We are the champions, my friends!

I've been playing basketball with the same team (with slightly different teammates) in an after-work charity-focused basketball league for more than a year. Though a few teammates have come and gone, I refuse to consider the thought of ever playing with any other five people (who've been on my team - Hoop Doggy Dogs - for the past few seasons). Albert, Beth, In-Ho, Matt, and Rob are, to put it mildly, ridiculously awesome people whom I've grown to absolutely adore.

To start, they share one of my great passions: basketball. I know I'll see them all at least once a week for games, and I live for that day - not only because I get to play basketball, but because I get to hang out with these five people. But because we jive so well, we will not only hang out at the bar after (and sometimes before!) every game, but we usually hang out once or twice a week on top of that.

During many of our hangouts, we've talked about how awesome it would be to (finally) win the final game and be the league champions.

The camaraderie may have played a part last night, but I'd like to think that our victory was wholly due to our top-notch athleticism.

We won the league championship!

Woo-hoo!

OK, so technically we won because in the championship game, the other team had to forfeit, but still, we DID win!

Let me back up and explain that we were in the top 4 teams out of 10 in our division, which put us in the semi-finals. After two hard-fought battles in a best-of-three elimination round - in which I feel I played rather well - we beat the other team in the semi-finals and had a chance to rest awhile before the championship round.

We took this golden opportunity to - what else? - each dig into our bags for our deodorants and simultaneously freshen ourselves up before the big game while laughing that we all had the same idea at the same time.

We won the first game against the purple team pretty easily. I again was playing rather well in part, I'm sure, because when I was on offense, my counterpart on defense was a maybe-5-foot-tall girl with one move (fake left and drive right).

We were well on our way toward winning the second and final game when I got slimed. And by that I mean I helped guard the big guy on the purple team and his wet, sweaty, slimy arm rubbed right up against me. Y-UUUU-CK!!! Dealing with sweaty guys is definitely not a highlight in this league.

But I put that past me and our team was up by 10 with just two minutes to go. Victory seemed inevitable, but then a collision caused a guy on the other team to go down to the floor with his hand over his eye. After he removed his hand so we could see if he was OK, I wish I had looked away before he did. All I saw was blood coming from a slice that started in his eye and went above his eyebrow.

The refs immediately told him that they wanted him to go to the hospital and his teammates of course wanted to go with him. We helped his teammates pack up all their stuff and then were left by ourselves on the court still in the midst of the game with no team to play. The ref came up to us, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Well... you guys win."

We all looked at each other and were like, "Yay... I guess." Yet we still went to our favorite bar, Mad River Bar & Grill as planned and sat at our usual table between the kitchen and the fireplace in virtual silence.

"What's up with you guys?" asked our favorite (and hot!) bartender, Patrick, at our gloomy demeanor as he brought us our usual two big pitchers of water.

"Well," I replied. "We just won the league championship."

"What? You don't look like it," he replied. After telling him the unfortunate story, he replied with pretty much what we were feeling: "Wow. That sucks."

After a couple of (pitchers of) beer, we started cheering up and timidly celebrating our victory.

"Hey, a win is a win," In-Ho reminded us. While it's a bit tainted, well, we did win, which means the charity of our choice gets a portion of the proceeds. That's awesome.

And what other charity would a basketball team with a name like Hoop Doggy Dog choose? Why, Mighty Mutts, of course!

Regardless of why or how we won, we'll be helping some of the stray pups of NYC. Now that's something to celebrate!

"No One Mourns The Wicked"; I only mourned when it was over

I got tickets for something SO AWESOME that it alone is what caused Brent to come out of retirement.

I'm sure it had NOTHING to do with the fact that we were going to attend the show with his B-school friend and his friend's wife OR that the event was going to be preceded with a dinner at one of our favorite NYC restaurants OR that the evening was going to end at one of our favorite bars.

But let's be honest - who cares what the reason is that caused Brent to be OK with spending an ungodly amount of money on Broadway tickets for the two of us and our couple friend because...

I FINALLY GOT TO SEE WICKED!!!!!

And. It. Was. A!M!A!Z!I!N!G!

I have wanted to see this Broadway show since the first day I stepped foot in New York City. Not a single person whom I've talked to about it had anything less than awesome things to say about it, save the price of the tickets, which are never at the discounted theater tickets booths (and why should they be if people are willing to pay *gulp* full price for them?).

So not surprisingly, I was thrilled when Brent's buddy called to tell him that he and his wife were going to be in town and that she wanted to see the show, and would we like to go with them?

HELL YEAH!

I even volunteered to get the tickets (this way Brent couldn't weasel out of going - I thought of everything). Since there were terrible seats when I browsed around on Ticketmaster, I not-so-reluctantly decided to actually go to the theater to see if I could get anything better. I'm a bit ashamed to admit that I couldn't hide my giddiness when standing just in the lobby of the Gershwin Theater. Yeah, there might be no place like home, but leave me in that theater any day!

Fate must have seen how excited I was because when I asked the ticket guy what he had available for the date our friends were going to be in town, I had to ask him to repeat what he said.

"I got four tickets in Row B. You want 'em?" he said again.

"Row B where?" I asked, thinking it was in the balcony while trying not to let myself hope that it was right behind the Row A that is directly in front of the stage.

"Right here," he said, pointing at the Row B on the orchestra level. As in the one DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF THE STAGE (albeit on the right side of the stage, and not in the center, but WHO CARES?)

"Yes. I will take them," I said, grinning and already dialing Brent to tell him to call his friend Brian and have him pass along the good news to his wife, Elizabeth.

The hardest part after that glorious moment was waiting - but it gave me something to look forward to for three weeks.

After yet another fantastic dinner at one of our neighborhood Italian restaurants, Bocca di Bacco, which is, apparently, a favorite of Bono's, we cut it a bit close and rushed into the theater moments before the lights dimmed and I sat through what would turn out the be the best three hours E.V.E.R.

For those of you who have yet to see the show - and don't worry, I wouldn't dream of ruining it for you - it's told from the perspective of the witches of Oz before Dorothy's arrival from Kansas, and it includes many well-known scenes and dialogue ("there's no place like home," anyone?) from The Wizard of Oz. I loved "discovering" how the scarecrow and tin man came to be, how Galinda became Glinda, etc.

My only complaint? That it was tainted only by my husband reminding me of when the show would be over: "That's song number 10," he'd whisper in the middle of the crescendo of a song on a CD I'd soon be buying, causing me to not-so-successfully SHHHHHHH!!! him. "That means there are only seven more left." Etc.

But I expect it from him. Apparently I do the same thing in the middle of, say, the Super Bowl: "It's third down with 10 seconds left. There's probably only time for one play before halftime and we can talk again!" Etc.

Needless to say, I will be going back to see this musical anytime anyone wants to go see it - and even if no one else wants to go see it. It definitely didn't disappoint.

And apparently the show isn't too "girly," as proven to Brent when we emerged from the theater the same time as Brook Lopez, the center for the New Jersey Nets. (I'll regretfully admit that he was with two tween-ish girls, most likely his daughters). But nonetheless - Brent's perspective: If it's good enough for a professional athlete, I guess it's not all that bad. My perspective: Sigh.

Afterward - only because our favorite neighborhood bar, Valhallah, was packed - we capped off the evening with beer at the nearby Coppersmiths - a bar that I have yet to leave sober. This night was no exception. I love New York!

Didn't I go through enough six months ago?

Though it had been nearly 45 minutes of waiting at the doctor's office until I was actual lying on the exam table, I felt like I had been holding my breath the entire time while admittedly negative thoughts kept swirling around in my mind.

Did it get bigger?
Has it become malignant?
What if things aren't OK this time?

I was, of course, thinking the worst about the lump I found in my breast back in May, which I now know is a tumor. It turned out to be a benign tumor, but it's a tumor nonetheless. After a biopsy and a horrific several-days wait to find out that it's benign six months ago, here I am again revisiting this small, but still scary, mass that has somehow formed on the side of my breast under my armpit and the doctors can't tell me why. All they know is that it should be monitored twice a year to make sure nothing has changed.

While the technician gave me yet another breast ultrasound, I actually did hold my breath while gently tugging at my hair to hold back the tears because I was absolutely terrified that things might not work out so well this time. Luckily, that was not the case. The lump has changed neither changed in size nor location, and is not bothering me. So I'm fine for now, thank God. Hopefully the news is just as good in six months.

Not so relaxing, but oh so much fun!

Other than some errands, Brent and I don't do much on weekends out of the apartment. We're pretty much just content on being together watching a movie or playing a game or reading (separately, of course. You aren't going to catch me reading "The Accidental Investment Banker" or "The Wolf Of Wall Street.")

But every once in awhile, our weekend is jam packed with fun activities. This weekend was one such weekend, as we had my in-laws in town.

I entertained them on Friday night while Brent was at work, then we met him at his office so his parents could see where he works and grabbed some pizza at a nearby restaurant.

Saturday was one of those days where we didn't stop moving even for a second. I finally got to eat at Peanut Butter & Co.; the most famous peanut butter restaurant in New York, and we each ordered a different peanut butter sandwich so we could try a bunch (the Elvis and Peanut Butter BLT, to name a few.)

Afterward, Brent went to the office (sigh) and I hung out with his parents as we walked all over lower Manhattan Christmas shopping. Needless to say, when we got back, we were totally exhausted, so the following evening, we decided to stay in and play games (most are way more fun with more than 2 people) and order Pinkberry, of course. No visit to New York is complete without Pinkberry, especially now that they have Pomegranate flavor. I don't usually need an excuse to go to Pinkberry, but as far as excuses go, guests are the best one!

"I didn't do it, mom... I'm innocent!"

Yeah, sure you didn't just rip up your favorite toy to shreads. But who can stay mad at that face?

Not willing to decide if he's guilty beyond a reasonable doubt

I've been registered to vote ever since I was 18 (although my votes in the 2000 and the 2004 elections didn't help my presidential candidate win at all).

And ever since then, I've been secretly hoping to be chosen for jury duty.

I've always had a fascination with the legal system, and even tossed around the idea of possibly becoming a lawyer ever since I elected to appear in front of a judge to dispute a speeding ticket, lack of auto insurance, and failure to wear a seat belt stemming from an incident in which I was pulled over by a police officer when I was 17 years old. (I won the latter two charges using the officers' testimony against him... plus proof that I actually did have auto insurance. Erika: 2; Officer: 1.)

So imagine my surprise at never being called for jury duty when I lived in a city of 300,000 for nearly 4 years, but being called to serve as a juror not even two years after moving to a city of 8 million.

But I was actually excited to take the day off of work (even though it didn't really look good at already needing a day off after not even being at my current job for two months yet) and check out the big, six-column judicial building adjacent to (weirdly enough) Chinatown.

As I mentioned before, I've been in court before. Not counting all the times I was there as a spectator while a reporter at The Blade, I've been involved in courtroom proceedings just twice. The first time was to dispute the speeding ticket and other charges, and the second time was two years later while testifying against a man who robbed me outside my then-boyfriend's apartment building.

Both of the times I was involved in court proceedings, I expected to be questioned, and - although terrifying in the latter case, as I was mere feet away from the man who robbed me, and my testimony ultimately sent him to jail for five years - was somewhat prepared for it.

Nothing, however, prepared me for the proverbial bright light I sat under while being grilled as a potential juror. They wanted to know my full name, where I lived in the city, how long I'd lived there, where I lived before moving to the city, what I did for a living, if I was married or had children, what my husband did for a living, my religious views, the types of shows I watched on TV (seriously), whether I'd been the victim of a crime, if I personally knew anyone in law enforcement, and whether I'd served on a jury before.

And I was answering those questions mere feet away from a man accused of first-degree murder.

Talk about nerve-wracking.

I was one of 80 potential jurors whose name was chosen lottery-style out of a group of 160 to be questioned for this case, which the judge said one the actual trial began, would most likely be over in about three weeks. Luckily, I was in the second group of jurors to be questioned, so I had two hours' worth of time - plus an hour lunch break - to think about how I would answer all of the lawyers' questions. Don't get me wrong - I was going to answer every single one truthfully, but there were some questions that some jurors were asked that made me think twice about what I would say if I were asked the same one. Like what would I say if one of the lawyers asked me if I could set aside my feelings for someone accused of wrongdoing having been the victim of a crime myself when I was just a teenager? (My answer? I honestly don't know. And I said as much to the lawyer who asked me that who thanked me for my honesty, as they did for everyone who found it difficult to admit situations in their past that might affect the way they'd view the case.)

Though I was uncomfortable answering these questions, I felt worse for the people who had children who had to disclose their ages and area of the city in which they attended school. Not only was this in front of the man on trial, but this was also in front of three of his friends/family members, who sat whispering in the last row of the courtroom. (Before I was called to sit in the jury box for questioning, I was sitting directly in front of them and heard everything they had to say about the potential jurors who were questioned before me. It was mostly about whether they thought each person would get him off the hook or not.)

Also, some people were victims of a crime, like domestic violence or rape, and had to admit that in front of a courtroom of strangers. Though I was visibly nervous - and my shaky voice into the microphone no doubt gave that away - I was lucky that most of my answers turned out to be relatively straightforward. Except when I started rattling off my jobs and work schedule and the judge had to interrupt me saying I was a coffee shop supervisor, an editor at a magazine, and a freelance writer to say, "Wait, wait a minute. You have THREE jobs?" to which my reply was a shrug and a lame, "Manhattan's expensive."


After my questioning was over, and I was half-listening to the other jurors give the answers to the questions I'd spent more than four hours hearing answers to, I found myself more fervently silently wishing over and over that my name not be called to serve - not because I wasn't willing to fulfill my call to duty nor because it would last an exhausting three weeks, but because I found myself simply not willing to hold the future of another human being's life in my hand on the basis of one or two words: guilty or not guilty. I may have been uneasy answering some of those tough questions, but my unease was heightened tenfold when it became closer and closer to the moment where I would hear whether or not I'd be one of 12 who could potentially ruin this young man's life (he looked to be about 20 years old) by putting him behind bars for God knows how long.


And I'm not God. And I wasn't there on Broadway Street when another young man was gunned down by the person who may or may not have been sitting right in front of my face. The lawyers could have shown me the gun, the fingerprints, blood spatter, and other evidence, but would I REALLY have known whether this man did it beyond reasonable doubt? It's a responsibility - a control - I was absolutely not willing to be forced to hold.

So needless to say, I was more than a little relieved when my name was not called to serve as a juror - a relief that was short-lived when shortly thereafter, I was told I would have to return to the courtroom to serve again the very next day. Thankfully, due to a lack of cases requiring jurors, I was quickly dismissed with a piece of paper stating that I had fulfilled my duty for at least eight years.

Eight blissful years. Jury duty may have seemed glamorous, but now that I've gone through it, the responsibility is anything but alluring.