Oh wait, that's just me. I've finally risen from the ashes. Is this Arizona? 'Cause I'm a phoenix.
I don't know that I've ever opened with a worse joke. Sorry about that. Guess this lengthy hiatus has left me rusty. (I was going to take that comment into another extended metaphor, but I just saved us both the embarrassment. You're welcome.)
This latter half of the semester has been tough. Very tough. But it's officially been a month since The Little Foxes closed--though it feels more like it's been a year--and finals and papers are over and done with. I am three full semesters into college... Surreal.
But being on break means you get blogposts! And I get normal amounts of sleep! It's a real win-win situation all around.
Anyway, I know you're all just dying to chuckle at the ridiculousness that is my reality show of a life. So here's the story of the worst day of my summer.
I had a weird summer. Not weird in the sense of, like, I got abducted by aliens or something--although that would have been pretty rad (assuming I got rescued by Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones, I mean). It was just generally weird: I got paid to critique my professor's writing (a bewildering concept for a freshman), I literally cried in Harris Teeter one day because I couldn't figure out how to buy groceries (hey, wise guy--buying food for one person is a lot more difficult than it sounds), I spent three hours trying to work a can opener (I'm still convinced it was broken, even though I know it was really just me being kitchen gadget-deficient). In short, the accumulation of seemingly insignificant oddities cast the whole summer in a weird light.
But perhaps what felt the weirdest to me was my constant moving. (Okay, maybe "constant" is a strong word--but four times in ten weeks felt pretty constant to me.) First I lived in an on-campus apartment surrounded by people I didn't know. Then I moved to house-sit for a poli-sci professor and care for her dog (who wouldn't come within a 20-foot radius of me). Next I moved to house-sit for a physics professor (who lived on a farm and got water from a well). Lastly, I moved into my car and was virtually homeless for a week, locking myself in a classroom in Chambers for most of my spare time. Yes, each of my living situations was fairly bizarre in its own right. But the worst day of my summer occurred when I moved out of Wolfgang's.
Wolfgang lived on the farm. Now, I'm using the term "farm" a little bit liberally here; he had plants--pear trees, apple trees, peach trees, strawberry bushes, grape vines, tomato plants, and several other varieties of fruits and herbs--but he didn't really grow any "crops." He wasn't exactly reaping and sowing, if you know what I mean. (...That came out weird.) Nor did he have any animals--aside from his adorably spastic dog, Java (pictured below.) But when he introduced me to the place, he termed it "the farm," so that's how I've referred to it ever since. It was tucked back in a little lakeside neighborhood in Mooresville, hidden behind a wide expanse of trees and down a long gravel path. He had three barns, one of which was no longer operational, but which probably had hobos crashing in it (I never actually checked up on that assumption). I'm not entirely sure what was in either of the other two barns, but I figured I probably didn't want to know--if Wolfie was secretly a spy for the Austrian government or a notorious serial killer or something, it was really none of my business. I was just there for the bed, the shower, and the big screen TV.
Wolfie and his family had gone to Africa, I think to do some kind of volunteer work, though he never actually specified. All he said was, "Well, once we leave, you won't really be able to get a hold of us. We'll be in Africa." (I know, how helpful, right?) He told me they were due back on July 17th, sometime around six in the evening, so I just needed to be moved out by then and have a fresh gallon of milk waiting for them in the fridge (apparently they were big on calcium). Simple enough, right?
The month I spent in their house went by quickly. Between spending a week trying to figure out how to work their DVD player, my mother almost breaking one of their door handles with a hammer, and me almost getting kidnapped by a creeper browsing the neighborhood looking for his "lost dog," the move-out day sort of snuck up on me.
The day before, I started to box up all of my belongings that had been strewn about their ten-year-old son's Spiderman-decorated room. I do not travel lightly. I get too absorbed in the idea that I "might" use something, so I end up taking fifty times more than I actually need. (I had two boxes filled with a total of about thirty pairs of shoes; I think I wore a total of five all summer.) Essentially, I had way too much stuff. Boxing it all up took a lot more time than I had anticipated, so I decided to get up early to pack it all in my car the next day. I had tickets to see Next to Normal in Charlotte that afternoon, and I wouldn't be able to be back by six, so I had to be completely moved out before I left for the show. Again, simple enough, right?
I woke up the next morning and hit snooze. Unlike normal people, whose snooze is five or ten minutes, mine is an hour.
Mistake number one.
I finally got up and got ready. I decided to go ahead and put on the nice dress and tall wedges that I was going to wear to the show--after all, packing up my car really wouldn't take that long, would it? I dilly-dallied around, making some coffee in Wolfie's French press pot (not so much because I wanted coffee as I wanted to feel like Dexter) and dancing to embarrassing top 40 hits on their kitchen radio. As I was popping and locking around, looking for Java, I came across some clothes that I had forgotten I needed to wash. At this point, I was low on funds, so paying to do laundry wasn't really an option (isn't it great being a poor college student?); it was do this laundry now or leave it in my overheated car for a week. Time to get crackin'.
I whisked my laundry downstairs to their creepy basement, where century-old farming tools covered the walls and huge-ass spiders covered the floor--and, of course, where there was a mini-physics lab full of dangerous chemicals in the back, totally normal. It was like a combination between Dr. Frankenstein's digs and a psycho's kill room. (And, y'know, a laundromat.) I put the laundry in the washer and then bounded back up the stairs to start packing up the car.
Box after box was carried by my weak little twig arms out to my car. I started feelin' the burn on box number two. And the scorching southern July heat really wasn't helping the situation. Little tiny beads of perspiration started dotting my face like they were trying to compete with my freckles (which is no easy feat during the summer). Well, I guess I'll have to change before I leave. I don't want to go see this show in such a saltified garment.
I checked my watch. I'm not really sure why I neglected to check the time up until that very moment, considering that I'm a pretty time-conscientious person and I knew I had a deadline to meet. But, alas, for the first time that morning, I let the abstract concept of "time" enter my brain--and it was not a pretty meeting.
I had less than an hour before I absolutely had to leave to pick up Justin and get to the show. Which meant I was screwed.
I tried not to let this affect me, as I knew that it would only make things worse. I put my game face on and went back to work.
Laundry! I ran down to the creepy basement and threw my laundry in the dryer. The timer said 1:25. Oh no. I don't have an hour and twenty-five minutes! But if I took the laundry out before it was dry, I would have had a huge pile of semi-wet clothes stewing in my car for a week. I didn't even want to think about the kind of mildewy mold monsters that would arise from that situation. I did some time crunching in my head: Okay, if I leave the clothes in the dryer until after the show, and I rush over here as soon as possible, I can probably be in and out just quick enough to miss Wolfie and co. Okay. Yeah. Good plan, self. You get a pat on the back.
With that crisis seemingly averted, I went back to packing boxes in my car. As I came outside with a (particularly large and heavy) box (probably filled with all the books I never read), I noticed that Java had somehow escaped through the door and was now pacing around outside. She'd noticed me packing the day before and knew something was up, and me moving boxes to my car only solidified her doggie deduction. And she was not happy. I don't think she totally understood where her family had gone, but I was her owner now, and she wasn't about to let me scamper off and leave her behind. She plopped herself down in front of my trunk and sprawled out on her back. She gave me a look like, "Yeah, I dare you to back over me. I dare you." As cute as it was, I didn't have time to process her adorability. "Javaaaaaaaaaa! Come on! Don't do this to me!" I pulled on her little legs and body, but she wouldn't budge. "Fine, I'll deal with you in a minute."
I went back to packing up the car. But at this point, "packing up the car" became "throw shit in the hatchback as fast as possible." It wasn't exactly organized, but boy, was it efficient! I hastily cleared out the Spidey room and the rest of the house, and then I raced outside to goad Java. "Here, lookie, Java, I brought you a Milk Bone!" No go. "Java, I brought you a donut!" Still no go. "Java, I really don't have time for this, sweetheart." (Yes, I was having a full-on conversation with a canine. I do this regularly. Dogs... they really get me, man.) Finally, I started to give her my angry face and say her name like it was a curse word. That worked. She shamefully got up and followed me back to the house. "I'm sorry, Javie Jav, but I really have to go. I'll be back, though! Hang in there!"
I set Wolfie's alarm and rushed to my car. It was two minutes past the time when I absolutely should have left. Well, shit. Better get going.
I sped down the gravel path out to the road, stopped and looked both ways (like the top-notch driver that I am), and turned to gun it down the street. As I drove down it at exactly the proper speed limit, I heard several loud thuds and felt a breeze go through my hair. "What the--?" I looked up in my rear view mirror.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Somehow, my hatchback had flown open and several of my boxes and belongings had tumbled out onto the road. My heart sank. I do NOT have time for this.
I pulled over to the side of the road (which happened to be kind of like a ditch, so my car was essentially sitting on its side) and removed myself from the vehicle. I ran (in my three-inch wedges, mind you) down the road to where my stuff lay scattered about. I stood there for a moment, breathless, resisting the urge to cry. Okay, clean shit up first, cry later.
I scrambled around the scorching pavement, collecting items and throwing them into boxes. Luckily, the road I was on wasn't a very popular cruise spot, so there wasn't much traffic to bother me. I picked up this shoe and that blouse and those books, running them back to my hatchback, constantly shouting to the heavens, "Dear God, whyyyyyyyyyy!" (But actually, I was doing that.) It occurred to me several times that I was parked entirely too far away, but I never decided to move my car closer because--well, because I was in crisis mode and I was acting on impulse, not logic. (Thank goodness I rarely have to enter crisis mode, 'cause it's not really a good state for me to be in.)
After I'd picked up most of the big stuff, I noticed a small white item that had been crushed to little tiny pieces: my jewelry box. I started to hyperventilate.
Not that anything in that box was particularly meaningful or expensive, but, if you know me, you know I've got a shit-ton of jewelry. A shit-ton. And at that moment in time, it was all sprawled across this road, melting into its pavement.
I scurried back to my car and changed into some Toms. Probably the first smart decision I made that day.
I collected as much jewelry as I possibly could. But, considering jewelry is tiny and the road (and surrounding three-foot-tall grass) is large, it wasn't exactly a walk in the park to spot all of the pieces. Drivers started to pass me, some slowing down just to stare at me (thanks a lot, assholes), some stopping to ask if I needed help. I briefly considered enlisting the aid of some nice country bumpkin, but, after almost getting kidnapped by one, and thinking about how I would have to explain my situation to them, I opted out. Thanks but no thanks, y'all.
By the time I had gathered all the jewelry that I could see--melted, broken, or otherwise--I was obviously running dangerously late. I was also drenched in sweat--and by "drenched," I don't mean glistening like a classy lady, I mean it looked like I had taken a dip in Lake Norman fully-clothed. You could have literally wrung my hair out and gotten a cup full of briny water. It was absolutely disgusting. I was also thoroughly exhausted--I wasn't used to that much physical exertion and I hadn't eaten anything all day. Frankly, I was on the verge of passing out. But I was determined to make it to this show. I texted Justin to tell him that I was finally on my way.
After I secured my (stupid) hatchback, changed shoes, and started to speed away, the overwhelming nature of my day began to settle over me. Time to call Mommy.
The line rang a few times and she answered. I began to bawl like a baby (trying very carefully not to muss up my makeup--though, really, at this point, caring about my appearance was essentially moot) and I explained what had happened.
She laughed. She thought it was hysterical. I, however, most certainly did not find it hysterical. "Thanks, Mom, for laughing at me. 'Preciate it. I've gotta pick up Justin."
On the way to the show, I told him the story. He was sympathetic, which was helpful. Also, my hair and my dress started to dry, so I didn't feel quite as disgusting. We got to the show just before late seating, and it was absolutely fantastic, even with half of the cast being understudies.
Afterwards, I dropped Justin off and sped back to Wolfie's house. It was 5:35. Perfect. I'd be able to get my laundry and be gone before they arrived. Surely I was getting some good karma to make up for the "haha, this will make your day totally suck" karma I'd gotten earlier. I pulled down the driveway and got out of my car.
And then I heard a car pull in behind me.
It was them. They were home.
Cripes.
"Hey, Professor! You're home a little early. How was the trip..?"
"Long. It's been a forty-hour journey. We just want to go to bed."
"Oh, yeah, totally... I was just going to check to make sure I got everything."
"Okay, let's go inside and I'll write you your check."
We all awkwardly entered the house together. Java went buck-wild with joy at being reunited with her family. I clomped down the stairs and gathered my laundry in my arms. When I came back up, Wolfie gave me a weird look and set the check on top of my clothes pile. I stood there with his wife for approximately ten minutes discussing the events of the past month. I mentioned nothing about kidnappers or hammers and door handles or (unconfirmed) hobos in the barn. Finally, we said our goodbyes, and I waddled out to my car carefully, trying to see over my heap of tank tops and night shirts.
I double-checked my hatchback, waved to the family, and immediately drove to the nearest Panera. I was beat, and ravenously hungry. I ordered and settled into a booth in the corner, sighing with relief. Time to relax. The manager of the Panera brought me a free cookie. I think he could tell I wasn't having such a great day. Panera is a my haven.
My bad luck continued that week when my class ring irretrievably fell down a three-inch-wide hole in Summit's bathroom. But, by that point, all I could do was laugh. The prevalence of these incidents in my life is amusing.
I wonder if Wolfie could explain why gravity hates me so much. Ah, physics.
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| The lovely Java |
