Ever since I visited London last year, I’ve become obsessed with moving there. I loved everything about it: the history, the people, the food, the fashion, the TV shows about medical oddities. And the toffee pudding? My god, the toffee pudding! I live in Portland right now, which definitely has its charms (many of which are lampooned on “Portlandia” every week), but lately I’ve found myself spending much of my free time plotting and scheming ways to relocate to London. I’m wondering–what city do you dream about? Where would you live if you could live anywhere? Or do you already live in the perfect place?
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 »