Walkaways

Two years ago today, I asked my children to leave everything they ever knew behind, again, follow us somewhere none of us had ever seen, again, and lay down the seeds of an entirely new life. Again. Two years ago, we opened the door to this house, held our breath, and stepped into come what may.

Where are you from they ask me, these new people I’m constantly having to learn. I can never figure out if they mean where I was born, or where I was the person that I used to be, or where I became this person I am now, or where I last lived, or where I would go if I had the choice?

I have no idea where I am from.

I am cheap ground beef.

I keep telling my children that some people go their entire lives in the same place, with the same people, living the same lives until they die, but they...oh, they! They have lived in countries, plural. They have seen things, touched lives, loved and been loved in return, I tell them, and they will be richer people for it.

I’m not certain any of us actually believe that anymore.

My children have a amassed an army of friends that reaches across the width and breadth of this continent. I lied about my kids ages so they could have Facebook accounts to feel connected all their Denverite and Canadian friends who's parents lied about their ages, too, and I don't regret it for a second, but I also don't think for one second that it will be enough.

What I don't want my kids to ever learn is that having all of those people out there in the ether, just out of reach, only serves to reinforce just how alone you really are. That every time you leave someone behind, the hole that is left in you is never big enough for someone new to fill. I watch my children play out front with the friends they are making here. They play basketball and build skateboard ramps and catch disgusting toads and ride bikes and talk about girls until well past dark. I smile because I think they can look at those kids and see their future. I am so terrified for the day that they look at their friends and think what I think: it's just a matter of time before you're just someone we're going to have to remember.

Are you making friends there they ask me, those people whom I've spent my entire life leaving. Well, there is that one  I say, not knowing how to tell them that I don't think I can anymore.

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.

Whuuu?

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.