Dirty Little Secret

The worst part of living in New Jersey has been my lack of friends. I miss my friends in Kansas City terribly. Most of the people I keep in touch with (or would like to keep in better touch with) from high school no longer live in Bergen County (take that as you will).

But on Sunday I went out to lunch with Michelle. As Michelle pointed out, we are probably each other’s oldest friends. I have known Michelle since tenth grade, which makes our friendship over twenty years old now (Michelle doesn’t look like she has been friends with anyone that long, though, she looks just like she did when we graduated). Michelle lives about forty-five minutes away, which makes it even more challenging to get together than it should.

Anyway, Michelle wanted to take me to lunch for my birthday. Michelle is sweet and thoughtful like that. Our budget has been stretched so thin since we had the kids I can’t remember the last time I bought a non-family member a gift. But Michelle wanted to take me out anyway. And she also bought me this lovely perfume just because she knew I’d never buy it for myself - when money’s not tight we buy toys, of course. How sweet is that?

But even more than the material kindness was the way Michelle and I could just talk and talk and talk about anything, even though it’s been months since we’ve seen each other. I had almost forgotten what it was like to hang out with a non-family member that I didn’t have to be my “social self” for - it was so wonderful. But even beyond that, since I do at least talk to my KC pretty regularly, it was great to be with someone who knows all of my stories, even the ones I’ve forgotten.

So thank you Michelle, for lunch and perfume and for being such a terrific, veteran (not old!) friend.

Let’s be clear about a few things before I tell my story. I am thirty pounds overweight. My clothes that fit are all from Target and Old Navy. I desperately need a good haircut and to do my roots. I could use a pedicure. I look like a stereotypical mom from the mid-west.

So anyway, here I am in the suburbs of NYC, where women carry Coach diaper bags. Where even the friendly ones are wearing yoga pants from Nordstrom. They never seem to be bothered by what their children do (or do not) do. They are always calm and well put together. I’m not surprised that I haven’t met any new BFFs. But I know there are other losers lurking around here somewhere. I just have to find them.

Anyway, yesterday I took the kids to the park in the next town. We met a mom and her two little girls. Zoe immediately became enchanted with the older girl and they ran off to play. The mom and I chatted while we pushed the younger ones in the swings. And even though she was skinny with a nice haircut and cute clothes, I liked her. Eventually Zoe wanted to go to the other side of the park. I waved good-bye to the nice woman as I followed Zoe and Zach to the other area. Once there, Zach kept trying to climb the too-high ladder. After distracting him successfully (I thought), he began a tantrum. He rolled in the dirt, cried, kicked when I picked him up and when I put him down. It sucked.

Zoe continued to play during her brother’s meltdown, but then she began asking about a snack. I explained (while wrestling with Zach) that we would be leaving in five minutes to go have lunch. Zoe continued to ask for snack and reject the idea of lunch, I continued to deny her. I decided it was time to leave. As we walked to the parking lot, I had Zach on my hip, facing out so he couldn’t kick me. We were both covered in dirt. Zoe was hanging off of my other arm, protesting loudly about her dislike of the concept of lunch. My ponytail had fallen out and my hair was frizzing everywhere.

That’s when the nice lady drove by and paused. She rolled down her window as if to say something, then paused in horror. Her own little girls were sitting quietly in her backseat. “Ummm, nice chatting with you!” she called as her tires squealed and she roared down the park road.

Another one bites the dust.

Everyone keeps asking me how great it is to have moved back home. After seventeen years (granted, four of them were college, but still) I have returned to New Jersey. And I’m not sure great is the word I would use.

I love my new house. I love being close to my parents (well, so far ). I love that I can walk everywhere now, or hop on a train into the city. I love that I can get good pizza, real bagels and deli food easily. But.

I don’t really know anyone here anymore. I don’t like that the Daily Show doesn’t come on until eleven. Other moms don’t seem very friendly (everyone I have talked to in the park or the neighborhood has been male or childless). I have to bring six different things to get my driver’s license.

I like it here, but it doesn’t feel like home. For years it’s been the place I grew up, the place I visited at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I know it probably won’t take all that long to feel at home here- certainly it will take less time for me than for my Kansas native husband. But’s it’s not great, and it’s not home. Not yet.

I moved to Kansas City under duress. Most people, especially in the late ’90’s, did not move from Seattle to Kansas City. Prior to Seattle, I had lived in Portland, Boston and New Jersey. I was not a mid-western kind of gal. But my ex-husband’s graduate school options were limited, to say the least. At that point, I still had vague hopes of saving my marriage, so I went along. Then he declared he wanted to have a trial separation upon moving to KC. I agreed, knowing that it would be the end of our marriage (no way would I return to living with him after the freedom of living alone). I went along to feel like I had tried my best - and because I had a teaching job there.

When I moved to Kansas City, I didn’t know anyone. I had visited briefly for my job interview and that was it. I didn’t know about 3.2 beer, that some people still didn’t believe in evolution, that strangers apologized after bumping into you. I could only get from my job to my new apartment. By the following spring, I had friends who called me for directions. I had become a Chiefs fan and actually went to Royals games. I even started calling soda, “pop”.

Instead of staying for the year it took my marriage to officially fall apart, I stayed for nine years. At the start, I was somewhat satisfied with my inner-city teaching job. I liked the early spring and the late summer (not to mention the days of sun, something that the Pacific Northwest sorely lacks). I liked the affordable housing. I liked how nice people were at the grocery store. I liked Chiefs games and the manageable yet impressive Nelson Art Museum. I liked Jerry’s Bait Shop, Kennedy’s Bar and Grill, shopping in Lawrence and Parkville, the preponderance of Targets and the fact that I always ran into acquaintances while I was out.

But I stayed because I made wonderful friends - the kind of friends that I didn’t expect to make this late in life. Friends who put up with my moods, my wild bouts of drinking and my tendency to retreat. Friends who listened through my disasters of post-divorce dating, who braved my sad attempts at community theater and karaoke, who threw me baby showers.

I will miss you guys more than I can say.