No More Basketball: A desperate wife's plea

The sport of basketball is hereby fired from my future television viewing lineup.  If I have to watch one more game in my lifetime (besides my beloved Boilermakers) I just might throw myself head first through a plate glass window...the kind that shatters really easy, like in the movies.  And not too high up, I wouldn't want to break anything.

It wasn't basketball's fault.  It just happened to be in the middle of this sport's tournament that I reached my ESPN threshold for my lifetime. 

I'm gonna be honest here, I flipped out.  I hissy-fit-throw-remote-stomp-feet flipped out.  Unnecessary, yes.  Unwarranted, hecks no.

The meltdown actually started months ago:

"Hey, why don't we walk the beach?  This is our honeymoon, after all."

"Can't, it's a big day for football."

And you may remember this one:

"...but Carol's Halloween party is Saturday."

"When you're a Yankee fan you make sacrifices."

And now it has been non-stop basketball.  If the games aren't on there is always something about the games.  Thus, my self-imposed banishment to the bedroom.

Were I an iCarly character, I would have developed hilarious nervous twitches at this point.  But instead I just bottled all that bitterness and resentment for an eventual, equally hilarious, explosion. 

An explosion that included a very impressive remote control slam that landed safely in the mountain of pillows on our bed all while keeping my eyes locked on Corey's.  It helps with the dramatics of the situation to maintain eye contact...at least that's how they do it in the soaps.

I do believe I made my point clear:  Stacie + one more second of basketball = horrible consequences.  Corey will be viewing the remainder of the NCAA tournament elsewhere. 

To express my gratitude for his consideration of my newly developed sports sensitivities, I will dedicate my time to baking something delicious...while watching Bring It On.

Stand by for "No More Baseball," to be followed by "No More Horseracing," and "No More Football."

A new hobby

Apparently, when you become an adult your body does not bend the way it did when you were 6.

Unless you are an adult who bends for a living.  This actually encompasses several professions, so now is probably the time for me to get to my point.

I started, reluctantly at first, going to a gymnastics class at the YMCA.  My sister Kimberlie has been in the class for awhile now and raves about it.  She forced me to go one day after I completely exhausted my excuse bank.

And I liked it.

I liked it so much I decided to go back 8 months later.

Then I went again two weeks after that.

I haven't quite mastered the double twisty-loopdy doo, my handstand is more like a handtoppleover, my hip cracks every time I do a cartwheel and when I do a backwards roll I look like a frog in heat.  But I can do a mean somersault.  And I can fall onto foam pads like the rest of 'em.

But that's not the only reason I go.  The thought that, in theory, I could eventually flip myself forwards or backwards without help is super exciting.  I've missed my chance to be on the cheerleading squad, fawr-shawwwr, but there are endless opportunities to wow crowds with a triple axle.  Um....?

And as soon as I stop falling on my head, grow some muscle, and have that radical inner ear equilibrium balancing surgery that probably is not even real yet, I just might walk out of that class with some skeeelz.  (skeels=skills, for my older readers.  I said older, not old....moms.  And I said moms because mom and mom-in-law would have taken too much effort.  Why must I constantly explain myself?  That was rhetorical.)

My idea

I ran a 5k.  All 5k of it.  So did my dad, and so did my sister.

It is important to note here that we are not runners.  We're just a couple-a lunatics who said, "hey, let's do more running than we've done ever/in a long, long time next month in the freezing cold."

Actually that was what one lunatic said (me).  Then the other two lunatics said, "Yeah!  Free t-shirts!!"

Wait, that was me too.  But they were just as enthusiastic about the idea.*

Notice I said idea.  Because when the day finally came I swear I've never seen my dad so grumpy.   And Katie was so nervous she practically peed her pants.  Three times.

But there was no turning back.  We were assigned numbers.  And t-shirts.  If we wimped out they would write our names in a book of pansies...in ink.  That is a permanent designation, my friends.

Are you laughing yet?

Is it because you know that 5k is really just 3.2 miles?  And that 3.2 miles really isn't that far?

I would have laughed at this too if my heart wasn't beating in my throat.

So off we went, reluctantly, to the race site.  We watched how others pinned their numbers to their Under Armour running jackets, then pinned ours to our Hanes sweatshirts.

We watched them attach the time tracking chip to their performance enhancing Nikes while we put ours on our Reebok cross trainers.

They warmed up and stretched.  We wondered when we could have a slice of pizza.

"That lady over there is going to beat us."

"Why?"

"She's wearing Spandex."

"But she's 70 years old..."


"I think we can beat that couple over there."

"The guy with his gut pokin' out from under his sweatshirt?  Definitely."

And so the conversations went until we lined up at the starting line.

"5 minute mile-ers up front!"

"Maybe we should go to the very back."

And then the race began.

It.  Was.  Awesome.

Crowds of people lined the streets cheering, blowing whistles and ringing cow bells. 

We ran up hills, we ran down hills, we even ran by people in their spandex pants and expensive runner's gear.

I won't say we made magic on that night, but we did beat our goal (45 minutes) by 7 minutes.  My dad made even better time.

How's that?

He ditched us.

"I got caught up in the crowd!" he says.

"I looked for you, but there were too many people!" he claims.

Right, daddy.  Right.


*It was recently brought to my attention that my dad, in fact, was not looking forward to this race at any time.  I was also informed of his inability to say "no."  Something I wish I had known earlier...

Giants vs. Dallas vs. Stacie

This is Corey and me.  Hour 5 of a full day of Giants festivities.  And when I say a full day, I mean 14 hours.  That does include driving time because football was discussed the entire time.

What I learned from the day's events:

• 35 degrees, not including wind chill factor, is cold.
• Layers (tank top, turtle neck, fleece, fleece, jacket, hat mittens, spandex) eventually fail.
• Sausage and peppers, beef tips, and potato salad: tailgate food.
• Delicious homemade chocolate chip cookies: not tailgate food (still don't understand this).
• Can't throw a football with knitted mittens.
• Can't catch a football with knitted mittens.
• What goes in must come out...and you must stand in a 30 minute line to let it out.
• The Giants are terrible.

I'm still trying to decide my favorite part of the day:

• Vendor chased through parking lot by security.
• Corey taunting 9 year old Cowboy fan...and her dad.
• Discovering a man in the women's bathroom.

Hmmm....

Overall, it was an excellent morning/afternoon/evening/night, and I discovered a newly formed appreciation for 70 degrees.

Yankees: Champions of the World.

....well they will be.  Maybe.

But I'm not here to argue the awesomeness that is the Derek Jeter machine.  I just thought I'd share a few highlights:

• Brand-spankin'-new stadium, awesome.

There is actually a screen that shows every single word that is said/sung in that stadium.  However, when Mr. Posada comes on the screen for a little announcement in his native tongue what you see is "(Speaking Spanish)".  I wonder, why put the video message on the screen and not the words?  Is it impossible for there to be deaf Latinos?  Shame, shame.

• 5 hour and 10 minute, 13 inning game in rain, sleet, and cold.  Opposite of awesome, but still worth mentioning.
• Home run in the 11th inning to tie the game by the steroid-free Alex Rodriquez, or as we Yankee fans like to call him, A-Rod.  See what we did there?

• Numerous random-stranger high fives with this super fan:

• 5 foul balls.  Almost had 'em.
• A Kate Hudson sighting. 

She left early.  How do I know?  Corey kept watch.  Close watch.

Two Yankee playoff tickets:  $250

One cheesesteak and Godiva hot chocolate: $35

Waking up on the ride home to Corey singing and dancing to keep himself awake: priceless

All sports, all the time.

This is my life now.

"It was a pop fly, second out."

"Yeah, Matt Tebow has a concussion, but I hear he'll be able to play in next week's game."

"Now why would Girardi take Rivera out NOW??"

"What's the line for the Purdue, Notre Dame game?"

That's me talking.

Don't worry if you have no idea what any of that means.  You are still in GirlLand, like I used to be.

Now I can spot Johnny Damon's at bat dance in an instant and tell you the over for a Miami game is probably a safe bet.

Conversations on Jessica Simpson's love life are a thing of the past.  Instead, I hear all about the filly running in the third race at Belmont on Saturday.  Of course, this is a one-sided conversation as I 1) tune out all things horse racing after Labor Day and 2) hate Belmont.

I will miss talking about books, nail polish and recipes.  I now ask random strangers what they thought of last night's game fully prepared to break down and discuss each moment, play by play.

But I exaggerate.  I do manage to shanghai the remote every now and then to enjoy a sitcom or two.

The deep down transformation, however, from pink dresses with bows to skipping shopping trips for Giants games is well underway.

This is an important message for Corey:

Do you really want to be married to a Scotty O'Dwyer with mascara?  Wake up to a Tom O'Donnell with long hair? 

No?  Maybe we should spend less time on sports and more time on whether or not I should get highlights.