Bust a Move

I harbor not-so-secret fantasies about being a dancer. One of the reasons I enjoy trips home to Pennsylvania is that they generally entail a post-dinner family dance party. I suppose that’s a little strange, putting on some Kanye and busting a move with your parents and siblings, but I guess the dance dream is genetic. I’d be okay if a spontaneous dance party broke out on a daily basis.

A childhood spent watching movies like Footloose, Girls Just Want to Have Fun, and Flashdance apparently left a big impression. A faint scar remains on my forehead from an ill-advised, and clearly unsuccessful, attempt with my sister to recreate the Dirty Dancing lift using our slick and sharply-cornered coffee table as a stage. I still enjoy a good dance movie—to the point that I’ve paid money to see movies like Step Up and Take the Lead, a movie which I should note stars Antonio Banderas and the runner-up in America’s Next Top Model “Cycle Three,” in the theaters.

Fingers crossed that Girl Talk predictions come true.

The past week has definitely had me wanting to move my feet. Last Thursday, I went to one of Jay-Z’s inaugural Barclays Center shows, which was an awesome, not-so-spontaneous dance party. Although I should clarify that it was not the show with the surprise Beyonce performance, and I’m still upset about it. I’m denying the “e” accent in protest.

The Jay-Z concert was followed by a trip to the ballet a few days later to watch a three-part performance of “Two Hearts,” “Year of the Rabbit,” and “Les Carillons.” I don’t go to the ballet enough, but whenever I do I always find myself amazed all over again at how dancers move their bodies to tell a story.

In addition to these dance indulgent shows, I feel like I’ve been noticing a lot more elderly people around me. That sounds really creepy and strange, but it’s true. The number of elderly people I see in my neighborhood and on my commute appears to have doubled. Maybe it’s that my birthday is a week away, and I’m experiencing subconscious stirrings about getting older. Whatever the reason, I’m acutely aware of old age lately. Seeing an elderly man hunched over at the waist, walking with his face parallel to the ground or a white-haired woman balancing herself on a cane, makes me realize that I should appreciate the mere ability to move more. And I should take advantage of it.

So I signed up for a hip-hop dance class. I’ve taken various dance classes before, but never in New York. I found it intimidating. All of the reviews for the studios I read on Yelp mentioned the frequency with which experienced dancers tend to drop in beginners classes for practice. People come to New York to make it as dancers. That means person next to you in class could have just returned from touring with Beyonce (still neglecting the accent).

This is essentially what happened to me when I attended a so-called “Beginners Hip-Hop” class at Dance New Amsterdam on Wednesday night. I showed up to studio 4 while the preceding modern dance class was still in session. I watched as they all showed their expert technical skill with each repetition of the routine. When it ended, I expected the majority to leave. Instead, almost every person switched into sneakers to join the hip-hop class. So much for beginners.

I quickly decided on a strategy to position myself in the back next to a girl wearing glasses and umbro shorts. I figured we’d either become pals, and I’d at least look somewhat more prepared by comparison. Luckily, it was the former. Despite a frequent exchange “Jesus, these people are amazing” glances, I’d say we largely held our own as we learned each intricate step of a routine to Flo Rida’s “I Cry.” The instructor even told me on the way out, “Nice job keeping up.” It might have been one of the better compliments I’ve ever received. I’d prefer to be told I’ve got decent moves over pretty much anything, so if you see me grinning for the next month or so you’ll know why.

Now I’m off to play “I Cry” on the jukebox of every bar I visit…

Listen To Your Heart

If you were ever curious about the size of the Swedish population in the New York City metro area, you should have been at the Beacon on Sunday night. The community came out in force to witness their fellow Swedes, the duo Roxette, grace a New York stage for the first time in twenty years.

My sister Kristen and I didn’t have a full understanding of the cultural immersion and intense fandom we’d be experiencing when we bought the tickets. Don’t get me wrong—we are serious Roxette fans. It’s not an ironic love. The Roxette catalogue has played a big role in Bitterly sister bonding through the years. We used to choreograph roller skating routines to the likes of “Joyride” and “It Must Have Been Love,” but everyone was obsessed with the Pretty Woman soundtrack in the early ‘90s. Most people haven’t kept Roxette in heavy rotation well into adulthood. I learned as much when I had to repeatedly list (and even sing a few bars of) the Roxette catalogue in response to friends’ asking, “You’re going to see who?” Yet, for the Bitterly sisters, “Fading Like a Flower” and “Listen To Your Heart” are dance party and road trip staples. *Note: Unless you know every word to “Jolene,” “Invisible Touch,” “In Between Days,” “Life on Mars?,” “Wild Montana Skies,” and Roxette’s greatest hits, you might want to avoid ever stepping into our house at the holidays or a car with us.

The fact that the concert fell two days prior to Kristen’s birthday seemed like fate. We were eager to embrace the childhood nostalgia and sing along with these rock stars of the past. We bought completely and fully into the Roxette experience, even if we were off base about the rock stars of the past part. Marie and Per are not relics of 1991. They are present day stars, at least according to every European we encountered. People knew every lyric so well that Marie and Per would hand over entire verses to the crowd. And we were unabashedly joining along. We bought the themed “Joyride” drinks and sang just as loud as every other audience member.

I can’t think of a better concert companion than Kristen. My sister and I have never lived more than five blocks from each other since moving to the city. We live directly across the street from one another now. We see each other all the time. The point being, we clearly don’t lack quality time together. However, I can’t think of many nights in recent memory that have been better spent than Sunday’s in the presence of Roxette, nearly every NYC Swede, and our nostalgic excitement.  

Dashed Olympic Dreams

During my recent trip to LA, we got into a conversation about what we were all like as kids. The general consensus is that we were all fairly odd children, but Anne deemed my younger self likely the weirdest of the group. What? Doesn’t every child have a talking cat as an imaginary friend and nightmares about David Koresh? (Mind you, Anne shared that she used to collect dead birds in a wheelbarrow to bury them, so you know, grain of salt situation.)

Bitterlys then and….

The truth is, though, I realize that at the very least I was a bit quirky as a kid. The Olympics is the perfect time to reflect upon that, seeing as how I used to harbor my own strange dream of being an Olympian. It wasn’t just my dream. My older sister Kristen and I had a shared Olympic dream. We were going to be the first female-female figure skating pairs team in the Olympics. Yup, my sister and I pretty much had plans to live out  a gender-reversed Blades of Glory situation as eight- and eleven-year-olds.

But here’s the thing. We were really good. Like shockingly good. I know it sounds absurd, but it’s true. We wouldn’t have had any real longevity as a pair seeing as how we are now pretty much the same size. But back in 1991, we could have killed it in juniors competitions. My sister was a notably ripped pre-adolescent after having spent years as a champion competitive swimmer. I was in the midst of my own competitive gymnastics obsession, which meant I was somewhat scrawny and lacked any fear of broken bones. The combination made for a successful match on the ice.

Our oldest sister was a competitive ice skater, so we spent a lot of time tagging along to her practices and competitions. The one positive or negative, depending on how you look at it, of having a kind of large family is that you aren’t really aware of your collective oddities. You have five other people validating you. I failed to understand that other families didn’t spend every winter Sunday afternoon at the ice skating rink, or watch a ‘recorded from tv’ version of Katarina Witt’s Carmen on Ice on the regular.

Bitterly sisters this past winter

As younger siblings do, you tag along and absorb some of your older siblings’ interests and activities, which is how the Bitterly-Bitterly pairs skating career was born. During Sunday skate sessions, my oldest sister would be perfecting axels while Kristen and I raced or made up routines to whatever song happened to be playing over the loudspeakers. Pretty soon we were jumping around and spinning ourselves.

Thanks to attempts to recreate the final Dirty Dancing routine,we’d known for a while that Kris’s swimming muscles allowed her to hoist me above her head with ease. We decided to translate those moves to the ice. Kristen would throw me into jumps, flip me in the air, or glide with me above her head. I’d have her spot me as I did flips and handsprings on the ice. It’s as bizarre as you are imagining, but also, I think, a fairly impressive feat of strength on an eleven-year-old’s part.

We were convinced that we could make history as the first pair of our kind on the competitive circuit, but then we stopped before we even tried to enter any competitions. It was a brief winter flirtation with glory. I can’t recall exactly what caused us to give up our pairs skating dream. I suspect it was reality. All I know is that if a female-female team ever shows up in the Olympics, Kristen and Kourtney Bitterly should definitely be noted as pioneers of the sport.

Los Angeles, I’m Yours

Kind of. This Decemberists song seemed like an appropriate title for a recap of Anne’s and my most recent adventure. It was at a downpour plagued Decemberists concert over a year ago that I realized Anne and I can have fun pretty much anywhere. It was with that same spirit that we decided to cross off yet another of our Summer of Fun activities and plan a trip to Los Angeles. Anne has never been before, so we thought we could combine some of her work obligations with some West Coast fun. When my college roommates, Jen and Brenna (Kathryn, you were missed terribly), and Anne’s colleague, Rachel, decided to come along, it seemed like the trip had the potential to become some quasi-adult installment of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. *Anne and Rachel work in Young Adult publishing; hence, teen fiction/movies on the brain.

I always forget to take out my camera, so I’m lacking in photos chronicling the trip.

In all honesty, we didn’t do anything particularly spectacular. We mostly laid on the beach, read, met up with LA friends, explored our Venice neighborhood, and went out to eat. That list of activities doesn’t exactly scream “epic weekend” to many people. But it was so unbelievably fun. It was that kind of fun with old friends that refreshes you, where you wake up exhausted from a later than usual night, but smiling and somehow end up giggling to the point of a stomach ache in your pajamas. I guess it’s that sense of familiarity, or family really, that breeds fun, even when you’re collectively reprimanding someone for bringing paper-towel wrapped hard-boiled eggs on a plane (I’m looking at you, Brenna).

I was reading an article in the New York Times recently about the difficulty most people find making friends after age 30. Now, I have not hit 30 yet, but I do understand how you come to value your friendships differently as you grow. For instance, I know that I’m incredibly lucky that the bonds I’ve built with some of my past and present coworkers are likely those of lifelong friendships. But my friendships naturally grow and change as I grow. The friendships that I’ve made post-college aren’t any less significant or rewarding—anything but. It’s that the reference points are different. Maybe it’s being forced to share a bathroom and tiny room that ends up compelling you to share so much with those people like Jen, Brenna, Anne and Kathryn. I smiled at how quickly on the trip we fell into dorm-like behaviors, offering up all the contents of our suitcases as communal property. A shared language, frequently interrupted by laughter, was present throughout as well. Everything about the trip just felt so easy.

I know it sounds like I’m describing a Tampax or Clearasil ad or something—a quintet of girls lounging around in pajamas, laying on the beach, and helping each other get ready—but it really did reaffirm that with some people you can have fun anywhere. That said, we’re already booking our tickets back to LA.            

Screw it. It’s summer.

I was beating myself up for not completing some kind of crazy dare in the past week, but then I realized I’ve kind of been living one for the past month or so. For the first time in a long time, I’ve been able to enjoy not having every last minute of my day filled with some activity. Maybe it’s a byproduct of reading that ‘busyness’ article that everyone keeps sharing on Facebook, but I’m taking these summer days at my own pace. It’s not that I’m one of those type-A people that needs to have every last minute of my day planned—I actually hate that—it’s that I’m not good at being idle.

I grew up always having something to do. As one of four, I think sometimes my mom signed up for any and every activity just to get us out of the house (injuries had a tendency to accumulate when we were cooped up inside for too long). We were obviously really lucky to be able to explore so much. Summers were filled with early morning golf clinics, mid-morning tennis camps, afternoon swim time, and evening gymnastic practices. Somehow, we’d squeeze piano lessons and art classes in there, too.

Even during the fall and winter months, we were always in motion. I went to two preschools, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. My mom enrolled me in both and then gave me the option to choose which one I preferred (I was three, but she felt we develop our own mind and opinions early). I liked certain aspects of both, so I continued going to both. I’m convinced it’s the reason I never nap unless I’m sick and that I’ve never slept past noon in my life.

Not wanting to solely entrust our educational development to the rural Pennsylvania school system, we also had Bitterly family enrichment assignments. There were book lists, words of the day, and countries of the month, where we’d learn about the cultural traditions of another country.

It’s really hard to convey that all of these activities were really fun. I know it all sounds a little crazy—I don’t think I realized how much until I started writing it down, but we truly loved doing this stuff. It never felt forced or super structured or overscheduled. My parents just wanted us to be curious people and give us opportunities to develop our own interests.

I think in many summers past I would still operate in that childhood mindset. I wanted to maximize my time. I always felt like I had to be doing something worthwhile. But this summer I realized that I am.

Yankees crushing the Mets

Family fun

It’s not that my time is idle; it’s that actually feels like my own. I don’t feel pressure to do anything. I’m enjoying drifting between whatever I feel like doing, crossing off some of the items on Anne and my ‘Summer of Fun’ list in the process. We booked a trip to LA. We found the Endless Summer taco truck. I took a trip with my family. I visited Brenna in DC. I’ve been randomly seeing movies like Magic Mike and The Amazing Spider-Man. I’ve been cheering on the Yankees from the stands. I made a trip out to Coney Island. I’m routinely eating ice cream for dinner.

All of these things might not be especially cool, but they are chill, which is exactly what I need during this hot summer (pun totally intentional).

The Spice Rack

I am beginning to exhaust the initial list of truths and dares that Anne and I made, so I started to enlist some friends to think of additional ones. Erin, as I have mentioned in bordering on romantic detail here before, is one of my closest and dearest friends. She knows me better than most, so I asked for her help in generating new weekly truths and dares. Erin is the perfect person to approach with this sort of thing. For starters, she gave me this notebook as a birthday gift, so I know she’s up for generating lists. Beyond her generous and task-oriented gifts, she’s also an overachiever. As such, Erin enlisted the help of her colleagues to compile the following list of truths.

T: What domestic habit do you have that’s embarrassing/weird?
T: If you could have a superhuman power, what would it be and why?
T: When’s the last time you cried and why?
T: What’s the scariest thing that has ever happened to you?
T: When’s the last time you laughed so hard your belly hurt?
T: Who is somebody you admire and why?
T: If you could be really good at one thing, what would it be?  (that’s not a strength of yours already)

I feel like each one has its merits as a truth, mainly because I was somewhat hesitant to answer many of them. Erin likes to really get into it, so I should not be surprised that she’s looking for sincerity over secrets. She’s not out to embarrass me, but I still find myself blushing at the thought of some questions and their expectation of an earnest effort. With that in mind, I’ve decided just to start at the top of her list and potentially work my way down in the weeks to come.

What domestic habit do you have that’s embarrassing/weird?

To begin, I should probably mention that I live by myself. Conditions are ripe for weird and embarrassing habits to develop. I certainly spend a fair amount of time dancing and singing by myself in my apartment, but I would guess, or at least I would hope, that such behavior is somewhat common. I would do either in the company of others, so not terribly cringe inducing. Beyond my private song and dance routines, I feel like I want to murder someone when they step on my bathmat with shoes on, but again, I think that’s more OCD than odd or humiliating.

Sometimes I wonder if I would be embarrassed in front of a dog (like these ones hanging outside my office) in the privacy of my apartment. Would these Goldens cast judgmental eyes on my spice snacking?

I think you cross over into the weird/embarrassing territory when you do things that would either mortify you if caught in the act or have become so seemingly normal that you start to impose them on others (as if normal behavior). I sadly display both kinds of behaviors.

The first embarrassing/weird habit is a true testament to my laziness at select moments. I rarely keep food in my house. If you were to open my refrigerator at this moment all you’d find is three varieties of cheese, some fig jam and a plum. I should add that you’d be catching a glimpse at a moment when I consider it to be somewhat stocked as well. The lack of food isn’t motivated by any diet concerns. I just have a lot of first world guilt about seeing food go to waste, so I tend to only pick up enough groceries for roughly two days when I go. This wouldn’t be a problem if I went to the grocery store daily, but I manage to make the trip twice a week at best. I end up kicking myself for my parched pantry regularly.

With these self-imposed limited food options, I sometimes find myself in a bit of a predicament. I’ll arrive home from a long day, somewhat hungry, but not ravenous enough to warrant ordering food (my office has a well stocked kitchen that provides ample opportunities for snacking throughout the day). My refrigerator and pantry might not be stocked, but my spice rack oddly is. Rather than exerting the effort to make and consume something even close to resembling a meal, I will eat spice mixes. Yup, I just dip my finger into a savory Mediterranean or Chipotle pepper blend and consider that to be a satisfying snack. I wash it down with a glass of water. Clearly it would be dusty otherwise. I have never done my spice snacking in front of anyone else. I’m not sure I ever will. Besides being kind of gross, it’s likely that I will die of hypertension before anyone ever witnesses it. I believe this habit remains a solitary rather than shared activity. My dark side of domesticity if you will.

My other domestic habit is less disgusting, but definitely veers into the territory of thinking it’s normal enough to impose on others. I feel confused by people who take things out of the microwave without clearing the seconds remaining. I obviously don’t have to deal with this problem within the confines of my own apartment. However, it happens regularly at work and my parents’ house. My family finds it funny at this point that I can sense the seconds remaining on the screen. They have even done it on purpose to see how long before I notice. It’s never more than a minute before my eyes wander over.

It’s probably worth a psych evaluation to exam why I always consciously or not have one eye on the clock and need to know the time. However, until that happens, please reset the microwave when you take that lump of cardboard you call a Hot Pocket out.

Field Trip to Reptiland!

Back when Anne and I first started this game, someone suggested “Wrestle Alligators” as a dare. While I objected mainly due to the fact that I find any kind of animal baiting particularly cruel, I also had to admit that I’m uneasy around anything with scales. Alligators make me feel slightly fearful. Lizards make me feel nervous. And then we have snakes. Snakes make me feel completely and insanely terrified. It’s just one of a few things I have in common with Indiana Jones.

In an attempt to come to terms with this somewhat irrational fear, I decided to confront it with a trip to Clyde Peeling’s Reptiland yesterday. What is Clyde Peeling’s Reptiland? In addition to occupying a prime piece of real estate directly across the street from a federal prison, Reptiland is also (according to the brochure) “a specialized zoo that introduces visitors to the less-loved members of the animal kingdom.” Despite growing up relatively close, I had only visited Reptiland once before on a preschool field trip. I guess my fear of snakes might be innate, because I remember being terrified then as well.

My fear only intensified in the twenty some years since my previous visit. I’ve always had trouble articulating why. I consider myself an animal lover. I’ve been a member of the World Wildlife Fund since age 8. Why would my affection for animals not extend to snakes as well? I realize that I’m not alone. It’s a fear shared by many. When I mentioned my field trip to my friend Jason, he responded, “Reptiles clearly hate us and will bite/eat us at first chance, so why should we build these shrines to them?” He then amended it to, “Well, maybe they don’t hate us, but they are just running on instincts different from us.”

Making a break for it

My Reptiland visit helped me better understand the reason behind my fear, even if the reason is still totally irrational. I was tiptoeing around the zoo, barely able to so much as glance at the snakes’ glass enclosures without panicking. (I kind of wanted to throw up when I saw the anacondas.) I started reading every single sign to avoid having to stare straight at them. As I rounded the king cobra’s enclosure, I started reading about snakes and their sense of hearing. It hit me—that’s the root of my fear.

Snakes lack of ears does not mean they lack the ability to “hear” (they pick up on vibrations via their jawbones apparently). Yet, to me, it means they lack any sense of fear or reason. For starters, we’ve all seen the way pet dogs or even cats respond to different voice intonations. They understand a tone of authority and a tone of affection. In turn, they can show you respect and love. As for the non-domesticated, I’m aware that should I stumble upon and disrupt most wild animals in their natural habitats that I’m at a disadvantage. However, I feel like the voice can act as a potential defense mechanism. I have vague recollections of park rangers over the years recommending making loud noises to scare off bears. But snakes? There’s no shouting to scare them off. Again, I didn’t say the reason was rational.

I’m definitely okay with these reptiles.

Even T.Rex was friendly.

Oddly enough, once I was able to pinpoint that root of my fear, I could actually stand in front of the enclosures for more than a few seconds. That, along with a tour around the animatronic “Dinosaurs Come to Life” exhibit, calmed me enough that I agreed to check out the learn and pet show. The show is exactly as it sounds. The zoo staff teaches you about reptiles, and then brings various ones around for everyone to pet. The show started out promisingly enough with the zookeeper bringing out a chicken to discuss dinosaur descendants. I got a tiny bit anxious when petting the baby alligator, but I blame that on the intense eye contact it was making with me. But then the zookeeper brought out the python. I shot out of my seat, and informed my brother that we had to leave immediately. I did not want that snake anywhere near me. Standing outside the auditorium, though, I started to feel a hint of shame. The auditorium was filled with children as young as three calmly and fearlessly petting every reptile. So I sucked it up and returned. I even touched the python. It was the briefest half second of contact with my index finger, but I did it.

I’m not going to rush out to buy a snake now or anything. Snake people are very, very strange. But I would say that my total abject terror and hatred of snakes has been slightly downgraded to a healthy respect and reasonable fear. And who knows? Maybe I’ll even return to Reptiland one day to touch the python for a full second.

It looks like I absolutely have to return now.