small-town girl In The BIG CITY

A walking contradiction at a stoplight

2011-03-21T12:27:00.000-07:00

I don't know how many of you know this, but Katy Perry wrote the song "Hot and Cold" for me and my life. But she shortened some of the lyrics to make it flow better musically. And I agreed because she's the musician; I'm just the inspiration for the song. It could be a true story.

"You change your mind / Like a girl changes clothes." If the line were actually, "You change your mind like a girl changes clothes as she's trying to decide what to wear for a first date with a guy she's been persuing who FINALLY said yes," then bingo. I could be in the middle of a sentence - like ordering from a menu at a restaurant - and change my mind as I'm saying, "I'll have the pepperoni pizza, well done with a... no wait, let's go with the Greek pizza with a side of oh hey the Hawaiian pizza looks good; I'll have that."

"And you / Overthink" was shortened from the original line "And you / Overthink to the point that the wheels in your mind are on a spin machine powered by solar power and located directly on the sun's surface." It doesn't stop. It's why I change my mind at the restaurant - I overthink my choice. It can't be just what I'm in the mood for; it has to be which comes with the best sides, that I haven't eaten in awhile and is reasonably priced that pairs the best with what I chose to drink, which I decided on while not thinking of what I was going to order. Ironically, I get in trouble for not thinking as well. I just think it's because there's too much crammed into my head at once swirling around as if in an endless tornado that never ended up dropping Dorothy in Oz.

The lines "Cause your hot then you're cold / You're yes then you're no / You're in and you're out / You're up and you're down / You're wrong when it's right / It's black and it's white / We fight, we break up / We kiss, we make up" pretty much stayed the same because how else can you explain a walking contradiction (except in the song "Walking Contradiction" by Green Day)?

One minute I feel so strongly about something - like I really truly feel it and have myself convinced that it's absolutely, positively, and without a doubt right. And shortly thereafter, I have myself convinced just as much if not more about the exact opposite. This unfortunately applies mostly to big decisions, which makes it nearly impossible to make any because I'm constantly second-guessing myself. I just can't seem to be able to make a big decision and stick to it.

"Someone call the doctor / Got a case of a love bi-polar / Stuck on a roller coaster / Can't get off this ride." I have come to realize how stupid it is when people compare their lives to a roller coaster - meaning life's ups and downs - and hate that I've actually used this cliche myself in the past. First of all, the "up" parts of a roller coaster are just something to make you anticipate what's to come: the way more fun "down" part. Nobody thinks the downs in life are better than the ups, and I can't speak for anyone else, but I enjoy pretty much the whole ride when I'm on an actual roller coaster.

Therefore, while the beginning of the line absolutely did not change one bit because nothing is more accurate than saying I have a case of a love bi-polar, the original line ended with "Was on this roller coaster / But was forced to get off the way fun ride."

If only life could be a roller coaster. Then, first of all, it'd be on a set course with no chance of diverting onto another one. Sure, there would be some snags along the way - the levers might jam or you might get stuck and at a dead stop once in awhile - but at least you'd know where it was going at all times. I'd choose a roller coaster's ups and downs before I'd choose the ones that come with life. Too many unknowns, unanswered questions, and important decisions that I can make but can't.

I'm a walking contradiction at a stoplight. Awesome.

I will remember you

2011-03-15T10:00:00.000-07:00

I had to say goodbye today to someone who, in the grand scheme of life, I have known for barely even a measurable amount of time.

What made this particular goodbye especially hard is that this person, Nick, was there for me virtually every second of the most difficult period in my life.

He was the first person who spoke to me while I was in the midst of the bewildering "how did I get to this point in my life?" speech with myself, the person I vented to when I was angry or upset, and the person I would seek out with tears in my eyes when I didn't want to cry alone.

And now - for reasons I understand, but find hard to accept - we're going our separate ways. I am grateful that today I had the opportunity to thank him for how much his friendship has meant to me in such a short time both out loud and in a heartfelt note that I wrote him, but the fact that I still had to say goodbye still stings.

It's almost enough to cause me not to want to get to know someone - almost - because saying goodbye is always the most difficult, tear-producing moment for me, along with the feelings of loss for a period of time after the fact. But I'd never trade the time I spent with my friend.

But I sincerely wish Nick the best, and know he'll succeed in life, and think Sarah McLachlan says it best with the refrain from "I Will Remember You":

"I will remember you / Will you remember me? / Don't let your life pass you by / Weep not for the memories."

Straight Poker, Texas Hold 'Em... and Penny Drop?

2011-03-12T21:57:00.001-08:00

"So, what game are we playing?" I ask my mom, whose turn it was to deal the cards on the Ray family's annual poker night.

"I don't know yet," she said, as she continued to deal the seven players around the table more and more cards. "But the ante is a dime."

"OK, that's enough," she continued when each player had four cards. She then proceeded to put the rest of the deck in the middle of the table, and flipped up four cards so they each were face-up and surrounding the deck.

"We're betting on Kings in the Corner?" I ask bewildered, since everyone else who had dealt had chosen a poker game, whether it be straight poker, Texas Hold 'Em, Blind Baseball or Follow the Queen.

"No, I'm making this game up," she said, seriously, turning to my uncle, who was on her left. "OK, David, you either can pick one of these cards that are face-up, or a mystery card from the deck to complete your five-card hand. What do you want to do?"

"Wait, wait," I interjected. "You mean this isn't an actual game? You're just making up the rules as you go along?"

"Yes," groaned the group in unison, as if it were a point that they had already argued, lost, and accepted as the norm whenever it was my mom's deal.

"Seriously?" I asked the group, which, in addition to my mom, consisted of three aunts, an uncle, and a cousin. "You guys are just going to let her do that? OK, so when it's my turn to deal, I can just make whatever cards I have in my hand wild cards so I end up with five aces?"

"No, you have to tell us the rules before you look at your cards," my cousin, John, said. "Otherwise, that would just be ridiculous."

"Oh, and this isn't?" I responded, watching my mom try to explain her game to the group as she was creating it, adding more and more "rules" as each player took their turn.

"It's more fun this way," John said. "We should put this up on YouTube."

"Um, that's OK. I'd rather keep this in the room," I said, shaking my head as my mom seemingly arbitrarily declared one of my aunts the winner of the $0.90 pot.

After playing two rounds of actual poker - thank God - it was my Aunt Linda's turn to deal.

"What game should I choose?" she asked my Uncle Chris, who was hovering around the table watching us toss around our nickles, dimes, and quarters.

"You should play Penny Drop!" he said. "Here, let me deal."

"Penny Drop?" I asked, glancing at my Uncle David. "I don't think I know that one."

"It's because it's a game he made up," he replied, as my Uncle Chris dealt everyone five cards and then laid the rest of the deck either face up or face down in rows in the middle of the table.

"Another made-up game?!?!" I exclaimed, dumbfounded. "Are you kidding? You guys are acting like there aren't enough versions of poker to keep us entertained for a few hours!"

Yet my half-hearted protests were drowned out by my uncle, as he explained the rules of Penny Drop. Basically, you choose up to three cards from your hand that you want to exchange to get the best poker hand that you can. But to be able to exchange each card, you have to drop a penny from a height of at least a foot onto the cards in the middle of the table. Whatever card the penny lands on is the one you have to exchange your card with. If the penny lands on the space between the cards, you have no choice but to keep the card you wanted to exchange.

After a brief argument as to how high a foot above the table was - which was settled after my cousin Becca brought out the measuring tape - everyone took their turn dropping a penny using their own tactic to try to make it land on the card of their choice, whether that was putting some spin on it, dropping it flat, or catching the card they wanted with a penny bounce.

After narrowly snagging a queen that completed my straight after a short debate as to whether the penny was truly touching the card by the slightest hair, I ended up winning a pot worth at least several dollars, and ended the night $2.35 richer.

OK, fine. Penny Drop is something I can at least accept as a "legitimate" poker game, but only on family game night. At least that one has rules that aren't created up until the end, right mom?

Something to remember him by...

2010-10-19T18:36:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-10-12T19:01:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-09-23T20:34:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-09-11T19:30:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-06T17:04:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-24T20:13:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-08-23T19:02:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-20T18:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-14T15:05:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Why I love the guys on my basketball team

2010-07-31T15:53:00.000-07:00

"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.

2010-07-24T18:56:00.000-07:00

"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...

2010-07-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

“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.

2010-07-09T20:02:00.000-07:00

“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...

2010-06-28T18:51:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-26T22:45:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-06-21T23:50:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-06-09T12:28:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-06-04T19:57:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-05-24T11:05:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-20T10:05:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-08T15:35:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-30T15:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-15T10:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-14T18:45:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-05T21:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-30T16:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-29T23:00:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-03-27T16:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-25T23:12:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-25T20:37:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-18T14:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-17T23:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-17T15:18:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-03-15T20:34:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-03-11T19:24:00.000-08:00

"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.

2010-03-10T23:46:00.000-08:00

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

2010-03-10T20:29:00.001-08:00

"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

2010-02-14T20:30:00.000-08:00

"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

2010-01-21T11:08:00.000-08:00

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!

Christmas Whirlwind

2009-12-30T20:27:00.000-08:00

It's December, and I'm in Ohio, but I feel like I've been swept up in what I call the Christmas whirlwind.

Before I moved to New York, Brent tried to put my mind at ease by outlining all the positives. One was that whenever we'd come home, everyone would cater to us because we'd be the visitors. While that statement has some truth to it, he left out the part about us being ripped apart in whirlwind trips that leave no time for sleep or relaxation.

We try to be fair and spend equal amounts of time between the families while squeezing in some time for friends, but I always leave feeling like someone may feel he or she has been slighted. But I try my best, and that's all I can do.

Our crazy trip started with my admiring the fact that there are like a dozen Cinco de Mayo restaurants in Toledo now, and then Brent's parents suggesting we meet there for dinner on December 22, which is when we flew in. Mmmm, Mexican!

The following day was spent shopping (yes, I know, I deserve all the craziness I got from stepping foot inside a mall two days before Christmas, but it's almost better than carting everything to Ohio from three states away) before enjoying Christmas with the Meller family. There's just nothing like watching kids - namely, my 2- and almost 4-year-old nieces - opening up gifts - especially the ones I bought for them. (Mackenzie LOVED her doll. Yay!)

What was so special to me about this year's Christmas was that it was spent in the same way I spent all my Christmases as a child, except this year, I got to share that with my husband.

After church with my family, we headed over to my aunt and uncle's house, which is right next door to my parents' house, and had a blast visiting with my dad's side of the family.

One of the highlights was the "white elephant" Christmas gift exchange, where everyone who brought a gift placed it in the middle of the living room, and then everyone took turns either choosing a gift from the pile or stealing the gift that someone else opened before, which allowed them to either choose a new gift from the pile or steal a gift themselves. When it's over, everyone ends up with one gift, but whether it's one you want or not is left up to chance. (Although I think my automatic soap dispenser is pretty cool!)

Although the gifts were set out under the tree before I went to bed instead of my discovering what Santa had brought the next morning, it was still fantastic to wake up and open gifts with my family in our pajamas just like we used to before heading over to eat breakfast with my mom's side of the family. There's nothing quite like re-living childhood memories.

Later that day, though, instead of napping and watching movies like I did when I was a child, Brent and I skated off to spend Christmas with the extended side of his mom's family. By that point, both of us were more than exhausted, but had to stay vigilant because our niece, Katelyn, would jump into our laps with no warning and then ask us to have (yet another) tea party.

The next morning was no time to relax, as Brent and I had to rush from his parents house to a surprise party for my cousin, Breanne, who recently graduated with her doctorate degree (congrats Brea!), which was nice that my aunt held it when a lot of people who normally would have been out of town, myself included, were in town to help celebrate.

Later that evening, we ended up at Carrabbas with my parents after checking out the neighborhood Christmas lights while sipping McDonald's shakes (yet another childhood tradition).

With the holidays winding down, on December 27, I had an opportunity to catch up with some friends. So I spent lunch at Olga's Kitchen with Sarah, one of my best friends and the only roommate I've ever had who wasn't my sister or my husband, and had dinner at Don Pablo's with a longtime friend, Amy, who I've known since I was 5 and really miss sometimes.

The following day, I had an opportunity to see another set of friends from both college and The Blade - Ignazio, Jon and Meghan - at dinner at Granite City in Fallen Timbers before spending more time with my in-laws.

Whew! Though I'm absolutely exhausted and can't wait to make no plans for a bit while back in New York, I loved every second of it.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

Small check, but nice amount for charity, so I guess I'll take it

2009-12-19T20:27:00.000-08:00

As if winning the basketball league championship weren't cool enough, tonight my team attended the end-of-the-season party to accept a check for our chosen charity. And with a name like Hoop Doggy Dogs, of course our charity has to benefit dogs. So we were thrilled to be able to accept a check for Mighty Mutts, a no-kill organization that helps the stray dogs of New York City, as winners of the Penny Division of Zogsports.

Though I was hoping for one of those over-sized checks you see people accept with two hands and maybe a grip and grin photo, no such luck.

Nevertheless, we are going to take the check that unfortunately fit inside an envelope and present it proudly to Mighty Mutts.

And of course we had no choice but to celebrate at the Gael Pub until almost 3 a.m. If we don't win best drinking team next season, I'd like to hang out with the team that does!

Burgers, beer, and owls?

2009-12-15T20:04:00.001-08:00

If you ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at a different restaurant in Manhattan every single day, it would take you FIVE ENTIRE YEARS to eat at every restaurant on this island. While that statistic includes all the Olive Garden and TGI Friday’s chain restaurants peppered around Times Square, it also counts tiny wine and cheese bars spread out like gems around the city.

So on one of my very first free weekday evenings – where I don’t have to worry about going from my main job right to the coffee shop for another eight hours of work - I decide to spend it with my former coffee shop colleagues – Rigo, Deirdra, Maxi and honorary colleague, Blair. At Hooters.

Full disclosure – I was in mixed company, meaning one person who I very much like and wanted to hang out with, is 20 years old. That automatically disqualified any and all bars (thanks Maxi). Secondly, I was with several college students, so that, understandably, automatically disqualified anywhere expensive. Thirdly, I was not going to Wendy’s or McDonald’s, so we settled on Hooters on West 56th St. and Broadway two blocks away from my apartment

Now before you go making any judgments, at least this particular Hooters location has a claim to fame. The final scene of the movie Big Daddy starring Adam took place there. Yep – that’s how I’m justifying it. And hey – it was a place with beer and burgers. What more could you want?

Rested for the first time in awhile

2009-12-13T19:51:00.000-08:00

It's Saturday morning... and I'm home.

It's 9:45 a.m. and I just rolled out of bed after waking up on my own. And I don't have to go to work today or tomorrow.

This may sound like a typical weekend for many people, but for the past two years, it hasn't been for me. Since January, 2008, I've had to try to go to bed early every Friday night in order to wake up at 4:35 a.m. every Saturday morning. By the time I got off work at noon or later, I'd crash in bed until around 4 or 5 p.m., then wake up even more tired than when I went to sleep. This, unfortunately, made for some cranky Saturday evenings.

But now I feel rested, happy, and looking forward to an entire day that I can fill with whatever I want.

Now if only I knew what that should be! Nevertheless... goodbye coffee shop job forever!

Was that a pickup line or were you just happy to see my dog?

2009-12-09T16:30:00.000-08:00

"Oh my God; that's an amazing dog!" shouts a relatively normal-looking, 20-something guy as Chloe and I were walking toward him on our evening stroll.

"What kind of dog is it?" he asked, lightly touching my arm before bending down to pet Chloe.

"A Shepherd/Rottie mix," I replied, watching him pet her before he straightened up and I started to walk past him.

"You're hot," he said, watching me walk away.

"Um, thank you," I replied over my shoulder as I saw him turn and continue down the sidewalk in the opposite direction out of the corner of my eye.

"Was that supposed to be a pick-up line?" I ask Chloe as she shook her tail at me. "Maybe he was looking for the shock value 'cause that came out of nowhere. Weird."

To the woman in the white hat with the cane: Thank you for being brave enough to say what we were all thinking

2009-12-07T19:58:00.000-08:00

"Shut up... Shut UP... WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP!?!?"

Eh, what I heard on the 86th Street crosstown bus tonight wasn't anything unusual in New York City. People are bound to get annoyed at constantly being around other humans in such close quarters. But what soon followed made my stomach lurch, and brought tears to my eyes.

I started to hear a child cry, then someone standing in the aisle of the bus shifted and I was able to turn my head to my left and clearly see that the probably early-20s-year-old woman was screaming "Shut up" to her son, who looked to be about 5 years old.

It only got worse from there.

As children often do, the child made the "mistake" of taking an innocent swing at his mom, who was bending forward from her seat on the bus to get her face closer to his and pacify him by screaming "SHUT UP."

In response, she HIT. HIM. BACK. Nevermind that this display of child abuse was on a public bus, SHE REPEATEDLY slap-hit her child over and over while telling him to "shut up, just shut the f*uck up! You stupid! SHUT UP!"

I could see people taking note of the situation, and saw plenty of raised eyebrows, but no one, including me, said anything. I don't know what everyone else was thinking, but I can tell you what I was thinking: If this woman is pissed off and perfectly fine hitting a defenseless child, what the hell would she do to me if I said something and put myself right smack in her business? Though I can be honest with myself and say that I was caught up in self preservation, that in no way excuses my doing nothing. That said, I can't see this intense weight of shame going away anytime soon.

By this point, the bus had slowed down to Lexington Avenue, and this person got up, yanked up her kid up out of his seat and gave him a sharp shove forward by the back of his head.

That was enough for the woman wearing a white knit cap and carrying a cane sitting across from me in the front of the bus to say what we were all thinking.

"Please stop hitting that child," she said softly, but firmly, which - no surprise - unleashes a spout of profanities from this woman, including "don't stick your f*cking nose in my business. That's MY child, bitch" and the even more shocking "Did you see he f*cking hit me first."

Ummm... where do you think that child got the idea that hitting was OK? And what may be even worse - what if he grows up and still thinks hitting is OK? Will he in turn hit his child? His wife?

After the horrible woman made an even bigger scene yelling at the woman in the white hat who was brave enough to stand up for that child - screaming profanities all the way down the steps of the bus - I caught the eye of that woman across from me and we exchanged a raised-eyebrow look. Though I am ashamed to admit that I didn't have the courage to stand up for that child, I definitely wanted to make sure that her bravery was acknowledged, so I thanked the woman in the white hat.

Then, silently to myself, I thanked God that there are people like her and continued to pray that that child will be OK and will grow up to be nothing like his mother.

Nah, nah, nah, nah, hey, hey, hey... GOODBYE!!

2009-12-05T19:51:00.000-08:00

Even though I have been waiting for this day since the first day I was hired back in January, 2008, I still left the coffee shop for the final time as an employee with mixed emotions.

On one side, I was absolutely thrilled to never again set my alarm for 4:05 a.m., be at work after midnight, or go from one job to another. Because I work typical hours at the food magazine, I will have weekends again – meaning two whole days where I don’t have to be at or worry about work. And most of all, I was looking forward to forever closing the chapter of my life where I will have to utter, “Welcome to [some food establishment]. What can I get for you?” like a broken record while at work.

On the other hand, I got a bit teary-eyed at the thought of not seeing my colleagues, many of whom are now my friends, and some of the customers whom I’ve gotten to know and really like on a daily basis.

But then I cheered right up thinking about how I could CHOOSE to see the people who I would miss simply by walking into the coffee shop – without my hat or apron – for a visit. It would be a visit where I could stay for as much or as little as I wanted without having to worry about being late or having a certain number of hours ahead of me before I could leave.

So knowing that I will never again be a barista, and will be able to enjoy what has now become a foreign concept to me – free time - is a blissful feeling. It’s something that can be filled with painting or knitting classes, another basketball team, walks in the park with Chloe, or simply enjoying a glass of wine at home in front of the TV.

Who needs a vacation when I have the simple pleasure of FREE TIME!

Why do the laundry every week when you have more than enough to last a month?

2009-12-01T16:09:00.000-08:00

"That's something you can't get me enough of... yep, either black, gray, or navy blue," I overhear Brent say to his mother over the phone.

"I know you did not just ask your mother to get you more dress socks for Christmas," I say, as I poke my head around the bedroom door to glare at my husband sitting on the couch.

His impish smile in response told me that's exactly what he asked her to buy for him.

So, to prove my point (because I AM RIGHT... in this case anyway) I yank out the giant drawer we reserve for our socks and pull out all the black, gray, and navy blue socks that are sitting one right on top of another on the right side of the drawer and lay them out on the bed. They stretch from one end to another and there are 32 - that's right, THIRTY TWO - pairs of work socks. And this is BEFORE I've done the laundry for the week.

After hearing my dear husband hang up the phone, I call him into the bedroom and point at the ridiculous amount of socks sitting on the bed while giving him THE LOOK.

To men, clothes should be worn until they can't physically be worn anymore; meaning until they disintegrate in the washing machine. It amazes me that men can ignore the brown, deoderant-crusted pit stains or huge rips in their beloved boxers or T-shirts. This is why my husband has the larger side of the closet. (Not that I mind so much... it means I get the larger side of the shoe rack.

"Still think you need more dress socks?" I ask as he's picking through the pile muttering, "Didn't know I had this one... didn't know I had THIS one... thought I lost THIS pair in high school..."

"Honey, just because you can't SEE all THIRTY TWO pairs of socks piled deep into the drawer doesn't mean they aren't occupying a ridiculous amount of space in there. Now, why don't you call your mom back and tell her 'nevermind.'"

"No."

When pure logic fails, what else is there to say?

We are the champions, my friends!

2009-11-24T20:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-22T20:02:00.000-08:00

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?

2009-11-17T20:02:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-11-16T20:01:00.000-08:00

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!"

2009-11-09T10:05:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-05T19:51:00.000-08:00

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.

I get it - he's a weiner dog dressed up like a hot dog. How original.

2009-10-31T20:01:00.000-07:00

If ever there was a day that I was cursing myself for leaving my camera - and my camera phone - at home, it was the day that I randomly stumbled upon a Halloween parade... for dogs.

Yes, people still dress up their dogs and yes, the people who attended the Upper West Side Dog Halloween Party at the 72nd Street dog run were no exception.

From Great Danes to Chihuahuas, I saw bumblebees, rock stars, ballerinas, sports fans, and dogs dressed up as I don't even know what.

And they were all HILARIOUS.

All these poor pups wanted to do was play fetch and gallivant around with the other dogs, and all their crazy owners wanted to do was make sure they STAY! and SIT! so as not to mess up their costumes.

I had intended to go on a walk with Chloe and my friend Amanda, who was getting off work right as I was passing by and decided to join me, but we couldn't pass up the opportunity to sit on a bench right beside the spot where all the (at least 50) dressed-up dogs were going to pass by parade-style while being judged in several categories, including "best costume" and "most original costume."

Although they were all pretty cute in a pathetic kind of way, Amanda and I had no problems picking out our favorites. She chose a gray Scottish terrier wearing a police cap whose head was sticking up through a hole in a box painted to look like a police car, and who was accompanied by about a 10-year-old boy.

I chose a tiny Chihuahua with a simple costume. He was wearing a tiny red saddle complete with a tiny jockey in a matching uniform who would bounce up and down to the gait of the pup while he ran. Adorable!

Both of our pups ended up winning in one category or another, but who cares - everyone loved just being there. Stumbling upon events like this is yet another reason to make me love NYC!

Not so metaphorically throwing crap in your face

2009-10-27T20:30:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that I'm counting down the days until I can quit this job at the coffee shop. Some days are better than others. Yesterday was not one of those days.

It was one of those days where I screwed up every drink, got frustrated with the customers who hemmed and hawed over the menu when it was their turn to order, dealt with several insubordinate employees, and was just in an all-around pissy mood.

And everything just came to a head when I handed out a grande mocha frappuccino to a customer who looked at it without missing a beat and said, "I asked for no whip."

"Do you mind if I just scoop it off?" I asked her as politely as I could without moving my clenched teeth.

Though she didn't answer, her expression was enough for me to know that was absolutely NOT OK.

"Fine," I said as politely as I could while displaying my frustration the only way I could while at work - by chucking the entire drink in the garbage can as hard as I could.

Unfortunately, I wasn't actually LOOKING at the garbage can while hurling the drink to my right, and though it fell inside the can, I banked the shot.

That means that when the cup crashed into the inside wall of the garbage can, all its contents splattered outside of the can... and landed all over the counter, the register screen, and on a 20-something blond woman carrying a Coco Chanel purse and wearing a stark white jacket.

My mouth dropped open the same time as hers, and we both stood there for several seconds not quite comprehending what just happened. Then it hit me - I essentially (though accidentally) threw a mocha coffee drink all over a customer. It was on her jacket, in her hair, and some of that damned whip cream was even on the side of her face.

"OH. MY. GOD. I. AM. SOOOOOO. SORRY." I repeated over and over while clumsily fumbling around for some paper towels.

She said nothing. She just slowly pivoted and walked straight for the bathroom. I remained standing there not quite believing what had just happened while mentally trying to figure out what to do once I got fired.

After a few minutes, this woman came out of the bathroom, marched right up to me, held up her right hand,and let me have it.

"Are you OK?" she asked, softly.

I'm sorry I must not have heard you right, I thought.

"What?" I said, stupidly.

"Seriously," she said with genuine concern in her eyes. "Are you OK?"

I just threw a drink in your face and YOU'RE asking ME if I'm OK? Something is seriously wrong with this person.

"It... I mean, yeah... not really," I stuttered, dumbfounded. "It's just one of those days, but again, I can't apologize enough. I AM SO SORRY. What can I get for you - whatever you want. And here's a bunch of coupons for more free drinks. I AM SO SORRY," I rambled on and on.

"It's fine," she said. "I just want to make sure you're OK."

"Yeah... It's just... you know," I said, not quite knowing WHAT the heck to say to this obviously crazy person. I mean, if a coffee shop employee threw a drink all over me, I'd have a whole hell of a lot more to say than a very nice, "Are you OK?"

After I was done making her vanilla skim latte, all the while apologizing over and over, I handed it to her, apologized again as if that would make it all better, and she smiled at me and said, "You're just lucky it was me because I'm chill. Don't worry about it. Take care, OK?"

Every sentence she said to me contained two letters that formed one word. An O and a K. OK. It's amazing how a single two-lettered word coming from a genuinely nice person can totally change your outlook on life. I've never seen that girl before and probably wouldn't have looked at her twice while she was ordering unless it was in annoyance, but am so blessed that I was able to see just the kind of amazing person she is - however crappy the situation had to become for me to see it.

Man, I hope that one day my outlook on life can become even remotely as positive and upbeat as hers. Sure stuff happens - sometimes crap gets thrown in your face. But the true testament of who you are comes from how you deal with those types of situations. You can let it get you down, or you can rise above the situation. And rise above is exactly what she did.

I've got miles to go to take the negative situations with the class and grace that she did, and am still astonished that she was able to turn them into something so positive. You go, girl.

Precisely why I bargain-shop

2009-10-26T20:00:00.000-07:00

Living in New York City, I'm surrounded by all things high-end.

I live just a few blocks away from 5th Avenue, home to places like Tiffany's, Saks and purses in glass cases with price tags that cost more than my annual paycheck.

I live around the corner from Trump Tower International Hotel and the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, which overlook Central Park and have room rates that start at $695 per night (a one-bedroom Premier Park Suite that has access to the Club Lounge at the Ritz goes for $2,750 a night).

I'm surrounded by beautiful people who don't even go grocery shopping on a Sunday morning without full makeup, brand-name clothes, high heels, and armpit dogs.

And although my shopping habits haven't changed (I've always been a conservative sale-seeker), it's nearly impossible to spend the typical amounts I had been spending on shopping trips in Toledo. Sure, there's still Forever 21 and Old Navy, but there's also Bloomingdale's and Bergdorf Goodman.

My latest splurge (and trust me, they've been very few and far between) has been a pair of beige UGG boots. (I know, I know - totally cliche, but they're oh so warm and comfy!) Before taking this plunge, I had worn a hole into a pair of knock-offs, so at the urging of my husband, (What's wrong with him? When has any husband ever urged his wife to buy an expensive pair of shoes?!?! Proof that it's seriously rare that I splurge on anything! Plus, it was considered my Christmas gift, which let him off the hook to go shop for me.) I reluctantly handed over my American Express at the UGG store, even though the decimal point on the register came after three digits.

That was about a month ago, and I absolutely LOVE these boots. I wear them to work every day, except for when there's inclement weather or the threat of inclement weather (even though I should be wearing comfy boots WHEN there's inclement weather). This is important because I haven't even had time to truly break them in yet, and now they're ruined. That is, unless, I would prefer my beige boots have bright pink nail polish streaks all over them. Which I don't.

The pink nail polish was being stored in the freezer at my work because apparently it keeps longer, and when I opened the freezer to get out some bread, it fell and shattered on the linoleum and all over my boots.

Even though I immediately tackled the stains with a wet paper towel, it did nothing. Even though I was pissed, I was more upset at myself that I didn't just go with another pair of cheap knock-offs. That way I would have more of a "oh, well, it happens" kind of attitude instead of a WHAT WAS I THINKING TO SPEND SO MUCH MONEY ON A SINGLE PAIR OF SHOES?!?!

Yet, there's hope on the horizon. Even though I got turned down by six different dry cleaners, who said they could not be cleaned, our intern and another colleague know places that specializes in cleaning UGG boots, and American Express has a Purchase Protection Plan that will reimburse customers for items that have gotten stolen or damaged within 90 days of purchase. I'll be pursuing both of these options and see what I can do to fix them. Stay tuned for the results of this.

But I've learned my lesson the hard way. Besides being expensive, high-end items simply aren't worth it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Old Navy.

Yes, I absolutely would LOVE some cheese with that wine.

2009-10-23T20:00:00.000-07:00

My very first sip of alcohol was a dry Merlot at dinner with my now-husband on my 21st birthday. (Such a good girl in high school and college!) Since then, I often enjoy a nice glass of wine - either white, rose, or red; I love them all for different reasons - at happy hour, while I'm cooking, or when I'm out with the girls.

And I haven't been out with the girls in a long time, as I'm most often going out in mixed company where the beer pitchers appear out of nowhere or being the only girl among the beer-loving guys on my basketball team.

So it was a refreshing change to go out with three girls I met through NYU's publishing program; one from Washington who was staying with me while apartment-hunting, another who decided to get her M.S. in publishing at NYU, and a third who's a talented copy editor whom I leaned on quite a bit while revising my resume.

Though we waited nearly an hour for a table at Casellula Cheese & Wine Cafe, their cheese menu alone was totally worth it. Truly nothing pairs better with wine than ridiculously overpriced cheeses. Dani, Danielle, Cat, and I not only enjoyed sampling a few that were served warm, but very much enjoyed the aroma wafting from the cheese case directly adjacent to our table. Yum!

And of course nothing washes down cheese and wine quite like Cold Stone ice cream.

Gotta have more of these ladies' nights!

A beautiful meal and beautiful women. What more could a man want?

2009-10-19T19:59:00.000-07:00

One of the huge perks of working at a food magazine is, well, the food. My job revolves around food; and not just any food, but good, gourmet food. My waistline may soon be suffering, but right now, my taste buds are saying Mmm, Mmm Good!

We're constantly getting samples of great stuff sent to our offices. (By the way, the single most common food sent to our office - barbecue sauce. Soooooo many people have their own barbecue labels. And here I am having grown up with Kraft in our refrigerator!) We also get invited to a food-related event at least a few times a week. And if there ever is a place to have scores of opportunities to taste great food, New York City ranks right up there!

Speaking of scores... that's where I just came from. Yep, THE Scores... as in the legendary gentleman's club. Before my visit, I asked Brent what to expect.

"Barbie dolls," he says.

Now you may be asking yourself what in the world does a strip club have to do with food? Well, because men also like to eat, Scores just recently re-opened Robert's Restaurant, which is located adjacent to the main stage. And we were there to scope out the menu and try the food.

I accompanied the editorial director to the restaurant, and after our water glasses were filled from a tiger-shaped pitcher, we started with an amazing appetizer of heirloom tomatoes and mozzarella cheese with Merlot, and later chatted with the head chef as we enjoyed the Moroccan lamb, New York Strip steak, everything fries, beer-battered onion rings, and saved (a little bit) of room for grandma's rice pudding. It was a beautiful meal. Oh, and did I mention that we were surrounded by beautiful women? What more could we want? Maybe to be a guy...

Haven't found "my" place yet, but am sure enjoying the hunt!

2009-10-17T19:58:00.000-07:00

I love New York's versatility. If a friend and I are meeting up for happy hour in virtually any area of Manhattan, we have our choice of anything from a dark hole in the wall to such a swanky joint that we could probably only justify buying a single drink - and splitting it. Thank goodness for happy hour prices!

With all the options out there, it's easy to pick a bar that you're completely comfortable with; one that's "you." I love that one of my girlfriends chose to have her birthday party at Madame X, which totally fits her sexy personality, and enjoy tipping back beers with my brewsky-loving guy pals at Valhalla, which boasts 33 beers from around the world on tap.

Though I have yet to find "my" place (although Lincoln Park, the bar I live above, fit pretty well until its renovation project has kept it closed since this summer) I am thoroughly enjoying trying out new places on my quest!

It's so hard being a dog - sleeping all night and day

2009-10-12T19:57:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons why I don't have kids right now is because I'm having way too much fun in New York. There's always a party to attend, a new restaurant to try, or a new adventure to go on.

Unfortunately, that fun affects the quasi-child that I have right now-my dog Chloe.

She's already alone for the entire workday (for me, that means until 6:30 p.m., for Brent that means until 10 p.m.) and there are many days in which I come home with enough time to change, take her outside to pee, and then leave her again. Poor baby.

So, I make it a point to take her wherever I can. If I want to meet up with a friend, I'll suggest a walk in Central Park so I can catch up with my friend while strolling around on a nice day or relaxing on a park bench and Chloe can keep an eagle-eye on the squirrels (the one she's not letting out of her sight at in the photo is up in a tree).

And because I live in New York, Chloe can go almost anywhere with me that doesn't serve or sell food. That means no restaurants (unless we sit outside, in which case dogs are allowed at many establishments) or grocery stores, but everything else is fair game. She most often accompanies me to Bed, Bath & Beyond, Best Buy, the bank, through the mall, and the liquor store. (Before we knew how dog-friendly New York is, a giant Great Dane scared the crap outta Brent as he was browsing through the racks at J Crew. Shirt, sweater, jeans, GIANT DROOLING DOG! Ha, ha!)

And since none of my friends have dogs (save the dog-sized cat that belongs to my college buddy, Ryan) they often ask me to bring her along when we're hanging out. So I took her down the street to my friend Janine's apartment to watch the Dolphins (Ryan's team) and Jets (Janine's team) battle it out during Monday night football, although the friendly banter between Ryan and Janine was much more fun to watch than the game. We ate pizza, fed Chloe probably two slices of pizza one morsel at a time, drank beer, and took turns petting the pup. (My dog knows how to get what she wants. The second someone stopped petting her, she simply walked a step or two to the nearest person who took their turn petting her, which went on and on until she started the round all over again.)

Come to think of it, it's not that bad of a life. Sleeping all day followed by Bed, Bath & Beyond, pizza, beer, and then bed. Sure beats work.

You're wearing scarlet and gray HERE? You're totally just asking for it.

2009-10-03T19:56:00.000-07:00

Even though I grew up right near the Michigan/Ohio border, there's really no in-between. You're either a Michigan Wolverine or an Ohio State Buckeye. But because I spent most of my life living in Lambertville, Michigan, I've always cheered for the ferocious Wolverine over the state tree of Ohio. Obviously.

What wasn't so obvious until living in New York for awhile, though, is just how many other Wolverine fans also live here. It's not uncommon to see the block M on hats and coats of passers-by, and I've seen the maize and blue represented much more frequently than I've seen the scarlet and red O. This was no more evident than spending one Saturday afternoon at Professor Thoms in the East Village when the Wolverines (cough, lost, cough) to the Michigan State Spartans.

Standing (because there was no room to sit, much less have a personal space bubble) in the bar during that game was like standing in the student section in the Big House during the Ohio State/Michigan game. The energy was electric, and the cheering coming from both stories of the bar was, literally, deafening.

And even though the Wolverines weren't playing the Buckeyes, there was still a whole lot of animosity directed my because the guy Brent and I were meeting to catch up and have a few beers with was wearing an Ohio State shirt. Seriously. (Thanks, Jake.) Though I will say he took the jeering with good nature - as well as a tiny tree in the middle of a hungry pack of ferocious animals could do. Yeah.

And it was bright orange. Awesome.

2009-10-01T19:36:00.000-07:00

One of my biggest pet peeves at the coffee shop (although I must admit I'm a complete hypocrite, although I will at least apologize when I do it to someone else) is when I have to "interrupt" customers' cell phone conversations to ask them what they would like to order.

I've gotten around this by blatantly skipping the people who are on their cell phones and asking the people behind them what they would like. This gets them off the phone R-E-A-L quick.

Cell phones are annoying, yet essential and nothing new. In fact, I was in a cab today and saw headline roll by that said "New Yorkers say they like sex a little more than they like their phones." In my mind, I disagreed with that statement just a bit. Sadly, my cell phone is my lifeline at times and I actually, ashamedly, sleep right next to it at night.

But what IS new is cell phones that look like landlines.

I wasn't quick enough to get a photo, but on the street today, I passed by a guy who was talking on a bright orange telephone receiver that reminded me of the one attached to my grandma's rotary phone. (Side note: While writing this blog post, I just yelled to my husband, "what's that phone called that has a dial on it that you put your finger in and turned?" Because he didn't know, I found the term - rotary phone - because I Googled "old phone." HAHA!)

And he wasn't a crazy person with an old rotary phone receiver. It was PLUGGED INTO HIS CELL PHONE so he appeared as if he were talking on a land line (pretty soon people will be Googling that phrase) while walking down the street. Click here to see what I'm talking about.

And at "only" $45, who doesn't want to enjoy this blast from the past?

Not the kind of pot you'd put a roast in

2009-09-29T19:31:00.001-07:00

I've always been the good girl. I've always brought home good grades, didn't take my first sip of alcohol until my 21st birthday, and have never dreamed of trying illegal drugs.

And although I was aware that some of my friends in college occasionally smoked pot, it was rare and never when I was around. Even if I would have wanted to dabble in something like that - which I still don't - I wouldn't really even know who to ask or what exactly to ask for.

Here in New York, I feel it would be a heck of a lot easier to get my hands on drugs. In fact, I had some in my hands earlier today. While I was going on my normal sweep of the coffee shop in the middle of a bustling day, I picked up a dime bag of weed sitting in the middle of the floor.

One of my colleagues saw me pick it up and was quick to snatch it out of my hand, open it, sniff it, and proclaim it "good sh*t." I was even quicker to snatch it back, chastise him, and flush it down the toilet. Call me whatever you want for that move.

But that's not the first time I've been around the stuff. The unmistakable smell comes billowing from an apartment all the way down the hall at my apartment shared by two guys at least a few times a month.

And as the girls in my book club and I were discussing "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett on the roof of a high-rise in the financial district, we were distracted by the smell coming from a young couple lounging nearby on lawn chairs.

I've been behind an intimidating guy holding an umbrella in one hand and a joint in the other, and was even witness to a young, shaggy-haired guy handing his roach to a homeless guy smiling from ear to ear at his good fortune.

I guess it's still kind of shocking how easy this stuff is to come by - even when you're not looking. While none of this makes me want to experiment, it sure would be a hell of a lot easier if I did.

From grocery store macaroni and cheese to gourmet sushi rolls topped with caviar

2009-09-23T18:15:00.000-07:00

The closest I ever got to eating seafood as a child was canned tuna and fish sticks (thanks mom).

And since it's much harder to learn to love a specific food as an adult than it is a child, I never really began eating fish or lobster or crab. When I first started dating my husband, I could always tell when he recently cooked salmon because his place reeked, and I'd gag on the stench alone.

So needless to say, I was not thrilled that I was going to be accompanying my new boss at the food magazine to a new Japanese restaurant opening on the upper west side. It promised to be seafood course after seafood course - 12 courses to be exact.

I could handle part of the first course - sake and cucumber strips! - but I knew I was in trouble when the waitress put crab salad under my nose. Soon thereafter, my boss began chastising me for picking around the orange parts.

And it only got harder from there for me, although any seafood lover would have l-o-v-e-d to trade places with me. There was tuna tar tar over guacamole; handmade rolls made with eel, crab, lobster, shrimp, and a variety of fish topped with caviar; and, thankfully so I didn't go hungry: skirt steak with a sweet teriyaki sauce. Every single plate was amazingly beautiful, yet that didn't make up for the fact that it was beautiful... seafood.

I will say this for myself: I tried everything. I didn't like much, but I tried everything, which is something I always try to do not just with food, but in life in general.

When I used to babysit these adorable girls while in college, I tried to instill this trait into the 3-, 6-, and 8-year-olds, especially when it came to food. They would generally wrinkle up their noses when I suggested they try something new, and I always brought the conversation back to their favorite food: macaroni and cheese. I used to ask them how they'd feel if they'd never tried macaroni and cheese for the first time, and tried to point out what they'd be missing. It used to make them think, but they would usually just then ask me to make them macaroni and cheese instead of eating whatever it was I had made them to eat.

Though I guess the kids had a point. It was around the 9th or 10th plate of seafood put in front of me that I thought "enough is enough. I'm totally done with this because it's all tasting the same - like fish." I apparently just don't like it. Maybe it's an acquired taste, but I haven't yet acquired that particular taste yet.

I totally would have rather been at Puttanesca, the Italian restaurant across the street from my apartment to order my usual: the four-cheese, gourmet macaroni and cheese. Yum-my!

Relying on the kindness of strangers

2009-09-20T18:02:00.000-07:00

As she walks down the sidewalk, her face is always tilted up toward the sun and her head sways back and forth to a tune that only she can hear. She walks slower than most people in New York City, as many people often put their heads down as they pass by her on both sides while listening to the tunes blasting from their ipods.

My commute to work is 16 blocks uptown from 56th Street to 72nd Street. I pass her nearly every weekday at different points in our collective commutes, depending on how early or late we're both running to get to our destinations. I've seen this woman with the short salt-and-pepper-hair as north as 72nd Street, and as south as 65th Street.

Cindy - which is what I call her, as she's told me that she's not allowed to give out her name for security reasons - is generally hard to miss, as she's usually carrying a large backpack and lunchbox over the shoulders of her bright red jacket. Yet, she's never without her red and white walking stick because her commute takes her several blocks downtown, and one block west of 9th Avenue to Central Park West, which is where the school for the blind is located. Every day, Cindy walks at least eight blocks to school across at least eight cross streets.

This is significant because Cindy doesn't have a seeing-eye dog or someone who walks her to school every day. That means that every single day, at least eight times a day, Cindy relies on the kindness of strangers to help her cross each street on the way to school. And, man. Does. That. Take. Courage.

The sounds of New York City can be terrifying. You can't piss off a cab driver more than by thinking that you can make it across the street before they get to the intersection, even though they have the green light. And they'll let you know just how mad they are with a loud, long horn honk as they whiz by you at speeds that should be illegal in large, pedestrian-heavy cities. People are always talking on their cell phones in their own little worlds as they knock into one another like bumper cars on the way to their individual destinations.

Since she can't see the white "walk" signals, Cindy steadily makes her way down each block and stops only when she feels her walking stick skid across the bumps in the sidewalk at each curb that are designed to help people in wheelchairs stop. It's here that she raises her left hand and repeats, "Can somebody help me? Can somebody please help me?" until someone stops.

She then asks to hold the individual's right elbow with her left hand as she navigates across the street with the walking stick, and is always happy to make small talk about the upcoming holiday or the weather. When she feels the familiar bumps that signify that she's made it to the opposite curb, she always yells back a cheery, "Have a nice day" or "have a happy holiday" at the good Samaritan who was kind enough to stop and help her across the street.

While I have seen some people walk right by Cindy as she's asking for help - as New Yorkers are often in their own little worlds or in too much of a rush to lend a helping hand - more often than not, the first person who gets to her as she stops at the curb is the one who ends up helping her safely cross the street.

And I am ashamed to say that I was once one of those New Yorkers - in too much of a rush to stop and help. As I glanced over my shoulder to make sure someone else stopped to help her, I felt an intense shame that I couldn't shake until I saw her again and got to make it up to her; even if she didn't know I felt I owed her. I mean, how selfish was I that I couldn't take 30 seconds of my time to help someone so courageous do something they need to do - cross the street - but can't safely accomplish without some help.

Although I still regret the decision I made in that moment, I soon after made a decision I know I won't regret: that I would never again pass Cindy - or anyone else who I see in need of some help - without doing what I can to make their day a little easier. Props to every New Yorker who doesn't need to feel guilt over not helping someone because they always do the right thing.

Muffling the bad doesn't outweigh settling for just hearing about the good

2009-09-18T18:11:00.000-07:00

The hardest thing about living in New York is being away from my family.

And being away from them is even harder during the times that I feel not like I want to be there, but like I need to be there - like on someone's birthday, to celebrate a graduation or other milestone, or when someone is sick or in the hospital.

I know there will be other birthdays and milestones, but it's when someone is sick or hurt that I seriously consider booking plane tickets.

This week, my dad had knee replacement surgery. While I know there can be complications and the unexpected can rear its ugly head, it's not like anyone was anticipating he wouldn't come out of it just fine.

While I knew he would be in good hands, with my mom, brother, and sister in town and available and all, it was the fear of the unexpected that had me questioning whether I was making the right decision by asking my mom to keep calling me with updates instead of being there at the hospital to hear them first hand.

I'm a total "what if?" ridiculous kind of worry-wart, and have been since I was a kid. What if the surgery goes wrong, what if he gets an infection, what if he's not OK, blah, blah, blah. My friends knew something was wrong all day when he was in surgery and my husband knows me well enough to try to alleviate my fears, but since he can't know what would happen, it didn't help.

It turns out that although the surgery went beautifully, the doctors didn't immediately give him a nerve blocker, so according to my mom, he was in an intense amount of pain. Because just hearing about that made me really upset, in a way I was glad I wasn't there to witness it first-hand because seeing my big, strong daddy in pain would be ten times more unsettling. That's not to say that I'm glad I didn't go home - because I wish I had been able to - but living far away really muffles some of the bad because you're not living through it: You're just hearing about it. You're not at the hospital waiting for some news from the doctors, but living your life hundreds of miles away and hearing about how it went later.

Sadly, that's also the same with the good times. You're not living through the games, company, and laughter, but hearing an overview about how much fun it was later from someone else. You're not there for the small details, which I've learned are so important. It's not often that I get to sit down and just talk to my dad, and all the waiting and need for any patient to be distracted would have been the perfect time for that. The phone call later was great because I got to talk to him and hear that he was OK, but it was so much more impersonal than my being able to be there with him holding his hand. But my dad is OK and I thank God for that.

I can see how living so far away could be the easy way out of having to deal with a lot of pain, but that certainly doesn't outweigh settling for just hearing about all of the good.

Celebrity sighting at the U.S. Open (and I'm not talking about the tennis stars)

2009-09-05T18:10:00.000-07:00

For the second year in a row, I've gotten Brent and I U.S. Open tickets for his birthday (lucky coincidence that it happens to always occur about a week after his birthday - built-in gift for as long as we're living in New York!)

And for the second year in a row, he was disappointed that Andy Roddick didn't happen to play on the date I got the tickets for. And Brent is a huge Andy Roddick fan.

But nonetheless, we did get to see Venus Williams (we saw little sister Serena play last year) and, for the second consecutive year, Rafael Nadal. Both won in two really good matches.

We also happened to be sitting across the stadium from Will Ferrell and his (really hot) wife. He must have been the most famous celebrity at the stadium that day because the cameras panned on him on more than a few occassions.

The first time, he was sipping a very girly pink mixed drink when the camera caught him and you could just see him trying to think of something funny to do on the spot (he ended up taking a big sip of the drink through the straw and making the satisfied "ahhhh" face afterward.) But I felt bad for the guy - here he is trying to enjoy a tennis match with his wife, and still feels like he has to be "on." I know it comes with the territory of being a celebrity, but still, did they really have to pan over him several more times, then ask him to leave his wife to meet a reporter in another row be interviewed during the Nadal match? It was a bit much.

But if I was pulling in his salary (Forbes magazine reported that along with Tom Cruise, Eddie Murphy, and Drew Barrymore, he's among the most overpaid Hollywood actors, and attracts the lowest return on investment, bringing in just $3.29 for every dollar paid) I guess an unexpected interview or two would be worth it.

Since when does a birth-DAY last an entire week? (And of course I'm not talking about my own.)

2009-08-27T17:58:00.000-07:00

I, like all people, have a birthday. That's right. A birth-DAY, meaning the ONE DATE I was born.

On that day, I, like many, get many well-wishes from family and friends and some presents to open as I celebrate turning yet another year older.

My husband, however, has a birthday WEEK.

That's right - seven days of celebration for no reason other than it's something he invented a few years ago to get spoiled for an extra six days.*

And just like the Christmas season, which has been starting earlier and earlier every year, he starts talking about his birthday week in early August. (His birthday week usually starts on the Saturday before his birthday so he can get "two weekends" of pampering.)

So although I don't generally change my normal routine during this invented 7-day occasion, I'll humor him by pointing out the nice things I do for him (which I'd be doing anyway) and telling him that I've done it for his birthday week.

Examples: "Why don't I do the laundry this week so you don't have to on your birthday week?" (The last time Brent did laundry was when I hadn't yet moved to New York.)

"What do you want me to cook for your special birthday week dinner on Saturday?" (I love cooking and do it as often as I can, which is generally just weekends.)

I actually do change my routine on his birthday because I believe everyone should be spoiled on their birthday, and do the same usually the closest Saturday before or after that date, which is when we have the most time together. This year, I made reservations at the Sea Grill at Rockefeller Center. (Note: I don't eat seafood. Wife of the year is in the bag!) I also wore a new dress (LOVE the fact that I get to buy something new and cute and tell my husband it's "for him") and new, red lipstick (that one will take a bit for him to get used to!) and tried my best to make sure he had a great day. That's right - a great DAY!

*So what happened when I tried to invent my own birthday week this past year? Vetoed. How is this fair?

The Right to Bare Breasts

2009-08-26T23:47:00.000-07:00

Yet another reason I love being married: Clothing is optional and/or outfit choice - regardless of the fact that I may be (gasp!) wearing plaid with both stripes AND pastels AND socks with sandals - is always accepted.

I admit that I love the fact that I can walk around completely in the buff or bundle myself up in the most ridiculous unattractive and non-matching outfit to keep warm in the winter (which, to my husband's dismay, happens way more often than my walking around in the nude).

While I admit that I sometimes actually go into the outside world in my plaid/striped/pastel/socks-with-sandals outfits to quickly walk the dog while attempting to hide my face in a hoodie so no one will recognize me, I never have attempted to go outside without a shirt.

But apparently I can, and not even the police would have the power to stop me.

As if I needed yet another reason (which I most certainly do not), to love New York: New York is the only state in the country where women can be topless legally, after a 1992 ruling in the state's highest court. That means any woman can walk around the city at any time with no shirt on. Yet another equality finally reached!

While I was fine going topless on our honeymoon in France, thousands of miles away, bearing my breasts a mere two blocks away from my home/workplace where anyone living in my apartment building or anyone who drinks coffee could see me half naked is just a bit disconcerting.

But if I had the guts, I would definitely have joined in National Go Topless Day today (yes, there is such a thing!), held right around the corner in Central Park, in which dozens of topless women gathered and marched in the streets to show they had just as much a right to walk around shirtless as men. (The photo at the top of this webpage definitely makes a fantastic point!)

Even though I didn't have the courage, I totally respect every woman brave enough to bear all in the name of equality.

Do you burp him after you feed him his bottle, too?

2009-08-25T18:19:00.000-07:00

Chloe and I go for our morning walk a few minutes after I get up in the morning (I have to wake up somehow, and usually a shot of cold morning air does the trick!) and go for our nighttime walk right before I'm ready to go to bed.

It's our routine, and other New Yorkers with dogs have a similar routine. Lately, Chloe and I have been seeing the same West Highland White Terrier on our morning walks. I notice the dog all the time because it's always wearing a sweater.

Some background: Here in New York, it's weird that my dog goes "naked" for walks. Granted, I understand the need for putting a sweater on your 1.5-ounce dog when you take it for walks in the winter, but does it really need a matching stocking cap and booties? It's a dog, for Christ's sake: it enjoys smelling rotting poop on the sidewalk... or at least my dog enjoys that.

Anyway, I always smile whenever I see the terrier and his elderly owner walking along in the morning because he's usually wearing what looks to be a hand-made sweater. Weird, but kinda cute.

But tonight, as we walked past that same dog and his owner on our nighttime walk, I had to stifle a laugh until I was out of earshot because THE DOG WAS WEARING PAJAMAS. More accurately, he was wearing a child's white onesie with yellow ducks printed all over it. No doubt that it wasn't just because he was going outside. It was because it was nighttime and almost time to go to bed.

Only in New York.

And all it took was a simple complement

2009-08-22T18:03:00.000-07:00

Today was a bad day.

Not a single thing was going right at the coffee shop (where I have to still work for a few weeks until I can get my health insurance situation straightened out). People called out, the store was a mess from the night before, our machines were breaking, the customers were being especially and unreasonably demanding, and it wasn't even 8 a.m.

That's when Bill walked in. Bill has been my favorite customer since I really noticed him last Christmas.

Since that day, I've really started to get to know, and like, Bill. He's one of the few customers - which includes Craig, Glenda, Luke, and Alex - who I love to see every time I'm at work because when they're there, it doesn't feel like work anymore.

So when Bill strolled in much earlier than usual on a Saturday, I was happy to see him through all my frustration, and told him I was in much need of a boost of happiness.

"BILL! I need you to tell me good things. Tell me something good - ANYTHING. What's good in your life?" I asked him.

No hesitation, and this is what he says:

"Well, I just woke up and you're pretty much the first person I've seen this morning. And you look beautiful," he says, while uncharacteristically looking me straight in the eye. This time, it was me who had to look away as all my female co-workers chimed in with "Awwwww!"

After a few seconds of shock - including time to think about how I was wearing a dirty apron over an all-black outfit with my hair thrown back in a ponytail and whatever makeup I managed to get on while still half asleep before work - I managed to get out, "Wow. That's pretty damn good Bill."

Somehow my day seemed much better after that.

And all it took was a simple complement.

Complement someone today. You never know how much it may mean to that person.

Halalujha! Halalujha!

2009-08-17T17:49:00.000-07:00

Erika

Has

A

Job.

A

Real

Job.

After literally applying for hundreds of jobs in this crazy city, all I have to say is it's about freakin' time!

After some disappointing interviews and some even more disappointing news of getting passed over for a job I had a really good feeling about for an intern who threw her hat in the ring at the last minute (of course) I landed a job.

Erika Meller is now the editorial assistant at The Nibble, an online gourmet food magazine where it's my job to eat! And not only is it my job to eat, but it's my job to eat gourmet food!

I eat, I write, I do administrative tasks - which I don't mind at all, by the way - I go to press parties and amazing dinners at the best restaurants in New York City, etc. I could go on and on, but all I have to say is it's about freakin' time! I waited long enough!

And I'm so thankful for it.

Getting hit on by two guys in one night? Probable. Getting hit on by two different guys at the same time? Probably never again.

2009-08-15T18:37:00.001-07:00

This is not a good idea, I thought as I decided to pass a slow-walking guy wearing a black T-shirt and ridiculously baggy tan pants on a narrow and relatively deserted section of sidewalk near a building under construction adjacent to Central Park at 9 p.m. tonight.

"Hey miss can you turn around please," he quickly asked me just as I passed him on his left.

Dammit. I knew this was a bad idea, I cursed to myself as I picked up the pace as much as I could in my black high heels.

"Please turn around, miss, I think I know you if you'd just please turn around. Come on!" he said, louder as I put at least a half of block sidewalk between us until I reached the corner, and thus a more open area.

"Excuse me, miss," I hear. Just behind me.

What the hell? was my reaction because I thought I had put plenty of space between me and Baggy Pants Guy, I jumped and twirled around to glance at the guy who had apparently ran to catch up with me.

Thankfully, I saw Baggy Pants Guy still ambling along well behind this second, actually really attractive guy who I later thought I passed on the sidewalk while picking up my walking pace, and whom I thought said "hi" to me, but I was too busy just focusing on getting home.

"Geez, you scared me," I said to Attractive Guy fully anticipating his asking me if I was OK or asking me for directions or some other touristy thing (which, by the way, happens to me more often than I would have thought. But I will always help people out because I relied on so many friendly New Yorkers - yes they exist! - when I was new to the city.)

"I'm sorry I scared you, but are you one of my customers at [some bar or something] down in the East Village? You look so familiar," he said.

"No," I said shortly while glancing at the sign that still blared "Do Not Walk."

"Oh, well you just have one of those faces," he said. Then without hesitating, the inevitable, "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Oh, no thanks. I have to get home to my husband," I said wondering why the sign still hadn't turned to the "walk guy."

"Maybe another time?" he asked.

OK, maybe you didn't hear me. "No, I'm married," I emphatically told Attractive Guy.

"But it's just that you're so beautiful," he said.

Oh, well now that you said that I'm beautiful, that changes everything! Forget the drink, let's just go back to your place, I thought. With heavy sarcasm.

"Thank you. Bye," I said as I took advantage of the light finally switching to start to cross the street... at the same time Baggy Pants Guy finally made it to the corner.

"Hey baby, what are you doing tonight?" I hear from Baggy Pants Guy as I again try to put distance between us.

Even though neither guy's advances would have probably been welcomed, still, where were all these guys when I was still single?

So this is what it's like to be old

2009-08-12T18:36:00.000-07:00

Back home in Toledo, most of my friends who live there are married, have a toddler, and are either working on, or have, their second child.

Here in New York, I have exactly ZERO friends who have kids. NONE are married, and MOST don't even have a significant other.

New York City is a city for single people.

Don't get me wrong: I love being married and I love my husband. But because I'll be the second to admit that I'm a product of my environment (my husband will be the first), I sometimes get a twinge of jealousy at some of my friends' stories of just picking up and taking a weekend trip to Vegas or staying out until the bars close without a second thought.

If I wanted to go to Vegas, I'd have to make arrangements for my dog and husband to be fed and taken care of, and if I wanted to stay out until 4 a.m., I'd have to do so knowing that my husband isn't falling asleep until I'm home safe and sound.

But what makes it really intolerable is when my single friends whom I've introduced to each other go out without me. It's like I feel they're cheating on me or something because if it weren't for me, they wouldn't even know each other. And I also know that's not fair, but still. Just because I'm married doesn't mean I can't go out too!

I just have to be home at a decent hour.

Sigh. So this is what it's like to be old.

Yep: I have millions and my own TV show, yet I work at a coffee shop to stay humble

2009-08-05T12:56:00.000-07:00

Everyone's heard something along the lines of, "Wow, you look just like (insert celebrity, other family member, the family dog, etc.)

Most often, I hear Sandra Bullock. People say we have the same smile or something. Sometimes I get Katie Holmes as well.

But this week at the coffee shop, I was working on something out on the floor, then went into the back room out of sight from the customers when I heard a lady asking my colleague, "Hey, is that her?"

He understandably was looking confused at the lady who was apparently pointing in my direction. So he called me out to the floor and she excitedly exclaimed, "Oh my God, is it really you?!?!"

Now since I'm not so conceited as to believe that she was actually excited to be seeing me, Erika Meller, I asked her who she thought I was.

"You're that girl who has her own show... Silverman," she said. "You're Sarah Silverman Sarah Silverman... aren't you?"

Now keep in mind that this lady looked relatively normal and not someone crazy who would see someone on the street and think he was Jesus or something. But I was at work. At a coffee shop. Wearing an apron. Why in God's name would she think a celebrity with her own show would moonlight as a barista?

So, without knowing what else to say, I simply said "No. Sorry."

"Oh, well you look just like her," she said before dejectedly turning away.

Small fish in a big pond... oh who am I kidding? I'm a guppie in the freakin' ocean

2009-08-03T12:56:00.000-07:00

Working at The Blade newspaper in Toledo, Ohio, I felt like a big fish in a small pond. I had the cell phone numbers of mayors, senators, and city councilmen programmed into my phone... and I called them at all hours of the day whenever I needed to talk to them for whatever story I happened to be working on at the time.

Granted, Toledo is a big city... if you consider a big city to boast a population of less than 300,000 people. Now I live in a city of 8 million, where on my very first visit to the city, I was told that New York City is "a city of anonymous people," according to the woman we stayed with while searching for a place.

And up until I interviewed at places in New York, I was batting .500 with job interviews; meaning if I interviewed at a place, I got the job.

Not so in New York. Here it is August, 2009, and I am still kicking myself for not going on a second interview in August, 2007, because I just didn't think it was the right job for me.

And while I still don't think it would have been the perfect right job for me, IT WAS A JOB AND I HAD A DAMN GOOD SHOT AT LANDING IT!!!

But I digress. Job interviews in New York are similar to those back in Ohio, yet I can still feel the added pressure of needing to be the creme de la creme not only because I'm in a much bigger pond (oh Hell, it's a damn ocean) but we're in a much tougher economy where there are literally thousands of people more qualified than me interviewing for jobs. (I recently visited a publishing house where I had recently applied for an editorial assistant job and was told that I applied for that job... along with 1,400 other people... And yes, that's ONE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED OTHER PEOPLE... who applied for that job THE. FIRST. WEEK. it was advertised.)

Yikes.

I'd say wish me luck, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to need much more than that.

Coming home with more baggage than we left with

2009-07-31T12:55:00.000-07:00

After a sometimes hectic, sometimes relaxing trip back to Ohio to visit and pick up our dog from her summer in Michigan, we came back to New York with a bit more baggage than we left with. It belonged to my sister, Brittany, and my cousin, Gillian, who hitched a ride in the van we rented to get back to New York. Free ride for them, and two built-in, always-hangout-ready family members for me!

But because I had just taken a vacation to go back home, I had to work extra shifts at the coffee shop to make up for all the time I'd missed there. So between working, preparing for and going on several job interviews at publishers that I lined up while on vacation, and getting a few winks each night, I tried my best to hang out with the girls without asking them for too many favors along the lines of "make all these copies for my writing portfolio" (thanks Gill!) or "get my husband his birthday present" (thanks Britters!).

It was a feat of epic proportions, but I still managed to go to dinner with the girls before taking them both to their first Broadway show (Avenue Q, natch), bringing them along to serve as my basketball team's personal cheering section (though I think they flirted with the guys on the other teams more than they cheered), experiencing the museum of sex together (fun!) and lining up a group of my friends to entertain them at trivia night at the bar before I could get there (gotta love the Joshua Tree on a Tuesday!).

Though I was sad to see them go - I love visitors - I have to admit that I was relieved to have a portion of the weekend to recouperate, and by that I mean sleep! Lots of job prospects to cross my fingers for...

Never would have thought to ask...

2009-07-27T18:22:00.000-07:00

I was recently reading my new favorite magazine, Real Simple, when I came across this article by a woman who thinks that as adults, so many of us don't ask enough about our mothers, whether that be because we're scared or just don't get around to it. Yet she says there's no better way to become closer to a person, even if you've known her all your life.

So, she asked a bunch of her friends and acquaintances to come up with 10 questions they want to ask their mothers (and, sadly, some wish they would have asked these questions before their mothers passed away).

I read that part of the article on the plane ride back to Ohio on Friday and immediately thought, "There's nothing in here that I don't know the answer to about my mom."

I was wrong.

Out of the 10 questions listed, I knew the answer to NOT A SINGLE ONE. So I made a vow right then and there to find some time with both of my parents (it was a Mother's Day article, but I thought, "Why limit it to just my mother?") and ask them these questions.

Two hours later, my mom, dad, sister, husband, and I had gone through a range of emotions from anger and worry to joy and roll-on-the-floor laughter. I have never felt so close to my parents and feel blessed to have been able to ask them these questions, some of which my mom said later she wished she would have known what my grandmother - her mother - would have thought about a few of them.

Don't wait before asking your parents these questions:

1. What’s the one thing you would have done differently as a mom?
2. Why did you choose to be with my father?
3. In what ways do you think I’m like you? And not like you?
4. Which one of us kids did you like the best?
5. Is there anything you have always wanted to tell me but never have?
6. Do you think it’s easier or harder to be a mother now than when you were raising our family?
7. Is there anything you regret not having asked your parents?
8. What’s the best thing I can do for you right now?
9. Is there anything that you wish had been different between us―or that you would still like to change?
10. When did you realize you were no longer a child?

In asking these questions, I learned a whole lot more about my parents' relationship with each other, the qualities they admired about me, qualities I didn't know about them, the kinds of parties my mom believes kids are into these days, and how my perception of what our financial situation was like while I was growing up was quite different from reality. And my husband learned a whole lot about his wife and how she got to be the way she is.

The whole conversation was fascinating, and when it ended, I remember thinking that I never wanted it to end. But what made me sad is that I can't remember a time we'd ever sat down and really talked. I'm sure that's not just my family; but most families, which is a shame. Unless it's a life-changing event, like a funeral, or a once-every-X-number-of-years event, like a family reunion, people don't sit down and talk about things that really matter.

I'm glad I did.

Hey! There's grass in these two states!

2009-07-24T12:54:00.000-07:00

Once school was out, I was LOOOOOOOOOONG overdue for a vacation - and not one of those fake vacations where you go somewhere new, race around from dawn until dusk trying to see and do everything (though that can be fun too), and then come back home 10 times more exhausted than when you started.

Well, that's kinda how I am every time I go back to Michigan/Ohio (what can I say - I have lots of family and friends who I miss back there!) at least it's racing around to ultimately sit and visit with people I love!

So last week was chock-full of chasing around after the nieces, lunch with friends, Cedar Point with Brent and Brittany, swimming with my little cousins, dinner with old pals and, of course, a head-to-toe body massage!

It's sad that it takes being more than 500 miles away to really appreciate time with my friends and family, but I'll never forget to make the most of it when I can. Miss you all!

"Best friends, never gonna let you down, best friends, always gonna be around, you know..."

2009-07-16T12:54:00.000-07:00

Remember back in grade school when you became instant friends with another girl in your class just because your lunch boxes had the same cartoon character on the front? It was so easy.

And luckily, that's kind of how I feel about my New York friends. Being friends with them is, well, easy. People ask me how I met my closest New York friend and we look at each other awkwardly and say, "the gym" because it was the place we both happened to be when taking the most awkward class ever, yet continued to go only because we liked each other's company. (And I'm happy to say that while I still see her every week, it's no longer at the gym because we both quit in favor of meeting at the park for a walk with my dog or at a bar for cocktails.)

As for several of my other New York friends, we're friends because our T-shirts say the same thing: Zogsports. They're the ones on my basketball team who I'm hanging out with more and more off the courts, both after the games and on the weekends.

And then there are the friends who I had before I moved here, and have since moved here as well or visit often.

So last night was the ultimate hangout when I had friends from all three groups meet up with me at Gael Pub to see Rusty's European Tour, the band I sang with when their lead singer was on vacation.

Good friends, good beer, and good music. What more could you want?

Daaaa da da da daaaaaaaaa daaaaaaaaa (That's the beginning bars of the graduation song. Just so you know.)

2009-07-11T12:53:00.000-07:00

It's FINALLY summertime!!

Well, it's been summertime for a few weeks, but now it feels like it's summertime because I graduated yesterday. Again, I guess.

After enrolling in the shortest graduate school in the country (forgot to read the fine print when I signed up that elaborated that while it truly is the shortest grad school in the country, it feels like the longest), I FINALLY made it to the end.

WHEW!

I never knew just how long six long weeks were until taking the New York University Summer Publishing Institute, and living through the more than 100 (no joke) PowerPoint presentations and dozens of hours of group work that went with it. And yet I would do it all over again. I learned a ton about the industry, shook the hands of numerous publishing executives who were kind enough to take the time to impart their wisdom, and met some really great people along the way who are in similar shoes. But with NYU SPI looking good on my resume, I'm ready to hit the ground running in the publishing industry.

Now to find a job.

And to help me, NYU kindly set up a job fair to at the culmination of the program with all the big names in both the book and magazine publishing industry. We're talking Hearst, Penguin, HarperCollins, Random House, Scholastic, Hachette, etc.

After spending days preparing for the job fair between polishing up my final project for school, I was so frazzled the night before the job fair looking at my resume that I had read over for the gazillionth time that evening alone, that I actually could not comprehend what the sentences were actually saying. Brent said "enough already" after I thrust a well-worn copy of my resume in his lap and pointed at one of the last sentences. "BRENT! Is it 'in' or 'on' that I mean here? Did I write stories focusing on topics ranging from X to Y or did I write stories focusing in topics? On or in? ON OR IN!?!?!? And did you read this again? Are you sure there aren't any typos on this? Or is it 'Are you sure there aren't any typos in this?' ON OR IN!?!?!?!"

After missing a perfectly good night's rest, I high-tailed it to the job fair in plenty of time to ensure that I was one of the first ones there so I could have more time for anticipation and hyperventilation.

Like any job fair, I spent most of it waiting in line. Yet even that was productive because my classmates and I used that time to exchange notes along the lines of, "When you go to that table, make sure you talk to the girl, and not the guy," or "The lady at that table will grill you until you break," etc. And while I feel like I did really well with some interviewers (and even scored an interview for a position I hadn't even formally applied for at a huge book publishing company - score!), there were of course the "interviews" I felt I bombed, like the one at Random House where I blanked out for a good five seconds (which seemed to last an ETERNITY) when the interviewer asked me which imprint I would ideally like to work for. Luckily, the "bad" interviews were few and far between.

And now my thank you notes and e-mails are written with yet another reiteration about how my skills will undoubtedly translate well at your small magazine publishing company/ginormous book publishing company/ANYWHERE IN THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY and now all I have to do is wait for the phone to ring and obsessively check my e-mail.

Huh. And I thought school was hard.

Oh beautiful, for spacious skies...

2009-07-04T12:52:00.000-07:00

Every family has their own traditions when it comes to the holidays, and mine has a rich tradition surrounding the Fourth of July. Every year, my dad's siblings (11 of them total) plus spouses and kids - plus some of their extended family and friends - hang out at my parents' house all day to swim, play volleyball, eat, drink visit, and, of course, blow off fireworks.

After blowing up the Christmas tree, there's more eating and drinking leading up to the unbelievable fireworks show my Uncle Chris - who lives next door to my parents - puts on every year. As far back as I can remember, there used to be one or two rows of spectators. That's grown to at least five rows of people of all ages.

Unfortunately, living in New York, I have had to miss the Fourth of July celebration for the past two years. Last year, I (kind of) went to the Macy's fireworks show in New York. This year, it came to me.

Last year's show was over the East River. This year, it was over the Hudson, but after seeing the sheer numbers heading toward New Jersey all day, I was not willing to join the crowds.

Instead - since Brent and I live in an apartment building without rooftop access; which wouldn't help since it's only six stories high - we cuddled up on the couch and tuned the TV to the events that were happening just a few blocks away (ridiculous, I know, but I never knew what the word "crowd" meant until I moved to New York).

What was surreal was that a second after the first fireworks were shot off, I heard an unmistakable KA-BOOM! So I muted the TV, yet heard it again even louder a few seconds later. If I were just watching the fireworks on TV, I would only see them and hear the patriotic music they were being set off to. But since they were being shot off just a few blocks away, I could hear every one just seconds after seeing them on TV. It was like I was there with everyone else, but while still in the comfort of my own home. And there's nothing like the New York fireworks show.

Happy birthday, America!

RIP Michael Jackson: I'd be willing to bet this barber could definitely make the sides of his clients' hair perfectly even.

2009-07-03T13:54:00.000-07:00

Crazy sad time for celebrities.

First Michael Jackson, then Farrah Fawcett, and then Billy Mays (who achieved celebritydom in his own right.)

While their deaths came as much as a shock to me as the rest of the world, what I was more shocked about is the immediate reaction of New Yorkers - about Michael Jackson. (Poor Fawcett and Mays; their deaths were just completely overshadowed in the media and otherwise.)

The morning after Michael Jackson died, I snapped this photo while waiting for the train (it's an iPhone photo, so sorry about the bad quality. Someone took a black Sharpie and wrote "RIP 'King of Pop' Michael Jackson.")

And nearly everywhere I go, I hear "Billy Jean," "Thriller," or "Beat It," mostly from inside stores or coming from tables set up with Michael Jackson paraphernalia. But even people not trying to hock souvenirs are taking part - people driving by my apartment with the windows down are rocking out to it in their cars, iTunes sales of Michael Jackson songs have skyrocketed, and even Winston, the homeless guy who lives outside my neighboring building, has been blaring it from his stereo for days.

And more recently, I took a photo of this unbelievably amazing work of art. Again, it's a poor-quality iPhone photo, but trust me when I say it was an incredible depiction.

May all three rest in peace.

Still can't imagine...

2009-07-02T19:25:00.000-07:00

I've blogged numerous times about how surprised I am about how safe I feel while walking to work at 4:30 a.m. or walking my dog before going to bed at 11:30 p.m. And rightfully so. Even though I live in Midtown Manhattan, there's always delivery people, other dog walkers, etc. also out and about on their own business.

Of course you have to balance those feelings of safety with different types of danger, which the Metro newspaper put so eloquently today in headline form: "NYPD warns city still a bull's-eye for terror" and a lead that read: "Osama bin Laden is alive and plotting another attack on New York."

Even though I wasn't a NYC resident on 9/11, I've made a point to ask several people who I've become friends with who were here at that time. Even if they weren't anywhere near the twin towers that day, it not surprisingly affected them in ways much different from how it affected me living three states away at that time. Though each story is different, each also has the undertones of the utmost respect for those who worked to rescue people from the rubble and sympathy for those who lost someone that day.

And even though I've talked to numerous people about that day, I still have no way to even fathom having actually been here while it was happening. And I pray to God I never will.

You've got to have priorities

2009-06-28T20:27:00.000-07:00

"OUCH! OOOOWWWWW!!!! HELP! HELP!!" I yelp from the kitchen just after attempting to (not so smartly) catch the gigantic utility knife I was just using to slice through raw zucchini like it was butter from falling onto the floor.

"What? What happened?" I hear Brent call from the living room.

"HELP!" I yelp again while trying not to look at the blood that had spurted out from my index finger while groping for the paper towels with my left hand.

[About 10 seconds later]

"What did you do?" asks Brent from the doorway of the kitchen.

"I cut myself! I don't want stitches again!" I squeak out while trying not to feel too faint-y at the sight of the blood that rises up from the 1-inch cut right after I wipe away the blood that had just been there before that.

"Not for that!" Brent says, laughing while he goes to get some gauze and tape.

After he fixes me up, I catch my breath and eagle-eye it in case he's wrong about the stitches and it bleeds through the gauze. A few minutes go by, and I think of something.

"Hey, Brent?" I ask from the kitchen.

"What?" he calls from the couch about 10 feet away from the kitchen where he settled back in to watch TV.

"What took you so long to come in here?" I ask.

"I had to find the pause button," he replies matter-of-factly.

"WHAT?" I say coming out of the kitchen to look my dear husband in the eye.

"But they were doing a special on [Tennis star Andy] Roddick!" he says.

Wait... you were actually just being nice?

2009-06-23T13:52:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to the city, I knew exactly one person: Brent.

And since his job requires him to work 25-hour days during the week, I'm on my own quite a bit Monday through Friday.

And since I'm a social person who needs friends, one of the first things I did when I moved here was hop on Craigslist to find a book club. That was an awesome idea, and something I'm still enjoying every month.

But since I need basketball in my life (that's right - NEED) I found this amazing charity-based social sports league called Zogsports, and was lucky enough to be placed on a team of great people. This is where it's been especially apparent to me that guys living in New York are quite different than some of the guys I've been around in the Midwest.

Now I know I'm generalizing, but it just seems that guys from where I grew up have their own agendas and are always striving to prove something, whether that be that they CAN get that girl's phone number or they CAN drink their buddies under the table, etc.

So when I talk to guys here, I've found myself surprised on more than one occasion that a nice conversation with a guy ended at just that: a nice conversation. They didn't end with them trying to get my phone number or asking me out or anything. What? They were just talking to me for the sake of having a conversation on the train or at the bar? It's not something I'm used to, and especially being the married woman that I am, it's a refreshing and pleasant change.

Which brings me back to the guys on my basketball team. We have been together for several seasons now, but this summer season, I'm the only girl on our co-ed team. And while the guys treat me like one of the guys on the court, off the court, they're always asking me if I'm OK (I have to play every minute of every game, which in the heat outside gets pretty rough sometimes) and always tell me how well I'm playing. They've even gotten to the point where they don't ask anymore before grabbing my always-too-stuffed bag off my shoulder so they can carry it for me.

And before I felt comfortable with the city, one of the guys always rode the subway or bus home with me even though he lived more than a half a mile uptown from me. And now, even though I'm comfortable with finding my way around the city, the guy who happens to live around the corner from me always walks with me down to the "scary gym" in a more deserted, outskirt area of Manhattan.

And I feel sad that I still catch myself feeling incredulous that they're doing all of this for me because they're truly nice guys and not because they want something from me except probably my friendship and company.

What I'm not amazed by, however, is that New York is still throwing curve balls at me: I'm always discovering some new, fun place or event to shake up life!

Almost winners

2009-06-20T17:27:00.000-07:00

The first three weeks of my NYU publishing course was dedicated strictly to magazines. For three weeks, we students learned about all aspects of magazine publishing from professionals who work at magazines ranging from Esquire and Men's Health to Seventeen and Vogue.

During the course, we were split up into 10 groups of 10 people charged with conceptualizing a magazine. During our magazine's infancy stage, it got ripped to shreds several times. (Apparently a green magazine for rebellious hipsters who care about recycling and neighborhood revitalization efforts doesn't work so well. Not my idea - trust me!) Our magazine instructor - who always seemed to give us the opposite advice as all the other industry professionals - actually told us that she lost sleep over worrying about us and our concept. Nice way to give us that extra vote of confidence!

All this combined gave our group a sort of black sheep reputation. However, because we were bashed so many times, we were forced to revamp - and thus improve - our concept. FiX magazine became a magazine for young hipsters who keep up with the latest trends in the indie scene - including music, art, and fashion. They're the influential cool champions of change who march through the world and turn everything upside-down - for the better. Need a FiX? Get yours.

Nevertheless, because of how much negativity surrounded our concept from its conception, when the magazine awards ceremony rolled around, all our group wanted to do was get it over with so we could make a beeline for the room in the back of the classroom - the one that held appetizers and a bunch of crates of wine from Trader Joe's.

We weren't surprised when they announced the winner - that group was awesome. They created a magazine dedicated to military families, which was really cool. But then the instructor said that she had another announcement. There wasn't a runner-up because she didn't think that term was fitting. Instead, she said that there was a group who she wanted to call the "almost winners."

"And I know everyone will appreciate this," she said. "FiX magazine."

M jaw hit the floor. At that moment, no one was more surprised than our group - proven by the fact that none of us actually went up to get our award because we all were in this weird sort of shock that we were chosen to win an award.

Well, we almost won.

Even though what she said seemed ridiculously condescending (Really? Everyone should really appreciate the fact that our group could actually come up with something great?) she meant it as a compliment.

Besides, it gave us an excuse to take our prize - a bottle of Trader Joe's wine taken from one of the crates in the back room and wrapped in a bow - and begin a many-hours-long celebration of toasting to "almost winning."

That celebration took us to the basement of a seedy bar in the financial district, the beer garden in Battery Park, a dog-friendly bar/birthday party at a bar in the East Village, a rooftop/house-warming party in the East Village, and - because at that point several of us had been drinking for six hours and could hardly walk - a bar across the street from the rooftop party where I met an out-of-town friend and became the last woman standing from our celebratory group.

Need a FiX? Get yours from us - we're almost winners.

Where's the closest place to go for a drink when you desperately need a study break?

2009-06-17T19:21:00.000-07:00

Arrgh. The only thing more insulting than sitting in a classroom for eight hours is spending nearly as much doing homework afterward. And tonight is no exception. Then my phone buzzes and I see it's a text message from Janine, one of my best New York buddies:

Jun 17, 2009 9:24 PM: "We happen to be downstairs at lincoln park if you want to come for a
beer!"

Hmmm, stay here and study more or throw on flip-flops and walk no further than downstairs to accept a glass of free beer from a pitcher surrounded by a bunch of friends?

Gotta love literally living on top of an awesome bar!

One year married to the man I love

2009-06-14T18:50:00.000-07:00

It's crazy for me to look at the wedding photos hanging on the wall in our living room and think that it happened an entire year ago.

But today is Brent and I's one-year wedding anniversary.

We have nothing to do today except enjoy each other's company at home in shorts and T-shirts because we celebrated our anniversary yesterday. I made reservations at Aquavit, a romantic restaurant that served Scandinavian food. I enjoyed meatballs with this amazing, sweet cranberry sauce while Brent chose the chef's special of nine different mini portions of their fish and meat dishes. We both also enjoyed wine and after-dinner cappuccinos to cap off the wonderful, quiet evening together.

On today, our actual anniversary, I only had two requests. The first was a tradition - eat the top of the wedding cake, which our wedding cake lady kindly re-made for us so we wouldn't have to eat year-old cake. Brent readily agreed to this one, mostly because our wedding cake was truly delicious!

The second request was that we watch our wedding video, which is something I would like to do every year because who really takes time to sit and watch their wedding video? Brent was not so enthusiastic about this request, but humored me until our relatively old DVD player started acting up and not playing the video correctly. Then he was done, but it wasn't until we watched the ceremony highlights and the toasts from our reception!

Nonetheless, it was an amazing evening to celebrate and remember one of the happiest days in my life: The day I married the man I'm head over heels in love with.

Happy Anniversary baby.

New York City in the "Twilight" Zone

2009-06-12T19:56:00.000-07:00

How I know this Twilight/Tru Blood/Vampire Diaries/vampire thing has gone too far:

Today's AM New York supplement was called "vAMp New York" and included stories about local vampires. Really.

The stories ran the gamut from local vampires protesting MTA's proposed overnight subway cuts to NYC hotels catering to vampires with blackout shades and by-request coffins to the hot new black and red makeup trends.

Living in the Twilight Zone, man.

Shut the hell up, I am TRYING TO WORK!!

2009-06-11T11:54:00.000-07:00

SHUT THE HELL UP!!!! EVERYONE! WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP!?!?!?!?!

I swear that every single person in this ridiculously tiny-for-eight-million city is out to irritate me today.

It's freaking hot outside, and if the windows aren't open, it's as stuffy as my couch in my apartment. Yes, the air conditioner works, but since I'm not making any money anymore, I need to conserve some savings. Conserving energy and electricity is an added bonus of leaving the AC off.

Besides, I live on an island, so there's usually always a nice breeze I can capture with the windows open. And I like the windows open... in Ohio.

In New York City, every single freaking person who has a car has a horn. And I'm telling you that the stereotypes are true. I can count the number of times I've been the one behind the wheel in New York City on one hand, but I can still attest to the fact that if I'm at a red light and my foot hadn't slammed down on the gas a split second BEFORE the light turns green in anticipating of it turning, I'd get horn blasts from the car behind me and the car behind the car behind me and - just for good measure - beside me on BOTH sides as well. It's enough for me to say that I'll keep the times I've driven in New York to how many I can tick off on one hand, thank you very much.

Therefore, if I'm sitting alone at home on my laptop theoretically, oh, let's say trying to determine the point of view for my make-believe magazine's website to establish the connection between the print vehicle and the digital one, my concentration is out the open window because all I can think about is WHY ARE ALL OF YOU SO LOUD!?!?!

Horn blasts every few seconds is the norm. I get it. But apparently someone has locked a toddler in the front seat of a car across the street because all I've been hearing for the last it seems like decades is his joyfully playing with a toy that makes a loud noise: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. Beeep, beep, beeeeebeeeeeep. Beep, beep, beeeeeeeebebebebeeeeeep, BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

To top off the car-related irritation is the fact that Best Buy is apparently having a sale on stereo systems because right outside my window is an intersection and, therefore, a light that occasionally turns red. Apparently the number of times it turns red is directly related to the number of cars tricked out with an eardrum-shattering stereo system that need to stop there. In the last 6 minutes, I've heard rap, folk music, hip-hop, rock, and - believe it or not - classical music blasting at decibels that have to be just under the amount that would shatter a windshield.

And OK, I understand that the homeless and jobless have to keep themselves occupied with the free time they have on their hands, but does that mean that they have to create a park band?? What is a park band, you ask? Well, a park band is a lot like a garage band except they don't have a garage to practice in. But like many garage bands, a park band is also exceptionally loud and tone-deaf. While garage bands are limited to the number of "musicians" that can fit in a garage, park bands can have a larger number of participants because they have an entire park for people to occupy. And though garage bands practice in such a way that really the only people who can hear them are in the household occupying the house attached to the garage and its immediate neighbors, park bands can share their "gift" with an entire neighborhood.

Hey Mayor Bloomberg - know those signs that say "HORN HONKING, $500 FINE?" You do? Really? THEN WHY THE HELL ARE WE IN A RECESSION?!?!?!?!? We'd be out of it in a single freaking Sunday afternoon if the police force would actually act on this "law!"

Sheesh.

What's going on? Are we in school?

2009-06-02T16:40:00.000-07:00

I know it's what I signed up for, but man, I don't know how I'm going to get through all six weeks of school!

It's only the third day of my first week at the New York University Summer Publishing Institute, and I'm already exhausted and feel like I've been going to school FOREVER!

Sitting in the same chair in the same room for no less than eight hours a day listening to speakers and watching PowerPoint presentation after PowerPoint presentation doesn't exactly scream "stimulating!"

Now don't get me wrong: Publishing is 100 percent what I want to get into, and many of the subjects are interesting, but of course there are also the ones that are necessary, but dry, dry, dry! (Cough, advertising, cough. I don't want learn how to figure out how much advertising you need to keep a magazine afloat. Just let me write a magazine article, already!)

I'm thrilled I've been accepted but not sure how much my brain can take at one time!

Burning, cutting, and... bombing?

2009-05-30T14:39:00.000-07:00

Think the only danger to me at my job is burning myself or cutting myself? While I have learned the hard way that these are absolutely valid concerns, here in New York City, they're not the only ones.

Click here to find out what else I now have to worry about.

Yup - girls are as good as (and are sometimes better than) boys

2009-05-28T16:15:00.000-07:00

During college, I babysat these three adorable little girls for a colleague whom I worked with at Dana. She would work during the day while I would watch her kids, and then we'd switch places and I'd go to my shift at 4:30 p.m. after she got home.

One day the four of us decided that we wanted to go on a bike ride. The youngest one, Mackenzie, was just about four years old, and wanted to ride in the seat attached to the back of her mom's bike, which I was planning to ride. The problem was that the tire was busted, and needed to be changed. Her mom bought a new tire, but hadn't yet put it on the bike, so I found the tools needed to change the tire and went to work while Mackenzie watched.

After a bit, even though I had the right tools, I began to struggle with the too-tight bolts. And Mackenzie, who had been cocking her head and watching me the entire time from a car seat on the floor of the garage, thought she had the solution to the problem. I'll never forget what she said:

"Miss Erika? We need a boy."

As soon as those words hit my brain, I spun around, dropped the wrench, and looked at her as if she just let loose with a string of swear words.

"NO. WE. DO. NOT!!" I practically yelled, and saw her eyes bug out of her head. The bike ride was nearly all but forgotten as I scooped that girl out of that car seat, plopped her in my lap on the grass outside of the garage, and emphasized to her that girls can do ANYTHING boys can do, citing examples such as Sally Ride and Geraldine Ferraro. (This stuff was coming from the girl who would regularly wear a T-shirt that said, "YEAH! I run like a girl... I throw like a girl... I jump like a girl... 'cause girls kick butt!") And to prove it to her, I then went to work on that bike tire like my life depended on it. And you know what? I went to work later that day after a nice bike ride to and from the neighborhood park hoping that that little girl would never again think she couldn't do something just because she was a girl, and not a guy.

That's why it just pisses me the hell off when a guy thinks he can do something better than a girl just because he's a guy.

We got some new tabletops at my coffee shop today, and I nominated myself to go around, unscrew the old table tops from the bases, and screw on the new ones. When I got to the second table, a guy yelled at me from the corner, "Want some help with that?" That was fine because this is commonly called, "being a gentleman." I politely declined, said "thanks anyway" and went to work unscrewing the old tabletop.

After watching me a bit, he then calls out, "Be careful - don't strip the screws." Now I'm irritated. I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to strip the screws, and I tell him so, though still politely. Even though I know I'll eventually be able to unscrew the screws, it was still a bit of a struggle for me to wrench that first one out of the wood. But I did it just fine. That didn't seem to deter the guy, who, when he saw me struggle with the second one, stood up, walked over to me, and actually placed his hand over mine, locked eyes with me, and very gently said, "Here. Let me do it."

OH NO HE DIDN'T. But yes. Yes, he did. So I sat back and watched this guy unscrew the screws mostly because I'm too stunned to do anything else and must remain professional because I am at my workplace. "Is he trying to impress me?" I think. Talk about your all-time greatest backfires! Dude - you're not going to impress a girl by treating her like a weak idiot.

Nevertheless, he got the screws out just like I would have, and I thought that was going to be the end of it. But no, he wanted to help finish the job, as he was still standing by the table base when I rolled out the new tabletop with a cup full of newer, albeit mismatched screws that I scrounged up.

Without asking, he started rifling through the screws in the cup and chose a few pretty long ones. I told him that I was thinking of using the shorter, fatter screws for a tighter fit, but he said he thought the longer ones would work better. So again, without asking and without my permission, he just went ahead and started screwing in the new screws into the new tabletop. After he was done, he looked at me with a satisfied smile and said, "There. All done."

Then he flipped the table over. And we both looked down to see the tips of four screws poking right through the top of the store's brand-new tabletop.

"Oh," was all he managed to utter as I tried my hardest not to laugh right in his face. "Well maybe we should try the smaller screws."

"Ya think?" I thought while giggling to myself.

So to his credit, or maybe to not look like a complete jackass, he flipped the table over and put in the short, fat screws I suggested in the first place.

But then, to make matters worse, he turned the table right-side up, turned the screwdriver upside-down, and pounded on the table in an attempt to hammer down the raised wood splinters on the tabletop caused by the screws going right through the surface. All he succeeded in doing was make dozens of indents in the tabletop over and over.

So it was no surprise to me that after he was finished "helping" me, he quickly gathered all his stuff and high-tailed it out of there. I, however, spent a good amount of time re-telling the story, showing the proof to my colleagues, and laughing.

What more can I say, Mackenzie? When it comes to virtually anything, girls are as good as (and are sometimes better than) boys. Never forget that.

What more could a dog want?

2009-05-25T17:14:00.000-07:00

Even though I definitely feel like New York is now my home, that still doesn't negate the fact that the Toledo area will always be my home.

And even though Brent and I stopped by for just a short visit this past weekend, I have to look forward to the fact that in two months, we'll be back for what will be a much-needed and well-deserved vacation.

We went to Ohio for the quick trip to drop off our baby - our pup. Even though I actually shed a tear or two at the airport thinking about how much I was going to miss Chloe Belle, because of what will undoubtedly be a crazy schedule for the next few weeks with my going to school and Brent continuing to work, we didn't think we'd have enough time to spend with her. We wanted her to be around people (my dad's auto plant closed for a few weeks and my mom often works from home) and not stuck in an apartment for hours all day.

So she's going to spend days running after squirrels in my parents' backyard, having an opportunity to be petted by more people, and eating all the bones she can handle after my parents' cookouts. Sounds like a great life for a dog!

One of my scariest scenarios ever does have a happy ending, thank God

2009-05-21T19:15:00.000-07:00

Before these last two weeks, I had a bit of working knowledge about the seven stages of grief - mainly from an episode of The Simpsons when Homer ate what he thought was the poison portion of a blow fish and went through all seven stages in a hilarious seven seconds - but never had them directly apply to me. That changed on May 7, when I found a lump in my breast . Though my story concludes with a happy ending, this account in no way is meant to diminish the horrible news that could have been that other people have to deal with every day.

I wish I would have been able to blog about this issue as it was going on, but I honestly didn't want anyone - including myself - to deal with it or worry unnecessarily. So I'm posting it now in retrospect in this admittedly too-long post.

Thinking back these past two weeks, of course my first reaction was shock and denial (phase 1). I told myself that this wasn't a lump - it was something that felt lumpy, but was totally normal because there obviously was something just like it on my other breast in the exact same place, right? Nope.

But after confirming to myself that this was so not normal -with help from my mom - the only pain and guilt (phase 2) I felt was pain - physical pain because I was messing with it by constantly checking to see if maybe I had been mistaken and maybe it was just some weird thing that went away on its own. Nope.

And though I think I skipped anger and bargaining (phase 3) I most definitely spent a chunk of time on phase 4: depression, reflection, and loneliness.

And I can pinpoint the exact moment phase 4 punched me in the face.

It was during my appointment at West Side Radiology - an appointment I made after my OB-GYN confirmed just a few days prior that I did have a lump and should get it checked out. When I met with my OB-GYN, she said the doctor at my follow-up appointment would use ultrasound equipment to take a breast ultrasound to see if the lump was something harmless, like an enlarged node or something that could potentially be more serious, like a tumor.

After what seemed like eons later (which in reality was two days) I finally went to my follow-up appointment to hopefully get good news. It wasn't. And I knew that it wasn't OK when the nurse who did the ultrasound came back with the doctor, who did the ultrasound again, and told me that yes, it was a mass.

"What does that mean? It's a tumor?" I remember asking in a voice that seemed to be too small to be my own because while I was lying on the table with one arm over my head, I was also tugging at my hair in an attempt to distract myself from the tears that threatened to spill out in front of the doctor and nurse.

"Yes. It's a tumor," he said, then proceeded to tell me that it's most likely benign, and not the scary malignant, because of my age, and gave me all kinds of hopeful scenarios that would most likely play out after he did a biopsy of the lump.

Though that was supposed to be good news, all I focused on as a trudged home looking at my tennis shoes the entire way were the words "most likely." Though a few tears slipped out here and there, I waited until I got home until I let out a full-on hyperventilating cry that both surprised and frightened me. Those who know me well know that when given a potential situation, I always prepare for the worst. In this case, I was preparing myself for the highly unlikely scenario that the doctor would tell me I had X number of months to live.

Because of the time frame, I had very little time for the upward turn (phase 5) and reconstruction and working through (phase 6) because honestly during the past two weeks, I tried my hardest to ignore it. To forget about it. I didn't want to worry about it unless there was something to worry about. Brent made that quite hard, as he wanted me to research the possibilities and educate myself so I could ask the doctor educated questions, which I agreed was a good idea, but I just didn't want to deal with it.

But I did it anyway, and actually did feel a little better because most signs pointed to something that wasn't breast cancer. But I couldn't be sure until the doctor performed a biopsy. The afternoon of the minor surgery, Brent of course came with me to my appointment, and his presence meant everything. But it wasn't until he was told he couldn't come with me to the procedure that I got scared. But my nurse was amazing, made sure I understood everything that was going to happen, and reassured me over and over before it began.

It didn't really hurt, as I was lying on my left side and the area was numbed so the doctor could put in a big needle to thread a smaller needle through. I was OK right up to the point where he made the incision - which I couldn't feel. What I did feel, though, was the blood trickle down my back. That's when I started to cry, and was glad that I was facing a wall away from the doctor. What didn't help when he let out a very guttural, "Hmmmm."

Hmmmmm!?!?!

"Is everything OK?" I managed to ask him.

"Yes, it's just that the tumor is in a very difficult place behind a lot of tissue," he replied.

Great.

Nonetheless, he got two samples, and because it then began to really hurt, he stopped and said he got what he needed. After gingerly getting dressed, Brent walked me home with my care papers and I fully expected him to get me set at home and go back to work. But he pleasantly surprised me with news that he wasn't going to go back to work and was instead going to spend the rest of the day changing my ice packs, making me meals, helping me take my bath, and all-around being the best husband ever.

Even though I fully expected the results not to be available until after the long Memorial Day weekend (they were supposed to take 3 to 10 business days to come back) I called two days later, on a Thursday, in the hope that I would be able to have them on Friday. When I called the doctor's office, I got a receptionist, and explained what I was looking for. After a brief pause, she came back with, "Your results are on the doctor's desk."

"Sooooooo, can I have them then?" I asked.

"The doctor will call you. She always calls patients with test results," the receptionist said.

"I'm sure she does, but since I'm really nervous at this point and since I'll be going out of town tomorrow, can I have them now?" I asked.

"Are you going to be reachable tomorrow?" she asked. "Because if not, I'll have to let the doctor know that."

"OR YOU COULD WALK NEXT DOOR AND TELL ME WHAT MY TEST RESULTS ARE SINCE THEY'RE SITTING RIGHT THERE!!!!!" I screamed. In my mind.

What I really explained to her was that I was going to be in and out of reachability tomorrow, so it would be best for the doctor to call me back that day.

Less than 30 minutes later, the doctor called and said those magical words.

"It's benign."

That's when I let myself drape over the bed in relief to stare at the reproduced painting of Monet's waterlilies that hangs over my bed, which I put there because they make me happy. I then listened to her tell me that the tumor is not cancer, but is actually a fibroadenoma, which is a hard mass of benign tissue that forms for any number of reasons. It won't go away on its own, but has to be closely monitored in case it changes size or causes pain. But it's essentially harmless.

After a few phone calls to reassure my husband, parents, and in-laws, I just stayed on the bed for awhile, thinking of the bullet I dodged. I then prayed to thank God that I never had to go through acceptance and hope (phase 7), and wondered how other people do it. They are people much stronger than me.