How did we get here?

Five weeks ago we left New Orleans, where we called home for the past three years, to move up to Hartford, CT.  We’ve traded our costumes for snowsuits. No, seriously. It already snowed here. In October. See?:


The three-day drive (Yes, three effing days.) was no less of a shit-show than you would expect when trekking 1400 miles with two cars, three pets, a three-month-old, and a ton of crap. Will drove with Charlie (AKA Pookie, the Pook, Mr. Pook – an unfortunate, albeit catchy nickname imparted by our “Best Block of Burgundy” neighbor, Anne, that I imagine our family screaming at his high school graduation), because he’s a saint. I drove with the two cats and our 100000-year-old pug, “Juj”, which wasn’t without its challenges. Moose, our mentally delayed obese cat, meowed every ten seconds for 18 hours of the drive. Apart from the baby/feline-delivered attrition and results of 72 hours of fast food, we arrived relatively unscathed.

The first four days were spent at the infamous Farmington Homewood Suites, where the temporarily homeless reside just to be broken down, one horrible breakfast at a time. There was a happy hour each evening that consisted of oddly paired foods I can only assume were chosen at random by two non-communicating staff members, like kielbasa with a side of chicken noodle soup. But there was free wine and beer. No complaints about my short-lived diet of potato chips and wine.


We quickly found an apartment we like in an area we love, and moved in with the pets, baby, and two carloads of crap. When the rest of our crap was delivered by the moving company, our 1300 square foot apartment looked like a cat’s dream-come-true.

I rest my case.

Since Will and I got married just over seven years ago, we’ve moved five times. FIVE. I feel the same way every time, too. Like, “What IS all this shit we’ve accumulated?!” And I start reading articles about minimalism and suddenly become all, “We need to focus on experiences and people, rather than all of these things.” Then I go to start purging stuff, and I’m like, “Oh geez, I can’t throw this out. I could really be in a pinch for a blue boa someday, and my pink, purple, and red ones just won’t do.” And my purge box ends up looking sad and empty-ish, with a couple of cracked dishes and lone shoe whose mate we lost two moves ago, apparently. That’s a true story.

Being the type A person I am, I got the place looking semi-livable in a few days while Will was working. This required lots of animated story-telling and dancing on my part, in order to sufficiently entertain the Pook. Soon after moving in, we started exploring the surrounding area every chance we got. It’s fall here, after all. Apparently there’s some hype about New England in the fall. Leaves, or colors, or something. In all seriousness, fall here is pretty badass. First, there is a fall. You’ll never hear me complain about the weather from November to April in New Orleans… but fall was something I longed for every September, which was normally spent in tank tops and shorts, dreading the commute from one air conditioned building to the next in the 95-degree humidity of southern Louisiana. I’ll be punching myself in the face come February in Connecticut, longing for our leisurely bike rides to meet friends for brunch in the Quarter, or impromptu neighbor gatherings on one another’s stoops. But for now, I’m enjoying the cooler weather and ridiculously gorgeous foliage.

I’ll wrap all this up with a picture of Pookie. As you can imagine, we don’t have nearly enough…

Christmas jammies in October/early November. That’s what you get when you’re less than 4-months-old and your thighs are as beefy as a 6-month-olds.

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