There have been requests from the blogosphere (Hi, Cassie!) and other random sources for me to please explain the story of how and why I moved from San Francisco to New York with a six-month layover in New Orleans in between.
OK. No problem. For those who know me personally and are familiar with the story, feel free to move along. You're probably sick of hearing it by now. For those who don't know me personally and are unfamiliar with the story, buckle in. It's going to be a bumpy ride.
So. Here we go.
After a complicated and convoluted initial twenty years of existence (another story for another time) I moved from Long Island, NY to New Orleans, Louisiana in 1996, found my Shangri-La, and remained there in a state of delirious bliss, my days and nights filled with music and dancing, great booze and even better food, family and friends, love and laughter.
After nine-ish years or so, I began to grow weary of my familiar bliss, car-jackings on my corner, murders twenty feet from my front door. Yes, quite literally. Twenty feet from my front doorstep.
So I began a search for a new home.
I wandered, as I always had, but this time with a purpose in mind. Trying to find the next stop. Quite frankly, the rest of the country left me cold. Nothing seemed right. Until I went to San Francisco.
Oh, San Francisco! She was so sexy, so smart. Gorgeous, truly stunning, natural beauty everywhere. She really had her shit together, too. I heard that all of the restaurants offered health insurance, and then someone mentioned medical marijuana delivery and I was sold.
So I moved there, got the best job I have ever had, and unfortunately discovered that the douchebag-to-cool-person ratio is painfully skewed in the wrong direction. Again, remind me to tell you the story about The Incident With The Jumper Cables someday. Please let me say, however, that what I miss the most about San Francisco is without a doubt the amazing, incredible, brilliant, talented, generous and beautiful friends I made there. But in general, San Francisco and I, we just didn't see eye to eye.
So for four and a half years I struggled and tried to be happy in a city I really wasn't happy in and went to visit New Orleans on a constant basis and did my best to enjoy living in San Francisco and tried to make a square peg fit in a round hole and then I broke my knee in Peru. This was about a year ago. I was down for the count, out of work for several months. While I was recovering, I had all the time in the world to think and travel and visit home (New Orleans) and realize WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?!?! I miss New Orleans, my family, my friends, my life, my joy, it's all there, what the fuck am I doing in San Francisco, living half a life, laughing only half my laughter, crying way too many tears?
So, while on a knee recovery visit to my beloved New Orleans, I made the decision that I would move back. I tied up my loose ends, made some calls to San Francisco, told my job I wasn't coming back. Gave notice to my apartment manager and room mate. The decision was made, the deal was done.
Three days later, I got a phone call saying that my mother was dead. Seems she jumped off the roof of an apartment building in Manhattan on Christmas Eve. As a matter of fact, I was sitting right here when I got the call.
By the way, here I should probably mention that until that day, I had no idea where my mother was or what she was doing with her life. For twenty-three years, I had only a vague clue where the woman was. Suspected she was in Manhattan. Didn't know for sure. Again, another story for another time.
Turns out Mom owned an apartment in a co-op building in New York City. Turns out she did pretty well for herself, in a round-about way. Turns out the apartment was paid for, cash. No mortgage due. Lucky me.
There was no will, I'm the only heir, by default it goes to me. Maintenance fees are due each month, at what amounts to a very affordable price, by NY standards. So logically, it made sense for me to move in.
Regardless of the fact that I was in the middle of moving back to my beloved Nouvelle Orléans. Nevermind that I was about to go to lots of trouble and spend a bunch of money dragging all my shit halfway across the country. Forget that New Orleans was welcoming me home with arms wide open.
I had some things to think about.
Like I said, my move from SF to New Orleans was already in motion when I got the news, and initially it was all such a mess that I needed a minute to figure things out. Where better than home, surrounded by friends and family, loved ones? I packed up my shit, drove across the country, went to New Orleans, went to work, and starting thinking.
I decided to move to New York.
Regardless of how happy I was. Nevermind that my day to day life was so fulfilling I really thought I was crazy for leaving. Forget the fact that I had just (finally) met an amazing Sweetheart that put me on a pedestal, treated me like a queen and made me scream so loud in the sack I forgot other men even existed.
New York just seemed like the right thing to do.
So I packed up my shit, (again) and drove across the country (again) and moved my ass up to New York.
Here I am. I just got here. Don't even have a job yet. We'll see what happens. I'm sure it will all be fine. I'm actually getting on a plane to New Orleans tomorrow morning. Just a visit. Only a week. Had a ticket with Southwest I had to use up before the tenth. I figured, where else but home? Go dancing, visit Sweetheart. Eat some gumbo. Ride down by the river one last heartbreaking time.
Hmm. That makes, what? I've been gone eighteen days? Eighteen days and I'm already salivating, scratching, clawing, foaming at the mouth, chomping at the bit, dying to get home? How long will I make it in New York? A year? Two, three, five? Who's taking bets?
Sorry. I know I promised you a short story. But it was, really. It could have been much longer. Trust me. You want the long version? Really? Send me an email. Make sure you've got time to spare...