I woke up at about 7:20 this morning because for whatever reason, my body is incapable of sleeping in. Even though I'm physically exhausted, the fact that I wake up at six during the week makes the weekend attempt for extra snooze time an absolute bust. I guess it's okay because I have to get ready for work eventually anyway, but I still had an hour.
What? What's that you say? Work? Why, yes. Thank you for asking. I'm currently on day 20 of my working streak, which will finally run it's course next Thursday. I actually haven't minded it-- I've only gotten sick once.
Laying in my bed wide awake poses a series of problems for me in the early morning, because I tend to think about all of life's intricacies and issues: something NOT fit for a human to rumble on before the sun rises. Everything is still a fog, and every answer you come up with will inevitably seem grand at the time, but when your system actually wakes up and you realize how stupid you were just a mere two hours prior, you've learned your lesson. Never, ever, EVER make important decisions or think vital thoughts when under the influence of sleep-induced drunkenness. Nevertheless, I do it every day.
And there goes my alarm, screeching at me over the whir of the overhead fan and the cars outside my window. These sounds, reminders: DON'T THINK ABOUT ANYTHING YET.
That would be a lot easier to do if I wasn't in such a fucking bind right now. It's the same old story of everyone anywhere who has ever packed up his/her life and moved it somewhere else in hopes of starting new and finding something he/she thought was missing. Where is all the goddamn money?
All of my things (that I would need for an apartment/to sleep/to live on my own) are back home in a storage unit. One that I only have another day on before the month expires. I probably should call the dude in charge before my things end up in some hillbilly auction, or better yet, Storage Wars. At least that way I'd have some credibility to my name. Any way you look at it: renting a UHaul truck here, picking up my things, and returning it here, getting a UPod/storage crate, renting a pickup truck here and driving it to and from, getting a UHaul there and then towing my car while returning it here--all of these options are going to cost me upwards of 750. 750 that I DON'T HAVE. Because I'm moving in next weekend, I need to also figure in my security deposit (my new landlord is already giving me lenience on the first month of rent) and gas money for any aforementioned option. I'm finding myself really stressing out and getting upset for the first time since being here, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.
To top it off, my fat cat Tommy (a tiger kitty who thinks he is a dog, literally) peed on my blanket for no reason other than he probably was too lazy to walk the four fucking feet to the litter box. Pardon my French here if you can't handle a rager, but seriously? Get up and go to your toilet you lazy fool. Did I mention he peed all over my friend's couch, which is another 150 that I have to shell out to the dry cleaners that I don't have?
For the first time, I'm wondering whether or not this was the right move at the right time for me. I know in my heart of hearts that my spirit is healthier and that I FEEL happy for the first time in a while here, or out of Batavia, and I also know that this WAS the right move. But damn it all, if this monetary situation isn't a test of my newfound clarity and contentedness. I'm always in a rut, always going to be in debt, and always going to be struggling to get by as far as finances are concerned.
It's times like these where I pick up a spoon that isn't mine, reach from the futon that isn't mine over to the bookshelf that isn't mine, forget about all of the Benjamins floating around out in the world that aren't mine but probably should be mine, and quit worrying about what isn't mine. The Nutella-- sweet, sweet Nutella-- that is now in my hands, bought with a few bucks that once was mine, is all mine for the next 15 minutes. Life is good.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Sunday, September 23, 2012
popped collars, cologne, and other things
Just a quick little blurb from my bedroom in Petworth: I'm officially cool enough to walk the streets of any large city alone.
Ironically enough, I was on the path to impending doom in Georgetown (where all doom must clearly take place, amongst the popped collars and cologne) while on my way to find some Toms. Like the sneaker brand Toms, not a slew of attractive men that I could take home with me and have my way with. Though, that may have been the better option given my journey yesterday.
City Sports is at the end of the market stretch on M street, so I turned off on a side street, up a few blocks, and then on to another to finally park. The line at Georgetown cupcake, while I drove to find a spot, was absolutely ridiculous. I didn't even have to parallel either; I was able to slide in between a bumper and a driveway, given the dimensions of my little mongrel of a vehicle.
I decided that, after driving though a shitstorm of traffic to get there, I didn't want Toms after all-- I find them too narrow for my fat feet-- and that I would just grab some ice cream somewhere and head on home. This was about 6:30.
At 7:30, an hour later, I was still trying to find my god damn car. No joke. I kept thinking about what I saw, houses I noticed, etc., but unfortunately for me (and for the otherwise eclectic nature of D.C.) Georgetown is simply a slew of red brick row houses, one after the other. The only defining features are whether or not they have cast-iron fences to keep away the riff-raff. Apparently they also tried to do that by making the nearest metro stop Foggy Bottom, because they didn't want a culture of in-and-out to develop.
I know all of this because my friend Gene, from Bread Loaf, explained the culture of GTown and how some people consequently view it as a town of snobbery and, as stated earlier, popped collars and cologne. I didn't care about that, though-- I wanted to get my effing car so I could get the eff home because I was effing tired. Fortunately, I found myself at the ice-cream shop (I WILL not add the extra consonants at the end of shop, ever.) that I wanted to find myself at: Thomas Sweets. I walked out with my Oreo fro-yo, and despite my worry about not finding my car, I was happy as a pig in shit. Walking around, aimlessly, searching for something that was somewhere, surrounded by people doing the same thing. At that point, I really didn't care about my car.
8:00 then rolled around as I re-traced my steps from City Sports-- it took me over an hour to figure out I should have done that to begin with-- and I was on my way to my car. A young couple abruptly stopped me. The female of the pair was quite pretty, with long, dark hair, and an orange dress, and the male was too preppy for my type, with the parted-wave look. If you weren't aware, that's a deep part on either side of said male head with a gigantic, combed over coif that somehow pairs well with, yet again, popped collars and cologne.
She quickly said, "Excuse me, do you know what the quickest way to get to Columbia Heights is? Like should we take a bus or just walk back to the metro?"
I couldn't believe it. I obviously looked cool enough, confident enough, suave enough eating my frozen yogurt (98% fat free) out of a cup that these fools actually thought I knew the answer! I played it cool: "Hmm. Buses are always a pain in the ass, and then you have to transfer to the metro anyways. I would say just get back to Foggy Bottom-- it's not that far away-- and then you can just stay on the metro instead of using two types of transportation."
They smiled, and Popped Collar said, "Okay, cool. We know how to get back to Foggy Bottom from here. Thanks!" The couple turned and walked away.
I found my car about 10 minutes later, right where it should have been. My bumper stickers were all in tact (do people in Georgetown know what those are?) and my iPod was still in my center console. I put the key in the ignition, turned on Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe", thinking about a fantastic date I had on Friday, and drove home.
Devouring D.C., alone, in the land of popped--well, you get it-- never felt so perfect.
Ironically enough, I was on the path to impending doom in Georgetown (where all doom must clearly take place, amongst the popped collars and cologne) while on my way to find some Toms. Like the sneaker brand Toms, not a slew of attractive men that I could take home with me and have my way with. Though, that may have been the better option given my journey yesterday.
City Sports is at the end of the market stretch on M street, so I turned off on a side street, up a few blocks, and then on to another to finally park. The line at Georgetown cupcake, while I drove to find a spot, was absolutely ridiculous. I didn't even have to parallel either; I was able to slide in between a bumper and a driveway, given the dimensions of my little mongrel of a vehicle.
I decided that, after driving though a shitstorm of traffic to get there, I didn't want Toms after all-- I find them too narrow for my fat feet-- and that I would just grab some ice cream somewhere and head on home. This was about 6:30.
At 7:30, an hour later, I was still trying to find my god damn car. No joke. I kept thinking about what I saw, houses I noticed, etc., but unfortunately for me (and for the otherwise eclectic nature of D.C.) Georgetown is simply a slew of red brick row houses, one after the other. The only defining features are whether or not they have cast-iron fences to keep away the riff-raff. Apparently they also tried to do that by making the nearest metro stop Foggy Bottom, because they didn't want a culture of in-and-out to develop.
I know all of this because my friend Gene, from Bread Loaf, explained the culture of GTown and how some people consequently view it as a town of snobbery and, as stated earlier, popped collars and cologne. I didn't care about that, though-- I wanted to get my effing car so I could get the eff home because I was effing tired. Fortunately, I found myself at the ice-cream shop (I WILL not add the extra consonants at the end of shop, ever.) that I wanted to find myself at: Thomas Sweets. I walked out with my Oreo fro-yo, and despite my worry about not finding my car, I was happy as a pig in shit. Walking around, aimlessly, searching for something that was somewhere, surrounded by people doing the same thing. At that point, I really didn't care about my car.
8:00 then rolled around as I re-traced my steps from City Sports-- it took me over an hour to figure out I should have done that to begin with-- and I was on my way to my car. A young couple abruptly stopped me. The female of the pair was quite pretty, with long, dark hair, and an orange dress, and the male was too preppy for my type, with the parted-wave look. If you weren't aware, that's a deep part on either side of said male head with a gigantic, combed over coif that somehow pairs well with, yet again, popped collars and cologne.
She quickly said, "Excuse me, do you know what the quickest way to get to Columbia Heights is? Like should we take a bus or just walk back to the metro?"
I couldn't believe it. I obviously looked cool enough, confident enough, suave enough eating my frozen yogurt (98% fat free) out of a cup that these fools actually thought I knew the answer! I played it cool: "Hmm. Buses are always a pain in the ass, and then you have to transfer to the metro anyways. I would say just get back to Foggy Bottom-- it's not that far away-- and then you can just stay on the metro instead of using two types of transportation."
They smiled, and Popped Collar said, "Okay, cool. We know how to get back to Foggy Bottom from here. Thanks!" The couple turned and walked away.
I found my car about 10 minutes later, right where it should have been. My bumper stickers were all in tact (do people in Georgetown know what those are?) and my iPod was still in my center console. I put the key in the ignition, turned on Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe", thinking about a fantastic date I had on Friday, and drove home.
Devouring D.C., alone, in the land of popped--well, you get it-- never felt so perfect.
Friday, September 14, 2012
devouring DC
I'm going to lay out my Friday night for you: with a hungry stomach, wandering eyes, and a book of Maile Meloy's short fiction at my side, I'm sitting in Busboys and Poets-- a restaurant/bookstore/cafe on 14th street in DC, thanks to Langston Hughes. My cell phone is by my right side, the screen still dewy with oil from my face when I spoke with my landlord several minutes ago. I just ordered a water (I'm on a tight budget) and a chicken quesadilla (nothing fancy or risky, I know, but I'm hungry NOW), and am giving my hostess and her husband some alone time at home before he leaves on a trip to Denver for 7 weeks. The guy sitting across from me has an angular scar on his forehead stretching from the inner edge of his eyebrow to the crease in the middle of his forehead, and because he doesn't look like a fighter I'm guessing he tripped and fell on the playground when he was younger. It's really busy here, and as with all other places I've been to in DC alone, I haven't recognized a face. It's a fantastic way to start the weekend.
I realize I haven't blogged in a while, but trust me, there's been good reason: moving here and getting myself acclimated (clearly, I'm going to be doing that for a while) has been, thus far, one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. And time-consuming as shit. I started working at my preschool the second day that I got into the city, and since then I've not taken a back seat. I've been commuting five days a week (believe people when they tell you how much traffic here f****** blows, and that Maryland drivers are idiots), I'm giving and receiving more love than I ever have every day while working with my preschool kids, I've been trying to meet up with people from Bread Loaf/locals on the weekends, I've explored a bit on my own, I'm learning (and getting better every day) how to navigate the metro lines most conveniently, I've smoked hookah for the first time in my life, I've sat down to dinner with my gracious hosts for delicious meals a handful of times, I've clutched my purse walking down the sidewalk more than once, I've had a few staring contests with people on the metro, I've gotten into clawing matches with Tommy (my cat, if you weren't aware-- he has been pretty much confined to a bedroom since arrival and is now taking it out on me), I've found an awesome place to watch my Buffalo sports teams lose, I've signed up for a free "dating" website (it's really more like Facebook for people who are willing to meet strange people in strange places) and I've even gone on a date (let's put it this way: there wasn't a second, but still fun and totally something I'd do over again). In fact, I've got another one tomorrow night (which I'm pretty excited about). Three weeks-- not too shabby, Coffta.
There is a reason why people live in cities: because it pumps life into your veins when you thought you were on your last legs. I feel renewed, refreshed, revived, and in some ways (as corny as it may sound) reborn. I feel like I've always lived here. I feel like the sidewalk was cracked for me to walk on, however long I might stay. I feel like before moving here, I was trapped in my own spiderweb of "what ifs", and now I'm devouring the "now I know" like a starved child. I needed to escape, I needed to breathe new air, I needed to hurt people, I needed to be alone in the tidal wave of a billion foreign faces that mean nothing to me. Because now I know what it feels like to survive unhappiness, to break away from something you didn't know you didn't need until you didn't need it anymore.
Cop lights are flashing in the window behind me, "Bartender" by T-Pain is playing over the speakers next to my table, and at the table to my left a guy is simultaneously drinking a beer, dipping pita in homemade hummus, reading David Sedaris, and smiling. I love DC. I am content.
I realize I haven't blogged in a while, but trust me, there's been good reason: moving here and getting myself acclimated (clearly, I'm going to be doing that for a while) has been, thus far, one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. And time-consuming as shit. I started working at my preschool the second day that I got into the city, and since then I've not taken a back seat. I've been commuting five days a week (believe people when they tell you how much traffic here f****** blows, and that Maryland drivers are idiots), I'm giving and receiving more love than I ever have every day while working with my preschool kids, I've been trying to meet up with people from Bread Loaf/locals on the weekends, I've explored a bit on my own, I'm learning (and getting better every day) how to navigate the metro lines most conveniently, I've smoked hookah for the first time in my life, I've sat down to dinner with my gracious hosts for delicious meals a handful of times, I've clutched my purse walking down the sidewalk more than once, I've had a few staring contests with people on the metro, I've gotten into clawing matches with Tommy (my cat, if you weren't aware-- he has been pretty much confined to a bedroom since arrival and is now taking it out on me), I've found an awesome place to watch my Buffalo sports teams lose, I've signed up for a free "dating" website (it's really more like Facebook for people who are willing to meet strange people in strange places) and I've even gone on a date (let's put it this way: there wasn't a second, but still fun and totally something I'd do over again). In fact, I've got another one tomorrow night (which I'm pretty excited about). Three weeks-- not too shabby, Coffta.
There is a reason why people live in cities: because it pumps life into your veins when you thought you were on your last legs. I feel renewed, refreshed, revived, and in some ways (as corny as it may sound) reborn. I feel like I've always lived here. I feel like the sidewalk was cracked for me to walk on, however long I might stay. I feel like before moving here, I was trapped in my own spiderweb of "what ifs", and now I'm devouring the "now I know" like a starved child. I needed to escape, I needed to breathe new air, I needed to hurt people, I needed to be alone in the tidal wave of a billion foreign faces that mean nothing to me. Because now I know what it feels like to survive unhappiness, to break away from something you didn't know you didn't need until you didn't need it anymore.
Cop lights are flashing in the window behind me, "Bartender" by T-Pain is playing over the speakers next to my table, and at the table to my left a guy is simultaneously drinking a beer, dipping pita in homemade hummus, reading David Sedaris, and smiling. I love DC. I am content.
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