thatnight.net

Besides lacrosse, I don’t talk too much about it, even though I live in the land on which all other sports teams go to die (besides baseball, but really, do we have to keep acknowledging that? A blemish on my good name!), and besides that time last fall when my punk of a sister got to hang with The Kid in his private box, I haven’t mentioned the Penguins.

There’s something about the intensity of certain games that makes me crazy, and at 10:45 last night, after Pittsburgh beat Detroit in game three, I might as well have been pounding a six-pack of Miller Lite rather than sipping a diet coke, because as a restaurant full of women tackled each other in masculine excitement, and a wave of men performed a black-and-gold ballet of joy, I was convinced that the logical next step of my evening would be to log in to Wordpress and post a drinking chant, an adrenaline-fueled poem depicting images of Pittsburgh and power and a metaphorical description of how and why I would like to beat my ex senseless with Fleury’s skillfully-handled hockey stick.

If we go to the Cup, I may need a trusted someone to temporarily change my password. Either that, or you’re all in for some heavy, juicy, self-destructing reading material.

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I went to Kennywood yesterday and used a disposable camera for the first time in at least five years. I started using a cheap Kodak point-and-shoot sometime around 11th grade.

There was something kind of cool about being limited to twenty-seven shots. Where I would usually take five or six pictures to get something right, I only took one.

If my hair got in the way, I couldn’t delete it.

Coincidentally, I value and (surprisingly) like them a lot more than any of the digital pictures I’ve taken in a pretty long time.

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During my off time from engulfing grilled sirloin Qdoba burritos, without the beans, and pulling Bello’s ears, I sometimes think about this website and the downfalls of so utterly breaking my anonymity.

I’m over-thinking, over-analyzing, and am somehow paranoid about ruining my reputation if someone clicks over and finds out that the reason they couldn’t get a hold of me before 11AM was due to a daiquiri-fueled Waterfront tryst. All this torment over a blog! A blllaaawwwggg. Who even knows what one of those is, because I have no idea?

Damn you, hipsters. Slow down, this is a neighborhood.

And really, what kind of image am I trying to uphold here? One that reassures I’m college-educated, professional, and I’ve never touched even a cigarette in my life? Or, being all of those things, when did I become too self-important to impart my feelings that higher education has been the most God-awful, soul-slaying time of my life?

Because admitting that is like, totally, the late-teens brand of cool, and I’m, like, so beyond that, man? By the way, have we met? My name is Moral, I’m 22, here let me show you my stock options.

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= 344 intelligent googlers turned thatnight.net visitors left sad and unfulfilled.

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I was walking around the campus library after finishing my last day of class when I came upon these pictures taken at my college in the very early 1900’s.

And I’ve seen a lot of old pictures from other universities, staged sepia photos of fraternity houses and basketball teams and student governments, but these were somewhat different.

Not a bride, nor a wedding.

But usually, aside from the dresses, it’s the hair that really does it for me.

It must’ve been nice then, being young and learning, and not having to worry about wearing hats until after graduation.

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When I was little, every Sunday, my grandfather would wake me up and we’d hop the 51C bus to Carson Street to attend our tiny church.

There weren’t many children, but every summer, they shipped the few of us up the mountains to Northern Pennsylvania for church camp. From ages 10 to 16, we would be grouped into cabins and assembled for Orthodox mass in between kickball and lunch. And also, swimming and dinner. And dinner and bedtime.

Aside from the churching, there were small classes arranged during the day, and while the boys learned to write in Ukrainian, the girls would be shuffled off and given linen and colored thread. Sometimes we learned to dance. Once, we were lectured on how to stuff pirogies while giving birth.

One summer, when I was 14, I had a thing with a tall, blue-eyed boy, and the match was looked on so approvingly that by the time camp was over, I cried for hours because, how will I be able to wait until next year to demonstrate my eternal love through black and red embroidery? All of my dreams! My dreams!

Somehow, word traveled back to my little church, and for two years, the fragile old women layered in long, solid fabric would scuffle over to me with smiles on their faces and joy in their eyes, take my hands, and ask in heavy accents, how is your Ukrainian friend? And then they asked who would be catering the wedding.

As I got older, the women teaching our Sunday-school classes transitioned from older mothers and once-immigrants to the girls who, at that time, were only four or five years older than my 15-year-old self, and wore the thin, gentle scarves over their hair, a sign of marriage and motherhood.

Somewhere in there, church became less of a routine. Meaning we stopped going. My sister was baptized, and that was the end of it. Molly, now 14, never attended church camp. Her dreams consist of fame and New York City. I’ve started asking her about boyfriends and she’s all, look, being interested in boys totally interferes with my plans of not being interested in boys. And sometimes I feel like she could really teach me something, but I’m too busy channeling my babushka-wearing ancestors to concentrate.

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Evident differences between year 21 and year 22:

Reduced appetite
Reduced quality of sleep
Increased beer tolerance (taste)
Decreased beer tolerance (effect)
Less worrisome
More worries

Emma is here. Again.

Overall, it was one of my best birthdays, better even than the time I turned ten and took eight friends to see Homeward Bound II: Lost in San Francisco.

Is the unplugged, outdoor-loving world ready for an all-blogger softball team?

“Coach, what’s your position on twittering from the outfield?”

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While I was watching The King of Queens a few days ago on daytime TV, a commercial came on for a bridal salon chain and I was sort of half paying attention until the end.

From what I remember, there was jaunty frolicking, lines of diverse bridesmaids in pastel green dresses, and several closeup shots of a woman in a wedding dress, throwing her head back and exposing bleach-white teeth as she twirled on a beach with her husband. And that’s where my attention grabbed hold, because the husband? He was young.

Young! I’ve been watching wedding ads on TV for well over ten years, somewhat interested, relating the brides to my teachers and bank tellers and women in town who walk in skinny heels and trench coats. And here was this man in a tuxedo, looking no older than any of my male friends, the ones who shoot pool and toss back Jagerbombs on Thursday nights.

And I thought back to eighth grade, and how even then, you see the seniors, and it’s all, wow, those older kids must really have their lives figured out. And now I see them when I drive past my high school and I’m all, asses.

So I’m wondering, am I going to look at those commercials five years from now, and see a groom that age, and be all, heh, crazy kids, getting married when they’re still practically children?

Because I am entirely, wholly, thoroughly not cool with that.

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If there was anything my friends could ever rely on me for, it was to fall asleep. In their cars. On their couches. Given the opportunity, I could go to bed at 11PM and sleep straight through till noon.

This year, though, something in me finally had enough sleep, and I’m up at 8AM, even on weekends. The past few nights especially have found me restless, and I’m hoping whatever bad karma has found its way into my evenings will have had its fill by next week.

Tuesday Night

Awakened at 3AM, presumably by the rain. I look around the bed for Bello, my typical first response upon waking up, and find him motionless at my ankles. I look at the clock, and as I do, my blanket moves up a few more inches, covering my eyes. I am immediately freaked out, convince myself that I am dreaming, and remain still until I can fall asleep again.

Wednesday Night

Bello had a busy day, as we had a lot of running around to do for lacrosse. It’s his favorite thing, going to games and practices, as he can sprint in wide circles around grassy fields while simultaneously being fussed over by groups of squealing girls.

He must’ve came home that night and drank a bit too much water. I realized this when I woke up a little after 4AM to a watery wet spot on the left side of my body, a watery trail across my chest, another to my right and off the edge of the bed. I searched for Bello, who was, startlingly, not on the bed, and saw him across the room, facing the corner, dejectedly hanging his head, afraid to make eye contact.

My eyes flooded with tears, both in the confusion of sleep, and the thought of how long he’d been standing there, distressed, waiting for me to wake up.

Thursday Night

I curl up in bed, feel a tickle on my arm, and ignore it. Hair, I thought. The feeling returns, and as I go to brush it away, feel a tiny girth leave my arm and fall onto the sheets. I jump to the floor, shoo Bello off the edge, and in my panic, grab the only plausible thing within distance, a leftover bottle of Aquanet. I shoot and spray.

Yes, it killed the hornet. I didn’t put a glass over it and release it into the night like an elegant dove. I killed it. And I’d do it again.

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