thatnight.net

For the past few days, I’ve been going through the hell that is moving, intensified by the nightmare that is Christmas, accented by the inbred blister downstairs who is off school for the holidays. I have to be out by Sunday, which means I should probably start packing these things of mine, but I’ve been slightly distracted by the fact that I’m unsure where I’m headed.

I took out a storage unit this morning, so at least my stuff is going someplace, but as of now, I’m still looking. Luckily, I have plenty of family in Pittsburgh, the most fantastic place in all the land, to aid the process, so I’m perhaps more worried than I ought to be.

This (and not at all the end of the year), has caused me to think back to last January, at which time I was moving into this apartment. It’s been an OK year.

Here are some pictures from the past 12 months.

Moving in.

The transfer from a PA state school to a private college.

My second year coaching, I was a nervous wreck. The team went on the win the regional championship.

In May, I turned 21. I never drank heavily before then. Because of that night, I haven’t drank heavily since.

I always waited until the next day, until this year.

My first experience with PodCamp Pittsburgh. I’m a changed person.

Quiet Company came to Pittsburgh and stayed at the apartment for the night they were in town.

And I adopted a puppy. He’s OK too.

21 Comments

A couple months ago, when I mentioned to my aunt that I was getting a Yorkie, she had the idea to surprise my two little cousins, Emily and Samantha, with one of the puppies from the same breeder for Christmas. They brought him home today and named him Banjo.

Banjo is only five days younger than my puppy, although I’ve had Bello for almost three weeks now. I was completely shocked when I made the visit to see the new guy this afternoon because of how different the two puppies (both males) ended up looking, even though they shared a father.

For a good twenty minutes the only contact Bello would make, even with Banjo’s best attempts to reacquaint, would be to bark from a distance. They carried on like that for a while, sending paused yips across the room to each other, and then finally warmed up.

And eventually, they were brothers again.

30 Comments

I received another Christmas card from one of my dearly beloved newspaper customers this morning. I took it out of my mailbox on my way home from the restaurant job this afternoon.

Usually, after working at the restaurant all morning, which is immediately after I finish my paper route in the middle of the night, the procedure for walking into my apartment is to stand in the living room and throw everything I’m holding in every direction while simultaneously kicking off my shoes before I sprint to the bedroom. Bello has come to expect this and cowers under the rocking chair until he hears heels hit the TV.

I was especially tired today but remembered the card and tore it open as I crawled into bed. My first reaction to what I saw was, “Hm, how ’bout that!” And then I returned it to the envelope and sat there for a moment.

I opened it again and looked around like, hey, I should probably show this to the dog because I’m not sure how to react and could use a model. Another thought flew through my mind, and for a few seconds, it’s what I settled on: “Hey, pretend money! What a clever idea to send one of those fake, funny bills for an amount that would nearly exceed a whole year’s worth of delivered newspapers!” And I was happy with this, because they thought of me. A Christmas joke! Yeehaw!

Before today, I’d never seen a hundred-dollar bill in real life. Seeing three numbers printed in the corners — three digits — still has me somewhat perplexed, and I’ll take it to the bank later but only after I reopen the card and look at it a few more times.

45 Comments

I’m well aware of the person you think I am, as my general idea would have been similar if I had ever wondered how the newspaper got into my front yard every morning before I decided to become your delivery girl. But please, and especially for the elderly among us, let me clarify.

It is the year 2007, in the city of Pittsburgh, and not 1947 in the city of Stepford, and also not 1984 in your Game Boy. I do not carry a gaping shoulder bag with a few dozen rolled papers and leisurely toss them onto your stoop as I stroll down the street as the sun comes up. I have 324 deliveries to make. I do it by car. I have a time limit, so that when you wake up warm in your bed, you can stretch with confidence in the fact that your newspaper is in your front yard.

I am not a burly man. I cannot whip a newspaper with accuracy onto your doormat from an open car window 30 feet away. I am a 21 year old girl. I have a ponytail. I have small arms. It is 3:00 in the morning.

Speaking of which, have you ever even touched those newspapers I throw? They’re as big as your Labrador and weigh twice as much. Have you noticed that they’re no longer wrapped in gumbands (ahem, rubber bands)? They stopped that, what, 30 years ago? They would burst. BURST! And also? You live in Pittsburgh.

YOU LIVE IN PITTSBURGH. It is 20 degrees, and sleeting, at 4am, and both of my windows are down so that I can throw the damn things. Chances are you live on a hill. And the city ran out of salt.

Please stop sending me angry emails and asking my boss to yell at me. I cannot get out of my car 300 times in a row, in the dark, to lovingly place your 13 cent bundle of words on the top step. You live in the city. You won’t let your teenage children out past 8. I refuse to get tackled by a nighttime crazy so you don’t have to walk down three steps. Reminder: Female. Conclusion: Tears.

Pardon the strong text formatting,

Rachel

P.S. To the old woman who mailed me a Christmas card and left me thin mints: I will tie a bow around your news and dance to your front porch.

30 Comments

Chatham University

I picked up a hostessing job at a downtown restaurant, which is at least slightly more classy than my daily 3am paper route. While I’m much more inclined to throw on baggy jeans and a t-shirt with Brooks, my familiar attire wasn’t going to work. Not nearly. So I dragged my sister to the mall last night to help me pick out a few things, as I’m clueless in the subject of taking care of myself.

I’ll say here that me and my sister are opposites in terms of shopping. I hate it. You want me to go shopping with you? I won’t. Sorry. My sister though? Weekly. And with precision.

I spent about an hour in a dressing room as Molly slung foreign items over the door — gray pants, long sweaters, things made of tweed. Most of the time, I sent them flying right back over at her. Ruffles? Ruffles?!

Once I got a few outfits together, we circled the store for shoes, and landed on two pairs of heels, black and brown, and purple ballerina flats.

I tested out the black ones this afternoon, and by the time I was done working and standing on the concrete floor of the parking garage overlooking the Allegheny, I had every intention of volleying them into the river.

32 Comments

I ran out of Christmas cards the other night and was forced to make a 2am run to my 24-hour Giant Eagle for backup.

I threw on a hoodie and left my apartment. It was dead quiet, and as I walked to my car I heard a gentle who, whhoooo and immediately stopped to listen. An owl?! I stood there for a moment, focused. I never heard an owl in real life and was excited about it. As excited as one can be at 2am.

The hooting got louder and as I proceeded to cross the street, I glanced at the houses nearby and saw a little old man in bright green pants. He was energetically pacing his front porch, grinning. I watched him briefly, aware that I could no longer hear the owl, and the old man, as if in response, turned to me, lifted his hands to the sides of his mouth and — WHO! WHOOOO!

I laughed and got into my car. He giggled behind me. Whe-ha!

34 Comments

As I sat on a bench at one of my spots in the city, eating a pita and wishing I had brought mittens, I noticed a small gathering of Christmas characters congregating alongside the road. Perhaps for a show? A parade? Were they on break from working the department stores?

Something’s going on here.

Oh! Wait. I think I’ve heard of this.

Well, I should probably follow them.

Christmas came early this year.

They sang from the balconies. The workers were dumbstruck.

They invaded every station. They climbed every wall.

Or just the one.

They handed out candy on the streets. And bottles of 7-Up. And pocket lint.

I’ll leave you be, Santas.

Jesus?!

44 Comments

My mom tricked me into catering a downtown function earlier this evening. I went out to the new Forever 21 that just opened up at my mall and purchased a black skirt, black tights, and a black headband to wear with my black heels and my mother’s black shirt. That’s about as festive as it gets.

Upon arriving, I was given a tray of spicy chicken puffs and sent out into the main gallery to smile and distribute. However, as this was a public place, there were some regular folk wandering around who weren’t exactly invited to the “party.” I was told I was to only give savory hors d’oeuvre to those carrying purple paper bags, which signified that they were guests at this event.

The result was what I imagine it would be like if someone were to dress up a jolly old man in a red suit, give him a buttload of colorful toys, send him into a preschool, and tell him to only acknowledge the kids wearing green.

And even I had trouble being that wicked.

20 Comments

My first college was located near Philadelphia. It was pretty average, a state school, with brick buildings and a large student population.

Since then, I’ve made a few transitions, the biggest of which being my current college, a private school tucked away in the “park-like acres” of Pittsburgh (the most fantastic place in all the land).

I’ve wanted to describe the experience, but I always had trouble finding an intro, never able to come up with the appropriate things to say. The entire undergraduate student body is only 800? Too boring. The campus is composed of historical mansions and covered in botanical gardens? Too haughty. It’s an all-women’s institution where everyone is BFF? Too weird.

I was on campus tonight, though, at a small gathering and ended up taking a lot of pictures, and I think it provides a nice window into life at this particular school.

University President Esther Barazzone’s home on campus was recently decorated for Christmas by local designers and florists as part of a show for our local conservatory.

Earlier today, she sent out a mass e-mail to the students, welcoming them to stop by later in the evening to take a look at her house and drink hot chocolate and cider.

When I arrived, there were six or so girls there. I knocked on the front door and was greeted by Esther (who remembered my name), her dog, and several of her friends. I was given a tour of the rooms and introductions were made.

I wondered around for a while, awestruck at the detail in the decorations, taking pictures and eating cookies from little china plates, and periodically being led by Esther as she explained her art collection.

I was crazy about the table settings.

After a little while the small group was ushered into the living room, where we were coaxed into singing a few Christmas carols. Esther led, of course. There she is on the right.

It was like stepping into a magazine, everything was so elegant, but it was also surprisingly warm and comfortable.

It lasted for about an hour, after which everyone said their goodbyes and wandered back to their homes or dorms to sleep or finish homework.

The photo set can be found here.

31 Comments