Tag Archives: Harry Potter

For the Game of Throners

Spoiler alert! This post includes spoilers for Game of Thrones and, in case you’ve been living under a rock for the past decade, Harry Potter.

I have a bone to pick with Game of Thrones readers. Or, as I’m sure they’ve already jumped to correct me, with “A Song of Ice and Fire readers.”

Sunday night, after witnessing what can only have been the most traumatic, gruesome and aesthetically elaborate death scene in the history of time, I made the mistake of checking Twitter to see how my fellow Game of Throners were reacting. But instead of finding comfort and solace in the mutual grieving of my peers, I found a steady stream of horrid remarks from diehard Game of Throne readers (fine, f*@cking Song of Ice and Fire readers!)

As it turns out, those who read the books many years ago were rejoicing in the fact that we simple-minded HBO folk had stumbled upon a horrifying truth they’d known to be true for many years — that Prince Oberyn Martell, the arguably best (looking) person in Kings Landing, was doomed. With tears streaming down my face and into my goblet of Malbec, I read tweet after tweet from these people who were mocking – and even reveling in – my shock and despair. Really? Is it not enough that my heart has been shattered into a million pieces? And that, should my depression progress, I now know what it would sound like to explode? Is it not completely and utterly gut-wrenching that I’ll never again peacefully enjoy a Bells Oberon* Ale? Or chin straps? Or grapes?

To these people, I say shame on you. With such a feeble upper body and inherent asthmatic disadvantage, I am not one who would normally pick a fight. But (from behind the comfort of my computer), I am compelled to put my foot down this once.

I am allowed to enjoy the HBO series, Game of Thrones. I am allowed to cry, to mourn, to scream and sometimes, to exhibit mentally unstable behavior when one of my favorite characters is killed off. 

Visibly shaken from Game of Thrones and FaceTiming with my boyfriend who, bless his heart, does his best to sooth me.

Visibly shaken from Game of Thrones and FaceTiming with my boyfriend who, bless his heart, does his best to soothe me.

It’s true. I did not swing from the womb reciting Dothrakian poetry, nor am I able to screenprint a map Westeros with my left buttocks. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy and appreciate one of the greatest (albeit craziest) TV productions of our generation. Seriously, what’s the harm?

Don’t get me wrong, I am an avid reader. In fact, I am currently reading the Song of Ice and Fire series (aha! I am your equal!) Yes, you got to it before me, but can I not still enjoy it? Can I not discover the books on my own even though (GASP!) they’re suddenly trendy?

I’ll compare it to this: When I run into someone who hasn’t read the Harry Potter series, I am certainly taken aback by their poor judgment and complete disregard for fine literature (really, who doesn’t like Harry Potter?). But I am nonetheless encouraging. “You have to read the books!” I tell them. “They’re so much better than the movies!” I gush. I want them to experience Harry Potter and love it as much as I do (which I’ll admit sounds super creepy as I’m re-reading this). And yet in all my years of diehard Harry Potter fandom, never once did I find joy in watching movie-goers who hadn’t read the books realize a character’s unlucky fate. Sure, I knew it was coming, but I didn’t point and laugh at them when Dumbledore died. Or worse, when Hedwig died. I didn’t scoff at their tears when they realized that Snape, who they’d come to hate for years, turned out to be Harry’s greasy guardian angel. If anything, I comforted them. I cried with them, mourned with them. I welcomed them into my wizarding world with open arms and a slightly uncomfortable attempt at a smile. It is my way.

So while I realize this is a bit of an angry post (I’ll blame the Malbec), and that this insensitive behavior doesn’t come from all longtime “Song of Ice and Fire” readers, I needed to get it off my chest. George R.R. Martin is an incredibly creative, twisted and talented author with one of the most impossibly imaginative minds of our time. And his work is for all of us to enjoy.

*Yes, I realize the actual spelling of his name is Prince Oberyn.

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Spider Attack Follow Up Report

I’d like to take a moment to thank everyone who expressed their genuine concern for me when they heard the tale of my gruesome attack. Physically, I’m doing ok. My symptoms subsided shortly after the incident, and I’m confident that I am no longer on the verge of death. Mentally, I’m still a bit shaken up. I’ve yet to take a sip from a cup that I’ve neglected for more than three seconds, and I’m still only able to eat dry, solid foods, as these items seem less likely to house living creatures.

While it pains me to say so, my family has been less than compassionate in consoling me. After the attack, my mother helped me to convince myself that I’d been bitten by a rabid species of spider, and my father tricked me into believing I’d been attacked by a baby Brown Recluse. Below is an account of what happened when I called my mom to explain my misfortune:

“Oh my god, Jo. Oh my god. I’m going to need a minute.”

Silence.

“You should take it to pest control. Seriously.”

“Pest control?? Why, do you think it’s a Brown Recluse or something?”

“I don’t know, Jo. I just don’t know.”

“It was acting strange. Don’t animals exhibit strange behavior when they’re rabid? Oh my god, do I have rabies??”

I’ve always had a slightly skewed understanding of rabies. When I was in elementary school, my mother was dropping me off one morning when a raccoon stumbled out of a nearby bush. My mom was immediately nervous, as she knew how hard it was for me to resist interacting with wild critters. (Every morning before school, I’d run around the neighborhood with brown paper bags in hopes of capturing slow-moving squirrels.) She saw the manic gleam in my eyes as I reached for the car door and yelled, “Don’t touch it, Joanna! Stay away from the raccoon, it has rabies!” She proceeded to explain to me that any animal wandering around in the daytime and/or exhibiting “strange” behavior is rabid, and thus, deadly. While I’m sure she had good intentions, my understanding of rabies was forever tainted. For years I was convinced that Buster, a daytime creature exhibiting incredibly strange (if not violent) behavior, was rabid. But I’ve since come to realize his crotchety behavior is the result of low blood sugar, easily rectified by a steady stream of delicious treats and snacks.

Buster with low blood sugar.

Buster after a snack.

“Only mammals can carry rabies, Joanna. Not spiders. But tell your father to call an exterminator before I come home.”

We bickered for a few minutes, but by the end of our conversation I was fully convinced that I’d been infected with a rare strand of insect rabies.

My father, sensing an opportunity, told me to go online and Google pictures of Brown Recluses. As he’d anticipated, the first few pictures that popped up were of flesh-eating wounds. When I broke out into a cold-sweated hysteria, my dad sensed that his joke had perhaps gone a little too far.

My sister dragged me away from the computer and immediately began scolding my father for his tactless approach.

“It’s not a Brown Recluse, Jo,” my dad said. “If it was, it says here that you’d already be having ‘nausea, itching, vomiting, severe pain…’ Oh. Hmm. Maybe keep it in a jar for a while, you know?”

“Why? So we can see if it grows into a Brown Recluse?”

“No, no. Just to….see…..”

My mother’s distress and my father’s cryptic advice were not doing much to quell my concerns. I did not want to keep this deranged spider as a pet, especially since it was so obviously keen on my own blood. What was I supposed to feed it? Espresso beans and bits of my own flesh?

My new life.

Still coming down from a recent ABC Family “Harry Potter Weekend”, my mind immediately went to Aragog, Hagrid’s enormous, carnivorous pet spider. My god, I could all but see my fate unfolding before me: If I continued on this path of spider husbandry, I’d soon turn into a bewhiskered gamekeeper living in the tool shed of my parents’ backyard. My father would command me to hunt the squirrels attacking our bird feeder, and subsequently, I’d clothe myself in a cloak of squirrel pelts and scraps from the compost pile. Buster would become my only companion, though I sensed his loyalty would stray once my mom called him in for lunch.

For these reasons alone, keeping the spider was simply out of the question. So, being the decent, animal-loving vegetarian that I am, I decided to set him free.

As I carried him to the front door, I felt good about my decision. My forgiving, altruistic behavior would be rewarded. What goes around, comes around, etc. But before I could give myself a solid pat on the back for a job well done, the bastard escaped.

In the days since, I’ve tried not to think about it. But I know he’s still out there. Recruiting his friends, waiting for the next opportunity to leap into one of my dishes. Perhaps I will ask my father to call the exterminator after all.