thatnight.net

I’m really lucky to be from Pittsburgh.

When the news of the Bloggies made it through the grapevine on the local level, I was contacted by Ashley DiParlo (seriously, between her and Andrew Stockey, how could anyone not claim serious eye candy? WTAE has the hotness) to do a little interview that would run Thursday, this morning, on the last day of voting (which ends at 10PM tonight).

I was nervous as all hell, as I usually am when the situation calls for explaining what my site is. A book? Of stuff? That’s on a screen? But after sitting down with her and talking for a few minutes, she was so sweet that I wanted to curl up in pajamas and talk blogging until the coffee shop tossed us out onto Carson Street.

I am extremely grateful that Pittsburgh has the tolerance to experiment with the “new media” thing without making it seem completely unconventional or foreign to the real world.

In short, it rocks here. Come to Pittsburgh. And also, Pittsburgh? Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh.

The video is here (if that doesn’t work, it’s listed in the Plugged-In section of ThePittsburghChannel).

Edit: My friend Richie, who is wonderful, YouTubeified the story for me. Hopefully, if you weren’t able to see it before, you can do so now.

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My campus has a massive bell that tolls loudly like an old grandfather clock on the hour. When I’m running late, speed walking through the pathways during the GONNNG, GONNNG, GONNNG, I wish I were wearing a huge, poufy, white and blue dress and only one slipper. Then I could run around looking anxious and concerned, one hand lifting the gown off the ground in front of me, the other against my chest in a flustered manner.

Along the running trails, deep in a nearby park, many of the bordering hills have jutting rock ledges that look down over the dirt paths. I’d like to stand on one of those in a buckskin dress, staring forward intently, the raccoons looking up in awe.

After dealing with the local dating scene, I’d like to come home one day and take a really, really long nap. Later, I’ll wake up and my future husband will just be sitting there, waiting intently to cook me breakfast.

When it’s late at night in my freaky house, and the dog is passed out from licking too much of everything, I wouldn’t mind it if the candlesticks donned a French accent and talked me through the beast that is an 8am fitness class.

I wish I could swim. And also, sing simultaneously.

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We walked to Wendy’s for chicken nuggets back before we could drive. I absorbed your sense of humor like happiness. It hasn’t changed much since.

I was taken with your cheesy poetry. Your gifts were the most thoughtful I’d ever received. You wouldn’t set your cell phone aside for five FREAKIN’ seconds to say hi when I got in the car.

You confidently walked to the side of my booth as I sat eating a cafeteria chicken patty. You said you liked my lacrosse uniform. You approached my ex-boyfriend from behind and punched him in the back of his head, shattering your wrist.

I guess your self-righteousness was sort of cute. I did like your shaggy haircut. But I was a bit past the constant skateboard talk by my second year of college.

I’d always hoped I’d be able to spend a summer not knowing where I’d sleep each night. New York, Ocean City, riding shotgun as you made the full drive to Boston with my bare feet on the dashboard. It was nice to be tan, without makeup, without plans.

I was enjoying that late night in October, blasting rock from your car stereo and touring those haunted houses. And then your cell phone was bugging you, so you threw it out the window. Was that supposed to be impressive?

Bitterness seeped from your pores when you thought about your old girlfriend. She was a psycho, yes. But you sort of were too.

You really weren’t exactly the most caring individual. I think I was just in love with the idea of marrying my high school sweetheart. Must’ve been all that country music.

You stared hard at me when you told me you loved me and I didn’t say it back. A week later you said I was moving too fast. The hell?

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Early morning, according to the puppy.

BARK.

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First off, thank you. I found out yesterday afternoon that I made it past the last phase of the 2008 Bloggies and I’m thrilled. Thank you for your nominations, and to everyone who was on the panel and chose this website. As Becca (who I love and admire and is also nominated in the same category so hey! You definitely have your options!) said, “I am JAZZED. I know it’s probably cool to be blasé about this kind of thing– all, ‘Web award? Whatever.’” Were you expecting to find sophistication here? I hope not. I’m stoked.

All of your comments, twitter replies, etc. made me giddy enough to frolic in the snow at every new message. But not for too long. I hate that stuff.

Moments after I heard, I was driving my sister home from school, discussing last year’s winner, when she said, “Wow, things are going so good for you right now! You know something bad’s going to happen.” No sooner did I make it down the hill from the parking lot that my tire went flat. Melted to the cement flat.

It’s the world’s way of saying, hey. Hey! KEEP IT TOGETHER.

Luckily we were blocks from my Dad’s, and I drove to my grandmother’s birthday dinner with new tires. Bacon cheese fries? The Cloverfield of healthy living.

Later I met a friend to watch Wednesday night TV, and after American Idol and The Moment of Truth, passed out sometime towards the end of Gauntlet 2.

And now it’s Thursday morning and I have a Panera pastry which is a little less pastry and a little more chocolate bar wrapped in bread.

See what good things bangs can bring?

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It’s my fourth year of college, and even though I’m probably not graduating for another year, it’s absurd to think that I once expected to be engaged by the time I was a senior.

But maybe, given that I had met the right person, things would have worked out that way, and I wouldn’t find it so strange.

No, it would still be strange. For me, at least. Although I wouldn’t mind that sort of lifestyle, I can’t let myself get married just because it’s the next step.

Unless it really is the next step.

Bangs. I’m definitely getting bangs.

Edit: Got the bangs.

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I saw Cloverfield this weekend. All things considered, I was very impressed by the realness of it, especially the script (it seems like all “destruction” movies feel the need to bring on the cheese with the characters — I didn’t feel this went there), and would recommend catching it.

After seeing a movie in theaters, especially one I like, I habitually log on to the IMDB forums and spend a good amount of time searching through them to pick up any trivia that makes me go oooh. And then I call someone and make them talk to me about it. Even if they didn’t see it.

In this case, I found something very cool that fit very well with the feel of the movie.

That being said, if you haven’t seen Cloverfield, you may want to stop here, as 1) I may spoil it for you and 2) you probably won’t get what I’m talking about.

The official movie website is nothing more than a virtual stack of pictures. Upon leafing through them, someone noticed a name inscribed on one and MySpaced it. It turned out to be a girl named Jamie.

The profile looks standard. The key is further down, her friends, which coincidentally are the movie’s main characters.

They’re all linked to one another through their top friends. The movie relationships hold true. They write in each other’s comments.

Jason to Lily: “Hey who’s the hot guy in your profile pic? He looks like the coolest guy in the world.”

Rob to Beth: “Hey what are you doing this Friday? Hud and I were gonna go see Golden Compass and we’d feel a lot less lame if you came.”

etc.

Other unknown friends’ comments are thrown in. They wrote blog entries about beer and jobs that go back to at least June of 2006. Their profiles have absolutely nothing to do with the movie. There are no hidden trailers or plastered release dates. Their pictures are crude and commonplace. They maintain the messy, hard-to-read, glittery layouts that MySpace is famous for.

Hud’s About Me: “Howdy. I’m Hud. People tend to forget my name even though they named a river after me. I live in Manhattan. I am often complemented on my cologne, even though I never wear any. I’m a Bills fan, so I’ve had a tough life.”

Marlaina’s Blog Entry: “Lounge Agains the Machine just made my night. I seriously need to go to the Bowery more often, it’s always a good time.”

The comments have since stopped, and they haven’t logged in since January 18th, the movie’s release date.

Which, of course, would make sense.

I think this adds an intimate aspect to an already personal movie, and is a powerful way of saying, “Despite the outlandish circumstances, these were normal kids — people, like you — with a video camera.”

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I didn’t make a conscious effort at a new year’s resolution this year. I knew that it was going to be a heavy semester, which is really an understatement considering the current demand of my class schedule, but hey, I have to graduate sometime, right? What do people do after college anyway? I can hardly fathom.

While I only told myself, “Hey, at least try really hard at school this semester,” other things began to fall into place and suddenly, it’s becoming a lot less difficult to achieve a certain wellbeing that I couldn’t reach before.

A couple weeks ago, on a whim, as I was walking down my new little neighborhood, I stopped at a nail place and got a manicure — my first since senior prom. Over the next few days, the ponytails started coming down. The semester began and I left my car in the garage. I would never do this normally, especially on days like today when hell sendeth snow, but couldn’t bring myself to rationalize buying a parking pass when I live so close to campus. And now I’m walking everywhere.

Also, I don’t buy meal plans at college. I can’t afford them, usually, even though I’ve always been fine with the food. My appetite has been minimal lately, and really, nothing was sounding good to me except fruit. Ice cold fruit. And juice. And sometimes carbs.

(For the past two years, at least, I had been grabbing fast food at least four times a week, and I was OK with that being my daily meal. I loved fast food. A lot.)

So a couple weeks have passed. I don’t know why it amazed me yesterday when I grabbed my small gray button-down shirt — a 2-year-old Christmas present that I loved but never returned even though it was two sizes too small — and it was a different experience from when I’d tried to wear it a couple months ago. Before, it would not button. Period. No reach. But I can throw it on now without fighting with it.

And on top of all that, my mood change has been unreal. I’d always been able to sleep for over 12 hours, no problem. Lately I’ve been waking up early with nothing to do, which is new to me, which in turn is helping me to get more homework done, and go more places, and stay awake during class. Have I ever said how impossible it was for me to ever enjoy class? Because I was tired, and unmotivated, and I would glare at the clock just waiting for them to end?

My classes have been flying, and I’ve been prepared for them. It’s like finally being a real student. Where I used to have trouble concentrating, even with things like basic conversation, I can feel myself focusing a lot easier.

And being more energetic. And happy.

Who would’ve known that even relative health would be good for you? Someone should’ve told me four years ago.

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Shouldn’t a one-credit, 8:00am class entitled “Lifetime Fitness” be a lecture course regarding topics such as flexibility, healthy eating, anatomy, etc.? Was I surprised by being tested on the number of pull-ups I’m capable of? Should I have worn anything besides jeans? The answer to all of these questions is yes.

At my college, only the undergraduate portion is all girls. The graduate school is coed. Both have a very small student body. Every once in a while, as I sit in the public areas packed with chicks, a lone grad boy wanders in. He looks somewhat uneasy, tossing his folder on a table in an attempt to seem completely nonchalant, and usually doesn’t stay long.

It’s the beginning of January and the AC in the classrooms just kicked in. I went out last night without a sweater. Does this mean no more snow ever? Because I would be totally OK with that.

The ghosts at the new place have been laying low, probably because I’ve been too tired to pay them any attention, even at their scariest, and once I’m asleep, all of their chain rattling would be for naught.

Thank you to everyone who did the whole Bloggie nomination thing. It made last week THE BEST WEEK EVER!

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The short white dresser next to my big comfy bed opens to such a large panel of switches and knobs that if you ever feel the need to pretend you’re the captain of a submarine, I can sit you down in front of it and you’ll be convinced you’ve just been transported to the high seas.

Every light, blind, electrical device, and toilet on the floor is operated here, and I’m hesitant to flick most of them on because I don’t know what the hell they’d end up doing. One wrong move and a spring will vault the dog into the skylight. Also, I can’t see where most of the lights are coming from during the day anyway, and testing them at night will make the neighbors think I’m raving. To techno.

I turned on one set in particular the other night before bed, a line of bulbs that emits light from the top of a wall separating the bedroom and closet area, mainly because I wouldn’t mind sleeping with it on if I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. And I couldn’t, so it worked out.

A short time later, I’m laying in bed with my back facing the radiant wall, half asleep as The History Channel droned on about global something, and the lights start flashing on and off. Slowly. Off for a couple seconds, back on for a couple seconds, over and over, and I stared ahead for a few moments, hoping to God that Bello was on the floor chewing on an exposed cord.

I finally rolled over, shaken, and started grabbing at the motherboard, turning and pushing everything to no avail. I jumped up and stood on the bed, looking into the top of the wall, and began pulling the little chains connected to each bulb, manually extinguishing the light.

I was waiting for something like this to happen in this big crazy house, and although I was terror-stricken until I fell asleep last night, the worst part is that I can now rationalize being paranoid at every sound I hear for the next six months.

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