I wasn’t going to go out last night, but rare is the day I will miss a D.C. blogmeet with the usual suspects. It was a small gathering this time ’round, as April brings chaos and destruction for everyone (myself not excluded, as I should have been packing rather than guzzling cherry-wheat bear at the Cap City on New York Avenue with the gang), but the escape was worth it, as always. Even if it meant fighting through residual tourons who’d attended the parade.
I mean, who wouldn’t want to be in the company of Pat Sajak and Anthony Federov (from last season’s “American Idol”)? Although don’t hate, but I wouldn’t have minded seeing Martha Wash. Anyway. …
Thanks to the lovely Cat, who always manages to herd us cats together, and as always, I was happy to see brand-new daddy Buckethead (welcome Jocelyn!), The Wonder Formerly Known as Blogless, friend and current neighbor Neil and new neighbors (squee!) Nic and Vic. Good times, as always!
As it was a chilly night and I didn’t want it to end sooner than it had to (and as I was dumb enough to drive into D.C. — like I didn’t learn last week and every time I try that it takes an hour to drive 11 miles), I offered to take Nic and Vic home. And they humored me as I told them this long-winded story about, well, someone I don’t talk about here (as I would not necessarily enjoy being hunted down and killed or, at least, whined to about it).
SHARED PASTS
And it got me thinking more about blogging in general — how goddamned clever we all have to be to not get “caught” in this Information is King kind of world. But moreover, no matter how much we all exist independently (at least, I seem to), anything in our past is inextricably tied to someone else’s. And there’s a code of honor in protecting the shared past, even though sometimes you don’t want to respect it — you just have to.
I think that’s the underlying principle beneath so many of us getting in trouble with family members and employers past — we’ve spoken outside the family. It’s all well and good to know you’ve got the drunken uncle (or a challenging upper-management-type), but you are ordained by some unspoken code of internal ethics to never EVER mention it.
Same thing with exes and ex-friends and whomever else — even though you find a story repugnant or hilarious or something you just really wish you could have some help processing, unfortunately, you can’t talk about it online. I mean, you can, but it’s not worth opening the can o’worms. It’s like saying Beetlejuice — every time I so much as hint at someone from my past, whomever shares that past appears like an STD outbreak.
Which is why the blogmeets have become something of alcohol therapy. You get to see the faces and hear the details behind stories you’d never have any indication ever existed. Because we all have secrets, things we want to get out into the open — and we want someone who will listen and tell us we aren’t crazy (or, conversely, someone who tell us when we ARE).
Let’s face it, we all become smarter and more attuned to each other and also more informed about all kinds of neat trivia and tidbits that you can only glean from hearing someone else’s point of view about the world. Anyway, I don’t have any a lot of friends, but the companionship found at these meetings is powerful enough to tide me over for awhile and really, truly look forward to the next excuse to get together again.
IF ONLY EVERYONE WERE AS FABULOUS AS MY D.C. BLOGGER FRIENDS
Speaking of people about whom I need to blog, I am so counting down the days till I am out of my apartment complex. We have one functioning washer in the basement; I finally finally got to use it today. (I’ve had to be creative with my attire these past few weeks. And not in a good way — all my favorite pieces were in a heap on the floor because I have to either fight with 15 other units for time at that one washer or go to the United Nations laundromat. Which, ugh.)
Anyway, my load had just finished and I raced downstairs with one more, only to find a neighbor just about to empty the washer of my duds so she could use it. Ew. I ended up ripping my clothes out of the washer myself and, skipping the dryer, dragged them and the detergent and the needing-to-be-washed load back up three flights in a fit.
I of course was in a frothy fit that she was waiting to claim the machine and even though she offered for me to keep it for one more load, I was too annoyed to see straight. I did one of my usual, “I’ll be so fucking glad when I’m out of here.” (She really is a nice person; I just get mad that I can never get the fucking machine and it’s obnoxious to have to run up and down the steps 20 times to check in vain.)
The weird part? She said, “What? You’re not staying in the complex?” And she was shocked, even though they’re dicking her around because they decided to build a FITNESS CENTER instead of finishing the renovations on the first building. Yeah, that makes perfect sense.
So, what the complex is doing is evicting her but as her new unit won’t be ready till sometime in June, they want to put her into ANOTHER unit that hasn’t been renovated yet. Meaning, let’s bounce her down a couple of buildings only for her to move on up later.
She’s fighting it; she wants to stay here till the intended unit is ready. Which, I don’t see why McManagement is being weird about it — per the memo I received, they’re acting like new tenants are coming into my unit. Because they were dumb enough to pre-emptively and foolishly forfeit rent on a third of the complex for an undetermined amount of time.
I get the feeling that I can leave this place spic-and-span and I still won’t get a fraction of my deposit back, as they are hemorrhaging money into repairs and not making it back because they’ve exiled a third of their tenants. What a brilliant scheme!
They say nonprofit organizations survive despite themselves; clearly, the adage can apply to big, dumb realty companies. And my neighbor wonders why I want to leave here — I really can’t come up with a reason NOT to!
HISTORY REALLY DOES REPEAT ITSELF
In sum, though, when I was looking at moving into my current place back in 2003, there was another place I loved down the street. But I didn’t want to pay the higher price, even though I adored the layout — that was a “you pay utilities” situation and I wasn’t making any money and I also wasn’t stupid — I took this nice enough place that had everything included.
And now? The situation has presented itself again. I had an all-utilities-included place on backup. It was OK, I guess. The woman I worked with was wonderful. But I wasn’t in love with it. I like having utilities included for obvious reasons, but now that I’m moving closer to work, I’ll have more time, oh, *at* home and thus I need to love love LOVE it. And ironically, the new building is SO reminiscent of the unit I decided to walk away from, three years ago.
I didn’t invest in my current place. I didn’t even order checks to reflect this address. I didn’t buy any new furniture because I didn’t like the layout so I didn’t want to get anything that would only work here. But now, I am looking at new couches and bedroom furniture — not that I can afford it right now, but I’m slowly but surely getting into the groove of making big plans.
And I’m saying it right now — this is the last time I move before I move in with somebody. So either I’m going to DIE in my new apartment, or this is the last time I am going through this aggravation by myself. I always say “speak it into existence.” So now it’s out there. Blessed be.
In the meantime, I have a thousand things left to pack and only two boxes left. *argh*