This weekend, I did not read the Harry Potter book. I didn’t
even buy it. My original plan was pre-ordering, having it appear on Saturday,
and then spending the entire weekend in bed, tearing through it while crunching
on salted almonds and scritching the cat. Maybe a bathroom break, and if I was
feeling especially adventurous, a shower. Probably a shower with the book
wrapped in Saran Wrap, if my previous level of absorption with the books
(always something I forget about until I actually have it in my hands and am
turning pages) held true.
This weekend, maybe I was going to plow through the Harry
Potter book, but also I was going to clean my house. My apartment has reached
what I am pretty sure is around about frat-house levels of accumulation and
litter and hygiene. I was living in filth is what I am telling you, and
something needed to be done. I was going to cram everything that didn’t move
(or was about to start moving as it developed sentience and a rudimentary
civilization), wash the dishes and scrub all the surfaces, both horizontal and
vertical, because that’s how much fortitude and drive I have! So, so much. Really.
Because I was also going to throw open the windows and hose
down the walls and do all the irritating laundry (bedsheets, curtains, towels and cats) and vacuum the rugs and clean out the grout and organize
the mail and pay all my bills, and then set the whole place on fire and move
somewhere new. I had so many important, responsible and very good adult kinds
of plans this weekend. Sometimes, and this is a truth about life that I am
going to give you for absolutely free, plans don’t come to fruition.
Sometimes the plans that do come to fruition, instead/in
place of/despite all the other plans you have, sometimes they work out so much
better, and you end up wondering what the hell you were thinking about,
planning to spend the weekend with a pillow on your head or a dust mop in your
hand, or wandering out to get a latte because you just can’t take it any more.
This weekend, I ended up not reading a single word, which is something that
would normally make me very unhappy because I need words in a row the way the
hookers in my old neighborhood need crack injected into their eyeballs (i.e.,
badly, and frequently). And I ended up making giant, glorious messes
instead of cleaning, and the joy in which I took of those messes I cannot
I ended up in
of all places. A friend’s family, they give a party every year called Forties
and Fireworks. The party, as you might imagine, features both forties (of beer)
and fireworks (of explosions). You build things, and you blow them up. Which
pretty much sums up the entire weekend, to tell you the truth. I built things,
and things blew up–gloriously. That’s the word for it: things blew up gloriously.
This is the kind of weekend where you show up, you see
people you haven’t seen in much, much too long, and you realize how important
they are and how much you want them in your life. And then, things blow up, in
the very best way, and you realize that everything is suddenly, terribly,
beautifully messy in a way that you do not want to give up, and in a way you think
is going to work out fine, just fine, better than fine. Possibly the finest
things have ever worked out. Also, there were puppies.
A beautiful hotel in a gorgeous little ski town. A bathtub
that came up to my neck, and bath salts that smell like something green. Big
fluffy robes, a giant bed. Lattes, a drive to the top of town, the mountains.
Breakfast, shopping, hooker shoes (such beautiful, beautiful hooker shoes). More friends, and tequila (which I stayed away from, because
sometimes I am not stupid) and movies and wrestling and a dark drive back and
breakfast and building things from balsa wood and a pile of explosives that is
waist-high. Lighter fluid, and such a hot day, and sweet cherries and a sip of
icy cold white wine. Sitting on the grass and wishing you had a lawn, and a
pond, and landscaping. Escaping. Curling up in bed, talking in the glow of the
streetlamps and thinking this is
happiness, because it is, and was, and still feels like it, even hours
This was a good weekend, and it was exactly what I needed. I
needed to get away from my house and my life and my responsibilities, which
include the responsibilities that I have been avoiding (see above, re: my
goddamn house and also my bills). I really needed to read the Harry Potter
book, because one of these days, and very very soon, I am going to get so
spoilered for it, and be so very, extremely sad. I don’t like to be sad. I’m
tired of being sad. More than that, though, much more than a weekend full of
reading and wearing no pants, I needed to blow shit up. Never underestimate the
therapeutic effect of blowing everything sky-high.