Resident Evil

I just reflected, about two seconds ago, that in all the time I've been posting, pontificating and blathering on, that I really haven't said much about my life as a resident widow. It came up at times, incidentally, as I was griping about chores and diaper changes and the relentless early mornings. But not much beyond that.

I couldn't really write about it since it would come out as one huge putrid rant, and who would want to read that? And really, with the hell Dr. Science has gone through, complaining at this point is just, well...pointless. Plus, I couldn't safely write specifics about our experiences.

I am still writing under gag rule, even now. But we are in our fourth year. Next July, it will all be over, and we will move on.

Then, sistahs and brothahs...it'll be time to TESTIFY.

Right now what concerns me most is that next year, we will be moving. We don't know where.

Do you remember the show Northern Exposure? The moose on Main St.? The slightly off balance chick who flew the planes? The cute nerdy doctor? That's us. Except I don't have a pilot's license. Yet. I thought it might be nice to get a plain old driver's license first.

But I digress.

Dr. Science went to a lovely conference last week in sunny, sweltering Tampa to meet and greet, booze and schmooze (yeah, as if), trip the con fantastic with his charm and wit and enthusiasm. He made contacts. He saved money by eating peanut butter crackers in the privacy of his room instead of spending $30 bucks on a mediocre dinner. We're snobs that way.

He came home with lots o' swag, good contacts, lots of receipts for the reimbursement deities,
and a very short list of places we may well be moving to next year. Nome, Alaska, for example. Truly. Main Street moose, here we come. Or maybe an island in the South Pacific. No DSL though. Off the list. So is the place in Arkansas, and Louisiana. Maine, I can totally live with. I am just confused to see Connecticut on the list, but apparently there are under-served populations there as well. Who knew?

The deal is (in case you didn't know), that you sign on with the National Health Service Corps, they help you pay for school, and then you pay them back after residency by working in an under-served area. Which is what Dr. Science was always interested in doing. It's actually what inspired him to go to medical school. He realized what crappy services the poorer population of Philadelphia received when he worked for a women's clinic years ago. So one night, over a huge piece of apple pie (read ahead) he announced his desire to become a family doctor.

So we survived organic chemistry, the application process, the rejections, and the acceptance (from the same school no less...how often does that happen), then the first formaldehyde soaked year, the hypochondriacal second year, and so on and so forth, until we found ourselves sitting on a winter-dry fountain on campus on March 18^th with a thin white envelope in our hands. Inside, was a single 8 ½ by 11 sheet of paper that would tell us where we would live for the next four years. To say we were nervous would be an understatement. Particularly after shoving through the gauntlet of graduates who were in various states of euphoria and despair to get outside and away so we could have at least a modicum of privacy. As much as a public park in the middle of down town Philly would offer us. Drumroll, shaking hands, shaking nerves...

We got his first choice. We were off to Boston. And hell. But a paid-for hell. So next year, it is payback time.

I have lived in many places through out my life. Before I met Dr. Science, I lived in Massachusetts for 18 years, Europe for 5 months, and Philadelphia for 12 years(during which time I lived on Pine, 12^th, Lombard, Camac, 15^th, and Catherine Streets). And Oh, the memories.

Pine St...first the dorm, then 2^nd semester, Cid and I and another of Cid's friends went in together to rent a two bedroom, 3^rd floor walk-up. I had a room to myself, though I did bed sharing with a very cool woman who worked as a security guard at night and was trying to save up money for major plastic surgery for her face. It was non frivolous surgery she needed. When she was a little girl, a doll she was playing with caught fire and burned off most of her face. She was a spectacular person, and we had good times road tripping on her Harley.

12^th St. was a little studio with a loft Cid and I rented together, after a rather nasty break with the “friend” from Pine St. It had a loft, a tiny balcony, a roof deck(!), and a middle aged landlord who refused to take off his headphones. Ever. I had my first Christmas tree in that apartment, along with a severe cut from trying to trim it with a bread knife after 3 or 4 scotches. I bled for that tree, man.

On Lombard, I lived with a woman who was a friend of Cid's. I had to vacate the 12^th St. unit when Cid fell in love and moved in with his partner. Like the upright fellow he was, he continued to pay rent, but since finding another place proved difficult on my meager income, I hauled my belongings over to the other side of broad until I could find a place of my own.

Which turned out to be my wonderful, cozy little artist garret on Camac St. I met Dr. Science while I lived there. We would go to More Than Just Ice Cream some evenings (when it was still in a rather dilapidated house on Pine St.), then climb up the narrow winding stairs to my third floor retreat and gorge ourselves on a single slice of their mountainous apple pie. It would be supper, and breakfast. For the two of us.

We had no idea at that point he would become a doctor, and I would become a married single woman.

We moved to 15^th St. together, then to Queen Village when things got a bit too loud in the neighborhood. I worked, Dr. Science studied, and we restaurant hopped our way through most of the BYOB's in down town Philly, good little foodies that we were. We went to extravagant dinners, saw all our movies at the Ritz, were regulars at our farmer's market, and went to concerts and museums together until school started, and then all our together time suddenly more or less vanished.

So here we are, years later, back in the state of my birth, living in a bucolic neighborhood in the un-Suffolk-ated part of greater Boston, and pondering the future. We have been urban creatures for so long, the thought of moving to upstate Maine, or Nome Alaska, or a little town in the middle of Montana seems positively liberating. We don't really take advantage of our urban existence now. For one thing, we haven't had the money to do things like the museums and restaurants on even a limited basis. No extra for a baby sitter, which has transformed date nights into evenings curled up on the sofa watching movies with headphones so we don't wake the Impling, crunching M&M's and Chex mix.

I think of all we could do in the country...have a garden, space, fresh air, canoing, quiet, quiet and more quiet. I'm tired of hearing strangers walking over my head. And goombahs who decide to practice drums at 1 in the morning. And don't get me wrong, there is a certain charm to hearing middle-aged gay prostitutes belting out “On My Own” at 3 AM on 15^th St. Or the dulcet tones of a young man with one too many cheese-steaks on his waistline yelling “YO! VINNIE” outside of our 2^nd floor walk-up on Catherine St. Could have done without the mob hit next door, but there it is. You can't have everything.

But if we moved to the country...we could see the stars. Maybe even the northern lights. I grew up in a village, so I have no rose colored glasses obscuring my vision. I know the gossip of small towns, the petty arguments that can arise, the boredom of teenagers with nothing to do and no adults to supervise them.

But I also know the dry humor of people who know each other intimately, the comfort of greeting acquaintances on the street, of not looking over your shoulder, of unpretentious good will.

And it would be so lovely to really see the stars again, and to show the Impling the universe.