Tag Archives: Moving

Hello, Minneapolis.

Here we are. Three days, 270 miles, three separate Target stores, and about eleven crying jags later, I have settled into Uptown and am more or less intact. More intact because of my new hot pink bath towel, coffee maker, and lovely MFA compatriots. Less intact because of the looming, unending abyss of unemployment. But more on that later. Because before we go any further, you have to see this:

Meet Molly! Or to be more accurate, meet Molly Patricia Montgomery Pierce. Some people have been saying some things…weird things, like “you can’t give dogs a middle name” or “you can’t give dogs TWO middle names.” But I don’t care about them. Molly Patricia, or 2MP, as I just realized I can call her, is half black lab, half American bulldog. A true American bullador, in other words. Ben is picking her up from her mother’s family today, and boy oh boy are we excited.

I mean, I might as well throw in the towel now, because the writing is on the wall. This blog isn’t going to be about reading anymore. Or writing. Or remission. i should just change the name right now to “Reading, Writing, Remission, PUPPIES! PUPPIES PUPPIES PUPPIES!” Because all I’m going to write about is puppies and post updated photos of Molly chewing her first toy, Molly taking her first walk, Molly destroying her first piece of furniture, etc. And the memoir I’m writing is probably just going to be something like, “oh, boo, I had cancer….but THEN I GOT A PUPPY!!!!” That oughta get me a prize or two.


But back to the more serious matters at hand. I have no job. This is a problem. And I am getting desperate. For example, I went to this place and considered attending their open interview/casting call. Eventually the lady in her bra and underwear superimposed onto the site’s background was enough to deter me, but I seriously thought about it.

And then yesterday, I walked up Lyndale and stopped into every place that was open to ask if they were hiring. Well, almost every place. I skipped Subway and the gyro shop, but that might have been a mistake. Because here’s what my tour of Lyndale Avenue looked like. Well, at least, felt like:

One of these days I’m gonna get me some real marketable skills. Like, I’m gonna learn bookkeeping or become an insurance agent, and I’m gonna use words like “add value” and “synergy.” And then I’ll probably have to stop wearing the same pair of shorts three days in a row and stay up obscenely date watching back episodes of “The Bachelorette.” Yeah, I’m gonna grow up real good. You’ll see. You’ll see.


I is good at the moving!

T-minus six days until I move to Minneapolis. I mailed the first rent I’ve had to pay in…um…a long time to my landlord up there, and wept quietly when I saw the dent it had made in my bank account. It may do a number to one’s street cred to live with one’s parents for a year, but it’s almost, almost made up by the cash saved on lodging and the ungodly amounts of baked goods at one’s disposal. Despite my transient bohemian life after college, I’m convinced I’m a suburban housewife in disguise. Because I’m really going to miss the granite countertop and seasonal dishware.


Moving, as everyone knows, is rather stressful. But as my family and close friends can attest, something unique happens to me when I get ready to move. Something that looks kind of like this:

Not that this is based on a real event or anything. Cough. Just a possible, um, example.

There’s no way around it. moving is hard. Especially when you’re leaving the nest for the second (fine! third, damnit) time. People keep telling me, “ohhh, congratulations!” and “you must be excited!”, the way that kind, considerate people often do.

But because the LAST time I got all excited about a big move to Minneapolis for graduate school, a giant bird named Fate dropped a giant poop on my head, I am trying to keep the excitement on the down low. Like, I am hoping to kind of slink out quietly before the Fate bird realizes my getaway and tries to poop on me again. Silly old fate bird.

A rare image of the exotic bird. Funny looking guy, isn't he?

My monkey mind remembers the Fate bird, too, so it is being very diligent. Maybe a little too diligent. My body thinks that every time I get a bit stressed, I am either a) being chased by a saber-toothed tiger, or b) getting a ball-busting illness again. So I am often overwhelmed with an urge to run or to get tested. For everything. Three times a day.

Sweet old monkey mind. I think it was Anne LaMott who said that we should treat ourselves the way we would treat an elderly, slightly deranged great aunt — kindly, gently, and with a lot of soft food. What are some times in your life where you have to pat your deranged great aunt self kindly on the head?