Important Parts of Last Night

Let me tell you about last night.
Last night was Harry Potter (oh boy, don't tell me you didn't see this one coming).
And it was magnificent.
I mean, there were parts that made me shudder and wonder to myself what the heck were the directors thinking I don't understand why they couldn't stay true to the book here why are they jumping off a cliff good Lord why is Snape clutching a corpse this is bordering on disturbing why didn't they show Percy's big entrance that was one of my favorite parts oh my gosh Ginny please go away you make me sick sometimes.

Or something along those lines.

But I think over all, the movie, just like the book, had the ending that it needed and deserved.
That's really the most important thing, right?


There were other important parts of last night, though.

Like the feeling of complete panic that swept through the theater when the 3D glasses weren't working and everything was blurry. I was literally almost in cardiac arrest when The Man Behind the Curtain finally adjusted the projector correctly and the trailers came into focus.

Like when the Weasley family was mourning Fred and everything was quiet until I began to hear sniffing sounds coming from all around me. The entire theater was crying. The man next to me was crying. The ladywiththemostobnoxiousvoicei'veeverheard behind me was crying (loudly). And I suddenly felt like laughing. Until Harry began his walk towards the Forbidden Forest. Then I stopped laughing and started sniffing myself. I actually fogged up my own 3D glasses and had to wipe them. Not being a glasses-wearer, that was a new experience for me.

Like taking pictures in the lobby of people dressed up as Patronuses and Veela and Freds with bandaged ears and two twin boys with hair sprayed red.

Like when my friend and I had to visit the facilities before the movie. We waited in line for about 10 minutes before we finally got stalls. I was just trying to calculate what my odds of catching an STD from the toilet seat were when I heard my friend yell to me (from across the lavatory): "Holly! We flush ourselves in!" The entire bathroom erupted in echoing, nerdtastic giggles.

Like after the movie, when I decided not to wait for Bea (the GPS) to 'acquire satellite.' I thought I could manage to get home by myself. A sort of deluded Harriet Tubman, I convinced myself that I could find my way North. Apparently, I couldn't. I ended up goodnessknowswhere at 3 in the morning making illegal uturns in quiet neighborhoods and pleading with Bea to help me. She eventually did. Then the problem became keeping myself awake.

Like when I sang every Beatles song I know (which is, forgive me, an awful lot of Beatles songs) at the top of my lungs in order to keep myself awake. I was so tired that my voice was scratchy and pathetic but I made it home okay nonetheless. The dogs were happy to see me.

Yes, it's over. Yes, I'll never see another Harry Potter movie in a theater (unless I go to see this one again, which, let's face it, is highly likely). Yes, before the movie started, I was dreading it starting a little bit. Everyone was. Harry Potter began when we were all young. People have waited for Hogwarts letters, people have waited for the next book, the next movie.

But the waiting is over. It's all here.

I have a Harry Potter book on my lap right now. The Prisoner of Azkaban, because it's my favorite. And I'm thinking about how different it is every time I read these books. How there's always something new. Not because the books have changed, but because I have. And I will.

And as long as there's still that, I don't think anything has ended at all.

A Nerdy Reference

Whenever we have an unseasonable thaw like this, I always think of The Chronicles of Narnia.
It's in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and because Aslan is back in Narnia, the White Witch's unending winter is slowly ending. The snow is melting, buds are pushing themselves out of tree branches, and the White Witch's slave-dwarf starts to peel off his coat: "It's soooo warm out!" he exclaims stupidly. Piercing glare from White Witch (if looks could kill...). The dwarf, chastened, skulks off away from the Witch: "I'll go and...check the sleigh," he says.

Yes, I think Aslan's definitely back in town.

Like a City Upon a Hill

I know, I know-I've done it again. A couple of long, dramatic posts in a row, and then I didn't get back to you with the resolution!
By now, though, it seems kind of silly to explain to you how amazing Orientation was, what a good time I had with my group, and how I look forward to bumping into them around campus and seeing what they get involved in and how their freshman year goes.
Nah.
That's old news by now.
The new news is that I had my first day of classes today.
All of them were amazing.
I'm especially excited about my Icelandic Sagas Honors class. There are only about 13 people in it, so it's going to be a great discussion class. It's also interdisciplinary, so it's taught from an English-y perspective by an English professor, and a science-y perspective by a science professor.

I'll admit that there was a point when I almost had a meltdown thinking about all the studying I'm going to have to do this semester. I'm taking 17 credits for goodness' sake! Plus three jobs! What was I thinking, you guys? Why didn't you stop me?

Oh, well. All of my classes are going to be interesting and thought-provoking, and all of my jobs are educational (as well as financially reassuring).
I think it's worth it to be super busy if I can do all the things I want to do.

I'm also cutting down on my activities this year; I'm mainly focusing on MCSA (student government) and intramurals.

Okay...I should get back to my American Lit. reading now. It's an essay/sermon by John Winthrop, and let me tell you that while I love the guy to pieces, his writings are an absolute pain to read. I wonder if his fellow Puritans struggled as well?

Channeling Amidala

An unfortunate incident happened to me today. So unfortunate (and embarrassing), in fact, that I considered not sharing it. However, the part of me that loves a good unfortunate and humiliating story overruled the part of me that feels the need to crawl under a rock for a few days. So, I'm sharing.

I got my eyebrows waxed for the first time this afternoon. Don't laugh yet (the unfortunate part is yet to come). I've never been particularly bothered by my eyebrows; I mean, I'm not up to Frida Kahlo standards or anything. But my mom was getting hers done anyway, and since I tend to like doing little girly spa-type things every once in awhile (ex: my nail color changes frequently), I thought I'd give it a try as well.

The actual waxing part was fine. What I didn't realize, however, is that the phrase 'getting your eyebrows waxed' actual stems from the word 'wax,' which means a hot, melty substance that is swirled onto an oversized Q-tip and applied to your brow line. Then, a strip of paper is placed onto the searing wax and ripped away suddenly, leaving you lacking in small hairs and wishing you were lacking in throbbing pain.

Okay, okay; it wasn't really that bad. The bad part was when I got into the car and flipped down the mirror to check out my newly-groomed eyebrows. What I noticed instead was that there were bright red burns shaped strangely similar to the smears of wax that had been rubbed in the exact same places about ten minutes ago. Three burns total: Between the brows, and below each one.

First Thought: Ow.
Second Thought: I look kind of like Queen Amidala (except I didn't really)
Third Thought: Oh, I'm going to have fun walking around the mall like this.

And I did have fun. Since the following shopping trip was necessary and unavoidable, I just kept my head down and followed my mom from store to store. The whole time I was praying that I wouldn't see anyone I know.
I saw two people I know, of course.

The humor came in the dressing room. Trying on a shirt: "Okay, Mom. I'm going to cover my forehead with my hand. Just focus on my eyes down. How does it look?"

Despite the eventual okay-ness and fun-ness, however, I'm still hoping that I wake up tomorrow looking normal. While I'm clearly not beyond explaining the situation to certain coworkers, I'm not sure I can take a full shift of curious looks.
Queen Amidala may be ashamed of my cowardice, but after all, I don't have a closet full of epic headdresses to distract from my brow.

Talking About My Generation

I am currently feeling very proud of my generation, and for something that we as a group cannot necessarily take credit for. You know how the 60's had hippies and peace and the Beatles? And the 20's had jazz and F. Scott?

Well you know what the 90's had/has? Harry Potter. That's right everyone; you can keep your disco and your painted chapels and your Rin Tin Tin. We'll keep our magical world.

I suppose that J.K. is the one who really deserves the credit, although the movies never would have been made (and perhaps so many books wouldn't have been written), had the entire concept not been received so enthusiastically by us 90's children. People of other ages liked the books as well, but we were the ones who celebrated being the same age as Harry himself as we read, who trick-or-treated in robes and taped glasses, and who saw Harry first and foremost as a friend we knew as well as the kids across the street.

The final movies will be out within the next year or so. It makes me sad to think about the saga ending. Although I tend to think of the movies and the books as separate entities, it feels to me that with the release of Deathly Hallows Part 2, the magic will fly up and disappear in a thousand sparks. Harry will exist after that only on our book cases and in our DVD players. He will no longer grow and expand; he will simply remain as he is.

Someday, though, when our children reach that awkward, mystical age of eleven, we will sit by their bedsides, ignore their protests of, "oh but I'm too old to be read to!" and begin to tell them of the boy in the cupboard under the stairs. We won't stop until Harry matters to them as well.

In A Galaxy Far, Far Away

In honor of Star Wars Day (I know, I know, "May 4th be with you"), I've decided to write a post about my experience with Star Wars.
I first remember watching the old movies in my neighbor Donyal's basement with Donyal, my little sister Amy, and our other neighbors Alex and Emily. Donyal's brother was older than all of us, and he had all three Star Wars movies.
The basement was dim, and I remember getting scared when the sand people showed up.
My favorite movie was the one where Jabba had enslaved Leia and frozen Han Solo, and so Luke went to Jabba's lair to rescue them both. Forgive me, but I don't know the title of the particular movie of which I speak; I've always gotten them jumbled up.
My favorite character is hands down Han Solo. He's charming, sarcastic, good-looking, and NOT a jedi. The last point is important because I seem to value Star Wars characters who aren't blessed with the power of the force, and who don't carry lightsabers (note: for the longest time I thought they were actually called lightSAVERS).

Here ends my Star Wars saga (I know, I know, I'm hilarious). Not very long, you'll notice; I generally prefer historical fiction and fantasy over science fiction. I do, however, recognize the magic that is Star Wars, and value it as an important part of American pop culture.

Finished my paper by the way.

Peace.

A Broken Fellowship

I'm going to nerd out on you for a few minutes. Forgive me, but I find that whenever a part in my life parallels that of a great work, I have to acknowledge the fact proudly. Or maybe it's more appropriate to say that the work parallels my life?

Anyway, here it is:
"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep... that have taken hold."

A bit morbid for a blog entry, I suppose, though just morbid enough for a rainy Monday afternoon.
You see, certain things in my life are changing. They are definitely, steadily shifting, and they're beyond the point where I can do anything to stop them.
Friendships, alliances, people have changed. What I cared nothing for a week ago, I find I care a great deal for now.
I'm the one leaning over the precipice grasping for something that's long since fallen out of reach. I can see it down below; I can look back whenever I want to. But I'll never hold it again.
It makes me incredibly sad.
I don't think I'm brave enough to start over, dear bloggers. I don't think I'm inclined to, either.

Again, I apologize for being so cryptic in this entry. I don't like to write things that you can't understand easily, but I do like to write things that mean a great deal to me. I'm sorry that you got the worse end.

All It Takes Is A Nerf Gun To The Head

Act One:
We find our protagonist in Crusades class. Her pencil is scratching roughly at her paper as she attempts to think of something to say. There is a sharp snap when the end of her lead breaks off and flies towards her neighbor's head (our fair protagonist doesn't mind this at all; the neighbor is annoying anyway).
The assignment? Listen to each of the six speakers as they present their argument as to why the 2nd Crusade failed, and think of a question to ask one of the speakers about his/her views on the topic. Participation is mandatory.
The problem? Our protagonist, though reasonably intelligent, is no good at thinking on her feet. Without more time and less pressure, we fear she is lost forever to the cycle of 'um I don't know.'

As the clock ticks down to the hour of her demise, our protagonist's blue eyes begin to reflect the desperation within. The professor is looking at her expectantly; she is the last one to answer. Our protagonist opens her mouth to speak and....

Out flies the most horrendous, nonsensical, redundant question anyone has ever heard. The classroom is completely still for a few seconds, and then with a great torrent of wind all heads whip towards the professor, who looks baffled as well. Finally, one of the speakers decides to save at least a little of our protagonist's dignity. He answers her question as best he can without touching on the idiocy of it all (bless him).

The scene closes on an emptying classroom. When the last student has thrust his arms into his coat sleeves and tossed his backpack over his shoulder, we see her. There, in the corner. The one with the bowed head and the warm cheeks (though there is no visible blush). It is our protagonist.

Lights dim as she slowly exits the classroom.

Act 2:
It is late afternoon by the time our protagonist arrives back at her dorm. She immediately walks down to her friend Tim's room, for Tim, she knows, is in possession of the ultimate weapon.
This weapon comes in many forms, but is known to all by one name: The Nerf Gun.
Tim protests at first, but once he sees the determination on our protagonist's face, he solemnly loads the gun and places it in her hands.
Our protagonist shakes as she holds the Nerf against her temple.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not much. It will be over quickly."
One squeeze of the trigger.

The Nerf dart that pierces her skull bores a hole straight into her common sense. Suddenly, everything is completely clear; our protagonist must embark on a crusade of her own. A crusade not against Turks, but against blank-headedness and dumb questions. She must wage a war against her own mind.

The play concludes with an orange Nerf Gun being carried into battle by our brave protagonist. She has found her wits at last.