As I told my brother on the phone last night to announce my non-arrival home for the holidays, “Yeah, the East Coast, you people, you’re dead to me.” (Maybe not so much dead as far away.)

To celebrate the transformation I have a hole in my Massachusetts driver’s license voiding it in some mystic states’ rights ritual to be replaced by a new card in the mail at some undisclosed point in time. And, the bumper of the vee-dub that brought me here is no longer sporting the tag that survived the Saturn SC coupe or its sister yellow New Bug. Gone forever is this:

Perhaps the last vestige of my New England self. (Well, that and my sarcasm and ice cold emotional distance.)

Goodbye old me.

(In related news, I pointed out to M. that in many a Lifetime original made-for-women movie the ever-present abusive dude starts by separating his victim from her nearest and dearest. It starts with distance, continues with an emotional severing (um, holidays, am I right ladies?) and ends with crippling emotional attachment.

The sun, moon and stars to me, the man o’ mine who invited me to live 3,000 miles from my family and friends. (OK, if you were to quibble, maybe 1K or so, if you think of my Western dwelling sister, and, if pushed, a few miles, but with a bay and peninsula in the way, of my oldest and among my best friends. But, the vast majority of the crowd are far.) Anyway, my cohabitation buddy, he thanked me for the tips, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he tunes into Lifetime more often.)