my friend Amy with Luke & Ella, and the kids bounced in the bounce house together, we sat and listened to our favorite local children's music-sensation "Anya and the Music Train", we found Darren there who snuck me a little Baily's for my coffee. It was that feeling of totally fitting in, knowing everyone, being home.
I finished off the day at Gelmans for dinner with Amy, Luke & Ella. I adore that woman. She at first seemed an unlikely friend. She was married to David's coworker, Bill (whom I also adore). They were a little older than us, and and when I first met her, I thought of her as a simply Dave's co-worker's wife. That certainly changed. We also got pregnant at the same time, she had her twins a few Dave's before Zachary was born. For the first few months after the babies arrived we would get together weekly, annoying waiters with our strollers and requests for bottles of warm water to mix with formula, we joined a Music Together class, and met up for an occasional glass of wine sans offspring. She quickly became one of my most admired and loved friends. She is an amazing mother, and an incredibly giving woman. Tonight we shared a hectic meal out, complete with a screaming-food-throwing-Evan, and dinner entrees that took over 45 minutes to arrive at our table. But we had fun, and we were happy to be out together with our mess, rather than at home alone.
What a full, wonderful weekend. How much I am leaving behind. How empty that feels.
Last night Shannon and I went out for girls night downtown. It was wonderful, kind of like the old days, but not exactly. When I first moved to Denver Shannon quickly became my closest friend. She and Darren lived directly across the street from us. Neither of us had children and we all had a taste for Coors Light and a good Rockies game under the sun. We started spending most weekends together, and would often get together mid-week for a American Idol and cheap pizza. They were good friends, and easy friends. We never fought, we were neighbors, and we developed a very un-fussy friendship. Over the years, the bonds tightened. We went on vacation together to Costa Rica and had a truly amazing time, full of sun, pina coladas and laughter. I cherish that memory. We had our first babies around a year apart from each other, and then by total surprise were pregnant with our second at exactly the same time, the boys were born two days apart. Shannon was there for me in my darkest postpartum colicky baby moments. We became stay-at-home moms together and joined the same "June babies" playgroup. We both transitioned from partying-DINKS, to coupon snipping parents. So last night we got dolled up and went to my favorite champagne bar on Larimer Square and sat on the patio sipping cocktails. There were a few tears, but mostly we just had fun. We finished off the night in a reenactment of a drunken night out many years ago-ordering two desserts apiece at The Market.
Today was a cool, gray, fall Saturday. Dave went to the mountains with the guys for a golf/poker weekend, and I took Zack and Evan to the annual Sunnyside Music Festival. As soon as we arrived I found our neighbors and sat down to lunch with them. Moving on I met my friend Amy with Luke & Ella, and the kids bounced in the bounce house together, we sat and listened to our favorite local children's music-sensation "Anya and the Music Train", we found Darren there who snuck me a little Baily's for my coffee. It was that feeling of totally fitting in, knowing everyone, being home.
I finished off the day at Gelmans for dinner with Amy, Luke & Ella. I adore that woman. She at first seemed an unlikely friend. She was married to David's coworker, Bill (whom I also adore). They were a little older than us, and and when I first met her, I thought of her as a simply Dave's co-worker's wife. That certainly changed. We also got pregnant at the same time, she had her twins a few Dave's before Zachary was born. For the first few months after the babies arrived we would get together weekly, annoying waiters with our strollers and requests for bottles of warm water to mix with formula, we joined a Music Together class, and met up for an occasional glass of wine sans offspring. She quickly became one of my most admired and loved friends. She is an amazing mother, and an incredibly giving woman. Tonight we shared a hectic meal out, complete with a screaming-food-throwing-Evan, and dinner entrees that took over 45 minutes to arrive at our table. But we had fun, and we were happy to be out together with our mess, rather than at home alone.
What a full, wonderful weekend. How much I am leaving behind. How empty that feels.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sticker Shock
First of all I have to stop with these 3am blog posts, but it appears I now have a touch of insomnia. I lie awake, my head swimming with details "remember to clean out the hall closet before Sunday", "I wonder where on earth we are we going to put the spice rack in our new-no-space-what-so-ever-kitchen? " and a big one "How are we going to afford all of this?" It's never ending. I can't seem to shut it off.
So how are we going to afford this new California life? When we arrived in Oakland for our house hunting trip I was fully prepared to be appalled by the cost of housing, so seeing the price tags on the nothing-special homes didn't shock me. It's a fact of life that we are going to pay more for less. It stinks to see the new bigger paycheck get eaten up just with the basics. What I wasn't ready for was the cost of other necessities. One shining example is preschool. Yesterday I began the process of searching for a new school for Zack. Zack has been in some sort of daycare or educational program since he was three months old, he enjoys it, and we both benefit from shall we say,some needed space. He will be four in a few weeks, so no preschool is simply not an option, particularly if I am to remain a functioning member of our society, rather than being locked away in the nuthouse.
I found a program that I was excited about at the JCC, a mile from our new home. It sounded like a solid school, with the added reward of joining a real community. After leaving the administrator numerous messages, I finally connected with the less-than-friendly woman. She didn't have the time of day for my questions. She seemed exasperated when I asked about openings, class size and registration. Hello? Don't you want to fill up your partially empty classroom? Finally I inquired about the tuition that we would be required to pay for the privilege of attending. The lady didn't miss a beat "$850 per month, and we require a one year commitment". Excuse me? Did she say $850 per month? Are we talking about a half day preschool? You know the place you drop your four year old off for a whopping three hours a day? The place where they draw a few pictures, run around on the playground, eat a few graham crackers, mess up their new clothes and then leave at lunch time? Is there something extra special about the JCC preschool that I might be missing? Are the teachers Nobel prize winners? Are they serving brie and shrimp cocktail for snack? Trying to hide my disbelief I asked the lovely administrator if this is an unusually high priced school. I inform her that here in Denver the cost for Zack's early education is less than $400 per month. She pretty much slaps me with the "your not in Denver anymore sweetheart" speech and we hang up agreeing to meet when I arrive in Berkeley.
After researching other are schools I have come to find that in fact, $850 per month is about the average. You can't find much cheaper, but you can certainly find more expensive-I looked at some programs with an annual tuition fee of $13000 for 15 hours per week.
Mama's gonna have to get a job.
So how are we going to afford this new California life? When we arrived in Oakland for our house hunting trip I was fully prepared to be appalled by the cost of housing, so seeing the price tags on the nothing-special homes didn't shock me. It's a fact of life that we are going to pay more for less. It stinks to see the new bigger paycheck get eaten up just with the basics. What I wasn't ready for was the cost of other necessities. One shining example is preschool. Yesterday I began the process of searching for a new school for Zack. Zack has been in some sort of daycare or educational program since he was three months old, he enjoys it, and we both benefit from shall we say,some needed space. He will be four in a few weeks, so no preschool is simply not an option, particularly if I am to remain a functioning member of our society, rather than being locked away in the nuthouse.
I found a program that I was excited about at the JCC, a mile from our new home. It sounded like a solid school, with the added reward of joining a real community. After leaving the administrator numerous messages, I finally connected with the less-than-friendly woman. She didn't have the time of day for my questions. She seemed exasperated when I asked about openings, class size and registration. Hello? Don't you want to fill up your partially empty classroom? Finally I inquired about the tuition that we would be required to pay for the privilege of attending. The lady didn't miss a beat "$850 per month, and we require a one year commitment". Excuse me? Did she say $850 per month? Are we talking about a half day preschool? You know the place you drop your four year old off for a whopping three hours a day? The place where they draw a few pictures, run around on the playground, eat a few graham crackers, mess up their new clothes and then leave at lunch time? Is there something extra special about the JCC preschool that I might be missing? Are the teachers Nobel prize winners? Are they serving brie and shrimp cocktail for snack? Trying to hide my disbelief I asked the lovely administrator if this is an unusually high priced school. I inform her that here in Denver the cost for Zack's early education is less than $400 per month. She pretty much slaps me with the "your not in Denver anymore sweetheart" speech and we hang up agreeing to meet when I arrive in Berkeley.
After researching other are schools I have come to find that in fact, $850 per month is about the average. You can't find much cheaper, but you can certainly find more expensive-I looked at some programs with an annual tuition fee of $13000 for 15 hours per week.
Mama's gonna have to get a job.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Trophy
Packing up your entire life for an out-of-state move is no small job. I have already spent countless hours in a hot, dusty attic sorting through boxes and bags. Knowing that I have to fit my belongings into a home with less than ½ the amount of space (but nearly twice as expensive, and don’t get me started), I have been quite motivated to purge. The process of downsizing is not an easy one, although I have been surprised with my liberal attitude toward just plain getting rid of things. But these belongings are mostly items I have held on to for many years because of there sentimental value or what they represent to me.
As I have dug around the boxes of old clothes, photographs, and keepsakes, I have come to realize that most of this worthless stuff either represents memories from my past (senior pictures, slam books, programs from my performances), or my hopes for the future (prom dresses for a little girl’s dress up, a size zero pair of Capri pants I may someday fit into). Sorting these items may prove to be as beneficial as a trip to a therapist.
The trigger for all this self-reflection was dragging out a box of high school memorabilia. I pulled out the journals, the Class of 92 coffee mug, and my West High School present’s Pippin sweatshirt in florescent orange and blue-(I am not sure who designed that one, but I am guessing they did not make it in the world of graphic design). Underneath it all I found a shiny blue and gold trophy. A trophy. Not participating in athletics, this was the only trophy I ever earned. I won the prized possession for taking first place in a forensics prose competition in 1991. I have held on to the damn thing for all of these years. Although hardly a major accomplishment, I was never so proud or excited as the day I won the honor for reciting a short story about infertility. It strikes me as odd now that a 16 year old teenager would act out the part of a grief stricken woman unable to conceive. Ironic that years later, I actually experienced the pain of infertility first hand.
Seeing that trophy I had a flash back to the girl I used to be. I was miserable in high school, insecure, moping around after a boy who wasn’t interested, obsessed with losing weight, and generally hating myself. Today, as I look at my high school treasures, it pains me that I was so hard on myself. I was great. I was active and involved, running from rehearsal, to voice lessons, to forensics, on to the peer helper group I was elected to. I studied hard and got all A’s and B’s. I had so many interests. I won a freaking trophy. No, I was never invited to a cool party in the woods with a keg, and on that dreaded day around the Valentines holiday when perky cheerleaders delivered roses to the most popular in homeroom, my stomach ached, for I would never receive one. But I see the pictures of the “ugly” girl I thought I was, and I see a prettier than average teen, and wonder what the heck my problem was.
I miss the competitiveness-in forensics winning a first or second prize, on a paper earning an A, getting “Highest Ranking Senior” in the University of Wisconsin’s Child & Family Studies program. Today, there are no trophies, A’s or scholarships for being a sometime-contract recruiter and a stay at home mom. Maybe that is why I adore interviewing so much, “winning” the job, impressing others. And perhaps that is why I am so disturbed about my inability to be a truly exceptional housewife. I am simply not good at keeping a tidy, organized Martha Steward-worthy home. I wouldn’t even get a bronze medal for that.
They say that hindsight is always 20/20. Given my regret for my teenage years, my guess is that someday I will look back on my thirties and think I was an energetic, social mother who gave her kids all types of fun experiences, and that although I own not one, not two, not three but probably four junk drawers, and that my refrigerator always has crusted food stains on it, I was great
As I have dug around the boxes of old clothes, photographs, and keepsakes, I have come to realize that most of this worthless stuff either represents memories from my past (senior pictures, slam books, programs from my performances), or my hopes for the future (prom dresses for a little girl’s dress up, a size zero pair of Capri pants I may someday fit into). Sorting these items may prove to be as beneficial as a trip to a therapist.
The trigger for all this self-reflection was dragging out a box of high school memorabilia. I pulled out the journals, the Class of 92 coffee mug, and my West High School present’s Pippin sweatshirt in florescent orange and blue-(I am not sure who designed that one, but I am guessing they did not make it in the world of graphic design). Underneath it all I found a shiny blue and gold trophy. A trophy. Not participating in athletics, this was the only trophy I ever earned. I won the prized possession for taking first place in a forensics prose competition in 1991. I have held on to the damn thing for all of these years. Although hardly a major accomplishment, I was never so proud or excited as the day I won the honor for reciting a short story about infertility. It strikes me as odd now that a 16 year old teenager would act out the part of a grief stricken woman unable to conceive. Ironic that years later, I actually experienced the pain of infertility first hand.
Seeing that trophy I had a flash back to the girl I used to be. I was miserable in high school, insecure, moping around after a boy who wasn’t interested, obsessed with losing weight, and generally hating myself. Today, as I look at my high school treasures, it pains me that I was so hard on myself. I was great. I was active and involved, running from rehearsal, to voice lessons, to forensics, on to the peer helper group I was elected to. I studied hard and got all A’s and B’s. I had so many interests. I won a freaking trophy. No, I was never invited to a cool party in the woods with a keg, and on that dreaded day around the Valentines holiday when perky cheerleaders delivered roses to the most popular in homeroom, my stomach ached, for I would never receive one. But I see the pictures of the “ugly” girl I thought I was, and I see a prettier than average teen, and wonder what the heck my problem was.
I miss the competitiveness-in forensics winning a first or second prize, on a paper earning an A, getting “Highest Ranking Senior” in the University of Wisconsin’s Child & Family Studies program. Today, there are no trophies, A’s or scholarships for being a sometime-contract recruiter and a stay at home mom. Maybe that is why I adore interviewing so much, “winning” the job, impressing others. And perhaps that is why I am so disturbed about my inability to be a truly exceptional housewife. I am simply not good at keeping a tidy, organized Martha Steward-worthy home. I wouldn’t even get a bronze medal for that.
They say that hindsight is always 20/20. Given my regret for my teenage years, my guess is that someday I will look back on my thirties and think I was an energetic, social mother who gave her kids all types of fun experiences, and that although I own not one, not two, not three but probably four junk drawers, and that my refrigerator always has crusted food stains on it, I was great
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Moving On....
Its 2:30am. I'm sitting at the desk in a fine resort in Oakland California. I can't sleep. My husband is happily in slumber land in the bed behind me. I am gazing at an unfamiliar skyline, a beautiful show of a million lights. We aren't on vacation. We have shared a whirl-wind, frenzied weekend of house hunting in the bay area. We are moving.
David has accepted a career-changing position with a huge company. Although, weary of leaving behind a beloved life in Colorado he is a flutter with the excitement of a new future and an adventure. He is moving to a company that pursued him and will offer him welcomed new challenges. I on the other-hand feel like all I am doing is leaving behind.
I am petrified and sad. Certainly, there is a part of me that is excited to live in an amazing part of the country. I envision trips to "The City" with the boys-gobbling up sourdough bread and clam chowder on the wharf and family excursions on the cable cars. But that is a family vacation. This is no vacation. This signifies an end to a life I have spent the past eight years building.
I can and most likely will get lost in the details and logistics of such a major move. The next few weeks are going to involve so much work. We need to pack up our three story, nearly 3000 square foot house into boxes, hopefully packing only enough contents to fill our new rental home that will be ruffly half the size. This means sorting through, in my case YEARS of crap. I must admit I am a bit of a pack rat. In a recent purging frenzy I have sorted through probably 15 years of clothing, finally donating souvenir T-Shirts from London (but I am KEEPING my Billy Joel concert t-shirts, damn it!), items that are too small or too big, or skirts that are embarrassingly short (good Lord, I was a whore). I have drawers and closets and general messes of keepsakes, photos, birthday party supplies, you name it. All will need to pass the "Do-I-really-need this" test. I must get our own home in shape to be rented, and find lovely new tenants to fill our empty home. I need to find a preschool for Zachary and schedule telephone service and all of those other necessary utilities.
The details are good. The work is good. When I stop thinking of those things- I am left to think about what we are really doing, and it leaves me in a near-panic-attack state. I start to think of what I am leaving behind and the life I have built. I have had such an amazingly full life here. I have a professional network I have built up over the past eight years, I have my adored friends Shannon and Darren whom we were lucky enough to meet and share margaritas with within days of our first arrival to Denver,, I have my sister and her husband, my nephews. My nephews. Zack and Evan were suppose to grow up really knowing their cousins. Sharing barbeque's with them, and feeling as though Auntie Erica's house was a second home. Now the relationship will likely be boiled down to holiday visits and maybe later random facebook posts.
Those who I have shared the news with thus fair have been supportive. They have told me they are sad to see us go, but that I will build a new life, make new friends. This is true, but at the moment I feel like lying on the ground and throwing a full blown temper tantrum, kicking my feet and pounding my fists and crying "BUT I DON'T WANT TO!" I don't want to make new friends I have my friends. I don't want to learn a new city, I am so deeply in love with my community.
Eventually the self pity party will end. I'll deal with it. I have no other choice.
David has accepted a career-changing position with a huge company. Although, weary of leaving behind a beloved life in Colorado he is a flutter with the excitement of a new future and an adventure. He is moving to a company that pursued him and will offer him welcomed new challenges. I on the other-hand feel like all I am doing is leaving behind.
I am petrified and sad. Certainly, there is a part of me that is excited to live in an amazing part of the country. I envision trips to "The City" with the boys-gobbling up sourdough bread and clam chowder on the wharf and family excursions on the cable cars. But that is a family vacation. This is no vacation. This signifies an end to a life I have spent the past eight years building.
I can and most likely will get lost in the details and logistics of such a major move. The next few weeks are going to involve so much work. We need to pack up our three story, nearly 3000 square foot house into boxes, hopefully packing only enough contents to fill our new rental home that will be ruffly half the size. This means sorting through, in my case YEARS of crap. I must admit I am a bit of a pack rat. In a recent purging frenzy I have sorted through probably 15 years of clothing, finally donating souvenir T-Shirts from London (but I am KEEPING my Billy Joel concert t-shirts, damn it!), items that are too small or too big, or skirts that are embarrassingly short (good Lord, I was a whore). I have drawers and closets and general messes of keepsakes, photos, birthday party supplies, you name it. All will need to pass the "Do-I-really-need this" test. I must get our own home in shape to be rented, and find lovely new tenants to fill our empty home. I need to find a preschool for Zachary and schedule telephone service and all of those other necessary utilities.
The details are good. The work is good. When I stop thinking of those things- I am left to think about what we are really doing, and it leaves me in a near-panic-attack state. I start to think of what I am leaving behind and the life I have built. I have had such an amazingly full life here. I have a professional network I have built up over the past eight years, I have my adored friends Shannon and Darren whom we were lucky enough to meet and share margaritas with within days of our first arrival to Denver,, I have my sister and her husband, my nephews. My nephews. Zack and Evan were suppose to grow up really knowing their cousins. Sharing barbeque's with them, and feeling as though Auntie Erica's house was a second home. Now the relationship will likely be boiled down to holiday visits and maybe later random facebook posts.
Those who I have shared the news with thus fair have been supportive. They have told me they are sad to see us go, but that I will build a new life, make new friends. This is true, but at the moment I feel like lying on the ground and throwing a full blown temper tantrum, kicking my feet and pounding my fists and crying "BUT I DON'T WANT TO!" I don't want to make new friends I have my friends. I don't want to learn a new city, I am so deeply in love with my community.
Eventually the self pity party will end. I'll deal with it. I have no other choice.
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