There’s no good place to start all this.

6 months ago I sold my soul to the devil for a walk in closet.

Ok – that MIGHT be the tiniest bit of a less-than-totally-true version of the way it all went down.

The memory is clouded by months of jockeying for position in the toddler school parking lot, against mothers of 4 in mini vans with their “mom uniforms” of yoga pants and performance fleece and pony-tails sticking out of baseball caps; with perfectly lined eyes and bumper stickers proclaiming allegiance to their sons’ and daughters’ insanely competitive youth sports teams in their windows.


So I think maybe I kind of can’t remember now the entire series of events that led me to this point in time.

Maybe it isn’t really important – the how-in-the-hell-did-I-get-HERE of it all.

Doesn’t matter.

6 months ago, in an uncharatericistly cold June rain, I wedged the last thing (a half bottle of Vhino Verde that kept me company the night before,) into the last itty bit of space in the last SUV load of our lives and pulled out of the parking garage underneath the perfect treetop level city condo where we had spent the past 7 years, and pointed it toward a future in the suburbs.

Pausing please. Deep breath. Gulp of wine.

Heee Hee Hooooooo…… Hee Hee Hooooo.

(We took the one day “express” version of prepared childbirth before we had our son, because my birth plan was “whatever is in that syringe, please give me two, and a smack on the head with a frying pan,” so I didn’t really see the need for the breathing and concentrating and crap – but when I talk about how we ended up here, I find myself doing the “I’m in labor” breathing without really even thinking about it.)

However it happened, it happened.  We left the city.

Maybe it was inevitable, destined to be, but I prefer that theory least of all.

Because it isn’t just ANY ‘burb.  Oh no.

The awful truth is – I grew up here.

Quelle horreur.

(I  don’t speak French, by the way.  But sometimes English just leaves me needing more, so I long ago stole that little beauty from an Audrey Hepburn movie.)

The Mr. was oh-so-over the urban living,  and I prefer to think that I was under duress from months of barely saving my kid from smacking his giant Charlie Brown head against our beautiful, but VERY hard, stone floors.

However it happened, there was no looking back and 1,2,3, baby don’t think twice, just like that we had a brand new life.  (One, evidently, where I quote Keith Urban songs, incidentally.)

It has its perks.  There is that walk-in closet, to begin with.  My closet and I have a relationship that leaves people looking away so as not to blush as I caress it’s contents.  I do love that closet.

Oh, and the ample (and FREE) parking out here.  This place is just LOUSY with parking spots, everywhere you turn – right up next to places you actually want to go!  Seriously, we have been here months and I still feel like the Hamburgler having just rolled Grimace every time I come out of a place and there is no ticket on my car.  I just assume if a spot is that good, it can’t really be open.

Then there is the space.  LOADS of it.  Huge open areas where Junior and Binky-the-wonder-dog can run and run and run with no fear of cars or harried bicyclists or all the other crazy things that seem to come at you when you try to stake your claim on a little patch of green alongside the street in the city.

AndPlusAlso – my parents.  The parents whose wings I was (pretending) that I was SO ready to be out from under all those years ago when I packed up my old Cherokee and tore out of this little town?  Yeah, they are by far THE big positive about our temporary insanity decision to be out here.  Soaking up all of that glorious family time for my kiddo and for myself is huge.


But I feel I must explain something right now – to the minivan driving, fleece wearing, supahstar soccer mom giving my kid’s Ramones T-Shirt the side-eye, and the whole army of Stepford scaries coming at me everyday.

Know this now:

I will not be assimilated.

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