The 2-Year Itch

A large part of my life has been spent in temporary residences, transitional jobs, and places I knew that I'd never settle in. From birth to my teens, my parents, together or separately, uprooted me almost on a yearly basis. Then, in my twenties as an Air Force enlistee, Uncle Sam's ironic sense of humor gave me a job that sent me all over Europe on TDY's (Temporary Duty Assignments) for the 3+ years I was stationed in Germany.

After my discharge (Honorable, thank you very much), I settled in Michigan and decided to put down roots for good. I was tired of the moving, especially the packing, tossing, and carting of detritus I had accumulated in my lifetime. In sixteen years in Michigan, I lived in two different apartments. The first apartment was one that I disliked immensely but stayed in for 10 years because of my dislike (Nay, Hatred!) of moving. I only left that one because it was bought by new owners who decided to upgrade it out of my price range. The second was an apartment that I adored because it had everything the first one did not and I stayed there for 6 years. I only left that place to foolishly improve my chances for advancement with the company I was working for at the time which I will not mention **cough, cough** Macaroni Grill.

Well, I escaped that roller-coaster existence after 5 years and 5 moves for those ungrateful scallywags (I'm trying very, very hard not to use profanity). I moved here to the panhandle of Florida and stuck my toe in the waters of permanency once again. While I revel in the thought of never moving again, certain facts point me towards pulling up stakes once again:

• Although I really, really like my job and am good at it, I've come to the conclusion that I don't like the people I work for all that much.
• My apartment complex has gone through three changes of management in two years. Each successive company has gone cheaper than the last. This summer, our pool has been closed about 1/3 of the time for various excuses.
• This area has the greatest concentration of conservative, Bible-thumping, homo-phobic, racist pigs I've ever experienced in 49 years of life. All you have to do is read the comment section in the local rag to become jaw-droppingly amazed at the attitudes of these gun-toting Fourth Reichers.
• My dad is healthier now than he was 10 years ago and will probably outlive me, so I could safely move farther away without feeling guilty.
• There are no jobs here, so I feel stuck in a place where I have no future beyond being a worker bee forever. While I don't necessarily want to be a manager-type again, I can't stand working for people who are in the position they are only because of a few genes. And take advantage of that fact.

I don't necessarily want to move far, but a change of scenery might do me good. Maybe I just need to take a long, soul-searching vacation where I don't do anything but request an extra lime for my margarita. Maybe I should ask for that long overdue raise that would let me know just what my future is here.

But, as I look around this spare bedroom where my computer and boxed stuff is located, all that I can think of is 'Oh, God, I do not want to pack and move this shit again!'. The big question, though, is where in Hell would I move to? My favorite relative, my aunt-sister, lives in New Hampshire, and I will never move "up-North" again. Although the politics in New England are closer to my sensibilities, I refuse to ever scrape ice and snow from my vehicle again. My second favorite aunt lives in a great area of Florida and is close to my age, but she's a rabid Rush Limbaugh devotee. Wouldn't work out.

Maybe Mobile. Maybe New Orleans. Maybe Biloxi, where I had plans to move before that bitch Katrina interfered. I guess I just need to find an employer who wants me bad enough to do all the damn packing for me. Yeah, right, that'll happen.