Sunday, March 18, 2012

Hoops ...

1. I wake up to text messages from people who have already procured and spread glitter in Ireland's national color. Hinz has sent me photographs of her father in law, who looks more like a leprechaun than anything ever seen on the front of a cereal box. It's the suspenders. No, it's the plastic hat. Fannie, meanwhile, is mugging mid-jig with Dong, a freckle-face we've known since we were six. I'm more of a pre-St. Patrick's Day party girl. At last count, I've consumed four Shamrock Shakes this season.

2. Chuck is sitting on the couch with a little smirk, like there isn't a face in the world big enough to hide his pleasure at this joke. What's going on? I ask and he tells me he has just Tweeted this:

3. Slap down four slices of fake bacon into a frying pan and let them begin their slow sizzle into greatness. Add two beaten eggs to the fray. Toast your English muffin. Pour some orange juice. Enjoy brunch with the second half of the episode of "Khloe and Lamar" that you turned off last night when it became Khloe's PSA about relations between the Armenians and the Turks and how it all related to the NBA lockout.

In other news, and I say this in all sincerity, is there a better couple in all of TV land than Khloe and Lamar?

4. Fate finds me in the gymnasium at the YMCA before I set foot in the cardio center. There is an unattended basketball just sitting there all orange and striped and rubber-smelling and I wonder how long it has been since I've shot a basket. So I pick it up, give it a few dribbles, miss a couple of easy peasy bank shots and a half dozen layups before heaving the ball nowhere near the hoop from the free throw line. I dribble the length of the half-court court, go in for another layup, miss. It takes about 10 minutes for me to score in a scenario where there is nothing between me and the basket.

But my form feels great. It's weird how something that was once a regular part of your life can come back instinctively. The way that last dribble bounces up higher to set you up better for a shot over your opponent; the way you fall into a defensive stance, ready to block someone out for the rebound; how to time your jump to pluck the ball out of the air when it bounces off the backboard. It's all still in there, just like song lyrics, a locker combination, the choreography performed while standing on the runway just before a triple jump.

I'm guessing if anyone saw me, they would see a woman wildly tossing bricks at the hoop. But in my head I looked like Lindsay Whalen and I wondered "Why did I ever quit playing basketball? Obviously I was quite good. Is it too late?"

5. I'm not convinced that I can become enough of a fan of "The Vampire Diaries" to actually use the 42-minute episodes as a lure to jump onto an elliptical machine. This show is practically embarrassing. Although at least twice I've been in danger of yelping with surprise when a civilian is mangled by a vampire.

6. Reading, reading, reading. Bath. Reading.

7. Who do you have to know to find an gyro in this city? DiGiorgos stuffed-crust pizza it is. A rough substitute.

8. We go to see "We Need to Talk about Kevin" and there is just one other person in the theater. When we leave, the city is a war zone of revelers. I've not seen anything like it. Part of me wants to do laps up and down Superior St. to take it all in. The other part of me wants to get to the safety of our home quickly before something drunk crashes into us.


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