Move Is A Four Letter Word

For those of you not particularly versed in my brand of convoluted double-speak, I'm not in Canada anymore.

It's not so much that I got kicked out, per se, as it is that I was asked to hold up my end of a rather large, life altering bargain. That bargain was that as long as my husband was gainfully employed in Socialist, Pot Smoking Gay Loving, Insuring Everyone Canada, we could live and work there. Once his work visa failed to be valid, for whatever reason, we'd agreed in official black ball point ink to vacate the country within 30 days. His visa became unvalidedadated on October 10th. And we hadn't started finishing our applications for permanent residency, so here we are. In the land of milk and honey. The promised land. The land of tolerance and acceptance, unless you have much better sex then all the straight, fat white dudes. Then fuck you.

Where we are isn't important yet, because we're not anywhere yet. We're in the middle of one of thoseextended-stay hotels in the middle of some big city we don't know. We don't have an address yet. We don't have anything yet, except the suitcases we brought with us containing enough clothes and Axe body spray to get us through the next few weeks. And a bunch of towels. Because I'd left 2 towels out for after the people took all our crap away on the vans, which was rather clever of me, so woot, except that I'd checked the dryer before they left with my life in 4X4 boxes, but not the washer, so I got to bring with me an entire load of bath towels, which I don't even want to know how long they sat in that washer.

But some guy named Kevin is driving a rather large van in my direction, and should be here within a week, 10 days max, and he seems like a stand up guy and I certainly hope h is because he's got my car, my china, my Mac and my Lady of Perpetual Hor D'ourves, which is admittedly more important to me than my wedding photos, in which I am the same weight I came in at yesterday fatter than I've ever been in my whole life.

The hotel has a fitness room. I've walked through it 5 times. Baby steps.

I'd left out a bunch of DVD's and the Wii to bring with us, because 800 square feet is really damn big until you put 5 people, who all like to fart, in it. Of course, once the house was empty and we were signing, literally, our life away on a van lines form, we realized they'd packed the Wii and the DVD's. Why? Because on the bottom of that contract, near the dotted line, were in big block letters, VIP ACCOUNT.


I asked the Kevin dude what that was all about and he said, I dunno, but there it is, and I said, well shit, yo, I guess I should have gone slightly fancier than the box of Happy Meals I brought over for lunch, and we all scratched our butts together for a minute and then he was gone with my very VIP Ikea bedroom furniture and my insanely fancy VIP 4 year old Target wardrobe.

And here we are, bored off our butts, with only the fucking scary as piss movies we bought the kids to watch on Halloween because there's not exactly a good amount of trick or treating to be done in the middle of a corporate extended stay hotel somewhere in the industrial sector of America, and a bunch of new cell phones which were a brilliant purchase if you're not above buying your children off after totally fucking their lives, but not so brilliant in the you have to spend 2 1/2 weeks in an 800 sq foot extended-stay hotel room with 3 antsy kids and two very loud, very much so texting all day and night cell phones.

Pray for me people.