Something to remember him by...

I know that every time I set foot on the basketball court, I'm risking getting hurt. This is even more of a concern because I play in a co-ed basketball league; meaning I play with guys who are not only much taller and stronger than me, but also much more aggressive.


But it's a risk that I'm willing to take because I love the game.


And it's still a risk that I'm willing to take, even after tonight.


Tonight was a frustrating set of games. We work quite effectively as a team, just lack height overall. So when we're up against a team with a guy taller than our tallest guy - 5'10" or so - we tend to struggle under the basket. Tonight was an exception in that we struggled every single time the other team's best male player drove to the hoop.


So during a timeout, I had the brilliant idea to suggest that I suck it up and take the charge. Now mind you, I am well aware of what a charge is. And I was fully prepared to plant my feet a foot away from the basket, put my hands up, and wait for a guy more than six feet tall to barrel full-speed into me.

In theory, the plan worked perfectly. On the very next play, the guy dribbled past my teammate, drove to the hoop, and went in for what had been the easy lay-up all night. What was different is that to do so, he had to knock me down. Thank God the ref called the charge, because I was not about to have done that and then not gotten the call.


The problem came, obviously, after the hit. Not only did my entire body weight land on my right elbow, but my teammate had come rushing after our opponent, jumped with him, and both of them fell with me. Along the way, the fall on my elbow was reinforced by the guy stepping on it while I went down. As if I needed to add insult to injury.



It hurt. A lot. I kept telling my teammates that I thought I had "two elbows" because of the huge lump that immediately formed next to my elbow from all the swelling.



Crap, I'm going on vacation tomorrow. I can't be injured for that, I thought.



But everyone's focus was on my bicep because it had immediately swollen in a footprint pattern. Yeah, that's a footprint. On my arm.



And even though I was the only girl available to play on our team, I wasn't about to force a forfeit and allow the other team to win. Especially after all this. So I spent the last four minutes of the game playing as best as I could while gripping my right elbow with my left hand. But we won. Score!



Afterward, I grabbed an ice pack from the ref and nursed my sore elbow while the guys on my team scrutinized my new bicep tattoo.



"Hey! This kinda looks like Rob's shoe," my teammate, Albert, said.



"What are you talking about?" I asked.



"Look," he said, holding my teammate's shoe up to my arm. The pattern on the bottom of Rob's shoe matched perfectly.

"YOU stepped on me?" I accusingly asked my teammate, who later said my arm had injured his ankle. Nice.



But the guys carried my bags for me as they walked me home, and gave me strict instructions on how to care for my swollen arm. Love my teammates. And I was no worse for the wear for vacation. I was just left with a weird tennis shoe tattoo on my bicep. Totally badass.

How exactly did I have THIS much fun the last 30 days?

"Honey? I love you," I told my husband as I was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for the computer to load and opening up a stack of mail.

"How much?" he replied.

"Um, a lot?" I replied trying to conceal the fact that the reason I randomly told him I loved him right at that moment just might have been because I saw that my credit card bill - the one I pay off every month - was in the, gulp, quadruple digits.

"No - how much is your credit card bill?" he repeated. "Just tell me."

"How did you know I just opened the credit card statement?" I asked, knowing that I was the one who got the mail that day and saw it was in there.

"I just do," he replied. "Tell me."

"Well, it might be a little more than normal," I said sheepishly, telling him the number.

"Erika..." he said, sighing.

"But doesn't it make you feel better knowing that I must have been doing lots of fun stuff the past month?" I said, laughing.

"Erika..." he repeated. But I did see a hint of a smile, so I think that means he's OK with it. Hopefully my luck will continue this time next month!

Just one more drink isn't going to hurt us

"I dunno... you really think we can handle one more?" I asked my basketball teammate and friend, In-Ho, as we sat outside Jake's Saloon after our basketball game with drinks and what turned out to be disgusting chicken and mango spring rolls.


"I'm not sure. We might regret it in the morning," he replied, as we both laughed.


"It's always that last one that kills you, right?" I say. "But... I think we should totally do it."


"Yeah, we can handle it," he agreed. "What's one more?"


"OK," I said, turning to the waiter. "Can we have another Coke and one more cranberry juice?"


"I'm almost embarrassed that we ordered that," In-Ho said after the waiter walked away.


"Who the hell cares?" I replied. "You're still recovering from a crazy drunken night yesterday and I don't want to drink alcohol, yet we still wanted to hang out somewhere, so we went to the bar and ordered virgin drinks. It's not like you HAVE to drink alcohol when you go to the bar. We're still drinking. Look... [I take a long swig of my juice from a straw] I'm drinking right now!"


"Yeah but it's not the same," he said. "Bars are kinda lame without alcohol."


"You know what?" I said. "You're kinda right. Apparently bars need alcohol so people will go to them. Because now I'm noticing how dingy this place is. But I still like hanging out with you."

"Yeah," he replied. "Me too so I guess it's OK."

We will never forget

I've more fully felt the tragedy of 9/11 since moving to the city where it all happened.

There are memorials set up all around the city. Some are small clusters of candles and flowers around a photo that any passers-by can see. Others make a huge statement to those who don't even need to be in the immediate vicinity.

For the past nine years, the Municipal Art Society has paid tribute to those who died on 9/11 by projecting two beams of light into the sky where the Twin Towers once stood.

I live four miles away from downtown, yet was still able to clearly see the rays from my rooftop, which, according to Time Out New York magazine, are the strongest shafts of light ever projected from Earth into the night sky. The beams are illuminated by more than 40 xenon light bulbs and evoke the shape and orientation of the towers that were a prominent part of lower Manhattan.

Also in the photo, you'll see the Empire State Building to the left, which changes color every night and is appropriately lit up in red, white, and blue.

With all these amazing commemorations, we can never forget.

Yep - I train my dog to bite anything wearing scarlett or gray

Anyone who knows me well - or knows me at all, really - knows that I love my T-shirts.

I have an entire drawer that, when opened, throws up T-shirts that I wear regularly. There's also another drawer for T-shirts that I don't generally wear unless it's to bed or the gym, but yet can't get rid of, like my high school honor society T-shirt (with the slogan "Don't sweat the petty things, don't pet the sweaty things" on the back. Advice still applicable today.), my too-big Race For The Cure T-shirt, and my Blade Blazers T-shirt from my time on The Blade's volleyball team (yes, there was one for a very short, yet significant, time).

There are two blue T-shirts and one gray one in particular that are in the "wear regularly" drawer, but are about to get demoted to the "wear to bed or only at home" drawer. They are, unfortunately, three of my most favorite T-shirts because they're comfy, I love the colors, and they remind me of home.

They're my Michigan shirts.

One navy blue shirt has the yellow words "Michigan" splashed across the chest, the second has a big block M on the front and the gray one has the words "Michigan Wrestling" on the front and "Big Ten" on the back (I dated a wrestler for awhile).

And it's by sheer annoyance that I am thinking of retiring these shirts from my regular rotation. And that's because I get harassed Every. Single. Time. I wear these shirts. Literally harassed.

Here's a sample of the things I've heard in the past few weeks:

"Michigan SUCKS!"

"We'll see if you love Michigan in November."


"Michigan SUCKS!"

"Michigan? Really? Yuck."

"Ohio State, baby!"


"MICHIGAN SUCKS!!!"

Keep in mind that I am not wearing this shirt in Columbus, Ohio, where I would actually expect to get harassed (and have beer bottles thrown at my head, which is what happened the one and only time I went to the Ohio State/Michigan game at The Horseshoe).

I am wearing this shirt when running errands or going to work or hanging out with my friends in New York City. Why must Ohio State fans feel the need to comment on the fabric I choose to put over my head that makes me comfortable and happy? It's not like I am wearing a pro-KKK or terrorist T-shirt or something equally as offensive against Americans or a particular race or religion. It's just a particular football team I happen to like.

When this happens, I generally ignore the comments, because there is no use shouting a comeback to a complete stranger just because he or she (I've gotten it from both) doesn't like the emblem on my chest.

Besides, I'm better than that. Why should it be any of my business if Joe Schmo off the street chooses to spend his Saturday afternoons cheering for Ohio State or Michigan State or [insert college football team here]? And why do these Ohio State fans feel the need to make the college football team that I cheer for their business?

But this trend really took a weird turn on Saturday. Before the first Michigan game of the season, Brent took one look at Chloe and asked why in the world she was wearing a pink bandanna when she has a Michigan one. So because Michigan college football is probably one of Brent's top five favorite things of all time, I of course dug it out and put it on her so our Michigan dog could sit on the couch with us and watch Michigan trounce Connecticut.

And of course I thought nothing of the bandanna that I chose to put on my dog when I hooked her to her leash and took her outside to pee.

As we were coming back to the building, we passed a couple and the woman took one look at Chloe and said, "Michigan... really? Groooooooooss."

My usual response was to ignore this comment as we walked past this couple toward our two sets of elevators. They walked into one elevator as the one nearest to me was opening, so I stepped into this second elevator with Chloe.

Apparently, they didn't realize that their elevator was going down instead of up, so they stepped out of the elevator and the guy walked into the one I was in with Chloe. Just before the doors closed, he poked his head out of the elevator, said "Are you coming?" to his companion and started laughing as he stepped back into the elevator.

It was then that he turned to me and said, "Sorry. Ohio State fans... you know."

Yes, I do know that die-hard fans of any kind can be ridiculous, but REALLY? You seriously didn't want to even SHARE AN ELEVATOR FOR FIVE SECONDS WITH A MICHIGAN FAN??? What was I going to do - sick my dog on you for cheering for a different team than me??? Come on.

I guess Michigan fans are just more rational... and definitely more classy. Or maybe that's just me.

Laughing so hard no sound comes out

My stomach hurts... I mean really hurts.

But it's not a miserable pain.

It's that "good" pain that plagues your abs after a tough, sweaty workout... though I didn't spend any time in the gym tonight.

Don't get me wrong; I had planned on going to the gym, but on my walk home, I saw that my friend and former coffee shop colleague, Amanda, was still at work near the coffee shop we both worked at together. So, since I hadn't really gotten an opportunity to talk to her in a few months, I stopped in to see how she was doing.

After sharing a few laughs with her for nearly a half an hour, she was finally free from work, and I informed her we were going to continue our conversation on my rooftop. Though I only anticipated sharing a drink and maybe two with her, two and a half hours later, my husband called me asking me where the heck I was, since I told him I'd be home after work.

It was then that I caught my breath long enough to inform him that I was, in fact, at home, just not in the apartment. It was nearly 10 p.m. and I had just spent nearly three hours laughing until my eyes teared up and my stomach screamed "no more jokes!" with Amanda.

We reminisced about former colleagues, current flames, and the ridiculousness that comes with our jobs. We bitched about our bosses and mutual strange friends, and took turns telling old inside jokes that I had long forgotten.

It was one of those conversations that I wouldn't even be able to choke out a sentence before we were both in the throes of laughter, which lasted for several seconds before she was able to respond, and vice versa. Both of us repeatedly experienced that moment where you're laughing so hard that no sound comes out for several seconds, then you take a breath and the laughter just explodes.

I had thought I was having a good day, but it wasn't until I was rolling with Amanda about "Can-I-Get-My-Tips" Tim; the butter croissant a.m. pastry; Dan, who could kill us five ways with a plastic straw; and the guy she had not been dating who thought they were dating, and going dancing with a mutual, probably gay friend, that I knew that today had turned into a great day.

I can't remember a time I laughed at Every. Single. Thing. that was said between myself and one friend for several hours, but I can't imagine I'll forget tonight anytime soon.

Sometimes it's the simple things that count... like a great conversation with a great girlfriend.

Love you girl!

Definitely not the nicest person

I was actually offended one day while a student at The University of Toledo because one of my colleagues at the student newspaper immediately refuted my claim of being the nicest person he’s met.

Not only did he quickly disagree with me, but he took it one step further and pointed to our mutual colleague, a girl named Jenny, and said she was the reason I wasn’t the nicest person he’s met.

Now granted, the meanest I had ever seen Jenny was when she once hurled a plastic cup of cigarette ash out of frustration, but I remember being pretty upset that in one person’s eyes, I was not the absolute nicest person.


Now I wouldn’t even think twice about someone saying that I’m not the nicest person. One, because I have met the nicest person in probably the entire world (he’s a guy on my basketball team and I’d bet on him every time) and two, because I can’t seem to stop word tease vomiting toward my guy friends.

Let me explain: I have started to find that the more I get to know someone and the more I like one of my guy friends, the more I tease him. And sometimes it gets to the point where I actually feel like I’m being mean, even though that’s absolutely not my intention. I never set out to actually hit below the belt, I just think teasing someone is my weird way of friend-flirting. Even though I know the guy can take it, I just can’t seem to stop pushing, and it has lately kinda started to bug me.

Why do I have to tease whom I hope will eventually be a good friend about his “lame” choice of car or shirt? Why can’t I just compliment him on something I do admire instead of pointing out (completely untrue) flaws of him?


I’m pretty sure that I push the envelope, so to speak, because I really like the idea that I can say virtually anything to my good friends, and it’s OK. I like that I can trade barbs with one of my African-American friends about racial stereotypes, for example, because it’s obviously not something I’d be able to do with just anyone. Teasing is my way of saying, “I really like you and I like how close of a friendship we’ve established.” I guess it just kinda irks me that guys respond to teasing and emotional punches in the arm over my simply going up to them and saying, “I really like you and I like how close of a friendship we’ve established.”


What makes it worse is that I have a friend who is exactly like me in this way, and while he knows I can take it – and I can – and it’s funny, I'm wondering if it can last. I mean, would it be so difficult to simply say something nice? Truthfully, and sadly, even if he did, I might think he was joking. I don’t want my friends to think of me in this way at all.


In fact, my high school self would absolutely be appalled that I’m behaving in this way because back then, I was teased… a lot. Granted, I was teased maliciously, but why would I then turn around and do the same thing years later, even after taking steps to ensure that the person I’m teasing doesn’t take it badly?

Maybe it's a guy thing and maybe because I'm a girl I just don't understand how it works. But because I'm a girl, maybe it's my job to change it.

I feel like this was a really stupid idea...

FOR SALE: Used, crappy, windowless van.

Did not need paint job until went up for sale.

Call 917-731-1086 to tell him he's an idiot for using permanent marker.

Hugs in Ohio, kisses in New York

I grew up in the Midwest, where if you were greeting or saying goodbye to a friend, you wouldn't think twice about reaching out and giving them a hug.

Here in New York, I've noticed that some of my friends are taken aback when I stretch my arms toward them for a friendly squeeze. It's not that they're uncomfortable giving hugs or anything; I can tell it's just unexpected.

Here in New York, it's customary to give a friend - girl or guy - a quick peck on the cheek more so when you say goodbye than when you say hello.

I was first taken aback by this custom back in Ohio when a friend of mine who grew up in New York gave me a kiss on the cheek as he said goodbye. At the time, I thought it was just something he did, but now that I've spent two and a half years in New York, I know it's not just him - it's a New Yorker thing.

Although it seems much more personal than a hug, I actually prefer it. Maybe it's because it's novel, but I think it's simply because a kiss is so much more intimate and it makes me feel closer to my friends. Regardless of the reason, this is for all my Midwestern friends:

MWAH from New York!

Only one with the ring

One of the toughest aspects about living in New York is being away from my family. Luckily, I was able to move here with my family - my husband, who is also my rock.

While I have a significant other here... hardly any of my friends do. Sure, there's that small minority of my friends who've been with their significant other for more than a year, but the overwhelming majority are either casually dating someone (the person of which changes every few weeks) or one hundred percent single.

I don't have a single New York friend who is married.

While it may not seem like that big of a deal, it is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Back in January, it actually hit me hard at a bar and still crops up every now and again.

My friends are up for anything any time.

I'm up for many things, as long as it's before midnight and generally not on a weekend.

My friends like going to bars to drink, dance, and meet people they might potentially want to date. (Oh, who am I kidding. They go to bars to meet people they might potentially like to either go home with or take home that night.)

I go to bars to drink, dance, and meet people who are nice and fun to talk to while we're at the bar.

My friends like to drink. A LOT. And they pride themselves on being the ones to close down the bar, regardless of the day of the week. (Bars close at 4 a.m. here, and closing down the bar was a regular occurrence especially for those on my flag football team. We played on Sundays.)

I wasn't much of a drinker when we moved here, but when in Rome with no worries about having to drive...

While I'm very much in love with my husband, hanging around my friends sometimes makes me miss my single days when I didn't have to worry about constantly texting my whereabouts, checking the time to make sure I'm not out too late, or leading anyone on. I mean it's fun to (briefly) relive the crazy college days - flip cup included.

But I am married and enjoy spending time with my husband on the weekends, which is (also) when my friends go out, so it's hard sometimes to have to say no to something fun and then know that I'm missing something with them. It's a juggling act that I'm trying very hard to master, but feel like I'm always coming up short.

Hopefully it'll be easier in 10 years when half of my New York friends have settled down and we can hang out earlier and I won't have to know I'm missing something by leaving before midnight. Although knowing most of them, 10 years may not be enough time, and I may have to wait a bit longer.

Come and see me!

One definite bonus to moving to an incredibly exciting city is hosting visitors who want to come strictly to see me (ok, fine, me AND the city).

In the past four months, I've hosted three visitors: my mom for a week (May 1-9, which was nice she was here for my birthday!), my cousin Gillian three days later from May 12-16, and her sister and my cousin Lexie just left yesterday after a five-day visit.

And I've had too much fun to write so just know we had a blast!

Why I love the guys on my basketball team

"Let's go out for drinks, since we're near McSorley's," Rob said to me and the other three guys on our Zogsports basketball team after our game on Wednesday.

Two declined, but one guy along with myself said we were in.

"I'm totally down, but I don't have any cash," I said, knowing from the week before that McSorley's doesn't accept credit cards.

"What a surprise. Erika can't pay for drinks," Rob replied.

"You know I don't do it on purpose," I retorted. "I just haven't been able to make it to the bank."

"Yeah, right," Rob replied.

"Well if you wait for a minute, I can run to the ATM," I said.

"That would be nice," Rob called after me, as I hustled down the block to take out some cash.

After two rounds of drinks, I asked for the check, ceremoniously pulled out my wallet while shooting Rob a look, and reached for my cash.

"Don't worry about it. We got it this week," Rob said, nudging the other guy, who both put in enough money to cover all our drinks.

"What?!?! No!!" I said, throwing two $20s into the pile, which were promptly returned to me.

"Well then why the hell did you make me go to the bank?" I ask Rob, shooting him a second dirty look.

"So you could at least pretend that you were going to actually pay for something," he replied.

"Whatever, Rob."

* * * * * * * * *

"No, I don't really want to go to the club tonight," I said to my two, quite drunk basketball teammates around 10:30 p.m. on Friday. "We've been out since happy hour, and I came right from work so I didn't even attempt to look nice."

"Clearly," Rob replied, eyeing my jeans and plain gray T-shirt.

Rolling my eyes and brushing him off, I went on: "Besides, I have to be home by 12:30."

"Wait, what?" Rob asked. "You have a curfew?"

"No, I don't have a curfew," I retorted. "I just told Brent that I'd be home by 12:30 and I don't want him to worry about me."

"Really? Or do you have to go home early because you're a loser?" Rob asked.

"Yes, Rob. I have to go home early because I'm a loser," I repeated sarcastically.

"Clearly," Rob said again.

"You know I seriously hate you sometimes, right?" I ask him.

"No you don't," he said, grinning at me.

"No, I don't," I sighed.

"I only tease you because I know you can take it," he said.

"Yeah, I know," I replied, nodding my head. "You certainly keep it interesting."

"I've been better" is quite the understatement. Playing with fire is much more like it.

"You should go out and look in the hall," Brent said right after walking through the door, startling me out of my doze on the couch.

"What? What time is it?" I asked sleepily, eyeing the glowing numbers on the VCR. "4:37? Does that say 4:37?"

"Yeah," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Boys night must have been some night," I said, stretching and yawning, and flicking off the glowing TV I fell asleep in front of. "Did you have fun?"

"Yeah, but, I don't know what to do. You should seriously go look in the hall," Brent replied.

"Why? What are you talking about?" I said, slipping on my flip-flops and peering out into the hall. Not seeing anything, I started to walk down the hall and around the corner toward the elevator... and stopped.

Lying on her side horizontal to an apartment door was a woman. Completely. Passed. Out. Her short, black skirt was flung up over her tight, black shirt and the entire contents of her purse were splayed all around her.

"Oh man," I muttered, going over to the woman to make sure she was breathing.

"Wake up," I said, rubbing the woman's arm repeatedly from her shoulder to her elbow. "Can you hear me? Can you wake up for me?"

"Huh?" she said, her eyelids fluttering.

"Can you hear me?" I ask. "Can you get up for me?"

"Do I have to?" she mumbles.

"Well, you're lying in a hallway," I say matter-of-factly. "You should get up. Do you live here?"

"Yeah," she replies, trying to sit up.

"Let me help you," I say, gathering up her lipstick, credit card, and driver's license that spilled all over the hallway when she apparently fell and passed out. After peering at her driver's license, I notice that the address doesn't match our apartment building.

"You do live here?" I ask. "What apartment number?"

"[###]," she says, which was the door we were standing outside. It's then that I notice the keys dangling from the lock.

"OK, let me help you get inside," I said.

"Thank you," she whispers.

But after messing with the lock for a bit, I can't get it open. Thinking that maybe she has the wrong apartment number, I look at her trying to balance in her black high heels and keep her eyes open and suggest we go downstairs to talk to the doorman.

"OK," she says, and I lead us to the elevator.

"Do you know her?" I discreetly ask the doorman, Charley, when we make it downstairs.

"Yeah, she's in [###]," he says.

"Can you help us get her in her apartment?" I ask. After grabbing an extra set of keys, he asks her how she's doing, and she responds: "I've been better." That's an understatement.

After we get the door open, usher her inside, and tell her to lock the door, she looks back and again whispers "thank you" before gingerly closing the door.

"Thanks for your help, Charley," I said. "I'm just glad to know she's safe."

"Yeah, me too," he said. "When I saw her stumble in awhile ago, I asked her if she wanted me to help her get into her apartment, like I always do, and she said no, so what was I supposed to do? I can't force help on her."

"You mean she does this a lot?" I ask.

"Well, it is Friday night and people like to go out on the weekends," he replied vaguely.

"I hope she wasn't lying in the hallway for a long time," I said.

"It was at least an hour and a half," he replied. "Before she stumbled into the building, I saw her coming toward the door by herself when she was stopped by a really shady guy who was trying to get her into his car. I had to run outside, grab her, and say, 'she's with me. Get outta here.'"

"Wow," I said, thinking. "That's just scary. But it's comforting to know that you guys are watching out for us. Thanks, Charley."

"Anytime, Erika," he said. "You don't even have to ask."

Shirt, check. Shoes, check. Pants...

“What’s with the weird look on your face?” I ask our chef who was giving out this really strange vibe.

“Nuuuthinnnn,” he drew out quietly.

“No, seriously. What’s the deal?” I ask.

“It’s just... I’m at work. And I have no pants on. It’s just weird.”

“Yeah, but it’s also funny!” I said laughing.

The poor guy showed up at the office dripping from head to toe because he gave his umbrella to his girlfriend, and I was not about to make him sit in front of the air conditioner (his desk actually blocks the air conditioner, which is constantly blowing out cold air right at him) in wet clothes.

Since it was just the two of us in the office for the next hour, I told him that was enough time to dry his clothes in the dryer located on the same floor as our office, and no one had to know about it.

So, he put on the shirt that he stowed in his bag, but since he didn't have another pair of pants, I set to work trying to find the smallest towel I could find for him to wrap around his waist while waiting for his clothes to dry. (Did I mention that our chef is incredibly hot?)

"Did you put everything in the dryer?" I ask him when he comes back from the laundry room wearing his dry shirt, a red beach towel, and flip flops.

"Well, my boxers were kinda damp, but I don't care," he said. "Those are staying on!"

"Good plan," I said. "So... is it just me or is it a bit drafty in here?"

"Really? Are you really going to go there?" he said, trying hard to conceal a smile before turning to walk away from my laughter to his desk in the other room.

To my credit, I wait around five minutes before continuing the teasing.

"Hey - did you forget your bagpipes at home?" I yell to him in the other room. "Are you trying to pay homage to your Scottish ancestry, even though you're Filipino?"

"I'm not even... it's not...," he starts, before I stop laughing long enough to hear his defeated sigh. "Whatever."

So true to my word, his clothes were dry well before anyone else got to the office. But what fun would it be if no one else knew about it? So I made sure to fill everyone in at lunch, mostly because our chef is quite easygoing and was laughing right along with the rest of us. Completely inappropriate, yes, but also pretty dang funny.

"Nakey! Nakey!" She's not even 5 years old, and she's already a pathological liar.

“What? You let Aunt E sleep in?” my mother-in-law incredulously asked my 4-year-old niece, Katelyn, as I trudged downstairs at 9:15 a.m. after our sleepover. In toddler time, by 9:15 a.m. I should have had at least three tea parties, watched two episodes of Spongebob Squarepants, baked a batch of Pink Princess Cupcakes, and went to a ball after being dolled up in a ridiculously glittery gown. “I thought you went upstairs to wake her up,” she asked.

“I did, but Aunt E was NAKED,” Katelyn announced.

“What?!” I replied, staring down at my niece who was smiling widely. “What are you talking about? No I wasn’t!!”

“Yes you were!” she replied, giggling hysterically. “You and Uncle Brent were NAKED!”

“Oh so now Uncle Brent was supposedly naked too?” I ask her like I’m supposed to have a rational conversation with a 4-year-old. “We were NOT naked. We both were wearing the pajamas we had on for our pajama party last night.”

“Nakey! Nakey!” starts up my almost 3-year-old niece, Mackenzie. “You were NAKEY!”

OK, while I admit that I don’t necessarily always go to bed wearing both a top and bottoms, I most certainly will make sure to be fully dressed before falling asleep when I know that I’ll most likely be woken up at a ridiculous hour by two toddlers absolutely NEEDING to play beauty salon and go to the park and ride in the golf cart and color and make animals with Play-Doh ALL RIGHT NOW.

But luckily I have an awesome mother-in-law so it’s not like I was embarrassed or anything – I just had no idea where my nieces get these things from or why they felt the need to REPEAT the lie all day, including when their parents came to pick them up after dinnertime. Don’t kids usually forget about stuff or move on by then? Apparently, not these little monsters.

But who are you gonna believe – me or these two adorable angels? Even though, to set the record straight, I WAS wearing shorts and a tank top, I’m not sure I can compete with their charm.

Can't... Take... Another... Bite...

A dark chocolate square...smear of barbecue sauce on a piece of chicken...paper cup of coffee...pretzel dipped in mustard...energy drink...black licorice (and raspberry, green apple, and strawberry. They were SOOOO good)...Gouda on a toothpick...gluten-free cheesecake...cookies and cream popcorn...salsa atop a corn chip...curry noodles...veggie chips...chocolate-dipped shortbread...maple-smoked bacon.

It's about 30 minutes into my first day at the Fancy Food Show at the Javitz Center and I cannot believe not only how much I've eaten already, but how much more I'm responsible for testing. As far as my first day goes, one side of one row down and 21 more to go. Uggggghhhhh. Even though it's only a bite at a time, I can feel the stomachache already.


Eating and drinking anything and everything you want for seven consecutive hours - for three consecutive days - sounds so much better than it actually is. Oh well. At least I can take a break to shake Rick Bayless's hand... even though it leads to taking yet another bite, but it's cool that it's a chicken soft taco that he made himself. Awesome.

If I have to go, it will be kicking and screaming

It's dusk on a warm summer Saturday night with just a slight breeze.

Can anyone think of a reason for me to set down my martini, get up off my comfy cushioned lawn chair, and ride the elevator downstairs to my apartment when I have this view from my rooftop?

Anyone?

It's 11:35 p.m. Do you know where your husband is?

I've run out of TiVo to watch. I don't feel like putting together the second bookcase. It's too hot to hang pictures, and I don't have the energy to start a book right now. All I want to do is slightly cuddle (because it's too hot for full-on cuddling) with my husband on the couch and talk about my day and listen to his.


But the clock is slowly creeping toward midnight, and my husband has yet to come home from work.


"Enough is enough, honey," I said after speed-dialing his work number around 10:30 p.m. (His work number - not his cell number - is the primary number for him in my phone.) "The work will still be there tomorrow."

"I agree, but it'll be at least another hour," he said, sighing.

"That's not OK. I am NOT happy about this," I said more for his sake than mine. I absolutely need that "down time" at the end of a workday - esecially a crappy work day (HELLO HAPPY HOUR!) - but when you come home well after bedtime, it doesn't leave much room for chilling out and taking a breather before you've got to shut off that alarm clock and start another unbearingly long workday.


So I know yesterday was supposed to be for fathers (does being the father of a dog count?) but for the future father of my children, I just want to say thank you for all the sacrifices you make for this family. You're the most dedicated, hardworking person that I know and while it takes you away from me for much longer than I like many days, I know it's so you can continue to support our family and make sure we're well cared for.

I love you, hubby, but I miss you. Come home.

Are you trying to POISON me?

"Hey!" I said while spearing a suspicious item lying beneath a long noodle in my Asian stir-fry. "Is this a mushroom?"

"No," said my two fellow diners at the small food magazine where I work.

"You guys said that a little too quickly and too in unison," I said to the editorial director and our chef while taking a closer look at what most definitely was a beech mushroom.

"This is a mushroom!" I said obviously and accusingly while shooting a glare at our chef, who was trying not very hard to conceal a smile because he knows very well that I absolutely hate mushrooms.

"I figured you wouldn't notice because they look so much like the noodles," he said, laughing. "I was going to tell you after we were done, even though you had, like, three big ones on your plate that you somehow kept eating around."

"You know how much I hate...wait, you were watching me eat the whole time?" I asked him. "Not gonna lie - that's kinda creepy."

"No, I was watching your plate the whole time," he replied. "If I'm going to be creepy, let's be clear on how I'm doing it."

"And let me be clear that that's still kinda creepy, but since you went to so much trouble, I might as well try it," I said while popping the mushroom in my mouth, chewing, and waiting for that disgusting mushroom flavor... that never came.

"Hey!" I said. "This just tastes like rubber!"

"And that's a good thing?" the chef asked, laughing.

"Well, it's better than tasting all mushroom-y," I replied.

I'm sure I'll love it when I can fit inside

After a day's worth of sweat and heavy lifting, we're finally moved in to our new place... well, I think there's still room for us.

The good news: The entryway is clear.

The bad news: Nothing else is except the small path between the boxes littering the entire living room and bedroom.

But how am I supposed to unpack with all the boxes in the way? Ugh.

The show must go on!

After weeks of memorizing, changing, practicing, changing, refining, changing, improving, and changing the play I was recently cast in, this past weekend finally arrived and it was finally time to perform Inside Voices At The Girl Aquarium.

It’s been a fascinating journey, to say the least.

Since this very well may be my first and last acting gig, this weekend was finally time for my Off-Off Broadway debut as Ms. Dee, a social worker and poet who encourages teenage girls to let out their anger at their abusive boyfriend/rapist/pimp by writing and reciting angry poems.

“Why the hell are you guys all so calm?” I hissed at the five other girls who were also performing in the play as I was pacing back and forth backstage. “Why am I the only one nervous as all hell?”

“We don’t get nervous until right before we go on,” one of them informed me, as they all laughed at me tying and then untying my scarf into knots and chomping down on my gum.

After another 20 minutes of not calmly sitting down, it was time for the show to start.

“OK, girls, we’re all set,” the director informed all of us.

“Oh geez!/Breathe!/Whew!/Aaaahhhh!/Oh man!” they all started at once, hands flailing for each other for jittery hugs.

“Oh yeah, NOW you guys know what I've felt like all day!” I said to them as I joined in the nervous hug pile.

As we took our places onstage, I had a quick opportunity to steal a few glances into the audience to see a bunch of my friends there to support me - Janine, Rusty, Albert, Anne, and Reena. (I love my friends!)

But then, the show began.

Oh crap! EVERYONE IS LOOKING AT ME! I thought the second the lights came up. Calm down, calm down, take a breath - there are other actors on stage. Not EVERYONE can be looking at me at the same time... oh, and PAY ATTENTION so you don't miss your cue! In a few minutes you're going to have to stand on a chair and yell a Ferlinghetti poem... OH GOD! IN A FEW MINUTES I'M GOING TO HAVE TO STAND ON A CHAIR AND YELL A POEM! Oh yeah, and stop my hands from shaking! And NOT FORGET MY LINES. WHAT IF I FORGET MY LINES?!?! WHAT IF I FALL OFF THE CHAIR?!?!?!


And cue mini-panic that quickly subsided once I got into the poem and all the practice flooded back into me. And my confidence soared once I did NOT fall off the chair, and all I had to do was deliver my lines in the most convincing way possible - like I had practiced for weeks before.


Though I had a few "oh crap, what's my next line?" moments, it was because I overthought it, and the line shot back to me right when the actress before me said hers.


In fact, everything went smoothly with all the other actresses as well, and I couldn't help the smile creep onto my face when I said my last line, "And then we'll never" and the lights went black.


And I really couldn't hide my smile when I lined up for the bow and my friends started hooting and hollering.


Though I have a feeling this will be my first and last acting experience (I wouldn't be able to handle all that rejection!), it sure was a rush I won't soon forget.

Good hair day, and a feel-good attitude

Wow, I can't believe I just rolled out of bed and my bangs look that way, I thought to myself as I was admiring the way my sideswept bangs actually looked, well, like sideswept bangs. Normally, they don't naturally and slightly curl just over my right eye like I want them too, but instead hang awkwardly in straight, piece-y, wet noodle-like chunks on either side of or in my eye. Or, most likely, I get so sick of them poking me in the eye that I pin them back and out of the way completely.

Now how to keep them this way? I thought while reaching for the hair gel and the hairspray. This look needs double the holding power!

Even though I lost some of the natural body that my bangs somehow got while I was in REM-mode dreaming about being a nanny for three kids that to my knowledge I have never met (weird), after I messed with them for a bit, they still looked more decent than I've seen them in months. And more importantly? They were behaving!

Add my good hair day to the fact that I had to dress up for a professional work event, and there was a discernable bounce in my step as I walked to work this morning. It's a little silly, but sometimes it's true that when you look good, you feel good!

Apparently my "new" look was noticeable because Martin, the doorman at my work, widened his eyes a bit as I breezed through the door enough for me to take off my sunglasses and ask him, "What's that look for?"

"You look different," he replied.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah. You look like a movie star!"

Yes! Bangin'.

Don't laugh at me; I'm so not used to this, and hope I never will be

I've been very fortunate in my life when it comes to my health. Sure, I've caught my fair share of bugs (take this week for example!) but overall, I'm a very healthy 27-year-old woman.


In fact, when Brent and I were going through the medical testing required for our life insurance policies, I was placed into the top health bracket.


And when my doctor suggested I go through a barrage of tests earlier this year as part of a regular check-up, which I've neglected for years, he said everything was "perfectly on point."


"Oh come on," I replied. "There must be SOMETHING that's a little high or a little low..."


"Actually, no," he said, showing me three pages of numbers all within the normal range for cholesterol, blood pressure, pulse rate, etc. "You're a very healthy young lady."


So even though my husband took one look at my face while I was lying on the gurney waiting for my surgery to remove a tumor in my breast yesterday and laughed, I'm not going to apologize for shedding a few nervous tears. While I very much appreciated his jokes and successful attempts to keep things light the day of my surgery, this isn't something I've experienced before, much less am used to.

When it comes to my health, surgery to remove a tumor is by far the most extreme medical procedure I've had to face. Heck, it's the ONLY medical procedure I've had to face in an operating room.

And let me tell you, I think the most terrified I've ever been is in the few seconds it took me to walk from the gurney outside the operating room to lie on the table inside the operating room. Two of my favorite TV shots are Grey's Anatomy and House, and before those shows premiered I spent many hours watching ER. But none of that prepared me for what an actual operating room looks like.

What first hit me was how BRIGHT it was. I felt like I was lying underneath a floodlight, which is good because the doctors should probably be able to see exactly what they're doing. And there were all kinds of unfamiliar, gleaming metal machines with lights covering every inch of that tiny room.

On one hand, I was kinda hoping they were going to treat me like a child at the dentist by showing me all the scary-looking tools and explaining what they were going to do with them, and that it wasn't going to hurt (mostly because I'd be knocked out).

But that thought lasted an extremely fleeting second when I glanced at the nearby scalpel and started panicking just a little bit with thoughts of it slicing through my skin and the doctor going inside my body and a mass coming out.

That's when my thoughts quickly shifted toward the maybe-it'd-be-better-if-I-have-no-idea-what's-going-on-and-just-wake-up-when-it's-over camp. Thankfully, that's what happened.

The anesthesiologist assistant, Mike, who had explained local anesthesia to me while I was not-so-bravely trying not to cry, noticed that I had not quit freaking out and said to my surgeon, "I'm going to give her something to relax a little bit." And probably seconds later, I remember a mask being put over my nose and mouth. I didn't count to 10 or name as many presidents as I could; apparently I was just out in a matter of seconds.

Sometime after that, I responded "yes, I'm OK" to Mike asking if I was OK, and then all I remember is groping for his hand to murmur a "thank you" for how nice he was to me and annoyance that people kept waking me up when all I wanted to do was sleep. Apparently that was when I was in recovery, although it is unnerving that I don't remember very much of that hour in recovery or exactly how I got off the operating table and into recovery (Mike had told me before the surgery that the local anesthesia has an amnesic effect.)

That doesn't sit well with me. Apart from the reason that I never drink to the point where I might get sick because I can't stand the thought of puking, it absolutely terrifies me that drinking too much could lead to not remembering events that happened. I hear my friends say stuff like, "I remember the band's last set at 11, and then I don't remember anything after that; how did I get home again?" and shudder at the thought of not remembering a conversation much less how I (hopefully) safely got home. I like being conscious and knowing what's going on around me at all times, so it's pretty unsettling that I'm not sure how I was moved from one area of the hospital to another.

But there's really no reason to worry. My doctor was kind and "the best there is," according to one of my many nurses - including one who very gently tried to distract me while I was nervously waiting to be taken back. And Mike reassured me countless times - plus he had the drugs - so I was grateful he was with me the entire time.

After eating some dry Saltine Crackers and sipping some apple juice, my mom and husband walked me home and I crashed for four hours. I ate a small bowl of the stew my mom made me later on that evening, but felt more in the mood to pop my pain meds and be a couch potato. Forced relaxation is the only type I get these days, and I was grateful for it. That and TWO people to wait on me hand and foot. Love you mom and B!

So sick of being sick

I'm sure all I have to do is take a sip of water and that itch in my throat will go away immediately, I thought hopefully. I JUST got over being sick; there's no way I'm coming down with something AGAIN.

It's times like these that I hate living on an island with 8.2 million other people. I blame the constant close contact with strangers that is impossible to escape. There's always some guy hacking next to you while you're trying to find a little more elbow room to get away from him on the subway or a teenager turning toward you to sneeze at the exact moment you're trying to pass her on the sidewalk.

So I felt like I was coming down with something on Saturday (don't you hate that feeling?) that became a full-blown cold on Sunday. So I had to skip my football game and take it easy with the hubby, which was a good idea because while I still felt sick, couldn't taste or smell anything, and was coughing every few seconds, the misery was manageable on Monday and Tuesday.

But then I had to go and overexert myself with a 90-minute, one-on-one rehearsal with the director of the play that I'm in before rushing to get to my basketball game on time. Toward the end of the game, I was waving off my teammates asking me if I wanted to come off the bench because I knew I was done. My body was telling me loud and clear that this wasn't one of those times that you feel better once you've exercised.

So even after a hot bath and choking down a horrible mug of TheraFlu, I stayed in my bed from Wednesday night until Friday morning, only getting out of bed to visit the restroom and get another bowl of yogurt. But that day of rest was exactly what I needed because although I still felt crappy on Friday, it wasn't enough to skip another day of work. Although a four-day weekend of rest and relaxation was pretty tempting.

I'll admit it when I'm wrong... this acting thing is harder than I thought

When people find out that I've been cast in a play, they usually say something along the lines of, "I didn't know you were an actress!"

Lately, I've been correcting them, saying, "I'm not. I just play one in this one play."

Acting is a lot harder than I thought.

During our first rehearsal, the director began by telling us a little bit about our characters, so we could "start making some decisions" on what we were going to do with them.

Um, my character- Miss Dee - is a poet and a teacher, so doesn't that mean that what I'll be doing is pretending to be a poet and a teacher? Absolutely not.

Apparently, what that means is we are supposed to decide how we're going to play our characters. Is my character the type of teacher who's loud and loves attention or quiet and timid? Is she exploring or struggling with her life in some way? What are her mannerisms like? Does she have an accent?

I learned this after hearing the actual actresses say things like, "I want to explore my character's sexuality a little bit. Maybe she's struggling with the fact that she's a lesbian." Or, "I feel like my character is funny and could say some of the lines louder with maybe a Bronx-like accent." Etc.

I contributed very little to this discussion because I thought I was just supposed to follow the stage directions, like when it says, "she shakes her fist" I should, well, shake my fist.

There is a little more to this acting thing than I originally thought. I really hope I don't suck at it.

Always willing to help out a friend in need

I had just come back from a run earlier this evening (yes, that's right: A RUN. Even though it only lasted about 10 minutes, I still DID run most of the time) with the dog when my phone beeped.

At the time, it was barely 7 p.m. and I was sprawled out on the living room floor focusing on the important task of deciding what to do first - take off my sweaty clothes and hop into the shower or warm up my leftover chicken marsala.

But I have a soft spot for my friends, especially when they need me for something, so I answered my friend Deirdra's text of "You home?" with "Just got back what's up?"

Her response: "I'm at lincoln park with a friend wtih a pitcher we can't finish:("

My response as to whether I'd be willing to hang out with my friend whom I haven't seen in way too long to help her finish off some beer at the bar that I live above?

"I'm on it."

Ninety seconds later - even though I looked gross and was still a little sweaty from my run - I was hugging my friend as her friend poured me a glass of beer and pushed a half-eaten plate of nachos my way.

Way better than a shower followed by leftovers.

All that was missing was the guys' ties knotted around their heads

It's 10 p.m. and my husband isn't home yet.

But this isn't anything unusual. In fact, it would be unusual to see my husband before 9:30 p.m. Such is the life of a banker in NYC.

This is why it was so great that both of us were able to let loose on Thursday - something he doesn't even really have an opportunity to do - starting at the ridiculously early time of 7:15 p.m.
The sushi place near where Brent works was running an all-you-can-eat-and-drink special last Thursday, so one of his work buddies, Max, made reservations for a few of the guys for dinner. (I met Max in Cancun because Brent and I happened to be on vacation in the same place at the same time as he and his girlfriend, so we all, obviously, went out and got wasted in Cancun.)

But because the fiancee of one of the guys was in town, they decided that wives/girlfriends could be invited to join. That meant, essentially, that I was able to join the four guys and the one guy's finacee for dinner, but I didn't care because it meant that I was able to actually spend time with my husband during the week.

So after getting to the restaurant and making fun of Max for making reservations - seeing since we were literally the only six people in the place - we began to honor the precedence we set in Cancun by ordering several pitchers of (all-you-can-drink) beer and glasses of sake. And then I proceeded to order several rounds of what has become my absolute favorite sushi: sweet potato! Mmmmm!

And the fiancee, Kelly, was actually really sweet and cool - and essentially is in the exact same position I was in in late 2007 (fiancee living in New York, getting ready to move from a small town to the big city, nervous as hell about it, etc.) So I spent a good part of dinner telling her how much fun she was going to have in the city, and told her to drop me a line when she got here so we can hang out. Yay for more friends!

After more than two-and-a-half hours of stuffing ourselves with sushi and filling the gaps with alcohol, the restaurant owners started shutting off the lights and telling us they were closing up. At 9:45 p.m. in New York. Unheard of.

So we did what anyone would do after about seven or so rounds of toasts of sake bombs: find a bar to go to.

We settled on the bar right across the street from where the guys all work - somewhere I've always suggested to Brent that we should meet at since it's right there, anyway - and Brent decided it would be a good idea to order everyone a round of tequila. Tequila does not an early night make. We ended up shutting down that bar, which wasn't too hard, since those owners informed us it was too slow to stay open, even though it was just about midnight by then.

WTF? A bar closing at MIDNIGHT? Did we accidentally migrate into Jersey?

To prove a point (I think we were trying to prove a point, anyway; we were all pretty drunk by then) we started walking in search of a bar that was still open. So we wouldn't have to walk aimlessly for too long, I used the "Around Me" iPhone app to find one. Yay for the iPhone!

But since we were going to pass two bars on our way to the one that the iPhone GPS was telling us to go to, we decided to go into the bar without the rude guys in front who didn't answer me when I asked them if they were at a fun bar. Or else they didn't hear me ask: I didn't really care; the bar we chose had a pool table! And it was open!

After nearly two more hours of drinking and eating several plates of bar food (as if all-you-can-eat-sushi wasn't enough) I convinced the guys to call it a night. We had been drinking for, oh, seven hours and I had to work the next day (the guys had the bank holiday off).

It wasn't until we were on our way home that I mentioned to Brent that while the one other couple we were with would often be holding hands, the two of us didn't interact much at all. Heck, we didn't even sit next to each other at any of the places that we visited. I spent the majority of the evening talking to Kelly, listening to the guys tell stories about how Brent is at work, and sharing a bunch of how Brent is at home.

"It's because we're such a strong couple that we didn't need to," he replied.

Though I would have liked to spend a little more quality time with the hubby, as I originally expected, it's nice to know that he is right.

Breaking a sweat and having fun doing it

I've said it before, and it's no secret: I absolutely hate the gym.

Other than having an opportunity to spend time with my now good friend, Janine, who I met at the gym, I really, REALLY had to guilt-trip force myself to go to the gym EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. Sure, I had some fun taking some of the classes there, but it was the getting there part that was tough. And the gym is RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER from my apartment. Talk about LAZY.

So after awhile, even the ungodly amount of money I was spending at the gym wasn't enough of a motivation, so I quit the gym (along with Janine. Worst workout buddies ever.) And I was SOOOO happy about it... until I got my job at a gourmet food magazine where eating ALL DAY is practically a requirement. Sure, I could abstain every day from eating the delicious morning snack and the free gourmet lunch and the cookies, cake, or pastry at 4 p.m. tea time (yes, every day we have 4 p.m. tea time complete with dessert) but it's SO HARD 'cause all the food is SOOOO GOOD - for my taste buds, but not for my waste line.

So I bought something that would put me in the hall of fame for laziness if I didn't use it to exercise because it allows me to do so right in my living room: the Wii Fit Plus (the photo is the Miis of myself and Chloe).

And, lo and behold, it's actually become something I enjoy. I won't go so far as to say I look forward to it, but it is a lot of fun. Through it, I have learned that I put too much of my weight on my left leg (probably from trying to overcompensate from the groceries and work bag that I always sling over my right shoulder) and that I have horrific balance (and poor scores on the balance games to prove it).

The reason it works for me is the same way basketball works for me: I have fun doing it and, therefore, it doesn't feel like exercise. I love that when I jog in place, the game has Chloe trotting along beside me, and I get a kick out of the fact that Brent's two Miis are in my karate class and pop up in almost all the other games. Plus, I feel like a rock star when doing the step aerobics because I'm on a stage in front of a HUGE audience of cheering Miis.

I like that I am working toward a fitness goal and I can check my progress daily and am determined to meet it. I have two months. And so it begins...

Stepping into someone else's shoes to tell their story

Excerpt from an e-mail I received just after 10 p.m. tonight:

"Hi Everyone,

Here is the cast for the play:

Ms. Dee - Erika

Autumn - Ingrid

Adela - Ellie

Tamara - Maxine

Lulu - Kayla

Celeste - Danielle

Musician - Miranda

Our first rehearsal will be at Friday 7 p.m. The plan is to talk about the characters and read through the script as a full cast with a completed script..."

That's right: The "Erika" who will be playing Ms. Dee is me.

I actually got the part. Never saw that one coming.

I've lived in New York for nearly two-and-a-half years, and have tried many extracurricular activities (knitting class, painting class, basketball league, and book club to name a few) to not only have some fun, but find some friends. Although I didn't move here to pursue an acting career - like the 6.5 out of the 8.3 million New Yorkers did - now that I'm around it all the time, it's hard not to catch the acting bug.

A bunch of my friends are trying to make it as actors (no surprises there) and I live just a few blocks away from Broadway, which is home to some incredible shows. (As a Mother's Day gift for my mom and a birthday gift to myself, I again bought tickets to see Wicked. It was that good the first time around.)

When I told my mom that I got the part, she immediately asked: "So, is this play going to be right on Broadway?" and then laughed when I told her no, but that it would be shown in a theatre in the new Off-Off Broadway theatre district.

I've always had a fascination with acting, but never had the opportunity to do it in high school (I swear the high school drama teacher had it out for me!). So now that I do have this opportunity, I'm going to make the most of it. I have to say that I'm about as excited as I am nervous.

Now to start - gulp! - memorizing these pages upon pages of lines, which Maxine said was the easy part. She says the hard part is actually acting them out. As of now, I'm going to stick to my guns that acting isn't as hard as she makes it out to be.

Time will tell if I turn out to be totally wrong.

Do I have time for a fantastic dinner with great friends? Umm, let me think about that one... HELL YEAH!

One of my favorite things is when a good friend calls me or texts me or e-mails me or messages me on Facebook (isn't technology amazing!?) to tell me that they will soon be in town and ask if we can catch up.


Hell yeah we can!


So this week, I had the pleasure of going to dinner with friends I made while a reporter at The Blade: Ryan Smith and his wife, Jen, and their adorable 4-month-old son on Thursday, and Maureen Fulton and her mom on Friday. With the Smith family, I scarfed down pizza at the famous Lombardis, and with Mo, I enjoyed Spanish Tapas at Sangria 46. Both meals were, of course, topped off with Pinkberry. Obviously.

Gossip was shared, Sangria was sipped, and I had a fantastic time with my good friends who I've known for more than two years, unlike any of the friends I have here. Though I absolutely love my New York friends, it's just nice to spend some time with people who I've known for a long time and whom I miss so much. If only all my family and friends were here, I'd never leave.

Should have kept my mouth shut, although it'd be hard to say my lines

Once again, my big mouth has gotten me into trouble.

It started with me good-naturedly teasing my former coffee shop colleague, Maxine, who is an actress enrolled in the American Musical & Dramatic Academy (AMDA) for acting.

“So instead of English and math class, you go to classes with names like ‘Improve 101: Make Stuff Up As You Go Along’ and ‘Pantomiming Like Someone Believes You’re Really Saying Something?’” I would say to her, and then she’d laugh and try and defend herself.

I have to admit that I would often bring up Maxine’s acting because I was actually interested to hear about the types of things she was learning. I’ve never really done any acting before, and Maxine has dedicated her college career to it, so I very much enjoyed hearing about something someone else is so passionate about.

She told me that in one of her classes, each student had to stand up in front of his or her peers and tell a story. The moment it became boring, each student was instructed to get up and leave the room, which teaches the students how to remain engaging and keep people’s attention. She also told me about the time they were told to do a monologue while pretending to be some type of animal, like a tiger or monkey.

But nothing she said really convinced me that acting was difficult. You essentially memorize some lines and then pretend to be someone else, and I remember telling this to Maxine a number of times in the year or so that I’ve known her… which I regretted immediately after getting her phone call yesterday evening.

“Hey, Erika! You know how you always say that acting is easy?” she asked me. “Well, I just was cast in this play that I think has the perfect part for you, and I think you should read for it.”

“I have just one question. Is this part the lead? Because I would only consider trying out for a lead role,” I joked.

“Well… kind of,” she replied. “I thought the playwright was going to play her, but I guess not.”

“Wait, you think I should try out for the lead?” I asked her. “Are you crazy? All joking aside, you know I have no experience with acting!”

“Yeah, I know but the character is a teacher who teaches poetry, and I know that you like poetry,” she replied. “Plus, the other parts are teenagers and we need someone older – not that you’re old or anything…”

“Thanks for clarifying,” I said sarcastically.

“You know what I mean!” she replied. “Anyway, we need someone who looks older who can play the part. And why not? Acting is easy, right?”

Crap, I thought. I mean I can’t not go or that would be pretty hypocritical.

“Right,” I said, sighing, trying to come up with a way out without having to admit that there just might be some skill to this whole acting thing. “It sounds interesting but, come on, do you really think the playwright would even want someone with no experience?”

“If you’re good,” she said. “Meet me at the coffee shop on Friday and I’ll go with you to the audition.”

“OK, fine,” I said hesitantly, then hung up.

This will be interesting.

So many options, but I don't FEEL like any of them. Bad place to be in.

Man I had a bad day at work today.

I had absolutely, positively NOT A SINGLE OUNCE of motivation to speak of. Not One. Single. Ounce.

It was one of those days where my interns were annoying the hell out of me, the clueless photographer was constantly asking me for direction, and I had extra peaks upon the mountains that have already formed on and around - for lack of space - my desk, but no clear direction on where to start and no motivation to actually start something. For awhile, I just sat there looking at all the work and thinking about how good it would be if I could just take a nap.

This happens to me every once in awhile, and not just at work. I come to a point where I just don't know what I want. I feel like how a new mother must feel when her newborn just won't stop crying and she just doesn't know why.

Staying at work wasn't appealing. Going home didn't sound much better. Sleeping might have been OK, but going for a walk or watching TV or shopping didn't excite me. I just didn't know WHAT I needed at the time, which is just so frustrating. I knew I needed something, but it wasn't like a pregnant-lady craving where I know I'll be satisfied once I have a pickles-and-ice-cream sundae. It was a craving for something I didn't understand. Sigh.

It wasn't until around 9:30 p.m. when I found what it was I needed. Fun. And friends. My friend Janine told me she planned to see Rusty The European Tour at Bar Nine - the same bar where I sang with said band on my birthday - and I was welcome to join her.

New York to the rescue. Again. Again I was able to simply just forget about the hellish day I had by donning my official Rusty The European Tour T-shirt, walking two blocks, going into an awesome dive bar, and letting loose with a beer in my right hand and my left hand up in the air while rockin' out to songs like "Pour Some Sugar On Me" "What's My Age Again?" and "Build Me Up Buttercup."

Beer, Best Buds, and Blink 182. Yup - that's just what I needed. If only it were as simple as pickles and ice cream.

Someone had to lose... this time it was us

For the third consecutive season, my basketball team, Hoop Doggy Dogs, not only had a winning season, but we again made it to the playoffs; this time in the Sammi Division. (For the first time since we've been playing basketball together, my team decided it was time to move up from the fourth, and lowest division, the Snookie Division. We might do so again, but at this time, we don't feel like we're ready for the first- and second-highest divisions, the Angelina and J Woww Divisions.)

Even though all six of us were wearing our new, matching white sweatbands around our heads, we could not head off Dunkachino and The Flava Shots (formerly known as Butternut Squash, our basketball arch nemesis). The first game was so close that it was tied at the end and went into overtime, but after losing that one by a basket, it was hard to motivate ourselves to win the next two games in a row.

I won't blame it on the stiflingly hot gym or the hasn't-been-swept-in-at-least-several-years slippery floor, but WILL blame it on the rim that did not touch the basketball as it went through the hoop nearly every time the other team shot a three-pointer.

On the bright side, we've already signed up for next season, which starts in just two weeks. I'm already counting down the days!

The luck of the Irish was not with me today. Damn you, leprechauns.

Because I am too sick to celebrate, I refuse to wear green today. Go ahead and pinch me.

I spent the entire day in my fuzzy gray sweatpants and over-sized blue Collegian shirt obtained from my days as the Copy Desk Chief for The University of Toledo's student newspaper (yes, the same one that says "Idependent" instead of Independent. Wasn't asked to copyedit the T-shirts before they went to the printer, unfortunately.).

But I made up for it by making sure at least someone in my family was celebrating one of the heaviest drinking days of the year, even though the only thing she drinks is water out of her dog dish. I AM Irish after all, and will take the kisses as long as you're willing to get close to me and ignore the coughing and snotting.

Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone!

Total waste of a beautiful day

The TV tray is set up next to the couch holding up a box of tissues, a tall glass of apple juice, and dishes devoid of anything but dried Chinese food. Used tissues litter the floor alongside furry blue socks and the TV is set to "Family Feud."

It's 60-plus degrees outside and I'm stuck at home with a nasty cold with several more hours to wait before I have someone to be home with me and get me more juice and rub my pounding head. Blech. I hate being sick. There's so much to do around the house and even though I had high hopes for having some time to get some housework done today, there's no so much motivation to get anything done that can't be done from this couch (hence this blog post from the laptop resting over my blanket).

Sure, I cleaned out my e-mails' inboxes, searched for available Manhattan apartments, trolled around Facebook and LinkedIn and caught up with some reading, but when the husband gets home and asks me what I did all day, I'll have nothing to show for it. That's OK with me, though. Give me a break - I'm sick!

Do I really want to hear, "Hmm. This may be more difficult than I thought" after being cut open?

"Soooooo after sleeping on it a few days, I've decided to go ahead with the surgery. What happens now?" I ask the breast surgeon who said he'd support me if I decided to remove the tumor in my breast.

"Well, we schedule the surgery," he says matter-of-factly. "What does your schedule look like?"

"Um, well, my mom is coming to town in early May, so can we schedule it then?" I ask like I'm a juvenile instead of a grown woman.

"Sure. How should I schedule it?" he asks.

"What do you mean?" I reply. I have no idea what he's talking about. I have never had anyone cut open my body before - I've done that just fine on my own - and am nervous as hell allowing this man I just met to come near me with a scalpel.

"Do you want to be awake or sedated?" he asks me.

This is right about at the point where I begin to wonder if complications from going under anesthesia outweigh the fact that if I decide to stay awake, I will be able to hear everything that's going on while the doctor will be using tools inside my body.

So I ask him what he recommends, and he said it pretty much depends on a person's personality. Some people choose to be awake so they can go home quicker and some don't even want to know what's going out, so they choose a deep sedation so they're asleep the entire time.

I like the idea of staying awake so I will be aware of everything in case there's any problems, but don't think I'd be able to handle it if any complications arose. I'm absolutely terrified, but like being as in control of any given situation as the situation allows.

But because he needs to know whether to schedule an anesthesiologist for my surgery, I told him to do so because I can always change my mind and tell said anesthesiologist not to sedate me.

"Are you crazy?" asked my husband when I told him that I was thinking of asking the doctor to stay awake during the procedure. "You are going under. There's no way you should stay awake and worry more than you're already going to worry. Just get there, go to sleep, and when you wake up, it will all be over."

It will all be over. Can't wait for that day. Sounds like a plan to me.

Not so much a badass New Yorker

"So you've lived in the New York City area your entire life?" I asked Carl, the dealer who was teaching my boss and I how to play Texas Hold 'Em at a press event promoting Atlantic City.

"Yup," he said. "Grew up in New Jersey, live there now, but went to school in Manhattan. Where are you originally from?"

"What do you mean 'originally from,'?" I asked, jokingly. "Are you insinuating that I'm not from here?"

"I know you're not from here," laughed the salt-and-pepper-haired man whose 48th birthday was today. "I'd guess that you're from the Midwest."

"Toledo, Ohio," I responded. "But how did you know?"

"You have a Midwest face," he said, peering at me. "You've got this innocence in your face. It's just obvious."

Is it that obvious? Do us Midwesterners have an innocence look? Hmmmm.

If only it could be like this every day.

The weather outside is my perfect weather.

It is completely overcast, but not at all rainy, and warm enough to wear a T-shirt outside.

I'm lying on my bed with the windows open just listening to the heart of Manhattan and feeling the warm breeze floating past my dancing blue window shades.

Yes, I hear the more-than-occasional taxi horn blast or wails coming from police cars and firetrucks, but there's also the whizzing of cars as they speed down 9th Avenue, the laughter coming from a gaggle of 20-somethings on their way to the club, and buzz from the smokers who've stepped outside the newly reopened Lincoln Park Bar & Grill downstairs.

As I watch my husband brush his teeth and get ready for bed near Chloe lying contentedly in her dog bed, I can't help but just be peaceful and, well... happy. I'm happy with my life, my job, my social life, and against everything I would have thought a few years ago, I'm happy in Manhattan. Life is good.

To cut or not to cut... that's the question

"Erika? Hi, nice to meet you. Now let me see your breasts."

OK, so he didn't actually use those words, but I was still rather uncomfortable with the thought that the breast surgeon who was going to walk through the door - whom I had never met before - was going to want to see me topless.

I know, I know: He does these kinds of things on a daily basis, but before moving to New York, I had never, ever had a male primary doctor or gynecologist. I just feel more comfortable with women because I think they can better relate to what I'm going through - especially with female matters.

Lucky for me, the doctor who walked through the door was a lanky, balding man with friendly blue eyes and a nice smile. He spoke softly, but confidently and looked me right in the eye as he answered all of my questions - even the ones I didn't think to ask - and even drew pictures to illustrate what he was explaining when I didn't fully understand.

For this, I was grateful, because after he patiently sat and answered all my questions, he left the decision in my hands. What I have to do now is decide whether to have surgery to remove the tumor in my breast.

Long story short, I found a lump in my breast in May, 2009, and went through a biopsy that confirmed it was benign. But because it has recently been causing some brief bouts of pain, my gynecologist suggested I see a specialist. So here I am trying to figure out whether I should go through with surgery.

If I don't, the tumor could get bigger, but the doctor said it's not cancerous and it isn't causing any harm except potentially the discomfort I've been experiencing. He said he'd support my decision to not go through with surgery, as it's smaller than the tumors that he normally recommends be removed.

On the other hand, do I really want to have surgery when it's not completely necessary? Do I want to be sedated and have something removed from my body that, while it's not supposed to be there, is not really hurting anything making camp near the bottom of my armpit? Do I want to have yet another scar from stitches to join the ones in my thumb and the ones in my eyebrow from getting hit in the head with a croquet mallet when I was 5 years old? The answer to all of these questions: Not really.

My doctor was helpful in the fact that he said he would support my decision either way, but not so helpful in that he didn't give me a clear-cut direction on which way to go. My mom was the same way, but my husband was absolutely adamant that it's something I should do. His feeling is you should be proactive and take care of things like this before they change or get worse.

Though it makes me nervous, I think I agree.

Finding the perfect gift... a year from now

"So let me get this straight..." I started while looking warily at my husband. "I know we agreed that you went a little overboard with the gifts on Christmas, so I let you off the hook for worrying about doing anything for Valentine's Day, but are you actually suggesting that you think you're good for my birthday in May, our anniversary in June, and Christmas in 2010?"

"I'm not suggesting, I'm telling you that's the case," my husband replies. "I'm good until Valentine's Day, 2011."

Or so he thinks. Sure, it's great to hint at (or spell out, as the case may be) what I'm eyeing at a store and have him understand that he should buy it for me as a gift, even though it might be on the expensive side, but is that enough to let him off the hook for future holidays.

Apparently he thinks so. We'll see if this flies.

Eatin' At The Ritz

My job at the food magazine affords me a lot of eating opportunities. One of those opportunities took me to a double-digit floor of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel overlooking Central Park to taste desserts made by the hotel's pastry chefs.

Yes, please.

The awe began even before I set foot inside the hotel, built in 1929 with room reservations starting at $645 per night. (And for a whopping $3,250 per night, one could stay in 1,100-square foot Premier Park Suite (for the record, that's twice the size of my apartment) where, among other amenities, one could use one of five phones; use the dining room, living room, and walk-in closet; and watch one of three TVs. Internet is also available-for a fee (are you freakin' kidding me???))

Once we got inside, we were ushered into an elevator, where I had a minute or two to marvel at the way the light bounced off the woodwork. Oh yeah, did I mention that the light was coming from a chandelier IN THE ELEVATOR?

Once we got up to the suite, my Champagne glass never was never less than half full (it's so much easier to be an optimist when you're at the Ritz!) and the only difficulty came from deciding among the 14 desserts which ones I was going to have room to eat - and the answer came when I was stuffed six desserts later. (Note to self: extra gym visits = absolutely necessary.)

The desserts, from Molten Lava Cake to Berry Cobbler, were elegantly placed around the sculpture in the photo at the left. The centerpiece sculpture was made by the hotel pastry chefs entirely from chocolate. It was stunning.

The desserts were each plated on white China, and before swallowing the last bite of a dessert, the waiters were there to whisk the dirty plates away.

At one point, I plopped down on a couch after picking up what turned out to be an amazing creme brulee, and realized I didn't also pick up a spoon. Before I had the chance to get up to grab a spoon, a waiter told me to stay put and he'd bring me one. Less than 30 seconds later, he returned with a single spoon that he delivered on a giant silver platter. Really.

Even though it was for only about an hour, man, the royal treatment felt good!