things are slow while heather is on vacation, because she literally sings and dances and all the rest of us do is bitch about stuff on the internet. so far today, this has been a high point.
Monthly Archives: July 2011
this evening i went to a hot yoga class and then came home to eat local tofu for dinner. i sort of hate myself, but also, it was awesome.
My mother wants a tattoo. And when we argued about the artistic worth of Bruno Mars’s “Lazy Song,” culminating with my point that the song was about lying around and smoking pot and maybe sleeping with a lady later in the afternoon, she said, “What’s wrong with that?” On the inside I was like, What. What is happening. On the outside I was like, “Nothing’s wrong with that! But the lyrics could use work is all!”
On a more reassuring note, it only took her 90 minutes to bring up my (theoretical) future wedding.
- I know we don’t want anyone to know we’re friends because then they’ll make fan art of us as unicorns, but I’m just curious.
- Hey, what do you think of my attempt at a Johnny Depp style mustache thing? There’s a little fuzz under my lip, too.
- Sidenote, how would I know if there was a roach in my ear?
- Extreme Couponing is a safe space.
- I love you and you can make it I promise, like Mariah Carey in ‘I can make it through the rain’
- If I told you I had a nice body, would you hold it against me?
- Also this:
Today, after thinking that watching the two-minute episode promos for “My Strange Addiction” might somehow improve my weekend and realizing I was INCREDIBLY WRONG, I instead decided to try to design the most uncomfortable and therefore funniest dinner party invitee list in my power. My results:
- my landlord
- Benedict Cumberbatch
- my undergraduate thesis advisor (first semester) (although actually either of them would be sort of hilarious)
- my dad
- the 70-year-old farmer I used to work for when I was 14
- Yolandi Visser of Die Antwoord
- Ashok and/or Hari Kondabolu
- Matt, whom I studied abroad with
Part of my job entails the perpetuation and maintenance of a Twitter feed that includes a number of literary news organizations/websites/et al. As such, it was a bit hard to avoid talk of the final Harry Potter movie today (as if I wasn’t thinking of it already; my roommates and I ordered our tickets for a 10:30 showing tonight). Furthermore as such –– is that a phrase people use? –– I have been dealing all day with a terrible premonition that I will cry in the theater. Like with many things, I have A Lot of Feelings with regard to the final installment of the Harry Potter franchise.
My first real introduction to JKR and her oeuvre occurred on the first day of sixth grade, when I walked into my language arts class to discover 10 out of my 12 classmates were reading either The Sorcerer’s Stone, Chamber of Secrets or Prisoner of Azkaban, and my reaction was more or less this: “Criminy! Who the hell is Harry Potter? Is this, like, a thing now?” My best friend at the time confirmed that it was, indeed, a thing now and foisted her copy of Sorcerer’s Stone upon me. Needless to say, by the end of the week I was in thrall.
Very many things since then have changed in our lives and the world at large, as you may have noticed.
When Harry Potter first came on my radar, Bill Clinton was President of the United States. 9/11 hadn’t happened. I was five feet zero inches tall and wore the same dress size I do now. I had an entirely different set of friends (in fact, I would not grow up to retain even one of the close friends I had in September of 1999). I wore bellbottoms with a broken zipper because the flared pantlegs were the widest I could find. Y2k loomed; my parents stockpiled Poland Springs and soup cans in the basement. Sometimes, I thought about asphxiating myself. Meeting Harry and getting to watch him get away from the Dursleys was kind of the best thing to happen all year. Hogwarts was the best thing all year. I mean, my God! HOGWARTS! If only, amirite?
Detractors of Harry Potter will say it’s poorly written, will point to the abundance of adverbs Ms. Rowling employs. Yes, okay, there’s a lot of adverbs there (an influence, I admit, that has appeared in my own writing in the past). Fine. Others might say it’s for children, with the emphasis on child, or might imply in some other way that a predilection for dressing in Gryffindor colors or expressing excitement for a midnight premiere makes one less of a worthy human being. Believing in magic is for babies, is what they mean, and You Are Not a Baby Anymore. It’s true, I’m not. I’m twenty-three years old. But at the time I met Harry Potter, I was eleven! I needed to believe in the possibility of magic even as I knew that Hogwarts did not exist, would never exist. Harry Potter could be my stand-in and dear friend in a way other literary characters weren’t, for whatever reason (see: Frodo). If Harry went to Hogwarts, I went to Hogwarts. If he learned how to lull three-headed dogs to sleep and rescue wrongly-convicted Byronic heroes and fight Voldemort, I learned how to lull three-headed dogs to sleep and rescue wrongly-convicted Byronic heroes and fight Voldemort. When he discovered a monster built of feelings living inside his chest, I knew what he meant. And he could be whiny on occasion, yes, or self-righteous, or obnoxiously martyristic, but so could I. (So am I, actually. Let’s be honest here.) Harry and crew were my friends, y’know? I’d take on a lesser Death Eater for them. I’d box old Avery right in the ears.
So, yeah, anyway –– I am fairly certain I will bawl like Draco Malfoy in Book Six by the time the end credits roll tonight. I feel both excitement and dread.
[ETA: I did not cry. My roommate did, though.]
Tonight was the amateur burlesque competition I signed up for six weeks ago in a fit of “let’s not think about this decision because you’ll talk yourself out of it.” How did it go, you ask? Did I rock the socks off everyone in the bar?
Well, I don’t know about that. But I certainly flashed them my tits.
Other things that happened:
- I lost my footing partway through the routine and fell on my ass (but did not sweat like a pig through the corset, so, WIN)
- A strange man kissed my hand, then grinned gallantly and whooshed out the door (no, like, literally whooshed, there was a whooshing noise)
- Rachel and Batia got me flowers! (and a balloon labeled “baby girl”?… !!)
- My friends continued to be wonderful, supportive people! I love all of you.