A and B.
The plan was to kick bathing suit o’ gold straight on back to its wholesome Midwestern land of origin the moment it arrived. Or actually, the original plan, after doing a rather alarming review of my finances a couple days ago, was to go online and cancel the order. So I went online, only to find a snappy email from that white-toothed, milk-fed clothing company: that my bathing suit had been shipped. All right, I said to myself. Fine. Here’s what I’ll do: March it right back to the p.o. the moment it gets here and proceed to Do the Right Thing.

This is for all of you who get bored reading stories about principled people who do the right thing.

Today, the suit was shipped to my workplace. As if in a movie, on my way out the door ten minutes later, unopened package-in-fricking-hand, I literally ran into a coworker. Like, “Ouch! Oh, sorry.” And she said when I told her where I was going, “But you’ll have that suit for years!” And to which added our receptionist, when she heard the sitch’, “It’s really an investment.” Co-worker #1: “Does it fit well?” Alice: “I haven’t even opened the package. And I’m not going t-” Coworker #1: “C’mon, let’s see it; let’s see it. Is it one of those tankinis? I love tankinis!”

Which resulted in, you guessed it, my opening the package, trying the suit on and realizing, to my partial dread: That it fits perfectly; that it makes me look really darn cute.

So. The plan has changed. Now it is to spend every living second at the beach this August, once I move to Beach Town for grad school. The second part requires your help. If you are my friend and have a swimming pool or an ocean or a lake or a pond or have access to any of the above, I want an invite from you. Now. Let’s hear it.

Good lord.
I just paid 80 dollars for a bathing suit...A bathing suit trimmed with gold leaf, I presume. A bathing suit that grants me the power to fly-!, or, at least, (phew), that of invisibility on the damn beach. I’m not sure which, yet. I'll find out when it gets shipped to me.

Target drove me to it, I tell you. It's the most dispiriting -- disquieting, even -- place to shop for a swimsuit. Nightmarish. I mean, as in: You can choose the turquoise and white halter bikini – the one with the little silver chain about the hips and a mountain of padding - or you can choose the gold-lame halter bikini. You know, to swim in. As a grown woman. In the ocean.

Oh, but wait: Here’s a black one! A black halter top that is not heinous! Sure, we didn’t set out to purchase a halter top, did we, Precious?, but at least this one’s not completely humiliating. And over here are some black bathing suit bottoms. Here, search for your size (which, you’ve learned through the years, is about a size and a half up from your bathing suit top size). Now, how come they all have silver belts on them? Or gold ones? What, is the idea that if you unbuckle your bathing suit belt, then what? That you can relax after a big ol’ meal and stick your hand in your pants while falling asleep in the La-Z-Boy? No, no, no. Keep flipping through.

However; oh, and I forgot to tell you this part: "your" size will not actually *fit* you. You must find your size. It's all a part of the spiritual journey into the vortex that is the swimsuit section of the Kirkwood Target in late April. It might be Large. It might be nothing, nothing at all. It might be that bathing suit over there that looks like a sporty suit. That one that—Oh, you tried it on? Oh, you say it flattened your breasts like Judy Garland but instead of looking like you were about to be whisked away to Magical Oz to ride multihued horses and do battle with evil, you looked precisely like another product of Kansas…the potato? Amazing.

So I came home and went to Lands End online and laid down this giant chunk of change for a modest-yet-pretty off-black affair. We'll see. Maybe this bathing suit will teach me to swim better. Maybe it'll save me from sharks.

Jiggity-jog.
I moved to North Carolina for college, and although it’s the state where my grandmother lives, that was the first time I’d spent any real length of time there, and so I was struck by the depth of state pride held by residents. People would just spontaneously extemporize on the wonder of North Carolina with little or no prompting. It was true that the piedmont region that Chapel Hill inhabited was wonderful – all green rolling hills and azaleas and sunny skies all year. My fellow students who were natives swore that in North Carolina the sky really was a shade of azure that could not be found anywhere else. Carolina Blue. Step over that state line into Virginia or even South Carolina and, well, it just wasn’t the same.

The main thing, though, that people would speak on when they felt called to rhapsodize about their state was the fact that it contained both mountains and the ocean. In one state! Unheard of! These physical features are actually hundreds of miles apart, of course, and much of that drive incorporates the flat, mostly-brownish, unspectacular region of farmland where my grandma lives. Still, people would say, with a sweep of the hand, “You have the mountains…and you have the ocean. Take your pick.” While visiting my grandma on this latest trip, Marshall and I noticed that the public television station has even incorporated this important message into its 30-second station i.d. filler-spot between shows. A shot of some reeds, lilting in the sunset breeze, some seagulls taking flight, fading into a shot of rolling verdant Appalachians, the star of the scene this time, a mighty hawk. And the voiceover: “North Carolina Public Broadcasting. From the mountains to the sea.”

So yes,
we’re back from our whirlwind trip– a trip throughout which, come to think of it, onscreen birds featured prominently. There was the public broadcasting spot in North Carolina and then when we boarded the plane from Pittsburgh to Arizona, our flight attendants had flipped the movie screens down over every few seats and were playing a soothing little film entitled “Swan’s Birthday.” The plot featured a female swan on an afternoon idyll in a pond or lake, to the sound of contemplative piano. Near the end of the movie, when mostly everyone had boarded and the attendants were walking down the aisle stuffing bags more soundly into their overheard compartments, a male swan appears onscreen. He’s taking his own little paddle around, however he and the female never appear in the same frame, which caused us to speculate as to whether Ms. Swan ever actually receives her birthday present. Or whether she’s taking a break from her husband on this particular birthday. (Swans mate for life, you know.) Anyway, they stop playing this soothing Don’t-worry-about-flying, dear-passengers—We’ve-bolted-the-pilot’s-cabin-door-shut-and-x-rayed-your-shoes-so-no-terrorist-shall-harm-thee film and get on with the flight and so we think, you know: Well. That’s that.
Only it’s not. We were revisited by Swan’s Birthday on the flight back from Arizona. This one was a red-eye and so right before boarding, Marshall and I had each taken half a Xanex to help us sleep. And so this time around, Swan’s Birthday hit me at precisely the wrong/right moment of, err, well, highness. Meaning, it set off a fit of unstoppable giggling, turned to laughing, turned to tears-flowing-down-crimson-cheeked-snorting, made worse by the fact that I was trying
desperately to stop, knowing that I appeared insane. Ah, drugs and birds. Drugs and birds and aeroplanes.

So, right: We go on this two-week trip from North Carolina to Pennsylvania to wildly beautiful Arizona where we have a spectacular time with my family and good friends and former roommates and the highlights I give you, Henshaw, are about North Carolina’s State Pride Party Line and watching bird movies while mentally impaired. All right, all right.

Sigh.
Let’s skip to the prettiest part.
So we fly to Tucson, pick up the rental car – a convertible! – well, actually a silver Chrysler Sebring, so we look like retirees – and we drive it about 10 minutes away, to the Saguaro National Forest, where the two-lane road is swallowed up by sandy hills covered with those tall, humanlike cacti you envision when you think of the word “cactus”. Apparently it’s the only place in the world where they grow naturally. Forty minutes after stepping off the plane, we were hiking around these hills and elated. It was sunny and cool and clear, as it remained during our entire stay in Arizona, and we took about fifty photos of plants and each other and the sky – which was some Narnian version of azure – that first afternoon. Then we drove north, and everything grew increasingly beautiful and rugged and wild.

The only ugly part of Arizona I saw the entire four days was Phoenix; it’s like the state had to compromise and agree to take in this sprawling mess of a thing in order to keep the rest: the national forests and the pines which actually smell sweet when you press your nose up to them and the red rocks and the canyons including that really big one up in the north part of the state, there. This state needs no PR campaign, no slogan; it’s the sort of place where visitors are always telling inhabitants how gorgeous it is, grabbing them by the shoulders and saying, “We went hiking in Oak Valley Canyon today! Oh my dearest fricking god!!,” the implied message being: Are you appreciating all this? Are you? Are you? Do you realize what I have to go home to??

So we had a great time. We saw Sedona, the most pretentious, tacky, monied town in the world, surrounded by the most beautiful red rocks and cliffs in the world; we saw Jerome, the old copper-mine town perched on the side of a mountain; we saw and hiked into the Grand Canyon where we just kept pinching ourselves, we hiked around Prescott National Forest at sunset with dogs bounding ahead of us and whenever we drove down long, two lane roads through those constantly changing, ever-more-incredible surroundings, we listened to Music for the West: Jonathan Kane and Frank Black’s Black Letter Days and Dirty Three and Calexico and Desert Sessions. And we ate red meat constantly and the high elevation made us sleep well at night.

And now I’m back and soon, I’ll post a few photos here. I have more stories but all in all, it’s good to be back. Last night, I went with some friends to the Starlight Drive-In where we set out lawnchairs and drank Negro Modelos with limes and cracked each other up. It’s good to have a home, here. It’s good to have these friends and while we were gone, summertime descended with a thud, so now I get to wear the sleeveless tops I packed but never took out of my suitcase during our trip.
But I tell you, that senioritis is going to be worse than ever when I go back to work on Monday.

V is also for Vroom.
I have developed a full-fledged non-trial version of foot-tapping, sighing-aloud senioritis at work. It worked out fine this week because we had these special events taking place during which I didn’t have to do most of my usual duties. Instead I worked on an extra-fun special project and then did things like get my hair cut and have lunch with friends.

And it works out even better now, because I’m going on a trip for a week and a half with Marshall. I originally planned this trip in a fit of “Oh, dear lord help me, for now I must visit all the schools whose MFA programs I’d consider going to!” at the beginning of the month, before realizing a mere week later that you can learn all you need to know over the phone, and realizing also that most of these places had to know whether I was going there before the end of March, anyway.

But all that doesn’t matter because now we have two plane tickets to Arizona booked for next week. Leaving from Pittsburgh. So tomorrow, we take my wee speedy Honda from Attalanta to the tiny, bustling metropolis of Grifton, NC to see my grandmother. Then we drive to check out this beach town where it looks like I’ll be spending the next three years. I hope there are good music venues there. I hope there are interesting people there. Hell, I hope there are any music venues there. From there, it’s back to the car and up to Pgh for all of one(1) day in which I will regale Marshall with the best parts of the city of my birth. Places like the Southside and the inclines and the creepy Wabash Tunnel – which was built and then never used and so its dark, vacant entrance looms, all toothless maw’like on the side of Mount Washington facing the city. Effectively scares the bejeebers out of me whenever I see it. (Don’t ask me why. My sister has a phobia of empty swimming pools. Look at her and point and laugh; not at me.) (Except if you do, I’ll sock you.)

After that it’s Arizona to see our good friends who live there and also the Grand Canyon, for which I am totally excited and for which I have been given three very specific and separate orders from family-members and friends for various tchochkes.

And then, flying back to Pittsburgh and driving d’reckly back to Attalanta.

And yeah, phew.

And you know it will.
So all this starts tomorrow. It’s midnight now and I’m too antsy to go to sleep, so I’m getting important last-minute things done, like making sandwiches for the road and sprinkling catnip on Danger Cat’s new bed and observing his bizarre reaction (Sniffing followed by washing followed by rolling around, then abrupt sitting up and more washing. Is my cat actually having fun or is he freaking out? Do I need to put on some Traffic to chill him out? I can’t believe I bought this legally at fricking Petco.) Also making important travel mix tapes, err, cds, whatever. Which I adore because they adhere perfectly to my Principle of Nonsnottiness With the Music: See, you can just put on songs that are terrible that you love without one iota of consequence, because the sole fact that you’re in the car and punchy because it’s been five hours somehow excuses the presence of Stephen Stills’ “Southern Cross” on your Road Tape. And the fact that you know all those lyrics. (For, why –yes. I, in fact, have been looking around the world. For that woman-girl. With a love that can endure. )

Ai-yi-yi. See ya laters, taters.