Starting a new life requires Poison Control, a cartoon beaver, and a daughter prepared to call 911.
Well, hello again!
I know. I've been a little quiet lately.
When you quit your job of nine years, pack up your entire life, move to another state at 52, and decide you're going to completely reinvent yourself, you get a little busy.
Who knew?
I started this blog to document my journey of starting over after 50. What I didn't realize was that I'd actually have to find time to write about it while I was busy doing it.
I've been settling into Tennessee, spending time with Remmie, exploring my new surroundings, and trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with the rest of my life.
Do I have everything figured out?
Absolutely not.
Do I have a job?
Nope.
Do I have approximately 47 ideas about how I'm going to make money without ever letting another job take over my life?
You bet I do.
And you know what?
I'm actually enjoying figuring it out.
But before we get into my new life, we need to finish the story of how I got here.
Because apparently, simply driving from New York to Tennessee wasn't going to be enough of an adventure.
Curtains Are Blankets Now.
Let's start with our final night in New York.
After weeks of packing, organizing, labeling boxes, and preparing for the big move, I was feeling pretty accomplished.
The truck was loaded.
Everything was packed.
We were ready.
There was just one tiny problem.
I HAD PACKED ALL THE BLANKETS AND PILLOWS.
Every. Single. One.
Now, you would think that somewhere during my weeks of planning, I might have considered the fact that we still needed to sleep one more night.
Apparently not.
But I wasn't going to let a little thing like having absolutely no bedding stop me.
We still had Remmie's human-sized dog bed.
And curtains.
Yes. Curtains.
So there we were, spending our last night in New York sleeping on a dog bed under curtains.
Not exactly the luxurious farewell I had envisioned.
But hey, we were moving to Tennessee. We were starting over. We were being resourceful.
Or at least that's what I told myself as I pulled a curtain over my freezing body.
Remmie, of course, probably thought this was the greatest sleepover of his life.
The Last New York Pizza. With a Side of Poison Control.
There are certain things you expect to go wrong when moving across the country.
Traffic. Exhaustion. Arguments. Possibly questioning every life decision you've ever made.
What you don't expect is having to call Poison Control at your very first rest stop.
That's how my family travels.
We had been looking forward to our last New York pizza.
Because when you're leaving New York, you obviously need one final pizza before entering a state where you're not entirely sure what people consider good pizza.
We finally stopped at our first rest area, starving and ready to enjoy the cold pizza we'd been thinking about.
I took a bite.
Hmmm.
That tastes weird.
But after everything we'd been through, I figured maybe it was just me.
Then Jocelyn took a bite.
"Mom, this tastes weird."
Okay. So it's not just me.
Then she said something that immediately got my attention.
"Like alcohol."
Wait.
WHAT?
And then it hit us.
RUBBING ALCOHOL.
Somehow, a bottle of rubbing alcohol had accidentally fallen onto the pizza box.
Because apparently, packing an entire household into a moving truck wasn't challenging enough. We also needed to marinate our farewell pizza in rubbing alcohol.
Now, I enjoy a glass of wine.
But I do have standards.
And rubbing alcohol pizza is where I draw the line.
So there we were.
At our very first rest stop.
Barely into our journey to start a brand-new life.
Calling Poison Control.
Yes. POISON CONTROL.
They told us to wait a couple of hours, eat something else, and seek medical attention if we started feeling sick.
Okay.
No problem.
Except for one tiny detail.
WE STILL HAD NINE HOURS LEFT TO DRIVE.
Nine hours of wondering whether that weird feeling in your stomach is from accidentally eating rubbing alcohol or simply the stress of moving your entire life to another state.
Is that a stomachache?
Am I nauseous?
Or am I just hungry because someone managed to poison our lunch?
Most people stop at rest areas to use the bathroom, stretch their legs, and grab a snack.
We stop to call Poison Control and evaluate our lunch choices.
And to think, I was worried about whether everything would fit in the moving truck.
Silly me.
Buc-ee's Is Also a Clothing Store.
Now, you would think that after spending weeks packing, organizing, and preparing for this move, I would have remembered to leave myself something appropriate to wear.
You would think.
But apparently, I was so good at packing that I packed EVERYTHING.
Except a tank top and a pair of sweatpants.
That was it.
My entire available wardrobe for the trip to Tennessee.
And naturally, what kind of weather did we get?
A beautiful, sunny, warm day?
Of course not.
COLD. AND RAINY.
Because why wouldn't it be?
There I was, freezing my ass off, wearing a tank top, knowing that somewhere in the back of a fully loaded U-Haul were all the perfectly good clothes I owned.
Neatly packed.
Labeled.
Completely inaccessible.
I had approximately 50 boxes of things I apparently couldn't live without, but somehow couldn't manage to leave myself a sweatshirt.
Genius.
So I waited for a Buc-ee's.
Yes. BUC-EE'S.
The giant gas station that sells everything you never knew you needed.
Snacks? Absolutely.
Gas? Obviously.
Enough merchandise featuring a cartoon beaver to furnish an entire house? You bet.
And, thankfully, clothing.
So there I was, proudly purchasing my brand-new Buc-ee's sweatshirt.
And because my last attempt at eating pizza had resulted in a phone call to Poison Control, I decided to treat myself to a pulled pork sandwich.
A sweatshirt and a sandwich.
Honestly, at that moment, I felt like I'd won the lottery.
I was warm. I was fed. And as far as I knew, nobody had spilled rubbing alcohol on my lunch.
Things were looking up.
Two Cars, One Very Long Phone Call, and Remmie.
Now, Jocelyn and I were traveling in separate vehicles.
Which meant we spent practically the entire trip following each other while talking on the phone.
Being able to see the other person's car wasn't enough.
We also needed to narrate the entire journey.
Every stop.
Every turn.
Every little thing that happened.
And through all of this, there was Remmie.
My little guy, who had already survived weeks of watching his entire world disappear into cardboard boxes.
And I have to tell you, he was absolutely wonderful.
He handled the entire trip like a champ.
What I found especially funny was how completely unfazed he seemed by our traveling arrangements.
Every time we stopped at a rest area, Jocelyn would appear.
And Remmie didn't seem the least bit surprised.
There she is again.
Apparently, in Remmie's world, people just magically show up at every rest stop.
No questions asked.
No confusion.
Just another perfectly normal day.
Meanwhile, his mother was freezing, had nearly poisoned herself with pizza, and was wearing emergency clothing purchased from a cartoon beaver.
But Remmie?
Living his best life.
Pepper Spray, 911, and Our 1 AM Security Detail.
At some point during this never-ending adventure, we needed a break.
It was around 1 AM, and we stopped at a rest area to get some sleep.
Because apparently, sleeping under curtains the night before hadn't exactly prepared us for a long drive.
Remmie was with Jocelyn in the car while I went inside the rest stop.
And that's when Jocelyn noticed three men approaching the rest area I'd just walked into.
Now, most people might not have thought much of it.
But not my daughter.
Oh, no.
She immediately went into full protective mode.
Out of the car she came.
Pepper spray in hand.
Phone ready to dial 911.
I had my very own personal security detail.
And Remmie?
Well, he was our watchdog.
Our adorable, furry, extremely well-behaved watchdog.
Between Jocelyn ready to defend her mother and Remmie keeping us company through the night, I was traveling with an entire security team.
One armed with pepper spray.
The other armed with an adorable face.
And somehow, despite all the chaos, we kept going.
And This Is What Starting Over Looks Like.
When I pictured leaving New York and beginning a brand-new life in Tennessee, I imagined excitement, freedom, and maybe a little sadness.
I didn't exactly picture sleeping under curtains, accidentally eating rubbing-alcohol pizza, calling Poison Control, buying emergency clothing at Buc-ee's, or having my daughter stand guard at a rest stop at 1 AM.
But here we are.
And the funny thing is, I wouldn't trade the memories.
Okay, maybe I'd trade the pizza.
Definitely the pizza.
But everything else?
It's part of our story.
I spent so much of my life trying to keep everything organized, planned, and under control.
And now, at 52, I'm learning that sometimes the best thing you can do is laugh when absolutely nothing goes according to plan.
I left behind a job, a home, and a life I'd known for decades.
I have no idea exactly what comes next.
But I do know this.
I made it to Tennessee with my family, my dog, a new sweatshirt, and some pretty unbelievable stories.
And for the first time in a long time, I'm excited to find out what happens next.
Although, if my next chapter could involve slightly less Poison Control, that would be great.
To be continued...