The Dentist Monologue

My inner monologue when going to the dentist:

You're a grown up. You can handle this. it's not actually painful. Stop whimpering. the doctor hasn't done anything yet.

How am I supposed to handle real life pain if I can't handle a novacaine shot? Like if I ever had to get a surgery. Or have a child?

Averill,You're a grown up. Those noises are just a stranger drilling a hole into your precious teeth. AH!

ok, stop crying. there isn't actually any pain--your mouth is numb.

ugh. your mouth is numb. Don't accidentally bite your tongue!

you can't. your mouth is wired open right now.

this is the worst. I hate this person shaving away my enamel right now. I hate you! I'm sorry, Doctor, I don't really hate you. you're just doing your job. but if you could hurry up this process that'd be great.

By the time they finally release me, they treat me like some sort of war hero: "You did so great in that chair.. How you feeling?...You made it out amazingly...Way to stick in there."

A) Did I have a choice? Could I have been... bad in the chair somehow? B) I'm sure they don't feel the need to validate all their patients--just the small children, and the pathetic adults like myself. C) Ya! I did stick in there! I only mildly cried, and only twice. I should get a medal.

And then I get home, hide in a corner until the novacaine wears off and I can smile like a human, and promise myself I'll floss every night for the rest of my life so I never have to go back to the 10th circle of hell again.

...you got into Harvard?

"What? like it's hard?"-Elle Woods.

So often--SO so so often, I do really stupid things. It became a catch-phrase with my best friend in DC, whenever I would do one of these really stupid things, he'd say (affectionately), "...and you got into Harvard."

I forgot to screw in the gas tank lid on a rental car for a good few hours before someone brought it to my attention (I didn't even notice. Who knows  how long it would have stayed like that? Days? Weeks?)

"...and you got into Harvard"

Or when I couldn't fill up my water bottle from the drinking spout, and my friend suggested I open the top...

"...and you got into Harvard"

Or when I put in a work order because my door wasn't locking correctly. The repair guy asked to see my key, "well, the key won't do any good, cause it just won't lock when you shut the door." then he turned the deadbolt, and said, "you thought it locked automatically, huh?"
"It's moments like this I have to remind myself I got into this school."
The repair man chuckled, "You people can split an atom, but you can't figure out how to lock your own door."

Sometimes, in my blondest moments, I think, "how on earth did they let some dunce like me into this school?  Harvard Schmarvard."


But sometimes I'll be walking through campus, and get hit with this overwhelming rush of amazement and humility.
I live here. I will be attending this school. By some unbelievable, magnanimous, divine miracle (s), I got into Harvard, I am going to Harvard. With all my quirks, shortcomings, lack-of-knowledge, I have the opportunity to be a part of this incredible legacy, community, and education. I feel so incredibly blessed.

I can't even begin to describe my gratitude. Remarkable, ineffable amounts of gratitude.

Thank you to everyone who supported and encouraged this crazy dream. RP, for listening to the essay 86 times, and to every anxiety attack thereafter. To my mother, who never let me forget my (outlandish) dream, five years ago, to one day go to this school. My father, who at every chance reminds me I'm a fake imposter.

The Ed School Motto: Learn to Change the World.
I promise I will work as hard as I can to do exactly that, and to contribute to the legacy that's here.

Because for all my blonde moments later, I am so humbled, grateful, and thrilled! I am going to Harvard!

My Banana Split

Returning to dorm living has been an adjustment.  My room is at the very end of the hall. The only advantage is that it's right next to a secret stairwell exit to the street. But there are quite a few challenges. For instance, navigating the 47-step long trek down the hall to the bathroom. Not only the obvious frustration of late-night emergencies, but any normal excursion: you have to plan ahead --ie bring the toothbrush on the way to the shower--because it's a long trip down the hall and back if you forget something you need. 

There's also the problem of feeding myself, having nothing but a mini-fridge to my name. So far I've done pretty well on granola bars and leftovers, but admittedly, I'll steal and collect extra food from events and save it for future meals. 

Last night, I stole a muffin and a banana from institute. Gold--that's two meals! This morning, when packing my backpack for the day, I carefully put my water bottle in the main bag (because it frequently falls out of the side pocket) and I put the banana in the side pocket. I ate the muffin on the way out the door for breakfast, and looked forward to the banana for lunch. 

But when I arrived at work, my banana was gone! I imagined it lost somewhere in the underground. Somewhere between the shuffle of two rush-hour subway trains, and the walk through busy city centers, my banana was lying on the ground. Trampled and smooshed beneath the city--a pile of white-yellowish, sad, lonely goop. Or perhaps it'd had been stolen. I hope by someone who was hungry and really needed a banana. Cause I was hungry and really wanted a banana. 

At snack time, one of my little girls is always allergic to the camp snack (gluten), so we get her own snack out of her lunch box every day. She frequently brings bananas. So I told her the saga of my own lost banana this morning, "Somewhere between my house and camp, trampled by the masses of morning-traveling workers, lies a small pool of mushy banana." She gave me a solid, eight-year-old quizzical side-eye. The one that says, "I think you're trying to be funny, but I'm not quite sure how to react." As I kept describing the scene of what I imagined to be the fate of my banana, ("Maybe someone picked it up and put it in a smoothie, or maybe it's in some historic, freedom-trail trash can...") she finally cracked into a smile--borderline giggle territory. 

Successful child-rearing day. 

When I arrived home, tired and hungry, I went up my secret stairwell to get to my room. 

There, on the steps, right outside my dorm, was my banana! A little older, a little wiser, a little browner than the banana I'd left this morning. Worn by time, heat, and the anxiety of having felt abandoned, my little banana and I had both gained life experience today. It stared back at me from the stair--a glorious reunion. 

Sometimes the things you fear are lost forever, are right back where you started. 

Or you're just an idiot and drop things, essentially right on your own doorstep.

Either way, it was delicious. 

Cookies and a Train to New York

I have to catch a train to New York City at 2:00pm, so I’m trying to squeeze a whole day’s worth of work into the morning, I get to my desk early, and without having eaten breakfast I am greeted by the 40 birthday cookies my boss so generously baked. Their beady little chocolate-chip faces are staring me down, even after I put them in a drawer, whispering, “Averill… Averillllll… come on. You know you want to eat one of us. You haven’t eaten anything all morning! Chemical energy… Come on Averill… ”

I give in and eat one.

Ok--I eat three.

Then it’s 1:30pm. I run out the door, chase down a taxi. “Can you get me to Union Station, as quickly as possible? I’m going to miss my train.”

The driver smiles, takes my request to heart. Two U-turns, several jolting starts and stops later, we arrive in plenty of time. Both grateful but now slightly nauseous, I need some real food.

Wandering around Union Station, nothing seems appetizing, cause I’m still a little car-sick from the Nascar taxi ride. I finally settle on a sushi role. Then think, I’ll probably need more than this… I go on an aimless tour around union station picking up random things that look mildly appealing: a Starbucks blueberry muffin, and (I’m ashamed to admit) a McDonald’s cheeseburger.  (also, when I ask for some water at the McDonalds, the lady gives me an espresso-sized cup full... so a gulp’s worth)

Somewhere along the way during this food safari, I pass by a colorful little stand.

The charming rainbow palate is so lovely, I have to stop and see if the sparkles are really magic. And then of course, they are—because what the stand is selling is magic:

Macaroons. Flat, round, amazing cookies, that are notoriously impossible to bake. So refined, so delicate, so lovely, the display is a spread of all sorts of delectable colors—with flavors I’ve never imagined! A fruit exhibit in a cookie stand. The pear (a pear macaroon!) is calling my name. Much like the cookies earlier, but in a seductive, French accent, I hear, “Avrill, oui, we must be friends! You must try me, je t'aime”

So I buy one.

Ok—I buy three.

I’m at the gate. I successfully condense all of my random food items into the McDonald’s bag—sushi, cheeseburger, muffin, and macaroons. Careful of the precious cookies that I’m saving for mid-train ride. The train is delayed.

Well, now I have time to eat.

After the cheeseburger and the sushi, I am stuffed. No room for the muffin. But now the line is moving, and I panic, because I’m pretty sure I cut the line, but I didn’t mean to, but I can’t go back now. Where’s my ticket? Too many things—not enough hands. I keep the Starbucks bag and muffin with me, and toss the McDonald’s bag into the trash, and shuffle into the line, hoping not to make anyone mad.

I hand her my ticket, head down, trying to move quickly, get out of everyone’s way. At the top of the escalator to the platform, I look at my hand clutching the muffin bag, encouraged by the idea of how delicious my macaroo… THE MACAROONS! I threw them away!

I turn around, push against the traffic, cross under one of those line ropes, and take apart another one, all in pursuit of that trashcan. With single-minded, laser straight focus like I’ve never had before, I go digging through a garbage bin.

I find the McDonald’s bag quickly and once I’ve secured those little cookies in my hand again, I finally regain whatever grace and decorum is left to regain. I pretend like the many curious glances my way do not exist. Though I can’t ignore the man right beside me. So I explain, “I threw away macaroons.” I shrug and smile, as if that explained everything. Realizing it isn’t quite a satisfactory answer, I continue, “I mean, I didn’t mean to throw them away. I didn’t realize I had thrown them away. Have you ever had a macaroon? You can’t just throw it away. It’s a magic cookie.” 

He doesn’t understand. He’s probably never had one.

No matter, I have my macaroons.

I have to go back through the line, hoping the lady checking tickets doesn’t recognize me. From her judgmental stare, she probably saw the whole trash-can adventure.

No matter. I have my macaroons.

Safely on the train, secure from any other distraction, I enjoy the slightly crunchy, slightly melty masterpiece that is the macaroon.

A very happy Averill. 

Totally worth the trouble.

I'm Sorry, GusGus

"I think I have a mouse in my apartment" I called my parents yesterday morning.
My mom said, "You should probably buy a mouse-trap honey."
My dad said, "You should probably stand on a table."

I casually mention it to my co-worker over lunch.
"A mouse? You should tell your landlord. Also probably buy a trap."

Resolved in my quest to do just that, I later brought it up again to her on our way home, so that we could stop at the drug store.
"Athletic little thing, I live on the third floor!"
"The last girl who lived there had a mouse too! I think she also bought a mouse trap for it.  She named him Gusgus--like the cute little guy in Cinderella--you know?

Oh great. Now he has a name! And I'm picturing him with a funny little hat singing, and sewing, and saving the day. What was I doing?! I couldn't murder a small, helpless creature. I was always complaining about living alone, perhaps I'd let him be my roommate for the winter!

We passed the drug store. "I'll just deal with it later" I told her.

But then I heard little feet scuttling in my dreams. I heard them everywhere. Every creak on every floorboard, was a disease-ridden animal. Increasingly, I saw mice everywhere: Every leaf that blew past with a gust of wind, fluttered with the movement of a small rodent. Every shadow that moved even remotely quickly--he was everywhere. Haunting me. Plaguing me.

I finally convinced myself that I should buy a mouse trap. The only ones CVS had to offer--black ones that looked stupid-proof. It was structured like a clam:  A hinge on one side and a serrated jaw on the other. You opened it, set the spring to a click, and when there was pressure in the front, the mouth snapped shut.
It looked like once it caught the mouse, the victim  would be completely concealed from view. Except for maybe his tail. In my now suddenly murderous inner-monologue, I pictured his little tail left dangling out of the trap, and as I smiled with sick satisfaction, and I bought the contraption.

With strategically-placed peanut-butter, I put it in the little crook next to the closet by the front door where he last ran. Intentionally making lots of noise--because I didn't want to see him. I didn't want a beady-eyed glare staring me down as I set his own death trap.

Days passed.

Every time I walked through the door, I glanced at my little black trap. Relieved that it was wide open, right where I placed it, but dreading the moment when the small, crawly thing will actually be consumed by its lethal jaws, and I'll have to dispose of the corpse.

...

Tonight, it finally happened: when I came home from work, the trap was missing from its spot next to the door. Talking to my father on the phone at the time, I told him about the caught mouse, even described the little tail sticking out, just as I'd imagined. The deed was done.

Nauseous with guilt and disgust to rival Poe's most heart-wrenching tragedies I went into the kitchen to muster up the strength necessary to pick up the deceased soul.
The conversation with my father:
Dad:"Is he dead?"
Me:"Of course he's dead!"
"How do you know?"
"The trap's not where I put it, plus I saw a tail sticking out of it. What do you mean, 'is he dead?'" what a stupid question to harp on, Father. Here I am, a grieving murderer... 

I turned the corner from the kitchen, back to the closet. It was gone. It was gone. 

THE TRAP AND THE MOUSE WERE GONE. 

Naturally, I screamed.
Naturally, my dad couldn't stop laughing.

I jumped on my bed. Because that would help. I saw him briefly--his little foot the only thing in the trap, the rest of his body wiggling, trying to shake it loose.

Then he was gone again.

All I could picture was a helpless little creature, army-crawling himself with his last breaths to escape. Or all of his little mice friends, vowing to move the fallen comrade with honor, if they can just get him to safety. "Come on, men! Hoist! Get him out of here! We saw what happened to Gusgus last year! Freddy's still breathing!" The mouse captain inspiring his crew to Save Private Mousy.

Somewhere in my closet was a half-dead mouse. I should've relieved him of his misery. It was just trapped there, in tortured torment, for who knows how long now? How long had it been wriggling, praying for death by my front door?
But I couldn't do it. I couldn't even look for it.

In a panic, I called my friend, Ryan-Patrick. Never had a human seemed so manly, so strong, or so wonderful, as in the moment he said he'd dispose of the writhing creature in my closet. But by the time he arrived, the mouse was nowhere to be seen. The trap was still there. mouth clamped shut, empty. The little guy's buddies must have made a successful rescue.

It escaped. It escaped. Now there's a broken, maimed, angry mouse, loose in my apartment.

He's going to slowly climb up my bed frame and whisper in my ears the pain of his little mouse foot, vowing his revenge on my attempted murder.

... I'm having trouble falling asleep.

Black TIE?? Not Black EYE? My Mistake

The Harman Center for the Arts Gala  - one of Washington DC's biggest cultural events. By far the most glamorous and formal evening I've ever been a part of. This year, the honoree was Julie Taymor (the creative mind behind the Lion King on Broadway, the Tempest with Helen Mirren--who was also there, Frieda, and a bunch of other really incredible, largely award-winning things). The greatest perk of my job thus far was the assignment to be Julie's personal contact person for the weekend, her handler.

I felt like Cinderella (or maybe Cinderella's personal assistant.)

The Gala was a dream; the night before was a nightmare. But a kind of funny nightmare, which is why I had to write it down:

For reasons that are unrelated to the Gala, and are irrelevant to this story, I had been crying. 

Really solid, streaming, sobbing, weeping tears. You know, the kind of good cry you get in once a year. So I crawl into bed - nose stuffy, head cloudy, with eyes so puffy it's a struggle to keep them open. So I don't bother. I reach for my phone to set the alarm for the morning--to go see my dear friends, Julie Taymor and Helen Mirren - in the pitch black, the phone is knocked to the ground beside my bedside table. Immediately, I lean over, with unthinking full velocity, pull my body down to reach for the fallen soldier.  Because my eyes are closed, I don't seen the thick, wooden bed frame sticking out past my bed. On my way down, I hear a thud, then feel a blast of pain shoot through my left eye. 

I swear loudly. Because I live alone, I swear again, louder. 

I jump up to get some frozen peas for what I'm sure is a peach-sized black and blue bruise. I don't have frozen peas. The only thing in my freezer is a frozen pizza and those instant meal, microwave pad-thai boxes. 

I run to the bathroom, frozen noodles glued to my face, to examine the damage. How am I going to explain a purple shiner to the first female to ever win a Tony award for directing?! Excuses race through my head.

I don't drink, so I couldn't use intoxication.

Some legitimate considerations: 

-I got hit by a car. But don't worry, I'm fine. 

-I got mugged; crazy people out on Halloween. But don't worry, I'm totally fine. 

-I saved a small child from a run-away piece of construction machinery. I'm a little sore, but I'm really, totally fine. 

Anything is better than the truth: 

I RAMMED MY FACE INTO MY BED FRAME. 

I can't tell the level of damage. My eye is swollen, and pinkish, but was that from crying? It hurts to open or wink, but again--preexisting post-weeping conditions? I suppose I will have to wait until the morning to really get an accurate assessment on how well I need to craft an excuse. 

My do-it-yourself noodles are quickly losing their cold. Desperate, I return to my freezer. Wonder of Miracles, I have an ice tray! Some ice fairy must have put it there and filled it with water, so that in this moment I can have sweet, relieving ice.  

Sandwich bag full of ice in hand, I crawl back into bed. 

The next morning, the sandwich bag is now full of water, but it's still chilled. Both of my tired eyes appreciate the cool, so I share the wealth with the right eye. Thinking back on the events of the evening, I want to roll my eyes at the stupidity! But alas, I cannot.

I do go back to the mirror- one eye cannot open quite as wide as the other; but the asymmetry is negligible.

Wild relief: no shiner.

No need to lie to Julie Taymor about a car accident or to Dame Helen about my heroism. I just have to make sure I don't use the wrong fork at dinner or trip on my dress. Because there's a real possibility I might hit something on the way down and get a black eye.

P.S. Julie Taymor, Elliot Goldenthal, Helen Mirren, Jennifer Damiano, Fabrice Calmels, Albina Shagimuratova and so many more brilliant people at the gala were as amazing in person as you'd imagine them to be.

Living Alone #realtruegrownup

For the next 8 months, at least, I am working for a very cool company that has put me up in my own apartment.

This, my friends, is a huge step into adulthood.

I am living alone. In an apartment built for one. ONE HUMAN. That's me. just me. 


Let me walk you through my first night alone:

I start home, exhausted from a day of running around DC, hair flat with dampness, covered in an inescapable film of moisture due to the humidity here. It's not sweat--it's just... moist. Looking forward to having the apartment all to myself. Officially!

I'll take a shower... I'll relax... it'll be a great evening.

I could get some work done by looking through the equity regulations, I could research graduate programs for my future, I could write the next great American novel. But no. Gosh darn it! this is my first night as a real, true, living-alone grown up. I'm going to just chill.

It takes me approximately 4 minutes to shower. So I take another shower. and I leave the door open, because no one else lives here, so I can. Ha! Then after my indulgent 5 minutes later, I'm squeaky clean. It's only 8:00.

now what?

After 3 episodes of 30 rock on netflix, I decide it would be a smart, grown-up decision to prepare for tomorrow morning by getting breakfast.

My very posh, very urban apartment is right on top of the hippest bar in town, only two blocks away from my work, and no where near a grocery store.
My only options are a CVS and a vegan market place.

I opt for the CVS cause I guess it'll be cheaper. Plus I need milk, and I can't remember the rules of veganism, and don't want to risk it.

Looking at my breakfast options, I suddenly feel like a kid, cause I really want some sugary cereal. I pause, because the little voice in my head--namely my mother-- is reminding me of the evils of sugary cereal.

But hey--I have my OWN apartment now, conscience. I'm a real, live, grown up. I can buy whatever I want! And I want some Fruit Loops.

3 boxes of cereal (not all fruit loops), and a quarter gallon of milk later, I owe $26 dollars! #citylife

So I pour myself the most expensive bowl of cereal known to mankind. Then I pour as many bowls until my milk runs out. It's not that I'm the least bit hungry, of course, but after tonight, those crisp, colorful circles will be mushy Os because of the humidity.
Have I mentioned it's humid here?

It is now 9:20 pm (or 6:20 pm if you're in Pacific Standard Time, which is from where I just moved).

Perhaps a total of 5 minutes of cereal indulgence later, I enjoy the activities on the back of the box. Did you know that there are answers and more activities on the inside of cereal boxes??

9:32 pm.

Am I tired yet?

Eventually I resign to doing something productive: cleaning the kitchen. there's only 2 dishes on the drying rack, I'll put them back in the cupboards.

"eiw! this plate is disgusting. who washed this?" I say out loud, to no one of course.  Turns out, I washed it. cause I'm the only one living here. Have I mentioned that?

Oy.

I need a roommate.