Barack Obama

Thanks, Mom!

As usual, in the midst of my daily battle to compete as a top blogger extraordinaire, I’ve been ignoring most of the logistical details of my never-ending cross-country move. For months since I’ve been bicoastal I’ve had no idea where half my stuff was: in Jacqueline’s Gramercy Park apartment, at my house in Highland Park, at my business partner’s house in Santa Monica, in my parents garage in San Diego, in my storage shed in Pasadena? It was anyone’s guess. This is why I’ve been wearing one of three white shirts and my favorite jeans with converse every day for weeks. Thankfully, the Maegan Diaspora is now mostly over; just waiting on a bunch of boxes and one large kitty cat, who is presently dieting to get her weight below Jet Blue’s carry-on baggage requirements so she can fly out in a couple weeks when my parents visit me in New York.

Fortunately, while my brain was spinning with tweets and confessions and blog posts yet-to-be-written, my mother took charge when I was visiting home last week and made it happen. She literally held up every single item I own and asked me if I wanted to keep it, organized it like an Origami Goddess into boxes, scheduled UPS delivery and visited no less than three pet stores in search of Scarlett O’Hara’s fancy new travel bag and the catnip mouse we used to bribe her to sit in it! I feel so lucky that she did this. Otherwise, I’d still be sitting in my parents garage debating whether I should ship my vegetable steamer or buy another one in Brooklyn.

It’s astounding sometimes when I reflect on what I’ve come to consider “home.” My friend Adam sent me a message a few weeks ago when I was having a hard time with all the compartmentalizing that said: “Home is the comforting feeling of knowing you are loved right now no matter where you are.” That’s been a great reminder this spring.

I’m thrilled to call New York home now, and to embrace all the adventure that comes with making a big change. There are certainly challenges, but when my plane arrived at JFK this morning I felt invigorated with the hope this city has represented for enterprising, creative souls for centuries. I’ve kept a collection of Walt Whitman’s poems in my handbag for a couple months for such occasions, just to remind myself that even though the headlines want us to believe it’s Doomsday, that the city streets and skyscrapers and subway cars have been palpitating in dreamer’s hearts long before I decided to follow mine here.

Jacqueline and I watched “Grey Gardens” tonight and had a long chat about leaving the comfort of our parents to forge our own paths far away; I am blessed that my parents are always in it to win it with me whenever I take on a new challenge. Even if it means they have to lug a 20-pound cat across 3,000 miles or heave volumes of British literature up three flights of stairs so I can keep all my favorite characters near me on my bookshelf. You guys are the best! Miss you already.

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