Postcards to Nowhere

So, a year ago (plus a month) we moved from Northern Utah to Northern Virginia.  It was for a job--a job hubby had been angling for for over three years.  We really wanted out of Utah.  Being a federal employee, hubby, of course, makes over 125 grand a year, and the tax payers forked over for the very best professional movers . . . NOT!  Yeah, contrary to the crap propaganda forwarded by the right these past couple of years in their quest to vilify federal workers, fact is most don't make that much money (we don't see even half that after taxes, actually), and not one dime of our move was covered by the feds.  No, we forked over for that baby ourselves, and we're still drowning in the bills.  We self-packed, loaded a big ol' Penske truck with the help of wonderful friends, and stayed in a series of Motel 6s (including one in Mars, PA that was so scary we nearly left in the middle of the night).  Determined to keep a promise made to our wonderful niece and nephew (my sister's kids), we bought a gaggle of post cards from various spots along the way.  Being, as we were, exhausted, we spaced sending them until our last night on the road.  I filled them all out--postcards for the kids, for my sister, for my mom, etc.  I then set them on the table so I could dig up my sister's address.  Hubby, not knowing I hadn't addressed them, slapped stamps on them without looking, and dumped them into a mailbox. 

Yeah.

I didn't realize what had happened until my sister said the cards had never arrived.  I asked hubby if he'd addressed them. He said he thought I had.  So I guess those fancy, picked out special for each kid postcards are sitting in a bin somewhere in a PA post office, collecting dust.  Sorry kids--they were really cool cards, a good half-dozen of them.  You'd have really liked them.

We put up a few tentative Halloween decorations tonight.  Scared to death those rat kids across the street and that asshat punk behind us will tear them up or fill them full of Airsoft pellets.  Heck, we had to yell at one of the rats Thursday night for shooting at us from an upstairs window while we were unloading groceries from the car.  We found pellets in our grocery bags while putting things away.  This is going to keep escalating, and I don't know what to do.  What a mess.

Speaking of messes, the punk from behind wrote on the pavement, "Max is stuped."  Someone had crossed out "stuped" and replaced it with "stupid."  This kid is thirteen, certainly old enough to be able to spell "stupid."  And worse?  He made the same mistake on his Facebook page a few months ago, and was corrected by a number of people.  So maybe he really is "stuped."

The car goes in for inspection tomorrow.  If it costs more than $850 (including registration), we're utterly screwed.  We're given the option of registering for two years.  Does that mean we don't have to have the car inspected for two years?  Probably not, but wouldn't that be cool?

Our boy's struggling with the University of Toronto Python programming course he's taking online.  He's getting the material (though it is very challenging for him), but he's got no concept of meeting unyielding deadlines.  He submitted his first assignment yesterday and only got 18 out of 41.  After much grief and digging through things, we figured it out--he actually got 36 out of 41, but they knocked off FIFTY PERCENT of his score for missing the "soft" deadline.  Ouch!  So we're working harder on getting things done on time.  On the bright side, he is grasping the material, and that really is the point.

Walgreens keeps sending me emails telling me that I have a script due for refilling.  Except I don't.  I've called them repeatedly, but they don't know why the email keeps being sent--it's apparently for a script that has no refills.  Irritating.

Epinions (http://www.epinions.com/user-trawma) has revamped its payment and income share schemes.  Hopefully, that will be to my benefit and not a smack.  It's not a lot, but I enjoy writing, and it's nice to have a little something to show for it. 

I dreamed my old neighbor Judy died.  Not good.  Of course, I also dreamed I was a super-spy who blew up a roller rink and was hiding in my neighbor's bathroom waiting for the chance to take out a rival spy.  So Judy's probably okay.

Cross your fingers on the car inspection.  I need less stress. 

Memories Stolen

Something I haven't posted about, strangely. Something that happened when we first arrived in Manassas. We'd driven over 2,000 miles in a gigantic, 26 foot Penske truck pulling an auto-transport trailer. The truck was a monstrosity, sat as tall as many of the 18 wheeler cabs--we could look straight over and into the truckers' lairs. Don't mistake me, it was a great truck, and we were really happy with the service we got from Penske.

Until we turned in the truck, that is.

When we rolled into Manassas on September 7th, we were still in possession of our Fuji digital camera. It was in its nice case, with spare rechargeable batteries, a few memory cards, and a micro-SD card that goes with Sean's fancy RC airplane camera. These cards were loaded with photos from Sean's first ghost town visit (Metropolis, in Nevada), his airshow shots and videos (from Wendover Air Show), and hundreds of pictures of the drive cross country.

We were busy. We were unloading the truck, cleaning it, and getting it turned in all on the same day we arrived at our new home. Oh, this was during the huge tropical storm, of course, so the rain was amazing. Breathtaking. And a little scary.

It took us a couple of days to realize that the camera was missing. We turned the new place upside down, searching for it. When we finally reached the sad conclusion that the camera was gone, we headed over to Home Depot, which is where we turned in the truck. The "gentleman" there was dismissive and almost disdainful, seemed supremely uninterested in our loss. Glanced under the counter, said "it's not here," and that was it. No offer of a claim form, no questions, not an iota of sympathy.

We don't know if the camera was in the truck. We don't even necessarily want the camera back--we replaced it with a better camera. But those pictures? Those memories? Who steals those? It's like stealing photo albums or yearbooks. Who does that?

If you know anyone in the Prince William County area who suddenly popped up with a nice new Fuji digital with zoom and a bunch of filled-up memory cards? Send us the cards, wouldja? Keep the camera, but give us back our memories.

Please.

Half Life

It's been a while since I've written, and things have changed.

Drastically.

The dream of escaping that dinky-assed dustbowl slum? Has come true in a big way. We left Utah on September 3rd, arriving in Prince William County, Virginia September 7th. Just in time for Tropical Storm Lee to kick the east coast's ass. I wish I could say without doubt that it wasn't my fault. But I can't--disaster seems to follow me, precede me, and otherwise all-around associate itself with me. Just a short time before we moved, I was talking to my Utah insurance agent about moving here. She said, "But you've got a hurricane coming!" I laughed and said, "Sure, we may have to dodge the occasional hurricane, but at least we won't have to worry about EARTHQUAKES anymore." Ten minutes later, a major quake hit Virginia.

Me and my big mouth.

So here we are, finally on the east coast. We have cardinals partaking of the feeders out back. We have a flowering dogwood, which I've wanted since I was a girl, right out our front door. It'll spend its fall blazing scarlet, its winter covered with bright berries, and its spring awash in riotous bloom. We have a brilliantly magenta fall-blooming Crepe Myrtle right outside the back gate. We have mourning doves, jays (REAL jays!), sparrows, finches, a squirrel or two, and a SKUNK!

I have a flower garden, already laden with mums and a profusion of tulip, daffodil, and alium bulbs (some a gift from the lovely lady next door).

It's amazing. Been here a month, and we've already taken Sean to the Udvar-Hazy Air and Space in Chantilly, the National Museum of the American Indian, the Air and Space Museum in DC, and to an airshow and the beach in Virginia Beach. What an amazing place, how much happier I am!

There are people I miss in Utah, but I don't long to be there with them. I long for them to be here. Because here?

It's better.

Hope Springs Infernal

I've always been the hopeful type. Many don't realize it, because I'm also a realist. What does that mean? It means I hope my hardest for the best, but I'm rarely suprised when it doesn't happen. That's not to say I'm not devastated by hope's failure--believe me, I am. But I put on a stoic face and, hey, at least I'm not surprised.

Except I am. Even though I fully comprehend and even expect the worst, my secret heart of hearts truly believes that good will come.

How stupid is that?

When I was 15, my mother announced, while we were vacationing in Pennsylvania, that we were moving back to the east coast. Back to Hallstead, our hometown. Back to beloved family, my Aunt and Uncle's Arabian horse farm, and the lazy, sweet, firefly-lit place of my childhood. I was so excited, so eager to return to where my heart had always been.

And then she reneged. She just blah. No reason, no explanation, she just kept putting off and making excuses until finally I realized that it wasn't happening. It had never been a plan, it had been a tale to entertain and impress. This wasn't the first time my Mom had made up a story to enlarge herself or made a big promise with no real intention of living up to her word. No, no--in fact, that's something of a hallmark. It was, however, the first time I was ever devastated by her bullshit. Not the last time, though. Not by any means.

Why am I rambling on about my Mother and her fanciful but faithless tales of wish fulfillment and dreams come true? Because I am so afraid that I'm doing the same thing to Sean--or at least that he will come to perceive it as so. He wants so badly to move back east, to be near the Franklin Institute, the Air and Space Museum, and the ocean. He wants it so deeply that he, like me, like his Daddy, breathes it, eats it, lives the dream of it. But each job that comes up, each opportunity to escape this place and be where we want to be, has fallen through. Hopes dashed time and again. I feel like I'm 15 again, and worse, I feel like my mother, too.

What if it doesn't happen? It's already been three years. What if another three pass and we're still stuck in this dry, dull place? What if five pass? What if we never, ever escape this desolate patch of dust? Poor Sean.

Poor us.

And those beloved relatives my mother promised we'd reunite with? Dead. Bob since 2007 and Helen Jean since March of this year. The Arabian horse farm long gone, the horses dead. But the fireflies are still there . . . for now. Their numbers are reported to be dwindling, though.

You want to hear something shamefully pathetic? For as pessimistic and down as this entry sounds, I am, sadly, brimming with hope. It's scary, how hopeful I am. Why scary? Because the more hopeful I am, the more devastating the fall. Good thing I bounce.

All I Want for New Year's is a Shiny New Home

Well, here it is again. Came frighteningly fast this time, didn't it? When Stephen King spoke of “short time” for the grownups, he sure as spit knew what he was talking about. Time moves so fast anymore it brings me to tears. If it only took this few blinks to get from bright-eyed 18 to here then here to dead must only be a flash away, you know?

Weee! How very positive of me!

I’m really not that negative a person. In fact, I am brimming with hope for this new year. Sure, I have the usual hopes: be more patient with our son, lose weight, write more, write better, exercise more, get healthier. But I have one more hope, one very special desire this year. One resolution that I can’t imagine surviving failure.

What is it?

Gettin’ the hell outta Dodge. That’s right—after spending the better part of 38 years here in Utah, I am OUTTA here with the people I love the very most! Back to where I came from, back whence my family came, back to where the world is green and the air is alive with possibility.

I won’t lie—I’m not just running to something, I’m running away from something. Away from dysfunctional relationships that have sucked the joy from me for years. Away from the dry and the yellow, brown, and grey. Away from being forever the outsider, the one who must join fringe groups and minority cliques in order to be not alone. Away from almost everything Utah is for me.

I know I seem to be “dissing” Utah. What can I say? I actively dislike this place. I know some say, “Well, if you only KNEW Utah!” I do—and familiarity has bred just a bit of contempt. From Grafton to Logan, from Vernal to Vernon, I’ve driven, hiked, backpacked, camped, and all-around explored this place. And I’m all done with it. I’ve been here. I don’t want to be here anymore.

Let me say from my heart that I’m not “dissing” the people who DO love this place. Great! Seriously! I am absolutely sincere when I say that I am very glad that you love Utah, that Ogden (or Salt Lake City) rocks your world! I think it would be terribly sad if that weren’t the case! The way you feel about Utah? That’s how I feel about the East Coast. The warm pride that rises up in you when you think of Snow Basin, Ben Lomond, the Union Station, or the Pie Pizzeria? That’s how I feel about the Franklin Institute, Sturbridge Village, the beach at Wells, Maine, and Pat’s King of Steaks. They’re mine, and that’s where I want to be. Where I need to be.

I’m not saying that Utah has nothing to offer. I’m not saying that there’s nothing beautiful or worthwhile here. Of course there is! What I’m saying is that I’ve done that, and I don’t want to do it anymore. My heart isn’t here, and I need something else. I need my home.

Be happy for me. Please. Don’t wrinkle your nose and declare that I’m “missing out.” Instead, understand that we’re all different, and what works for you is killing me. Love your Utah, make it everything you can, and spare a hope or a prayer that my dreams for the east coast come to pass and are everything I wish for. Will you do that for me? I don’t want a whole lot. Just new home with my wonderful husband and magical boy. Please, cross your fingers and wish me luck!