D-E-S-S-E-R-T-S, backwards?

There are days when your dog throws up on your bed, your car dies, and the only man you ever loved has married someone else. Thankfully, this is not that kind of day. But the adventure of moving cross country continues to keep me on my toes. My head has been full, my pen quiet- not the best combo for me.

I just got back from visiting family and friends scattered across the Midwest, and to buy a hot rod. I mean a car. I mean a hot rod. I'm never thought of myself as a cherry-red Pontiac Grand Am kind of girl, but after breaking down twice on the drive back to New York (once in Indiana, once in Ohio, three hours later), the red head and I are fully bonded. Ever notice how a car seems to work better once its identity is formed and gets lots of praise? All she needs now is a name.

Meanwhile, Sammy has come undone with the transition. I'm trying to tell him that life will be better in California- he will have an oceans for a pool, a yard to run in, months without rain, a doting grandfather and fewer stray cats to taunt him. He is not convinced. He sees boxes and change on the brink, and he hasn't finished punishing me for abandoning him last week. I worry he may never be the same.

I've decided that moving is the most stressful thing in your life you can do- regardless of if it's across town or across the country. My friend, Brandy, came over last night and helped me stay on task with packing without distractions, excuses, or the overwhelming task of sifting through the pile. I had thought in four years, I hadn't accumulated too much in the limited space capacity of my bedroom. I was wrong.

In addition to sorting, one can't help but look at the state of their life when going through a massive transition. I think of all the things I've done while living in New York, and depending on my mood it can amount to a whole lot or not even a hill of beans. Concerned friends pointed out last week that I'm not using my college degree. Helpful? Not really. Said with good intentions? Probably. Sending me into a panic about where the rest of my life is headed? Kind of.

A friend once said to me she could be happy anywhere, that home was just a place you carve out for yourself. I see were she's coming from. I used to agree. And now I kind of envy her because I'm not in that place anymore. I want life to feel simpler, to be closer to family, I want dry heat and local produce and a kitchen where I can make cookies without balancing sheet pans on the dish rack. Mostly, I want to be in a place that calms my heart and slows me down from the hectic, racing life that I lead.

All I have to do is pack another box and let Sammy know everything's going to be okay.