Moving, that is.
And we’re doing it.
Knee-deep in boxes, piles of laundry and the contents of that closet we never open, I can’t help but take in the gorgeous view of Casco Bay from my tiny apartment window. The seagulls crow, planes whizz by, the bridge goes up and the tide out. I’ll miss it terribly (even those god-awful seagulls) as we’ll be landlocked in Southwestern Pennsylvania in less than two weeks.
This move is bittersweet. While I love Maine and her chilly oceans, never-ending trails, clean city, local music, school systems, unlimited choice in restaurants and bars, artists and neighborhoods, I’m returning to my hometown just south of Pittsburgh, where the cost of living is far cheaper and the boyfriend has found work. I look forward to being near my family and paying a fraction of the rent I pay here. (We found a four-bedroom home for $700 a month to rent.)
And Winter is thrilled. She couldn’t be more happy. Sure, she’s a little sad to leave her friends, but that’s trumped by spending time with Gramma, who believes every child should eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner. She’ll get to ride on the lawn mower with Pappy (that’s what we call our grandfathers in Pennsylvania). She’ll be tormented by her uncles, which is terrible fun for everyone. She’ll swim with her cousins this summer and make snowmen — only to be tackled by Uncle Mike — in the winter.
Yes, even though I am a little heartbroken to leave, I am excited for this new journey in life. And I plan to visit Maine. Often. You don’t think those rowdy derby girls would let me stay away for long, do you? Plus the boyfriend’s family lives in New Hampshire and spends time on Peaks Island every summer.
While I’ve been packing and packing and packing, I spent a good four hours reading through each and every Switch in existence. I can’t help but be proud of what this little magazine has evolved into and how it’s become such a utility product for Mainers. I am honored to have been part of it, particularly with the local music section, food reviews (who doesn’t love getting paid to eat?) and this column, in which I’ve candidly and consistently vomited the wretched details of my motherhood ... er, or lack thereof.
Thank you, dear readers — with the exception of that one homophobic man who called to accuse me of being a dyke and a horrible mother for taking Winter to the Pride Parade — for your loyalty to my gibberish and yammering about internet porn, putting a swimming pool in my living room, criminals at summer camp, unvolunteering, toilet rims and hooker art. Oh, and thank you for not calling child protective services.
Amy Martin is on her way south after spending the past 15 months entertaining her Switch readers and co-workers. We’ll miss her terribly (hey Amy, can’t you do the Datebook from Pittsburgh?) at the office and roller derby bouts won’t be the same, but we wish her and her family the best.