Hot N' Cold

No, I'm not referring to the Katy Perry song, as awesome as it is. 

It turns out I am very "princess and the pea" when it comes to yoga. My fine-tuned sensitivity to heat and humidity bolster me up to a level of high-maintenance much akin to that of Paris Hilton or any other Beverly Hills blonde. I could never even hope to express the degree to which hot yoga boosts my spirits and calms my mind. Beads of sweat carting evil toxins out through every pore on my body as they roll down my skin provide me with a fantastic yoga high (yes, that is what us yogis call it) that lasts for the rest of the day and likely instill the thought that I am literally high into the minds of those with whom I cross paths. 

Yet somehow, if the temperature and humidity of the room fall ever-so-slightly outside of my personal acceptable range, the yoga high and mental stability are shattered and replaced with something much different- a mutant emotion composed on part rage, part impatience, and part something else I cannot place my finger on. I turn into the guy the doctor guy in the Hulk (comic fans don't kill me for now knowing his name- I'm aware I could easily look it up but my finger is simply too lazy to reach all the way to the top of the keyboard to the "new tab" button) whenever the temperature dips too low or climbs too high. The worst is when it fluctuates during class- I can feel my skin turn green as the temperature falls to below 100 degrees, and again when it hits an uncomfortable 110. 

My Hips are More Open Than a 24-Hour Drugstore

Shakira's hips may not lie, but they sure are expressive. Mine seem to be as well, and had no problem openly communicating their frustration with me after far too many hip openers in yoga classes over the past month. Yet scream as they occasionally do after class, I just ignore them with a reminder of how good it is to be open.

I love me some good hip-opening yoga postures, and I love sweating like a pig while pretzeling myself into them. Generally, yoga classes in rooms at temperatures less than 100 degrees just don't do much for me mentally or physically, hence my confusion at the transformative powers of the basic vinyasa session I attended last night. I laid down my mat as some sort of strange mutant combination of Scrooge and Eeyore, feeling both depressed and misanthropic and ready to find a puppy to kick, and rolled it up at the end of class as one of those over-optimistic people who is borderline obnoxious because of their excessive zeal for life. I simply cannot pinpoint any justification for this mental change. Did I sweat out any stress-inducing toxins? No, I barely sweat during class. Was my ability to shed away stress and tension amplified at all? Also no, at least not perceptibly so.

Before yoga, I was ready to kick Patches here in the face (Photo: http://images5.fanpop.com/image/photos/31100000/so-cute-puppy-the-puppy-club-31132519-1600-1200.jpg)

My session today, though less shocking since it was a hot yoga class, was equally relaxing to the point where I likened my mentality to that of Peter's in Office Space after he goes through hypnosis in occupational therapy and afterwards doesn't give a hoot about anything to the point where he nonchalantly watches the therapist die before his eyes and then decides never to go to work again.

Me before class, but with a little more anger in my eyes (Photo: http://images4.static-bluray.com/reviews/1017_1.jpg)

Me after (Photo: http://application.denofgeek.com/pics/film/lookbacks/office.space/01.jpg)

Sweetie... Where are Your Parents?

I experienced a bit of a narcissistic pleasure while the Sephora representative assisting my selection of a face wash wrestled with guessing my age. I have to give her props for her skill at tiptoeing around insinuating any age in particular so as to avoid any chance of insulting me, quite unlike the lady in the skating incident of '09.

You guessed it, I'm about to segway into a nice little story from my past. First let me ensure you all that I am well aware of my appearance suggesting an average age of 18. Now that I am full-force into my quarter-life crisis, I consider those way-off assumptions that I am under 17 (when I get my ID checked for R-rated movies) or under 21 (when cashiers at liquor stores ask me for my ID with the most skeptical expressions you can imagine) the best compliments I could ever ask for. However, 19-year-old Marisa still glowing with a sense of optimism about her youth and gleaming with hope for the future did not quite feel the same about being seen as an outrageous amount of years younger. So, one day in my 19th winter I went ice-skaing with my college buddies and stood in line to rent skates. As I approached the window, a woman who I visualize as being covered with warts and wrinkles (people's actions tend to morph their true appearance in my mind's eye) leaned down, took one look at me and said "oh honey, are you at least 14 or do you have your parents or guardians with you?" I am not sure what expression swept over my face but I'm sure it was not a pleasant one. I do, however, vividly recall the faces of my friends as they burst out laughing hearty guffaws. I was so personally butt-hurt from the incident; in a monotone I showed her my college ID and had never seen someone so embarrassed as she was when she reached out and took it to verify. Needless to say, I had an ever-so-minor breakdown when I got back to my dorm. It took a good deal of years, but now I can laugh in my 19-year-old self's face, much like my friends did at the time. It was, after all, pretty freaking hilarious.

The Sephora lady's eyes twitched uncomfortably every time my age came up. I asked her to recommend some cleansers and she would say "oh, but this one is for people more in their...um...earlyish to mid to late 20s and maybe sometimes 30.... not sure about for someone in their, well... your age group." Each time she seemed actively attempting to squeeze the information out of me, but I was enjoying her internal guessing game far too much. 

Academy Award Rant 1 (Trust me, there will be more...)

Alright, it's time we had a good little chat about the Academy Award nominees for this year. Actually no, one of the things I like best about the blog-o-sphere (or is that one word? Not too familiar with the etymology of that one) is that my opinions reign supreme. True, there is the "comment" option for all you readers subjected to my ideas with which you may disagree. However, my role as blogger monarch instills in me the power to veto or ignore any comment that rubs me the wrong way intentionally or otherwise.

The oh-so-illusive academy (who would probably insist on the capitalization of their name, but I choose to openly defy such an elitist request) acts like a group of over-zealous kids when any high-quality film, or simply one perceived as such, wriggles through a crack in the muck of cinematic garbage pumped out of Hollywood. Example: Lincoln. Woah there, put down those pitchforks and repress those ideas of ousting me from my blog throne! I'm not insinuating a lack of quality in that film. It was a well-rounded, emotional and poignant representation of Lincoln and his personal and political struggles (the two often amalgamated), albeit with slightly too many scenes focusing on political arguments behind closed doors. To summarize its strengths, it did what a movie should do- reached into the emotional stores of its audience and extracted raw feeling. Though not to the point as Les Miserables, Lincoln sure brought those tears to just behind my optometric floodgates.

My issue is not the Academy's (damn, I indulged their capitalization wish) nomination of Lincoln for best picture. My beef with them (I feel like only vegetarians should use that saying) is that they saw it's best picture-worthiness as justification to nominate it for EVERY other award category, whether actually worthy of nomination or not. Sally Field did a fine job as Mrs. Lincoln. But best actress worthy (am I supposed to capitalize best actress? Clearly I'm not on the up-and-up with Academy Award capitalization rules)? Not in my opinion (which just so happens to be the only one that matters in this post). I mean, is it really that challenging to be a swarthy little woman driven borderline insane by the events in her life? No.

SEE? I can be CRAAZZZYYY too!

Ann Bauer, writer extraordinaire. I see my readers scratching their heads while their minds are running frantically to the cognitive storage bins for any reference of that name. You may as well fire all of your mental employees because they won't find one. A problem which should certainly be remedied.

Ann Bauer, a woman who I've had the sincerest pleasure of meeting in person, is the author of two critically-acclaimed novels. Her second novel, The Forever Marriage, is about to be set on my nightstand while my left hand is about to pick up her first novel, A Wild Ride up the Cupboards.

When my cousin in Minnesota briefly introduced Ann ad I, I hardly thought anything of it. I did not even know she was a writer at that time. Though surprised when my cousin handed me her two novels and told me to read them, I hardly expected to fall head over heels in love with her work and enthralling storytelling gushing from every word on every page.

My reading list over the past year has certainly included dynamic female leads, but not quite as jarring as the protagonist, Carmen, in The Forever Marriage. While reading about Carmen, she becomes so real that I expected her to peel herself off of the page and appear magically in my room. As much as I would like to have a conversation with such an intriguing person, I'm alright leaving Carmen comprised by words so she can contribute to the plot. 

Mocked By Plastic Deer

After informing new acquaintances that I am from Colorado, the first question they ask without fail is "so, you do you ski or do you board?" This question never seemed just to me- where is the "neither" option? Yet, being presented with an either/or scenario, I typically opt with the former and identify myself as a skier. I usually leave out the part where I am one of those skiers that makes four-year-old children look like Olympic athletes by comparison and cause those with higher aptitudes for the sport (essentially, everyone else on the run at the time) to sharpen their senses in my presence as I tend to unintentionally cause a lot of accidents.

The motivating factors to actually get me to ski are scant. Usually, I am convinced by friends and begrudgingly head to the ski rental shop where my mind begins to cloud over with a sense of dread at the day to follow. The causes of the aforementioned dread range from fear that my hands and feet which already have poor circulation will incur frostbite and require amputation from the insane cold and wind to the simple fear of hitting an ice patch (which tend to comprise the ski runs at Eldora) and falling over dead. Of course, there is always the fear of hitting a renegade tree like Sonny Bono. The list goes on, but you can use your imagination to come up with the rest of my ski-induced fears. I'll just say I've thought of basically all scenarios.

I'm not sure of the exact basis from which my ski-related fears stem. I could trace it back to my childhood days, when my parents enrolled me in ski school. At some point during the lessons, my little 6-year-old self decided she had had enough and booked it out of there to find Mommy and Daddy- an excursion which failed and reduced me to a fit of tears and a sense of abandonment. If my timorous nature did not stem from that instance, perhaps it came from an incident which occurred a couple of years ago in the infamous "Fun Gully" run at Eldora. Things were going surprisingly well for me that day- I had not caused anyone to wipe out in a desperate attempt to avoid hitting me as I swerved down the runs and I had not injured myself. The combination of these two things led me to acquire a faulty sense of overconfidence. As you can likely infer from the name "Fun Gully," it is a green run designed for little kids with tiny jumps and creepy, plastic deer watching as you weave through the trees. 

My friends and I had gone down Fun Gully a couple of times without incident. At the end of our trip, when Eldora was about to close, my friend and I opted to take the Fun Gully path one more time. My confidence boosted by lack of negative incidents during the rest of the day, I decided to pick up my speed a little bit over the mini "jumps" along the gully (if you can even call them jumps- they were more like slight raises of snow about 6 inches tall. I probably shouldn't say that- it makes my situation even more pathetic). Well, it turns out my skills had not actually improved- I hit one of the bumps at a slight angle and went flying, landing directly onto my left shoulder. 

My friends laughing at me was only made worse as I could feel the steely-cold stares of the plastic deer as they mocked me while I was down. Anyways, the outcome was Marisa in physical therapy to try and set her shoulder straight and it never entirely healed. I cannot express how overjoyed I was when Fun Gully was closed during my most recent ski trip. 

Don't do it! (Photo from staticflikr.com)

*Sniffle* Must....Not...Cry....*Sniffle*

I can officially no longer say that I don't cry during movies, thanks to Hugh Jackman and Ann Hathaway's cathartic final number in Les Miserables (please please don't make me add the accent every time I write that... oh yeah, it's my blog I can do whatever I want. Also I can't figure out how to add an accent with Blogger. Just use your written-accent mark imaginations to visualize it). I'm not sure if it's possible to be immune to that song's ability to literally extract every ounce of feeling from your soul until tears inevitably well up in your eyes. It was like an emotional ambush- I felt confident that I was composed and had it together and then all of a sudden I was on the verge of bawling like a baby.

Ah, the power of songs telling a passionate story. That is what the musical Les Miserables embodies, and what the film does almost to a greater extent. It is an evocative enough experience to see on stage, in London as I did, yet completely different and equally powerful to see on the big screen. 

It helps that the director who took on this monumental project was one with unparalleled skill, recently demonstrated in The King's Speech. Tom Hooper experiments with utilizing different cinematic techniques much to the benefit of the audience. Much of these techniques, such as extreme close-ups on the actors, he did not initially intend to use. According to an NPR interview, he realized while shooting that nothing but the raw emotion on their faces needed to be shown on the screen while they sang many of the songs. While viewing Les Miserables, you will instantly note the veracity in this statement. I have seldom seen such a passionate and evocative performance as that of Ann Hathaway singing I Dreamed a Dream. And that camera really does get in her face- you could not only count her pores but possibly even her skin cells if you felt so inclined (if you did feel so inclined I would be concerned). Critics have accurately labeled her the "show-stealer." Hooper also stated in the aforementioned interview that he told the cast to sing each song as if it were the first time it were being sung and she truly took this suggestion to heart. I would not attempt to count the amount of times I have heard I Dreamed a Dream, but my soul ached for Ann's version as if hearing it for the first time. My soul also ached during the scene where her gorgeous, glossy locks are shorn off before our eyes. And I don't think they donated to Locks of Love back in 1800s France. 

I Dreamed a Dream may have stolen the spotlight overall, but I personally enjoyed a different one more. The song On My Own has always had a soft spot in my heart. It is such a bittersweet ballad that tugs ceaselessly at your heart strings. Or mine, anyways- maybe our heart strings are tuned in different keys. I anxiously awaited for it to be performed in the film and was not disappointed. It was yet another moment in the film that caused goosebumps to prickle up along my arm. 

It's not all oozy-gooey emotional. Casting Sacha Barron Cohen (the guy from Borat and Helena Bonham Carter [what's with the three name thing?]) as the sloppy, boorish innkeepers added the humorous icing on the already very scrumptious musical cake. While I was still wiping away the tears induced by Hathaway's passionate ballad, tears of laughter took their place the instant those two stepped on screen. Bravo to whoever decided to cast them. Actually, every single character was perfectly-cast. Young Cosette was the epitome of precious and shockingly, could sing as well. 

Now, to address some of the criticisms floating out there in cinema cyberspace. Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe have been unjustly berated for their "sub-par" voices (what do film critics have against Aussies??). I do not think these criticisms bear any weight, so just ignore them. They both did a fantastic job both singing an acting. 

Clearly, I loved Les Mis. Do yourself a favor and go see it, but make sure you bring some tissues. You will need them whether or not you think you will. And prepare those around you that you will be singing or at least humming the soundtrack for at least the next week to come. 

Golden Nuggets of Wisdom

In the past couple of days I had the pleasure of seeing two films which were exceptional in different ways (Django and Les Miserables [please excuse my omission of a written accent on "Miserables" all you Francophiles). I wish to write about both of them in due time, but the ideas I wish to write are still bubbling about and coagulating in my mind (gross, sounds like an episode of Dexter's Labratory). Therefore, in their incomplete state, I will instead share a *ahem* charming Christmas liquor store anecdote from a couple of weeks ago (yes, that is officially a type of anecdote).

My plans for the most recent apocalypse on December 21st were not very intriguing. Ok fine, you got me all of you who know I have no life- they were non-existent. My mass text in a desperate attempt to make plans heralded a pity invite from someone I had met at a charity event a few weeks prior. It seemed her altruistic nature extended far beyond helping distribute toys to the needy (which we were doing when we met, for those of you that do not know the back story). I was quite thankful for her willingness to help out my charity-case self and gratefully accepted the forced invite to attend the Boulder rugby team's Secret Santa/Apocalypse party.

Since this was a last minute pity invite, I had little time to scrounge up a Secret Santa gift. I was informed that it should be a "tacky" gift under $10, but seeing as how I had never met the party attendees I was at a loss as to what they would consider "tacky." Some people consider gifts from the $1 bin at Target to be tacky, some would consider a bottle of cheap vodka to be tacky. I felt that a general consensus regarding the cheap vodka as tacky was more likely than the $1 Target items.

Aiming to arrive fashionably late to the party to minimize the awkwardness of only knowing one person, I took my sweet time getting ready and then headed to the liquor store to purchase my tacky gift. Upon arrival, I nearly had to revert to my back-burnered (yes I just made that a verb) Target dollar bin idea as I left my ID in my car (don't heckle me, I know I should have checked to see if I had it before going into the store) and thought I didn't have it at all. Fully aware that I look about 17 give or take, I did not even bother trying to buy anything without my ID. Sulking back to the car, I was thrilled to find it in the side pocket of the door and made a B-line back inside.

Another hindrance of not knowing anyone at the party was that I had no idea what kind of tacky alcohol to buy. Of course, any kind of liquor under $10 cannot exactly be associated with the adjective "classy." The gods of tacky-alcohol-secret-santa presents heard my plea (the types of gods these days are getting very specific, yes) and presented me with the answer: shooters (for those of you who don't know, those are the mini single shot bottles). This particular liquor store happened to be having a mix-n-match (their words, not mine) sale on shooters- buy two get one free. Since they were each about $1.50, I got a variety of different liquors which would please anyone who got my gift. Aren't I considerate, actually buying a gift someone would like! I even made the extra effort of trying to coordinate the shooters with a holiday theme- example, Baileys to put in hot chocolate, peppermint Schnapp's (does that actually need to be capitalized?) and apple pie vodka. Then I included the full spectrum of classics like vodka, whiskey, tequila (gross) and gin. Something for everyone.

Now comes the main story within my anecdote- the transaction at the register. After spending what some might consider a ridiculous amount of time meticulously selecting the right shooters to include in my gift, I proceeded to the checkout (feeling pretty smug about my gift, I might add). Above the register there was a very prominent electronic sign informing cashiers and customers of the "legal date" (if you aren't able to figure out what that means, it is the minimum day and year you would have to be born to be able to purchase alcohol). The high-tech aspect of the sign entertained me, and, trying to make polite conversation with the cashier, I shared shared the fact that I was entertained by the sign with her. Her response backed my mind into a cognitive corner. Brace yourselves, here is what she said:

"Um, it's because you need to be 21 to purchase alcohol..."

My mind, still cornered, had no idea how to comprehend the meaning behind this nugget of wisdom she had just imparted on me. Was she trying to insinuate that I was trying to purchase alcohol while underage? That seemed like the obvious intent of her statement, but it had nothing to do with my comment. Actually, the grammatical structure of her statement would not even allow it to be a response to my statement of amusement at the electronic sign. She was attempting to explain something that I did not ask to have explained. Or was she? My only other thought about her intentions with that statement was that she genuinely thought I did not understand the minimum age to purchase alcohol in this country. I really hope I did not give off the impression of being so clueless. Needless to say, when I handed her my ID she scrutinized over the date of birth more meticulously than I had ever seen in my life. And trust me, my ID has been scrutinized-over a LOT. The funny thing was that, with the fancy sign, it should have required next to no scrutiny. Has the word "scrutiny" and other forms of it ever been used to many times in such a small space? Probably not.

Anyways, the party was good and my gift the best. Clearly, I've lost interest in telling this story and my fingers are about to mutiny from all the typing. And I will listen to their mutinous requests because they are one of my favorite extremities. Until next time, when potentially my movie-related thoughts will be complete.



Wait, REALLY?? (Photo from lbarandlounge.com)