Crabs Move Sideways

I've been holding out on you. The Crabfamily is moving. We are giving up Crabtown for a new urban life once again, in a place we shall refer to as Crabcity. We are scuttling off to the side, scuttling away from rural life in Wyoming, scuttling on to new horizons, bigger places, greener pastures and so forth. Forget the pastures. We are done with pastures. We are looking for bright lights and urban sparkle. So we are moving to CHEYENNE.

Kidding.

But we are moving. This has all been going down for quite a while. And yet I have kept mum about it? Why? Because I am scared that my new move will make me happy. And when I'm happy I don't have anything to write about.

Thankfully, on further reflection it has become clear that our new home will yield its own share of mock-worthy targets. And thankfully, on further reflection it has become clear to me that it is impossible for me to ever truly be happy or feel "at home" or be "psyched" or "connected" or "totally down with" whatever scene I may find myself in. So I am pleased to say that while I was at first depressed at the thought of moving on to a place that will make me happier, I have come around to a new, more optimistic outlook: while I might be better suited to Crabcity, it will still be imperfect in my eyes, and I can complain about it and make fun of it. In short, the blogging can continue.

Moving is slightly un-fun even when you are pleased to be doing it. Crabhub has a cool new job in a great new place. And where is it we are going? Hint: not back to where we came from, i.e., not NYC. Let us just say that in my new city I will not be subjected to quite so much bright and cheerful sunlight, to which I am allergic. Let us just say that my skin will not be quite the raisin it has become in this high-altitude ski-town. Let us just say there will be a few craft markets where we are headed, and that wind-chimes will likely be sold at said markets, by people in drawstring pants. Let us just say that if we wish to bathe in a vat of freshtastic broccoli rabe, we can do it in our new locale. And let us just say that we are rather happy about that.

And frankly, how could I not feel welcome in a place that sports the following street sign?
Photo by Jege.

BUT while I may have relentlessly mocked Crabtown, I admit that I will miss it too. Its rodeos, its mountains, its prefabricated homes that cost tens of millions, its Christian-owned Dollar Store; the verdant hamlet it becomes in summer...heck even the sheets of ice I skid on outside my front door during the 9 months of winter! Okay, maybe not that. But I will miss Crabtown, because for me the grass is always madly greener when you are in a whole completely different pasture, and you are, like, looking at this other pasture and saying, "Whoa! that grass??? It is completely amazing-looking!" Even if what you are looking at actually isn't grass but is more pavement in nature. If you follow.

Indeed, city or country, I am always about missing the other side. Crabtown, you have been good to me. You have given me fodder for my blog. You have given Crabtot far-too-fresh air and a Heidi-like alpine childhood. You have given me proximity to whiffs of Mormon culture. And hyper-athletically inclined people. You have also given me some lovely beautiful nature stuff that I have made fun of and not adequately appreciated. Oh well. Bloody hell.

THE END.

More to come as we migrate. Another reason not to give a blow-by-blow of one's move? Because it is utterly tedious to read about people packing boxes and arguing and running out of packing tape and wondering whether to keep or throw out their only-just-begun cakes of soap and how do you pack slightly used soap and isn't that the height of depressingly parsimonious frugality? Wait, no, it's just about being green and not being wasteful and now here we go, changing addresses on our fiftieth visas once again and cleaning ovens with that dreadful foam so we can get our full security deposit back. See what I mean? Bo-ring.

Wish me luck. And please go to the bloglet to see the super-freaky baby nursery of Christina Aguilera. Okay, I swore I would never write about celebrimoms but I've also told you up front many a time: I'm a momocrite. Go see it. It's fantastically scary. Bring garlic and a crucifix. You're going to need it.