Welcome to LOL. A reader supported publication. Each week we feature a children’s book, a creative essay, and fun edits to inspire your own artful curation at home.
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This week’s LOL is for all my girlie girls. Prepare to be dazzled!
I spent about 9k woman-hours on this one, and due to life, I have to save all Angelina-inspired home, and adult finds for a part 2! I promise I will get it to you soon <3
Meanwhile, at the end of this week’s LOL you’ll find an extra special vintage angelina haul! Enjoy, friends. May we all spread ballerina magic this holiday season.
Oh, and hey! This post may contain affiliate links and I’m SO proud of myself for achieving that! Thank you for supporting my work.
FANFAIRE!
LOL PROUDLY PRESENTS…
ANGELINA BALLERINA
by Katharine Holabird and Helen Craig
A beloved tale about harnessing energy.
MOTHERHOOD
by Angelina Ballerina
Oh man, I hated ballet class.
The memories of my five years young IBS tummy standing awkwardly aware that I wasn’t the star nor the understudy still crawl behind my eyes.
What am I doing wrong?
A beautiful studio. Pristine tights. Matching ribbons. An emotionally resilient 60-something woman waiting patiently to discover my arms and legs don’t communicate.
The point is, no one asked me to be good. All I had to do was enjoy it.
But no. I didn’t. Not at all.
It wasn’t just the shameful congealing of bumper car knees. Joints slipping sideways instead of forward. A thick, fat, stiff, sack unable to pull my frame into sense. The flutter of tulle had more control of itself than me. Still does.
It wasn’t just the pink breath. Flopping feet. Hair sticking out. The sugar plum fairies? Make it stop!
Not just the disjointed, the mediocrity, the intensity of failing into my own body while watching so many girls thrive in front of me; their nourished tummies flowing in time.
Thin tights stuck to wet sweat. Forcing my baby chunk body into a leotard, spandex ‘round shoulders, shoving one arm at a time. A rubber band snapping the gut.
It was all so fucking uncomfortable. But more than any of this. I just remember a pervasive ice-cold sensation.
My chills haunt me even more than watching my own insecurity play out in a giant mirror the length of a building.
But stocking feet are nice, huh? A smooth, unnatural moment.
Maybe this is what a mousling feels like when they glide inside the studio rafters. Climbing. Flipping. Dancing warm in the walls together with their babies.
Mice have all the luck.
Mice wouldn’t notice the string cheese smell of the lavender nylon bag outfitted with my name and a drawing of bubble pink pointe shoes i’d never wear.
But I think now, why would I want to? Ouch.
Ballerinas were mostly underage sex workers that “gentlemen” groomed and kept as pets. And painted. And everyone made money off of their bodies except them.
5,6,7,8
and all of them could move so fluid. Look at these stars, huh?
…
Do you remember the bone-cracking, freezing ick of getting picked up from dance class at 6:45pm on a Wednesday night?
Oh, it’s a flowy, glowy memory for you? Giggles and wiggles?
Did the same parent always pick you up?
And they took you and all the other glittering stars for pizza and ice cream to celebrate that your upcoming vacation to Aruba would be so fun?
And you floated to a domine-smelling home with fresh baked cheddar bunnies at the door?
And you twirled upstairs to your room — the one you’ve slept in since you were a babe and the stickers you hid in the walls sing you to sleep, right?
Not me. After ballet, I was always stuck on a sidewalk or in a lobby with an overtired, malnourished teacher/dancer who smelled like cherries and couldn’t lie fast enough to soothe me.
So by the time it was my turn to chassé out the heavy doors and into the street I was cold. Really fucking cold.
And couldn’t warm up.
No matter whose leather seats my awkward ass slid around on I can only remember my bitter teeth. It’s a rawness you can’t fix with heat. I needed something deep that had escaped my chest in so many waves my blood was thin.
I think I understand now —
It’s funny because I’m thinking about ballet studios and dance spaces— they aren’t warm institutions, huh?
The idea isn’t come in here and cuddle in the nook of art. Create!
The idea is more like suffer and torture and twist yourself into a pretzel for our entertainment! Who gives a fuck if you’re shivering. Swallow it. It’s less calories than twix.
The ad for Ballet Class: Come in child. Gain poise, grace, respect, discipline, a purpose, and friendships that last a lifetime. Ever been under a spotlight? It’s divine purpose.
The real ad for Ballet Class:
Hey, baby. Do you like to work so hard your toenails peel off? Do you enjoy squeezing your growing body into shapes that are only accessible to .2% of the human race, mostly based on genetics? What is an arch, you ask? Ah, do you walk on air? No? Just the ground?
You poor thing. Let’s fix that.
Here, climb up your own foot, bend your bones, and show us how you walk on air, bitch.
And spin and spin and spin and spin — find your light — and spin and spin — find your light! Look here. Now, spin and spin and spin —
I didn’t take ballet for long, but I can’t remember why I stopped —
KYW. NEWS RADIO. 10 60…on your dial news and traffic on the tens.
I’m in the backseat in someone’s car in Philadelphia…
My head hangs so all I see is the pulsing rhythm of street lights passing over my tights
That wet, repetitive glare of Philadelphia streetlights haunts me something bad
street lights look a lot like spotlights
…
spotlight wind spotlight wind spotlight wind stop
red lights over my tights
click, click, click of the turn signal
now, neon green lights over my tights
spotlight wind spotlight wind spotlight —
“I don’t want to go to ballet anymore”
…
“Why?”
…
“It’s boring”
red lights over my tights
…
“Oh, Jilly… Fine. Just shhh I’m listening to the traffic report.”
faster.
spotlight wind spotlight wind spotlight
“Where are we going?”
My toddler is 2.5 today and I am chewing my cuticles in the passengers seat driving to her first ballet recital …
Twisted into a pretzel so I can get a good look, I study her in the backseat.
She seems curious to spin under a spotlight. Maybe because she’s warm enough? You know what? Next year, I’ll be sure to ask if she wants to sign up for ballet again.
And if she says,
“No, mommy. It’s boring.”
I’ll know what she really means, and I’ll take her right home for some…
CHEDDAR BUNNIES
by Angelina Ballerina
The perfect snack for your tiny dancer <3
Listen, these are 4 ingredients (plus salt), cheaper than the boxed crap, an easy pick me up for your “I’m a good mom” self, a fun activity to do with your kid, and babe you can do it!
okay so, preheat your oven to 325 and line a baking tray with parchment paper
got it? Now —
Pulse 8oz / 1 cup of sharp cheddar cheese (grated), 1 cup of flour, 1/4 cup of cold butter (cubed), and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a food processor — or mix by hand — add in 2 tablespoons of cold whole milk.
Roll out your dough on a floured surface.
For crunchy crackers that snap, roll out your dough THIN, like 1/8 inch and then cut it into bunnies!
Put all your bunnies on the baking tray and poke little happy faces in them if you want to keep them from puffing up :))
Optional: Top with flakes of sea salt
Bake for 18-20 min and eat ‘em up with your babe ! They last about 3 days in an airtight container.
To make them you’ll need:
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