Potterpalooza: A Series of Unfortunate Events.

Alternate titles:

Things Fall Apart
How to Fail at Most Things Despite Trying Really Hard
We'll Laugh About This Later
So here's how the rest of the weekend was supposed to go: on Saturday morning, get day-of rush tickets to How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, spend the day shopping, hanging out in the park, and eating before going to the show that night. The next day, maybe a repeat viewing of HP (naturally), do anything else we felt like, and then send the girls off home again. Sounds great, right? Well, it would have been. Now, I should mention that the things I'm going to whine about are all very First World Problems that I realize don't matter at all. But being the way that I am, I don't like it when my grand plans go awry, especially when I'm responsible for other people.

The box office for the show opened at 10am so we showed up around 9:45 thinking we'd be fine, since there were two shows that day. What I failed to consider was that 1) when I've gotten rush tickets before it was usually limited to students so there weren't as many eligible for tickets, 2) Daniel Radcliffe is in the show and is kind of popular, and 3) it was HARRY POTTER WEEKEND. The line was about a mile long, but the girl working there said they often get through the whole line. So we stuck it out. By 10:45 we'd made it up to the front and the only available tickets were a few singles or standing room only. A miscommunication between myself and the ticket lady meant that the girls behind us bought their tickets before we could, and we came up short. Disappointed, we went over to the TKTS booth in Times Square to see about tickets for the matinee, but they had just run out as well.

I was frustrated, but decided that after lunch I'd come straight back to TKTS to wait for when the evening tickets went on sale at 3. We trekked across to the wasteland of East Midtown to eat at this really delicious place Becca and I had found on her first visit to the city a couple years ago. It was a nice little grilled cheese stand that had awesome sandwiches and milkshakes, and I had checked their website that morning to confirm its location. We walked into the little building and the decor looked different, and they just had pre-packaged sandwiches and other random things. "Oh, no," the guy behind the counter said, "the grilled cheese place closed like a year ago." Great. We raced back across town (missing a bus in the process) to eat at Shake Shack which, while crowded with tourists, was delicious as always. Krissy bit into her portobello burger and exclaimed in wonder, "What IS this???" Fried awesome, that's what.

Armed with sunscreen and an umbrella to protect me from the blazing hot sun, I got back in line and the girls went off to shop for a bit. About an hour later, the ticket availability went up on the marquis. Guess what show wasn't on there? Feeling defeated and tired, we headed back uptown to shower off the sweaty day and the stench of failure.

I was frustrated at having wasted pretty much an entire day for nothing, but we still had a really nice dinner with a couple of my friends and some of Krissy's friends who live here. We split off afterwards and Becca and I stopped off to get some cheesecake at Junior's. We decided to go over to the theater, which would just be letting out, to witness the crowd mayhem waiting for DanRad to exit the stage door. It was pretty nuts, although I did manage to get a glimpse of his back as he climbed into a car. Becca was distracted because at that moment a middle-aged guy had tried to run up to Dan and the cops had pushed him on the ground. Yikes.


The crowd.
The next morning, Becca and I had talked about going for a run in the park, but ultimately decided that we'd give rush tickets one last shot (despite the fact that we had maxed out my Times Square tolerance long before). We got there earlier and the line wasn't too long yet, so we figured we had a chance. Around 10:15 they hadn't opened the doors, so I went up front to investigate. FUN FACT: apparently on Sundays, the box office doesn't open til 12. At that point we knew it was time to give up. We had brunch plans for 11 and anyway, I wasn't about to wait another 2 hours in line just to risk being disappointed yet again.

Thankfully we had yet another delicious meal to drown our sorrows in, followed by some street shopping in SoHo. Then it was back to my place for some leftover cheesecake and putting Krissy on the train to the airport. Of course, things couldn't go off without a hitch at that point and Krissy missed her flight by a matter of minutes. I was pretty sure we were being Punk'd. Luckily, she was able to get on another leaving shortly after, and Becca got home without any trouble (or at least she had the decency not to tell me about it).


All in all we really did have a ton of fun during the weekend; I just wish the last two days had worked out like I'd planned. But anytime I get to see these girls is a win in my book, and we've already decided that our next trip will be a beach paradise where we don't have to schedule a single activity. And thankfully it will be nowhere near Times Square.

Potterpalooza: The Final Countdown.

I woke up early on Thursday morning after maybe 5 hours of sleep to check my phone. Becca was at JFK, waiting for Krissy to deplane, and then they'd be on their way to my apartment. Soon I was out on the sidewalk as their cab drove up, hugging two tired girls and excitedly welcoming them to New York.

Since they'd both taken red eye flights and I hadn't slept much either, we had breakfast across the street (red velvet waffles, I love you so much) and then crashed for a few hours back at my place. We spent a few hours in the afternoon strolling through the park and lying in the grass, and then it was game time.

"Wait, so we're really wearing our Harry Potter shirts to dinner? Okay, just making sure."


We got to the theater around 8pm to scope out the situation. An employee told us the line was outside, so we went out and saw a line stretching around a city block. Yikes. The good news and bad news was that it was one line for all of the midnight showings, so while we wouldn't be as far back as we feared, there was definitely potential for mass disorganization. We settled in and played some HP trivia on Krissy's iPad.


Throughout the night, a few different TV crews, including MTV and Extra, came through to interview people (not us, since we weren't dressed up). One of the girls in front of us, dressed as a Slytherin, was chosen to be on camera.

TV Lady: Can you shout something at the camera? Like "I love Harry" but something different.
Slytherin Girl: Sure, okay, how about... MAGIC IS FOREVER!
TVL: Um, all right. Maybe... try it again, a little less scary this time?
SG: MAGIC IS FOREVER!!!!
TVL: That's... good. Thanks.

Needless to say, we had a mantra for the rest of the weekend.


We passed the time talking, texting, emailing, and posting Facebook updates (thank heavens for smartphones--am I right or am I right?). Around 10, two girls appeared behind us, apparently having tried to bribe the family behind us $20 to let them cut in line. The dad wasn't having any of it, giving them back their dirty money and making them leave. Awesome.

Then the mayhem began. A little while later, employees began coming down the line. "Okay, the 12:03 and the 12:08, you guys can come in." Portions of the line began to dissolve as people rushed into the theater and we waited nervously (our official showtime was 12:02). It was so disorganized and illogical that we were convinced we would end up in the front row of our theater somehow. Krissy volunteered to go investigate, which we figured was a good idea--she's pretty and unassuming and stood a good chance of getting us in. She texted us from the front lines that it was insane inside the theater, people on the verge of rioting while employees tried to keep the crowds back. Becca and I held our place in line and listened to Slytherin Girl's companion (a Gryffindor) sing soulfully along with her iPod.


Guess who didn't get the sadface memo?
We started to get nervous when we didn't hear from Krissy for some time. Then we got a text: "I'm inside and have seats. There are only two other people in our theater." VICTORY! Soon after that, our theater was announced and we sprang into action. I joined the massive line at the snack bar (where I ran into my friend Kent and we sent a gloating photo of ourselves to Karrie, who was not allowed to come because she is only on Book 4) and then it was time to get settled in the theater. As the lights went down, the three of us grabbed hands and got ready to say goodbye to Harry.


We loved the movie, and it's always awesome to see it with the midnight audiences because the crowd reactions are just right. The mass exodus afterwards was pretty impressive, and we passed by people in line outside for the 3am showing. We walked along Central Park West for a while trying to find an unoccupied cab, and when we finally hailed one, the driver seemed pretty bewildered.

"Why are all these people out so late? Was there a concert or something?"

Nope, just a nerd convention. It was a good night.

The usual.

Despite the crazy heat (99 degrees plus humidity), today's been pretty good so far. I got all my laundry done, went to the library, picked up a package at the post office, hung out with friends, and then nudged a dead pigeon off my window sill using a bendy straw.

In like a lion.

This weekend, driving rain coupled with 60 mph winds turned New York City into an umbrella graveyard. On Saturday afternoon, my roommate and I ventured out to the nicer grocery store several blocks from our apartment to get some things for a party we were having. I was happy we were together as I would have felt really stupid clutching my umbrella in front of me like a shield and shrieking if I'd been by myself. Instead, it was kind of hilarious. We opted to take the bus back after finishing our shopping, and didn't really brave the elements again that day (though all our party guests had to... they were rewarded handsomely with pie, though). Sunday morning, the carnage was everywhere--mangled skeletons of umbrellas, dumped hastily in garbage cans or lying abandoned in gutters. It was strangely poetic.

Thankfully, the 10-day forecast shows sunny and 60 degrees, with only one day of rain during that time. Except, guess which day that is? Half marathon day. I also appear to be coming down with a cold, so I'm downing NyQuil and am currently at about 2000% DV of Vitamin C (you can't overdose on vitamins, can you?). Bring it.

Type.

One night last week, I made my way to the store to return a book. As I crossed the street, a group of hooligan teenagers passed me, each waving a book in the air and yelling, "OZZY RUUUUUULES!" While I appreciated their enthusiasm, I was confused as to its source until I entered the Time Warner Center and saw the massive line outside of Borders. Next to the line was a poster: Ozzy Osbourne Book Signing. Apparently the Prince of Darkness himself was in the store to promote his recent biography, and these people were waiting to get into the signing.

Unfortunately, that meant that the checkout line was also filled with customers waiting to buy their copies of the book. I sighed and went to the back of the line, wondering if the $5 refund was really worth it. A few moments later, an associate came to the front of the line and announced in a shaky voice that he was sorry, but they were completely sold out of the Ozzy book, and those who didn't already have copies would be leaving empty-handed. He looked so terrified that I felt sure he'd never worked a Harry Potter midnight release party. There were loud grumbles from the crowd and, to my delight, 90% of the line dispersed.

As the crowd of mostly overly-pierced teenagers and aging rocker-types were turned away, I was surprised to see a conservatively-dressed man in his 60s. He walked slowly past me and said, in dejected tones, "You heard they're out of the book, right?" I looked down at my green peacoat and skinny jeans and then back at his neatly parted hair and sweater vest, and my gut reaction of, "Do I look like an Ozzy Osbourne fan?" disintegrated. So I just smiled and said, "Yes, thank you," and went to the front of the line.

Thrill ride.

My trip home was lovely. By 3am PDT on Wednesday I had been up for almost 48 hours, with a cumulative 5 hours of sleep in the interim. Totally worth it. The rest of the week was spent lazing around, eating lots of red meat (thanks Mom!), shopping, and being silly with the fam.

As if to make up for my previous experience, my flight home on Sunday went swimmingly. I had a window seat, the movie was enjoyable, I had brought plenty of snacks, and we landed a half hour early. I had booked a seat on a SuperShuttle to take me home, since we were originally supposed to land at 10:30pm. And given my track record with air travel, I wanted an alternative to the 2+ hour subway ride home that wasn't a $60 cab ride.

My driver, a small Senegalese man, picked up myself and another passenger at our gate. Though we spent the next half hour driving from terminal to terminal picking up 8 more people (four of whom spoke animated French with the driver), I thought that as long as I was home by midnight, it would be worth it.

And then we hit the Van Wyck. They say nobody's ever beaten the Van Wyck, but our driver came as close as anyone ever has. He was weaving across lanes, swerving out to the shoulder to bypass lanes of traffic. He was cutting around cars turning onto off-ramps, and veering back into traffic mere inches in front of another car's bumper. My fellow passengers gasped and clutched their seat belts as tightly as possible. The French guy next to me was swearing under his breath and documenting everything on his camcorder. I can only hope the video is now somewhere on YouTube.

Being the farthest uptown, I was the last passenger dropped off. We pulled up to my building at 12:03am. Touché, SuperShuttle.

Princess.

This morning I was running late for church (surprise!), which was more unfortunate than usual as I was supposed to be there early to run through a song. And of course MTA's weekend subway shenanigans meant that the train I usually take wasn't running. I knew I'd already missed the bus I needed, but was hoping to catch the next one and salvage a little rehearsal time. I rounded the corner as fast as my high heels would carry me, only to see the bus pulling away from the stop down the street. I don't know if it was my exasperated groan or the dramatic slumping of my shoulders that signaled my distress, but as the driver pulled up to the stoplight right in front of me, he opened the doors and waved me onto the bus.

"Thank you so much!" I gushed as I fumbled in my bag for my Metrocard.

"I only stopped 'cause you look like a princess," he replied with a grin.

I'm glad someone finally agrees with me.

Money laundering.

This morning on my way to work, I dropped my laundry off at the laundromat near my subway stop. I've been doing this for months, because it's only a few bucks more and it saves me a lot of time and I figure, my precious time is worth a few dollars. At work, I get a voicemail from the lady who runs the place (please imagine in a thick Dominican accent for full authenticity):

"Hi Laura [the 'au' pronounced like 'ow'], I am from the cleaners. We have your credit card here, okay? Bye."

I am puzzled. Why would she have my card? I never take it out of my wallet unless I'm using it, and the laundromat only takes cash. And anyway, I don't pay until I pick up my clothes, so I wouldn't have even opened my purse when I was there. But I get out my wallet and sure enough, my debit card is gone. How could this have happened? And then I remember: yesterday, when I was home sick, I had put my debit card in my jeans pocket when I made a quick run to the store for some tissues, orange juice, and ice cream (what? it felt good on my sore throat). And those jeans are now at the laundromat. I also remember there is a $20 bill in the pocket as well. Crap. So I call back:

"Hello?"
"Hi, this is Laura, you just called about my debit card?"
"Yes, yes, Laura, we have your card. I keep it here for you."
"Thank you! There was also a $20 bill in the pocket, did you find that?"
"Hmmmm, no. No 20 dollars. I will check, but I am busy right now." *click*

So I figure, awesome. There's 20 bucks I'll never see again. That's what I get for being careless. A few minutes later, I'm calculating how many more containers of ice cream I could have bought with that money (the answer is eight - Breyer's is on sale this week) when I get another call:

"Hello? This is Laura."
"Hi Laura, I find your 20 dollars in the wash. I have it here."
"Oh great, thank you!"
"Yes, yes, I washed your 20 dollars for you!"

Heh. She seemed extremely amused, and then asked, "You just have too much money?" Exactly. I can't keep track of all the money overflowing from my pockets, my wallet's too small for my fifties, and my diamond shoes are too tight.

Muse.

Today I ventured out to the Bronx for a purpose that was entirely unrelated to going to Target - I visited David and Jana Badger and their adorable little boy Breyton. David was my home teacher during my sophomore year at BYU, and the original President of my fan club (and also, in my opinion, the spitting image of what my little brother Dave will look like in 10 years). Anyway, they invited me over, and it was great to see them again.

When I got on the train to head home, there was a man in the middle of the car with a guitar. As I sat down at the end of the car, he shouted, "Okay, the next person on this train to get a song about them is gonna be the white lady!" I looked up from my book, and sure enough, I was the only white person in the car. I laughed and turned back to my book, causing the gentleman to yell, "White lady! Hey, white lady! This song's for you." He then composed a song to what I think was the tune of Mariah Carey's "I'll Be There" that had something to do with turning my hair from red to black and protecting me and also going to Wendy's.

It was the first time I've ever had a song written about me (that I know of), and I have to say, I was a little let down.

Why books are bad.

So a few days ago I leave work and am waiting in the subway for my train home. I am excited because I've managed to make it to the station by 6:06, and the C train normally comes between 6:08 and 6:11 and then doesn't come again for like 10 minutes. The C and E trains run on the same track until they diverge at 50th street, and there is usually an E train that comes through just before my C. Sure enough, the E whizzes past as I'm coming onto the platform, so I pull my book (The Time Traveler's Wife, v. good so far) out of my purse and smile at my good fortune. Two minutes later I am absorbed in my book when the train comes, and I step on and away we go. By 34th street some seats have freed up, and I settle in to read comfortably for the duration of the trip, as is my wont.

About 20 minutes into the ride I realize there must be only a few stops left before my station, so I glance up from my book to see where we are. The doors have just closed on an unfamiliar looking station, and I realize with dawning horror that I am three stops into QUEENS. All of my satisfaction and enjoyment have dissolved into despair and I cannot believe I didn't notice that it was another E train that I had boarded, and not the C train that held the sweet, sweet promise of dinner and pajama pants. Anyway, I mentally grumble that I'll just have to get off at the next stop and double back. As if it could be so simple. At that moment, the train shudders to a stop and the lights flicker and the conductor announces in a tinny voice that we will be moving again shortly. I am foolish to believe him. Twenty minutes later, the large lady who was standing in front of me has wedged her way into the small space on the bench next to me and is laughing loudly at the conversation between the gentlemen on her other side and my rear is falling asleep and neck hurts and my book is seeming considerably less enjoyable and the conductor says that actually, there may be a bit more of a delay due to a passenger on the tracks at the next station. Also, there is a police investigation being conducted there, and he's not sure how long that will take. OUTSTANDING. I consider asking if the conductor would mind backing up to the previous station so I can get off, but ultimately I decide against it.

An hour and a half later, I arrive home after stopping at the grocery store for the ice cream that I feel is so richly deserved, and vow never to read ever again.