In the last few years, I’ve become used to leaving, and having those that I love leave also. My address book reads like Rand and McNally should have autographed the front, and my driver’s license was issued by a state I haven’t been a resident of since 2000.
And it’s time to move. Again.
That’s one of the things about signing your married soul to the Green Meanie, this constant relocation nonsense.
As of about a decade ago, I’d never been away from home for any serious period of time. I am and always will be a California girl at heart, which means that I don’t like humidity, I hate cold, and I tend not to be a fan of uncontrolled wildlife. And after living in Alaska, Hawaii, Afghanistan, Iraq, and finally (anticlimactically) Kansas City and Fort Lee, Virginia, I feel like I’ve pretty much gotten used to the various political, religious, and social climates that the United States and the occasional foreign country have to offer. And it seems that every time I become accustomed to a specific region’s perks and atrocities, the proverbial rug is pulled out from under me, and I become the new, weird person in a new, weird place. Now we’re moving to Maryland.
So my husband, the happy schmappy U-Haul poster boy, asks me to call the post housing office for relocation information. I’m totally going to give you the down and dirty of the discussion, because I want other people to feel my (completely unwarranted) pain. She waited three weeks to return my phone call, and then told me she waited that long because on her message pad, there was half a checkmark next to my name and she wasn’t sure whether or not she’d already contacted me. She did not find it amusing when I asked if she was all right after debating so long over calling. And she must not be a mother, as she was not in the least empathetic about my having to move a full house, two cars, a baby, two cats, and two stepchildren. She didn’t even make a partridge joke, which (to be honest) would have eased my mind just a bit as to her mental state.
Prompted by the apparent lack of assistance, we began searching the area outside the post for civilian rental opportunities. Although I mean no offense to their local law enforcement agencies, it appears we have the choice of: a) beautiful grounds occupied by mice; b) beautiful grounds run by skeezy landlords who skim off of the security deposits and sky high rent; or c) beautiful grounds where your windows will be bashed in courtesy of the local methadone failures.
Anybody want to come help load the truck?