Oh, sure, you’ve moved before: To a better neighborhood, a bigger house or just to spite that bitch Stacy at work who said she lived in a “very exclusive neighborhood.” It’s not a big deal. You suffer through one s**tty weekend, buy your friends cheap beer and sub-food quality pizza in exchange for manual labor, and you’re done. But the big move — the out-of-state, thousand-mile, cross-country, f**k-all move — is a different story. There are all sorts of traps, pitfalls and dastardly sons of bitches lurking out there, just waiting to pounce on you in your vulnerable state of temporary Hobo-osity. And nobody warns you about them … presumably because Big Moving has had all of their protesting tongues cut out and fed into the secret Misery Engines that really keep those trucks running.
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My pattern with escape began as a kid.
I am 14 years old and in my pediatrician’s office. My family has just moved back to New York City after a 5-year stint in Massachusetts. I’m turning into one of those surly teenagers. My mother has read
SavingReviving Ophelia and now my father is reading it, too, and I see the sad face of that wispy-haired girl staring up at me from her wrinkled paperback cover every time I pass his bedside table. Dr. Sedlis is asking how school is going. My mother is in the room and she says, “Not too well. It’s a large public school.” This is true. I hate it there. I am lost and they are making me take oboe lessons even though I signed up for piano. The girls are goths and punks and I am neither. Dr. Sedlis advises putting me into private school. Keep reading »
This weekend, my boyfriend and I were down in Virginia visiting his parents, chit-chatting about his upcoming move to New York from Connecticut. I’m coming up on my 10-year anniversary as a resident of NYC — which apparently makes me “official” — and occasionally think about the other places I might like to live before I put down serious roots (i.e. have kids). I love New York so much, but I also fantasize about glamourous things I can’t get here (well, without serious money), like a backyard with a grill, a garden, and a hammock. My BF is eventually going to be applying to graduate school and while I’m definitely trying not to get ahead of myself, as far as our relationship is concerned, knowing this has made me consider my own willingness to move out of NYC — with or without him. Keep reading »
It’s time again for “Dear Wendy Updates,” a feature where people I’ve given advice to in the past let us know whether they followed the advice and how they’re doing today. After the jump, we hear from “Conflicted About Moving,” whose boyfriend dumped her after she quit her job to move with him. Luckily, she was able to get her job back, but her boyfriend reunited with her and asked her to quit her job again to move for her. “He’s suggesting I leave a resignation letter the day of and never return, but that’s just not my style.” she wrote. “Is it fair to quit my job twice within a week’s time? What would you do?” I told her to dump the guy of course, and after the jump, you’ll find out whether she followed my advice and how she’s doing now. Keep reading »
“Do you love her?” I finally asked my ex in the midst of our screaming match last late night. He paused for a minute. I could hear him breathing deeply over the phone line, slow and steady—he could have been at a yoga studio, contorted and wearing orange spandex, or practicing Lamaze breathing for the birth of his first child. Instead, he was verbally (and angrily) tracing the end of our relationship. The truth of his new relationship had been so obscured in various manipulations, that despite approaching a year of us not dating I really had no idea where “they” were.
“Yes,” he said, and my heart grew very still. Somewhere after he listed the third or fourth reason why she was better than me, I interrupted, “Stop. Just. Stop. I can’t do this with you anymore.” I hung up the phone, curled up in bed, and went to sleep. Keep reading »
I was 5 years old the first time I threw on a pair of heels, packed a suitcase and informed my mother that I was moving out. At age 10, I boarded a plane to swim camp and never looked back. My father, worried, followed me on board to make sure I was fine—I was horrified by his intrusion. By the time I reached 12, I’d begun fantasizing about boarding school and begged my parents to send me away soon after. At age 15, I volunteered in Venezuela for the entire summer—I left a few days after the school year ended and returned home a mere week before classes began again.
The summer of 1998 is rarely mentioned. That was the summer my parents parted ways and I flew between Tennessee and California roughly a dozen times in three months. Keep reading »
Recently, I rented a new apartment. But, oops! I got rid of 90 percent of my stuff before I relocated. Now I have three suitcases, five boxes, and various technology devices to my name, and an apartment to fill. Here’s the thing: I don’t want to fill this thankfully small apartment, but there are some things I do need. My list always starts with a can opener, a hammer, and some nails. What are your apartment essentials? Keep reading »
This November, I’m moving in with my boyfriend, and it will be my third time living with a significant other. Needless to say, the first two times didn’t work out. At 22, my first love moved into my already furnished apartment; we split soon after. Later, at 25, my ex and I signed a lease for a one-bedroom in upper Manhattan. We had basically no furniture, so we embarked on an adventure to the Ikea in Paramus, New Jersey. That was the beginning of our demise. Keep reading »
Over the weekend, my husband and I moved from our cramped, rundown, one-bedroom apartment near crowded Times Square in Manhattan, to a spacious, gut-rehabbed, state-of-the-art two-bedroom brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street in Brooklyn. To say I’m happier in the new place would be an understatement. It’s as if I’d eaten McDonald’s hamburgers — not even cheeseburgers or Big Macs or Quarter Pounders, but regular ol’ tiny, boring, junk-food hamburgers — at every meal for the last several years and now I’m suddenly sitting down to delicious, nutritious, home-cooked meals of the finest cuts of meat and freshest veggies whenever I’m hungry. It wasn’t easy getting from one place to another though, both literally and metaphorically. It was a long time coming, and in the weeks leading up to the move — the very first move Drew and I have ever made together — I wondered if we’d even make it to our first wedding anniversary next month. Few things in life challenge a relationship quite like moving does, but I’m happy to report we survived the hurdle. Keep reading »