As much as we wanted to, we knew we weren’t going to make our permanent home in Tampa about three months after we arrived. With the unfriendly and downright rude people, the horrendous traffic and roads (or lack thereof) and the lack of cultural and epicurean opportunities, we knew it wasn’t the place for us. The beaches alone weren’t enough. Besides, with the constant traffic it was too much of a pain getting to them and, once there, we had to deal with the aforementioned rude people – it wasn’t worth it.
We knew we had to stay at least two years – Husband’s former company paid for our relocation from Macon to Tampa and he had to either work for twenty-four months or pay the relo money back. We received a hefty sum to cover the relocation and we did not have the money to pay it back so we had no choice but to suck it up and stay. We lived like hermits for two years, paying off credit cards and saving every cent I didn’t spend on clothes. Hello, my name is Kristen and I am a compulsive clotheshorse. Anyway, we did manage to save a lot, surprisingly.
The two-year period was officially over in December of 2006; however, we had to stay until April because we were locked into our lease. Our plan come April was to quit our jobs and move, even if we didn’t have new jobs in Atlanta. Everyone thought we were crazy, as Husband had a very well paying job with excellent benefits. But it was very difficult to look for a job in one city when you live in another 400 miles away. Most places today won’t even look at your resume if you live further than 50 miles from wherever they’re located. We weren’t worried – we’d saved up enough to live frugally for a good while and there’s always COBRA. We would live with my parents in a rural hamlet outside of Athens – they graciously offered to let us stay rent-free while we searched for jobs.
In early April, we made our escape. We had planned to literally leave in the dead of night in order to avoid the traffic and obligatory goodbyes with neighbors who had said nary a word in two years to the childless, two-dog yuppie couple from the South. Calls were made to cut the utilities and the cable off. We were going to get a credit on our accounts – yay! We picked up our rental truck the day before with no problems – yay! The truck loaders arrived right on time – yay! They hustled and had that thing cram-packed in an hour – yay! Things were going much smoother than I had anticipated. Until I looked into the living and discovered a whole shitload of stuff that the movers had no room for in the truck. Fuckity fuck fuck. Yours truly here underestimated the amount of stuff we had, which wasn’t much, really, considering we sold gave most of it away at our garage sale. “You take fitee cent? One dolla too mush.” It’s a sofa, for Chrissakes – I’m not selling it for less than a dollar! Damn cheap-ass Mexicans… Anyway, one sixteen-foot Penske truck and TWO back-to-back, 400-mile jaunts up and down I-75 later (I get exhausted just thinking about it), we land at my parents’ house.
Welcome to the Funny Farm.
