Frankly Speaking

There is something very humbling about moving to a new place. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve moved many times. My past experiences helped me hone and perfect my packing skills. When the movers complemented us on Friday morning, we both glowed with pride. But that’s moving house, not moving lives. And that’s a whole other story.

Our new house feels enormous. The new game is to stand in different rooms and yell each other’s names just to see if we can hear each other. Still, nothing feels as long as walking down the 11.5 foot driveway to introduce myself to a neighbour. All of a sudden, I can’t remember who I am, why I’m here, or what I wanted to say to begin with. It’s the first day of high school all over again. I’ve borded the bus. I’m wearing a very well-thought-out ensemble. And I can’t think of a single interesting thing to say about myself, except to promise people that I really do have friends in other cities, and if they give me a shot, I’m great at pulling together a pizza/wine/cheesecake kinda’ night.

How do adults make friends? Where do you start, and what do you say without giving off the sense that you’re either hitting on your new neighbour (immediate turn-off) or oddly obsessed with their dog (I couldn’t think of any thing else to say to that last lady, and nervously interrogated her about the shitzu at her feet). I don’t know all the answers yet. All suggestions are welcome! But I do know I am lovin’ the suburbs so far, and eventually, I’ll be able to speak to people on the sidewalk without inadvertently giving off the impression that I’m stalking them.

At the end of the day, one thing has become clear over the course of the past few days. This is the bravest thing I’ve ever done. And that feels kinda’ cool.

Well, boys, this is it. It’s crunch time.

 We’re packed. Fifty seven boxes of kitchen wares. A truckload of furniture that may (or may not) fit into the rooms at the new house. One aquarium. And a Jack Russell-Poodle mix complete with his own pear tree.

I don’t know where I’m headed in this world. I mean that quite literally. I had to email a co-worker and ask for directions to our  new house (which we’ve only seen once, in its pre-construction infancy). That said, I’m willing to find out where this path is taking us. And I’m willing to find out right now.

There are things I know for certain. Among them, the fact that the mere words “Valerie Bertinelli weighs in on Spitzer Scandal” are enough to keep me from changing channels, sad and odd as that might seem. I know the sun comes up in the morning. I know it sets at night – and these days, a little later at night to boot. I know this is going to be a bit scary, and I’ll likely cry a lot of the way down the 401. But more than anything, I know I’m excited. And for the first time in a long time, I want to see what I’m capable of, what I’m made of, and what exactly I can do.

So off we go then. I’ve done Sundays in the park atop Mount Royal. I’ve done mBrger (thank God!). I’ve done jazz festival on a stinking hot summer afternoon. I’ve done Cabane Grecque enough times to ride away on a wave of spanikopita. I’ve done Montreal. And I like to think that I’ve done it well. I’m taking it with me on the inside. I’m taking all of you with me on the inside (does that sound too weird?). And I’m ready to go.

See you on the radio.