Me: Did you get the password?

Y Chromosome: Yes, it’s <Y Chrome’s last name>.

Me: What? Are you serious? You must be joking! I paid for this room with MY credit card, the room is in my name, but for some reason because YOU’RE the guy, they decided to put our password in as YOUR last name? What a bunch of jerks, I–

Y Chrome: The password is my last name because it’s also the name of the town we’re staying in and part of the hotel’s name. They actually called me Mr. YourLastName.

Me: …! Oh, yeah…! Well…! I bet they named the town after a dude at any rate. Assholes.

The space was small, I was busy, and each year I was certain I would be moving when my lease ended—why bother making everything just so if you’re only going to move on in a few months? And that’s how you end up living somewhere for five years without ever having painted a wall, framed a photo, or tossed the final cardboard box.

And so I’ve vowed not to let that happen again. Really, it’s not even a vow, not something I have to put any effort into. I’m ecstatic. It’s not a house that will belong to us, and we’re on a thrift store, second-hand, hand-me-down budget for sure, but that doesn’t lessen my enthusiasm at all. I am a woman on a mission. I’ve been thinking about paint colors, new (to us) furniture, what photos to frame, how to arrange rooms and—best of all—the boy I get to share it with. And cat. And, please-oh-please-oh-please-I’ll-be-good-for-as-long-long-as-I-possibly-can-maybe-even-for-days, maybe a puppy.

I made my first house-related purchase the other day, and it’s a great one:

(you can find it here)

You know what would look great with it? A puppy. Surely you agree.

My leasing company has been desperately seeking a new sucker renter, and it hasn’t been going very well for them. They’ve shown the apartment no fewer than 25 times with no takers. Suddenly, I’m feeling even more confident in my decision to leave, but substantially less confident in my housekeeping and decorating skills. Come on, people, it’s not that bad! A fine sheen of cat hair on everything has wonderful insulating properties!

With or without a new renter in place, in a short month and a half I will be moving out of Charlottesville and to a rental house Y Chrome’s family owns. The decision wasn’t driven much by cost; we’re paying rent and, although it’s far cheaper than Charlottesville, the rate is exactly what you’d find for any rental property in the area. It’s more about wanting change. I want to have access to the hustle and bustle of a college town from time to time, but I’m finding more and more that I want to go home to quiet at the end of the day. Y Chrome is, and always has been, a country boy and I, too, like open space and to look up at the sky at night and see stars instead of street lamps and stadium lights. We want a dog and a place for him to run around. When Y Chrome is up working on the farm until 3 AM, I’ll feel better about him walking down the driveway to get home, rather than driving back into Charlottesville, as he does now. And, if all of that didn’t sound wonderful enough, a dear friend of mine who also happens to be Y Chrome’s cousin—and the person who introduced us in the first place—is moving out to the farm next month.

I haven’t actually seen the inside of the house yet, and you may rightfully think I’m insane for signing on without seeing it, but it’s over four times larger than my apartment, and Y Chrome assures me that it’s a perfectly nice place to live. The latter point is an important one. Not because I trust Y Chrome’s judgment (have you seen these glasses?), but because if he is wrong, well, let’s just say it will be featured prominently in all decision-making discussions for the next decade. And this will probably be a very pivotal decision-making decade. I look forward to naming my kids after children’s lit characters that made a big impact on me growing up, starting with Tikki tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo (no one toss the kid into a well, okay?).

People ask if I will miss this old place. I probably will. I mean, right now if I have to reach the flour on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet, all I have to do is drag the couch over to the stove, then stand on the back of the couch and hang on to the fridge for balance and try not to rip the already-sagging cabinet from the wall. The couch is two feet away from the stove; how the hell am I going to push it 30 feet into another room? How exhausting!

Still, I’m not sure how well I’ll adapt to farm life. Really, it’s not the rural setting, but the way of life on a real, working family farm. We’ll have our own place and be spending most of our time there, of course, but I’ll certainly be out and around the farm more than my current every-other-month schedule.

A few weeks ago I went out to the farm to have dinner with Y Chrome’s family. Within two minutes of my arrival I was up to my elbows in cold water, pulling the stems off of several pounds of spinach. Y Chrome, in the meantime, had been dragged over to the couch by his grandmother to sit and relax. And then I realized I’d carelessly left his smoking jacket, cigar, and brandy at my apartment. And even if I had remembered them, how could I ever show my face, presenting them to him while still wearing my shoes and being distinctly and conspicuously not pregnant? Damn! And how I was pining for a new washer and dryer set for my birthday this year!

It was a beautiful night when we sat down to eat: cool and pleasant, the sun was just beginning to set, coloring the sky a fiery pink and orange, the wind was blowing softly; the patio had a gorgeous view of the mountains above us and the orchard below. Calm and lovely and relaxing, right?

Only in 20-second increments.

Then, Y Chrome’s uncle spots a group of deer in the orchard below.

And before I know it, half of my dinner companions are all but dangling off the porch rails, trying to get a better look. Someone scrambles inside for the binoculars. Y Chrome’s aunt excitedly offers to fetch her gun for anyone who owns a penis. She asks so frequently and with such enthusiasm that I’m expecting her to tear away her clothes to reveal the garb of Rambo, and pull an M60 out of the loaf of pound cake sitting before her. And I? I am mouthing across the table to Y Chrome, “If someone shoots a deer while I’m eating my dinner, I’m walking home.”

So, naturally, 2 minutes later he exclaims, “One of them is rubbing his antlers on the tree!” (the reason they shoot them—it destroys the trees). And everyone leans further over the porch rail until they’re practically swinging like trapeze artists in Carhartts rather than spandex, and there is a loud GAASSSPing noise: the unmistakable sound of 5 Southerners all getting the vapors at the very same time.

Oh, it’s on now, Y Chrome. Cherry red front loading washer be damned; when we get home, your smoking jacket is gonna get it! And I am all whisper-yelling to Y Chrome across the table, “I WILL DESTROY YOUUUUUUUUUU”. And he’s all *blink,* “Who’s kicking me repeatedly in the shin?!?!”

Fortunately, no one worked up the gumption to shoot the deer (I suspect they were being polite; the sort of politesse that I don’t expect to continue as I become a more frequent dinner guest) before they went scampering back up to the mountain.

Also! And this is the most important issue of all! I can’t live in a rural area—I can’t even pronounce the word. Seriously, it’s some sort of brain block, like my inability to acknowledge the existence of people who wear seersucker suits. How can I be suited to live in a place that I can’t even pronounce? I’m convinced they made the Rural Juror episode of 30 Rock just for me.

And now to see if Ruhhr living is the life for me.

I love these wooden Holztiger birds, especially the goose, which reminds me of my grandmother. She had a ceramic goose in her living room who looked just like this one, right down to the pose. She had goose sweaters, goose pillows and rugs, and other goose-related paraphernalia that is most endearing while in the possession of your grandma.

Of course, she collected them when she wasn’t busy knitting sweaters for her husband’s Mack Truck bulldog. For real. She was that awesome.

While we were there, I got some lovely vintage blue mason jars.

Bonus points to me for waiting until I got into the car before exclaiming, “I have blue Balls, and I love them! Though some people may call them JUNK!! Get it?!?!”

I class up a joint like crazy.

And don’t worry about Y Chrome. He got something nice and classy, too. Circa 2008, no less.

And so we decided that after a long day of identifying trees, watching birds, and antiquing we’d treat ourselves to a movie. The nice boy at the concession stand even pureed our popcorn for us.

Yeah, that’s right. Take a look at the price description, whippersnappers. And you thought I was only kidding.

Y Chromosome: How long were they together?

Me: 40 years! How did this happen? And more importantly, who will make-y out-y in a gross yet vaguely endearing manner at the DNC? Who, I ask you, who?? I was sixteen when that happened, and in some sort of twisted way, watching that made me feel slightly better about the world. And grossed out. But mostly better about the world.

Y Chromosome: Do you think something happened? Like cheating or something?

Me: I don’t think so. Maybe. It seems less likely, since he doesn’t have the hair for it. You know, John Edwards hair. Never trust a man with John Edwards hair. I’m looking at you, Bob McDonnell. And while we’re on the subject, do me a favor. When I have cancer, don’t sleep with some mindless woman who says horrible, vapid things, then knock her up, put her on your payroll, and film a sex tape while she’s pregnant, okay? As a close personal favor to me?

Y Chrome: Alright.

Me: And, to be fair, if you have cancer, I promise not to knock anyone up. Maybe.

It turns out, of course, that I was just too young to feel the impact of someone I didn’t know personally on my own life.

When I hopped over to my favorite news site this afternoon, and read that Rue McClanahan had died, my heart sank, the way it did when I read about the deaths of her “Golden Girls” costars, Estelle Getty and Bea Arthur.

During its first run, my sisters and I watched “Golden Girls” religiously on Saturday nights. We probably started watching it because my Dad liked it, but we were quickly a rapt audience, often turning the volume up to tune out Dad’s snoring, which began half-way through the episode. I was only nine when the show ended in 1992, so it definitely had an early and shaping impact upon me.

Some people might be scandalized to think of a nine-year-old watching a show with suggestive dialogue, controversial topics, and frank treatment of sex, but I think the show was a wonderful influence. Rue’s character, Blanche, was my favorite, and one of my first idols. She was confident and glamorous, proud, a little vain, but good-hearted. Blanche always seemed to have lots of fun, and she was so fun to watch. I didn’t understand some of the sexual jokes and innuendo that surrounded her, but the delivery was so good I found it genuinely funny anyway, even if I didn’t get exactly what everyone was alluding to. It was here that I learned about quick comebacks, smart banter, and well-timed delivery—things that got me into a good deal of trouble as a kid, but I can’t imagine being without now.

The women went on dates and their children came in to town from time to time, but so much of the show was dedicated to topics outside of the realm of motherhood, romantic relationships, and marriage. They were older, but still sexual and sexy. They did well at their jobs and aimed for promotions; self-improvement was more than picking up a copy of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. They took risk and got themselves into sticky situations. They didn’t rely on men to bail them out. And, best of all, they were happy.

Blanche loved men, but happily lived with her female friends. They were a team. Even when I was nine, and I played a lot of dress-up in wedding clothes with my sisters, I thought it would be perfectly divine to live with close friends and have dessert and coffee at 3 am while sitting around telling stories. The idea that every time you sat down at the kitchen table you’d have a fantastic conversation was irresistibly charming.

I can’t think of a better message for a little girl who played Barbies exclusively to chew on their feet and dress them up in wedding dresses and parade them down the aisle to a Ken doll who only had multi-colored swim trunks to mark the occasion. Cheesecake with your female friends is always better than marrying a man whose head regularly pops off and rolls to the most unreachable spot under a dresser.

In short, Rue’s Blanche is the sort of charming, goofy Southern belle I’d like to be.

Y Chromosome: Sleepers.

Me: Really?! REALLY?! I did, too! Finally, we found some sort of commonality in our childhoods. This is exciting. Sleepers, yeah!

Y Chrome: Well, sometimes we called them ’sleepers’, but most of the time we called them ‘eye boogers.’

Me: Ugh. Never mind.

I bought this little red guy at Christmas last year while I was shopping for other people (I know, I know. Don’t look at me like that. He was irresistible, in that he’s adorable and I’m utterly weak). He’s made of wool and his legs are adjustable. When I bought him, he was standing a little off-balance, and though I could easily balance him by bending his leg a little, I find his slightly tipsy stance endearing.

And then it became apparent that he’d need company, so I went out and bought the blue bird on the left last month.

And that very same day, when I got home from work, Y Chrome had the bird on the right wrapped up and waiting for me. Apparently we missed each other in the shop by about an hour, and he picked out the other bird I was debating about getting.

Aww.

When I was in graduate school I would mark my calendar carefully, noting how many days it would be between visits from my then-boyfriend or my visits home, and I was careful not to let more time go by between visits than had ever gone by before. If the longest I had ever been away was 10 weeks, I would ensure that I wouldn’t spend more than another 10 weeks away before another I made the trip up to Connecticut again, or had someone come down to see me. It was as though I knew I could survive 10 weeks, but 10 weeks and one day might be more than I could bear. I knew it was silly, but I cautiously marked time just the same.

These days, I feel much more settled. I’m happily employed, I have friends for all occasions and running partners, and clubs, and a fabulous boyfriend minutes away. But there’s always a nagging feeling that I’m missing something, or I’m about to miss something, and that there are things I’m missing that I don’t even know about. My grandmother is ill, but no one thinks to update me when she’s admitted to the hospital. I’m in a dear friend’s wedding this summer, and have been painfully, embarrassingly uninvolved; she had two bridal showers and I was unable to make it to either one. I’ve missed slews of birthdays, parties, and get-togethers in CT, though, of course, I’ve been happily able to participate in these things down here in VA. And if I moved away, I know I’d miss this state like crazy.

When I’m in Virginia, I call Connecticut home, when in Connecticut, I refer to Virginia as home. Some days this makes me feel very lucky, this equal comfort with—and love for—two places. But now and then it occurs to me that this really means I’m always referring to home as the place where I’m not. Sometimes I wonder if this is just a stubborn refusal to be happy no matter where I am.

Still, I always feel a little silly complaining. I’m certainly not the first person to move away home, and people have moved much further away, and under much more painful circumstances. And let’s not forget about the men and women serving overseas, and the people who they’ve left behind.

And so, with that in mind, I will be even more thankful as I head up to Connecticut for a visit this weekend. I really can’t wait.