I admit to whining about this move. So sue me. But leave it to a few punchy readers, and a wise and extremely gorgeous woman who shared with me her Darfur Theory of Moving to put me in my place.
Basically, if you're not moving to Darfur, then you've probably got it pretty damn good.
That or Mississippi. The stretch of stinky catfish farms they call "landscape" down there is pretty damn close to an African desert. Except I think the desert is actually prettier and doesn't stink as much.
So when people ask me if I like Little Rock, it's a pretty simple answer.
Now don't get me wrong. There are definitely some downsides to living here, including some pretty treacherous roads and a whole lot of religion. But considering I don't listen to the radio anyway, and obviously don't watch television anymore, it's not such a big deal. And while my particular town (north of the city) is dry, that just means I can't get an Ultimate Mudslide with my TGIF 3-course special.
But since the last time I set foot in a TGIF a waitress dropped a bar glass on my foot which ended with me requiring eight nasty and painful stitches, I'm okay with not having to eat at TGIF.
See. Little Rock has my safety in mind. Plus, with all the people praying on the radio and the television, that's got to provide some type of heightened protection.
And if want to eat anywhere else, I can just load up before I go. Very economical, this city.
Aside from my safety and my bank account, Little Rock is very concerned with my appearance. They've conveniently placed some type of waterfall, pond, or miniature lake in all their Asian restaurants so instead of stuffing my face with white rice and teriyaki chicken, I'm running after my two children who think that they need to catch their own sushi fish and swim for change to tip the chef.
Plus, thanks to the the base gym, I can drag the two kids along and run on the treadmill while they chase each other in the fenced in "family work out" room. Imagine a Medieval Times type set up, except instead of eating large turkey thighs, you're trying to work yours off all while your fellow mothers are yelling threats like "Don't make me get off this bicycle, little boy" while your kids try to avoid getting rammed by some wild children with large square shaped mats.
And what I can only attribute to nothing short of a miracle, I scored a pedicure and hair cut appointment at the town's best spa on a short notice Saturday morning.
I hear you, Little Rock. Those feet were pretty damn scary.
So not only am I thinner, a bit scared of some of the base wives, and nicely coiffed and scrubbed, within the three weeks that I have been here I've virtually met some extremely friendly bloggers, one of which sent my blog to the Democrat-Gazette for a feature article in the family section.
And if that's not enough, almost every single person I've met or emailed with here in the city, including well-known sex author Suzi Parker, has told me that my name is terribly familiar. Like they know me.
That's because Little Rock loves me so much, they have a store named in my honor.
I guess the "E" in my name messed up my chances of getting a discount. But if you're in the market for a Lacoste shirt in Little Rock, that is the place to go, my friends. I always knew I had very expensive, preppy taste hidden under my printed tee-shirt, dirty jeans, and free ghetto pedicure flip flops (that aren't really for going out in public except I'm a dork -- hence this photo opp).
So thanks for the welcome, Little Rock. Hell, without the southern accents and Waffle Houses, you could pass for Jersey.