The Fine Art of Moving

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We have moved. (That’s a strange sentence, akin to stopping by your favorite ice cream joint and finding it replaced with a Middle Eastern takeout.)

The spouse-unit’s work has taken us to what is supposedly the mecca of all geekdom: the Bay Area. I love that term. So vague and yet, heavy with ironic specificity. Everyone seems to know where it is, in a general way, but there are over a dozen hardly-unique towns smashed in here, so you always have to follow up with exactly where you are.

That’s probably all I love about it so far. Of course, many people in my situation would wax poetic about the lack of traffic, but I find it hardly cause for celebration. In fact, I drive around bemused most of the time, fascinated by the stately Caddy driving in front of me at not a fraction more than 34 miles per hour. In my naive eagerness, I push it to 39 and can practically feel the stares from the drivers around me. Of course, we’re not talking LAPD here, or even CHP that has better things to do, so there’s a bored motorcycle cop hanging around every half mile or so.

It’s inevitable I’m going to get a ticket here soon.

Spice and Ginny have started school, and so it’s me, the cat & the dog. I come back in and JD come barking at me, and for once, I don’t hush him. I sit on the floor, not “criss cross applesauce”, as they politically correct seating styles, but good old-fashioned Indian-style. (By the girl that’s not quite Indian.) I pat my leg and the dog looks at me and then off to the side, like it’s a trap he wants to believe in. I call him and he’s in my lap, twisting and wiggling and I snuggle him close, thinking This is why you get a dog.

And you, dear reader. I’ll always have you.


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