The weather called for rain, so Cheesecake and I decided to go to his Nanny’s house (who was in Florida) because it has a covered porch, which meant we could partake in one of the purest and most enjoyable moments known to humans: sitting and watching the rain while outside but not getting wet while doing it.
Cheesecake is my 29-year-old friend that I met last July on Hinge. He’s fun! 10/10 would recommend everyone finding one for themselves. His profile said, “They call me [his name] Cheesecake. I don’t even like cheesecake.” That tickled me (even though I absolutely hate being tickled), and thus that will be his nickname for this column and any time I mention him to my mom.
To elevate our enjoyment, we popped weed caramels and took rips off the gravity bong I made the night before because I wanted a different way to get high, am regressing, and also enjoy little crafts. I used a 16 oz Sprite bottle and an XL plastic Wawa cup— one of the many my dad has saved in the garage for his ~purposes~ (whatever they may be).
The rain gently pours— which seems like an oxymoron, but you know what I mean (unless you’ve only experienced aridity). Sure there’s a lot of water coming down, but it’s not angry. Oh no, not this rain. She’s in a good mood, she’s happy to be here, she’s Shirley Manson. It’s giving How Stella Got Her Groove Back, even though I somehow still haven’t seen that movie but I feel like it fits the vibe and also Angela mother-f-ing Bassett. I am nothing, and I truly mean NOTHING, without 30-year-old pop culture references. Or tangents.
We remain on the porch for awhile. Or maybe it was only 10 minutes. I don’t know, weed is a helluva legalized drug. Nanny’s neighborhood was completely quiet except for the falling rain, the occasional car’s tires rolling along the slick pavement, maybe some birds in the distance… I swear there’s always one bird that’s hella squawkier (not a word) than the others. Everyone is chirping at a reasonable volume while this one bird is unaware of how far its voice travels. You can’t not hear it. But, it’s okay, because my laugh sounds like a witch’s guffaw, so loud ass birds are my kin.
So much of everything today makes my insides feel itchy, but rain-sitting always reminds me that while mostly everything is terrible, a couple things aren’t: Flowers blooming all kinds of pinks and magentas. The grass a shade Crayola would call Tangy Emerald or Grassy Knoll Green. Grassy Knoll you ask? I just finished the audiobook version of Ask Not. It’s about the women the Kennedys destroyed in all the different ways privileged POS white dudes can without facing any real consequences.
I went eight years in LA with little precipitation. Eight long years. The guitarist of The Strokes’ dad sang 🎶It never rains in southern California🎶 and he wasn’t lying. On the rare occasion it did, there was no place to sit and embrace its whimsy. I mainly had to cosplay east coast weather through sleep sounds. Tracks like “Snow Lightly Falling on Cabin,” “Trickling Stream in April,” and “Whale Wails” would be used to drown out year-round fireworks, the 24-hour car wash money-laundering front across the street, and the occasional, rage-inducing 3am street takeovers.
There’s something to be said about how quiet the suburbs are, but if I spoke the silence would be broken! Which happens any time I laugh. It actually isn’t completely silent, because much like that one goddamn bird, there’s always a motorcycle off in the distance making its existence known. Day and night. Unless it’s raining! Then they can’t ride because it’s dangerous! Wait, wait wait….is this actually why I love the rain? Maybe.
But also, Miss Mother Nature, I’m ready for summer and sunshine and complaining about how hot and muggy it is and how my hair is ruined. Plus the weather has to be nice enough so Cheesecake and I can visit the nude beach because inquiring minds (and bodies) want to know what a nude beach at the Jersey Shore is like.
Until next time: touch some grass, take a breath of fresh air, and 🎶feel the rain on your skin🎶
