Info-Dump.

People want me to talk about things other than myself on the blog? Well, you got it in spades with this post.

I didn't want to talk about the crisis in Libya and Bahrain.  I wanted to keep my mind focused on happier things.  But the pictures I've seen and the stories I've heard must be told, and passed on.

I don't know about all of you, but I have spent the last three days glued to my computer, frantic with information and worry about the people of Libya and the fight for revolution over there.  I've been attempting to compile a list of links so that everyone can stay up to date.

This is an Up To Date link so that you all can catch up and also read the 'why where how's' of what is going on over there.  Just be careful when clicking to pictures, because what is seen can never be unseen.

I also found a huge list of links to interviews, news updates, and opinion pieces.  You can find that at  Pantsless Progressive.

This is genocide.  I can't stress that strongly enough.

Qadaffi is exacting a massacre that could become something we haven't seen since Pol Pot or the deaths in Rwanda.  Right now the US is silent because to intervene would not only be a horrible idea, it's also technically illegal.  Unless Libya or Bahrain asks for intervention, we can't give it to them.

In case you needed another reason to get angry, get involved, or just get going, I will show you a picture of a .52 caliber bullet.

This bullet, which as you can see spans the length of a human hand, is mostly used for construction and demolition.  It can tear the walls of buildings apart.

Currently, Qadaffi is using these bullets to shoot protestors.  It was an accident, but I have seen pictures of what these bullets do to people, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

This is not Egypt 2.0 and Mubarak is not nearly on the same level as Qadaffi.  Mubarak had the sense to leave when he knew he had to.  Qadaffi is hiding in Tripoli and ordering his soldiers to kill male protesters and rape the female ones.  The army has responded by defecting to the side of the revolutionaries.

Libya is a smaller country run by a much more dangerous man in Qadaffi and his son, "the principle", is growing more unhinged by the day.  The Sultans have ordered anyone who sees Qadaffi to shoot on sight.

And yet people over there fight.  They fight for change, they fight for justice, they fight for freedom.

Here, we only get pissed off if someone threatens to give us health care.  We're taking away PBS and spending it on NASCAR.  And in Libya, people are literally dying for the gifts we take for granted.

Don't waste a second.

Politics break.

Vive Libye.

ally

PS. If you want to show your support on Twitter or on another system where you can change your font color, change it to green, because red is the color of Qadaffi's Libya.

And because it's something I found unbelievably awesome, here: a man in Egypt ordered a pizza for the protestors in Wisconsin.

for anyone who has ever suffered.

"How much do you weigh?"

i've heard this so many times.  

why do people assume that I know?

One friend says I couldn't weigh more than 110.  Another, 105.

I live three lifetimes in those moments before I answer.

They don't know.  

They don't know how it feels to crouch and pull at the rolls of your flesh as you stare at the three numbers,

their pronouncement the end of my world in many ways,

the '2' at the beginning of my worth.

They don't know the green eyed monster.

pounding a treadmill, eyes down at a magazine, willing your strong italian legs to grow five inches.

They don't know the teachers telling you to lose weight for parts.

They don't know the side profile stare as the pants don't fit in the dressing room,

The size 16 pant with the 'V' still present in the zipper.  It ain't closing,

No matter how raw my hands get.

They don't know what it feels like to get really pissed off.

202.

They don't know the euphoria of watching that number drop.  Feeling strong.  Feeling great.

Feeling like everything is falling into place.

Hearing teachers say 'you could lose more in your hips.'

'You've come so far, you could go even further.'

They don't know what happens when the pendulum swings, hard, the opposite direction.

They don't know the feeling of the eyes, rolling back in the head, the sudden cold sweat.

Staring intensely at the calories on the back of a cereal box when my hair is falling out.

Counting my ribs in the mirror, while my skin turns grey.

Feeling power when my finger and thumb can close around my wrist.

Punching in the numbers of a tablespoon of ketchup.

The clothes getting bigger.  And bigger.  6, 4, 2.

Spitting food out in the toilet, watching Hershey Kisses swirl and flush down the drain.

Cutting out days with friends because it cut into my gym time.

Cutting out dates with boys because it wasn't in my meal plan.

They don't know what it feels like to feel unbearably alone.

136, 138, 132, 134, 133, 130.  Depending on the day, hour, minute.

They don't know what it feels like to want to get well.

They don't know what it feels like to want to get well, then get really, really sick.
130, 145, 133, 138, 143, 131.

To want to eat so badly but to not be able to.

To live on liquids for three months.

To only be able to eat carrots for two weeks and it turns your face orange.

Being confronted by people you love.

It isn't your brain that's the problem anymore.

To be scoped, examined, anesthetized, picked apart and probed, before you're old enough to rent a car.

To feel like you're rotting on the inside.

To feel like no one will ever love you in this state, despite of all you have to give.

They don't know what it feels like to start running.

To realize you can have peanut butter without feeling like a failure.

To give yourself to your work and fall head over heels in love with your literature dreams.

To take up yoga and realize it was the one thing you never knew you always needed.

To laugh again.

To dance again.

To not live in fear.

They don't know what it feels like to feel everything.

To love your legs, chest, belly, and lack of a behind.

To accept that there will be days that absolutely suck.

To throw out your scales.

To not be defined by Numbers.

Math sucks.

"How much do you weigh?"

I have no idea.  Thank God.

-

in honor of national eating disorder week.  if you've ever had a problem with disordered eating, "it's time to talk about it."

If you want me you can watch me on my videophone

So! There's an internet vlog that's been going around lately where you say a set of words that supposedly tells the viewer a lot about your regional accent/dialect.  I am a huge fan of dialects and linguistic/regional phrases, so I figured I'd do it, too.  Enjoy my awkwardness.  And my hot pink yoga headband.  And my dirty sweatshirt.  What? It's my day off.

[[note: I have been told I have a deep voice, and that I'm too loud.  I won't argue this, seeing as...it's true.]]

Also, I haven't done this in a while, but it's Recommendation Wednesday.  This week, I'll be doing "Books I'm Reading At The Moment."

First, books that I'm reading for school:
Macbeth by William Shakespeare (I've read it about 4 billion times and I've done the play once, but it's always nice to revisit it).  We're also reading criticisms of the play by Coleridge, and a few Victorian adaptations of it.
The Odyssey translated by William Lattimore.  I adore this story but I like The Iliad better (I'm a little in love with Hektor, breaker of horses aka my literary boyfriend)
The Culture of Classicism by Caroline Winterer.  A book that discusses the shift in studying Classics from Rome to Greece in the American 1800s-1900s (our country was founded on the Roman philosophies but then the POV shifted to a more Hellenistic viewpoint in the Victorian age).  Interesting, and we're reading it in counterpoint to Homer.

And now the books I'm reading for fun.
Furious Love: Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, and the Marriage of the Century. by Nancy Schoenberger.
“Theirs was the first reality show, a marriage with an audience."
Insane, decadent, debauched, and at the same time quite simple and romantic telling of "Le Scandale" that shocked the world and brought Hollywood into the tabloid age. Brangelina is child's play compared to this tale of two married people who fell for each other on the set of a big budget movie.  Although unlike Brad and Angelina, Elizabeth and Richard did not even bother to hide their relationship. They flaunted it.  However, it was surprising to see in this book that "Liz and Dick" really did love each other, and the fact that Richard wrote to Elizabeth just before his death wondering if they should have another chance, and Elizabeth received that letter after he died...it's heartbreaking.  I'm about halfway through, and can't wait to read the rest.  It's juuuuicy.

American on Purpose: The Improbable Adventures of an Unlikely Patriot. by Craig Ferguson.
"Peter was the first person who told me that being funny was a gift and, when done well, was an art form...Up until this point, I had learned that being funny, particularly in school, was stupid and could get you physically injured.”
You might know Craig Ferguson as the irrepressibly hilarious host of the Late Late Show, or Mr. Wick on The Drew Carey Show.  You may not have heard of his past as a Scottish standup comedian whose signature character was named "Bing Hitler", nor of his exploits as a raging alcoholic in the 1980s who contemplated suicide several times before finally getting sober in 1992.  This book is funny, but it's not the riproaring riot that you might expect.  Instead, it's a beautifully composed examination of a life lived hard, and lived fast, and nearly over far too soon.  It is eloquent, amusing, and deeply moving.

Pistol: A Biography of Pete Maravich by Mark Kriegel
"Pistol Pete was, in fact, his father's vision, built to the old man's exacting specifications."
If you are a fan of basketball in general, you should know something about Pete Maravich.  44.2 points per game at LSU, in the era before a 3 point line.  First to score more than 3,000 points in a career, still the leading scorer in NCAA history.  He did it all in 3 seasons.  And then, he disappeared.  I watched videotapes of Pete when I was a kid and knew that if I wanted to play basketball, I should be playing like Pete.  I stood in my backyard and shot the ball for hours until I had a good strong right hand shot.  I dribbled for days, because not only was Pete a dynamite shooter he was a ballhandler on the level of the Globetrotters.  But at the end of the day, I was only mimicking.  I could never be as good as the Pistol.  And this book is excellent in depicting how a father, to regain the glory he had in his youth, basically isolates and trains his son to be an assassin.  And the basketball is his rifle.  A beautifully written, absorbing look at one of the great enigmas of the college game who died far, far too soon.


Unbearable Lightness: A Story of Loss and Gain. By Portia de Rossi (DeGeneres).
"I didn't decide to become anorexic. It snuck up on me disguised as a healthy diet, a professional attitude. Being as thin as possible was a way to make the job of being an actress easier . . ."
I actually bought this and finished it around the same day.  This book is for anybody who has ever thought they weren't good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, or thin enough.  I related to this book so much, and not just the bits about eating disorders.  When I was in college, I was pressured by my teachers to lose weight.  So the summer before my senior year, I lost close to 50 pounds, going from 202 to around 155.  I felt amazing.  I came back for school and met with one of my teachers, who told me she was so proud of my progress.  I glowed.  She then said cheerfully, looking at my midsection, "You could lose even more around your hips."  


That feeling of total and utter failure, of just a little bit more has haunted me ever since.  I am never satisfied with any accomplishments I've made with my health, my work, my family, my life, any of it.  And I can trace it back to that one sentence.  This book, gorgeously written by DeGeneres, really explains the mindset of anorexia and any umbrella eating disorder.  It's not really about the food. It's about the willpower, the loss of control, and the urge to completely control your environment.  Unlike so many stories of eating disorders, however, this one has a gloriously happy ending.   


Off to get in a home practice of yoga, then watching the UCONN/Syracuse game.  I wonder how many times the announcers are going to mention "The Game" during this matchup? And most importantly, I wonder how many crazy people will actually show up to watch??

Ally

Boys, Boys, Boys.

Growing up, I was more the kid who got beat up on the playground than the girlie girl.  I know, shocking, right? I mean, what's not to love in a fifth grader who didn't brush her hair and won an award for Most Pages Read In The School Year? (I believe I got up to around 10,000.  I wasn't messing around.)

Most boys didn't really know what to make of me.  On one hand, I loved sports.  On the other hand, I was positive Shakespeare's romantic leads were my boyfriends (Holla Benedick and Romeo.  I love you.).  I lived for diving head and feet first into a good novel.  

Plus, being a chubby kid with glasses certainly didn't bode well for my romantic prospects.  And of course, then there's the whole "famous father" thing.  Which, contrary to public opinion, did not make me the beloved scion of my middle school.  I was instead a pariah to most of my classmates.  I remember crying in class.  A lot.

My first serious, heartstopping crush was in sixth grade.  I won't say his name for fear of an asskicking, but suffice to say it was intense and quasi-real.  Everything about him entranced me, from his VANS shoes to his JNCO jeans, to the 1996 mushroom haircut he sported (oh, GOD, it was beautiful).  Every time I saw him in class, my little eleven-year-old heart would flail.  I saw him writing with WhiteOut on his backpack and proceeded to ruin my own smart L.L. Bean bag with names of bands I had never heard of, because he'd been writing them down.  Needless to say, this crush did not end well.  I saw him dancing with another girl at the first dance of the year and was so heartbroken I threw myself on the floor of my mom's Windstar minivan and sobbed the whole way home.  Obviously, I avoided the rest of that year's dances.  

Seventh grade was a banner year for me.  I ended up having a boyfriend for about a month! He was another skater boy (or 'sk8er boi', what up Avril), but a very sweet one.  We broke up when he moved to Florida, but I have a picture of him somewhere in one of my many photo albums.  The great thing about him was that he accepted and liked my friends.  Note to all guys out there: If you don't accept my psycho friends, you don't accept my inner psycho.

In eighth grade, I fell in love with a popular kid.  That was such a mistake.  He had the personality of a doorknob, but a great head of hair and gorgeous eyes (I'm a sucker for nice eyes, FYI).  The closest I got to a connection was asking him to dance at the Video Dance, where they brought in a projector and showed the music videos of whatever song they were playing at the moment.  Oh, it was so badass.  But I digress.  The main point is, he said no, and I spent the rest of the dance sulking on a cafeteria seat, fiddling with the hem of my Limited Too flares and mainlining Diet Cokes and Cheetos while "Walking on the Sun" by Smashmouth blared.  Not even Britney Spears could get me out of my funk.

And then...high school.  Oh, good god.  High school was so bad.  Boy-wise, I mean.  Going to an all-girls school pretty much rendered me emotionally stunted when it came to men.  On weekends, I would go to the mall and suffer whiplash from all the times I would snap my head at every boy walking by.  Dances petrified me; the first time I attended one I literally got my ass squeezed (both hands, and quite firmly) and never went back.  I managed to meet a few guys and become friends with them through doing plays at a local all-boys school, but nothing ever really coalesced into a real relationship.  I did develop a humongous crush on one of them.  It was so painfully obvious to everyone, considering I turned bright red whenever he so much as cast one eyeball in my vague direction.  He was, once again, a pretty boy, and an athlete.  I tend to gravitate towards that type more often than any other.  I should've parsed that a love like ours would never last, but unfortunately I held on to that crush with both clawing hands until around my senior year, when I decided I simply would stop caring and focus on school.

Then began The College Years.  This is where my loathing of all things to do with romance really hit a high point.  Although I did get my first kiss in college.  It was in theatre class, during a scene study.  Sexy, right?  And he still reminds me of it to this day.

Senior year of college was the year in which I lost a majority of my weight.  You would think that would automatically get me a little bit more attention from guys.  Nope.  I was a theater major.  I did get a few onstage makeouts that year, one of which was with an actor who currently appears in The Secret Life of the American Teenager.  By the way, if you're reading this Austin Stowell, congrats on your success and I hope you never forget when I pinned you to a piano in Shakespeare in Hollywood.

Do you see a pattern here? A lot of crushes.  Lots.  I'm a little bit of a crush slut.  I see someone pretty, I think about what pretty names we could choose for our kids.  There hasn't really been anything serious.  And what do I blame for that? Only myself.  Honestly.  I don't know of a lot of guys who will go for my byline: Nerdy, socially awkward 25 year old yogini who's semi-vegan and photographs her food, yells loudly at sporting events, wears far too many sequins, retreats to her room for hours to read and mess about on the laptop in Photoshop, studies world mythology, writes fantasy fiction, and occasionally dances around her room to Lady GaGa.  Oh, and I count books as part of my circle of friends.

I am indeed a special brand of weirdo, to be certain.

Then there's the intimidation factor.

My father, to the untrained eye, is extremely intimidating.  He scares a lot of people who don't know him.  To me and my friends, he's just Dad, the guy who shuffles in and out of the kitchen and tends to eat chestnuts from the jar.  But to the potential romantic prospects in my life, he can be either slightly scary or downright terrifying.  One guy I was interested in my senior year of college met him and his voice cracked.  Another wouldn't stop talking about the players or the season.  But then there's the other side of the spectrum: men who don't care that my Dad is who he is, and in fact don't care about any sports, full stop.  That's not good, either.  I prefer a happy medium.

I've heard there are many benefits to a dream board, or something you pin your hopes to in order to focus them, making them more easily manifest in your life.  For a moment, this blog could be my dream board.  

1. Yes I'm a theater nerd but I'm also a sports history junkie.  If you know the name Pete Maravich and its relevance to college sports, I will be yours forever.

2. I prefer a quick mind to a body sculpted in the gym.  I prefer someone who's smart.  But not overly smart, or elitist.  Hyper-loquacious people stress me out.  

3. For God's sake, make me laugh.  And not in a 'oh, this man is such a sad specimen, wait until the girls hear about this' way.

4. Manners. Open a door.  Pay on the first date.  Offer me a coat. Stand up when I walk in a room.  These are all things guys have done for me in the past and every single time, I turn into a puddle of mush.

5. Love your family, and accept mine for all their idiosyncracies.  

6. Like, or at least appreciate, my friends.  They're awesome.  And i'll do you the same courtesy.

7. If you have a tan, make sure it's from the sun and not a bottle.  I'm not looking for Pauly D here.  And if you're looking for Snooki, move on to the next one.  This tan is all natural.

8. Be kind.

I don't think I'm asking for much.  Am I?

About Me.

Welcome to my little corner of the internet! Please call me Ally.

I'm an adjunct English professor in Connecticut. I earned my Masters degree last year in English with a concentration in children's literature and gender studies, and I'm hoping to earn my PhD in the coming years as well with a goal of becoming a children's literature analyst and critic.  I'm also hoping to write and publish fiction; I'm currently writing a trilogy of books that I plan to finish in 2014 and shop around in 2015.

 My posts run the gamut from thoughts on pop culture, ruminations concerning health and fitness, and random stuff.

Some of my favorite or most discussed posts:

My tribute to Coach Pat Summitt
Thoughts on Game of Thrones and The Red Wedding
My personal definition of feminism
A totally biased review of Frozen

I enjoy wigs.  Also I was PSYCHED to have this picture taken.

Tickle Spots.

[[my thoughts on the game yesterday: I spent the last 45 seconds with my head between my knees trying to will my pulse down to human levels, while Sarah Darras relayed game action to me.  Maybe this was a bad trip to take for my first one by myself with the team that wasn't for a tournament or a blowout? But I am very proud of myself.  I didn't leave the arena at all! I just...ducked and covered, according to Speedster on my Twitter list.  And happy 19th birthday, Stef Dolson! I feel old.]]

So.  Tickle Spots.

Get your mind out of the gutter, first of all.

This is about those things in life, no matter how small, that make us warm and happy inside.  The feeling of total contentment.  So why the name out of a bad 80s porn film?

When my nephew gets his diaper changed, I usually am recruited to distract him from the business going on down south.  As my sister goes about the business of changing and cleaning him, I make funny faces, kiss his head, and do all manner of things to keep him from screaming.  That should be the job title.  Aunt Employed to Stop The Screaming Child.

I make it a point to tickle him at some point of this exercise.  With my palm, I rub his stomach and use my fingers to squeeze in a bit (but only a bit; I don't want to grab him).  I then singsong as I tickle, "I've got your tickle spot! I've got your tickle spot!"

Slowly, he'll start to rock back and forth.  And then, the most beautiful smile breaks across his face.  If I wanted to be cliche about it I'd say it's akin to the sun over the hills.  But in plain speech, it's really freaking cute.

This 'tickle spot' really hits home for me.  In a world filled with congresswomen getting shot, people taking the value out of important works of literature (Huck Finn, anyone?), and of course Jersey Shore, there should be something out there worthwhile for people to smile about.  And let's face it - the amount of time I spend stressing out over absolutely nothing would be better spent thinking about my tickle spots.

So, in no particular order, here is my list of tickle spots.

- the feeling you get when you complete a difficult exam, and then get it back and see you got an A.
- Sitting back in the morning with a cup of coffee (decaf, dammit...) and catching up on my TV shows.
- Flopping back in savasana and letting good vibes wash over me.
- The sun breaking through trees in the early light of day.
- When my hair behaves.
- Nailing kakasana (crow pose) and shooting back into high plank without feeling like my bones are going to snap out of my wrists.
- Dangerously high heels.
- Dresses covered in sequins that fit perfectly and go great with aforementioned high heels.
- Magazine Day at the post office!
- Laying on the beach eating handfuls of cherries (and spitting out the seeds, careful to avoid hitting seagulls...unless they deserve it) with my toes buried in the sand and sea salt in my hair.
- Laughing.  The real, gut-throbbing, ear-ringing laugh you laugh when someone really close to you says something scandalously inappropriate.
- A great movie with Kettle Corn popcorn (aka the only good kind of popcorn, ever)
- Cat naps.
- Writing something and sitting back to go "Wow, that's good."
- Having something really worthwhile to say in my graduate seminars.  It means I'm holding my own with bigger, brighter minds.
- Pages beneath my fingers.
- Indian food.
- Tumblr memes, despite the fact that they suck my soul out through my eyes (as well as a good 2 to 3 hours of my day, if it's something really fun I'm into)
- Animated gifs to convey basic emotional expression.
- Really big hugs from people who care about you.
- Green smoothies with lots of kale and almond milk and banana.  Don't knock it till you try it.  It's delicious.
- Biking.
- Neil Gaiman novels.  It's like living in a fairytale.  A Gothic, twisted fairytale.
- that part of a pedicure where they put those hot stones on your shins.  Ohhhhh man.
- the moment where my mom says something funny and me and my sister look at each other when Mom can't see, and we laugh quietly.

I will probably be adding to this.  But I figured I should stop for now, seeing as this is turning into quite a random hodgepodge.  But I have places to go and things to do.  Check back later for a review of the film I'm seeing today, as well as thoughts on the football game this evening.

The Barista

PS.  Thanks to all who texted/tweeted/commented about yesterday's game.  It was truly an awesome experience, once I managed to get my blood pressure down to a manageable level.  South Bend is like something out of A Christmas Story.  I kept expecting to see Flick outside with his tongue on a telephone pole.

The switch to decaf.

It starts off slow enough.

Wake up, one eye slowly peeling open followed by the other.  I fumble, anxiously, for the phone, willing Mariah Carey to shut up as your finger pudges and pokes until it hits snooze.  All I want for Christmas is sleep, Mariah.  (Which reminds me, must change ringtone to a more seasonally appropriate one now that the holidays are done.  Kenny Chesney, anyone?)

The headache starts in fragments.  First, over the eyes, with that slow squeeze.  Then it begins to press down on the corners of your eyelids, forcing them closed even if you've got so many things to do/say/be that day.  It doesn't care.  It shows no mercy.  It is relentless, sickening, and it will not stop until you kill it.

I try to tame the beast by pleading with it.  Making bargains.  "Just give me a few more minutes." But it just laughs.

Stumbling downstairs, not exactly sure what the morning will bring.  And then I see it.

She is fat and glorious, a glass goddess, teasing me from her perch by the stove, womb swollen with glorious black juice.  I want to make love to it.  She'll smack me around but it'll feel good, she promises.

Today, I refuse to bow to her advances.  She will not defeat me this time.  She can latch on to my pores with all of the strength of a Greco-Roman wrestler soaked with sweat and oil; I will find a loophole and worm my way out.  Anything to get out of the cycle of stress and anxiety and feeling thirsty all the time and just give me some fucking coffee before I kill you mentality I've adopted since starting grad school.

It's been several hours, and I kind of want to die.  Or rob a Starbucks at gunpoint.  My skull seems to be pressing in on itself like gnarled Russian peasant hands are giving me a Swedish stone massage with granite boulders.  And I won't even get borscht at the end for my trouble.

In two weeks I start school again and will probably be back to 3 cups a day.

But for now, I sip my decaf, knowing full well it's like Nicorette gum for the caffienated, and wonder if it was a good thing to give up coffee on New Year's Day.

Probably not.

ally