I am still reveling in the pro column of our recent move.  Life in New York can be exhausting, especially when your tiny studio apartment has been emptied of cable, internet, non-air mattress, and every piece of furniture apart from camping chairs and a laundry basket.

We spent two days and nights in those conditions, and allow me to state for the record that I am not a camper. This amuses the BF to no end, as (a) most situations that I would describe as camping are still miles above true camping conditions (see picture above), and (b) whenever we see an RV on the road he points it out and jokingly threatens to buy one for our honeymoon.  Meanwhile, the Sis and I agree on the fact that if God had wanted us to camp, he wouldn’t have invented hotels.

So…leaving our indoor campsite was not difficult for me.  Nor was arriving to our new home and seeing the above-pictured welcome basket sitting on the kitchen island (!!!).  Along with an invitation to a pool party later in the week and a copy of the apartment complex’s newsletter.  The closest thing to a newsletter that I ever got from my old landlord was an eviction notice.

The Dad called the other day and asked if we were enjoying having actual space.  Having just twirled around in the bathroom with my arms outstretched, I said yes, to which he replied by asking if I had room to spin around with my arms out.  My family is uncanny, I tell you.  Of course, this comes from the man who spent one night in my fourth-floor walkup with the Mom during a Christmas visit and likened it to a prisoner’s first night in jail.  So he is aware of the drawbacks of New York city apartment living.

The benefits of being off the island have taken some getting used to, though.  I was test-driving a car the other day and looked down to see the words “One Headlight” in digital print, scrolling across the XM screen.  Am I supposed to pull over? I thought, wondering why they gave me a car with a busted headlight and if it really mattered during the day.  (I blame my lack of recognition that the scrolling words were a song title on the Wallflowers for being a one-hit wonder band.)  I was so distracted by my technical ignorance that I blew past a school bus with its Stop sign flared out.  (I think that rule is stupid anyway.)  Later that night, when I was cooking at the Sis’s house, I turned the oven on to 350 and momentarily panicked because I hadn’t checked inside to see if pots/pans/sweaters were being stored there.

Things are…different here.  So far, different is fine by me.