It’s no secret I’m over Los Angeles. I’ve been politely tolerating it for the past year or so. We were talking about moving last summer, but a little exciting thing called an engagement got in the way.

I’m sure friends and family can’t help but think, “Moni’s moving? AGAIN??”

I can’t seem to bloom where I’m planted — a phrase my family learned in the early nineties as new residents in a Parisian suburb. My six-year tenure in New York City was the longest I’d ever lived in one place since childhood, where I spent six consecutive years living in New Canaan, Conn.

In my past, various factors drove me to move from place to place: whether it was a new job, a new frontier, a new man, or all of the above. No matter how haphazard my life map may seem if it popped up before you, there was always a reason for relocating from point A to point B. Now, for the first time in my life, I want to move without a reason. I want to close my eyes with a map of the state of Washington in front of me and drop my finger on it and yell, “Honey! Our new home!”

I can’t explain it because the only place I’ve been north of Sonoma (that I remember — my parents took me to British Columbia and Vancouver when I was a baby), is Seattle. But for some reason, I have my heart set on living in a small cottage home in a small coastal town in the Pacific Northwest. Every time I see a movie with a quaint village backdrop I have to look it up to see if it’s a place we could live. The more misty and cloudy, the better. Think the setting for “The Shipping News” (Newfoundland) meets “Twilight” (Oregon City).

I guess deep down I’m more country mouse than city mouse.

When talking about our desired move with friends, I constantly fight the urge to be a total Debbie Downer. I try to avoid using the word “hate” when describing my frustrations with this city, so I often employ the words “over it.”

I’m over the people. I’m over the traffic. I’m over the people behind the wheel in traffic. I’m over the endless days of sunshine. I’m over the sprawl. I’m over the lack of dog-friendly beaches. I’m over the ordeal it is to get to a dog-friendly beach. I’m just over it.

As 30-something newylweds looking to start a family, home-buying is at the top of our dream list. Our estimated home budget wouldn’t go very far here: we’d end up buying a small house in a crummy neighborhood where I could hand a tube of toothpaste through a bathroom window to our neighbor. No thanks.

The irony is MainMan used to live in a small coastal town in Maine before he moved here to work at the Science Center. While we haven’t exactly crossed Maine off the contention list, we are primarily focusing on a move to Oregon or Washington.

I caught a recent episode of “House Hunters” in which a San Diego couple — expressing a shared aversion to the monotony of sunny SoCal skies — found their dream home in Portland, Ore. It was a sign to me and just the little bit of encouragement/reminder I needed that a move is imminent and I just need to be patient. Settling for something less than what we want would be a waste of time, because after almost 34 years of flitting around like a honeybee, I don’t want to call it quits on a town after two, three, or even six years. I’m ready to set our roots down in a place where we, as a growing family, can call home for a long time. I guess, finally, I’m ready to bloom where I’m planted.