Do you know why? I’m moving, and I won’t be ON the internet for three days. I know some of you would have been thinking “I wonder where that weird lame blogger went.” so I wanted to inform you that my [indeed] lame ass will be sweating as I unpack a zillion boxes in our new casa. I HATE moving. I’m going to have to come back and clean our apartment sometime during the week when I hand over the keys to the castle because as I’m packing up our lives I realize that yes, what my husband says is true, I’m pretty much a huge slob. There’s dust bunnies the size of cats floating around here, and I’m glad my daughter is at Grandma’s while I blog pack.

In fact, I’m really pleased with all the help I’ve gotten. Not with the packing oh no, that’s the parental units job and we are peculiar with all our crap, but with child care…the Grandma has taken Paige off our hands several nights so we could pack and clean and get things together without worrying about a box of books toppling over onto our ten month old. Tonight we need to dismantle the crib, and our bed, and whatever else. The pets are freaking out, I’m rambling and well.

That’s it, moving sucks. Tell me moving horror stories so I feel better about my dust bunnies!

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No matter how badly I was lost, I should have known I was on Troost, just by the car in front of me.

‘94, ‘95 maybe, Ford Festiva, patchy paint, shocks sagging comically on the driver’s side. Well, no wonder, the woman behind the wheel must have been at least four hundred pounds, if her mammoth neck and sloping glacier shoulders were any indication.

The passenger was a man, average-sized, in do-rag and enough bling that it shone even at the back of his neck, from one car back. He was getting the ever-loving shit beaten out of him.

I was yelling obscenities at the driver, probably cursing her to die of syphilis in a back alley of Calcutta, because of her driving. Once I saw exactly *why* she was driving like a retarded tweeker on sedatives, though, I just couldn’t help but follow.

You’d think that such a violent argument would require her to make some movements of her head and body that didn’t involve her right fist, but you’d be wrong. But no. Of course, maybe this wasn’t an argument, maybe this is just how these two people pass the time on a Tuesday lunchtime drive through downtown.

Anyway, about twice, maybe three times per block, and nearly incessantly at red lights, that fist went. Pow. Pow. Pow. She looked like she knew what she was doing, like she did this a lot. Then again, so did he. Several times his head recoiled from her blows with such force that it rebounded off his window and hit her fist again of its own accord. At times she maintained a rhythm reminiscent of those balloon-on-a-rubber-band punching toys I loved so much as a child. No slapping, no grabbing, just punch, punch, punch to the side of his head, which, when it wasn’t being buffeted about like a pinball, was bowed over his lap.

I finished the drive to my husband’s work in a state of wonder. As in, I wonder if she supports him financially, or can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, or even less likely, if he deserved it. And I wonder why, if I saw a woman being beaten like that, I’d have been on the phone to 911 before the second punch landed, but in this case, I just followed for half a dozen blocks like the scene before me was a particularly engaging television program.

Mostly, though, I just wonder what more ludicrous bits of street theatre this strange new city has in store for me.

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Hi imperfects! Tracy here (or mommy weirdest, whichever you prefer…) This is my first blog, and I’m pretty sure I should give you a brief synopsis of what I’m “about” before I beg for advice. I’m mom to Paige, who’s seven months old. She hates napping, and garden vegetables. We co-sleep (not because I’m into “attatchment parenting”, but because I simply can’t bear the thought of getting up out of my warm bed at 3am), and she’s got cute dimples. Phil’s my fiannce but I call him my husband because A: it’s easier and B: he will be in two months. He simultaneously drives me insane and makes me want to hug his brains out…we’ve got a Bernese Mountain dog puppy, a strange cat, and we both work from home.

Anyway, here’s the dilemma: Living in New York (and I don’t mean fancy Manhattan, we are talking Staten Island here, land of pizza places and the garbage dump) kind of sucks. It’s expensive, and full of traffic. So we are going to escape…when we first moved into this apartment we were all “oh man it’s so spacious!” but than when had a kid, got a huge dog, and Phil started working from home. His “office” is the second half of our living room. I love him, I swear I do but looking at the back of his head everyday, hearing him open nicorette gum, listening to him CACKLE over some funny “work related thing” is driving me fucking insane. He needs a mancuary. He needs a room with a DOOR…

So, yes like I said in the summer we are renting a house but the decision comes to this my friends, location. His family resides in Staten Island and well, I think they truly believe it’s gods gift to Urbanites. We don’t care what they think…my family lives in New Jersey and being a Jersey girl at heart I’m DOWN with moving to the N.J preferably Morris, Warren, or Sussex county. I want woods in my backyard, I want to hear crickets at night and birds in the morning.

But at heart we really want to take the hell off and move to Asheville North Carolina. It’s our mecca.

The problem: Do we pick up and leave the grandparents missing there only grandchild or do we compromise, move to NJ (which is more expensive, and frankly not as cool) to pacify them so they can come visit? Do I put OUR family first, or think of others? Any thoughts would be great, I’m ready to stop thinking for myself….

(oh and, like how I snuck a picture of Paige in the post? She’s very serious)

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