This weekend I will find myself once again in wedding territory. I know! What the heck, you guys, right? All this love and stuff surrounding me. Shit is getting ANNOYING.

Ah, I kid. Shit keeps getting AWESOMER.

I’m pretty excited about Sunday’s event as my cousin Christine will be the beautiful bride. She is a regular reader of The Spectrum, a natural redhead and Tom’s oldest sister. I kept telling people this and then would go on to talking more about the wedding like “And then his other sister and then his brother” and everyone was like wait, how many kids are in Tom’s family?

Six, you guys. The answer is six. I know. They’re super cute, right?

Tom and his family were my closest relatives growing up (living only seven minutes away) and we went on family vacations and swam in their pool every day during the summer and went out to eat to celebrate birthdays and you can imagine the raised eyebrows we got everywhere we went as our two families together added up to ten children.

I KNOW. TEN. It’s like, more than the Von Trapps.

Christine is two month’s older than my brother Paul and with Tom and I close behind in age, the four of us spent quite a lot of time together. My childhood memories often involve the four of us, sometimes bickering (Tom & Christine), sometimes crying (Me) but mostly laughing. So much laughter. Sleepovers that made us laugh so hard and for so long that my mother would come barging into our rooms threatening to kill us all or send someone home or make us go to church for five hours the next morning.

Summers are the most vivid in my mind, probably because of school being out and the opportunity for those hysterica-inducing sleepovers. But there were also long afternoons in Tommy and Christine’s pool, silly rhymes we would make up as we jumped off the diving board, flips we would attempt, songs we would scream. I remember sitting at wooden picnic tables after a long afternoon of swimming, wrapped in a terrycloth beach towel, ponytail dripping water down my back as I dug into a hamburger, macaroni salad, watermelon, surrounded by my cousins.

I remember Christine pointing out that my hair was turning green, which it would, every summer thanks to the chlorine. It would get all slimey and there would be jokes about a swamp monster and it was funny but it stung because I was so envious of Christine’s hair. Perfect, beautiful red hair. I totally and completely worshipped everything about her. The way she walked, the way she talked, her likes and dislikes, tried so hard to claim them as my own. As if that would make me more cool, less gangly, less….green-haired swamp monster girl.

But it didn’t ever work. No matter how hard I tried, I was still myself, much to my 11 year old chagrin.

Sometimes before dinner, we’d jump on our bicycles and go cruising around the neighborhood, Christine as leader. We’d follow her through the winding shady streets of Port Jefferson, past the houses with sprinklers in the yard, past the babies in the kiddie pools. We’d pick out our favorite houses, our favorite street names. Other times we would ride in silence, listening only to our feet pumping down on the pedals, some lazy crooning birds, crickets, bike tires zooming over pebbles and sand.

Christine is summer. Of that I can be sure. Jumping into the deep end, passing me a hot dog, giggling hysterically in the backseat of her dad’s van on the long drive upstate.

I see her now only on special occasions, family parties or Christmas as she and her soon-to-be-husband now live in Massachusetts. Seeing her brings all those things back to me, little pieces at a time, jumping into a lake in Cooperstown, riding Space Mountain three times in a row, the barrettes in her beautiful hair. Sometimes when I think about the fact that she’s getting married on Sunday, I can’t believe it’s actually allowed. I mean, surely she’s still too young, right?

But she isn’t.

She’s grown. And she’s lovely. And when I see her, it’s like no time has passed at all.

In my mind, we’re still small. Still ripping open Christmas presents on Christmas Eve, singing happy birthday as she blows out the candles on a cake, playing freeze tag on her front lawn as the fireflies flickered around us in the summer dusk.

My childhood. My happiness.

And maybe someday soon, we’ll jump on a bicycle for old times’ sake. We’ll ride around and around, so much taller and stronger than we ever have been. Adults, now. People who have jobs and apartments and husbands and different sorts of dreams.

But underneath, we’re still the same. Pumping those pedals, flying down hills, the beautiful red-haired girl and the gangly blonde swamp monster.

Congratulations, little Cheeko. You will be a most beautiful bride.

Me, Christine, Paul

by Laura Elizabeth, age 27.4

1. How to correctly pronounce “Budapest”.
2. If you charge your credit card and tell yourself you’ll pay it off later, you probably won’t.
3. If you’ve had too much to drink, taking a multi-vitamin before bed will prevent a hangover.
4. Men that want to date you will let you know. If they don’t, they’re not ‘busy’ or ‘working up the courage’. They just don’t actually want to date you.
5. How to say “Good morning, I’d like a cappuccino!” in Italian.
6. Saying ‘no’ to people doesn’t make you an asshole.
7. Living with people is hard but it’s something you need to know how to do. Some nights there will be dishes left in the sink and crumbs all over the floor and some nights there will be someone in bed with you sipping champagne and watching YouTube videos. There is a metaphor for life in there somewhere.
8. What my dad looks like with gray hair.
9. You should set the timer when cooking pasta because otherwise, you forget when it’s done and mushy pasta is gross.
10. Olive green is not a flattering shade on you.
11. Navy blue is though.
12. There’s usually two sides to every story and blame usually rests to some degree on both parties BUT BUT BUT - 1% of the time, it’s actually 100% the other person who goes batshit crazy. Not your fault, dude. Not. Your. Fault.
13. Vodka is not your friend.
14. The guy at the bagel store is named Steve. For five years, you thought it was Dominic. Total fail. Good guess, though.
15. There is no time line for marriage and babies and successful careers. You think there is. You think it matters. You know what? It doesn’t.
16. Caffeine affects the intensity of menstrual cramps. And your sanity. Drink accordingly.
17. A really good snack is a bunch of chocolate chips stirred into a tablespoon of chunky peaut butter.
18. It’s not really ever okay to talk shit about someone. No matter how much they piss you off. No. Seriously.
19. You can’t make pesto in a blender. Invest in a food processor.
20. Sometimes things will get really dark, black maybe. But the light always tends to come back in, slowly maybe. In slits or in huge bursts, the light comes back in. Always. This is the way life goes, my dear. This is the way life goes.

Alayna has been coming over for Friday night dinners at my house.

This is a big deal you guys because Alayna and I live pretty far away from each other as far as NYC neighborhoods go and we rarely get to veg on each other’s couches as best friends are supposed to do. However, Alayna is going through a lot of things right now that involve lots of her cash. (Upcoming wedding! Starting grad school!) So she’s all, WE SHOULD HANG OUT! and I say YEAH! And she says EXCEPT I CAN ONLY DO FREE THINGS! So a few weeks ago, I told her we could go for a walk (free!), go for a walk and talk (super free!) or she could come over and we could eat the food in my fridge.

She chose that last one. Which is wise. Because there is also wine in my fridge.

And so we have sort of established a little ritual of Friday night dinners AKA Laura Throws Everything In A Pan and Calls It Dinner.

(You want to be my friend, right? You should. It sounds gross, I know, to come over and eat my leftovers. But last Friday night, I made creamy fettucini with corn, arugula and heirloom tomatoes and I FELT LIKE A TOP CHEF! Minus having Padma Lakshmi tasting it which is sad because Padma is amazing and I met her twice. I KNOW!)

I’m only telling you about dinners with Alayna on Friday because I’m about to blame her for the super weird dream I had the last time she was over.

CONTRIBUTING FACTORS TO MY WEIRD DREAM THAT I CAN BLAME ALAYNA FOR:

1. Alayna told me while we were eating dinner that she keeps having pregnancy dreams. And before you freak out that she’s pregnant, you should know that all dream analysis books/websites seem to suggest that you dream about pregnancy while going through big life changes. This makes sense to me for Alayna because I’d say getting married and going back to school are PRETTY FREAKING BIG LIFE CHANGES.

SHE put the pregnancy idea in my head. SHE DID.

Also:

B) There was a lot of wine drinking involved. I think alcohol before bed or creamy fettucini before bed or both contribute to some WEIRD ASS DREAMS, you guys.

So, thanks, Alayna. You are dead to me.

I went to bed Friday night and dreamed that I was pregnant.

Of course.

And the feeling I had about being pregnant was VERY VERY ANXIOUS. I was going into labor when I suddenly decided I didn’t want to be pregnant, couldn’t possibly have a baby, could NOT HANDLE IT SOMEONE HELP ME! And I ran around (a gazillion months pregnant) asking those around me (in the hospital) what to do, begging for help.

It was disturbing, man.

And no one helped! As is customary in a dream where you are working yourself into more and more of an intense panic.

The doctors around me were all, “Whatever. Too late now.”

And I turned to my mother and she said very matter-of-fact, “Yeah. You should’ve gone into labor sooner. I’m not sure why you waited so long. Your stomach is too stretched out and your ass will never look the same and something is VERY wrong with your feet.”

I…

What?

It should be noted that my mother has probably said “ass” out loud maybe three times in her whole life. And once was in my dream. When I was pregnant.

And what the heck did she mean by “You waited too long”?!? As if I had a choice!? And WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MY FEET? Do I have bunions? Did my feet stretch out? Did I grow an extra toe? I COULDN’T SEE BECAUSE MY PREGNANT STOMACH WAS IN THE WAY! Oh, help.

In a moment of desperation, contracting like crazy and crying because no one will calm me down, I turned to Twitter.

Um. Yeah.

IN MY DREAM, I turned to the internet which just goes to show you where I’m used to getting my comfort. And advice.

I’m not sure whether Twitter ended up coming through for me. I can’t remember.

I DO remember that there was constant music in the background of my dream, all the songs I had listened to before bed while doing my crossword puzzle. (Have you ever tried to do a crossword puzzle after drinking lots of wine? It’s hard, you guys. I think I stared at #57 across for about two full minutes without blinking and then I e-mailed Laurie to ask her if she knew the answer. She didn’t.)

So there’s a lovely soundtrack to my dream as I’m running around screaming and crying and my mom’s all AND YOUR ASS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME and then I turn my head and I hear snippets of Walking In Memphis and I remember realizing I was dreaming and being like WAIT. WHAT THE ????? YOU LISTEN TO WEIRD MUSIC, DUDE.

Finally, I run smack into Christopher Lloyd circa “Taxi” who wasn’t my main doctor but a friendly surgical resident. (This is how he introduced himself.) For some reason, this was EXTREMELY comforting. Christopher Lloyd calmed me down immediately. I told him I wasn’t ready, I was doing it all by myself! I didn’t have a partner! I was scared!

Christopher Lloyd told me to calm down, that everything was going to be okay, that he’d coach me through labor and that my ass would totally go back to normal.

And then I woke up.

And was all, WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT????

I’m not going through any major life changes right now, ALAYNA. I don’t need to have panic-inducing pregnancy dreams, ALAYNA. And that’s the last time I invite you over for dinner. You with your encouragement of wine and pasta before bed! You with your comments about pregnancy and dreams and anxiety and panic! YOU YOU YOU.

But Christopher freaking Lloyd?

Sorry to say.

That one was all me.

I don’t know where he came from.

Somewhere deep in my sub-conscious.

But I was sure glad he showed up.

Interpretations? Thoughts? I SURE COULD USE SOME.

Tom said something really nice to me the other day which was:

“Even when you think you’re being weird? You’re not. I mean, I’m sure you FEEL like you’re being weird but you’re actually just mostly adorable.”

That could be the most incredible compliment I’ve ever received because you guys?

This whole time?

I didn’t realize I was being quirky cute weird.

I thought I was being WEIRD weird.

My God, it is good to have friends.

It’s possible to look glamorous while wearing 3D glasses over your real glasses.

Oh, yes. It is.

P.S. “Despicable Me” was awesome.

Long before I knew there would be a wedding in Italy and that Tom and I would both get an invite and attend, I scribbled an item on my Mondo Beyondo list (#28) and forgot about it. My initial reactions to Italy after first going there in 2008 were “THIS PLACE RULES OMG YOU GUYS” and “TOM WOULD LIKE THIS A WHOLE LOT”. I knew Tom would like Italy because in Italy, you eat a lot. And drink lots of wine. And gelato is plentiful. And Tom likes all these things.

“Eat pasta and drink wine with Tom…” was not so much about literally eating the pasta and drinking the wine but sharing the Italian experience with my cousin, my bestest friend in all the land. It was more about taking a trip, quality time, enjoying something new together. We rarely get to do this because he lives in Los Angeles and I live in NYC and I see him about twice a year and cue: SAD FACE. I figured something like Italy would happen eventually but I didn’t know when and because it didn’t seem that urgent to me, I didn’t make a plan or take any steps to make it happen.

And then, lo and behold, it just…sort of happened.

Mondo Beyondo is magic, y’all.

There was an engagement and a wedding and our cousin sent out invitations and it was “I’m going, are you?” “We should!” “Okay, but for real!” “FOR REAL ARE WE DOING THIS?” “YES FOR REAL OKAY!”

There were frantic e-mails back and forth and airline price watching and suddenly, we were in Italy! And every single evening for twelve days straight, we clinked our wine glasses at a sidewalk café, laughing hysterically over the awkwardness that was Every Single Person Thinking We Were Romantic Partners and then much crying into our food after those long exhausting talks that best friends have after so many months apart. Especially best friends who are also cousins who have a very long history. Careers and relationships and inside jokes and family problems and are you going to finish that? because I’m still hungry…

And of course, it wasn’t just about the wine and the food.

(Okay, it was sort of just about the wine and the food.)

BUT REALLY. It was about all those spontaeous, random things that happen when you travel. Things that I don’t necessarily handle very well because I’m sort of attached to KNOWING WHAT IS HAPPENING AT ALL TIMES. But when I’m able to let this go and relinquish control, I very much like those moments that I didn’t expect. The things I did that I never set out to do in the first place.

Like, kick Tom’s ass in checkers at a park.

Or go to the aquarium in Genoa and die laughing over the girl who kept making her boyfriend take model pictures of her in front of every fish tank. We followed suit, naturally.

Also, Tom is creative with fruit!

Also, we were the only two single people at that wedding! True story! Here is our SAD FACE + WINE + I think that’s saffron risotto omg:

Anyway.

Italy happened. (And Switzerland happened as a bonus!) And I forgot all about the fact that an item on my Mondo Beyondo list was actually coming true until a few days into our trip when we found ourselves in a small town called Nervi, a couple of train stops out of Genoa.

You see, one of the mistakes I made awesome things I did while planning our trip was to scope out the NY Times travel section in the name of research and inspiration. I found a great feature for almost every city we were traveling to called “36 Hours In…[NAME OF CITY]. It was a lovely list of non-touristy, out of the way things to do that you could accomplish in about 36 hours. (If you hauled ass.) The items were really good though - places to eat and what to order, museums to check out, where to find the best of everything.

Tom went ballistic over these lists. I mean, clutched those printed out lists while running around Italy like his life DEPENDED ON IT. And part of me was like OH MY GOD ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS? as I tried to pry the list from his clenched fists and the other part of me was like I SECRETLY LOVE THIS because, come on, it is coolness to not be such an American tourist with a fanny pack eating at a restaurant next to the Colosseum, you feel me?

Anyway, on our Genoa list, there was a gelateria listed, owned by a 23 year old named Rosa, who is now Tom’s Facebook friend. We got to talking while eating some DAMN GOOD gelato (I had dairy-free chocolate, made with apple juice instead of milk, WHAT? Rosa. You rock my world.) and Rosa was so! excited! to talk to New Yorkers! in English! She went on and on about all the fun stuff to do in Genoa and we were all, Rosa, this is super sad but we leave tomorrow and WHY DIDN’T WE COME HANG OUT WITH YOU SOONER?

But Rosa was not to be deterred and told us that even though it was 5 pm on our last day in town, we should hop the train to Nervi and go jump in the Mediterranean Sea. And I was all WHAT? THAT IS CRAZY. And Tom was all, THAT ISN’T ON MY LIST!? And Rosa was all, it is a super great town and you can jump off the rocks into the sea all night long and there are delicious restaurants on the coast and my friend owns a pizzeria! You should go! And tell him Rosa sent you!

Tom and I walked back to find my sister and her boyfriend and were sort of like, “Um. You guys want to go swimming?”

There was a pause as we all mulled it over.

It was already past six.

And we had to leave the next day.

And it was sort of random and I don’t know…

AND YES, OKAY, LET US SWIM AND EAT THE PIZZA!

And so we did.

We put on our suits, grabbed towels, got on a train and went to climb down the rocks in Nervi, all the way to the sea.

The water was warm and salty and went on forever. The sun was setting as we swam and I remember just floating there at one point, the water covering my ears so everything sounded muffled, staring up at this blue sky, thinking it might be quite alright if this was my last day on earth because oh, perfection, I have found you.

Later, we walked up to Rosa’s friend’s pizzeria and indulged in some of the best wine of the whole trip. We were all laughing about something ridiculous when it hit me - that I was eating and drinking with Tom! At a table on the sidewalk in Italy! And I was all YOU GUYS! MONDO BEYONDO! And then I maybe started crying a little bit and my sister took our picture before I got too out of control.

And then I stopped crying and concentrated on my pizza and finishing the white sparkling wine and then it was all gone and SAD FACE.

The trip to Italy was overwhelming for me sometimes because it was so much goodness in light of so much recent negativity. The health issues with my father, the lack of career momentum, the fact that I am alone, romantically. It was as if, on that trip, everything was alright. My relationship with my sister deepened and intensified, I was relaxed and well fed and wandering around ITALY, and geeeeeeeez. Thankfully, as an added bonus, my friendship with Tom made me realize over and over, every day, how lucky I am to have that one person who understands me on a level that many people don’t.

That person who I’ve known since the day he was born. That person who I can communicate so much with, even silently, without much effort at all. Stupid jokes and model poses and jazz hands and cheers, drink up! And pasta and you’ve GOT to try this and this is the best day of my entire life. There’s something really magical about having such a person. The person who, when they’re around, makes you feel a lot less alone and never lonely. Makes you feel like no matter what happens, you’ve got unspoken understanding and constant unconditional compassion and in this big huge world of oceans and planes and plates of pasta, we have each other and everything is going to be alright.

That is what making my Mondo Beyondo list has been about, ultimately: forming and maintaining connections to other people and other experiences and being present enough to realize how awesome they are, as they are happening. Remembering not to rush toward the next city but to stay present in the one you’re in and to take that risk and even though you don’t know how cold the water might be, to jump in. Go ahead. It’ll be fine.

We’re okay.

You and me.

The world is so much bigger than we think and so much smaller, too. And regardless of monetary wealth and career success and long-term relationship status, how fortunate to have people in your life who will sit in the passenger seat as you drive and tell you a story and sing you a song. Or who simply take over for you when you get too tired and can’t see the road anymore.

So, yeah, okay. Let’s raise a glass to #28. Food and drink with my very favorite person. On a spontaneous trip to the sea, on a very warm July night in Italy. Thank you, Tom, for the dreams you encourage me to keep dreaming and for videotaping me jumping into the Mediterranean like a muppet.

xo,
Loo

 

Swim In Nervi from The Spectrum on Vimeo.

I made a commitment to shake things up this summer. It’s been harder to make this happen with a sick dad at home but I’m still pretty proud of the small amount of fun I was able to create. I’m a creature of habit and routine and I take lots of classes and work really hard and sometimes I forget to just have fun.

Which is why I created my Mondo Beyondo list.

Which I realized recently might come across as really self-centered. I mean, we can’t ALL make a Mondo Beyondo list. We can’t all travel to China and see the Mona Lisa and learn to parasail and isn’t it selfish to even write down that you want to do those things?

Well. No.

And it’s because ultimately, the Mondo Beyondo list is not necessarily about checking items off a list. Or doing things for ME and not for YOU. At its core, the Mondo Beyondo list is a reminder that the world contains some really awesome magical experiences. Sometimes you have to create those yourself. (I forget this.) And sometimes, the universe just bestows upon you some pretty kick ass gifts. The key is to be open to these and to acknowledge them, to take them and then send up some gratitude because life, after all, is beautiful.

CUE: YOU ARE THE WIND BENEATH MY WINGS.

Anyway. I will be talking about Mondo Beyondo some more in another post because WHY NOT?

But this post, THIS POST! is about the Saturday I spent with my brother and sister-in-law a few weeks ago.

We started out having a late brunch and didn’t part until after midnight.

I love days like this.

And the whole reason it happened was because I called my brother and was all YOU OWE ME SOME COLD BREW COFFEE BECAUSE I BLOGGED ABOUT IT AND WE NEVER HAD IT AND YOU SUCK.

And Paul was all, COFFEE? WHERE?

And so it was.

We had brunch at Extra Virgin down on West 4th St. Highly recommend. I had a glass of Gavi di Gavi wine which pretty much makes any brunch awesome. Sophie is drinking a raspberry mojito. Highly recommend that as well.

Then we went for a walk and stumbled upon the newly opened Limelight market which is sort of like a mall built inside a church. It’s New York City. I can’t explain it.

And to think, all this time I’ve been giving my baby an UNorganic massage. I AM SUCH A FAILURE.

Sophie bought some kind of body scrub and a jug of white tea and Paul and I split a red velvet whoopie pie. You heard that correctly. Red. Velvet. Whoopie. Pie.

We finally stumbled out of the Limelight on a sugar high and walked toward the Ace Hotel for some Stumptown cold brew coffee. I had heard about this from a philosophy classmate a few months back and he had declared it hands down the best iced coffee of his life. I was all, OH PLEASE, HOW GOOD COULD IT BE?

Uh. That good, people. And cheap! I think $2.75 and they didn’t charge me extra for my soy milk. Always a plus in my book.

Paul had to turn away from the cashier so he wouldn’t totally geek out, took one sip and mouthed to me behind his hand OH MY GOD!!!

It was that delish.

Then we took our coffees (and Soph’s mocha) into the Ace Hotel lobby to sit on big couches and people watch. It was quite possibly the most wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

We even popped into the old school photobooth but couldn’t figure out how it worked. (WE ARE NOT THAT SMART.) So the first picture is of our shirts as we had no idea that the camera would start clicking and WHERE it was coming from. We also couldn’t manage to get Paul into any photo. Sophie looks like a newspaper boy and I look like something from Little House on the Prairie but what the heck else is new?

After our leisurely coffee sipping, we wandered down to Madison Square Park to see the “Event Horizon” art installation which involved statues of 31 men placed in the park and on the roofs of the buildings surrounding it. The best part was looking up and seeing these dudes watching you. Maybe it was creepy? But maybe it was awesome.

(I stole this picture from here as I didn’t get to take any photos of the dudes. PHOTOGRAPHY FAIL.)

Then Paul declared it “TIME TO EAT ASIAN FOOD” which is a regular occurrence with us Dlugs. We hit up some tasty Thai food in the East Village and I am still dreaming about their chive pancakes. STILL.

We ended our evening at my friend Mike’s bar at the cheesiest Mexican restaurant of all time in the West Village for some margaritas and Coronas. HOW CHEESY is this bar/restaurant, you ask? So cheesy that if it’s your birthday, they stop the music and play a blaring rendition of LA BAMBA as the disco balls and Christmas lights strewn around the restaurant flash.

OH. YES.

I’d call the day a total success. We had sibling quality time, tons of laughs and that cold brew coffee. Oh, I am dreaming of it still.

For a girl who usually spends Saturday sleeping in and then babysitting, this was the most excitement I’d had in awhile. It makes me so happy to say that spending time with family makes me really content. And that I would choose to hang out with my siblings even if we weren’t related.

That says a lot, I think.

It helps that my brother bought my brunch AND my dinner.

But that whoopie pie?

That whoopie pie was ALL ME.

YOU ARE WELCOME.

That’s all for today.

MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON from Dean Fleischer-Camp on Vimeo.

I was not a particularly enthusiastic member of my university. I didn’t attend basketball games or get involved in the college community very often. It wasn’t because I didn’t have any interest but rather because my undergraduate BFA program was so intense that I lived and breathed musical theatre for about 28 credits per semester, only occasionally wearing my leotard and sweatpants out into the Real World to attend a mandatory World Civilizations lecture.

It wasn’t a college experience I’d recommend to people as it was particularly insulating and made it hard for me to get out there and do normal college student things like, protest something I sort of didn’t believe in outside the student union or get drunk and make out with a Communications major I met in Psych101. These are the life experiences I regret not having, y’all. Instead, I was immersed in Art Land with artists. I was taking ballet and staying late at rehearsals and my young adult life was filled with jazz hands.

That being said, I was more recognizable on my 25,000 student campus than most of my fellow musical theatre and dance majors because I was part of something that put me on the map. Part of something bigger. PART OF THE COMMUNITY. Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was a Resident Advisor, an RA. And for free room and board, I became quite familiar with the incoming freshmen class because it was my job to let them back in their rooms when they locked themselves out and were too wasted to find their keys. It was my job to counsel them about their long distance boyfriends back home and how much they missed them. And it was especially my job to tell them it was very nice that they had a crush on me, but I was their RA. But thanks anyway.

I bring this up because over the past few weeks, I’ve gotten no less than three items in the mail from my alma mater inviting me to a dinner, being held on August 24th, here in New York City for RA’s and others who have worked in the Res Life community. The invitations had fun graphics and exclamation points. “Come share your experiences with others who have been there!”

As soon as I opened the first one, I called down the hall to my roommate, letting him know that I had been invited to an RA dinner, didn’t that just sound like the best idea ever? Shouldn’t I totally go?? He laughed incredibly hard and then so did I. And then I ripped up the invitation and threw it in the recycling bin. And here’s why.

I was a Resident Advisor (RA) during my sophomore year of college. I participated in two weeks of training prior to the start of the semester and during the year, was in charge of ’sitting duty’ once a week in the Res Life office in case anyone needed help AKA locked themselves out of their rooms while drunk. I was also required to create ‘programs’ for the residents on my floor so they would feel like part of a community. I did all of this with aplomb in return for the free housing and my very own tiny dorm room. The End.

During the course of that year, the university implemented a new Res Life idea available to incoming freshmen. They could choose to live in a dorm with other people that were majoring in a similar subject. The theory was that it might be helpful to have all the engineers on one floor so they could study together and bond and blah blah blah. I imagine trust falls might’ve been involved.

The university created a new res life position for these floors - an Academic Assistant (AA) who got the same perks as an RA (own room! for free!) but who was more in charge of fostering the academic growth of the students. The AA was in charge of holding office hours, helping with homework, creating programs directed toward the common major on the floor. (PIROUETTES!)

I applied and was hired to be the first ever Fine Arts AA. And thus it came to be that I spent my junior year living on a floor with freshmen acting and dance majors. The only other thing worthy of note about this entire year (besides the fact that I had a super hot boyfriend at the time) is that I missed most of the training in August for my position. I had been approved to miss it as I was spending most of that time in Greece with fellow theatre students and my acting professor, puttin’ on a show, as they say, for an International Theatre Festival.

Res Life approved my skipping the training because, come on, I was the FINE ARTS AA. And I had this crazy Grecian chance to like, DO SOME FINE ARTS YO. IN GREECE. They also approved it because I had already gone through RA training the previous year. And training is basically the same every year. Think: trust falls. And chats around a campfire.

The plan for my senior year was simple: repeat my position as Fine Arts AA. Graduate. Move to NYC. Become instantly successful.

A few weeks before training was set to begin, I received a phone call offering me a tiny role in a summer stock production up near the university. Students at my school auditioned every year for this regional company and it was the first time I had been cast in any of their shows. I accepted the role after noting that two of the performances conflicted with two nights of AA training. Otherwise, I was in the clear. I assumed (oh my youth was so ADORABLE) that I could clear the missed training with Res Life and all would proceed as usual.

I packed up my bags, moved up to Buffalo early, began rehearsals for a play. Lived with my now Roommate in his apartment and shared his bed because the dorms hadn’t opened up yet and I had nowhere else to crash. One bright sunny morning, I made my way over to my Res Life boss’ office to clear my conflicts with her and confirm that I was back and ready for training.

This woman, it should be noted, had never been nice to me in my entire life and I say that, both as a mature objective 27 year old and as a completely immature 20 year old who is still holding an intense grudge.

I very calmly explained my conflicts (two nights, out of two weeks! No big deal, right?) and asked for permission to miss the training. I told Elizabeth, my boss, that I would make it up somehow and that it shouldn’t be a problem because I’d been an AA for a year already and an RA for a year before that.

Elizabeth’s gray eyes were like steel.

She told me that absolutely not, no way, was I allowed to miss two nights of training.

I stared, almost thinking she was kidding.

She used the words unprofessional and selfish. She said I had missed training the previous year and why did I think I was better than everyone else here?

I told her I absolutely did not think that. It’s just that I didn’t realize this would be a problem and I’m already in rehearsals.

She told me that was my problem, wasn’t it? Putting my needs before my duties as an Academic Assistant?

I emphatically apologized and said that I didn’t realize it was a problem and I am the Fine Arts AA and I’m just doing my fine art and it means a lot to me and isn’t there a way to work it out?

No, she said. As if that was the end of that.

I went home and wept, asking everyone I knew what to do. It was about two weeks before the semester was about to begin and without my AA position, I had nowhere to live. And no money to pay rent because I didn’t realize I would need money to pay rent. MY GOD! I’M ONLY 20! I’M NOT OLD ENOUGH TO PLAN AHEAD.

My cousin Tom told me not to take no for an answer, surely there was someone else I could talk to.

I made an appointment with Kevin Ahuna, Elizabeth’ boss, whose name I will not change, even though I am writing about him on the internet because I am willing to stand by my words and tell you that Kevin Ahuna was the most condescending person I had ever talked to in my life. And was a complete 180 from the person I expected, the person who spoke every year at RA/AA training and threw M&M’s at the students and made everyone laugh.

Oh, no.

The Kevin Ahuna I met with that day was not exactly…student friendly.

He reiterated Elizabeth’s words.

Selfish. Unprofessional. Absolutely not. Better than everyone else. Not a team player.

Tears fell from my eyes as I was twenty and completely incapable of controlling my very out of control emotions.

It’s two nights? I offered.

You missed most of training last year, he said coldly. Staring at me without compassion or understanding.

I don’t know where else to go, I stammered. I don’t know what else to do.

Should’ve thought of that before missing training.

Should’ve made my AA duties a priority.

I thought you were here to help the students, I finally said. I thought Res Life was supposed to be supportive. Can’t we compromise?

I can’t be supportive of your choice to choose something else over your responsibilities here. We approved you missing training last year and I will not approve it again. You have crossed the line and people have to understand that we are serious about the commitment.

I turned and walked out.

Go above him, said my cousin Tom. It’s two freaking nights of training.

I wrote a letter to Joe K., head of Res Life, who was unreachable for an in-person meeting.

I received a response shortly after: notifying me that I had been fired.

Fired.

About ten days before the semester was set to begin.

Fired for asking for time off.

I went back to Elizabeth with my cousin Tom in tow, in tears.

I’m fired? I asked.

Joe K. misunderstood you, she said exasperatedly. He thought we already fired you. He was just supporting our decision.

So I’m fired?

You’re fired if you miss training, she snapped.

So I’m fired?

It seems the head of Res Life just did that, yes.

But that was a complete misunderstanding!

Laura, it was your choice to go to him. I can’t control his decisions. It’s your choice to not be part of this community.

Actually, it’s your choice, I said. You won’t let me miss training and be part of the community and I JUST GOT FIRED!

That was your choice, she said.

DO YOU HEAR HOW YOU ARE SPEAKING TO HER? my cousin Tom finally exploded. YOU ARE THE MOST CONDESCENDING PERSON EVER!

(Oh my God, being nineteen and twenty years old was amazing.)

Who exactly are you? asked Elizabeth.

Um, I’m her cousin, said Tom. And I feel like you’re treating her unfairly and being a complete jerk.

Your cousin can handle this on her own, said Elizabeth.

Then she turned to me.

I’ll need a letter of resignation on my desk so that I have proper documentation.

And she walked away.

Hold up. Letter of resignation? Even though I was fired? Proper documentation? HOLD THE F UP. Sounds like she couldn’t use Joe K.’s letter as proof so she wanted me to say it was MY FAULT? She wanted me to own the choice not to work for them anymore? OH HELL NO, BITCHES. That is all on YOU GUYS. And your strict insane training demands. AND FUCKING TRUST FALLS OH MY GOD WITH THE TRUST FALLS.

(This is also where I need to interject that at 27, I am freaking dying to know why on earth I tried so hard. And why I cared so much. I understand that at 20, it is really freaking scary to have nowhere to live and no money and to be yelled at by your superiors. But I’m so glad there’s such a thing as personal growth, y’all because I feel like now, after that first encounter, I woulda been like ‘okay. bye.’ and figured it out. Back then, it took me so much longer to realize that.)

Not knowing what else to do, I had myself a good cry. Or five million.

And then I realized it just wasn’t worth it anymore.

I went above and above and above and got shot down three times. I was talked to like an idiot and was treated like I had committed a crime. And ultimately, I was fired and then asked to resign, something that wasn’t even fair and seemed completely false.

I had a mini breakdown and then I picked the pieces back up. I stayed in the show and told myself I’d find a place to live, no matter what. And when the day came that I owed Elizabeth my letter of bullshit resignation, instead I wrote out a letter of everything that had happened. I detailed my years of service to the Res Life community, detailed who I talked to and who said what and how I was fired for asking for two nights off. And how everyone supported this even though it didn’t make any sense.

I fired up my discman (2004, you guyz!) and went for a run over to Elizabeth’s office.

Is this your letter of resignation? she asked me.

Oh no, I said, smiling all the way. This is my letter. But it’s not about quitting. It’s about how you fired me and left me with no place to live ten days before the start of the semester. For your information, I have made a copy of this letter and have deposited it in the dean’s mailbox so he can have proper documentation. Have a GREAT semester, Elizabeth!

And I jogged all the way home.

And it all worked out in the end, doesn’t it always?

I scraped together money and borrowed some more and moved into a one bedroom apartment in the most idyllic neighborhood in Buffalo on a quiet, tree-lined street, the first time I ever lived alone. I spent the autumn rehearsing plays and going for walks down side streets near my house, kicking up leaves and laughing at Halloween decorations. I had dinner parties and sleepovers and danced around listening to music without anyone else to bother me. And when December came, I graduated early, packed up my car and drove south.

The invitation to go to an RA dinner here in NYC is hilarious. It just struck me as so so funny considering the way my work for Res Life ended. Come to a university-sponsored dinner? Have a few laughs? With people I probably can’t stand? Oh, come on.

My phone rang yesterday and I recognized my university phone number immediately so I screened it, figuring it was a solicitation. Some freshman from the Honors Department calls me up every other month and asks if I enjoyed my Honors Department experience and if I would consider donating money to the program.

“Oh I don’t think so!” I always chirp happily into the phone. “It was the head of the Honors Department, after all, who pulled me aside, despite me being on an Honors Creative and Performing Arts Scholarship who told me he didn’t think I had what it took to be successful and shouldn’t I change my major to something else?”

That usually gets an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the phone until I cheerily offer a “THANKS FOR CALLING THOUGH!”

Yesterday, however, the phone call was not from an unsuspecting freshman in the Honors Department. Instead, it was a young student named Mallory, calling on behalf of the head of Res Life, who wanted to know if I received the invitation to the New York City RA dinner on August 24th.

Her voicemail continued, “I wanted to know two things. First, if you are able to attend as we’d love to have you there and would like to get a headcount of who will be coming. And second, I was wondering if there was any chance you might like to speak at the event. You know, to share your experiences with the other attendees. Could you please call me back at your earliest convenience?”

Are you…serious?

Do I want to go?

And do I want to speak at the event? Do I want to share my experiences of what working for Res Life was like?

Oh, Mallory, darling.

You have no idea.

When we last left our Brooklyn broken-hipped hero, he was sitting in a wheelchair in the backyard waiting out a six week term off his antibiotics. It was a very long six weeks for my dad as he sort of just…wheeled around, down the ramp in our garage to go sit in the backyard and then back up it again to go sit inside…to do more…sitting. Yeah. Fun. Occasionally he watched a few British crime mini-series on DVD. MY IDEA OF A GOOD TIME, I’LL SAY! (GOOD DAY, GUVNA!)

Oh wait. There was also that one time my mom left him alone to run to the bank and he was in his wheelchair in the backyard and a wheel got caught in the place where the stone walkway met the grass and the wheelchair toppled over and my dad fell down with it and remained there, a perfect candidate for one of those infomercial HELP I’VE FALLEN AND I CAN’T GET UP ads.

My dad crawled on his hands toward the telephone, which luckily was within reach, and dialed 911.

“Sir, do you need an ambulance?” asked the 911 operator.

“NO,” said my dad politely, laying in the grass. “I JUST NEED A REALLY BIG COP TO COME PICK ME BACK UP.”

“Um, how big are you, sir?”

“OH, I’M ABOUT 6′2, 220 POUNDS. WELL, I WAS 230 BUT I LOST SOME WEIGHT. BUT PROBABLY NOT MORE THEN 10 POUNDS. YEAH. I’M 220. SO IF YOU COULD JUST SEND A BIG COP.”

“Will do, sir.”

In about fifteen minutes, a huge ass cop showed up to my backyard, picked my dad up and put him back in the wheelchair.

Then my mom arrived back from the bank and was all “How are you doing?” and my dad was all “WIFFEY! WHILE YOU WERE OUT, I FELL DOWN AND A COP PICKED ME UP SO EVERYTHING IS FINE. HOW WAS THE BANK?”

Scene.

(PS, have we talked about the fact that my parents call each other Hubby and Wiffey? Not wifey, wiffey, double F, short i sound. I don’t know why this is. Don’t even ask me. But my parents have called each other “Paul” and “Rita” maybe five times in my whole life and usually when talking to other people. It is the weirdest thing. And normally, people that use the words Hubby and Wiffey would make me barf but for some reason, my parents make it okay. ISN’T THAT ALWAYS THE CASE? Damn them and their cuteness.)

So Hubby and Wiffey went to the Hospital for Special Surgeries yesterday and today to meet with the hip surgeon and the NYC infectious disease doctor separately. It would’ve made sense to see them on one day but alas, the infectious disease dude had a daughter who was having a baby so dad had to make a separate trip. Whatever, infectious disease dude.

The hip surgeon stuck a huge needle in my dad’s hip to find out if the staph infection is still hanging out in there, being an asshole. We won’t find out the results for another week but the blood work seems to imply that the infection is gone. Apparently, you never can tell. Whatever. The surgeon said that the calendar is booked through September but if the results come back clear, it’s possible he’ll try to squeeze dad in and dad was like SEPTEMBER? A NEW HIP IN SEPTEMBER? LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED.

Until he met with the infectious disease doctor today.

And the infectious disease doctor spent TWO HOURS with Hubby and Wiffey and my brother Paul, detailing every aspect of my dad’s case and finally after going over the whole hip thing, he was all, “Why has no one talked to you about the bigger problem here?”

And they were all WHA?

And the doctor was all “Um. Your bladder/prostate/urinary issues, to me, are the bigger problem. And I cannot okay surgery until we find out more and fix it.”

And everyone was all OF COURSE THIS IS HAPPENING BECAUSE WE ALMOST HAD AN END IN SIGHT BUT NOW WE DON’T!

The long and short of it is:

My father has some issues with his prostate. He had cancer a few years ago, if y’all remember correctly. And the prostate itself is enlarged, has been for a long time, before the cancer, to the point where he was getting up to pee approximately five times a night and when I heard my mom say this, I was like DIDN’T HE THINK SOMETHING WAS UP? LIKE, THAT’S NOT NORMAL?

And then I realized that was a stupid question because my dad can successfully ignore any problem. See also: that one time he broke his kneecap and didn’t find out about it until someone took an x-ray of his knee twenty years later.

You might recall also, if you’ve been reading this blog since the beginning of My Dad Fell Down and Went Boom, that he had numerous issues with his bladder post-surgery. For one thing, they tried removing the catheter THREE separate times and failed and my dad had to have it in for almost forty days. For another, he had a raging urinary tract infection in the hospital that nearly killed him dead. And there was that time we all went to the emergency room on Memorial Day around 4 am because his catheter backed up and the urine wouldn’t come out and YOU GET THE POINT, RIGHT?

The infectious disease doctor seems to believe (obviously) that there are some major issues going on with my dad’s whole urinary thing. And he wants it dealt with before he approves surgery. This means more time in the wheelchair which is freaking devastating at this point BUT! as my dad pointed out today, he of chipper relentless optimism, it also means that someone, finally finally, is LISTENING to him. A doctor is taking him seriously. They are looking at all aspects. They want him healthy.

This is a complete 180 from that Other Hospital. The hospital of WOOPS YOU HAVE STAPH? and WOOPS YOUR KNEE HURTS? and WOOPS YOU ALMOST DIED FROM A UTI WE DIDN’T NOTICE?

Yeah. That hospital.

Dad has an appointment in the city next week with a fancy urologist. And they’re gonna see what’s up. And formulate a plan. To fix my dad from the inside out.

For now, he’s chowing down on some healthy food because the blood work seemed to indicate that he’s anemic and somewhat malnourished.

So, he’s gonna have to start eating. And then they’re gonna have to fix his bladder/prostate/whatever. And THEN they will fix the hip.

And then maybe he can walk again.

And then maybe I can write a blog post about my dad that doesn’t involve the words ‘hospital’ or ‘hip’.

As always, we so appreciate the good thoughts you guys are sending. It’s a long road but he’s with people who are really taking care of him now and he’s so so so happy.

It’s going to take longer than we thought, of course. But rest assured that all the characters of this story, Hubby and Wiffey, their children and dedicated blogger, are all going to be just fine.