I’m moving again. This time I’m not sure where.
I do know that there has not been enough chicken salad in my life, and I will travel all around the country looking for the nation’s best. It is in that city where I will build my home. Everyone asks me where I’m going, and my stock answer is “Seattle,” but I really don’t know, because I haven’t had any chicken salad there. Last time I was there, all I ate was beer. And some bomb ass Pad Thai.
There is something to be said about comfort food, and if you can do it artfully without alienating people, yours is a city I’d like to inhabit.
“Cassie, you’re not seriously quitting your job, getting rid of all of your stuff, and moving across the country for chicken salad, are you?”
Yes. Yes I am. I know what I like. I prefer not to waste my life without it. I believe that there is no excuse for mediocrity.
In fact, my personal hell looks a lot like brand new, name-brand appliances. Or a wedding registry. That’s not life, people. That’s pacification. To me, the suburban “American Dream,” is a nightmare. I never want to have a conversation about my matching stemware.
We (myself and Future-Mr. Cares) made a list of criteria that we require in our new abode.
New Location Requirements:
-Awesome chicken salad (naturally)
-Must be in (or within a short drive to) a major metropolitan area.
-Great music scene
-Must be within daytrip distance to an ocean
-IKEA within a daytrip distance
-Bike and pedestrian-friendly
-Nice people who like beer and whiskey
Our Get-Me-The-F-Out-Of-Here-Ness reached an all-time high recently. There may come a point when you hear that little voice, that “I hate it here,” voice, maybe when you realize every store in your town is closed on Sundays, or maybe a crackhead breaks into your car and steals everything except a stack of pennies. Perhaps the fifth former high school classmate asks you why you don’t want kids.
I choose not to ignore that voice. If you don’t like the life you’re wearing, it’s time to change.
If you think you know a city that fits our list, let me know, and we’ll be checking it out this April. I’ll send pictures of myself eating chicken salad.
“Yeah, I was embarrassed at the time. But here I am, getting drunk and telling everyone! Hey mom, guess what?”