Today’s installment is brought to you by the Old 97’s.
Fellow intern architect Michael and I have a standing “complain about being an intern architect” lunch every week or so. Michael has good taste in music. He promised me I would love the Old 97’s, and I promised him he would love Yarn, so yesterday we did a trade.
I was feeling pretty wrung out yesterday. This is really the only thing that got me to the end of the work week:
But latte notwithstanding, I came home yesterday and crawled into bed at 5 p.m. I bailed on a party. I bailed on a concert. There was a two-hour span last night during which I think I was vertical on the couch. I don’t remember any of it. Apparently I watched a Spanish soap opera. I don’t speak Spanish. I crawled back into bed at 9, and slept soundly until 8 a.m. this morning.
And then I woke up feeling better, and I went on a field trip. I had some to-dos on my list. Old 97’s went into the CD player. I pulled into the Durham farmer’s market somewhere around “I’ve got my wife, the other women, and whiskey killing me. Well the first two make it so that I see red; the third one makes it so I can’t see.” And I got out of the car laughing, and went in search of Daisy Cakes.
I have a thing for airstream trailers, and a thing for cupcakes, and I want to throw my arms around the people who decided to bring these two things together.
I had the Pink Lemonade for breakfast, under my orange umbrella.
I stopped to admire the bike rack, and appreciate the guy playing the guitar in the rain.
I bought an “orange sherbet” cantaloupe. I bought a zillion little tomatoes. The Italian ice guy offered me a free sample, and gave me a bucket of mango ice, which I sampled in the car. It was great.
I took a picture of the new shelter in progress, designed and built by architecture students from NCSU. It’s a gorgeous thing. Can’t wait until it’s done, so I can go sit there on Saturdays and eat more cupcakes. Way to represent, y’all.
I discovered at this point that my $20 ballet flats were not waterproof. Back into the car, with a plan to head on to Pittsboro and Siler City.
The skies opened, the roads flooded, and twice I had to pull over and let the storm subside. I did not mind a bit. Old 97’s. As the first deluge hit, this was playing:
“I sidled up beside her, settled down, and shouted, ‘Hi there, My name’s Stewart Ransom Miller, I’m a serial ladykiller.’ She said, ‘I’m already dead,’ that’s exactly what she said. So we tripped the light fantastic, we was both made of elastic…” and on and on.
And I played it three times in a row. I bypassed the strolling in Pittsboro, due to the flooded sidewalk and flooded shoes. But I had a second breakfast at this place in Siler City:
I cruised along through Bynum and along the Haw River to a song that can only be described as voodoo swing music:
“Why don’t you come over and see my four-leaf clover? Who’m I trying to kid, I’m not the kind of guy you’d go for… I got a four leaf clover, but I ain’t got no hope of getting you.”
Took the long way home through Chapel Hill, and was just coming down Wade Avenue as “The Color of a Lonely Heart is Blue” hit. By the end of the big circle around the Triangle with my stack of cd’s, I felt pretty great. Turns out I just needed some sleep, and a little excursion. Rest. Relaxation. Rainy Saturday. And a cupcake.