Finished Business.

When I was younger, I'd deal with a Final Four loss by rolling around in a hotel bed, packing my clothes for the depressing flight the next day, and uncontrollably sobbing.

Now, I'm 26, and I just drink.  EASY fix.*
*I am a 26 year old woman.  If you have a problem with my jokes about alcohol, please take it up with my mother, who laughed when I texted her about all of the wine in my body the night of the Notre Dame game.  I go through a pound of kale a week and I do yoga.  Leave me my wine, please.

Last year this week, when I got home from Indianapolis, I remember thinking to myself "Denver will be a cool city.  They'll have fun."

At that point, I had gotten my acceptance letter into graduate school for a Masters in English: Literature. I wasn't quite sure what my career path would be, but I knew one thing was for sure - there was no way I'd be going to the Final Four.  Not a chance.  I would be teaching as well as taking classes, and there would be no way of knowing when my classes would be until the spring semester came down the pike.  

I'd be at home, watching the games on TV.  

Which isn't a bad thing at all.  I've stayed home from the Final Four before.  The first Final Four we got to was New Orleans, in 1991.  I was five, almost six.  I stayed home, obviously.  The second Final Four I excused myself from was once again New Orleans, in 2004.  I watched it from the Jumbotrons in Gampel Pavilion and screamed my head off with about 3,000 other fans, eager to see us match the men for a National Championship.  When we won, my best friend and I immediately booked it back to the dorms to avoid the major rioting that would no doubt occur, ordered pizza, and watched post-game coverage.

I recognize that all of these, were I Tweeting, could be categorized under the hashtag #problemsnobodyelsehas, or what friends like to hashtag #awesomeproblems.  They are indeed awesome, I will grant you that.   Side Note: I return to the Tweets in two days.  CAN. YOU. HANDLE. IT.

I've never been at home from the Final Four when the trip has ended in a loss.  At least, not one I can remember.  I remember having to stay home from New Orleans in '91 but the actual loss doesn't register to me at all.  I do remember feeling a bit mad when Tonya Cardoza came to coach for my Dad in 1994, because she was on the team that beat us in that tournament.  But forgive and forget, eh? ;)

Tangent over.

I skipped out on going to Denver in favor of having more time to grade and study.  Also, I teach Monday/Wednesday, so there was no way I could cancel both classes in a week.  I instead spent the weekend working and practicing at my yoga studio, reading Hunger Games (I know, I'm late to the party.  Don't care.  Team Peeta.) and getting told my hair resembled everyone from Michelle Williams to Julia Roberts' Tinker Bell in Hook.   I woke up on Sunday morning feeling a bit nervous, but not in the way I have been in Final Fours previously.  In San Antonio I was a shaking, uncontrollable mess for both games.  Perhaps I just have too many other things going on in my life to make this event as palpable? Not sure.

Sunday night we headed to a friends' house for a Game of Thrones watch party.  The show started at 9, so we'd have plenty of time to watch the game beforehand.  It was actually a great plan, for as a friend pointed out, "If you win, you celebrate watching the show.  If you lose, you'll be cheered up watching the show."

When the game started people kept coming into the kitchen to give me updates. What? You thought I'd watch? You all know me better than that.  This is this night my friends saw the "Ally, the freakshow who hides and tries not to vomit" side of me.  Hell, I was hiding in the bathroom prolonging a panic attack when we beat Louisville by 30 in 2009's Final Four, so needless to say, whenever this game twisted on itself I was in spasms.  When I heard word we were going into overtime, I crumpled to the floor and ordered someone, anyone, to refill my wineglass.  Keep in mind, I was laughing as I said this, so nobody thinks I'm being overdramatic.  Plus, I believe it may have come out as "I need one of those hats with the straws coming out of beer, but replace the beer with two wine bottles." Either that, or a lolly.

 I hovered over the plate of knobs torn from beer bread boules to create the soup bowls, trying to figure out which one would make my anxiety go away.  (Oh, eating my feelings.  when you show up, it's like an old high school friend with depression that Debbie Downers everything you try to accomplish in life.)

Let me just say something about the game itself super quick...the team overachieved their brains out to get to that point of the tournament.  They should have never even been in the conversation as far as championship contenders go.  These girls worked themselves to the bone, and next year I think we're going to have a team that can stand up to the kinds of pressure pounded down on them over the past few months.  It's going to be an epic season next year.  That being said, the loss itself wasn't the real saddening aspect of the night (despite that it was Notre Dame...UGH.)

My entire family was on the trip.  I hadn't seen them all in one room since New Year's Day.  In that moment, I was a daughter who wanted to give her Dad a hug.  A sister who wanted to see my brother and go hunt for some liquor ponies to get us through the post-loss depression, who wanted to talk Hunger Games shop with my sister.  An aunt who wanted to give my nephew a big ol' squeeze.

I just wanted to see my family.  And I couldn't.

I suddenly felt very small.  And a bit sick.

The loss wasn't the biggest thing.  Every other time we've lost in the Final Four, I've been there to support my Dad and hug the girls.  They were in Denver, but that could've been Jupiter.

I excused myself to the bathroom, leaned up against the sink, and got my "Poor First World Problems That Nobody Else Has" sobfest on in private.   I do it following post-season losses all the time, not so much if we lose during the season.  It's a feeling of helplessness, like knowing something terrible is going on and not being able to stop it.  I understand that this feeling is probably not placed in the right arena and I should probably save it for a bigger world problem such as, um, the 20th anniversary of the Bosnian rape camps, but in that moment I felt the need to cry.  It's probably better than any other sort of behavior I could engage in, but it's still uncomfortable to get to that point of sobby-face.

Also, notice how I had to go to the bathroom to do this crying jag.  That is deliberate.  I don't cry in front of anybody.  Unless I love you more than life, I ain't crying in front of you.  So, if I have cried in front of you, congratulations! I love you more than any sane person should probably love another human! Whee!

After that, my feelings subsided and I was able to get back out into society like a properly functioning denizen.  We all sat in the living room, ate brownies, watched Game of Thrones, and played drinking games such as "Take a drink when Jon Snow gets called a bastard" or "Take a drink whenever a Lannister pays a debt."  At one point, someone saw my face was still a bit bleak from the loss and leaned over to whisper in encouragement, "You'll see your fam on Tuesday when you all watch the championship together!" Which of course was the perfect thing to say at that moment, but in my head I thought to myself Mike and his girlfriend won't be there, they have work/school.  It would be a half-reunion, but still one I could look forward to.

Monday was the day of traveling back home, so I didn't see anyone.  Tuesday night we drove over to my sisters' house and walked in to the sight of my darling little nephew throwing a stuffed Mickey Mouse doll onto his motorized John Deere tractor and pushing it into walls and my sister and mom prepping guacamole.  Todd was chasing after the baby, and my Dad was leaning up against the wall trying to program his iPhone.  Yes, he has gone to the Steve Jobsian side.  Lord help us.  I hugged everyone I could find, then tried to convince the nephew that the girl standing in front of him was his Aunt Ally, but he was too busy staring past me to his mother, as if to say, "Get this Rachel Maddow lookalike away from me." It took a full ten minutes of convincing to show him I was his Aunt, and then he spent the rest of the evening trying to cause a car crash between his John Deere and my left femur.

After a few moments of chitchat, some guacamole-loaded chips, and a glass of wine (although after Sunday night I should just never drink anything ever again), I heard another knock at the door.  "Who's that?" I said to Mom.  She uncorked another bottle of wine (we go hard).  "Mike and Marra.  They said they'd be here a little later on."

Say what?! My heart gave a mighty leap.  "I HAD NO IDEA THEY WERE GONNA BE HERE," I screamed, running to the hallway and trying not to stumble into the baby fence separating the kitchen from the foyer as my brother and his girlfriend entered the house.

I couldn't even handle it.  My family and all of our significant others together in one room, for the first time in four months.

For the rest of the night, we ate delicious food, drank wine and beer, and watched the game.  Dad gave snarky commentary about my haircut from his captain's chair ("You look like, um...Jamie Lee Curtis.  No! Drew Barrymore! NO! Annette Bening! She's gorgeous! Warren Beatty wouldn't marry a dog, after all!" and tried to look up a picture of her on his phone) and Mom and Jenna expressed profound disappointment over the lack of a color in Kim Mulkey's outfit that resembled a box of Nerds, like she had worn in the semifinals.  Jenna proceeded to compare everyone onscreen to a character in The Hunger Games, Marra rained hellfire on Skylar Diggins, Todd gave Baylor's win a standing ovation, and every once and a while, we'd hear my nephew talking in gibberish demon-speak to his Winnie the Pooh doll over the baby monitor.  Or, a slow Tuesday.

Baylor can keep their 'unfinished business' mantra.  Our business was finished in just the right way, thank you very much.

2011-2012 is in the books.  Next year the Final Four is back in New Orleans.  And next year I plan to stand in center court following the final buzzer, watching confetti rain down on some Huskies in the Big Easy.

If the world doesn't end first.

ally

PS. Going into the #shitmymomsays files...I worked out at my parents' house on Tuesday afternoon before the game watch and went to say goodbye to my Mom. She noticed the book in my hands and said "Ooooh! Hunger Pains!"...It's The Hunger Games, mom, but good try.
PPS. London 2012 in three months.  I'll be accompanied by my entire extended family, best friend, and boyfriend.  A trip for the ages, and I'll be sure to Tweet and blog the whole affair.  Fuzzy plans include shopping at Portobello road, having at least one Traditional English Breakfast, fish 'n' chips and a Boddington/Snakebite and Black, and getting a hair cut from my cousin.  Oh, and preventing my best friend from jumping into the Olympic pool to kidnap Michael Phelps.  But she's strong and wily, so I might just let her go.  It'll make a good story for the grandkids.

Things You Know About If I Were Tweeting, Numero Dos.

You get me back in your Twitter boxes in a little over one weeks' time.  Can you handle it? I certainly can't.  This weekend is the weekend in which I should be invading your Smartphones with flail and witty repartee over both the mens and womens' Final Fours.  As much as I would like to tell you that I'm in Denver, celebrating/relaxing with my family and enjoying the 80 degree weather...that is simply not the case.

I'm in Connecticut, freezing my nonexistent nards off, grading student papers and doing research for my seminar papers.  Because I'm an adult.

It kind of sucks, because every other member of my family, including my nephew who has just now begun to parse the difference between 'outside' and 'inside', is heading out to Colorado right now to take in the city and go to the games, and I'm sitting here being all...responsible and...changing the aesthetic landscape and...stuff.  But at the same time I know I'm just saving myself up for next year, when the women's Final Four will be in...New Orleans.  I'm getting a headache just thinking about it. 

So, without further adieu, here are some thoughts that have been swirling in my head over the past few days that you probably would have gotten from a Tweet or two, were I Tweeting.

1.  School is school.  So far I have plugged along rather admirably on two projects: an assessment of the personal power through privatization in the works of Emily Dickinson and an analysis of the comic Calvin and Hobbes using Lacan's "Mirror Stage" and "Big Other" theories.  I'm loving both of them, but I'm especially ecstatic to know that because I won the race to submit Freshman English teaching preference sheets, I'll most likely get an English 1011 course next semester (read: FICTION!).  The ideas are swirling in my head like boomerangs and I cannot wait to get started.  I've already started pulling together sources for Scott Pilgrim and Daria.  Either that, or I might even structure my entire class around Adaptation Theory and use Norse Myths in tandem with the film Thor.  I don't even know what my brain is doing anymore.  Four more weeks and I can sleep/get tan/swim.
2.  I haven't seen my dad in 3 weeks.  Indeed, I think I've seen him a total of 4 times in 2012 for a sum total of about 4 hours; the majority of that time was during one dinner that culminated in us yelling at each other that we have to spend more time together.  This is a coach's daughter in post-season play when she actually has a life and isn't following the team around like a sycophant.  The closest I got was Thursday, when I came over to the house to see him and Mom off on their trip and ended up helping my mom spray out a ton of ants that had managed to sneak into our house and under a few rugs.  "Clorox kills them faster than Windex", she grunted as I pulled up rug after rug.  Glamourous.  Unfortunately, I had to leave before Dad got to the house (he was running late and I had to get my butt to class) but Dad, I know you read this, so....I MISS YOU. I LOVE YOU. GOOD LUCK.
3. I read the Pat Jordan article on Deadspin (go Google it) and was alternately amused and appalled.  Amused at how Jordan's narrative of our family was whittled down into a wooden carving of Italianate stereotypes in a profane haze of cigars, pretty wives, and fast cars.  "Does this look like the office of a f*cking egomaniac?' Nope, but it sure looks like the narrative structure of one.  Dad didn't exactly put himself off too well himself, however.  At one point I had to flick my eyes up to the article headline to make sure I wasn't reading an expose of Joe Pesci.  And Dad, if you're reading this...if you drop one more F-bomb, I will find absolutely nothing wrong with raining them down the instant I get back on Twitter.  There will be F-ck.  In ABUNDANCE.  (Also, there are pictures of my Dad in his office.  They just happen to revolve around family occasions.)  Sadly, he's correct about the book.  That's what you get for letting your 19 year old theater major daughter proofread the rough drafts.  Whoops?
3. So far I've gotten that my hair makes me look like Natalie Portman, Monera Baccarin (the alien from V), Drew Barrymore, Jackie Warner (the trainer from Work Out), Audrey Hepburn, Anne Hathaway, Keira Knightley, Rachel Maddow...and David Tennant.  Keep in mind, the David Tennant comparison came at a Captain America Re-Watch Party.  I was wearing my hair in a mohawk and rocking an "Avengers Assemble!" tshirt.
4. My workouts of late have started to reincorporate running simply because hello? Apocalypses make for the BEST running weather patterns.  Lately, however, I've been so stressed and tired that I just want to flop around on an elliptical for 60 minutes and call it a day.  Plus it's easier to read student papers or my own studying paraphernalia while on a stationary machine.  I've also been desperate to get more yoga into my life, and this week I'll have practiced 3 times which is more than I could have hoped, but I also wanted to get some more routines into my exercise.  Lately I've been into Jillian Michaels' Six Week Six Pack, but I doubt the amount of chocolate and wine I'm drinking is going to make that possible....
5. I feel really bad for Kim Mulkey.  Bells' Palsy is absolutely terrible and I hope she recovers quickly.  However, this might be a blessing in disguise...I'm thinking she'll wear something SUPAFLY to direct any and all attention away from the palsy.  Can we get #kimmulkeysjacket trending again? That was the best trending topic ever.
6. Hunger Games. Oh my SHIT, you guys.  I am completely and utterly obsessed.  I didn't want to get into this series for the longest time because, hello, it's for little kids (says the Children's Literature student...*cough*) and the people who were recommending it to me were people who also loved Twilight.  Naturally I didn't trust their judgment.  But then my sister read it and loved it.  And then I saw the trailer and got chills all over my body for about an hour.  THEN I found out it was based on a Greek myth.  So...I had to.  It's fantastic and very smartly paced.  And anybody who calls it a Battle Royale retread isn't reading closely.  There are many, many differences to this tale, and I find it more engrossing than Battle Royale because of the 'preparation' and 'glamor' they associate with the Games themselves.  It's a celebrity title you're afforded if you're picked as a Tribute, which I find very appropriate in our celebrity-addicted times.  Also, Team Peeta.  Yep.

sorry not sorry.  katniss would kick bella swan's ASS.

7. Pinkberry is officially open at Evergreen Walk in South Windsor.  Anybody want a few pairs of size 2 jeans? I will clearly never be needing them again.
8. Even if John Calipari's Kentucky wins the Final Four, he'll just have to get it vacated in a few years so it really doesn't matter anyway.  ZING.
9. GAME OF THRONES.  I haven't been able to read A Clash of Kings, the book season 2 of the series is based on, but I'm sure I'm going to love it regardless.  I am addicted to that book and that show, so I'm hoping it's going to be as epic on screen as the first season was.  Plus, Peter Dinklage is a BAMF.  I'm going to a watch party tomorrow night and I hope there's ale and turkey.  So much ale and turkey.

I think that's about it.  Unless I go to the gym tomorrow and that guy insists on keeping FOX News turned on during the game.  Hell will rain down.

Go Blue.

ally

Free as my Hair.

On the eve of my 21st birthday, many moons ago...when Twilight wasn't murdering the minds of young women and Rick Santorum wasn't attempting to murder my rights...I got my bangs put back in.

Bangs are a very hard choice to make if you're a girl.  Trust me on this.  Either you have a face perfectly suited for the straight-across fringe, or you're more suited to the swept-across, angled look.  God help you if you pick the wrong one.  (May the odds be ever in your favor.  YES.)

I have a face that can tolerate a full fringe, so that's what I went for.  It was slightly too short, but once I got home and fiddled around with it, it looked adorable.

The next night, my 21st birthday, my friends took me out to Huskies on the UConn campus for some good old-fashioned...sandwich eating. If you've seen How I Met Your Mother, 'sandwiches' is a euphemism for smoking pot.  I was NOT smoking pot, but you can see how I used this euphemism to work for my benefit.  We ate a lot of sandwiches.  One particular sandwich was lethal, and I ended up getting into a verbal altercation with one of the guys at the sandwich bar.

"Why did you get bangs?" he hollered over the Pussycat Doll din.  I yelled back, "Because they're ADORABLE." Because, they are.  He proceeded to yell back "Guys HATE short hair on girls! You don't look attractive like that!"

...Say what?

Now, I have it on good authority that many guys,  many VERY attractive guys, think short hair is cute on girls.  But keep in mind, I was newly 21, I was out of my mind on sandwiches, and I was really, really insecure.  Plus, this being about a month after I lost the majority of my weight, I was just asking for a nice big shot of vulnerability.

Nevertheless, even when I chopped my hair off a year later for fun, I still remembered that guys' comment.  I didn't want to cut my hair again for a very, very long time.  It stuck with me every single time I went to hairdresser determined to pull off the gamine look and driving back home with just a trim.

Now flash forward to this week.  My hair was starting to take over my head.  Mom called it 'The Rope.' In yoga, whenever I rose up from utanasa into tadasana my hair braid would fall back with such a weight that I would literally stumble back, ruining my center and forcing me to regain some inch of sangfroid before continuing.  There was so much of it in my shower drain board I thought it was one of my long lost cousins from Italy.  (Come at me, amici.)

I was pissed.  Pissed at how ridiculous my value on hair was.  Pissed that I was letting whatever was growing out of my head define my femininity.  Pissed that a guy stuffed with sandwiches at a bar was telling me what or what didn't make me pretty.  Pissed that I let my exterior define my worth in the interior.  (Can you tell I've been writing a ton of rhetorical papers lately about reading images in culture? Woof.)

Now, I'm almost done a year of grad school.  I have an adorable nephew who loves me no matter what I look like.

And I want to end cancer.  I want to punch it in the face.  If it had a face.  It'd probably be a really ugly, Ann Coulter-esque hag face, worthy of a good suckerpunch.

I know, what does cancer have to do with my image issues and bangs?

Trust me, I have a point here.  This isn't a random segue.

This past Tuesday, I was scrolling through my facebook when I saw a friend of mine advertising a St. Baldrick's event on the UConn campus, to be held on Thursday.  St. Baldrick's is an organization that donates hair to children's cancer wards, much like Locks of Love, and also allows participants to shave their heads in order to stand with those who lose their hair to cancer.  Now, there was no way I was going to shave my head.  I'm pretty sure my mother would kill me.

But I had hair to give.  And I had a cute picture or two for inspiration.  And I had an idea.

Me yesterday morning.  At this point it hadn't sunk in what I was going to do.  When it did, I went grey.

The event was amazing, and I got my hair styled into a cute bob.  But you know what? I wanted to go further.  Just to make a point.  

 Me five minutes ago.

My head feels a thousand times lighter.  So does my heart.

13 inches, all told, are now going to be made into a wig for some little girl out there who is also feeling a bit vulnerable and self-conscious.  However, she has no choice in the matter of having or not having a full head of hair, due to this unforgiving and indiscriminate disease.

I hope she rocks the wig and that cancer.  My hair is just a Band-Aid.  The real balm is the final cure.

Now I'm off to find about 203984 headbands to wear with my new haircut.

I've had enough, this is my prayer, that I'll die living just as free as my hair.

ally

PS.  The girl next to me in the barber chairs actually did get her entire head shaved.  It was EPIC, but I'm pretty sure my head would freeze if I dared it.  Plus, I would never hear the end of it from the family.

PPS.  My dad turns 57 today.  Go on his Twitter and call him an old fart for me, okay?

Things You'd Know About if I Were Tweeting.

A few people have expressed to me that they miss my daily updates on Twitter about the things I'm currently digging and/or are obsessed with.  To be honest, I don't really know why people find my TV or film or music interests that, well, interesting.  When you're working 14 hour days on seminar papers and presentations and pedagogy pursuits, it's pretty tempting to just lay in bed like a slug and aimlessly flick through channels when you get a break (or let's be honest, do what I did on Monday and pass out for a solid hour in the middle of the afternoon).  But right now I'm giving myself a slight break from my work to tell you all about the stuff I'm doing with my life at the moment..because let's face it, you'd know about this stuff if I were Tweeting.

1. Willing someone, anyone, to punch the collective GOP in the face.  I try not to get too political on my blog, but I think you can't know me for longer than 10 minutes before you realize I'm a feminist and a hardcore liberal to the bone.  I hate Rick Santorum with the fire of a thousand suns, and if there is a God, I hope he's planning some almighty damnation for Santorum's judgement and vitriol towards women and gays.  That being said, I honestly also hope he ends up being Mitt Romney's running mate, because Joe Biden will tear his ass apart in the debates.  ...Just the though of that amazing moment makes me want to get out my popcorn, or at least the popcorn .gif of Michael Jackson in the Thriller video.  Plus, I don't know if it's because I go to the gym with a lot of very old Republicans, but I always get stuck on the elliptical in front of the FOX News Channel-centric TV and it makes me go even faster because I just want to punch everyone in the head.  Sorry not sorry?

such an unfortunate typo for such a fantastic message.

2. Drinking so much, so so so much coffee.  This week has been unseasonably warm (another sign of the Mayan apocalypse, along with Congress's war on women) and a few days ago I had my first iced coffee of the season, an act that made me indescribably happy on so many levels.  I probably need a life, but I don't care.  Little things make me pleased as punch.

3. Making time to see my parents/siblings/nephew.  I saw my Mom for the first time in a while yesterday.  I also managed to see my Dad for longer than 2 seconds, which was nice.  Ever since I got off Twitter our communication has dropped off.  That might be the saddest sentence I'll ever write.  He told me last week that I looked 'fried' which I did not appreciate and argued against.  Of course, about two hours after this conversation I was hit with one of the worst cases of bronchitis on known record.  Well it wasn't that bad but it really sucked.  I also managed to take a walk with my nephew the other day, and despite us having to chase him around every ten seconds because of dogs he wanted to pet or curbs he wanted to climb, it was a very peaceful situation.  I also managed to get a picture of him riding one of our garden statues like a pony.  The statue was of a little boy, so you can imagine our amusement.

4. Debating, once again, whether or not I should chop off all my hair.  I know, my life is SO HARD.  The other day at the gym my hair got stuck in its elastic and I ended up having to pull a giant gnarled clump out of my head.  If that doesn't scream "get a haircut" I don't know what does.  Plus, it's getting to the point where my hair is actually quite literally weighing me down, and long hair, while awesome when tended to correctly, is actually kind of a major bitch to maintain.  I don't have that amount of time, so I usually end up either putting it into Heidi braids or that popular 'topknot' style that looks like a Cinnabon plopped itself onto the top of my head.

5. FOOD.  Glorious, glorious food.  Over the winter season I kind of fell facefirst into carbs and beer, so I'm trying to go a little bit easier on myself for the spring.  I'm also in training to run a 'mud run' in June, so I've spent a little time trying to up my running mileage again, which was painful but in a really good way.  And food, more more food! I've been eating at a lot of great restaurants lately and number one out of all of them was Miya's Sushi in New Haven.  Despite its reputation as an hipster-infested pit of irony, it more than deserves its crown of Best Sushi in CT, because the fusion aspect.  As far as my own culinary pursuits, I found a gluten free soda bread recipe.  This is so much more exciting to me than it really should be.  And PS: The currant or raisin-studded version you see in stores? That's not really 'soda bread', that's Spotted Dog.  Traditional Irish soda bread is buttermilk, baking soda, and flour.  That's it, thank you and goodnight.  (This Irish history lesson is brought to you by a guinea.  But pay that no attention.) Also I'm hoarding Cadbury Mini-Egg bags so I can do what I did last year (aka, buy so many bags that I still have some left over from Easter 2011.  I'm that good.)

6. Debating the brackets! I'm not going to be tweeting during the Final Four this year since it falls within the Lenten season (STEP OFF THE LEDGE), so I've had to keep all of my thoughts about postseason play to myself!  It actually is not a big deal to me; even if we make it I won't be able to go to Denver anyway due to work and school.  That being said, it's always fun to see what people think about the brackets and the games being played. I was actually working and making dinner at the same time during Selection Monday so I had to get the bracket breakdown from my boyfriend, but what we both came to was the conclusion that we would kill, KILL, to see a Brittney Griner/Elena Delle Donne matchup.  Holy smokes.  I really hope that comes to fruition.  I would be loathe to make a prediction as to the outcome of that scenario but needless to say it'll be epic regardless.  As for our game this weekend at Harbor Yard against Prairie View A&M, I will be there in my St. Patrick's Day finest.  If you're at the game, stop by and say hello!

7.  Work.  Work work work work work.  I'm on spring break at the moment and I'm actually more exhausted than I normally am because of all the work I've been doing on my various school projects.  My 30 minute Graphic Novel presentation on Calvin and Hobbes is due the day we get back, and an 8-10 page paper on Emily Dickinson for American Lit II is due that Thursday.  I'm nearly finished with the presentation, which is good because this weekend won't be very sacrosanct in regards to work, but the other paper I should probably start getting a move on.  Thank goodness THAT presentation isn't until late April, but I'm still slightly panicky about it.  I don't have a grip on the kind of extended vocabulary that comes so easily and naturally to my fellow graduate students, probably because I spent most of my undergraduate career developing 'animal essences' and getting yelled at to 'RAISE THE STAKES' while performing a Neil Simon scene dressed as a prostitute.  Ah, drama majors.  What won't we do?

8. Watching the HBO miniseries John Adams and oscillating between moments of pure ecstasy ("Paul Giamatti, you AMAZING HUMAN!") and weeping like an idiot ("ABIGAIL AND JOHN FOREVER OMG REMEMBER THE LADIES").  Where did articulate, brave, passionate, incredible men like this go? Well, we still have Obama, but who is competing against him? Idiots like Rick Santorum who can't put a string of words together without mentioning that he hates gay people and that women who get pregnant should just live with it? Another show I've been watching lately is Archer.  That show is brilliant too, but in an entirely different and much more disgusting/offensive way.  Oh, and Game of Thrones comes back soon! I must read Clash of Kings before then.  Of course, that would mean getting started on my grand plan to add 20 more hours to every day in order to get everything done that I need to get done.  God help my poor brain, I think it's thisclose to bursting into flames.

Clearly I've had too much coffee today.

Off to write more, hit the gym, watch more John Adams, debate whether or not to have tofu or eggs for dinner, and hopefully shift the world consciousness about the gestalt psychology inherent in Bill Watterson's comics.  And this is what I do for a living?

Happy Thursday to me...

ally

PS.  Perhaps I should put together a blog post composed entirely of 'what I would Tweet if I were Tweeting' during one of the tournament games? After all, most of my wit comes from spur of the moment randomness.  If I have any wit at all.  You be the judge.

International Women's Day.

You should date a woman.

Don't date a girl.  Even if she reads.

Date a woman.  

You'll meet wherever she ends up.  Library, sports game, doesn't matter.  She'll find you.

Date a woman who has a great laugh, but doesn't use it recklessly.  She laughs when something is deeply amusing, not to impress a man who is attempting humor.

Date a woman who doesn't date a lot because she was waiting for a guy who matched her and could go toe to toe. She might be waiting for you.  Don't let her get away.

Date a woman who reads everything.  EVERYTHING.  Magazines, journals, newspapers (although she may read them online, or on her phone, don't hold that against her), stop signs, Neil Gaiman, David Foster Wallace, Foucault, Perez Hilton, George R.R. Martin, J.R.R. Tolkien, chick lit, JK Rowling, fashion blogs, Derrida.  She reads a lot, because she loves it, and she's read a lot of very intense and intelligent books that most bookish girls with a love of literature have read - Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Umberto Eco, The Little Prince, Satanic Verses.  But she's got worn-out copies of Glamour and Marie Claire magazines on her nightstand, piled on top of her Norton Anthologies and Complete Works of W.B. Yeats.  If you ask her what her favorite poem is, she'll look at you like you've asked her to lasso the moon, but you'll see the passion in her face as she describes how underappreciated Pablo Neruda is and how intricate Petrarchan sonnets are.  She may not have the vocabulary readily available in her brain, but she has wells of deep memory.

Date a woman who reads Harry Potter.  Because it's awesome.  Obviously.

Date a woman who can bitch about her gyms' locker room on Twitter and follow that up with a Tweet about her seminar paper on pedagogy and composition.

Date a woman who likes sweatpants and sequins in equal measure.

Date a woman who knows what's going on in the world politically but isn't afraid to ask questions about things she doesn't quite understand, because she doesn't want to formulate an opinion until she's got all the facts.  Date a woman who thinks deeply and critically.

Date a woman who has a lot of cookbooks but also knows how to scramble eggs for dinner.  In addition, date a woman who knows how to roast vegetables, can tell a steak is done without sawing it down the middle, and knows her way around a wine menu.  Also date a woman who has ethnic take-out on her speed dial, and really, really, REALLY loves Subway's $5 Footlong.

Date a woman who dabbles in the esoteric but also wears deodorant.

Date a woman who watches watches Community, Modern Family, and a few niche shows like It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia or Archer but she also DVRs The Biggest Loser and Doctor Who, and occasionally she may tune into The X Factor to make fun of Paula Abdul.  She currently likes The Voice, and not just because Adam Levine is hot.  

Date a woman who loves the Olympics because it's an excuse to watch gymnastics for two straight weeks.

Date a woman who questions religion, government, politics, and sexual misogyny in advertising.

Date a woman who watches films like 500 Days of Summer and Little Miss Sunshine and Ghost World, but could still recite Mean Girls from memory.  ("Oh my God, Danny DeVito! I love your work!")

Date a woman who isn't afraid to call women (and men) out on their bullshit.

Date a woman who thinks Twilight is an anti-feminist, pro-abstinence hot mess.

Date a woman who has manic pixie dream girl tendencies, but didn't grow up into a manic pixie woman, because women are more complicated than a quirky sidelong glance.

Date a woman who can laugh at herself about accidentally wearing mismatched socks, but never undercuts her opinion on every day issues with a self-deprecating joke about how she's a stupid girl who doesn't really know anything.  Because she's not a girl.

She's a woman.

She owns her intelligence and wields it like a sword.  A Hattonzi Samurai Sword.

I am a woman.

I will not apologize for thinking critically.  I will not apologize for demanding the right to do what I want with my uterus.  I will not apologize for hoping all of my friends, no matter their sexual orientation, can experience the rights that I enjoy.  I will not apologize for refusing to follow trends.  I will not apologize for collecting weird things like movie stubs.  I will not apologize for doing yoga nearly every single day.  I will not apologize for speaking my mind about issues I find salient to the survival of critical conversation.

Be brave.  Be different.  Be confident.  Be funny.  Be smart.  Be sexual. (Earmuffs, Mom and Dad)

Be a woman.

Be everything.

Happy International Women's Day.

ally

Twitter Blackout.

In April of 2009, I joined Twitter.

I had railed against it for a long time.  I thought I should just be living my life, not documenting it one 140 character phrase at a time.  Besides, if I wanted to rant about my personal life, I would put it on Facebook for my friends to laugh at and 'like' for my own private validation, not for the worlds' consumption.  But I am easily swayed (read: highly susceptible to peer pressure), and therefore I started it.  I had about 50 followers for the first several months until Rebecca Lobo was kind enough to give me a shoutout, which I believe was in the vein of "@alysamarsiella your dad picked at a wedgie during his halftime interview", which led to about 100 followers within ten minutes, and 500 by the end of the game, and suddenly....here we are today.

I mainly use my Twitter to post random observations of what occurs to me throughout the day, whether its going to the gym and getting stuck with the machine in front of FOX news (aka my worst nightmare) or dealing with students who don't read the syllabus.  I write about quotes from yoga class that I loved, the foods I'm eating that are too good to disappear into the ether and should be memorialized in some way ("My last Tweet and testament...?"), and simply because if I didn't write, I would be a nutball.

I write because I love it.  I write because it is part of my being.

I have 1400 followers.  Why?

"Geno's daughter on Twitter" is probably a good line to throw out there.  For three years, I was the pipeline/sycophant/puppetmaster who would reiterate the crazy crap my Dad says at home.  But now my Dad is on Twitter, so mostly we just spend our time yelling at each other with hashtags from films very few people find as entertaining as we do.

The ones who stick around even after I've worn out my "Geno's daughter OMG' welcome, those are the ones that are intriguing to me.

I have no idea why people find me funny or entertaining or even interesting.  I find myself to be a veritable delight, a ratatouille of academia.  I tend to spend most of my day researching either medieval manuscripts or Calvin and Hobbes, or doing far too much grading.   I would not have learned half of what I gleaned from the Arab Spring issue if it weren't for Twitter.  I learned when National Eating Disorder Awareness Week is (it's this week, FYI).  I followed the Academy Awards.  I learned when Joe Paterno and Whitney Houston died.  I got updates about Fashion Week.

Twitter has given me a lot.  But it has also taken away a lot.  Namely, my time.

Time is something I can't afford to waste.  I'm approaching the 'go time' of my graduate study career.  I have a six-hour Masters exam next January, and I hope to graduate this coming December.  I'll have a Masters degree.  I'll have to get a job.  I'm hyperventilating.

I can't put my life into 140 characters.  At least, not right now.

You may have noticed my Twitter has gone away.

Well, I gave it up.  For Lent.

When I told my Mom - who had assumed I would just give up chocolate like I usually do - she actually nearly applauded.  "That'll be a toughie!" she said, almost with a worried tone to her voice.  I think she's worried I'm going to start writing 140 character observations on the walls of my condo.  In my own blood.

I've spent the last week and a half off-Tweets and I feel like there are two things so far that I've learned.

1.  I get WAY more done when I don't comment on everything.  Last Thursday I woke up at 5:20, went to the gym, read 200 pages of my book for seminar, went to the seminar, graded 4 papers, paid a cable bill and a city hall check, saw my Mom for a few minutes, AND cooked all of my own meals.  I felt like a superhuman.  And I had time to watch some mindless TV that night, talk to some dear ones, and get some sleep.  It was blissfully quiet in my head and I didn't feel the need to share any of it.  It was all for me.
2. I was born to be a writer.  I have to do it.  I suffer without it in my life.  Everything suffers if I don't write.

The real test would be if I activated my account and just let it lie dormant.  Daring myself to make a Tweet, some blase indictment of the dude at my gym who runs on the treadmill in his khakis.

I may need to activate it sometime this weekend to keep it from getting purged by the Twitterazzi.  So the account will be back this weekend, momentarily.  I will probably put up a link to this.

The bottom line?

Twitter rocks, when used appropriately.

There are things in my life right now that are too wonderful and blessed to encapsulate in 140 characters.  I'm living outside of 'favorites', 'retweets', and followers.

I'll still be blogging, of course! But that's it for now.  You can reach me through here.

(by the way...if Notre Dame actually flew home and cut down the nets last night, that might explain why they haven't won a national championship in 12 years.  Save the net-cutting for Denver, Irish.)

ally

What I Miss (And What I Don't) From Having Anorexia.

(I wrote a post about what I missed and didn't miss from being an obese post-adolescent.  I figured, because this week is National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, that I should follow that up with the other end of the spectrum.  I fall into the unhappy category of those who have experienced both sides, yet the triumphant category of those who are on the positive side of recovery from both as well.  It needs to grow.)

You know what I really miss about being anorexic?

I miss control.  

...Huh. That's about it.

There is nothing else I miss about that vindictive, vitriolic, SOB of a disorder.  It is consuming, self-flagellating, self-congratulatory, and ultimately heartbreaking.  How dare I miss one second of that isolation? Except for the comfort of control, I miss none of it.  And there is a lot of comfort in knowing exactly how your day is going to turn out.

What I don't miss:
everything. else.
I don't miss being dizzy when I stand up.
I don't miss pulling clumps of my hair out in the shower.
I don't miss having nothing to wear because my clothes were falling off.
I don't miss having grey/yellow skin, the result of eating baby carrots to replace real food.
I don't miss measuring my wrists with my thumb and forefinger to see how small my arms were getting.
I don't miss being afraid to get out of bed.
I don't miss the dry, bleeding knuckles from the lack of fat in my diet.
I don't miss low calorie high fiber turkey wraps for lunch (actually...I still eat these but I put a shitload of avocado in there too.  FAT.)
I don't miss nearly passing out in gyms.
I don't miss actually passing out in restaurants, rehearsal halls, bedrooms.
I don't miss the self-satisfied feeling of victory when I pulled on a size 2.  I also don't miss the crying fits when I'd eat broccoli and the size 2s would be a little snug.
I don't miss feeling weak.
I don't miss being vegan because I thought it would make me lose weight.
I don't miss trying to reintroduce fat into my diet and my body rejecting it because it was so foreign.
I don't miss fearing infertility when I lost my period for 2 years.
I don't miss being powerless.
I don't miss crashing.
I don't miss vitamin/calcium deficiency.
I don't miss being worried about going on dates because, omg, what if the food at the restaurant made me fat?
I don't miss the panic attacks.  Oh, the panic attacks.
I don't miss the early days of yoga classes, of getting obsessed and going every day because I just wanted the 'yoga body', of being so upset and afraid and not wanting to deal with the openings that were going on in my emotions that I would fall to the floor in tears.
I don't miss finding crap like Walden Farms Zero Calorie Peanut Butter (WTF?!) in the store and actually getting psyched about it.  And that Better'N Peanut Butter crap, too.
I don't miss working out for three hours so I could have a piece of cake and a glass of wine at a friends' house.
I don't miss counting calories on websites.
I don't miss weighing myself every morning and figuring out my food based on if I had gained or lost.
I don't miss eating until my stomach hurt because I was so hungry I was blacking out.
I don't miss being so. goddamn. hungry.
I don't miss clearing out my kitchen at 4PM.
I don't miss people telling me "You look so skinny" and feeling smug about it.
I don't miss trying to lose my curves and looking like a displaced Skeletor in the process.  Oh, my poor butt.  I'll never leave you again.

new year's eve 2009.  I'm just glad anorexia didn't take away my flawless fashion sense.  At least, not at first.

So what happened?

Everything.

I cried.  I laughed.  I played.  I worked.  I slept in.  I got up early.  I drank so much coffee I'm probably part Ethiopian.  I ran.  I stopped.  I ran some more. I did so much freaking yoga I'm shocked I still have arms.  And I ate.  I ate food. I ate life.  I ate love.

Recovery is so much less of a struggle when you have a strong support system.  And post-recovery is even better when you have people around you who tell you they love you every day, and tell you you are beautiful every day, for reasons that have nothing to do with the size on the back of your jeans.

I'm full.

I am a survivor.  Of binge eating.  Of obesity. Of compulsive exercise bulimia.  Of diet pill abuse.  Of anorexia.

I am hesitant to say I am fully recovered, because eating disorders are like alcoholism in my opinion; once you have one, you will have it sitting in your presence for the rest of your life and it is your choice to feed or famish it.  But before you get your hypocrite hammers out, let me reiterate that when I do make little lapses in judgement, or I have a moment of weakness, it is not because I've been starving myself or working out for hours at the gym.  It mostly comes from stress from school and life manifesting itself in ways that probably aren't the best for me.  I also have the odd distinction of being someone who was obese, then anorexic, so I do have to watch my diet and make sure I'm making healthy decisions simply because I have health issues in my family that relate to weight.  But I don't freak out anymore.  And I don't skip dessert.  Ever.  I didn't even give it up for Lent.  (I gave up Twitter, if you were wondering why I haven't Tweeted in a week.)

But I am human.  I mess up.  I have my moments when I lapse into lack of better judgement calls and make stupid mistakes.  I'm learning.  I'm still relatively young-ish.  I have a lot of years ahead of me, and I want to spend them with the fullest of my vitality.  I owe it to the world to give it the best of myself.  I still have foods that make me nervous, but doesn't everyone?

Plus, I really, really like my body.  I don't see myself changing it for anyone else any time soon.  That tummy I tried so hard to get rid of, to lean out, to shred up? That butt that disappeared? I welcome it back with arms wide open.  How dare I attempt to shrink myself? I should be expansive.  I am expansive.  I could span the world.

Also throw on there my small chest, wide hips, soft stomach, big legs, broad shoulders and crooked smile.  My strength.  My silliness.  My grace.  My awkwardness.  My empathy.  My strength.  My humanity.

Because you only get one body.  Might as well work it.  Or, to put it in more colloquial terms, WERK.

Rock it.  Werk it.  And honor it.  Because it's the only one you'll get. Might as well throw an awesome party in the best house you can.  Your house.  Your body.

I wrote this piece to honor and celebrate National Eating Disorder Awareness Week.  It's time to talk about it.  And I will always be here to listen.


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.