Caterwauling

It’s days like today that I miss D.C.

It’s days when you see people out doing “fall” things (on Facebook and Twitter, natch) like going to farms and pumpkin-picking and shit like that — today was Octoberfest in Shirlington, which always coincides with a friend’s birthday — and you knew you would have been there.

There’s nothing extraordinary that I miss — no real “gotta get back there for ___” events — but the little things. Always knowing the weekends were free for whatever, even if it was just to spend a couple of quality hours by myself in a bookstore or hitting a museum or festival.

I went out to run an errand tonight. Five hours later, the errand is still un-run and I consumed quite a few beers after arguing with a server that, “You don’t have ANYTHING new for the fall? No pumpkin ale? No cider? No freakin’ anything out of the ordinary for the season?” (That answer was “Uh? No?”) *sigh* Where’s a Dogfish Head when you need one? Gah.

As I was crying in my beer, I had this thought that I might not live to see 36. And instead of being depressed, I actually started feeling kind of happy. Not that I’m suicidal or anything, because that requires effort, but it was an interesting perspective for me. That, OK, what would I do if I only had nine months left?

That answer, in reality, would be work till I drop, kind of like the current plan is anyway and, hell, who wants to work till you’re 105 anyway? But as I watched my Washington Caps enjoy home-rink advantage over Toronto while I drank, I realized I miss so many little things about D.C.

The friends, Eastern Market, the Corcoran, the Verizon Center, Matchbox, Rio, U Street, Chinatown, wineries, Cap City Brewery, Dogfish, Great Seneca Park, Ben Brenman Park, Old Town Alexandria, the Potomac River, watching the planes take off at National Airport from a rock beside the river, 14th Street, Rockville Town Center, Fur Nightclub, Four Courts, dinner parties in Fairlington, lazy nights out in Potomac Falls, Sundays with Journey’s Crossing, Trader Joe’s, Balducci’s, Taste of Bethesda, escapes to outlet malls and great restaurants, half-smokes, Nats Stadium, etc.

Etcetera, etcetera.

And I never got to Kennedy Center. That was the one thing I’d promised myself I’d do before I left.

I took so much for granted. And I do NOTHING to replace the memories with anything new. I don’t claim my space, mark my territory, fence off my time.

The thing is, I don’t want to die. I want to live. And none of the above constituted much in the way of a life, so OF COURSE I don’t know how to construct one now. All of the aforementioned were simply my attempts to cling to some sort of sanity as everything else fell apart.

I don’t miss D.C. insomuch that I miss me. Whoever that was. Actually, I take it back. I don’t miss the girl I was as much as the woman I thought I’d be by now.

I don’t even know where to look anymore. Or when to find the time to put out a search party. Or if I’d even know her to see her. I just hope she’s alive and well and that I don’t have to identify her by a toe tag when I get around to looking.

I only had one thing on my to-do list yesterday before what I hoped would be a mostly free weekend. That thing not only did not come together, but downright exploded, so I’ve been up all night worrying and stressing.

So much for the beach. My new weekend goal is to get a nap to compensate for last night.

“Throw your hands up in the sky,
And wave ’em ’round from side to side,
And if you deserve a break tonight,
Somebody say all right!”

— Kurtis Blow, “The Breaks”

I was doing some math on my apartment(s). I was really expecting Mom would get a job and be able to alleviate some of the burden of her expenses. As it stands, I am spending as much on rent over the next year as I earned during the first year I lived in D.C.

I’m glad to be in that position, don’t get me wrong, but it almost feels like paying alimony to get a sense of peace.

I’ve decided her apartment is my “summer home.” Since everyone in Floriduh calls somewhere else home, preferably someplace with culture and shit — or at least something that’s open past 9 p.m. when I can enjoy it — that’s how I’ve got to frame it or else I’m going to drown in a river of regret.

Everyone at this apartment complex is miserable. People are moving out left and right. Now I’m dealing with a broken washer that they don’t see fit to fix. The landlady’s husband seems to serve as part-time handyman, instead of getting professionals to fix shit. (This is the second time my washer broke. Good times.)

I’m always looking for the silver lining, and I think I’ve found it: It’s October and not only was I rolling around in a tank top yesterday, but that’s how I dress for work. So I can kvetch all I want about how culture-free Florida is, but truly, I’d be winter-coat-shopping if I were still in D.C. Nothankyouverymuch.

Someone said to me once that you’ve got to give up the good things to get to the great things. I know I gave up a LOT of good things. I try not to inventory them anymore, but I know what they are. So that’s got to mean that great things are here or in progress.

Right?