What a marvelous weekend.
In a "blizzard" that set record breaking cumulation for a 24-hour period, as snow shut down Columbus with depths that my Buffalo-born roommate had not seen since coming to Ohio, chaos began to creep Friday night and was then muffled by two glorious feet of snow Saturday morning.
Dana and Beth and Claire came downstairs with the marvelous realization that their jobs were in malls that were now closed by the level 2 snow emergency. After dragging a couch from the other room into our front room, where we could watch the drifts pile and our cars disappear, we hunkered down for a morning slumber party. For a while we watched the morning news, a disgruntled anchorwoman reminding viewers every ten minutes that they had been there since SIX this morning and will have CONTINUOUS coverage of the weather ALL DAY LONG. And when one field reporter got so desperate for new ideas that she stacked two bags of burgers on one another to portray the depth of the snow, we opted to watch something else. And what else says "snow day movie" than Carrie's favorite "Devil's Playground", an Amish documentary. After sticking in "The Princess Bride", Claire received a text from the boys in our homechurch, who said they'd be over in two hours to play with us in Glen Echo park.
My entire day of plans had been flushed away in the blizzard, including my date day with Dave, and to my delight he was in the entourage of a dozen boys that stumbled bundled into our front door at one. Scrambling around for my snow pants and snow boots in the glorious melee, I went out for the first time and got a first real impression of the depth, accentuated by Dave's face-first dive from our porch. After some rough-housing in our front lawn, marveling like children in the incredible depth, we headed shortly after to the park. Gordon shimmied up to the bridge and began dumping snow on the trekkers, like some strange reversal of the bridge troll from the fairy tales.
And there we built a snow fort with the intention of a snowball fight that never actually happened. The adventuresome boys, Dave and Gordon, went over to the cliffs and started launching snowballs across the creek. Half left, but I was in the half that went up the hill to sled on the snow covering the steps. Carrie tackled Gordon soundly for calling her an old lady, threatening more "baby brother" treatment; Dave found that the fastest way to get down the hill was by sitting on the very back of our jacked-up plastic sleds; when newcomers arrived with a giant tupperware container I slid down in that with mild success and wild panic.
Once the dampness turned to icy cold in our boots, Claire and Dave and Alan and I began the long plow home. Dave towed Alan in the sled for the first half; then when challenged Alan pulled me in the sled during the second and uphill portion, to my great impressment. We pooled into the house with a merry bunch of wet and dissheveled bodies draped in my living room watching "Reno 911". An hour later, the boys resuited up for the long walk home, leaving Dave and Ian (Dana's fresh new boyfriend) to watch "Men in Tights" with us. I reheated some spaghetti for Dave and doctored up some instant hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon.
As I poked and prodded Dave throughout, and Dana and Ian sat entwined, Claire and Kim acted like a couple so as to not leave anyone out of the couple circle. As "Pub Night" circled nearer, the house began to empty and left only Kim and Brett and then Dave and I. After a sweet hour or two being close to him, we finally deemed it necessary to make our way over to see the Drowsy Lads playing.
I wasn't prepared for the ghostly wonderland we stepped into. Massive piles of snow were everywhere and the streets were relatively desolate. Dave described it as though the zombies had finally come, with cars parked at strange angles in strange places and people wandering the streets. We slipped and stomped along together on the road, a strangely perfect night with no wind and just enough cold to be cold. We passed many people digging their cars out of snow that had drifted as deep as their sideview mirrors. Later we were passed by a girl being towed behind a truck on a great green dumpster lid. While circling the block to gain a few more moments alone and together, we noticed an impressively crafted snow fort on the slope of someone's front yard.
We parted ways at the cafe, and I found my friends Lizbet and Lauren inside, front and center before the stage, Lauren casting doe eyes toward the accordian player and giggling whenever she was caught. Sipping on a Bacardi Razz Lizbet handed me, my pants damp to my knees with snow, listening to contagious Irish music, I felt warm. I felt that sensation I have when I want to keep every moment of the day as a snapshot. And then shortly after I was jerked out of my chair by some drunken hyper girls who insisted I jig with them in front of the crowd. What the hell am I doing? No idea, but it sure is fun.
This morning I woke up and realized with sudden clarity that I have officially less than a week in my house with my seven roommates, my seven imperfect and glorious roommates. And this morning was our last house breakfast together. Claire wasn't feeling well, but the rest of us slipped on winter gear and I called work to tell them i would be late (since it's daylight savings and we just had two feet of snow I figured I could get away with it). We trekked down Hudson to a local breakfast place, and when we were stiffly informed that separate checks were not allowed, Carrie treated us all. It was fitting for some reason. I sat on one end next to Genny; we ordered the same dish and she giggled about a boy who had just expressed interest in her the day before.
Only twenty minutes late for work, I was in a good mood the rest of the day. Getting materials to make those red mashed potatoes for dinner and the mix to make cinnamon apple muffins for my roommates, I began the wonderfully exhausting journey home. With sadness, I saw that Beth had been the first to start filling boxes. For an hour the kitchen was a dissheveled mess of glassware. Sitting in the sunlit study room off the kitchen, watching the boxes lay half-filled I realized...I'm no longer home. Not really. It will only get worse, we will only have more of this.
That's hard. This is the first house out of the three I've been in since leaving my parents' that has felt like home; partly because this is where I've been longest (9 months as opposed to 3 or 6), mostly because of the girls who have been here with me. I've been in the same bedroom with Kim for the past 9 months. Only my sister has roomed with me that long. Claire has been in here with us since November; she once held me as I cried, laying on her big soft bed. And Carrie and Chan? I've been with them for a year-and-a-half, they are a familiar presence. And Genny has been my early morning buddy all quarter long when I stumbled to the first-floor shower before seven in the morning. I keep Dana and Beth and gain Kelsey, but it will be different; a good different, yet different from what I have come to love so much now. No more house fests the same way. No more early morning company (I'm the only morning person in my new house). No more talking to kim as we fall asleep going to be bed together at eleven (everyone else stays up late). No more cooking in the kitchen with the paintings of grass and the pink cupboards, watching the windows fog up, sitting on sagging countertops to talk the best conversations. No more fridge in the basement (more nostalgic than practical wistfulness). No more Sunday Carrie Cleaning Parties. No more once-in-a-lifetime loft with the desk and bookshelf above my bed that Dave built for me so I could open the old square window with 9 panes in the spring time (which I won't be here for, but I got to do it one warm spring-like day last week). Spontaneous evenings spent warming around the fire pit that Carrie dug in the backyard. The smell of Carrie using her grill, or the sound of her shriek when she finds a grasshopper on it. It will be a different and longer walk home, that will no longer include riding the school bus with Dave or Pat. No more loud obnoxious Jeremy the Love Whore cat on my front porch most warm nights (and many cool ones).
It's not the packing that phases me - hell, it's my fourth one in a year-and-a-half, I'm a pro. I can only imagine how much I'll end up throwing out, and the thought delights me.
It's the leaving.
In a "blizzard" that set record breaking cumulation for a 24-hour period, as snow shut down Columbus with depths that my Buffalo-born roommate had not seen since coming to Ohio, chaos began to creep Friday night and was then muffled by two glorious feet of snow Saturday morning.
Dana and Beth and Claire came downstairs with the marvelous realization that their jobs were in malls that were now closed by the level 2 snow emergency. After dragging a couch from the other room into our front room, where we could watch the drifts pile and our cars disappear, we hunkered down for a morning slumber party. For a while we watched the morning news, a disgruntled anchorwoman reminding viewers every ten minutes that they had been there since SIX this morning and will have CONTINUOUS coverage of the weather ALL DAY LONG. And when one field reporter got so desperate for new ideas that she stacked two bags of burgers on one another to portray the depth of the snow, we opted to watch something else. And what else says "snow day movie" than Carrie's favorite "Devil's Playground", an Amish documentary. After sticking in "The Princess Bride", Claire received a text from the boys in our homechurch, who said they'd be over in two hours to play with us in Glen Echo park.
My entire day of plans had been flushed away in the blizzard, including my date day with Dave, and to my delight he was in the entourage of a dozen boys that stumbled bundled into our front door at one. Scrambling around for my snow pants and snow boots in the glorious melee, I went out for the first time and got a first real impression of the depth, accentuated by Dave's face-first dive from our porch. After some rough-housing in our front lawn, marveling like children in the incredible depth, we headed shortly after to the park. Gordon shimmied up to the bridge and began dumping snow on the trekkers, like some strange reversal of the bridge troll from the fairy tales.
And there we built a snow fort with the intention of a snowball fight that never actually happened. The adventuresome boys, Dave and Gordon, went over to the cliffs and started launching snowballs across the creek. Half left, but I was in the half that went up the hill to sled on the snow covering the steps. Carrie tackled Gordon soundly for calling her an old lady, threatening more "baby brother" treatment; Dave found that the fastest way to get down the hill was by sitting on the very back of our jacked-up plastic sleds; when newcomers arrived with a giant tupperware container I slid down in that with mild success and wild panic.
Once the dampness turned to icy cold in our boots, Claire and Dave and Alan and I began the long plow home. Dave towed Alan in the sled for the first half; then when challenged Alan pulled me in the sled during the second and uphill portion, to my great impressment. We pooled into the house with a merry bunch of wet and dissheveled bodies draped in my living room watching "Reno 911". An hour later, the boys resuited up for the long walk home, leaving Dave and Ian (Dana's fresh new boyfriend) to watch "Men in Tights" with us. I reheated some spaghetti for Dave and doctored up some instant hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon.
As I poked and prodded Dave throughout, and Dana and Ian sat entwined, Claire and Kim acted like a couple so as to not leave anyone out of the couple circle. As "Pub Night" circled nearer, the house began to empty and left only Kim and Brett and then Dave and I. After a sweet hour or two being close to him, we finally deemed it necessary to make our way over to see the Drowsy Lads playing.
I wasn't prepared for the ghostly wonderland we stepped into. Massive piles of snow were everywhere and the streets were relatively desolate. Dave described it as though the zombies had finally come, with cars parked at strange angles in strange places and people wandering the streets. We slipped and stomped along together on the road, a strangely perfect night with no wind and just enough cold to be cold. We passed many people digging their cars out of snow that had drifted as deep as their sideview mirrors. Later we were passed by a girl being towed behind a truck on a great green dumpster lid. While circling the block to gain a few more moments alone and together, we noticed an impressively crafted snow fort on the slope of someone's front yard.
We parted ways at the cafe, and I found my friends Lizbet and Lauren inside, front and center before the stage, Lauren casting doe eyes toward the accordian player and giggling whenever she was caught. Sipping on a Bacardi Razz Lizbet handed me, my pants damp to my knees with snow, listening to contagious Irish music, I felt warm. I felt that sensation I have when I want to keep every moment of the day as a snapshot. And then shortly after I was jerked out of my chair by some drunken hyper girls who insisted I jig with them in front of the crowd. What the hell am I doing? No idea, but it sure is fun.
This morning I woke up and realized with sudden clarity that I have officially less than a week in my house with my seven roommates, my seven imperfect and glorious roommates. And this morning was our last house breakfast together. Claire wasn't feeling well, but the rest of us slipped on winter gear and I called work to tell them i would be late (since it's daylight savings and we just had two feet of snow I figured I could get away with it). We trekked down Hudson to a local breakfast place, and when we were stiffly informed that separate checks were not allowed, Carrie treated us all. It was fitting for some reason. I sat on one end next to Genny; we ordered the same dish and she giggled about a boy who had just expressed interest in her the day before.
Only twenty minutes late for work, I was in a good mood the rest of the day. Getting materials to make those red mashed potatoes for dinner and the mix to make cinnamon apple muffins for my roommates, I began the wonderfully exhausting journey home. With sadness, I saw that Beth had been the first to start filling boxes. For an hour the kitchen was a dissheveled mess of glassware. Sitting in the sunlit study room off the kitchen, watching the boxes lay half-filled I realized...I'm no longer home. Not really. It will only get worse, we will only have more of this.
That's hard. This is the first house out of the three I've been in since leaving my parents' that has felt like home; partly because this is where I've been longest (9 months as opposed to 3 or 6), mostly because of the girls who have been here with me. I've been in the same bedroom with Kim for the past 9 months. Only my sister has roomed with me that long. Claire has been in here with us since November; she once held me as I cried, laying on her big soft bed. And Carrie and Chan? I've been with them for a year-and-a-half, they are a familiar presence. And Genny has been my early morning buddy all quarter long when I stumbled to the first-floor shower before seven in the morning. I keep Dana and Beth and gain Kelsey, but it will be different; a good different, yet different from what I have come to love so much now. No more house fests the same way. No more early morning company (I'm the only morning person in my new house). No more talking to kim as we fall asleep going to be bed together at eleven (everyone else stays up late). No more cooking in the kitchen with the paintings of grass and the pink cupboards, watching the windows fog up, sitting on sagging countertops to talk the best conversations. No more fridge in the basement (more nostalgic than practical wistfulness). No more Sunday Carrie Cleaning Parties. No more once-in-a-lifetime loft with the desk and bookshelf above my bed that Dave built for me so I could open the old square window with 9 panes in the spring time (which I won't be here for, but I got to do it one warm spring-like day last week). Spontaneous evenings spent warming around the fire pit that Carrie dug in the backyard. The smell of Carrie using her grill, or the sound of her shriek when she finds a grasshopper on it. It will be a different and longer walk home, that will no longer include riding the school bus with Dave or Pat. No more loud obnoxious Jeremy the Love Whore cat on my front porch most warm nights (and many cool ones).
It's not the packing that phases me - hell, it's my fourth one in a year-and-a-half, I'm a pro. I can only imagine how much I'll end up throwing out, and the thought delights me.
It's the leaving.
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