Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Spell Me Something Good

So last Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday—before a staggeringly large percentage of my friends ended up in the hospital--was an awesomely good weekend. Kai came down from Westchester and kick-started a weekend that included a pitcher of margaritas, and bands, and an unforgivably middle-school-caliber crush, and lots of driving around listening to epic nineties jams, and, best of all, the reason for Kai’s visit in the first place: drunken witchcraft.

I knew things were going to get all Craft-style nuts when, in the middle of our salads at Yaffa, she conjured from her backpack a red silk box filled to the top with stuff she’d purchased on family vacations to Salem when we were in middle school. We were never allowed to use any of it because our parents expressly forbade us from so much as lighting a candle in their houses, so it was entirely out of the question to burn sacks filled with all kinds of magical herb blends that, now, look suspiciously like potpourri and glitter.

While we were going through the crystals and little bags and thirty-one flavors of incense, our waitress came over to refill the water.

“Is that…wicca stuff…?” she asked.

She had artfully highlighted hair and impeccable eyeliner, so I wasn’t sure whether she was making fun of us or not. I kind of laughed and was like, yeah, uh, this is all stuff we found from when we were in middle school…and really liked The Craft

“Oh my god!” the waitress said, putting down her pitcher. “When I was thirteen, me and my cousin though we were witches and we did this spell? To control the weather? And then we opened the windows and it was SO WINDY!”

See, witches receive signs from the universe in many, many forms, including extra-hip waitresses on St. Mark’s. We left her tip under a sizeable chunk of quartz, with a note that read “By the power of three times three…here’s a random crystal!” Because, also, witches know that whatever energy you put out comes back to you threefold, so we figured we better start sending out the love, stat, before we got too drunk to remember not to hate on everything we saw.

Witches also have the ability to transmogrify large chunks of their disposable income into Pabst, which, in turn, imparts the particularly devilish power to make pitchers of strawberry margaritas disappear instantaneously.

When we woke up the next morning, the basement of my house looked like Mellificent had been hit by an eighteen wheeler. There were incense ashes and crystals everywhere, and the Ouija board was out but cast aside because, as I vaguely remembered yelling, “these spirits spell so fucking slow!”. Next to that was a piece of paper on which I’d scrawled something very important the tarot cards had told me. This paper was surrounded by an assortment of herbs seasoning the tiles like the Colonel’s secret recipe. Not one to let the daylight and sobriety get us down, we burned some stuff on my Weber grill (probably not how they did it in Salem, but I’m hoping the spirits or whatever won’t mind my wishes smelling slightly of Boca burger) and made spells to carry around and, I don’t know, enchant my cubicle and the F train and, mostly, the bottom of my purse where the pink satin bag fulla love spell is currently hanging out.

It’s always a love spell. It’s always been love spells, since we were 12 and started hanging out in the “New Age/Spirituality” section of Barnes & Noble. Whereas Kai bought herbs to commune with nature (Me, last weekend: WHY DID YOU BUY THIS? Kai, last weekend: Seriously, I have no idea…), I bought pink candle after pink candle that sat totally unlit under my firefighter father’s roof and meditated in front of them on the no doubt copious charms of whichever pimply retard was receiving the brunt of my hormonal devotion at the time. I don’t think they’ve ever, even once, worked, but it seems like whenever Kai and I break out the witchcraft stuff like when we were thirteen, the only thing I can think is holy crap, it’s time for a love spell.

Because really, what else is worth it? Money’s great and I wish I had buckets more than I do now, but it seems sort of uncool to waste your drunken witch time on a money spell. That always seemed kind of like the stripper who gets her boobs done to make more tips instead of just going to night school and becoming a vet tech or something – like, maybe I should just work harder and get a better job instead of muttering things in my basement over a candle for more cash. What else is there? Your health? Crap. That’s like wishing for world peace on your birthday. Lame, and vague, and totally pansy. But then I’m too pansy for the other end of the spectrum—I’d never do a spell to hurt anyone because 1. I’ve seen far too many horror movies not to know how that goes and 2. I grew up Catholic and have such a lingering sense of guilt about everything I do I can’t even take a pen from a bank, let alone stick pins in a legit voodoo doll.

Which leaves you with a love spell. Because even if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t hurt to throw a few extra make-out vibes into the cosmos. And, while fumbling for my Metrocard, should you see a small pink satin bag leaking rose petals and glitter and generally looking like it was thrown together by Glinda on a bender, well, fuck you. It was.


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