thatnight.net

My mind has been in a hundred places at once lately and I realized it most clearly last night when, as I was getting into my car, my left hand still holding on outside to the top of the frame, I used my right hand to reach over, grab the door’s handle, and slam it shut. Luckily, I became aware at the last second that part of my body had yet to fully make it inside, and instead of maybe using a knee or the demented right hand to interrupt the accelerating door from trapping most of my fingers, my first instinct was to quickly make a fist, which was a great choice, as I clearly prefer having two sets of knuckles smashed simultaneously.

It really was the perfect end to my weekend, which was packed full of work, grouchiness, and, most importantly, recognition that the next several days were going to be spent evading grievances centered around the upcoming holiday.

I honestly forgot about Valentine’s Day until late last week, when a radio DJ started going off about HALLMARK HOLIDAYS! and STUPID GIRLS! and IT SUCKS AND IS LAME! and let me tell you, I don’t know what I’m more sick of, Valentine’s Day, or people complaining about Valentine’s Day.

They should create a holiday based solely around people who hate Valentine’s Day, and everyone can get together and send each other someecards and forget the fact that most people have been hating some form of Valentine’s Day for hundreds of years. And then angry lovers who love things that are lovey can get on the radio, or log into Wordpress, or approach you at the water cooler and say, over and over, “You know, I’m happily married, and I think this dumb holiday was created by greeting card companies to profit off of people who like to bitch.”

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Tonight, at 7PM, as I sat in the passenger seat of a moving truck, the same place I’d been twelve hours earlier with what felt like having close to the same amount accomplished, I began making excuses in my head for not blogging today, the second day of NaBloPoMo. Granted, this was easier than, say, attempting to put an interesting spin on Nutella.

I mean, I haven’t exactly announced that I was participating. I’ve told one person, but it wouldn’t be especially difficult to discredit him, based on his past reputation with crazy.

That being said, while I’m continuing to prepare a string of sentences for all of the things I’d like to eventually mention but probably won’t get around to doing ever, I’d like your speculation on the following costume, seen Halloween evening.

Ungroomed Old English Sheep Dog?
Hurricane in the Checkout Lane?
Swiffer Duster?

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Last night, I decided that it would be a good idea to visit a haunted house that I had never been to, farther away from the city than I’m used to going every October. Somehow, the ones that are off the beaten path tend to be more spectacular than the city’s over-advertised attractions.

Of course we got lost. At least three times. The iPhone’s navigation system makes finding on-the-go directions virtually impossible unless you have two exact addresses to begin and end with, and even in the middle of an unfamiliar highway, it insisted we were on a backstreet at least two miles away.

And while I’m on the subject, when it does succeed in getting at least somewhat close to your current location, its first instruction is, Go East on Smith St. toward Lombardi Lane. Great. So not only do I now have to buy a compass, but also familiarize myself with every street name in the vicinity of every neighborhood I might someday ever find myself lost in before I even start the car.

We finally arrived at the Demon House to a very small crowd, which isn’t uncommon this early in the month, made up of couples and families with at least one small child who didn’t want to go in. I was more tense from the ride there than anything, because when I’m traveling through small neighborhoods lined with houses I’ve never seen, and the only places to get directions are the small, rickety gas stations which are always empty, in the dark, WITH AN IPHONE, the one thing that continually circulates through my head is this would make a great horror movie.

The house was really well done. There was a large bonfire, a tent playing black and white horror movies, a character expertly spooking around on four-foot stilts, a stand with hot dogs and hot apple cider, and a little person with a Billy mask riding a squeaky tricycle in circles around those waiting. They sent small groups of four or five at a time into the “mansion,” where we walked through some cool scenes and encountered some actors who not only emphasized the legend of the building, but seemed like they were having a great time doing it. One thing with an unmoving, white face even crawled on the floor behind me, which totally freaked me out.

The downside with visiting these places every year, and having more interest in the execution than the desire for the rush of being frightened, along with my love of horror movies, is that every season, I become more desensitized to the scariness. When I was 16, I would cling to someone who would have to practically carry me through with my eyes closed, and even then I would shriek at every sound in a five mile radius. Now I need, at least, an unexpected chainsaw.

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“Then hug Chuck,” or, “ThatNight.net”

I was terrified of fireworks when I was little. Besides that, I don’t remember too much about my previous Fourth of July’s, up until the summer of 2006 when I ran off to Maryland and met a bunch of foreign kids working in the states for the summer.

We decided to drive to New York City in the late afternoon, and whatever highway we were on provided the perfect panorama of Manhattan off to the right, amid the other surrounding areas. We were on that road when it got dark, and I was playing Twenty Questions with the guy named Guy from England next to me, trying to stump him with members of the British monarchy, of which I was possibly more interested.

I’d nearly forgotten it was a holiday until the fireworks started going off and we were surrounded on all sides by at least two dozen clusters. Since that night, for some reason, I was able to appreciate it to a greater extent.

I sat with Derrick’s family and we watched some last night, and they were nice.

I had more fun with a plastic bag full of cheaper ones, though, which we set off in a parking lot on the way home.

Even the smoke was sort of cool.

Before we left, after experimenting with spelling, we danced (I twirled) with handfuls of sparklers, and really, that’s all I needed.

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I woke up this morning completely miserable. I didn’t consciously acknowledge Valentine’s Day, although I knew it was sitting patiently in the back of my mind, poking the inside of my skull with a rusty, decrepit Cupid’s arrow that’s been stuck in there for five years.

I may have been angry that I couldn’t go about my day without having my unwarranted grouchiness attached to something. Being cranky because it’s Valentine’s Day made me even crankier, since the world is out there, wondering why I just stood in my front yard flipping off the horizon with both hands. She must have a lousy love life, poor dear.

I also woke up hungry, and decided that I needed Panera, or I might as well pop some Dramamine and stay in bed till the weekend. I threw on jeans, didn’t touch my hair, and loaded the dog into the car.

My steep, upward driveway, a solid sheet of ice since yesterday, hadn’t thawed as much as I’d hoped under the uncommon winter sun, and it took me at least twelve tries to back out. I would reverse at an angle, hoping to gain some momentum, and my tires would squeal and smoke before I drifted slowly back down. Fifteen minutes later, I was on my way, circling the side streets for a parking spot. I pulled into a loading zone and sauntered inside.

I placed my order: a smokehouse turkey Panini. It’s hot, it’s flat, and it’s loaded with bacon. It’s wonderful. And I was ready to eat it.

After finally ending up back in my dining room, I excitedly peeled back the paper wrapping, and nearly collapsed when I saw an ugly, cold, mayonnaise-covered turkey sandwich on white bread. I thought about how nice it would feel to cry and get on with my day, but I was angry again. I couldn’t understand who in their right mind would go to Panera and spend almost $7 on a plain turkey sandwich. I could walk next door to the grocery store and spend the same amount on turkey sandwich supplies. And then I could make ten turkey sandwiches.

I marched back out to my car and slammed my ignition, getting up the driveway on the first try. I half-assed a parallel parking attempt and went inside. I found the girl, explained my situation, and was met with the look. Are you serious? I was suddenly less self-righteous and extremely self-conscious. I hated being that girl.

She disappeared into the kitchen and an older woman stepped out. She looked at me, a pale girl in a pea coat with smeared makeup and yesterday’s hair. “How’s your Valentine’s Day, sweetheart?”

I was staring off at the giant hanging menus when she asked, and I looked towards her, shuffling in place. “Oh…fine.”

She leaned sideways on the counter separating us and knowingly shook her head.

“Girl,” she started, slowly. “I know exactly what it’s like when you’re expecting a hot, fresh, crisp turkey sandwich and all you can get is a cold, flabby thing that you just shouldn’t settle for.”

She chuckled once and walked back towards the kitchen, and I laughed, becoming slightly less of a Valentines Grinch.

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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?!

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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.

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Today I am thankful for the things that do not get much recognition on Thanksgiving. Things like:

Accents. So when I finally go to England, I’m sure I’m there.

Grass. Could you imagine a world without grass?

Anesthesia. I’ve been reading Sex with the Queen and there are several instances of sex-related surgeries. The numbing process (if you could call it that) was, primarily, a swig of strong whiskey. I don’t like whiskey.

Cereal. Otherwise, I’d never get breakfast.

That I don’t have a headache right now. It’s easy to forget how blissful it feels when something isn’t hurting.

Flickr.

Pigs. I just like how they look.

Greeting Cards. Without them, I’d look careless on birthdays.

Halloween. Otherwise, the Christmas decorations would be going up in September.

State Colleges. Because people wear pajamas to class. In the snow. And it makes me feel smart, because I don’t do those things.

Your face.

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We headed into the city tonight for the Santa Spectacular.

Every person who lives in Pittsburgh was there.

It was hard to see because every parent had stacks of children on their shoulders, but there was a stage with some dancing.

Then a flamboyant Santa arrived.

He pointed his big stick at things and they lit up, like this tree.

And then everything else exploded.

It was freezing and I bah humbug’ed a little less than usual. That’s all.

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If you guessed Anne Boleyn, you were right! But really, I probably could have also presented myself as Mary, Queen of Scots or Katherine Howard with the same costume. Or, as Norm suggested, Nearly Headless Nick. But wow, you guys know your history! Gold stars for everyone! You’ve made me all tingly inside.

You can click here for a closeup of my slaughtered neck. I didn’t want to post the picture directly and give someone unaware of the context a panic attack. Hello, welcome to my website! Here’s my sliced neck!

There are a few more pictures in the set. I think I can finally let go of Halloween now, until next year.

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