Tuesday, August 17, 2010

The Saga of Rachel and Her Week of Wonders.

There is no sense to any of the following but there have been too many small good things recently. Please regard the following post as a Whitman's Sampler, which my parents have bought one another for Christmas for maybe the past twenty years because they are adorable (the metaphor is also apt because most folks can find at least one thing they adore and abhor in a Whitman's Sampler--for me it's the Toffee Chips and Cherry Cordial, respectively). (Also I just looked up "Whitman's Sampler guide" and found this and that is why I love America.)

Now there is a word I do not miss from campus days of yore. It has been a time of doors, friends, namely the one with the sticky lock that leads to the aqua stairs that lead to my apartment, and the one to my bedroom that must be propped with an obliging rock, and the one that doesn't exist between living quarters and writing quarters and was replaced with some curtains by my mother. Also, previous doors: the screen door of the old apartment that taller folks than I propped so that we could tote my couch out, not once, but twice. The swinging door between kitchen and living room that I'm pretty sure has some petrified Pinto poop from his puppy days that I'm certain has since been painted over in Mind-Destroying White courtesy of the Bell Apartment Company, may their souls writhe in moral agony because they were meanies (except for Mark the Elderly Repair Man on His Customized Golf Cart--he was pretty legit).

In less ambivalent terms, I moved!

And now I reside in an apartment that is two years younger than the entire state of Oklahoma. Mull over that for a moment while you chew on your piece of wheat, then deduce: awesome!

Pinto and I went through a rough adjustment time, wherein he kept his nose a millimeter from my heels and it was not unlike being followed by a loyal elk or walking ottoman. Either way he posed a hazard. But he has finally acclimated, and now he delights in sleeping in his tiger-sized crate or chasing Hemingway, the six-toed cat that lives on the porch. Which leads to:

Guys, do you know about porches? I mean, do you know about porches?

Did you know, for instance, that you can lug your excruciatingly large and comfortable couch to a its semi-permanent home at a friends house at 4 p.m. or thereabouts and then spend approximately six hours sitting on a porch swing, simply swinging and shouting at the cars (and/or horse-and-carriages did you know Wilmington is magical because it is) for something like six hours afterwards? Did you also know you can gather to presumably watch Blue Velvet and instead spend another something-like-six hours on a porch drinking sweet tea and bourbon instead?

Did you also know that one minute on a porch swing has approximately the same effect as 1) strong shot of whiskey or 2) half a narcotic or 3) ten minutes holding a baby and/or sleeping animal in terms of how much better you feel afterward?

All of these things are true.

Sadly, I do not myself possess a porch, but my friends two streets over do, and so Pinto and I tromp over there with embarrassingly regularity. What we do there is a mystery to me, but it is much like a bar in its dark and tempting pull, where you know, should you dare to plant yourself on the stoop steps, you will be rooted for at least the rest of the day. This leads to:

Summer is over. My daily production of sweat would argue otherwise, but according to the good ol' planner, it's true. Classes start tomorrow, and my tuition is due, and I can't believe it, really. Here is the part where I get all sentimental and start pulling nostalgic conclusions from things, the old "this time last year" modus operandi which is foolish and not productive. But we'll put it this way: everything that happened last year has happened again, and this time with gusto! As in, I moved. I've made friends. I've eaten good food. I've gone on good walks.

And, last but not least, not at all, I threw an amazing party.

This party was not amazing by standards of previous parties I have helped coordinate (AHEM WAGNER AND VODKA AHEM). In fact, I'm sure some people did not have an impeccable time because my dog jumped on them in a moment of unfettered glee and maybe or maybe not accidentally kind of punched this person in the nuts. Or because I insisted they try the combination of Cheerwine (aka North Carolina Dr. Pepper, only flat) and Svedka. Or because they were sweating because it's hot in my apartment.

But! It was still amazing.

And it was amazing in the goofy way all parties are amazing--solely for being an amazing party. There were no kegstands or pot shots delivered by frat brothers from the next suite over, but there were a lot of people, and a lot of drinks, and a lot of lovely dresses, one of which was worn by me, and which, shall we say, did not go to waste that evening. And maybe I was washing cups for half an hour straight the next day and my three middle toes are still numb from the combination of cobblestones and heels, but all in all--worth it. Utterly and totally.

And this leads me to:

FALL: Hamilton, you have a lot to live up to when I grace your hill this October. Prepare now. Cake would be nice, but friends (!!!!) will do.