I moved somewhere new.
I move every three or four years because it divides life up into nice clean parcels; drawers of calendar dates to file away the past like it happened to somebody else. Plus, starting over in a new place makes me feel alive: Where does this street go? What’s the shortest route to the grocery store? Who lives next door?
Actually, though! I’m feeling a little bit like a baboon heart. My house is large and cavernous, even though I try to find furniture at estate sales. Every weekend I tiptoe across purple carpeting to audition the bedroom chairs of dead John Birchers, only to get poked in the ass by wicker shards. We don’t have a Trader Joe’s or a movie theatre. My next-door neighbor leaves his blinds open at night:
There’s one other lesbian under 40 living by herself in this family/retiree neighborhood; a police officer who takes her K-9 home with her every night. I walked over there with a cheese bread, a scone, and my phone number, but guess what, she’s one of those dykes who thinks she passes and therefore won’t be seen with someone who doesn’t.
You can spot her from a hundred feet.
I am Mopey McSulkersons right now, but I promise to leave the house this week and have a story for you at the end of it.