Connecticut Yankee

At the beginning of April, Mr. Savant began his search for a new job. One that didn't require him to write software for Evil Soul-Sucking Health Insurance Companies, preferably. He applied for a few positions here and there. And he got a phone call from a headhunter. Who worked for ESPN. Yeah, that ESPN.

Fast forward to three weeks ago. The house is up for sale. Everything I can't live without is smushed into my tiny Subaru. Mr. Savant and Dog Savant are already in Connecticut, in an extended-stay hotel that sounds way classier than it actually is.

And I'm sobbing in the arms of one of my best friends, on her front stoop as I'm getting ready to leave the neighborhood. For good.

Since then, its been rough. Really rough. I don't know anyone here. Mr. Savant goes to work and I stay here, in the hotel and try to work and write and find new work. All the while dodging the housekeeping staff and the landscaping crews and the maintenance folks ... and it's stupid hard.
And I'm so lonely.

It shouldn't be. I've moved, on average, every three years since I was 18. I went from Pennsylvania to New Jersey for college to Phoenix, Arizona, to New York City to Philadelphia. Where I thought we'd stay. I put down roots. We were in a neighborhood. We had neighborhood yard sales and helped each other shovel snow. We had summer block parties and baby showers and we all waved at each other and stopped to chat when we walked our dogs.

Yesterday was July 4th. Mr. Savant was invited to a BBQ thrown by some ESPN folks, so we went. I was beyond thrilled -- I imagined instant connections with other ESPN wives. I imagined we'd bond over the shell-shocked, pack-up-and-move-honey-corporate-America-is-calling job offer that we'd all agree was An Offer We Couldn't Refuse. I envisioned a cross between Desperate Housewives and Mad Men, where we'd chug dirty martinis and sneak cigarettes and lament the sacrifices we made for the sake of The Most Awesome Job in the United States!

Shockingly, that didn't happen. Sure, we swapped the "Where did you live before?" and "What do you do for work?" and "How is he liking ESPN?" and we discussed setting up a book club. But on the way home Mr. Savant said, "Did you have a good time? What did you think?"

And I managed to chirp, "It was nice! I had a good time, yes!" before the tears started streaming down my cheeks. I hate it here. I just want to go home. To my house and my friends and my neighborhood and the familiar and safe. This is not like me at all.