The lack of employment post

I'm jamming to some 3 Doors Down at 1 a.m. and I don't really feel unemployed yet.

Of course, Monday hasn't hit yet. Right now, it's just a weekend.

In the morning, I'll be driving up to Paradise with a cardboard box to throw anything I want to keep from my desk into. Grab my last paycheck, handshakes and hugs, then the last 11 months/year/year and a half (depending on which starting point you use) is officially part of the past.

For those of you who came in late, Friday was my last day at work with The Post. Starting next Monday, I'll be the greenhorn bringing the staff of the Appeal-Democrat in Marysville up to capacity.

So maybe unemployed is the wrong term. It's "between jobs."

Of course, there were some people speculating (elected officials included among them) that I had been let go as part of the budget tightening going on at MediaNews Group papers. I dispelled that quickly. No, it's not true. I initiated this after I did the interview and got the offer from the Appeal-Democrat — which, for scorekeeping purposes, is owned by Freedom Communications.

It will be a different animal in Marysville. For one, it's a paper that's mostly wire copy—the same thing the writers in Paradise would crack jokes about while we busted our butts to write four stories for every paper. My expectation down there is a story for every day I'm at work plus a longer piece to run on the weekend.

At first glance, that seems like less work. But I doubt that's going to be true. It never is.

Of course, part of this deal is that my time is Chico is coming to an end as well. I've bought some moving boxes, but that change-hating part of me has so far succeeded in keeping me from packing anything in them.

"You don't have an apartment in Yuba City yet," the little voice tells me. "Why rush?"

On the other shoulder is the voice of my mother through the cell phone.

"You need to hurry up and find something down there," she says. "You don't need to be putting 100 miles a day on your car. It's getting older."

"HA!" the little voice retorts. "It's a Toyota with less than 160,000 miles. It's barely broken in. It will be fine.

"Besides, you're so freakin' paranoid about being someplace where you don't know anyone you'll be crashing on the couch at your old house every weekend the second you move down there."

That's where the little voice wins out. As soon as I turn the key to whatever apartment I find in Yuba City, I'll be 50 miles from the nearest soul who knows who the hell I am. It's not a comfortable feeling.

I knew people when I went from Happy Camp to Weed. I knew people when I went from Weed to Chico. I know absolutely nobody between Chico and Sacramento.

Somehow, people have this concept that I'm really great at making friends. I've never thought I have. Attempting to socialize with socially lubricated people in Chico bars further reinforced this idea.

So, when I wake up in a few hours, the feelings of not having a job for a short time will actually hit.

Let's see how that feels.