run, Mel, run

From my late teens to my mid-30s, I moved house a lot. This was for a number of reasons: mostly schools, jobs or boyfriends, with an expiring lease here and there.

It got so confusing for my mother that, when I was in my 20s, I bought her a second address book specifically for my dozens of addresses and numbers. She maintains it as mine exclusively to this day.

I didn't really notice how many addresses I'd had until the early 1990s, when I applied for an Australian residency visa. I had to list all my addresses for the previous 10 years. I came up with 13. Crikey!

I think my ten years here at Chez Melina is a record. So, combined with the arrival of another Texas summer, I've been scoping out my next move. I have it pencilled in for next year.

Part of me is dreadfully tempted to move to California. I'm one of those odd people who like Los Angeles and don't mind the freeway. And I would think it heavenly to live in Pasadena, even if I couldn't afford Bungalow Heaven (no, I can't).

I was looking at duplex rentals in Pasadena earlier today; the rentals aren't as bad as I feared. It's doable. And there are plenty of jobs for quirky writers.