“Home is not where you live but where they understand you.” ~Christian Morgenstern
A few weeks ago I had a few episodes of homesickness brought on by an episode of Meet the Press and then a mention of Restaurant Week. Then Amy probably mentioned Noah and the tears started to well. I was homesick. Ridiculously so at that. I started missing little things like the Sephora in Georgetown or my weekend routine of the gym, Trader Joe’s, coffee, a nap and then drinks. A routine that could almost be emulated here if I didn’t live with a woman who didn’t understand my obsession with Sauvignon Blanc and why I need to nap in the middle of the day.
I had a life and friends turned family that took six years to build and cherish and put up with my bullshit. I moved and new the lay of the land and could successfully drive from Maryland to Virginia without becoming suicidal. I was comfortable and when I’m comfortable, I become extremely averse to any sort of change or sudden movements. I wasn’t happy – because in general I am not a happy person – and things were nowhere near perfect. But I always knew that if something were to go terribly wrong I could walk to Kris’ apartment or that my best friends in the world were just a short metro ride away.
It was easy. Possibly too easy.
I moved because I needed the change and I felt it in my gut that it would be the right thing to do. So I had celebratory dinners and parties and cried then cried some more then ended up returning to DC literally five days after I left. A trend that continued for roughly two and half months to the point where I decided that I was sick of DC. So, I got a uhaul and packed up the remnants of my life there and transferred them all to my father’s garage, where they are now covered in a fine layer of dust. Yum.
I’m often uncomfortable with my decisions which could be attributed to age or the fact that I’m stubborn but even when I know deep down inside that it’s the right thing to do, I keep thinking I’m missing out on something. Some big event or party or whatever, I’m missing it because I decided to move 400 miles away. And so I cried.
It’s stupid, I know it is and it passed. But for a week, I felt like I couldn’t do ‘this’ – whatever ‘this’ is – anymore. Like I had to move back and get my life because I would never find that level of comfort anywhere else. I felt lost and like I had made some God awful mistake which can obviously be perpetuated when you move in WITH YOUR MOTHER. Goodbye, privacy!
For years when people asked me where I was from I would say Washington, DC. Because that’s where my life, bills and bed were. But Washington is such a bubble of people with a rather one track mind and a crackberry permanently attached to the hip and a grocery cart full of organic foods. I miss it. I miss it like hell even if it is a short plane ride and even though I’m contractually obligated to go down once a month, I still feel that little pang – like right now as I’m writing this all out – of missing happy hours around town or a quick trip to Whole Paycheck. So right now I’m in some purgatory: Enjoying weekends at the track and road trips to Massachusetts. Getting reacquainted with my parents, brother and high school friends. Shockingly enough, they do have wine here and bars and grocery stores that sell over priced organic food.
In the event that you were really wondering, so far, so good. But I might rethink all of this come Winter. Then I’ll just have to write a post with the words “PLEASE SEND BOOZE” and you’ll know right then and there that it’s an absolute emergency and that maybe Upstate NY wasn’t the best idea ever.
Chaotic
“Housework, if it is done right, can kill you.” ~John Skow
Several weeks ago, I decided to embark on a little project called painting my bedroom. It should probably be more aptly named ‘a fantastic way for my head to meet the corner of a desk, over and over again’ because I about lost my damn mind. Patience is not a virtue and when a project requires roughly $200 in supplies and several coats of primer to get rid of the seizure inducing canary yellow color that the previous owner had put up, well then the mind; it is gone.
Mind that I did the requisite reading, hence the primer. But nothing prepared me for standing precariously at the top of a ladder in order to paint the very edges of the wall while lunging out towards the offending paint drops as Intense Teal paint falls on my brand new hardwood floors. And the cat tramps through to step in the paint, hiss, scratch me and then run away when I spray water on it as the dog eats the paint. I’m now wondering whether or not it’s possible for a puppy to pee blue.
Really it was just one big party-tastic weekend. The photo above is a good representation of how I’ve left my bedroom and high tailed it to DC (I’m writing this from my hotel with a lovely view of Dupont Circle) spontaneously. When my mother found out that I had to leave to go to DC, she volunteered to go to my place and finish painting while I’m away.
The above isn’t a sign of niceness or motherly love. It’s the sign of a woman desperate so very desperate to get her mooching daughter* out of her house that she’ll paint alone on a Sunday. This is a major step forward in our oft tumultuous relationship wherein we she says the sky is blue and I will fight her to the death that it’s actually green. I’m going to enjoy this moment of us finally agreeing that I need to get the hell out and for this moment of complete understand and bliss, I am so very thankful.
*Ok, if she’s ALREADY going to the grocery store, I don’t see why I should go as well. So I just tell her to pick up a few things. Necessities like fruity cheerios and three packages of veggie burgers. I just don’t understand the point of us both going there to spend money when she is doing it already.