Where Am I Going?

I have been trying to figure out where to start my new life as a single woman.  Stamford, CT, was a great place in which to grow up and for the last 32 years, I have been hoping that I would somehow get back there, having moved around for the Spousal Unit’s job.  So I am sitting here on a flight back to LAX, sad, sad, sad to find out that maybe you CAN’T go home again.  

My little hometown has become more than a commuter town for people who work in NYC.  It has become a headquarters for some pretty big businesses and also the home of the Jerry Spinger Show, The Maury Povich Show and the Steve Wilkos Show.  Wow, I am so proud.  It has also become a really really expensive place to live.

I took all my financial papers to my cousin the accountant.  We looked it all over in an effort for me to get a good picture of my finances in an effort for to make my money outlive me rather than vice versa.  The government seems determined to shorten my life span.  Using the ‘standard’ of 30% of my net income going for shelter, I went looking for a rental.  What I could afford in my hometown was a 3rd floor walkup in a 200 year old house where the radiators are controlled by someone else and where a realtor told me on a freezing cold day outside and a steamy day inside, that all I had to do was ‘crack a window’.  I wonder what I will do in the summer? Oh yes, it also comes with exclusive use of the rooftop garden - a great from from which to jump!

I looked at in-law apartments in houses where apparently they hated the in-laws.  I looked at a lower level in a split-level home where there had been a flood and the mold made a lovely design on the floor tile.  

I had a moment of thinking I could go all out and blow some of my savings on a year in a high rise in the middle of where the action is in the downtown area - kind of Carrie Old-shaw in my own version of “I Remember Sex and My City”.  But by the time you add the parking space and all the utilities it did NOT include, then it was not doable at all unless my life expectancy is only 1-2 more years.  A townhouse in a rather tony suburb yielded  hardwood floors that had bigger blisters than my feet on prom night and enough layers of paint that the rooms were actually 4 square inches smaller than stated!  But I am sure that the mice who apparently also lived there didn’t notice.  All of a sudden I have a great understanding of Anna Nicole Smith’s last marriage...