Author Archives: Kerry Ann

Review: Why Can’t I Be You By Allie Larkin

Happy Pub Day to Allie Larkin! Her second novel, WHY CAN’T I BE YOU hits shelves today. Keep reading to see why you should pick up a copy.

Young thirty-something Jenny Shaw’s life stinks. No, her house wasn’t swept up by a tornado and she didn’t just discover she has terminal cancer, but instead of proposing at the airport, her boyfriend dumps her and takes off with her luggage. Her mom is a manipulative piece of work who’s not particularly nice even when she’s sober. Her PR jr. exec job leaves her far from fulfilled. Jenny has spent so much of her life pleasing others, she’s neglected to notice how blase she’s become.

A 13th high school reunion just happens to be going on in the same hotel as Jenny’s boring conference. When she thinks she hears a stranger call her name in a hotel lobby, she responds—and ends up being mistaken for Jesse, a long lost wild-child best friend. Thrilled to be welcomed and wanted, Jenny slips into Jesse’s persona, embracing the stranger’s circle of friends and past. But when Jenny finds herself slipping into the arms of Jesse’s old crush, things get too real as the lines between what’s real and what’s wishful thinking blur.

{If you are a teen/young adult of the 90s you’d better have that Cure song stuck in you head now. If not listen here.}

Yes, this is ~~chick lit~~ contemporary women’s fiction. It‘s a sweet, entertaining story that was perfect to lose myself in on a sick day. Yes, I read it in less than 24 hours—because I could. The story carries you along at a crisp pace, and you just can’t help wondering when Jenny’s cover will be blown.

I groaned internally a couple of times—first, when poor Jenny gets dumped at the airport. I wanted to smack someone—mostly the boyfriend who admits he has “feelings” for another girl (a fellow volleyball player at that) but a little bit towards our spunky heroine who should have known better. But then again, we’ve all been there. I cut her some slack and wanted to hug her or buy her a drink at the airport bar.

Then there was the whole impersonating-a-stranger-you-know-nothing-about scenario. Who does that? And gets away with it? And why can’t I do that for a weekend? Ah—that’s what hooked me. I’d love to slip into the life of someone far cooler and more loved, even more so back in the day when I was a single girl muddling through uninspiring jobs and unfufilling friendships. I couldn’t blame Jenny for wanting to jump into the group of friends who seemed to be breathlessly waiting for “Jesse” to reappear in their lives. They were all so nice and well developed. I wanted to have Myra take me home, vent with Robbie in the moonlight, hold Heather’s hand. Fish appears as the perfect guy for Jenny—sensitive, outdoorsy, honest, caring. I’d want them to want me, too. And so I let my suspension of disbelief carry me away.

I felt a kinship with Jenny and just couldn’t help rooting for her. My parents never divorced and my mom was certainly never a drunk, but like her, I never had that tight group of friends who I knew would never leave me, whose faces would light up and arms would embrace me had I shown up at my high school reunion. So yeah, I’d want to be Jesse, too. . .until the fit hit the shan. But you’ll have to read WHY CAN’T I BE YOU to find out those details.

Read it: It’s kind of like a John Hugh’s teen flick thirteen years later—a charade filled with angst, sweetness, and what it means to be accepted.

WHY CAN’T I BE YOU
by Allie Larkin
Plume
304 Pages
$9.99 [Kindle] $15 [Paperback]

Allie’s website / Twitter / Facebook

Beauty of a Woman | Beyond Skin Deep

17 Replies

My skin is a diary, stained with ink splotches, often fragile and wrinkled as tissue paper.

From my first breath, a hand-sized port wine stain discolored my torso, as if seared by God at birth.

I hid it for years. People gasped whenever they spied just a sliver of the magenta stigma below a stretched shirt bottom. “Oh my God, what happened? Were you burned? What IS that?” Their comments, their distaste—I was not okay. I dreamed of transforming my sprawling brand into a dragon tattoo. Let it breathe fire onto others as their words had scorched me.

I didn’t appreciate how easily I’d gotten off. Most of these stains appear on the face and neck.

In my youth, we worshiped the sun. We lived outside in a land of eternal sunshine, basking on beach towels and pool floats, slathering ourselves with Bain de Soliel and baby oil. My friends glowed bronze, many blessed by their Mediterranean or Hispanic lineage.

I faded into white walls. Translucent.

My mother always praised my fair complexion. I loathed it. I was a vampire in the land of sun goddesses.

I plastered my face with foundation as soon as my parents permitted, masking my smattering of freckles.

Upon my pale limbs, I traced patterns between my birthmarks and moles. My own constellations. Somehow they looked wrong when I stared at them in a mirror. Though always relatively thin, I allowed my flaws to weigh me down.

On my twenty-first birthday, I believed I’d matured into a woman. In honor of the milestone, I skipped the booze and bought my first bikini instead. Far more gutsy. Go ahead. Stare. This is me.

I’ve worn many since.

The first time my future husband saw my stain, he said not a word. When he finally spoke up, it was only to say I was beautiful no matter what. I washed off much of my warpaint and let my freckles shine.

When my stomach swelled with life, my dragon grew, protecting the child inside. A slight brown mark appeared above my hip where he often kicked. He was born with a brown stork bite on his ankle. We matched. Traces of silver webs hung like a fringe over my womb, forever proving I had grown a child. I hope they never fade away.

Just as I learned to accept my different beauty, my skin betrayed me. Skin cancer. Basal cell, thank God. My constellations began disappear, the motley stars hacked out before they turned into dark matter. A little spot burned off here, another bump punched out there. Pink scars became my new stars. The first time they carved a gash in my shoulder I wore a sling for two weeks, taking extreme care so the scalpel would not permanently disfigure me. The fates laughed, and infection caused a welt seemingly stolen from Frankenstein’s bride.

I hid it, for a while.

Another two-inch gash marred my back. The sun became my enemy. As I hid in the shade to protect my papery shell, I healed within. My freckles faded. My confidence grew even as other blemishes spotted my skin. Be it age, hormones, genetics, or the damage I’d caused in my youth, this is me.

See that silver lightening flash on my hip—baby. That stitch lined gash—skin cancer. Those splotches and lines and big-ass freckles—my signature.

But I am more than my skin. In yoga class, I pose in black tights, my glowing white skin reflected in each mirrored wall. I’m different. I shine. I’m different, yet I’m beautiful. We all are.

Each constellations in the heavens tells a story. Each each dot, gash, and wrinkle upon my skin forms words, a veritable story of my life written upon my vellum. Ask me about one, I’ll tell you my tale.

My story is far from over.

http://augustmclaughlin.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/boaw-2013.jpg

This post is a part of author August McLaughlin’s Beauty of a Woman Blogfest. Be sure to visit the other funny, tear-jerking, inspiring, and always beautiful posts.

photo credit: Gabriela Camerotti via photopin cc

Happy Birthday (Juice Bottle) Jeff Kinney—A Diary of a Bottle Biography

2 Replies

biography book report, water bottle person, how to make a bottle person, soda bottle person, biography project, kid’s biography class project

Dear Jeff,

Happy Birthday! Since I spent all of President’s Day pouring over your biography for my son’s first book report, I figured we should be on a first name basis. And, well, since my son and I have now immortalized you with craft foam and an apple juice bottle, I feel like we’re kinda tight.

Out of the hundreds, maybe thousands of kid-appropriate biographies at the library, my son picked yours. This was no easy feat. He wandered the aisle scuffing his skate shoes, feigning no interest in sports heroes or dead politicians. We couldn’t find any books about the captain of the Titanic or the creator of Legos. Just before I thrust Sacajawea’s bio into his hands he said, “What about Jeff Kinney? He’s kinda cool.”

Indeed.

And what do you know. . .your bio was just waiting there on the shelf for him. My kid who hates to write (yet thankfully loves to read and draw) picked an author as the one person in the world he wanted to lean more about. Zoo-wee, mama!

Now, getting him to read your biography was no problem. To a 9-year-old kid, you’re as cool as a video game character (with your own mack daddy turbo blasters). I owe you a big chunk of thanks for writing books boys like to read. Apparently, reading to him since he was a blob of cells and watching his parents devour hundreds of books a year wasn’t enough to inspire him. I mean, we’re his parents. But your books hooked him. My kid ran out to buy The Third Wheel with his own birthday money the day it came out. Instead of Legos. There is no higher honor. I was so dang proud I nearly cried.

Book read: check.

Report written. . . Now, this child watches me write book reviews (essentially book reports, right?) and ~~write~~ ~~rewrite~~ ~~edit~~ work on my own novel for hours each day. But getting him to write a book report made pulling teeth seem like a beach vacation day. (Seriously. The kid’s had three oral surgeries. Boatloads more fun.) I suppose I should have tried threatening him with the cheese touch.

Then there was the whole decorate a two-liter bottle to look like a replica of your “Famous Person!” bit. This will be fun for you AND YOUR FAMILY. Maybe for Martha Stewart’s family, but the crafty gene somehow slipped from our DNA strands.

But I think we did a pretty decent job. It’s not Michelangelo’s David, but hey, it works. The head even rotates (I think our Jeff might do a few Linda Blair imitations—minus the pea soup—we’re talking 3rd grade boys here.) I think you’re going to be a hit come biography book report presentation day.

Once again, Happy Birthday. (And I only know this because it took a half hour of prodding to get my kid to write that first report sentence stating when and where you were born.) I’ll bet you’re the only guy you know who receives a picture of foamy juice bottle mini-me for his special day. Fame has its perks.

And thanks again for writing books that somehow make reading cool for boys. The world needs more of them.

Cheers!

How To Make a Water Bottle Person

(our cheapo,uncrafty version)

I’m only providing a brief overview of how we cobbled this project together because I figure there must be other parents out there more clueless than me. Like my husband—if he had to figure this out.

64 oz juice bottle — we used one with 2 flat sides so the glue adhered better
craft foam for clothes & skin
masking tape ring or bottom of an oatmeal canister (about 1-2 inches thick)
googly eyes (optional)
more foam or construction paper for hair
good old Elmer’s glue
2 popsicle sticks
markers
scissors
props

Clean out the bottle. (We almost forgot that step.) Decide upon your “famous person’s” attire. I recommend using regular paper to make a pattern before you mess up your crafty foam. We wrapped a sheet of blue foam around the bottom half of the bottle and cut out a V to make jeans. For the shirt, we cut a hole in the center of our “shirt” foam and placed it over the top of the bottle. We cut slits in each side to wrap around the sides and make sleeves. Cut out foam arms to fit into sleeves. Cut out hands and fingers if you’re feeling so inspired. Slather foam with Elmer’s and push into place. (A few pieces of tape or clothes pins may help hold foam in place while it dries.)

For the head: trace around your tape or oatmeal container circle on the foam. Cut out. Cut a strip wide enough for the sides. Slather strip with glue and wrap around. With a hole punch (or scissors), punch two holes in the bottom. Insert popsicle sticks about an inch. This makes your neck and attaches the head. Run glue around the edges of each side then attach the big circles for the front and back of head. Once dry, decorate however you like. (We used construction paper for hair, markers to draw face, and googly eyes.)

Sorry if your head on sticks freaks you out, Jeff.

Don’t forget to add a few props for your person’s famous talent/skill/whatever. I printed out a picture of Diary of a Wimpy Kid and we glued it to some cardboard for strength. Kiddo made a pencil from a popsicle stick. We glued to the hands. Instant writer.

{An aside to all my homeschooling friends: this is why I could never, EVER, take on that responsibility. This one little project about killed me. This is also another example of why I’m thrilled to have one kid. Good luck to the rest of you…}

Rich. Decadent. Hunky. The World’s Best Brownies

2 Replies

{I’m airing a rerun of one of my favorite (and most popular) recipes. These babies are the perfect way to spoil you valentine—or yourself.}

Rich. Decadent. Dark. Hunky. Sweet. Luscious. And easy *wink wink*

Sounds like the perfect Valentine, right? But it is far better than a man. It’s silent, scrumptious, doesn’t care what you look like and satisfies you anytime, anywhere. It’s one of my favorite comfort foods from childhood: my Mom’s Magic Camping Brownies.

Okay, so that title doesn’t quite give them the justice they deserve, so I shall explain. Growing up we didn’t have much junk food in our house—Oreos were not an after school snack nor did Fruit Loops ever grace our breakfast table (except on my birthday). But we always had dessert. Never a Ho Ho or a Twinkie, but a freshly baked portion of utter deliciousness.

Mom usually reserved these treats for special occasions or baked them upon request for parties, school events, and the regular group camping trips. Forgetting the beer or even breakfast would have been forgivable, but we would have been fed to the alligators if we showed up without the famous brownies.

When I went away to college Mom sent them in care packages. What else could a college freshman possibly want when she woke up Saturday “morning” at 3 p.m. than to nibble on a little piece of gooey chocolate and caramel heaven. They were also popular at late night parties, and once, perhaps while a little intoxicated, I called them “Magic” brownies. The accidental misnomer excited the party-goers to a near frenzy to grab at the delectable morsels. They were only slightly disappointed when I insisted they were not, ah em, spiked with special herbs But by then everyone was too busy reveling in chocolate ecstasy to really care and the name stuck.

Mom’s “Magic” Gooey Chocolate Caramel Brownies

24 kraft caramels (7 oz) unwrapped
1 5 1/3 oz can (2/3 cup) evaporated milk
1 package devil’s food cake mix
1 cup chopped walnuts
6 tbsp. melted margarine
1 small bag (1 cup) chocolate chips

Combine all but 2 tbs. evaporated milk, cake mix, walnuts, and margarine; mix well (it will be thick).
Spread half the cake mixture in a well greased 13x 9x 2 inch pan.
Bake at 350 for 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, melt caramels and 2 tbs. evaporated milk in a small saucepan over low heat until smooth.
Sprinkle half the chocolate chips over the hot baked crust. Drizzle the melted caramel on top.
Drop the remaining cake mixture by spoonfuls all over the caramel and carefully try to cover as evenly as possible (it will still be lumpy).
Sprinkle the remaining chocolate chips on top.
Continue baking at 350 for 20 minutes more.
Cut into bars while still warm (but not hot).
Cool in pan.
Enjoy. If you don’t there is something wrong with you.

Review: The Obvious Game by Rita Arens

Guest Post: Rita Arens — A Writer’s Pub Journey By the Numbers

Review: Calling Me Home by Julie Kibler

6 Replies

“I knew almost right away Miss Isabelle carried troubles more significant than worrying about the color of my skin. As pretty as she was for an eighty-year-old woman, there was something dark below the surface, and it kept her from being soft. But I was never one to press for all the details—could be that was part of the beauty of the thing. I’ve learned that people talk when they’re ready. Over the years, she became much more than just a customer. She was good to me. I hadn’t ever said so out loud, but in ways, she was more like a mother than the one God gave me. When I thought it, I ducked, waiting for the lightening to strike.

Still, the favor Miss Isabelle asked me, it did come as a surprise.”

Calling Me Home is debut author Julie Kibler’s story of a heartbreaking, forbidden love in 1930’s Kentucky and an unlikely modern-day friendship.

Dorrie’s life hasn’t turned out as planned. After marrying her high school sweetheart, she dreamed of white picket fences—instead she ended up a single mom running her own small beauty salon in East Texas. She’s thinks she’s finally found a guy, a good guy, but her previous betrayals by a list of losers has left her unable to trust.

Yet she barely thinks twice when Miss Isabelle, a longtime elderly customer who has turned into a dear friend, asks Dorrie to escort her to a funeral in Cincinnati. The next day. With no real explanation as to why. Close up her shop and leave her kids for a week? Sure—she has some things to work out anyway (including a nagging suspicion that her teen son may soon be a daddy) and, well, Miss Isabelle needed her.

Once the car trip begins, the two women of different generations and skin colors open up about their pasts. But this is really Miss Isabelle’s story. She confesses how at seventeen she fell deeply, madly in love Robert Prewitt, a would-be doctor and the son of her family’s black housekeeper. These things did not happen in 1939, in a small Kentucky town where blacks were not even allowed to set foot after dark.

Julie Kibler spins a wonderful tale piping with strong female voices. The story kept me up late not only reading, but reflection upon how horrible things were not so long ago, and how things still aren’t quite as they should be. The blatant racism—signs on the edge of town telling “negros” to get out by dark—may be a thing of the past, but the subtle sneers and looks still linger for some.

At times Dorrie and Isabelle’s interwoven stories got me spitting mad, and mind went off on silent tirades about ignorance and injustice and just what the hell is wrong with some people and wishing I could banish the intolerant folks to their own island. And then I thought about my son, and how at age six he tried to tell me about one of the kids he’d befriended at the park. I’d asked him to point him out amidst the whole mess of kids tearing around the playground. It took a seemingly infinite amount of descriptors (brown hair, blue shirt, tall, loud voice, dinosaur shoes, standing by that girl) before he even mentioned that the boy had “brown skin.” It wasn’t important enough to be noticed or commented upon. It gave me hope for the future.

But this book isn’t just about race relations. At its heart is a love story—several, in fact. It’s a story about following your heart no matter what odds you must overcome. It’s a story about learning to trust your heart after it’s failed you so many times. And it’s a story about how kindness and love can form bonds far stronger than genetics, how family is what you make it.

I closed Calling Me Home with a delicate gasp, a shy tear, and a heartfelt smile.

This is one you’ll pass along to your friends.

Calling Me Home is the February She Reads book club pick.

Enter to win one of the TEN copies She Reads is giving away, courtesy of St. Martin’s Press (just leave a comment on their post (linked here)–winners will be chosen on Friday)

Calling Me Home
by Julie Kibler
336 pages
$24.95 [hardback] $11.99 [Kindle]
St. Martin’s Press

*I received this book courtesy of St. Martin’s Press and the She Reads Blogger Network. All opinions are my own.

How Do I Decide? Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing (A Field Guide for Authors) | REVIEW

1 Reply

You’ve written a book. You thought that was the hard part. But now you must navigate through the rapidly changing publishing landscape, a quest that may seem like being dropped into Siberia with swimsuit and a snorkel. It’s a Brave New World out there: as bookstores close, longstanding publishing houses merge or fold, and the e-book platform explodes, most of us are left questioning our path to publication. Once upon a time, a writer’s dream was to land an agent, a book deal with a big name publishing house (and the advance that came with it), and utilize their vast network of editors and publicists to become a household name. If you were self-published, it was because you weren’t good enough to make it to these big leagues.

Not anymore.

Many previously traditionally published authors are detouring from the conventional route and self-publishing. Now anyone, from NYT bestselling authors to the crazy cat lady down the street can put their work up for sale on Amazon or Smashwords. But to poorly paraphrase a quote from Jurassic Park: [Many writers] were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.

Enter Rachelle Gardner. Like many other aspiring authors, I’ve read her blog religiously for a while. As an agent with Books and Such Literary Agency, she generously shares her insider’s view of the industry, schooling us with a mix of encouragement and straight talk. Her posts cover topics such as the craft of writing, querying, platform building, and of course, publishing.

Gardner crosses over to the self-pub world with the release of How Do I Decide? Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing (A Field Guide for Authors). She draws on her years of experience to walk us through the various steps in both publishing processes. She concisely explains the advantages and disadvantages of each method, laying out the financial differences, writer responsibilities, and complications an author can expect. She stress that no matter which method you choose, content is still king: you cannot succeed without a well-crafted book.

As a writer gearing up to enter the publishing arena, I found her checklist worksheet exceptionally helpful. (Apparently, I’m far more equipped to pursue one method over the other, something I hadn’t realized until I read this book.)

I also enjoyed the author perspectives interspersed throughout. Jennie Nash’s 5 Surprises of Self-Publishing was an eye-opener, reiterating the risks and rewards involved.

If you decide you are destined to self-pub, Gardner provides links at the back of the book to editors, book designers, and cover designers. Some traditional resources for finding agents and general publishing info is provided as well.

As Gardner explains, there is no right or wrong answer any more. Every writer should carefully examine their motivations, skill sets, experience, and personality traits before they decide which path to take. How Do I Decide? is a quick, helpful read I will most likely refer to again before I make any decisions regarding my own path. It’s well worth the $3.99 price, and a must read for any writer considering their goals and options.

How Do I Decide? Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing
by Rachelle Gardner
58 pages (est.)
$3.99 [Kindle]

Rachelle Gardner’s website/Twitter/Facebook

Review: Why We Write

1 Reply

20 Acclaimed Authors on How and Why They Do What They Do

Over four decades ago, George Orwell listed the four great motives for writing in his essay “Why I Write”:

1. Sheer egoism. “To be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on gown-ups in childhood, etc.”

2. Aesthetic enthusiasm. “To take pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story.”

3. Historical impulse. “The desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.”

4. Political purposes. “The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.”

Thirty years later, Joan Didion addressed the question, and now Meredith Maran asked twenty household-name authors to write their take on the question of why we write. Some answered the question clearly, cohesively, and obviously with much though. Others claimed they’d never been asked the question before, and let the answers flow.

Most of us know why we write: we’d simply wither and die if we couldn’t. While most of the award-winning authors wax candidly about the WHY, it’s their HOW process of writing and their path to success I found far more interesting.

Isabelle Allende’s tale charmed me with its quirkiness and purity; her dedication to her language and storytelling enchanted me and made me want to pull out one of her books for a lazy reread.

In direct contrast, James Frey’s piece only solidified my dislike of him. It may be just an arrogant facade, but his condescending nature and disrespect for other writer’s AND his audience totally turned me off. He proclaims he’s in the same league as Hemingway, Kerouac, and Miller in one sentence, then boasts how he’s thrilled to make a buck writing crappy scripts under a pen name the plebeians will eat up. His every word drips with condescension.

Kathryn Harrison’s advice seems a direct contrast to Frey: “Don’t portray yourself as who you want to be. Portray yourself as who you are.”

The authors share stories of their depressions and failures as well as their breakthrough experiences (many of which occur at the acclaimed Iowa Writer’s Workshop). All of the authors have reached the level of success where they don’t need a day job, but their anecdotes about their early writing days struck home. My favorite must be Sara Gruen’s description of the closet writing nook she eked out while stuck on Water for Elephants: hidden from her family, emptied of her husband’s clothes, and taped over with old-time circus photos.

Why We Write is a decent book for writers who don’t want to feel alone in their insanity, who know no writer is “normal,” and who seeks some (dis)comfort in the realization that it never gets easy—even for best selling mainstream writers—we just gain discipline and learn how to hide our fears better. For the most part, I enjoyed the variety of writers selected for the project, but I would have loved to have seen some whose careers took off after the publishing industry started its metamorphosis in this last decade. A few less-mainstream writers, like say Christopher Moore or Chuck Wendig could have livened up the candid prose, but at least Maran didn’t include James Patterson.

A portion of the proceeds will benefit 862 National, an innovative youth literacy program.

Why We Write
(release date 1/29/13)
Merideth Maran (editor)
250 pages, $9.99 [Kindle], $10.98 [Paperback]
Plume (January 29, 2013)

A Day Without Magic: low marks for Universal’s Wizarding World of Harry Potter

5 Replies

First, let me preface: I am a Harry Potter geek. Though I’m not big into fantasy, MG, or YA lit, that bright boy charmed me from the moment my hubby (who IS a total YA & fantasy geek) convinced me to give the book a try over a decade ago. I’ve devoured each book since.

I hate to do this. It’s a new year, and I’m trying to focus on the positive in life. But Sunday…Sunday stunk as much as rotten pollyjuice potion.

Over a year ago, I won two tickets to Universal Orlando. It’s been a fight to get them (another story, another day) but we FINALLY marked our calendars for Janurary 20th: the day we’d experience The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

We were more excited than if we’d nabbed tickets to the Quiddich World Cup. Kiddo rushed to finish reading Chamber of Secrets (almost made it—he’s only in 3rd grade). We watched a marathon of movies. We hoped for a chilly day so the snow dusting the roofs in the quaint town of Hogsmeade wouldn’t be too ironic due to the sweltering average Orlando temperatures.

The first faux pas came when we tried to buy an additional ticket. We’re local, we’re Florida residents—we expected to find some type of discount. Nada, unless we wanted to buy three days. Then our local newspaper listed a Florida resident discount in its entertainment section. Yippee. I couldn’t find it on the UniversalOrlando.com site, so I called.

They had never heard of it. And laughed when I asked if they’d honor the price.

So we purchased the ticket at FULL PRICE. {Shivers. Those who know me realize I never pay full price for anything.}

Our assigned day of fun arrived with promises of cool weather and slightly overcast skies—a perfect backdrop to mimic Harry’s land of enchantment. We rushed through the park gates as soon as they opened for us “regular” guests (hotel guests are allowed in an hour early) and raced towards the castle. My heart fluttered as we passed through the stone arch marking our transformation from mere tourists to muggles. We lingered for a moment to gape at the Hogwarts Express and snap a pic. The Hogwarts Express! A stampede of muggles and aspiring witchcraft and wizardry students in various Potter attire pushed through the narrow alleyway, barely gazing in the shop windows as all prepared to storm the castle. The stately towers of Hogwarts rose above the foliage, yet less than ten minutes after the park opened, the wait for Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey clocked in at 75 minutes. Whaat? Flight of the Hippogriff (a 30-second kiddie coaster) 80 minutes. And the real coaster—The Dragon Challenge—closed for ‘area enhancements.’ Bloody hell.

Now, since I’m a local, I don’t go to any theme park during high season. But it was mid-January. The lines shouldn’t be this long…

We checked back several times and the line never wavered. (Oh, what I would have done for a Time-Turner!) By early afternoon we couldn’t resist and we joined the queue. I never made it on the ride. Once you wind through the maze of line outside you must deposit all your worldly belongings in lockers for the last hour wait. I’m not good with lines normally, but vicious allergies made the idea of standing in a confined space without any water, tissues, or throat lozenges impossible. With a tear, I fled from the line and crowds to the rainforest of Jurassic Park while the hubby and kiddo waited.

I’m glad I fled. The ride broke twice while they were strapped in and flying high. Holy freakout, Harry.

Instead I waited 25 minutes for a frozen butterbeer (yum!) and saw the tops of the Beauxbatons and Drumstrang students twirl and stomp on the little stage.

{Aside: check out the “Public Convinces” as Moaning Myrtle‘s voice entertains you in the loo.}

While the shop windows lining the narrow street in Hogsmeade are lavishly decorated with notions and displays that will surely delight any Potter fan, most are merely facades, and “Closed” signs hang behind their glass paned doors. The shops that are open are excruciatingly tight; expect to push through as if they were giving away free Nimbus 2000s. No one can leave without buying some of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans at Honeydukes. The line for Olivander’s (just to watch one of 25 people go through the wand selection process) runs up to 90 minutes long, so we skipped that also. We oohhed and ahhhed over much of the merchandise in the cramped stores, but as expected, the prices seemed as high as a wanted wizard’s ransom. Be warned.

We bit the bullet and joined the line for Flight of the Hippogriff. Kiddo stood just an inch shy of riding on the massive looping Hulk coaster, and we couldn’t imagine leaving Islands of Adventure without at least one spin on the tracks. But we did. The Hippogriff must have been insulted, because in the first ten minutes we waited, the coaster broke down twice. With passengers aboard, stranded.

Yeeah, we abandoned that line.

Of course, we stopped in for a pint at the Hog’s Head Pub. The decor was charming, the beer & cider cold, the line long (Hubby asked if they were brewing it behind the bar), the “suggested tip” fleecing. (You’re pouring a beer behind a counter, you get a buck. It’s not table service. You’re not earning a 25% tip on a $7.95 pint.)

With a sigh, we left Hogsmeade and dragged the last dregs of our beers along to watch The Eighth Voyage of Sinbad Stunt Show. Cheesy, but the kiddo laughed, and it was lovely to actually sit and relax. Except…fifteen minutes into the show the actors disappeared and the show abruptly ended due to “technical difficulties.” Come on!

We were done. We stopped at the Caro-Suess-el as we wandered to the exit. A fifteen minute wait–okay. Except our wait grew as we kept getting bypassed by the Express Pass people. The entire carousel would be filled up by Brazillian tour groups who breezed past as we stood still. You see, for an additional $29.99 – $49.99 (on top of the $96 one-day one-park ticket) you can walk right onto most the rides, leaving all of us people who can’t or won’t spend the extra feeling like dirty mudbloods.

For once, I say Disney does it better. MUCH better. Their fast past system is wonderful. Yes, I’ll take a FREE ticket to come back to a crowed ride at an assigned time. Works like a charm and makes a theme park visit much more magical.

Universal needs to study harder. Long lines, too tight quarters, poor fast pass system, and at least four attraction fails. Of the three Wizarding World attractions, two broke and one was closed. Though the facades were breathtaking, the magic just wasn’t happening.