This summer was less like a relaxing vacation and more like getting onto Kingda Ka at Six Flags and balancing precariously at the top for three months before zooming back down at breakneck speed. If you have no idea what Kingda Ka is...Google it and stare in wonder at man's technological advancements, as well as the advancements of American GI systems because if I went on that thing, lunch would be a pale memory.
This summer, I held a grand total of three jobs. I also decided to participate in our local theater's 25 year musical retrospective, which took up three of my days as well. So if you're keeping track, I had four activities to juggle this summer.
1. This one was the most important to me. I work as an assistant director at the children's theater C.A.S.T. in Manchester, CT. In addition to working there during the fall and winter under that title, in the summer I give up my mornings to them as they work on their big musical production. Under the careful tutelage of Donna Mercier, the artistic head of the company, I help write promotional material and got an article published in the Journal Inquirer summarizing the show and quoting the various staffers and cast members. It ended up being a phenomenal show and I was so pleased with how it turned out. That was at 9-2:30 on most days of the week.
2. In addition, once or twice a week I worked at a casino as a hostess. The reason I held this job, and will probably continue to hold it at least once a week this fall despite graduate school, is pretty simple: Money is awesome, and the money I make down there is worth coming home with aching feet and pants covered in coleslaw.
3. On Tuesday nights I worked the desk as a staffer at the local yoga studio. I practice hot yoga about 3-4 times a week when I can and trust me, without the calming 75 minutes of sweaty vinyasas I really don't think I would either as calm or as non-murderous as I was this summer. I owe a lot of that to yoga.
As well as all of that, I am participating in the Little Theater of Manchester's Second 25 Years musical revue, which closes tomorrow after 7 performances. Today is a blessed day off aside from going into the studio a bit early today, so I plan to take a mild Mental Health day today. I slept in until 8 when I usually get up at 6, had eggs for breakfast, and am currently blogging from my backporch. The cicadas are feeling the end of summer and while I can't say I'm happy about it entirely, there's a bite to the air that feels more than welcome after never ending heat waves.
Did I mention I'm also training to run the Hartford 1/2 Marathon?
Clearly someone puts acid in my coffee.
The 1/2 Marathon training, when I had time to train for it, went great but is now proving to be a bit tricky considering all of the work I'm doing. But one of my graduate professors said training for marathons helps to keep his mind on things other than work, which is good for mental health. But my ankles are currently quite mad at me due to all the dancing in the show I'm doing, so we shall have to see what happens. Also, when you get home from performing in a show at 11:00 at night, the last thing you want to do is lay out your gear for a long run in the morning. So I've been taking advantage of the sleep when I can. There's always another day to run. I got my 8mile training run in two weeks ago, and I feel comfortable at that distance, so when the time comes I'll start racking up the mileage again. But if it doesn't happen because I'm busy with school, it doesn't happen. End of story. I'm not going to be upset about it. It was a game try but there are always other marathons, after all. My self-respect and health trumps fueling and Gu Chomps.
Yesterday I started working towards a job that will probably take over all of my other jobs in terms of importance. I began orientation at UCONN for my Master's in English Literature program. I will be focusing on Children's Lit but I also want to concentrate in Mythology/Folklore and Arthurian and Celtic myth. In addition, I'm going to try to take a history course sometime in my 2 year career at UCONN to see if they have anything in that area for me, as well as a few American Lit courses despite there already being a big glut of new American Lit grad students. A few of yesterday's points were rather repetitive to me, as I went through an entire year of graduate work last year before getting into the program; I know what it takes to get through one of those classes, as well as what it takes to write a really good 25-page, submission worthy seminar paper. I wrote four of them, and got A's on all of them (shameless, I know). The real meat of my learning process will occur next week when I start working on my Teacher's Assistant Orientation. The lesson planning/syllabus constructing/paper grading part of teaching terrifies me. I was really comforted to hear one of the heads of the department, a PHd holder in her field, confess that she feels the urge to vomit before she teaches. This is coming from a woman who has published two books and is working on getting a third book accepted for publication. If she feels panic attacks like that, so can I.
Another woman I met yesterday in my class asked me what my undergraduate was in. I blushed a little bit and told her it was in drama, and that I had switched careers quite abruptly about two years ago (you can read about that agonizing decision in this post). With a vigorous nod, the girl exclaimed, "Me too! Undergrad in theatre, and once I started making it my entire life, I couldn't do it. I need more structure."
Like staring into a mirror.
Yes, my summer was crazy. There were a few days where I ran on nothing but fumes, Diet Coke, and Larabars. There was a day last week where my Nonna watched me zoom around the house like a woman possessed, screaming I needed to wash my body stocking for the play while simultaneously trying to figure out a long run for the week, folding up my yoga mat to take to the studio with me, burning a CD for a friend, reading some chapters out of my how-to guide for Humanities graduate work, and going to rehearsals from 6-11 every night.
How does one get through a summer as cracked out as I did? Well, here's my survival guide.
1. Coffee. And a multivitamin with guarana in it. Seriously.
2. Maintaining a level of physical fitness. Getting up to run or do some other form of workout not only helps you make good choices throughout the day, it immediately requires you to focus.
3. Really awesome friends and family who try to accomodate you and listen to your bitching when they can.
4. A nephew who makes you smile. Sometimes, it's as simple as that.
Now, off to enjoy my morning before heading down to the theater this afternoon. Taking advantage of my day off before this week and the craziness begins...
ally
PS. I'm also participating in a staged reading of Tony Kushner's Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia On National Themes to be presented September 17-18th at Cheney Hall in Manchester, Connecticut. I'm playing Harper, and Part 1 will be shown on Saturday, Part 2 on Sunday. You owe it to yourself to check this out, it's one of the most brilliant plays of the past 30 years.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
The Boy Who Lived.
NOTE: There are spoilers for every single Harry Potter book in this post. You have been duly warned.
I'm a nerd. We've all been aware of this for a while, right? What with my random asides about Lord of the Rings, my gigantic collection of Neil Gaiman paraphernalia, my obsession lately with George R.R. Martin (Although the ending of Game of Thrones made me want to light him on fire...), I have cut quite a swath through the science fiction/fantasy section of my local bookstores. Although honestly, a lot of them aren't very good. They substitute bombast for emotion, and pyrotechnics for true feeling and connection between characters.
Enter Harry Potter. And the world suddenly changes.
I first became aware of Harry Potter through the Hartford Courant, at the age of thirteen. I was in my 8th grade English class, cutting up newspapers for a project with some friends. If I recall it correctly, I was probably wearing L.E.I. jeans, jelly sandals, a cardigan with the top button done in order to make me look like a hipster octogenarian, and my hair adorned with about five Hot Topic sparkly butterfly clips. Back when Hot Topic wasn't just a breeding ground for Twilight fans, it honestly scared us to go in that store. Everything smelled like vinyl and misery and the teens manning the cash registers looked like they put "Human Pin Cushion" on their job resumes.
I digress.
I grabbed the Arts section of the Courant to cut up when a picture of a boy with a lightening scar across his forehead jumped out at me. The title of the article was something along the lines of "Harry Potter Enchants Young Readers". The article itself was more of an explanatory thing, about how the books were a publishing phenomenon in Europe and that the two released books were making their way to the States. It also had some stuff to say about the plot, but mostly I was interested in the idea of a boy who had no idea he was special suddenly find out that he was practically a Messiah to an entire group of people. How would an eleven year old kid deal with that? What kind of magic were they practicing? What the hell is a Hufflepuff? (shoutout to A Very Potter Musical. Just go to Youtube and watch it. You'll thank me.)
A couple of months later, I was in the bookstore looking for books to read on the team's 1999 trip to Europe. I spotted in a big display in the children's section those Harry Potter books I had read about in that article. I waffled about taking one, then snapped up both books available at that time; Prisoner of Azkaban wasn't due out until the fall.
There are pictures around my house of me toting those books everywhere we went in Europe. There is literally a picture of me on the floor of a gym, both books in hand, while a game was going on in the background. I finished both of them on the trip, and reread them over and over again. I couldn't even handle how amazing they were. The character of Hermione, specifically, thrilled me. Finally, a girl in a fantasy series who didn't need rescuing! If anything, she was the one rescuing the boys from all of their stupid mistakes! And Ron! A best friend who was far, far, far from being just 'comic relief'! And Harry. Oh, Harry. With his green eyes so full of wonder and surprise. And Hagrid, and Voldemort (You-Know-Who, I mean), and McGonagall, and the Weasleys, and just...everything. And the books were funny, and scary, and intricate, and light, and philosophical.
I. Was. Obsessed.
When Prisoner of Azkaban came out that fall, I immediately forked over my money and devoured it, and learned the true allegiances of Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and the violent secret of Remus Lupin and the dementors. Again, I was stunned at the scope. JK Rowling, I later found out, majored in mythology and religion in her classes at university, and that knowledge of cultures and old religions really shines through in all of the Harry Potter books. You can see it in everything she does. Also, the entire book made me want to eat chocolate in the worst way.
In the spring of 2000, Goblet of Fire made its way to the US and once again I dragged my mom to the bookstore to buy it. I read it at the pool, in other people's living rooms, outside in the shade of the trees. The books were getting longer and the stakes were quickly rising. I had heard for months that someone would die in the fourth book and was betting all of my money on Hagrid, but then was surprised to see Cedric fall during the Maze. The concept of different wizarding schools was something I fell in love with, and the romance between Ron and Hermione got to the point where not a few times I yelled at the book "JUST GET TOGETHER, YOU MORONS."
Since all of these books were published in the states within two years, I assumed the fifth book in the series would come out sometime in the similar time frame. WRONG.
Thankfully the movies were coming out by this point so I could be satisfied with those. The first two films are an exercise in slavish faithfulness to a text, but I still quite enjoyed them. The three main actors were adorable and earnest, and the British royalty in the supporting parts were as good as I could expect them to be. A few of my friends grumbled about some plot points that were left out, but honestly, they were both almost 3 hours with the cuts. What did you expect?
(Also, Sean Biggerstaff as Oliver Wood? Why, hello there.)
Three years later, I queued up with four of my friends in our local Borders to await the midnight release of Order of the Phoenix. I remember sitting on my butt in one of the alcoves of the store, debating the death of another character and trying to figure out who would die in this one. We also all swore that this would be the book where Ron and Hermione would finally get together, or Cho and Harry. When we received our copies, we all traipsed to Jaime's house and sprawled across her bedroom, reading intently until we fell asleep. The end of the first chapter, where it is revealed Arabella Figg is a witch, got the best reactions. I finished it first and screeched, and then one by one the other girls realized the same thing, resulting in rolling screams and "Oh my God"'s.
I came home that day after having stayed up most of the night to read, and my mother eventually almost picked me up and threw me into bed after I deliriously kept trying to steal the book from her to finish it up. She told me to get some rest and that it would be waiting for me after I got up. Fool. Harry Potter waits for no one. I drifted off to sleep around 4 in the afternoon and woke up at 11 PM. I found the book and plowed through the ending, and nearly woke the entire house with my screams after the death of Sirius Black. I believe more than a few F-bombs were unceremoniously dropped. I was gutted. That book also introduced the world to the most vile and disgusting female creation in a children's novel (well, aside from Bella Swan. ZING.) Dolores Umbridge was something out of my worst nightmares. I must not tell lies, indeed.
Two years went by, and the film of Prisoner of Azkaban made its way to the theaters, directed by Alfonso Cuaron, and the changes made from book to film stunned me but also kind of thrilled me. I had been looking forward to a new director in the franchise, and he really made his mark with the changes in cinematography and mood. The series also brought in Gary Oldman and David Thewlis as Sirius Black and Lupin, and despite the pretty insane change to their ages (Sirius/Lupin are supposed to be in their late 20s, early 30s, and Gary Oldman is pushing 50 at the moment) they did great jobs with it. The series was quickly turning into "What British Actor Can We Put In This Thing", but I didn't mind. Not one bit.
Then, Half-Blood Prince. I remember I didn't get a chance to buy this one until about 2 weeks after its initial release, due to just overall business in that part of the summer. By the time I got it, all of my friends had read it, and except for a mild spoiler I received from a friend (actually, I called her and begged "Please tell me Harry and Ginny end up together!!!") i managed to keep my ears fairly empty of info about it. The Harry/Ginny coupling made perfect sense, and the guilt and inner monologues of Harry trying to talk himself out of his crush were pure gold. If the sixth movie dropped the ball on anything, it was their relationship. You get so much more of a sense of his love for her in the book, especially all of the descriptions of Ginny being catlike, and the smell of her hair. There's a definite sexuality to the books that the movies kind of glaze over.
Also, the death of Dumbledore hit me like a punch in the stomach. Especially by Snape of all people. I will go to my grave absolutely hating Snape. Even the 7th book didn't give me much sympathy for him. As my friend Lindsay said, "A crush doesn't excuse torturing kids, dude."
And then, the summer of 2007 hit like a freight train. I was done with college, making plans to move to NYC in the near future. My sister had just gotten engaged. Order of the Phoenix was in theaters. And at midnight on July 21st, I waited in line with a friend to receive my copy of the final book, The Deathly Hallows.
I ended up getting home from the release party at around 3 in the morning. I put the book on my desk with a promise to begin reading the instant I woke up. I sat on my bed, and looked back at the book. "Just the first chapter," I told myself.
Six hours later, I threw the book down. I was delirious, and my eyes hurt from crying.
At the age of thirteen, I heard about a book with a magical boy who survives unspeakable loss. At 21 years old, I finished the story. My childhood as I knew it was over.
And this weekend, I experienced the same sort of loss as I sat in a theater at 10:30 at night, and saw the final Harry Potter film.
Those adorable kids from the first movie were no longer little. They were grown, mature adults, with extraordinary acting skills, and they reached through the screen and ripped my heart out. It was an ache in my gut that I have not experienced since i saw the third installment of Lord of the Rings several years ago. The amount of ugly crying I did in that film had previously been unmatched, until this weekend. Also, Alan Rickman is God. We just all play in his sandbox.
The movie was different from the book in a variety of ways, but that didn't make it unfaithful, for the tone of the books and the magic of what JK Rowling had and has achieved shone through regardless. And the epilogue? Pitch perfect. Thank God they did reshoots!
I'm nearly 26 years old. I'm not supposed to cry at children's books. But then again, when I first picked up this series, I was a child myself. It thrills me that at most of the midnight screenings across the country, the real die-hards were not little kids or teenagers. They were adults my age who had literally grown up along with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, Neville (NEVILLE!!!), Luna, and Ginny. They fell in love, fell out of it, experienced loss, fought with their friends, laughed a lot, and cried a lot.
All of this, plus some magic.
Only those who have read the books know the terror of Avada Kedavra, the hilarity of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes (and the sock in the gut at the death of Fred and the mutilation of George), the profound heroic sacrifice of a Patronus in the shape of a doe, the lunacy of Professor Trelawney's Divination classes, and of course the plight of a Hippogriff named Buckbeak. We know how to silence a three-headed dog named Fluffy and also that Devil's Snare is 'deadly fun but will sulk in the sun'. We know that only a true Gryffindor can pull a sword out of the hat (Team Neville for LIFE.). We know what breaks a Polyjuice Potion, and how to crack open an egg for a Triwizard Challenge. We also know that the Sorting Hat takes your wishes into account; if you don't want to be in Slytherin, just say so. Repeatedly. We know the difference between Wizard's Chess and Stupid Muggle Chess. We know to never, ever, EVER call someone a "Mudblood."
We know how to play Quidditch, and it is not something you can play in a field somewhere and attempt to make it a Division 1 sport. Are you kidding me? What the hell is the point of a Quidditch game without real flying?! Quidditch is for Wizards Only.
We felt joy at the blossoming love between Harry and Ginny, a pairing some saw coming and others didn't. We felt fear and sadness at the deaths of people we had come to care about, and outrage at the behaviors of Cornelius Fudge, Bellatrix Lestrange and Dolores Umbridge.
The beautiful and flawed and complex and sheer loveliness of the relationship between Ron and Hermione. A real, honest-to-God love story, where they grow and mature together until they know each other inside and out, which can drive each other bonkers and make each other jealous as hell, but at the same time it proves that they literally cannot survive without each other. Their coming together in the seventh book literally made me jump up and down in my bed with glee. ("Is this the moment?" Harry asked weakly.) They compliment each other so elegantly and intelligently, and to see that epilogue, rendered so gorgeously by JK Rowling, really just thrilled me like nothing else.
Harry Potter was my gateway drug to other forms of literature that I had known nothing about. Were it not for Harry Potter, I would not have sat in a theater and seen a trailer for a movie about a little man who needs to destroy a Ring of Power, and thought to myself, "That looks really cool, plus Elijah Wood is in it." I would never have fallen in love with Middle Earth if it weren't for the cupboard in Little Whinging, Surrey. I also would never have known the worlds of Winterfell and King's Landing if it weren't for Harry. Nor the worlds of Avalon, or Narnia, or Arbonne, or Al-Rassan.
I would not have reached into the caverns of my soul and realized, with a shock and a few humongous crocodile tears, that the real reason I was put on this earth was not to entertain, but to educate.
And all it took for this little chubby girl, wandering around a bookstore, trying to find something to read on the buses between Valenciennes and Paris, was stumbling upon a boy with a lightening scar, flying to the rescue. A boy who grew up with the worst of mankind's evil imprinted on his very soul, and made the choice to fight it.
Thank you, thank you, thank you Harry.
Although, I suspect millions of other kids my age feel the same.
Mischief Managed.
ally
PS. JK Rowling, if you ever deign to read this...new book? Please? Pretty please?
PPS. When did Matthew Lewis (Neville in the movies) get so hot? Can someone explain this to me?
I'm a nerd. We've all been aware of this for a while, right? What with my random asides about Lord of the Rings, my gigantic collection of Neil Gaiman paraphernalia, my obsession lately with George R.R. Martin (Although the ending of Game of Thrones made me want to light him on fire...), I have cut quite a swath through the science fiction/fantasy section of my local bookstores. Although honestly, a lot of them aren't very good. They substitute bombast for emotion, and pyrotechnics for true feeling and connection between characters.
Enter Harry Potter. And the world suddenly changes.
I first became aware of Harry Potter through the Hartford Courant, at the age of thirteen. I was in my 8th grade English class, cutting up newspapers for a project with some friends. If I recall it correctly, I was probably wearing L.E.I. jeans, jelly sandals, a cardigan with the top button done in order to make me look like a hipster octogenarian, and my hair adorned with about five Hot Topic sparkly butterfly clips. Back when Hot Topic wasn't just a breeding ground for Twilight fans, it honestly scared us to go in that store. Everything smelled like vinyl and misery and the teens manning the cash registers looked like they put "Human Pin Cushion" on their job resumes.
I digress.
I grabbed the Arts section of the Courant to cut up when a picture of a boy with a lightening scar across his forehead jumped out at me. The title of the article was something along the lines of "Harry Potter Enchants Young Readers". The article itself was more of an explanatory thing, about how the books were a publishing phenomenon in Europe and that the two released books were making their way to the States. It also had some stuff to say about the plot, but mostly I was interested in the idea of a boy who had no idea he was special suddenly find out that he was practically a Messiah to an entire group of people. How would an eleven year old kid deal with that? What kind of magic were they practicing? What the hell is a Hufflepuff? (shoutout to A Very Potter Musical. Just go to Youtube and watch it. You'll thank me.)
A couple of months later, I was in the bookstore looking for books to read on the team's 1999 trip to Europe. I spotted in a big display in the children's section those Harry Potter books I had read about in that article. I waffled about taking one, then snapped up both books available at that time; Prisoner of Azkaban wasn't due out until the fall.
There are pictures around my house of me toting those books everywhere we went in Europe. There is literally a picture of me on the floor of a gym, both books in hand, while a game was going on in the background. I finished both of them on the trip, and reread them over and over again. I couldn't even handle how amazing they were. The character of Hermione, specifically, thrilled me. Finally, a girl in a fantasy series who didn't need rescuing! If anything, she was the one rescuing the boys from all of their stupid mistakes! And Ron! A best friend who was far, far, far from being just 'comic relief'! And Harry. Oh, Harry. With his green eyes so full of wonder and surprise. And Hagrid, and Voldemort (You-Know-Who, I mean), and McGonagall, and the Weasleys, and just...everything. And the books were funny, and scary, and intricate, and light, and philosophical.
I. Was. Obsessed.
When Prisoner of Azkaban came out that fall, I immediately forked over my money and devoured it, and learned the true allegiances of Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and the violent secret of Remus Lupin and the dementors. Again, I was stunned at the scope. JK Rowling, I later found out, majored in mythology and religion in her classes at university, and that knowledge of cultures and old religions really shines through in all of the Harry Potter books. You can see it in everything she does. Also, the entire book made me want to eat chocolate in the worst way.
In the spring of 2000, Goblet of Fire made its way to the US and once again I dragged my mom to the bookstore to buy it. I read it at the pool, in other people's living rooms, outside in the shade of the trees. The books were getting longer and the stakes were quickly rising. I had heard for months that someone would die in the fourth book and was betting all of my money on Hagrid, but then was surprised to see Cedric fall during the Maze. The concept of different wizarding schools was something I fell in love with, and the romance between Ron and Hermione got to the point where not a few times I yelled at the book "JUST GET TOGETHER, YOU MORONS."
Since all of these books were published in the states within two years, I assumed the fifth book in the series would come out sometime in the similar time frame. WRONG.
Thankfully the movies were coming out by this point so I could be satisfied with those. The first two films are an exercise in slavish faithfulness to a text, but I still quite enjoyed them. The three main actors were adorable and earnest, and the British royalty in the supporting parts were as good as I could expect them to be. A few of my friends grumbled about some plot points that were left out, but honestly, they were both almost 3 hours with the cuts. What did you expect?
(Also, Sean Biggerstaff as Oliver Wood? Why, hello there.)
Three years later, I queued up with four of my friends in our local Borders to await the midnight release of Order of the Phoenix. I remember sitting on my butt in one of the alcoves of the store, debating the death of another character and trying to figure out who would die in this one. We also all swore that this would be the book where Ron and Hermione would finally get together, or Cho and Harry. When we received our copies, we all traipsed to Jaime's house and sprawled across her bedroom, reading intently until we fell asleep. The end of the first chapter, where it is revealed Arabella Figg is a witch, got the best reactions. I finished it first and screeched, and then one by one the other girls realized the same thing, resulting in rolling screams and "Oh my God"'s.
I came home that day after having stayed up most of the night to read, and my mother eventually almost picked me up and threw me into bed after I deliriously kept trying to steal the book from her to finish it up. She told me to get some rest and that it would be waiting for me after I got up. Fool. Harry Potter waits for no one. I drifted off to sleep around 4 in the afternoon and woke up at 11 PM. I found the book and plowed through the ending, and nearly woke the entire house with my screams after the death of Sirius Black. I believe more than a few F-bombs were unceremoniously dropped. I was gutted. That book also introduced the world to the most vile and disgusting female creation in a children's novel (well, aside from Bella Swan. ZING.) Dolores Umbridge was something out of my worst nightmares. I must not tell lies, indeed.
Two years went by, and the film of Prisoner of Azkaban made its way to the theaters, directed by Alfonso Cuaron, and the changes made from book to film stunned me but also kind of thrilled me. I had been looking forward to a new director in the franchise, and he really made his mark with the changes in cinematography and mood. The series also brought in Gary Oldman and David Thewlis as Sirius Black and Lupin, and despite the pretty insane change to their ages (Sirius/Lupin are supposed to be in their late 20s, early 30s, and Gary Oldman is pushing 50 at the moment) they did great jobs with it. The series was quickly turning into "What British Actor Can We Put In This Thing", but I didn't mind. Not one bit.
Then, Half-Blood Prince. I remember I didn't get a chance to buy this one until about 2 weeks after its initial release, due to just overall business in that part of the summer. By the time I got it, all of my friends had read it, and except for a mild spoiler I received from a friend (actually, I called her and begged "Please tell me Harry and Ginny end up together!!!") i managed to keep my ears fairly empty of info about it. The Harry/Ginny coupling made perfect sense, and the guilt and inner monologues of Harry trying to talk himself out of his crush were pure gold. If the sixth movie dropped the ball on anything, it was their relationship. You get so much more of a sense of his love for her in the book, especially all of the descriptions of Ginny being catlike, and the smell of her hair. There's a definite sexuality to the books that the movies kind of glaze over.
Also, the death of Dumbledore hit me like a punch in the stomach. Especially by Snape of all people. I will go to my grave absolutely hating Snape. Even the 7th book didn't give me much sympathy for him. As my friend Lindsay said, "A crush doesn't excuse torturing kids, dude."
And then, the summer of 2007 hit like a freight train. I was done with college, making plans to move to NYC in the near future. My sister had just gotten engaged. Order of the Phoenix was in theaters. And at midnight on July 21st, I waited in line with a friend to receive my copy of the final book, The Deathly Hallows.
I ended up getting home from the release party at around 3 in the morning. I put the book on my desk with a promise to begin reading the instant I woke up. I sat on my bed, and looked back at the book. "Just the first chapter," I told myself.
Six hours later, I threw the book down. I was delirious, and my eyes hurt from crying.
At the age of thirteen, I heard about a book with a magical boy who survives unspeakable loss. At 21 years old, I finished the story. My childhood as I knew it was over.
And this weekend, I experienced the same sort of loss as I sat in a theater at 10:30 at night, and saw the final Harry Potter film.
Those adorable kids from the first movie were no longer little. They were grown, mature adults, with extraordinary acting skills, and they reached through the screen and ripped my heart out. It was an ache in my gut that I have not experienced since i saw the third installment of Lord of the Rings several years ago. The amount of ugly crying I did in that film had previously been unmatched, until this weekend. Also, Alan Rickman is God. We just all play in his sandbox.
The movie was different from the book in a variety of ways, but that didn't make it unfaithful, for the tone of the books and the magic of what JK Rowling had and has achieved shone through regardless. And the epilogue? Pitch perfect. Thank God they did reshoots!
I'm nearly 26 years old. I'm not supposed to cry at children's books. But then again, when I first picked up this series, I was a child myself. It thrills me that at most of the midnight screenings across the country, the real die-hards were not little kids or teenagers. They were adults my age who had literally grown up along with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, Neville (NEVILLE!!!), Luna, and Ginny. They fell in love, fell out of it, experienced loss, fought with their friends, laughed a lot, and cried a lot.
All of this, plus some magic.
Only those who have read the books know the terror of Avada Kedavra, the hilarity of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes (and the sock in the gut at the death of Fred and the mutilation of George), the profound heroic sacrifice of a Patronus in the shape of a doe, the lunacy of Professor Trelawney's Divination classes, and of course the plight of a Hippogriff named Buckbeak. We know how to silence a three-headed dog named Fluffy and also that Devil's Snare is 'deadly fun but will sulk in the sun'. We know that only a true Gryffindor can pull a sword out of the hat (Team Neville for LIFE.). We know what breaks a Polyjuice Potion, and how to crack open an egg for a Triwizard Challenge. We also know that the Sorting Hat takes your wishes into account; if you don't want to be in Slytherin, just say so. Repeatedly. We know the difference between Wizard's Chess and Stupid Muggle Chess. We know to never, ever, EVER call someone a "Mudblood."
We know how to play Quidditch, and it is not something you can play in a field somewhere and attempt to make it a Division 1 sport. Are you kidding me? What the hell is the point of a Quidditch game without real flying?! Quidditch is for Wizards Only.
We felt joy at the blossoming love between Harry and Ginny, a pairing some saw coming and others didn't. We felt fear and sadness at the deaths of people we had come to care about, and outrage at the behaviors of Cornelius Fudge, Bellatrix Lestrange and Dolores Umbridge.
The beautiful and flawed and complex and sheer loveliness of the relationship between Ron and Hermione. A real, honest-to-God love story, where they grow and mature together until they know each other inside and out, which can drive each other bonkers and make each other jealous as hell, but at the same time it proves that they literally cannot survive without each other. Their coming together in the seventh book literally made me jump up and down in my bed with glee. ("Is this the moment?" Harry asked weakly.) They compliment each other so elegantly and intelligently, and to see that epilogue, rendered so gorgeously by JK Rowling, really just thrilled me like nothing else.
Harry Potter was my gateway drug to other forms of literature that I had known nothing about. Were it not for Harry Potter, I would not have sat in a theater and seen a trailer for a movie about a little man who needs to destroy a Ring of Power, and thought to myself, "That looks really cool, plus Elijah Wood is in it." I would never have fallen in love with Middle Earth if it weren't for the cupboard in Little Whinging, Surrey. I also would never have known the worlds of Winterfell and King's Landing if it weren't for Harry. Nor the worlds of Avalon, or Narnia, or Arbonne, or Al-Rassan.
I would not have reached into the caverns of my soul and realized, with a shock and a few humongous crocodile tears, that the real reason I was put on this earth was not to entertain, but to educate.
And all it took for this little chubby girl, wandering around a bookstore, trying to find something to read on the buses between Valenciennes and Paris, was stumbling upon a boy with a lightening scar, flying to the rescue. A boy who grew up with the worst of mankind's evil imprinted on his very soul, and made the choice to fight it.
Thank you, thank you, thank you Harry.
Although, I suspect millions of other kids my age feel the same.
Mischief Managed.
ally
PS. JK Rowling, if you ever deign to read this...new book? Please? Pretty please?
PPS. When did Matthew Lewis (Neville in the movies) get so hot? Can someone explain this to me?
Friday, July 8, 2011
Mama, who bore me.
I'm sure I am not alone in this opinion.
When the Casey Anthony verdict came down, I was at my summer job at the children's theatre, working with some students on line memorization. I got a text message from my mother, telling me she would be late in picking me up so that she could watch the jury decision live. I was a bit sickened by this but I found myself glued to my Twitter feed the instant the group split for the afternoon. When 'not guilty' came through, I was stunned, nauseous, and furious. But after the initial rage-tastic flail died down, what came through to me was a grave and sad realization: It was the necessary decision. Not the right decision. The necessary one. Let me explain.
Two of my friends (one of which is my best friend) have just received their law degrees from a prestigious school in NYC. Both of them agree with me and my sister when we say that despite the overwhelming desires in all of us to lock Casey Anthony in a cell for the rest of her unnatural life, the truth of the matter is that there is simply too much reasonable doubt to make a conviction. Caylee's poor little body is beyond autopsy. Without an autopsy, there is no way we can properly discern what the cause of death to her was, whether it be chlorine or chloroform.
Should the prosecution have pushed for accidental/involuntary manslaughter? Maybe. I would have gladly taken that conviction. Casey could have been trying to calm down Caylee, resulting in 'shaken baby syndrome', much like the British au pair in the 90s who accidentally throttled her charge. If it was an accident though, why the duct tape? Who covers up an accident to make it look like murder? Why did Casey feel the need to hide her pregnancy? Did she feel ashamed of the child from conception? What is the deal with the lying that comes from all corners of the Anthony family? Why did George feel the urge to commit suicide when Caylee's body was recovered? Why did Kronk lie to his son? Who the hell is telling the truth? Why did Jose Baez object to EVERYTHING during the rebuttal (Honestly, he probably would have objected to the salad he got at the lunch break)?
There are so many questions and barely any answers.
The trial should not have been about justice for the victim. It should have been about justice for Casey Anthony. And by justice, I could mean either an acquittal by the lack of substantial evidence (which is what happened) or the locking up of a woman who murdered her child (which I truly believe happened). Either way, justice was done. Not the kind I wanted, by any means. But justice was done. I truly do think karma is a bitch, and she slaps hard. Casey eventually will pull an OJ, do something unbearably stupid, and get locked up. All of life's kinks smooth over eventually.
There is a reason I saved this post for today.
Today is my sister's birthday. She's 28, married, with a son. (I would just like to add here that being 25 and unmarried makes me a spinster according to my Nonna. Either that, or only suitable as a streetwalker or corner crone.)
Jenna watched the Casey Anthony case like a fiend. She would text me during the day, asking me questions about our legal system, and expressing different opinions about the case to me and to herself.
Like I said, Jenna has a son, nearly a year old. I've taken to calling him Lovebug on here, simply for privacy reasons, however if you would like to know his real name, just Google it. He's gotten more Internet hits than me. Or Dad, probably.
If Lovebug blinks too rapidly, Jenna is on the phone with the Center for Disease Control. She openly wept the first time she had to leave Lovebug in the crib to let him fall asleep on his own. If I shift him from one arm to the other, Jenna gets on high alert until he's secure. She once woke Todd in a cold sweat, screaming about how Christian was crawling on top of their windowsill, then fell back asleep again.
This kid will never get a cold a day in his life if Jenna has anything to say about it. I have yet to change a single one of his diapers because 'You don't know how to do it the right way.' I ask you, how hard is it to wipe a butt? We all have done it...God willing.
But I digress.
I look at her, the way she loves that child. And by looking at the way she loves CJ, it is beyond any form of comprehension to me how someone like Casey Anthony could look at their own child, a little girl that grew inside of her, and make the choice to place her hands around Caylee's throat and squeeze until there's no air left.
Jenna loves CJ the way Casey Anthony should have loved Caylee. Caylee deserved that kind of love. In a way, she's receiving that love right now. But she should not have had to die to get it.
She should have gotten it from her mother, the way Lovebug gets it from his.
Thankfully, my sister is not Casey Anthony.
My sister. The one who cut my hair with rusty kitchen scissors, forced me to sleep in the same bed as her when I had mono so she could care for me during the night, drove me to school forty thousand times, ran headlong into the side of our house during a game of baseball and burst open her knee, shares secret laughs with me when Mom says something insane, occasionally texts me with random medical questions ("What exactly does it mean to be a hermaphrodite??"), shares my obscene adoration of Chipotle, has the most impressive road rage I have ever seen in my life, laughs again and again at "Dramatic Chipmunk" and Lonely Island's "J**z In My Pants", outlined about fifteen parameters for my maid of honor speech at her wedding (specifically 'don't try to be funny because you'll just look stupid'), re-pierced my ears on our deck with ice and a sterilized sewing needle so I could wear the earrings she gave me as a wedding present, and danced to The Violent Femmes with me at 1 AM on New Year's Eve.
In short? Lovebug has one badass mama.
And I have the best sister on the planet.
Happy birthday, Jenna.
ally
When the Casey Anthony verdict came down, I was at my summer job at the children's theatre, working with some students on line memorization. I got a text message from my mother, telling me she would be late in picking me up so that she could watch the jury decision live. I was a bit sickened by this but I found myself glued to my Twitter feed the instant the group split for the afternoon. When 'not guilty' came through, I was stunned, nauseous, and furious. But after the initial rage-tastic flail died down, what came through to me was a grave and sad realization: It was the necessary decision. Not the right decision. The necessary one. Let me explain.
Two of my friends (one of which is my best friend) have just received their law degrees from a prestigious school in NYC. Both of them agree with me and my sister when we say that despite the overwhelming desires in all of us to lock Casey Anthony in a cell for the rest of her unnatural life, the truth of the matter is that there is simply too much reasonable doubt to make a conviction. Caylee's poor little body is beyond autopsy. Without an autopsy, there is no way we can properly discern what the cause of death to her was, whether it be chlorine or chloroform.
Should the prosecution have pushed for accidental/involuntary manslaughter? Maybe. I would have gladly taken that conviction. Casey could have been trying to calm down Caylee, resulting in 'shaken baby syndrome', much like the British au pair in the 90s who accidentally throttled her charge. If it was an accident though, why the duct tape? Who covers up an accident to make it look like murder? Why did Casey feel the need to hide her pregnancy? Did she feel ashamed of the child from conception? What is the deal with the lying that comes from all corners of the Anthony family? Why did George feel the urge to commit suicide when Caylee's body was recovered? Why did Kronk lie to his son? Who the hell is telling the truth? Why did Jose Baez object to EVERYTHING during the rebuttal (Honestly, he probably would have objected to the salad he got at the lunch break)?
There are so many questions and barely any answers.
The trial should not have been about justice for the victim. It should have been about justice for Casey Anthony. And by justice, I could mean either an acquittal by the lack of substantial evidence (which is what happened) or the locking up of a woman who murdered her child (which I truly believe happened). Either way, justice was done. Not the kind I wanted, by any means. But justice was done. I truly do think karma is a bitch, and she slaps hard. Casey eventually will pull an OJ, do something unbearably stupid, and get locked up. All of life's kinks smooth over eventually.
There is a reason I saved this post for today.
Today is my sister's birthday. She's 28, married, with a son. (I would just like to add here that being 25 and unmarried makes me a spinster according to my Nonna. Either that, or only suitable as a streetwalker or corner crone.)
Jenna watched the Casey Anthony case like a fiend. She would text me during the day, asking me questions about our legal system, and expressing different opinions about the case to me and to herself.
Like I said, Jenna has a son, nearly a year old. I've taken to calling him Lovebug on here, simply for privacy reasons, however if you would like to know his real name, just Google it. He's gotten more Internet hits than me. Or Dad, probably.
If Lovebug blinks too rapidly, Jenna is on the phone with the Center for Disease Control. She openly wept the first time she had to leave Lovebug in the crib to let him fall asleep on his own. If I shift him from one arm to the other, Jenna gets on high alert until he's secure. She once woke Todd in a cold sweat, screaming about how Christian was crawling on top of their windowsill, then fell back asleep again.
This kid will never get a cold a day in his life if Jenna has anything to say about it. I have yet to change a single one of his diapers because 'You don't know how to do it the right way.' I ask you, how hard is it to wipe a butt? We all have done it...God willing.
But I digress.
I look at her, the way she loves that child. And by looking at the way she loves CJ, it is beyond any form of comprehension to me how someone like Casey Anthony could look at their own child, a little girl that grew inside of her, and make the choice to place her hands around Caylee's throat and squeeze until there's no air left.
Jenna loves CJ the way Casey Anthony should have loved Caylee. Caylee deserved that kind of love. In a way, she's receiving that love right now. But she should not have had to die to get it.
She should have gotten it from her mother, the way Lovebug gets it from his.
Thankfully, my sister is not Casey Anthony.
My sister. The one who cut my hair with rusty kitchen scissors, forced me to sleep in the same bed as her when I had mono so she could care for me during the night, drove me to school forty thousand times, ran headlong into the side of our house during a game of baseball and burst open her knee, shares secret laughs with me when Mom says something insane, occasionally texts me with random medical questions ("What exactly does it mean to be a hermaphrodite??"), shares my obscene adoration of Chipotle, has the most impressive road rage I have ever seen in my life, laughs again and again at "Dramatic Chipmunk" and Lonely Island's "J**z In My Pants", outlined about fifteen parameters for my maid of honor speech at her wedding (specifically 'don't try to be funny because you'll just look stupid'), re-pierced my ears on our deck with ice and a sterilized sewing needle so I could wear the earrings she gave me as a wedding present, and danced to The Violent Femmes with me at 1 AM on New Year's Eve.
In short? Lovebug has one badass mama.
And I have the best sister on the planet.
Happy birthday, Jenna.
 |
| taken at my 21st birthday party, at Huskies. i have no idea what we were laughing at. i only have the Grateful Deads I drank that night to blame for this memory loss. |
Thursday, June 30, 2011
bulletproof.
I think about a lot of things in the morning when I'm getting ready to head out on a run. I hope my GPS watch works. I start planning what I'll eat after the run, because there's no way I'm going to waste brain space afterwards thinking about what to eat; I just want to eat, and eat quickly. I hope my legs feel good, and that my iPod is charged up, and that song I downloaded the previous night will be just as rockin' today as it was the day before.
The one thing I don't think about is whether or not I'll get hit by a car.
It's always the things you don't think about that end up happening, right?
Yesterday, I set out on my 5-mile run, as part of my Hartford 1/2 Marathon training. (You can read about that decision and my training progression on my other blog, Girl V Food.) The first part of the run was uneventful, although I think I listened to the new Lady GaGa song about 49348 times. Also, it occurred to me during my run that when I got to a narrow street, I should hop on the sidewalk in order to avoid the cars; I live in a very residential area and sometimes the line between the car lane and pedestrian is incredibly thin.
I got to a crosswalk and saw a brown minivan headed my way. We both stopped, then at the same time, we both urged each other to go ahead. I think my best friend summed it up perfectly: "It's like you encountered some professional football player and went through one of those awkward 'each going the same direction while trying to sidestep the other' routine. Only...with a car."
That's exactly wha happened. We misread each other's signals, and I attempted to cross while he went ahead. I realized what was happening before my legs could stop, and he realized before he could stop his car.
In slowmotion, I managed to twist myself mid-stride so that the front of the car merely tagged me in the left thigh, but the force of that caused me to throw my hands down on the car itself, and then stagger back. Because I turned into the car rather than away from it, I pushed myself away so I didn't get run over. I think I was on autopilot at that point although the phrase "DON'T GET RUN OVER" screamed in my head a few times. I am pretty grateful to yoga at the moment, as my body instantly relaxed and just let gravity take over. I'm not exactly sure how I got a huge scrape on my elbow (I think that's from the car) but I did fall to my knees in the middle of the street, getting a big cut on my left knee in the process.
My heart was racing. My iPod skittered to the side of the road, much to my chagrin. I made an immediate assessment and realized I was fine aside from the scratches and a bruised leg. Out of shock, I immediately started laughing as the guy who hit me scrambled out of his car and asked if I was all right. Over and over again, laughing, I told him I was fine, and that if I wasn't fine he would know it. We had a discussion about how dangerous these roads are even for the most careful of drivers (at one point the road he was driving out of had been covered by trees, making it even more invisible to incoming drivers or pedestrians) and as he drove away I yelled after him "Don't spend your day worrying, please! I'm fine!"
I was still laughing as I made my way to my iPod and turned it back on. It still worked, which pleased me.
As I stood on the side of the road flicking through my gym mix, trying to figure out what song to continue my run to, I noticed blood pouring from the cuts on my knee. The car marks on my leg. The pain in my arm.
The enormity of what had just happened-what I had just narrowly avoided-finally hit me.
I will not say I burst into tears on the side of the road. But I will say that suddenly the contents of my iPod seemed a hell of a lot more emotional than they had been a few minutes prior. Who knew Kanye West could make me blubber like that?
I quickly sucked in the rest of my tears, turned on "Jesus Walks" and kept running. Because I'm a loser. And crazy. (Note: At this point, aside from the cuts, I was in zero pain in my legs. If I had felt any amount of pain I would have stopped running)
I ran into my Mom on her own run on the way back to the house and relayed her my story, although slightly less dramatic than the actual events ("I had to avoid a car, and I fell down...and maybe got hit a little bit.") Her advice? Take Advil, and put some heat on it.
I came home, showered, ate breakfast, and went to work. There was no way I would miss out on a paycheck when all that happened was that I got hit by a car. Come on. That's no way to be.
It still hasn't really hit me that I got hit by a car yesterday. I see it on the gigantic bruise on my arm, the slight twinge in my ankle, the soreness in my back. However, these things are incredibly minor when I think about the people in my life over the past year who have been in car accidents. I've seen people in braces, people who aren't allowed to do any physical exercise until they're at 80% mobility. It's staggering that I just got away with a little poke in the leg.
I'd like to say I had a revelation on the side of the road, or that my life flashed before my eyes, or something profound like that. But really, these were the thoughts going through my head before, during, and after the accident:
Is he gonna go? Oh, he's waving me to go. I'll go.
Why isn't he stopping?
Why aren't I stopping?!
HOLY SHIT I'M GETTING HIT BY A CAR.
HOLY SHIT I JUST GOT HIT BY A CAR.
MY IPOD.
Okay, am I okay? Is anything broken? No? Okay, when can I start running again?
Crap, my iPod is probably broken.
Ooh, i'm bleeding. I hope it doesn't get to my sock.
Cool, I have marks from the car on my leg. I really do look like I got run over.
This guy looks so terrified. Just keep laughing. I feel like Dane Cook in that skit, playing off that I just got hit by a car. "Has anyone seen my shoes? I kicked them off in a fit of joy. I'm gonna go puke shards of my own pelvis into this bush."
Yay, iPod works.
Wow. I just got hit by a car.
I wonder how I can word this to make it witty in subsequent retellings.
That previous thought might mean I'm going to hell. At least I'll be a witty damned soul.
I just got hit by a car. Oh my God. I want my Mom.
You get 5 minutes to cry about this. 5. And then you are going to keep on running because you are alive.
MOM.
Of course she would tell me to take frickin' Advil.
The moral of my story?
I compare it to when my Dad hit me in the leg with a softball, or that time I got run over by a fat woman on a boogie board at Narragansett Beach, or that time I fell out of a high speed golf cart, or that time I was playing pickup with my brother and sprained my ankle so badly Rosemary Ragle had to carry me off the court, or that time I got shin splints so badly Rosie had to wrap my legs like a Kentucky Derby horse and told me I was thisclose to getting stress fractures, or that time I almost passed out in a restaurant, or that time I puked Halloween candy all over my parents' bathroom (the Munsons of Munson Chocolates lived on our street. Do the math.), or that time I fell down a flight of stairs during a performance and almost broke my tailbone. Damn...I think the only thing I hadn't done was get hit by a car. My body's been through the ringer.
My point is?
When life kicks you in the crotch, you get back up.
Life is short. Play hard.
But not too hard. Kick ass responsibility.
ally
PS. I'm grateful to yoga for strengthening my legs to the point where a few hours after my accident, I didn't hurt at all and still had my flexibility. I feel more sorry for the car. Strong like bull.
The one thing I don't think about is whether or not I'll get hit by a car.
It's always the things you don't think about that end up happening, right?
Yesterday, I set out on my 5-mile run, as part of my Hartford 1/2 Marathon training. (You can read about that decision and my training progression on my other blog, Girl V Food.) The first part of the run was uneventful, although I think I listened to the new Lady GaGa song about 49348 times. Also, it occurred to me during my run that when I got to a narrow street, I should hop on the sidewalk in order to avoid the cars; I live in a very residential area and sometimes the line between the car lane and pedestrian is incredibly thin.
I got to a crosswalk and saw a brown minivan headed my way. We both stopped, then at the same time, we both urged each other to go ahead. I think my best friend summed it up perfectly: "It's like you encountered some professional football player and went through one of those awkward 'each going the same direction while trying to sidestep the other' routine. Only...with a car."
That's exactly wha happened. We misread each other's signals, and I attempted to cross while he went ahead. I realized what was happening before my legs could stop, and he realized before he could stop his car.
In slowmotion, I managed to twist myself mid-stride so that the front of the car merely tagged me in the left thigh, but the force of that caused me to throw my hands down on the car itself, and then stagger back. Because I turned into the car rather than away from it, I pushed myself away so I didn't get run over. I think I was on autopilot at that point although the phrase "DON'T GET RUN OVER" screamed in my head a few times. I am pretty grateful to yoga at the moment, as my body instantly relaxed and just let gravity take over. I'm not exactly sure how I got a huge scrape on my elbow (I think that's from the car) but I did fall to my knees in the middle of the street, getting a big cut on my left knee in the process.
My heart was racing. My iPod skittered to the side of the road, much to my chagrin. I made an immediate assessment and realized I was fine aside from the scratches and a bruised leg. Out of shock, I immediately started laughing as the guy who hit me scrambled out of his car and asked if I was all right. Over and over again, laughing, I told him I was fine, and that if I wasn't fine he would know it. We had a discussion about how dangerous these roads are even for the most careful of drivers (at one point the road he was driving out of had been covered by trees, making it even more invisible to incoming drivers or pedestrians) and as he drove away I yelled after him "Don't spend your day worrying, please! I'm fine!"
I was still laughing as I made my way to my iPod and turned it back on. It still worked, which pleased me.
As I stood on the side of the road flicking through my gym mix, trying to figure out what song to continue my run to, I noticed blood pouring from the cuts on my knee. The car marks on my leg. The pain in my arm.
The enormity of what had just happened-what I had just narrowly avoided-finally hit me.
I will not say I burst into tears on the side of the road. But I will say that suddenly the contents of my iPod seemed a hell of a lot more emotional than they had been a few minutes prior. Who knew Kanye West could make me blubber like that?
I quickly sucked in the rest of my tears, turned on "Jesus Walks" and kept running. Because I'm a loser. And crazy. (Note: At this point, aside from the cuts, I was in zero pain in my legs. If I had felt any amount of pain I would have stopped running)
I ran into my Mom on her own run on the way back to the house and relayed her my story, although slightly less dramatic than the actual events ("I had to avoid a car, and I fell down...and maybe got hit a little bit.") Her advice? Take Advil, and put some heat on it.
I came home, showered, ate breakfast, and went to work. There was no way I would miss out on a paycheck when all that happened was that I got hit by a car. Come on. That's no way to be.
It still hasn't really hit me that I got hit by a car yesterday. I see it on the gigantic bruise on my arm, the slight twinge in my ankle, the soreness in my back. However, these things are incredibly minor when I think about the people in my life over the past year who have been in car accidents. I've seen people in braces, people who aren't allowed to do any physical exercise until they're at 80% mobility. It's staggering that I just got away with a little poke in the leg.
I'd like to say I had a revelation on the side of the road, or that my life flashed before my eyes, or something profound like that. But really, these were the thoughts going through my head before, during, and after the accident:
Is he gonna go? Oh, he's waving me to go. I'll go.
Why isn't he stopping?
Why aren't I stopping?!
HOLY SHIT I'M GETTING HIT BY A CAR.
HOLY SHIT I JUST GOT HIT BY A CAR.
MY IPOD.
Okay, am I okay? Is anything broken? No? Okay, when can I start running again?
Crap, my iPod is probably broken.
Ooh, i'm bleeding. I hope it doesn't get to my sock.
Cool, I have marks from the car on my leg. I really do look like I got run over.
This guy looks so terrified. Just keep laughing. I feel like Dane Cook in that skit, playing off that I just got hit by a car. "Has anyone seen my shoes? I kicked them off in a fit of joy. I'm gonna go puke shards of my own pelvis into this bush."
Yay, iPod works.
Wow. I just got hit by a car.
I wonder how I can word this to make it witty in subsequent retellings.
That previous thought might mean I'm going to hell. At least I'll be a witty damned soul.
I just got hit by a car. Oh my God. I want my Mom.
You get 5 minutes to cry about this. 5. And then you are going to keep on running because you are alive.
MOM.
Of course she would tell me to take frickin' Advil.
The moral of my story?
I compare it to when my Dad hit me in the leg with a softball, or that time I got run over by a fat woman on a boogie board at Narragansett Beach, or that time I fell out of a high speed golf cart, or that time I was playing pickup with my brother and sprained my ankle so badly Rosemary Ragle had to carry me off the court, or that time I got shin splints so badly Rosie had to wrap my legs like a Kentucky Derby horse and told me I was thisclose to getting stress fractures, or that time I almost passed out in a restaurant, or that time I puked Halloween candy all over my parents' bathroom (the Munsons of Munson Chocolates lived on our street. Do the math.), or that time I fell down a flight of stairs during a performance and almost broke my tailbone. Damn...I think the only thing I hadn't done was get hit by a car. My body's been through the ringer.
My point is?
When life kicks you in the crotch, you get back up.
Life is short. Play hard.
But not too hard. Kick ass responsibility.
ally
PS. I'm grateful to yoga for strengthening my legs to the point where a few hours after my accident, I didn't hurt at all and still had my flexibility. I feel more sorry for the car. Strong like bull.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
What I Miss (And What I Don't) From 202 pounds.
I miss the nonstop dreaming.
I miss throwing myself into everything I did because I'd be goddamned if you said I couldn't do something because I was fat.
I miss going to Store 24 after rehearsal and buying out their stock of Pepperidge Farm cookies and plowing through it with unmitigated glee.
I miss 12-inch Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki on Parmesan Cheese bread from Subway. And Ben and Jerry's Oatmeal Raisin Cookie ice cream. And a Diet Coke. For lunch.
I miss when Mexican restaurants were an excuse to eat something called a 'chimichanga' just because it was there and the description said it was 'deep fried'.
I miss 'deep fried' being a part of my vocabulary.
I miss trips to the movies filled with large buttery tubs of popcorn and Sno-Caps and Goobers and Twizzlers. And a Diet Coke. Eaten before the movie started.
I miss always having room in my stomach for dessert, whether it be my first or my fifth of the day.
I miss not giving a shit. About anything.
I miss staying up until 5 in the morning talking to my friends online, housing ice cream.
I miss coming back to my dorm, seeing my roommate had bought Jonathan's chicken tenders, and smothering them in mayonnaise.
I miss eating out of defiance. "They called me fat but this Toblerone Bar LOVES ME."
I miss snacking on entire bars of Lindt White Chocolate during lectures.
I miss having something huge to prove.
I miss when Rice Krispie Treats Cereal was a balanced breakfast.
I miss not caring about calories, fat, sugar...only that it was good.
I miss working on other parts of myself, developing my character, so that people would appreciate me for something more.
I miss looking forward to some lofty, unattainable goal and knowing it just took some will power and I'd get there.
I miss being invisible to men so they didn't get a chance to objectify me.
I miss food always being the best option.
I miss people looking at my brain first.
I miss getting this picture taken In May, 2005, and promising myself that a new and glorious me was just around the corner.
I don't miss the unrelenting guilt.I don't miss the look on my friends and family's faces when they saw me after long absences. the look of pity and judgement.
I don't miss waking up at noon and realizing I wasted an entire day.
I don't miss the kids in school laughing at me. Every day.
I don't miss the numb feeling I'd get after stuffing myself with food because temporarily the pain had stopped.
I don't miss eating everything in sight and feeling so guilty I'd work out three times in one day.
I don't miss overhydrating and nearly passing out.
I don't miss being afraid to tell the love of my life in college that i loved him because I knew he would reject me on account of my size. He didn't (nor would he ever do such a callous thing) but my own self-hatred was enough to stop me from telling him. I wish I had told him.
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I don't miss laying on the floor of a Gap trying to yank on a size 16 pair of white pants and realizing I had 'outgrown' my favorite store.
I don't miss my mom buying me those 16 jeans and calling them 'incentive' when I told her they were too small.
I don't miss the huge hole in my gut that no amount of food seemed to fill.
I don't miss looking at fashion magazines and being filled with shame because I didn't look like that.
I don't miss the looks of disappointment, the interventions, the diets, the fitness regimens.
I don't miss doing situps to Britney Spears videos. (...actually...i still do that.)
I don't miss my acting teachers telling me I'd be 'more castable' if I lost weight.
I don't miss the pain. the permanent curve in my spine, the neck pain, the headaches, the sleep apnea that always threatened me.
I don't miss being forced to wear a prom dress I didn't like at my junior prom because it was the only one in the store that fit.
I don't miss feeling ugly.
I don't miss looking at my fellow acting students and hating myself for not looking like them.
I don't miss eating all of those candies/cookies/chocolates at night and thinking to myself 'what have I done?'.
I don't miss the stretch marks, big and purple and red, the way they wound down my stomach like Lucifer was trying to escape through my hips.
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I don't miss sugar crashes.
I don't miss wearing all black because I wanted to disappear.
I don't miss feeling ugly every single day.
I don't miss only owning one pair of jeans and feeling terrified of going clothes shopping.
I don't miss going to bed feeling like a failture.
I don't miss "bacne" so intense it would leave me bloody.
I don't miss my thighs rubbing together in a bathing suit until they were raw.
I don't miss trying to diet on skim milk and turkey and then binging until I was sick.
I don't miss watching people dance at bars and being too afraid to because my stomach could show under my shirt.
I don't miss looking at pictures and thinking "What has happened to me?"
I don't miss being at bars and feeling horrifyingly ugly.
I don't miss bingeing.
I don't miss waking up and wishing I hadn't.
I don't miss being out of balance in my entire life and food being the symptom of that imbalance.
I don't miss never feeling full.
I don't miss trying to win people over with my brain because it was the only thing in my mind that was worthy of someone's attention.
I don't miss the pain of realizing he'd never love me because I hated myself.
I don't miss watching romantic movies and truly believing no one would ever love a creature like me.
I don't miss the terrifying chasm you fall into when you are all alone. Truly all alone. And the food turns against you.
That size 16 girl and this size 2 girl...are exactly the same.
Yep. You heard me.
I used to distance myself from 202-pound Ally. I would laugh and say "I don't recognize that person anymore. She's not me. I could never be that person now."
When you were someone for nearly 23 years...it's kind of disrespectful to erase that person away. You can't blot out that amount of time in your life without a palimpsest.
The 202-pound Ally is a little more introverted, a little more reclusive. More likely to simply dive into a crush and get her heart broken. More likely to not give a shit what you think about her intelligence or singing voice because give her a stage and a microphone and she'll rip your heart out. More likely to waste a day dreaming. More likely to back down from a fight. More likely to hide her tears. And when I'm reaching for my second helping of chocolate cake? That's 202-pound Ally coming out to play. Watch out.
The 135 girl is a little more coquettish, a little louder. Quicker to say 'yes' to things. A little more vain. A little more calculated and fearful of love. A little less reckless. A little more likely to stand her ground. More likely to show her full hand.
There are a few things that have not changed.
Being fat taught me honesty. It taught me humility. It taught me decency. Being in shape taught me to take care of myself. It taught me to be strong. Taught me to be in balance.
I like to look put-together but I would never refer to myself as 'pretty' or 'beautiful'. Looks are ephemeral. I spent far too much time wishing to be pretty, starving to be beautiful. Skin is just an organ. Your soul has no jeans size.
I am still nerdy. I am still a goof. I am still that person who laughs way too loud. I am still that person who makes funny faces in the mirror. I am still that person who likes to pretend she's a synchronized swimmer in the pool. I still quote Shakespeare and choreograph routines to Coldplay in my bedroom and sing loudly in the car with the windows down. I still like the same indie bands I liked in college. I still believe there is a man/woman out there for everyone and that my person is out there someday and will be there when I am ready for him.
But my life doesn't start 30 pounds from now.
Nor did it start at the end of the Lindt Chocolate bar.
I am enough. I am all right. And I am perfectly good enough.
I have the confidence of someone who has been through the ringer. I have the toughness of someone who had to go it alone a lot. And I have the grace to receive blessings with love and gratitude.
And I would never be any of those things without the life-and the 70 pounds-that came with them.
(ETA: I gave her credit in the following post to this one, but I was inspired to write this post by Andrea of Can You Stay For Dinner. I was so enthralled by her series that I wondered to her if I should do the same. Andrea, who I can now call a great friend, told me to go for it. The first comment on this post is from her. I love you Andrea!)
Sunday, June 19, 2011
10 Things my Father Taught Me.
Now, I know what you guys are all thinking...you've seen so much of my Dad through this blog and my less-than-flattering Tweets (Dad, I'm sorry. From now on I'll paint you as Gandhi. Happy?).
I got my smile, hair color, punctuality, laugh, and dimples from my Mom. I got my squat legs, hammer fingers, lazy Sunday mornings, introversion, love of King Arthur, pig-headed stubbornness, delegatory personality, and sweet tooth from Dad.
We both love telling people what to do. We both love to laugh. We're both inherently shy but give us a room full of friends and a topic we can expound upon and it takes a strong person to rip us away from the stage. Give us an opinion and we'll fight to the death for it. Give us a political figure to support and we're maniacal (ugh, Weiner, WHY?!).
When I was 10 years old I appeared in a Variety show at Buckley Elementary as Sandy in a skit devoted to the movie Grease (rest in peace, Kenickie). I was terrified...contrary to public opinion, I have insane stage fright. I remember waiting in the wings to go on and the curtain standing in front of me like a demon ready to welcome me to the gates of hell. All of a sudden, in the hushed auditorium, I heard "Get 'em, Ally!" yelled from the front row. It was so loud, it's audible on the videotape.
This isn't even really a list of things he taught me. It's more a collection of memories, wrapped in a bigger lesson.
1. No matter what happens in life or how much you succeed or how hard you fall, you are still a worthy and valued person and your life means something. The night of my first (and only) semi-professional gig in NYC, Dad called me just before I went onstage. "Two things can happen tonight. Either you shit the bed and you wake up tomorrow and you've still got a family and friends who love you, or it all works out and you are amazing tonight. Either way, we're still going to love you." That has stuck with me ever since.
2. Stop talking about it and just do it. - No excuses. Ever.
3. Billy Joel, Paul Simon, Bruce Springsteen: The Holy Triumvirate. Every single time we had to travel to another state for my sister's AAU weekends, Dad would pop in Graceland, River of Dreams, or Born In The USA, and scream the lyrics down the highway. The one he played the most was Billy but I really found myself gravitating towards Paul. He told me once, as "Call Me Al" blared from our Windstar CD player, "I always think of you when I hear this!" Ten years later, when my high school a cappella group picked it as one of their songs, I got to sing it for him.
4. It's okay to ask for help if you need it. When I was home from NYC on that weekend when I decided I didn't want to live in NYC anymore, Dad is the one who pulled my true feelings out of me, then held my hand as I worked through the following year of triumphs and heartbreak.
5. Your parents are you biggest cheerleaders. When he left me that first night in NYC, he grabbed me in a giant hug and practically squealed "I am so happy for you!" When I was in a horrible show, he'd congratulate me on doing a great job (then proceed to tell me that the rest of the show sucked). When he hugged my brother-in-law on the day of Jenna's wedding, he said "Take care of her" loud enough so the microphone caught it. When you think you want to be an actress, he tries to introduce you to everyone he knows that can make you successful. When you want to meet/marry/stalk Bradley Cooper, he says he can make it happen and to just be patient. (I'm still waiting.)
6. Walk it off. Remember when Dad smacked me in the leg with a softball? He told me to walk it off. When in doubt, walk it off.
7. SPF 5 is the way to go for a base tan. I know, I know, that's awful. But that's Dad. His ideal skin tone is "charred".
8. Take the steak off the grill before it's totally set. It will cook after a little more. If, by some chance, you forget this rule, like my Dad did the other night, DO NOT bitch about it for the entirety of dinner even when your entire family is going "Dad, the steaks are fine. Shut up."
9. Jokes are awesome but always know when to pull back if you've gone too far. There have been a couple of times where Dad's prodding (like when he announced to an entire restaurant that I eat 'the weirdest crap' or when he makes fun of my clothes) have gone a bit too close to the bone. He always apologizes profusely for it, but then follows it up with the fact that the reason he pushes my buttons harder than Mike or Jenna is because he knows I can give it right back. Which I do. In spades.
10. Follow your dreams, even if they aren't what people expect. When I told my brother I was quitting sports to focus on theatre, he said, aghast, "Dad is going to murder you!" Which led to me putting off telling Dad for about two months, until my play practically was opening. When I finally sucked it up and told him, his response was akin to "Cool!" A few years later, when I got interviewed for a local paper, Dad said "I was surprised she hadn't quit sooner." When I told Dad I wanted to be a writer, he took me by the hand and said "I'm glad you finally see it." You would think he could've let me know! But according to Dad, "I wanted you to figure it out for yourself."
And that's the beauty of my father. He lets me figure it out. Then, when I decide, he's there with a hand, a smile, and a lot of love.
I couldn't ask for a better father, that I now can call a friend.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
Oh, and an additional thing my father taught me?
Ice cream is always best with a fork.
ally
I got my smile, hair color, punctuality, laugh, and dimples from my Mom. I got my squat legs, hammer fingers, lazy Sunday mornings, introversion, love of King Arthur, pig-headed stubbornness, delegatory personality, and sweet tooth from Dad.
We both love telling people what to do. We both love to laugh. We're both inherently shy but give us a room full of friends and a topic we can expound upon and it takes a strong person to rip us away from the stage. Give us an opinion and we'll fight to the death for it. Give us a political figure to support and we're maniacal (ugh, Weiner, WHY?!).
When I was 10 years old I appeared in a Variety show at Buckley Elementary as Sandy in a skit devoted to the movie Grease (rest in peace, Kenickie). I was terrified...contrary to public opinion, I have insane stage fright. I remember waiting in the wings to go on and the curtain standing in front of me like a demon ready to welcome me to the gates of hell. All of a sudden, in the hushed auditorium, I heard "Get 'em, Ally!" yelled from the front row. It was so loud, it's audible on the videotape.
This isn't even really a list of things he taught me. It's more a collection of memories, wrapped in a bigger lesson.
1. No matter what happens in life or how much you succeed or how hard you fall, you are still a worthy and valued person and your life means something. The night of my first (and only) semi-professional gig in NYC, Dad called me just before I went onstage. "Two things can happen tonight. Either you shit the bed and you wake up tomorrow and you've still got a family and friends who love you, or it all works out and you are amazing tonight. Either way, we're still going to love you." That has stuck with me ever since.
2. Stop talking about it and just do it. - No excuses. Ever.
3. Billy Joel, Paul Simon, Bruce Springsteen: The Holy Triumvirate. Every single time we had to travel to another state for my sister's AAU weekends, Dad would pop in Graceland, River of Dreams, or Born In The USA, and scream the lyrics down the highway. The one he played the most was Billy but I really found myself gravitating towards Paul. He told me once, as "Call Me Al" blared from our Windstar CD player, "I always think of you when I hear this!" Ten years later, when my high school a cappella group picked it as one of their songs, I got to sing it for him.
4. It's okay to ask for help if you need it. When I was home from NYC on that weekend when I decided I didn't want to live in NYC anymore, Dad is the one who pulled my true feelings out of me, then held my hand as I worked through the following year of triumphs and heartbreak.
5. Your parents are you biggest cheerleaders. When he left me that first night in NYC, he grabbed me in a giant hug and practically squealed "I am so happy for you!" When I was in a horrible show, he'd congratulate me on doing a great job (then proceed to tell me that the rest of the show sucked). When he hugged my brother-in-law on the day of Jenna's wedding, he said "Take care of her" loud enough so the microphone caught it. When you think you want to be an actress, he tries to introduce you to everyone he knows that can make you successful. When you want to meet/marry/stalk Bradley Cooper, he says he can make it happen and to just be patient. (I'm still waiting.)
6. Walk it off. Remember when Dad smacked me in the leg with a softball? He told me to walk it off. When in doubt, walk it off.
7. SPF 5 is the way to go for a base tan. I know, I know, that's awful. But that's Dad. His ideal skin tone is "charred".
8. Take the steak off the grill before it's totally set. It will cook after a little more. If, by some chance, you forget this rule, like my Dad did the other night, DO NOT bitch about it for the entirety of dinner even when your entire family is going "Dad, the steaks are fine. Shut up."
9. Jokes are awesome but always know when to pull back if you've gone too far. There have been a couple of times where Dad's prodding (like when he announced to an entire restaurant that I eat 'the weirdest crap' or when he makes fun of my clothes) have gone a bit too close to the bone. He always apologizes profusely for it, but then follows it up with the fact that the reason he pushes my buttons harder than Mike or Jenna is because he knows I can give it right back. Which I do. In spades.
10. Follow your dreams, even if they aren't what people expect. When I told my brother I was quitting sports to focus on theatre, he said, aghast, "Dad is going to murder you!" Which led to me putting off telling Dad for about two months, until my play practically was opening. When I finally sucked it up and told him, his response was akin to "Cool!" A few years later, when I got interviewed for a local paper, Dad said "I was surprised she hadn't quit sooner." When I told Dad I wanted to be a writer, he took me by the hand and said "I'm glad you finally see it." You would think he could've let me know! But according to Dad, "I wanted you to figure it out for yourself."
And that's the beauty of my father. He lets me figure it out. Then, when I decide, he's there with a hand, a smile, and a lot of love.
I couldn't ask for a better father, that I now can call a friend.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
 |
| taken at the final four salute dinner in indianapolis in april. the boa was on a table. i still have it. |
Ice cream is always best with a fork.
ally
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Carried Along By The River of Dreams.
It's been quite a long time since I've written an entry about things other than basketball and the crazy stuff that comes out of my mother's mouth (she actually said 'duttbial" the other day instead of "buttdial". And people wonder where I get my insanity from?). But this is a post I've been trying to come up with for the past few days and finally, it seems like it's the time for it. Well, it's been forced out of me. I'm currently at home with a migraine that feels like someone has slapped me across teh face with a brick, so I'll try to make this short and sweet.
When I was ten years old, my parents told us they had rented a vacation house on the Jersey Shore. The trip would take about six hours, so we'd have to get up around 6 in order to make sure we'd beat the work traffic into NYC. I remember not being able to sleep that night. What would this house be like? What would this town, Avalon, be like in comparison to the other places we had vacationed (Marco Island, Florida, and Cape Cod)? When my mom came into the room to wake me up, I bounced out of bed and into the car.
If you would permit me to put on my nerd hat for one second, Avalon is named after the mythical British Island that supposedly houses the dead body of King Arthur. It is also called the "Isle of the Blest" and it's where the Lady of the Lake forged Excalibur in a farcical aquatic ceremony.
Now, if you've vacationed on the Jersey Shore, you know that the real journey doesn't start until you get to the Garden State Parkway. Once you've crossed the Tappan Zee, that's when the real fun begins. And by 'fun', I mean absolute torture. See, the exit for Avalon is one of the last exits on the GSP. We get on at the very, very beginning of the highway. So for about two hours, my siblings and I would watch marshland and wetland and bridges and ocean and bay go by, and ask repeatedly "HOW MUCH LONGER" when we were at only exit 155. We had another 120 miles or so to go.
On these trips my dad would play Paul Simon's Graceland, which still reminds me of these long car rides (it also reminds me of all of us schlepping along to Jenna's AAU weekend games, as does Billy Joel's River of Dreams). A couple of times we would play Bill Cosby comedy CDs and laugh our asses off. And other times we would just all fall asleep in the backseat. In the days before I got carsick, I could plow through up to two books on these car rides. Now, if I even look at a magazine in the backseat of any vehicle I dry-heave.
We pulled up to a house with a misshapen roof and a lot of character, only about four houses or so off from the beach. It was a walk away from a pancake house and a water ice place that to this day is the subject of many a winter fantasy. Three mini-golf courses, a movie theatre 60 blocks away (easy to bike to), and all the ice cream and Mexican food you could eat. I was in love.
For the next eight summers, we stayed at this house for up to three weeks in August, when the hustle and bustle of Dad's job afforded him such peace. We only missed one summer from my 10th to 18th years, and that was when the team went to Europe in 1999. A fair trade but I was still kind of bummed. When we came back in 2003 for our annual trek, our trip to that particular house had to be cut short due to some other plans by the renters, so we rented another house for our second week. Never doing that again. The house we picked was old and musty with bad wicker furniture. The only thing I can say as a compliment to that house is that it's the house I finally managed to watch Rebel Without A Cause in, which was probably one of the best decisions I made that summer. Also a good decision? Barrel-rolling in the waves with my sister's friend Lauren. (What up, Wangski?!)
In the summer of 2004, my parents came to us and told us they had bought a house in Avalon, however it was further away from town, about sixty blocks up. I was horrified. How would I walk to the water ice place?! God forbid I bike anywhere! (Can you tell this is when I was obese?)
However, it ended up being one of the best ideas my parents have ever had. I could keep all of my summer and swimming clothes down at the house, so packing became a breeze. The extra biking proved to be therapeutic, and the house they had purchased was slightly bigger than the rental, so it could accommodate all of our friends who crashed there. And the house was gorgeous, with a great view of the water. At sunset I would walk down to the beach with my ipod, and listen to the waves and my music crash into each other. I'd see babies touching the sea for the first time, and couples walking hand in hand in the surf. My cousins and I would climb on the lifeguard stands and pose for pictures in the boats. My brother would play the 'run as far out into the water as you can without falling on your ass' game, and would fail about ten yards in due to the crashing waves and overestimating his speed tolerance. And at the end of the three weeks my dad would have a big party with everyone he knew who had a beach house, which, judging by the size of the get-together, was a lot of people.
My dad taught me how to bodysurf in Avalon. Waiting for the moment when the wave is about to break, and you go the instant it crashes down on you. I think I gained the majority of my weight from the pounds of sand and seaweed I no doubt consumed. The amount of times I've nearly lost my bathing suit has been intense and real. And yet none of the hot lifeguards wanted to date me, the crazy girl with sand in her hair that rode the wave all the way to the beach and then laid down in the surf, pretending to be Ariel.
What? You didn't do that at 13? (Well, maybe I was 21 when I did that. But whatever.)
On rainy days, we'd stay inside, watch movies, play games, or go for a bike ride if you were a loony like me and wanted to be outside anyway. I loved running around. When my mom wanted me to get some more fitness in, she'd send me to go for a run on the boardwalk. Granted, this isn't a boardwalk like Ocean City; it's a pizza/arcade joint on a plank of wood that runs parallel to the ocean, and that's it.
A couple of times we'd go to Ocean City and Wildwood for their amusement parks (Wonderland Pier in Ocean City) and waterparks (Morey's Piers in Wildwood). My favorite rides were anything that didn't go to fast and didn't go upside down, which relegated me to the carousel and Ferris Wheel. When I got a little older I started to get a bit braver, and ended up going on a few more things that went a little bit faster. There was no way you'd get me on the Scissors or Twister, though. No way. As for the waterparks, it proved to be a bright spot in the bleached, bloated carcasse that is Wildwood. Mom says it used to be THE vacation spot for young Philadelphia. Now, it's the place you go if you want to get a good deal on drugs. I'm just sayin'.
If we wanted a mall, we'd drive about 20 minutes into Pleasantville for their giant shopping center, or if we just needed a few things we'd bike up a few blocks to Stone Harbor, the sister town of Avalon. The only difference is that Stone Harbor is a bit more cosmopolitan and it has a movie theater of 5 screens. The amount of movies I saw for the first time on those screens is pretty long and extensive but a few of my favorites include Goldmember, Pirates of the Caribbean, Stardust, The 40 Year Old Virgin, Red-Eye, The Hangover, and Bridesmaids. The theatre is a bit grody and the houses are pitch black when you come in. This past weekend, Jenna warned Chelsea "Just be careful when you walk in...because you will go blind." And she knows from experience; once she dropped three jumbo Diet Cokes everywhere because she couldn't see anything. You would think that would get Harbor 5 to change their lighting strategies, but noooo.
My sister had her bachelorette party down in Avalon. That is all I can say on that matter, seeing as the hijinks we got up to would probably land us in severe trouble with our parents. But suffice to say, it was a grand time.
This summer, due to my dad's Olympic commitments, my three jobs, Jenna's baby, and Mike's training for next season, and thanks to the London trip next summer...our house, our gorgeous house, was suddenly turning into a money pit. Mom decided it was more financially prudent to build a home here on the CT shoreline, rather than send money to a home we did not have the time to stay in for longer than three days. So...we had no choice. The home in Avalon had to go.
I was gutted. Sure, the CT beach homes are lovely and we have a lot of friends in that area, plus it's a very quick drive in comparison to the trek to Jersey. But I'm the product of Philly parents. The Jersey Shore IS the beach. It's just going to take some getting used to.
This past weekend, Memorial Day, I spent my last weekend in that house. I did pretty much everything I wanted to do as a way to say goodbye to the house that meant so much to me and the town that gave me some of my happiest childhood memories. We brought down Lovebug on Sunday and he looked at the water like it was a creature from another planet, and he immediately got filthy. Sand, too, was alien, and Christian rubbed it across his fingers with a look of disbelief that quickly turned to horror when he tried to see if the sand would taste as good as it looked. The image of Lovebug stuffing sand into his mouth, then looking up at his mother with an expression of "WHY DID I JUST DO THAT" (while his mother just howled with laughter while she washed his mouth out) will remain with me forever.
On the way home on Tuesday night, as I pulled over the bridge onto the North Parkway, I blasted some Bruce Springsteen. When that lonely sax and piano kick in, that's when I knew it was over.
The screen door slams, Mary's dress waves
The sun was setting. My car was loaded down with bags, extra clothes we had stashed at the house, and a few letter posters my mom wanted to take as keepsakes. The bay water sparkled as I made the right turn onto the road and away from the beach. Away from Avalon. Away from it all.
Hey what else can we do now except roll down the window and let the wind roll back your hair
I could say I cried, but that would be too much. I did get a bit misty.
Oh, oh come take my hand, we're riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh, Thunder Road, Oh Thunder Road, Oh Thunder Road
It's not goodbye. Not by a long shot. Dad promises we'll rent in two years, once the Olympics hoopla dies down. And I'll run to embrace that sand like a long lost friend. But for now...it's "I'll see you soon."
Two years without Circle Pizza? Good lord...
sit tight, take hold, thunder road.
ally
When I was ten years old, my parents told us they had rented a vacation house on the Jersey Shore. The trip would take about six hours, so we'd have to get up around 6 in order to make sure we'd beat the work traffic into NYC. I remember not being able to sleep that night. What would this house be like? What would this town, Avalon, be like in comparison to the other places we had vacationed (Marco Island, Florida, and Cape Cod)? When my mom came into the room to wake me up, I bounced out of bed and into the car.
If you would permit me to put on my nerd hat for one second, Avalon is named after the mythical British Island that supposedly houses the dead body of King Arthur. It is also called the "Isle of the Blest" and it's where the Lady of the Lake forged Excalibur in a farcical aquatic ceremony.
Now, if you've vacationed on the Jersey Shore, you know that the real journey doesn't start until you get to the Garden State Parkway. Once you've crossed the Tappan Zee, that's when the real fun begins. And by 'fun', I mean absolute torture. See, the exit for Avalon is one of the last exits on the GSP. We get on at the very, very beginning of the highway. So for about two hours, my siblings and I would watch marshland and wetland and bridges and ocean and bay go by, and ask repeatedly "HOW MUCH LONGER" when we were at only exit 155. We had another 120 miles or so to go.
On these trips my dad would play Paul Simon's Graceland, which still reminds me of these long car rides (it also reminds me of all of us schlepping along to Jenna's AAU weekend games, as does Billy Joel's River of Dreams). A couple of times we would play Bill Cosby comedy CDs and laugh our asses off. And other times we would just all fall asleep in the backseat. In the days before I got carsick, I could plow through up to two books on these car rides. Now, if I even look at a magazine in the backseat of any vehicle I dry-heave.
We pulled up to a house with a misshapen roof and a lot of character, only about four houses or so off from the beach. It was a walk away from a pancake house and a water ice place that to this day is the subject of many a winter fantasy. Three mini-golf courses, a movie theatre 60 blocks away (easy to bike to), and all the ice cream and Mexican food you could eat. I was in love.
For the next eight summers, we stayed at this house for up to three weeks in August, when the hustle and bustle of Dad's job afforded him such peace. We only missed one summer from my 10th to 18th years, and that was when the team went to Europe in 1999. A fair trade but I was still kind of bummed. When we came back in 2003 for our annual trek, our trip to that particular house had to be cut short due to some other plans by the renters, so we rented another house for our second week. Never doing that again. The house we picked was old and musty with bad wicker furniture. The only thing I can say as a compliment to that house is that it's the house I finally managed to watch Rebel Without A Cause in, which was probably one of the best decisions I made that summer. Also a good decision? Barrel-rolling in the waves with my sister's friend Lauren. (What up, Wangski?!)
In the summer of 2004, my parents came to us and told us they had bought a house in Avalon, however it was further away from town, about sixty blocks up. I was horrified. How would I walk to the water ice place?! God forbid I bike anywhere! (Can you tell this is when I was obese?)
However, it ended up being one of the best ideas my parents have ever had. I could keep all of my summer and swimming clothes down at the house, so packing became a breeze. The extra biking proved to be therapeutic, and the house they had purchased was slightly bigger than the rental, so it could accommodate all of our friends who crashed there. And the house was gorgeous, with a great view of the water. At sunset I would walk down to the beach with my ipod, and listen to the waves and my music crash into each other. I'd see babies touching the sea for the first time, and couples walking hand in hand in the surf. My cousins and I would climb on the lifeguard stands and pose for pictures in the boats. My brother would play the 'run as far out into the water as you can without falling on your ass' game, and would fail about ten yards in due to the crashing waves and overestimating his speed tolerance. And at the end of the three weeks my dad would have a big party with everyone he knew who had a beach house, which, judging by the size of the get-together, was a lot of people.
My dad taught me how to bodysurf in Avalon. Waiting for the moment when the wave is about to break, and you go the instant it crashes down on you. I think I gained the majority of my weight from the pounds of sand and seaweed I no doubt consumed. The amount of times I've nearly lost my bathing suit has been intense and real. And yet none of the hot lifeguards wanted to date me, the crazy girl with sand in her hair that rode the wave all the way to the beach and then laid down in the surf, pretending to be Ariel.
What? You didn't do that at 13? (Well, maybe I was 21 when I did that. But whatever.)
On rainy days, we'd stay inside, watch movies, play games, or go for a bike ride if you were a loony like me and wanted to be outside anyway. I loved running around. When my mom wanted me to get some more fitness in, she'd send me to go for a run on the boardwalk. Granted, this isn't a boardwalk like Ocean City; it's a pizza/arcade joint on a plank of wood that runs parallel to the ocean, and that's it.
A couple of times we'd go to Ocean City and Wildwood for their amusement parks (Wonderland Pier in Ocean City) and waterparks (Morey's Piers in Wildwood). My favorite rides were anything that didn't go to fast and didn't go upside down, which relegated me to the carousel and Ferris Wheel. When I got a little older I started to get a bit braver, and ended up going on a few more things that went a little bit faster. There was no way you'd get me on the Scissors or Twister, though. No way. As for the waterparks, it proved to be a bright spot in the bleached, bloated carcasse that is Wildwood. Mom says it used to be THE vacation spot for young Philadelphia. Now, it's the place you go if you want to get a good deal on drugs. I'm just sayin'.
If we wanted a mall, we'd drive about 20 minutes into Pleasantville for their giant shopping center, or if we just needed a few things we'd bike up a few blocks to Stone Harbor, the sister town of Avalon. The only difference is that Stone Harbor is a bit more cosmopolitan and it has a movie theater of 5 screens. The amount of movies I saw for the first time on those screens is pretty long and extensive but a few of my favorites include Goldmember, Pirates of the Caribbean, Stardust, The 40 Year Old Virgin, Red-Eye, The Hangover, and Bridesmaids. The theatre is a bit grody and the houses are pitch black when you come in. This past weekend, Jenna warned Chelsea "Just be careful when you walk in...because you will go blind." And she knows from experience; once she dropped three jumbo Diet Cokes everywhere because she couldn't see anything. You would think that would get Harbor 5 to change their lighting strategies, but noooo.
My sister had her bachelorette party down in Avalon. That is all I can say on that matter, seeing as the hijinks we got up to would probably land us in severe trouble with our parents. But suffice to say, it was a grand time.
This summer, due to my dad's Olympic commitments, my three jobs, Jenna's baby, and Mike's training for next season, and thanks to the London trip next summer...our house, our gorgeous house, was suddenly turning into a money pit. Mom decided it was more financially prudent to build a home here on the CT shoreline, rather than send money to a home we did not have the time to stay in for longer than three days. So...we had no choice. The home in Avalon had to go.
I was gutted. Sure, the CT beach homes are lovely and we have a lot of friends in that area, plus it's a very quick drive in comparison to the trek to Jersey. But I'm the product of Philly parents. The Jersey Shore IS the beach. It's just going to take some getting used to.
This past weekend, Memorial Day, I spent my last weekend in that house. I did pretty much everything I wanted to do as a way to say goodbye to the house that meant so much to me and the town that gave me some of my happiest childhood memories. We brought down Lovebug on Sunday and he looked at the water like it was a creature from another planet, and he immediately got filthy. Sand, too, was alien, and Christian rubbed it across his fingers with a look of disbelief that quickly turned to horror when he tried to see if the sand would taste as good as it looked. The image of Lovebug stuffing sand into his mouth, then looking up at his mother with an expression of "WHY DID I JUST DO THAT" (while his mother just howled with laughter while she washed his mouth out) will remain with me forever.
On the way home on Tuesday night, as I pulled over the bridge onto the North Parkway, I blasted some Bruce Springsteen. When that lonely sax and piano kick in, that's when I knew it was over.
The screen door slams, Mary's dress waves
The sun was setting. My car was loaded down with bags, extra clothes we had stashed at the house, and a few letter posters my mom wanted to take as keepsakes. The bay water sparkled as I made the right turn onto the road and away from the beach. Away from Avalon. Away from it all.
Hey what else can we do now except roll down the window and let the wind roll back your hair
I could say I cried, but that would be too much. I did get a bit misty.
Oh, oh come take my hand, we're riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh, Thunder Road, Oh Thunder Road, Oh Thunder Road
It's not goodbye. Not by a long shot. Dad promises we'll rent in two years, once the Olympics hoopla dies down. And I'll run to embrace that sand like a long lost friend. But for now...it's "I'll see you soon."
Two years without Circle Pizza? Good lord...
sit tight, take hold, thunder road.
ally
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