I know, I know, it's been over a month since I've posted. Believe me, I would love to be keeping you all updated, in the most comical way possible, on how miserable being a Tour Widow is.

But a lot happened this April. A LOT.

I'll keep my list of excuses short, but give it to you nonetheless:
1-My grandmother took a turn for the worst. She's been in and out of facilities since January, but at the end of March she was moved to Hospice. The first weekend of April, I flew down to AZ to visit her one last time. She improved during and after my visit and was moved out of Hospice. I got a call Thursday night, that she's been moved back again.
2-I'm working two jobs. Which, while Future Husband is here, isn't so bad. But with him gone, I feel like he took half my brain with him. I'm miserable, lonely, and all I want to do is sleep. But when I crawl into bed alone, all I can think about is how much I miss him, and that keeps me awake.
3-We're moving. We've been looking for an apartment since February, but it's ridiculously difficult for many reasons. What little free time I have between work and trying to sleep has been sucked up by the fruitless search. (Oh, I have such tales to tell.) We finially found a place yesterday, right as we were starting to get desperate.
4-Our Roommate got picked up by Bounty Hunters. No joke. I wasn't able to post on my blog all about my roommate drama, because she was always online, always reading my blog, always commenting on my facebook. Now that she's in jail, I can say all the things I've been wanting to say. You, dear readers, will get quite a lot to read on this subject.

But that will be at a later date. I have to finish packing up the crappy Roomie's stuff, find her pets new homes, finish packing up my stuff, move it all into our new home (by myself), and somehow still find the time for two jobs and sleep. And maybe flying to AZ for a funeral.

Wish me luck.

When we awoke from our well deserved nap, we joined my family upstairs (my Mom works swing shift and gets off at 11:30pm) for spaghetti and softball sized meatballs. Those made amazing meatball subs the next day, lemme tell ya. We were still pretty tired, even after a six hour nap, so crashed in the wee hours, along with the rest of the household.

The family cat had kittens in late April, so we enjoyed those for a bit before bed. My hairy, rock star of a Boyfriend playing with kittens is a precious sight. When we woke after another ten hours of sleep (so, so nice) we went upstairs into the main house for breakfast, thankfully spared from a ginormous feast. Instead, we had cereal and toast. My father is Italian, and my mother is Irish. So feeding house guests is one of their hobbies. Seriously. Every friend I've ever had, even if they're only friendly acquaintances, knows that Lori's parents will always feed you, insist on a second helping, and send you home with leftovers. I warned my parents a week before we flew out there (when they called and asked me to email a list of the meals we wanted during the visit) that we'd need to slowly stretch our stomachs back out, especially so soon after tour. When we stopped there for two nights (right after Easter) I was sure our stomachs were going to burst. A la pigeons and alka seltzer. Luckily, the 'rents took it easy on us for this most recent Tulsa trip.

Sunday we spent as nerds. We sat in my parents' basement, drank a 12 pack of Mountain Dew White Out, and played video games (Boyfriend breaking in his brand new PS3, and I reunited with my beloved Sims 3).

Monday we went down to the tattoo parlor and got corresponding/matching tattoos. Neither of us are newcomers to the ink world; this was his fourth and my fifth. When I got my most recent tattoo (about two weeks after we became a couple) we both lamented that we wanted more tattoos. I suggested that we go down and get tattooed together, on the same day. All but one of my tattoos were group outings. The idea sounds a bit trivial, but I think it's a fun way to bond with people. The idea stuck. A few weeks later, as we were discussing what we wanted for our next tattoos, I suggested corresponding tattoos. Personally, I think it's bad luck to get a lover's name or likeness inked. It's a jinx. In fact, Boyfriend has Crazy Ex #1's name on his upper arm inside a heart. GAG. My suggestion was to get art we already wanted individually in the same session. I've been wanting a black bird or an owl for quite a while now, and Boyfriend's always been a huge fan of the coelacanth. (He's a weird one. That's why I love him.) And I've always loved that old saying, 'If a bird and a fish fell in love, where would they make their home?' It rang especially true as our unrequited love become requited after five long years, when we lived 2,000 miles apart. When I posed this idea to Boyfriend, he said, "Who knew the answer would be, 'In a van'?"

So in April when we passed through Tulsa briefly, we decided we go down and make an appointment with an artist. Two days before we were set to do so, Boyfriend and I were discussing it and he said, "You know, I've been thinking about getting a dime tattooed someday."

The few of you that know us both really well and/or had to suffer through the aforementioned five years of unrequited love/torture, know the significance of the dime. My parents said at our wedding they're not going to throw rice or confetti, they're going to throw dimes. I told them that would really hurt and be a waste of $100. Long story short (and perhaps I'll blog about this later on), dimes have been a running joke between Boyfriend and I since the Great Dime Diving Night in December of 2004.

Boyfriend's been reading The Golden Bough for a while now (he's almost done!), and oak trees have taken on significance for him. So he decided that he wanted the tails side of the dime. I, of course, immediately thought, 'We haven't decided on what kind of design we want for our bird/fish tattoos, so I'll just get heads.'



The rest of our time in Tulsa was spent with The Bestest and my family, going on outings, having great family dinners, playing board games until the wee hours of the morning, watching movies, smoking hookah (No pot ever! Ew! Gross! Ick!), visiting my favorite bars and restaurants and putting off packing. Oh, and video games. Did I mention that Boyfriend and I killed five 12 packs of Mountain Dew White Out while he played Grand Theft Auto IV and I played The Sims 3? Yeah. We're a match made in nerd heaven.

When the big day came and it was finally time for us to load up my car, I quickly packed the piles of belongings into boxes (we'd take breaks from video games to stretch and sort a few things) while Boyfriend used his developed car packing talent (from years of loading and unloading musical equipment into cars of various sizes) to expertly put all of my things in my little baby SUV. We said goodbye to my mom and The Bestest (the brothers and Dad were out buying my youngest brother's first car.) I congratulated myself on not crying as we drove away.

It really was the best way for me to move out. Two week visits punctuated the six months we were forced to have a long distance relationship. Then we had tour, so I was on a BO scented musical adventure. Even with tour, I got to visit my family. So it was like weaning myself off of my very close knit family. It helped both me and the parental unit, I think.

We got a much later start than we had originally intended, partly because I put off serious packing until my last day (still though, it only took twenty minutes), and partly because I was dreading the moment I said my final goodbyes to the Fam, but mostly because Boyfriend and I decided we wanted to get a good night's sleep before we drove 2,000 miles in 3 days.

We stopped at Spangles (one of the regional highlights of tour) for dinner, even though we had originally intended it to be breakfast. After an uneventful, mostly dark drive, we arrived in Denver a little after 2:00am, and met up with one of my oldest friends to stay at his place. (On a side note, isn't it crazy how friends and family are scattered as we grow older?) We slept on his floor for four hours, then woke up to share a French Press worth of coffee and giant muffin with him before he had to leave for rugby practice and we had to hit the road again.



We planned to stop in Cheyenne for lunch, but the interstate only had fast food to offer, and we were craving Chinese something fierce.So we continued on through the bottom of Wyoming (a truly, painfully boring drive) until we hit Laramie. We saw a billboard advertising a Thai place, and decided to stop there. Unfortunately, we both neglected to remember the exit number. And Laramie has like, two exits, five miles apart. That's only a tiny exaggeration. We decided to pull off the highway for gas, and let the google search on my phone find enough of signal to function. As luck would have it, there was a Chinese Buffet across the street from the gas station. Unfortunately for me, there was absolutely nothing green on the buffet line that wasn't battered and deep friend. I'd had my heart set on some beef and broccoli... but alas. At least their wrapped chicken was so tasty it made up for the lack of vegetables.

Later we stopped at some of the weirdest little gas stations and truck stops we've ever been to. (And we've been to a lot.) One was in a tiny place called Point of Rocks where we got or giant sodas for free. I don't know if it's because we were probably the only tattooed and long haired people she'd ever seen, or if it was because she knew how horribly mixed their soda fountain was. We weren't able to drink the soda (almost entirely syrup and flat), but threw them out at another little truck stop that used propaganda type ads as advertising. A weird little place called Little America. It was like a tiny, manufactured city of a truck stop. They did, however, have the cleanest, nicest bathroom I've ever seen on the side of an interstate. Leather sofas in the waiting area of the womens restroom, floor to ceiling walls and doors on every (very spacious) toilet stall. It was a little oasis of cleanliness, which was much appreciated, even as Stepford-creepy as it was.

We drove on again, pushing ourselves to make it to Salt Lake City before nightfall, wanting to hit a Golden Corral (Boyfriend had never been, and it's one of those hokey things I simply adore) before we turned in for the night. Make up for our deep fried Chinese lunch with a salad and plate of vegetables.

Just as we thought we were going to go crazy from the boring, beige scenery that is Wyoming (Seriously, it's worse than Kansas and both Dakotas.), we crossed the state line. Almost instantly, there were trees, and green things, and real mountains. It was like Utah had given the corner of the land it didn't want to Wyoming. We were weaving through gorgeous mountain valleys that looked like something from a model train layout.

The hotel we splurged on that night was not anything to write home about. In fact, it's long hallways and single painting made it a bit creepy. There was a frame every ten or so feet, but they each had the exact same print in them. A lonely looking pink and gold chair sitting in a sea of white negative space. We decided (after a shower) that we'd hit a Golden Corral in Idaho on the way back home, and we'd just eat in the restaurant in the lobby. The thing that really stood out about this hotel, and made it a super enjoyable stay for us, was the bed. For once, I'm not being pervy. It was honestly the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in. It was a California King, which at 5'11" and 6'3" we appreciate more than short people will ever understand. We fell asleep after watching a movie. I woke four hours later, certain I'd slept through our alarm because I was so rested. I've never been happier to fall back asleep.

The drive from Salt Lake City to Seattle is 14 hours. We stopped at a Golden Corral in Boise, and stuffed ourselves. Boyfriend mostly on barbecue, and I mostly on Caesar salad and macaroni and cheese. We tried not to fall asleep as we drove through beautiful parts of Oregon. They were so picturesque it made me long for my camera, which was securely tucked away in the back. Unfortunately.

We stopped in Washington at the first open gas station. Oregon is one of two states that does not have self service gas stations. You are not allowed to pump your own gas. You have to stay in the car, while some junkie or redneck collects your payment and does it for you. The problem with this is not so much the inconvenience of not being self sufficient, but being nocturnal, or being stuck in Oregon at night when no gas stations are open. Grateful to finally be in our home state, we happily gassed up the car, got ourselves the biggest cups of coffee they had, and those little 5 Hour Energy shots. (Which are essentially vitamin B overdoses.)

It was a long trek, and by the time we got to the prettiest parts of Washington (the mountain passes between the eastern side of the state and the sound) it was pitch black, and raining. I was wired on energy drinks, desperately needed to pee, and became convinced that one of the truckers that kept speeding past me or riding up on my tail was actually trying to kill me. Seriously. Why else would someone who drives professionally be going 90mph on a winding mountain pass at 3:00am in the rain? Homicide seemed logical at the time.

We finally rolled back into our own driveway about 3:30am (unmurdered by crazy truckers), went promptly to our room, and collapsed into sleep.

Boyfriend and I moved into our awesome new place on the 12th of May, and on the 15th, caught a plane back to Tulsa. We were going to visit for two weeks, all the while packing the rest of my transportable things. The trek back to Seattle would be a three day drive. 2,000 miles in three days. We're professionals by now.

Friday night (May 14th) we went out to the guys' show, and had a jolly good time. The guys got to play with one of their buddy bands, so we knew it was going to be a good show. Right before the guys went up on stage, Boyfriend and D gave me their drink tickets, so that I could get them a shot of Fireball Whiskey. It's a cinnamon flavored whiskey. It's amazing. Every time I drink it, I think of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey from Harry Potter, and it makes me smile.



Later on during their set, I approached the bar only to see a sizable line. I asked an older man in an Hawaiian shirt if it was 'the line for beer.' He looked at my face briefly, but his eyes quickly fell a few inches lower, where most mens usually do, and he said, "I'll buy you that beer."

It was pretty obvious from his slurred speech that he was already three thousand sheets to the wind. I smiled and said, "Thanks, but I'm getting beer for my boyfriend and his band mates."

Still staring at my chest, he said, "I'll buy them beer, too."

And he did. He bought us a pitcher of Guinness, put a cigarette in his mouth and said, "I'm gonna go outside and smoke. Bring me a pint, will you?" I thanked him, got our pitcher and cups, and poured four out before I poured his. Shitty of me, I know, but he was old enough to be my father and he was staring down my shirt pretty steadily for a full minute. So yeah, I made sure me and my guys got beer first.

He'd also thrown down $30 for one pitcher of Guinness. The bartender made change, handed it to me, and I tipped him $3. He seemed confused, as well. When I brought Drunky McOldman his beer, I tried to give him his change. He told me (in the aforementioned slurred speech) that he'd left the extra $18 as a tip for the bartender, since they were taking care of his car keys for him. I told him I'd tipped the bartenders, but I could go back and give them the rest if he wanted me to. He told me to buy us all more beer.

So halfway through the show my guys not only got the cinnamon whiskey they were expecting, but two pitchers of beer they weren't. It was a very happy surprise. I even splurged later and treated Boyfriend and myself to a whiskey and coke while we were waiting for the buddy band to play (my guys played first, they played last.) It was during this time that Boyfriend and I spotted a time traveler. He was quite obviously someone from the 1880's, coming into the future, just to play pinball.



We watched him for the better part of half an hour, and all he ever did was play pinball. No drinking, no smoking, no socializing. Just pinball. Now, the reason he was so fascinating (and why I'm so disappointed in the poor quality of the cell phone picture), is how he was dressed. His hair was combed and slicked to the side, and his mustache was impressive. Not quite Sam Elliot impressive, but still. He was wearing a white shirt with billowing sleeves, suspenders, a form fitting vest (complete with pocket watch chain), and a belt with an empty holster. He had loose fitting cotton pants tucked into black boots. Even his posture seemed out of place. The only conclusion Boyfriend and I could come to was that he must have been a time traveler. After a defeat that had visibly angered him, he checked his pocket watch, and walked outside. Back to his Tardis, I guess.

The buddy band played later and the guys watched with great enthusiasm. The thrashing around in the mosh pit kind. Okay, that was all Boyfriend. I stood in the back of the room by the sound booth, watching the crowd carefully to make sure none of my guys took an elbow to the face. Even with my careful eye on them, Boyfriend took a bad gouge to the eye, which resulted in a pretty wicked red mark that lasted throughout our entire Tulsa visit.



After the show we went back to G's house, and quickly packed the rest of our things. We borrowed the Ogre for the first trip, and took Boyfriend's car on the second. I had packed our suitcase (we shared one again, just like tour) before the show, so we didn't have to worry about that. We unloaded the perishable food from the car, grabbed the suitcase, and started for the bus station (which is delightfully nearby.) Our plane was scheduled to leave at 9:35, and the bus would drop us at the airport at 8:17, according to the schedule. We stopped at the grocery store to get cash back for the bus fare, and still made it to the station with time to spare. The bus arrived on time, we climbed aboard, and the driver looked at our suitcase and asked, "Airport?"

We took a seat behind the driver, and the bus lurched into motion. We drove through a little bit of downtown Burien, then through a residential area. Within a few minutes, we were driving past the back side of the airport (employee parking, hangers with dismembered planes, etc.) I was looking for the bus stop, but didn't see any of the public side of the airport. Soon we were passing hotels and restaurants. I thought, 'All right, any minute now it'll be our stop.'

Then suddenly, we were back in a residential area. Boyfriend and I were ridiculously tired (we'd been awake for about 20 hours, which included a show for him, and lots of moving of our/his possessions.) So it was understandable that we weren't on our A-game. I checked my phone for the time, and saw that it was 8:26; nine minutes past our scheduled stop time at the airport. I walked up to the driver to ask him, and he stopped his conversation with the pretty jogger that was sitting in the front most seat.

"Oh, no. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord," he said. He pulled over to the side of the road just then (no bus stop in sight) and handed me two transfers. He told us to cross the street, which bus number we needed to look for, and told us which exit to take once we were on it. Boyfriend and I were spacey and tired (and enjoying people watching too much), and the bus driver was too busy getting his flirt on. Neither party acknowledged our mutual errors. Instead, we simply thanked him, and crossed the street.

I called my dad, explained what happened, and asked him to look up the bus schedule for us. Before he could navigate the site, the bus had arrived. Exactly twenty minutes later, Boyfriend and I got off at the hotel and restaurant saturated bus stop. The airport itself was across the street, behind a train station and airport parking. With less than half an hour to go, we began to run. I know for a fact that some of my habitual readers are 'endowed' with the same 'gifts' that I have. You will sympathize when I tell you that Santiago y Diego were not 'strapped in' for running. I had to jog carefully to keep myself from becoming indecent.

When we finally got into the airport itself, we saw the baggage check line for Southwest wrapping back and forth within it's elastic maze. We'd planned on checking our bag, but luckily it was the smaller of our two suitcases, designed to be carried on. With fifteen minutes to go, we bypassed the baggage check and headed straight for security. Boyfriend wasn't even out of breath. I, however, was frantically removing my shoes, and putting my laptop, bag and purse into their own bins, all while trying to figure out how I could rearrange the bald Cubans in my shirt in a discreet manner to relieve myself of my severe case of quadraboob.



Discretion was impossible, since airport security is pretty much paid to look at you. As we were putting everything back in place (except my chest), one of the security guys informed us that our bag needed to be searched.

I knew instantly it was because of some of our toiletries. Sure enough, it was explained to us that we could check our bag, or they could throw away our toiletries, or we could fill out paperwork to have it mailed to us or picked up from the airport at a later date. Considering it was a $3 bottle of hair detangler (Boyfriend and I go through about a gallon a week) and a $5 tub of old lady cold cream, and our plane was going to take off in less than 15 minutes, I tried to hurry the meek little security guy along. He verified twice that we were okay with our toiletries being thrown away before giving us our bag and sending us on our way.

Strangely enough, they let me carry on a super sharp pair of scissors....

Shoes tied, bags slung over shoulders, we started jogging again towards our gate. Which of course, was the very last gate in the terminal. Surprisingly, we weren't the last people on the plane. An old couple we ran past boarded after us, and then a family of five. Still, Boyfriend and I didn't get to sit next to each other on our first flight together. (Grrr!) People didn't even move for the family of five, whose three boys all looked younger than school age. The flight crew even offered free alcohol to people if they would move for the family, but no one did.

Boyfriend was sitting across the aisle from me, doing his best to distract me from how terrified I am of flying. Once the flight attendants had us all strapped in and explained how to survive a crash and taken their seats again for take off, Boyfriend turned in his seat and held my hand.

Luckily, it was a very smooth take off and landing. The flying part doesn't bother me. It's actually pretty cool. But leaving the ground and finding it again scare the shit out of me. We had a short layover in St. Louis, and Boyfriend treated me to ludicrously expensive airport Burger King.

We got to sit next to each other on our very short jaunt from St. Louis to Tulsa, thankfully. Our only legitimate complaint with this flight was the fact that no snacks were served, due to a passenger having a severe peanut allergy. So severe I don't even get my Chips Ahoy 100 calorie snack? You jerk. I'd be angrier, but I'm pretty sure that passenger was the two year old sitting in front of me that I was flirting with/making faces at/playing peek-a-boo with during taxiing.

We landed in Tulsa, and my Brother greeted us at the airport. We didn't have to wait at baggage claim, so headed straight back to my parents' house for a well earned nap before my Mom got off work, and my parents began their ritualistic stuffing of Boyfriend and I with awesome food.

Today was spent doing the last minute, hectic cleaning and errand running that usually occupy the day before I leave. Yes, I leave Thursday, not tomorrow. But tomorrow will be spent visiting my student one last time, getting my hair done and then running around wondering what it is I've forgotten. Even with my infamous to-do lists, I always feel like I've forgotten something. Last time what I forgot was the grocery list. Not a big deal, but still. I had forgetten something.

Tonight, however, was the last time I made dinner for my family, and probably the last time I'll make a meal for more than two people for a few months. I love cooking and baking, so to only cook for two people will be a bit of a challenge.

My family is made up of foodies. We use pretty much any excuse we can to make a nice, elaborate meal. This morning (technically early afternoon) when I came upstairs into the house, my dad was in the kitchen. The first thing he asked me was, "Hey, Kiddo. What do you want for dinner tonight? It's probably going to be your last home cooked meal for a while."

It struck me then that it was the last time I'd have dinner with my whole family before I moved out. Sure, Boyfriend and I will be back for a few weeks after tour, and a few weeks in the fall, but it won't be the same. I'll be visiting. So I started thinking about what I wanted to have for dinner, and the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to cook.

The first thing that came to mind was homemade creamed corn. It's something my dad came up with years and years ago, since I loved it, and the family's general consensus was the canned creamed corn was shit. I learned how to make it years and years ago, and it's still one of my favorite things. I mean, it's gravy with corn in it. It doesn't get much better than that.

Then I thought about other sides, I mean, it was a natural progression. Since I was coming to the conclusion that I wanted to make dinner, I've been wanting to make garlic mashed potatoes for a while now. Then I realized how heavy that would be. Rich potatoes, gravy with another starch in it... so needed something green. Grilled asparagus... Grilled zucchini... yessss.

The meat was the last thing. Boyfriend and I both love beef, so that's the usual meat portion of our meals. When I voiced this to my dad (I have a habit of thinking out loud) he offered pork chops with applesauce stuffing. We'd had that a little less than two weeks ago, so I opted out of it. Then I thought of chicken. I'd only made chicken once since I'd gotten back from Seattle, and there was a recipe that had been floating around in my head for a honey mustard chicken.

So yes, I made a ton of scrumdiddlyupmptious food. And we all gorged. It was marvelous.

We watched American Idol, played armchair quarterback and bullied the girls that weren't as good as Angela Martin. Then we put on one of our favorite food porn movies. You know, those movies about restaurants or chefs that show gloriously lit shots of the food being prepared and served, and the actors moaning and rolling their eyes back into their heads when they take the first bite. Yeah. That's the kind of movie we watched. And the kind of dinner we ate. There would be times when everyone would be talking, and suddenly, silence would fall. You could maybe hear the sound of chewing.

Glorious, marvelous night.

One week, can you believe it? I move away in one week to live with my fella and tour with his band as their merch girl/band aide/webmistress. I start my adventure in one week!



If all it took to get magical woodland creatures to pack all my shit and clean my apartment was letting them see a little peek up my skirt, I would totally do it.

Wow, that went so fast.

Today is the three week mark. Three weeks from now I'll be flying on a one way ticket to Seattle. I have 21 days left to do what I want to do. 21 days to cook dinner with my father, to laugh at stupid television shows with my brothers, to discuss quirky historical facts with my mother. 21 days to spend as much time as possible with my soul-sister. Seriously. The universe sent me to Oklahoma just to cross paths with her. Knowing her has made me a better person. I'm so lucky to have met her.

I was looking at the various states of unpack my apartment is in right now. There are some boxes sitting open, most of their contents out on book shelves, some of them have even been topped off with other items. A good deal of boxes are still packed, unopened, tape undisturbed. A very few are from the move from the house I grew up in, back in Arizona. Those boxes have been taped up for five years.

When the house burned down, we started over with only the clothes on our backs. Literally. We kept a few things, but thirteen years later they still smell vaguely of smoke. From both a material and emotional perspective, we got to start over entirely new. We had everything taken away from us, but we got to choose what we built our lives up with. Furniture, clothing, toys, books, movies, bed sheets, socks. Everything was new, and everything new was chosen; controlled. It was the best way to turn a tragedy we had no way of preventing, into something positive.

Two years ago we lost everything again. This time to financial ruin. It had been a long, downward spiral, but we saw the terrible end coming, and decided to get out while the gettin' was good. We did a sort of materialistic triage. Suddenly the eleven years of things we had built back up had to be prioritized. Did we really need those sentimental trinkets? Those bookcases full of books? How often do we play those board games? Use our special occasion dishes? With the move halfway across the country we were forced to fit our lives into one moving truck. Which was more important - the couch or the piano? The piano bench or three more boxes? It was all about what we needed, not what we wanted.

This upcoming move is almost exactly the opposite. Sure, I need clothes. But that's pretty much the only necessity. Over the next three weeks I have to choose what I want to take with me. Which books do I want to take with me? Which guitars? Which movies? Which furniture? I am not being forced to take anything with me. Not even clothes. Though, with my history of upper respiratory infections, I should probably not be a nudist in the Northwest.

No, with this move, starting over for the third time, I'm completely in control. I'm not backed into a corner, or thrust into a new situation unwillingly. I decided to drastically change my living situation. It's completely voluntary, and that control is so very liberating.

What might turn out to be the nicest part is all of the stuff I can choose not to take with me. I recently read a terribly depressing Cracked.com article about mistakes your brain makes when it comes to money. One of the things listed was the Disposition Effect. Basically the 'gatherer' portion of our hunter/gatherer instinct. Thanks technology, for advancing faster than we can reproduce and let our brains and society evolve! For me, this move means I can get rid of a bunch of things I don't actually need. I did a lot of that with the Phoenix-Tulsa move, but I can do even more now. Granted, I'll probably end up leaving a couple (i.e. - dozen) boxes with my parents for now, with the furniture I'm not taking with me, but I also know I can get rid of some things. Like that pair of size 10 jeans I kept around as my thinspiration. They're not ever going to fit me. I'm genetically predestined to be a big girl, and I like food. 10 is just never going to happen. But I'm okay with that now (thanks for finding me sexually appealing, Darling!). Actually come to think of it, I can probably just give him those pants. He likes wearing girl pants. I consider it an endearing quirk. Really, what I need to do is clean out all of the items that bog down my thinking process, as well as occupy my residence. It will be nice to unload some of my mental clutter. I'm starting a new life, I might as well try to go into it with a clean mental slate.

I, of all people, can testify that you don't usually get an opportunity to change your life because you want to. It's usually not a pleasant situation. It's usually something as tragic and dreadful as the first two pressings of my life's reset button. Months, years ago even, when I pictured where I would be in two, five, or ten years, it was not "2,000 miles away from my immediate family and closest friends." But I can't deny myself an opportunity like this. I would regret it for the rest of my life. I'm taking a year off to write, so why not go for the whole shebang? Why not throw in risking everything for love? He isn't perfect, but he's perfect for me. What we have is pretty rare, and I can't walk away from that. It may seem like a crazy thing to do, but the one thing I know, is that even if everything falls apart spectacularly, I won't regret it. So far the few things in my life I regret are the things I didn't do. And honestly, I don't think I have anything to worry about. To be where we are today with the bumpy history we have, is proof that we can tackle anything that comes our way.

I think I'm going to blog for the next twenty days. It'll be good for me. Therapeutic and motivational. And it'll give me a nice, meaty base for this new blog.