Something to remember him by...

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


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


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


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


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

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


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



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



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



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



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



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



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



"What are you talking about?" I asked.



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

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



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

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

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

"How much?" he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

"Erika..." he said, sighing.

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

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

Just one more drink isn't going to hurt us

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

We will never forget

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

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

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

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

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

With all these amazing commemorations, we can never forget.

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

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

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

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

They're my Michigan shirts.

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

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

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

"Michigan SUCKS!"

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


"Michigan SUCKS!"

"Michigan? Really? Yuck."

"Ohio State, baby!"


"MICHIGAN SUCKS!!!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laughing so hard no sound comes out

My stomach hurts... I mean really hurts.

But it's not a miserable pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love you girl!

Definitely not the nicest person

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

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

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


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

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

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


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


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


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

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