I watch reality t.v. Not as much as I used to, and I never got into the whole "Survivor" thing and I'm not a fan of "American Idol", but I watch some "reality" t.v. from time to time. The Amazing Race, Bachelor and Bachelorette, Fear Factor, the Voice, Extreme Home Makeover and Biggest Loser have all sucked me in from time to time. I used to watch some of them every time they were on, and some, just once in awhile. In watching all of these shows over the past few years, something always amazes me - the surprise on the contestants/participants faces when they are told to do something or a "surprise" twist is revealed. Can you picture me, yelling at the television: "Are you kidding me?!?!" No, I'm not yelling about the "twist," I'm yelling at the contestants.
How can anyone with even a remote touch on reality these days not know how these shows work? Even the news covers these shows, right there along with the Internet and Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood and TMZ. Newspapers and magazines cover these shows and the contestants. So you can imagine why it is so hard for me to understand how someone can claim to not know what is coming. Fear Factor always had bugs or something slimy to lay in and Amazing Race always has something strange to eat. It is just how these shows work.
The reason for my latest bout of incredulity comes from Tuesday's offering of The Biggest Loser. Apparently the remaining 5 contestants got wind of the upcoming "surprise twist," that the 14 eliminated contestants would be given the opportunity to earn a spot in the final, with just a few weeks left in the show. For the first 10 minutes of the episode, we were treated to a show about the remaining players' internal struggle with "what they believe is right" and their "principles" and got to watch the camera crews and producers scramble because they did not have anyone working out in the gym to film. Bob, one of the trainers, said it best when he was told what was going on. He said, "Have they never watched this show? This happens every year!" He's right! Just last season (or was it the season before?) the eliminated contestants were given the chance to earn a spot in the finals - all they had to do was run, and win, a marathon (26.2 miles.) None of the remaining players complained. No one staged a coup or threatened to leave. They ran the marathon. In Tuesday nights episode, Alison didn't even have the chance to reveal the twist - the contestants got wind of it early and staged a coup. Really?
2 of the contestants ended up going home. Maybe they were just done. Maybe they thought that they had achieved all that they could at the Ranch. But if they truly admitted their reasons for leaving, my guess is that it would be all about the money. They weren't upset about the twist of bringing back eliminated players. They were upset that there was possibly another challenge to their quest for the "dough," an unknown element, something they had not counted on. If they were there to lose weight, if they were truly concerned about their health and livelihood and showing their children how to live healthy (like they all claim,) then they would have stayed. To leave, especially so close to reaching their weight loss and other health goals, is to admit that they were only in it for the money, and when their access to that money was threatened, they ran.
It will be interesting to see if they are invited to the final, or if they are eligible to compete for the "at home" prize. We will have to wait a few more weeks to see how that unfolds. But the attorney in me cannot help but wonder whether or not they will have to face any repercussions from their choice to leave. My guess is that they signed some kind of "iron clad" contract when they signed on, that they would subject themselves to whatever the producers threw at them. In fact, Tuesdays' episode showed them meeting with the show's attorney and the attorney pointed out the part in the contract where it says that eliminated players would be brought back at some point. Those choosing to leave said that while they acknowledge signing the contract, they did not feel that it was "fair" to spring the twist on them this late in the game. Um... o.k. Like I said (and Bob said,) all they had to do was watch the last few seasons to see how that played out. But back to the attorney in me. Do you think that they will now have to pay for the fair market value of Bob's time in training them? Do you think that they will have to forfeit any of the little prizes that they might have won over the course of the show? Do you think that they are going to get hit with a whopper of a 1099 at the end of the season? I do.
One thing is certain - at least from my perspective. The actions of those 2 contestants on this season are likely already having an affect - you can bet that the attorneys for the show are currently rewriting the contract before signing up the contestants for next season - and you can bet that it is going to specifically address what will happen when or if a contestant decides to walk out. Oh to be a fly on that wall.
I have to wonder what people who sign up for these reality shows are thinking when they start. Do they think that it will be different for them? Do they think that the things producers did in the past will just be set aside for them? Or do they think they can handle it, and when looking into the belly of the beast they realize that they can't, and that is when they bolt.
The Bachelor and Bachelorette are fun samplings of this same behavior. The boys and girls happily tramp off to the "mansion" in hopes of finding Mr. or Mrs. Right and getting their "happily ever after." Then they act surprised or upset when the door opens and reveals 20 other guys or girls looking for the same dream. So many tears when they should know better. Then again, I guess the tears is what makes it "good" television, right? People are still tuning in, so I guess something is going right.
Perhaps it is time to go back to scripted television. After all, the drama that these 'reality' shows are producing has to be scripted in some way, right? Or are we really supposed to believe that these people really have no clue what they signed up for when they showed up on day one? Perhaps we should be asking ourselves the same question - have we never seen the show? Should we not expect these little things to up the ante and increase the drama? Maybe the producers of Biggest Loser leaked the "twist" information on purpose, to then create the drama of contestants leaving, and maybe the joke is on us, the viewer?
Until next week's episode, I guess we will just have to wait to see.
Disneyland Family 5K -2014
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Those Who Forget Their History are Doomed to Repeat It
I find myself in a strange place, feeling like I've been here before and worried that history might repeat itself. Five years ago, I had a little girl who was about 18 months old. I was going to the office 2 days a week and the other 3 days I was home with her, going through the motions, watching with wonder and she grew and experienced new things. I struggled to find my place in her world and struggled with my own redefined world - not just "me and him" as a couple, but now "me, her and him" as a family.
Passover that year came early and our annual Family Seder fell on Saturday, April 7 (which also happens to be my sister's birthday.) We had a strange discussion that day about happiness and how things were going between us, a discussion that would branch out over the next few days and weeks, expand and then explode, disappear and come back to haunt us. As I recall that day, it launched a summer that I would rather forget, but in many ways, feel that I can't lest I be doomed to relive another summer like it somewhere in the future.
But why, you may ask, is the timing so "strange" again? Because once again, Passover comes early. Once again, our annual family Seder falls on Saturday, April 7. Once again, I have a little girl at home, who is just about 18 months, growing and experiencing with excitement and wonder. Once again, I am working 2 days a week and staying home with her the other 3. Through it all, I can't help but wonder if I should be worried that history will repeat itself, even if I haven't forgotten.
It is true that we are now five years older and hopefully, even if just a bit, wiser. Everyone goes through tough times and those who come through on the other side are usually stronger. I can only hope for that luxury. I know that I haven't forgotten that crazy summer, 5 years ago. Feeling that history has spun back around to line itself up for another shot has me worried - not necessarily because I think he has forgotten that summer of the past, but because he wants to forget it - pretend it never happened.
I suppose that is the way of things. Women tend to hang on to things. We rehash and review, we discuss, we find it difficult to let go. (Just ask any woman who her first crush was - I'd bet you $5 that she remembers ALL of the details and another $5 that if you asked the guy, he would probably not even remember her name.) That is our lot in life, to carry the history, to remember the "good old days" (and the days that weren't so good.) Most of the time, the men get the luxury of forgetting and moving on, leaving us to dwell. Wasn't that an episode of Friends, or another sitcom? The guy forgets something and the woman remembers and stays angry and then brings it up at a later time.
In any event, I find myself on alert, more diligent and paying attention to things, careful not to let life get away from me again, careful not to lose sight of things at home, or get too lost in watching the girls grow. Like I said, we are older and wiser and in different places in our lives. Things that may have seemed trivial just a few short years ago are now much more important. Things that seemed more important then now have taken a back seat, replaced now that we are refocused.
We are moving on, growing older, growing up. We can move past our history in some ways, but although some things move to the back of our memories, they are never fully gone, nor do I think they should be. Because the minute we forget how those stories came to pass, as soon as we lose the details of what was, we fall prey to the danger of repeating it.
Passover that year came early and our annual Family Seder fell on Saturday, April 7 (which also happens to be my sister's birthday.) We had a strange discussion that day about happiness and how things were going between us, a discussion that would branch out over the next few days and weeks, expand and then explode, disappear and come back to haunt us. As I recall that day, it launched a summer that I would rather forget, but in many ways, feel that I can't lest I be doomed to relive another summer like it somewhere in the future.
But why, you may ask, is the timing so "strange" again? Because once again, Passover comes early. Once again, our annual family Seder falls on Saturday, April 7. Once again, I have a little girl at home, who is just about 18 months, growing and experiencing with excitement and wonder. Once again, I am working 2 days a week and staying home with her the other 3. Through it all, I can't help but wonder if I should be worried that history will repeat itself, even if I haven't forgotten.
It is true that we are now five years older and hopefully, even if just a bit, wiser. Everyone goes through tough times and those who come through on the other side are usually stronger. I can only hope for that luxury. I know that I haven't forgotten that crazy summer, 5 years ago. Feeling that history has spun back around to line itself up for another shot has me worried - not necessarily because I think he has forgotten that summer of the past, but because he wants to forget it - pretend it never happened.
I suppose that is the way of things. Women tend to hang on to things. We rehash and review, we discuss, we find it difficult to let go. (Just ask any woman who her first crush was - I'd bet you $5 that she remembers ALL of the details and another $5 that if you asked the guy, he would probably not even remember her name.) That is our lot in life, to carry the history, to remember the "good old days" (and the days that weren't so good.) Most of the time, the men get the luxury of forgetting and moving on, leaving us to dwell. Wasn't that an episode of Friends, or another sitcom? The guy forgets something and the woman remembers and stays angry and then brings it up at a later time.
In any event, I find myself on alert, more diligent and paying attention to things, careful not to let life get away from me again, careful not to lose sight of things at home, or get too lost in watching the girls grow. Like I said, we are older and wiser and in different places in our lives. Things that may have seemed trivial just a few short years ago are now much more important. Things that seemed more important then now have taken a back seat, replaced now that we are refocused.
We are moving on, growing older, growing up. We can move past our history in some ways, but although some things move to the back of our memories, they are never fully gone, nor do I think they should be. Because the minute we forget how those stories came to pass, as soon as we lose the details of what was, we fall prey to the danger of repeating it.
Monday, April 2, 2012
50 Shades of Monotony
I just finished the book "Fifty Shades of Grey." Honestly, I cannot see what the fuss is all about. I first heard stirrings of it amongst the PTA set, but nothing in great enough detail to make me run right out and buy the book, only that it was supposed to be causing a "stir." It wasn't until it graced the cover of the most recent Entertainment Weekly, that I took another look. According to the article, the book is supposed to be the "every woman's" erotica of the day, bringing the steamy side of life to the forefront. One of the main characters (the male) participates in a BDSM lifestyle and hopes to bring the other main character (the female) over to his "dark side." She yearns for love and they struggle to find the medium ground. Their ideologies clash when she realizes that he cannot love her the way that she loves him, and also realizes that she cannot submit herself completely to the type of dominance he requires to feel anything.
After reading the EW article, I was ready to read. Sign me up, let's get it started! The article promised titillation and steamy scenes, erotic prose and heart-thumping heat, and told of controversy over content and even compared it to other books of days gone by, banned by governments and deemed "obscene."
I bought the e-book and dove right in. After about 20% of the book, I found myself wondering when the real "action" would begin. By 50%, I was wondering if I had bought the right book. The writing is pedestrian and rivals that of a school girl secretly scribbling her heart's desires in her diary, under the cover of darkness. I've read cheesy romance novels with more steam than this piece of fiction, and the underlying sexual tension between Ranger and Stephanie Plum that is left to your imagination in the Janet Evanovich books does more for the female libido than the scenes played out between James' characters directly on the pages.
Yes, they say "fuck" a lot in this book. Yes, there are sex scenes in which the characters engage in some bondage and/or dominance role play. But have we devolved so much to our puritanical beginnings that many are labeling this book "trash" or "smut" or obscene? I really do think that I read the wrong novel, if that is the case. And no, I did not see many redeeming qualities to this book, nothing that might save it from the harsh criticism that it may well deserve.
A self-proclaimed "Twihard" (uber-fans of the Twilight books and movies) Ms. James began her tale on a fan site, posting chapters for free that other fans would read. Given that humble beginning, it is easy to see why the writing seems so juvenile. The Twilight series was written for a young adult audience, and although many adults have clamored to read the tales as well, the writing remains geared to young adults. There is nothing deeply earth shattering in James' writings either, no challenges on a grand scale that her characters must experience, it is more simply a tale of two people finding their way in a relationship and not even a truly steamy one at that.
The EW article also mentioned that some of the BDSM movement were upset over the book, claiming that it painted the lifestyle in the wrong light and that the male character's actions went beyond the acceptable "norm" of BDSM and more towards destructive and dangerous behavior. To them, I say not to even waste their time. While I do not profess to know alot about the BDSM lifestyle, I have read enough other novels and literature to know that this book doesn't do the lifestyle any harm. While I haven't read the second and third books in the trilogy (and probably won't,) I don't believe that the male character's issues are related to the lifestyle, but rather seem to be based on his struggle with finding a woman that he truly likes and wants to be with, and having to reconcile his own desires with the fact that she has a life of her own. I didn't see him as overly controlling, and the times it did come across, I didn't read it thinking that it related to his proclivities.
In any event, I would have to chalk this novel up to a wasted effort on my part. I went in expecting some exciting reading, some hot and steamy scenes and walked away feeling let down. Ladies, if you want hot and steamy reading, there are a few romance novelists that I can point you too. They may not use the "f" word nearly as much as James did, but they can certainly weave a tale with much more finesse, and what is left unsaid in the novels is brought to life in your imagination and you aren't left disappointed.
To those out there in my circle who have not read this but were curious, I'd say not to worry about it. But, if you must find out for yourselves, find a way to borrow it from someone, rather than spending your money. This book is $10 down the drain for me.
After reading the EW article, I was ready to read. Sign me up, let's get it started! The article promised titillation and steamy scenes, erotic prose and heart-thumping heat, and told of controversy over content and even compared it to other books of days gone by, banned by governments and deemed "obscene."
I bought the e-book and dove right in. After about 20% of the book, I found myself wondering when the real "action" would begin. By 50%, I was wondering if I had bought the right book. The writing is pedestrian and rivals that of a school girl secretly scribbling her heart's desires in her diary, under the cover of darkness. I've read cheesy romance novels with more steam than this piece of fiction, and the underlying sexual tension between Ranger and Stephanie Plum that is left to your imagination in the Janet Evanovich books does more for the female libido than the scenes played out between James' characters directly on the pages.
Yes, they say "fuck" a lot in this book. Yes, there are sex scenes in which the characters engage in some bondage and/or dominance role play. But have we devolved so much to our puritanical beginnings that many are labeling this book "trash" or "smut" or obscene? I really do think that I read the wrong novel, if that is the case. And no, I did not see many redeeming qualities to this book, nothing that might save it from the harsh criticism that it may well deserve.
A self-proclaimed "Twihard" (uber-fans of the Twilight books and movies) Ms. James began her tale on a fan site, posting chapters for free that other fans would read. Given that humble beginning, it is easy to see why the writing seems so juvenile. The Twilight series was written for a young adult audience, and although many adults have clamored to read the tales as well, the writing remains geared to young adults. There is nothing deeply earth shattering in James' writings either, no challenges on a grand scale that her characters must experience, it is more simply a tale of two people finding their way in a relationship and not even a truly steamy one at that.
The EW article also mentioned that some of the BDSM movement were upset over the book, claiming that it painted the lifestyle in the wrong light and that the male character's actions went beyond the acceptable "norm" of BDSM and more towards destructive and dangerous behavior. To them, I say not to even waste their time. While I do not profess to know alot about the BDSM lifestyle, I have read enough other novels and literature to know that this book doesn't do the lifestyle any harm. While I haven't read the second and third books in the trilogy (and probably won't,) I don't believe that the male character's issues are related to the lifestyle, but rather seem to be based on his struggle with finding a woman that he truly likes and wants to be with, and having to reconcile his own desires with the fact that she has a life of her own. I didn't see him as overly controlling, and the times it did come across, I didn't read it thinking that it related to his proclivities.
In any event, I would have to chalk this novel up to a wasted effort on my part. I went in expecting some exciting reading, some hot and steamy scenes and walked away feeling let down. Ladies, if you want hot and steamy reading, there are a few romance novelists that I can point you too. They may not use the "f" word nearly as much as James did, but they can certainly weave a tale with much more finesse, and what is left unsaid in the novels is brought to life in your imagination and you aren't left disappointed.
To those out there in my circle who have not read this but were curious, I'd say not to worry about it. But, if you must find out for yourselves, find a way to borrow it from someone, rather than spending your money. This book is $10 down the drain for me.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Pass the Ball to the Girl
Rough day at the Cohen house this morning. Without warning or notice, Hurricane Brooklyn tore through on a rampage, upset over not being allowed to take markers to school and then compounding her troubles by trying to sneak them back into her back pack. For some strange reason, I could not get myself moving this morning and after the storm had passed, found myself scrambling around the house to pull things together and get to the office. In the midst of my scrambling, I came across one of those slogan bracelets, sitting on a counter, long forgotten. I don't remember where I got it, but I think I picked it up for B, hoping that she might get a kick out of it. Obviously forgotten and left behind by her (or maybe it was an extra one?) I found it while searching for something else. After reading it, I decided to wear it and decided it was going to be an ass-kicking day. The slogan? By Nike (of course):
"Pass the Ball to the Girl"
I'm not sure why, but it just struck me as appropriate today. Maybe it's because I'm getting back to the gym and starting to work out again; maybe it's because I'm getting back into playing basketball; or maybe it's just because I feel like kicking a little ass. There is a lot on my to-do list today and I'm hoping to breeze through most of it. (Sitting here writing to you isn't helping, though.) I just feel motivated and I'm not sure why. (Not that it is a bad thing.)
But to reflect just a bit on the slogan, it struck me as funny. Even in today's "enlightened" age, we find ourselves struggling with the glass ceiling and the idea held by some, that not everyone is equal, and not everyone can achieve at the same level. Hard to believe that in the 21st Century, there are some men out there that still feel that woman should not make as much money and that the place is in the home, chained to the stove with baby on the hip. It is possible that I've just done too much laundry in the past few days and the smell of detergent and bleach has finally sent me over the edge, but I'm just feeling a little under-appreciated in this male-dominated world.
And no, ladies, I did not and do not wash his clothes. There are some out there who would lambaste me for not being a good little wifey-poo and washing his scivies, but trust me - the man can sort colors from whites and push a few buttons just as easy as I can. Given the fact that I pushed two children out of a very uncomfortable place for him, it's the least he can do. So no, I do not wash my husband's clothes.
Where was I? Oh yes, equality for women. No, I'm not really the bra-burning type (my chest is about average and I prefer the help that Victoria and Frederick can offer me in that regard,) but I do believe that the time is well past due to give us the credit we deserve. That is not to say that some of us out there do not already get that credit, but I just thought we could remind the men in our lives, in case they missed it.
To my ladies out there, just remember that you are strong enough, you are good enough, and yes, you can be stylish and look beautiful while conquering the world! If a man tries to get in your way, give him to options - well, maybe three options - he can help lift you up, he can get out of way, or he can get kicked in the nuts. Sounds good, right?
All violence and kidding aside, I am going to try and get some work done today and maybe even go to the gym. While I'm there, maybe I'll step onto the court and show the boys how its done. We'll see.
"Pass the Ball to the Girl"
I'm not sure why, but it just struck me as appropriate today. Maybe it's because I'm getting back to the gym and starting to work out again; maybe it's because I'm getting back into playing basketball; or maybe it's just because I feel like kicking a little ass. There is a lot on my to-do list today and I'm hoping to breeze through most of it. (Sitting here writing to you isn't helping, though.) I just feel motivated and I'm not sure why. (Not that it is a bad thing.)
But to reflect just a bit on the slogan, it struck me as funny. Even in today's "enlightened" age, we find ourselves struggling with the glass ceiling and the idea held by some, that not everyone is equal, and not everyone can achieve at the same level. Hard to believe that in the 21st Century, there are some men out there that still feel that woman should not make as much money and that the place is in the home, chained to the stove with baby on the hip. It is possible that I've just done too much laundry in the past few days and the smell of detergent and bleach has finally sent me over the edge, but I'm just feeling a little under-appreciated in this male-dominated world.
And no, ladies, I did not and do not wash his clothes. There are some out there who would lambaste me for not being a good little wifey-poo and washing his scivies, but trust me - the man can sort colors from whites and push a few buttons just as easy as I can. Given the fact that I pushed two children out of a very uncomfortable place for him, it's the least he can do. So no, I do not wash my husband's clothes.
Where was I? Oh yes, equality for women. No, I'm not really the bra-burning type (my chest is about average and I prefer the help that Victoria and Frederick can offer me in that regard,) but I do believe that the time is well past due to give us the credit we deserve. That is not to say that some of us out there do not already get that credit, but I just thought we could remind the men in our lives, in case they missed it.
To my ladies out there, just remember that you are strong enough, you are good enough, and yes, you can be stylish and look beautiful while conquering the world! If a man tries to get in your way, give him to options - well, maybe three options - he can help lift you up, he can get out of way, or he can get kicked in the nuts. Sounds good, right?
All violence and kidding aside, I am going to try and get some work done today and maybe even go to the gym. While I'm there, maybe I'll step onto the court and show the boys how its done. We'll see.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Glory Days, yeah they'll pass you by...
“No jewelry. Take off all watches, necklaces, earrings and rings.”
“We do not wear black sneakers. They mess up the floor and it is easier for the refs to see your feet move in black shoes.”
“Why dribble the ball once and pick it up? All you’ve accomplished is ‘one dribble nowhere.’” (This might have been Coach Root in 8th grade)
“Follow your shot.”
“Turn around and box out! Find the person with your butt and back into them!”
“No cross-court passes.”
“When you get the rebound, tuck the ball into your chest and stick your elbows out. Don’t stand still or the ‘little ones’ will come in and try to grab it. Better yet, hold it up above your head, elbows out and pivot, looking for your outlet. The minute you bring it down, that’s when they are going to jump you.”
When I graduated from high school and went off to college, I was sure that these words would be stuck in my head forever. Twenty years later and I guess I was right. I have not picked up a basketball in over two years and yet for some reason I signed up for a local tournament.
The last basketball I played was the “street” variety pick-up games at my local L.A. Fitness. You know, the kind of game where the guys begrudgingly ask the woman shooting on the side to play because they need a 5th; the game where they don’t actually pass to the woman until she’s the only option left and even then only half-heartedly; the game where the guys on the other team start rooting for the woman to get the ball, because even they can see that she’s wide open – and they’ve already gotten a taste of her elbows on a few rebounds and were surprised to get boxed out. Yes, those kind of games. I would wander onto the basketball court after running on the treadmill and lifting weights to get a few sprints in. There is something about the smell of hardwood, polished and waiting, and the sound of a basketball bouncing on the floor and clanking off the rim. Sometimes I would just stand at the line and shoot foul shots, if there was no game going on. Just the simple act of setting my right toe, dribbling three times, spinning the ball in my hands and letting it fly . . . swish. Took me back to the good ol’ days.
I have not even really worked out in a few months. The last time I remember going to the gym was when Kensi was about a year old and I left her in the Kids Club. She screamed so much I haven’t been back. So what was I doing this past Sunday, standing in the Student Activities Gym at UCLA, with a lot of younger, more athletic ladies shooting around? Was I really thinking that I could pick up where I left off so many years ago and play? Just like riding a bike, right? Pick up and get right back to it, right? Maybe not so much.
The ladies that I was teamed up with were a lively bunch. Six of them play regularly on a league team in Burbank. Although Sunday’s tournament was put on by the Lady Lawyers League, the players were from all walks of LA life – a police dispatcher, someone in the music industry, someone from Child Services, a lawyer, a nanny, the list goes on. The six teammates welcomed the three of us that latched on and somehow I ended up on the court for the tip-off. I stepped back and let the league player take the jump ball, worried that I’d end up on my ass if I tried a jump ball at this point. (She laughed when I told her that.)
The first few minutes went o.k. and then the wheels fell off. You know that pain you get in the center of your chest, when you push yourself beyond your physical limits? I got that after a minute and a half. I fought it and soon got past it enough to at least run down the court. I could feel my face turning red, but finally got my breathing under control. Then I took a shot. And missed. Airball. My arms felt like lead and I laughed as I struggled to even get the ball over my head. With just 6 minutes gone (we played 14 minute halves,) I gladly subbed myself out and found a seat on the bench. It went without saying that those “glory days” were long gone.
The first game ended in a heartbreaking 1 point loss. The second game ended with a three point loss and more than a few gripes about the officiating. Even allowing for the “volunteer” referee’s youth and inexperience, there were just some things that he should have not missed. When the opposing player has to leave footprints up my back to get the rebound over my head, I think it is time to blow the whistle. Oh yeah, she was about 5'3'.
The important thing is that I had fun, I think. I probably would have done a little better had there been an oxygen tank on standby at center court, but I held my own. I even managed to rack up some decent statistics (although there were no official scorekeepers,) I scored a few points here and there, made some foul shots (and fouls) and blocked a shot.
The funny thing for me was how quickly it all came back. Not the act of dribbling the ball or shooting or even moving to the open spot, although those things were certainly there as well, but the little things that I had forgotten had been drilled into my head all those years ago, things that I found myself doing automatically, and then wondering if people thought I was strange. For example, on defense I found myself calling out screens and yelling “shot!” when someone threw up a shot and putting my hands up (although they did start to weigh more as the day went on.) I moved my feet and turned to follow the ball, forming a triangle between my man and the ball, with the basket behind me. On a shot, I would turn and find my man and try to box out. On offense I would call for the ball and put my hands where I wanted to get the ball. I tried to dribble with my head up and see the court and my teammates and I tried to follow my shots. On offensive rebounds, I came down with the ball and then fought my way right back up without dribbling first. At least, that’s how I saw it all in my head.
I also heard Coach Holmes in the things I did. At one point a teammate grabbed a pass on the fly and shot the ball while still in mid-air. The first thought that popped into my head was that “Coach Holmes would have benched us for that!” I caught myself looking for jewelry before we started and then in defiance, told myself that I was an adult and this wasn’t the high school gym anymore and left my earrings in. In high school, we would have run sprints for that.
Physically, the day got the best of me. My back and shoulders hurt in ways they haven’t in years. The old knee and ankle injuries have flared up and I find myself hobbling a bit from place to place, getting stiff when I sit too long. Emotionally it was a step back in time, something I would never have realized that I needed without actually doing it. It was also a look into the future, watching my six year old pick up a ball and shoot around with her Daddy, and watching my baby, just a year and a half, trying to dribble the ball before it rolled away.
Yes, I walked away from that afternoon with a lot of aches and pains. But I also walked away with some new friends and my little girl begging me to put up a hoop at home and teach her how to play and I remembered why I love the game. I would call that a pretty successful outing. Now can someone please get me some ice?! Where's the trainer? I need my ankle taped!
“We do not wear black sneakers. They mess up the floor and it is easier for the refs to see your feet move in black shoes.”
“Why dribble the ball once and pick it up? All you’ve accomplished is ‘one dribble nowhere.’” (This might have been Coach Root in 8th grade)
“Follow your shot.”
“Turn around and box out! Find the person with your butt and back into them!”
“No cross-court passes.”
“When you get the rebound, tuck the ball into your chest and stick your elbows out. Don’t stand still or the ‘little ones’ will come in and try to grab it. Better yet, hold it up above your head, elbows out and pivot, looking for your outlet. The minute you bring it down, that’s when they are going to jump you.”
When I graduated from high school and went off to college, I was sure that these words would be stuck in my head forever. Twenty years later and I guess I was right. I have not picked up a basketball in over two years and yet for some reason I signed up for a local tournament.
The last basketball I played was the “street” variety pick-up games at my local L.A. Fitness. You know, the kind of game where the guys begrudgingly ask the woman shooting on the side to play because they need a 5th; the game where they don’t actually pass to the woman until she’s the only option left and even then only half-heartedly; the game where the guys on the other team start rooting for the woman to get the ball, because even they can see that she’s wide open – and they’ve already gotten a taste of her elbows on a few rebounds and were surprised to get boxed out. Yes, those kind of games. I would wander onto the basketball court after running on the treadmill and lifting weights to get a few sprints in. There is something about the smell of hardwood, polished and waiting, and the sound of a basketball bouncing on the floor and clanking off the rim. Sometimes I would just stand at the line and shoot foul shots, if there was no game going on. Just the simple act of setting my right toe, dribbling three times, spinning the ball in my hands and letting it fly . . . swish. Took me back to the good ol’ days.
I have not even really worked out in a few months. The last time I remember going to the gym was when Kensi was about a year old and I left her in the Kids Club. She screamed so much I haven’t been back. So what was I doing this past Sunday, standing in the Student Activities Gym at UCLA, with a lot of younger, more athletic ladies shooting around? Was I really thinking that I could pick up where I left off so many years ago and play? Just like riding a bike, right? Pick up and get right back to it, right? Maybe not so much.
The ladies that I was teamed up with were a lively bunch. Six of them play regularly on a league team in Burbank. Although Sunday’s tournament was put on by the Lady Lawyers League, the players were from all walks of LA life – a police dispatcher, someone in the music industry, someone from Child Services, a lawyer, a nanny, the list goes on. The six teammates welcomed the three of us that latched on and somehow I ended up on the court for the tip-off. I stepped back and let the league player take the jump ball, worried that I’d end up on my ass if I tried a jump ball at this point. (She laughed when I told her that.)
The first few minutes went o.k. and then the wheels fell off. You know that pain you get in the center of your chest, when you push yourself beyond your physical limits? I got that after a minute and a half. I fought it and soon got past it enough to at least run down the court. I could feel my face turning red, but finally got my breathing under control. Then I took a shot. And missed. Airball. My arms felt like lead and I laughed as I struggled to even get the ball over my head. With just 6 minutes gone (we played 14 minute halves,) I gladly subbed myself out and found a seat on the bench. It went without saying that those “glory days” were long gone.
The first game ended in a heartbreaking 1 point loss. The second game ended with a three point loss and more than a few gripes about the officiating. Even allowing for the “volunteer” referee’s youth and inexperience, there were just some things that he should have not missed. When the opposing player has to leave footprints up my back to get the rebound over my head, I think it is time to blow the whistle. Oh yeah, she was about 5'3'.
The important thing is that I had fun, I think. I probably would have done a little better had there been an oxygen tank on standby at center court, but I held my own. I even managed to rack up some decent statistics (although there were no official scorekeepers,) I scored a few points here and there, made some foul shots (and fouls) and blocked a shot.
The funny thing for me was how quickly it all came back. Not the act of dribbling the ball or shooting or even moving to the open spot, although those things were certainly there as well, but the little things that I had forgotten had been drilled into my head all those years ago, things that I found myself doing automatically, and then wondering if people thought I was strange. For example, on defense I found myself calling out screens and yelling “shot!” when someone threw up a shot and putting my hands up (although they did start to weigh more as the day went on.) I moved my feet and turned to follow the ball, forming a triangle between my man and the ball, with the basket behind me. On a shot, I would turn and find my man and try to box out. On offense I would call for the ball and put my hands where I wanted to get the ball. I tried to dribble with my head up and see the court and my teammates and I tried to follow my shots. On offensive rebounds, I came down with the ball and then fought my way right back up without dribbling first. At least, that’s how I saw it all in my head.
I also heard Coach Holmes in the things I did. At one point a teammate grabbed a pass on the fly and shot the ball while still in mid-air. The first thought that popped into my head was that “Coach Holmes would have benched us for that!” I caught myself looking for jewelry before we started and then in defiance, told myself that I was an adult and this wasn’t the high school gym anymore and left my earrings in. In high school, we would have run sprints for that.
Physically, the day got the best of me. My back and shoulders hurt in ways they haven’t in years. The old knee and ankle injuries have flared up and I find myself hobbling a bit from place to place, getting stiff when I sit too long. Emotionally it was a step back in time, something I would never have realized that I needed without actually doing it. It was also a look into the future, watching my six year old pick up a ball and shoot around with her Daddy, and watching my baby, just a year and a half, trying to dribble the ball before it rolled away.
Yes, I walked away from that afternoon with a lot of aches and pains. But I also walked away with some new friends and my little girl begging me to put up a hoop at home and teach her how to play and I remembered why I love the game. I would call that a pretty successful outing. Now can someone please get me some ice?! Where's the trainer? I need my ankle taped!
Look at that form! Of course it went straight in!
Next season's rising star.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Through the eyes of "Mom."
I used to cry during sad movies. I'm big enough to admit it. Movies still make me cry. I think the first movie I cried through was The Velveteen Rabbit and I fully blame Mrs. Church for showing it to our class in First Grade. I sat there at my desk, watching heartbroken, because the boy had to give up his favorite stuffed rabbit after he got sick. I cried, hiding behind a folder so that my classmates wouldn't see and make fun of me, scared to death at the thought of going anywhere without my favorite stuffed animal. I think I was scarred for life.
It was all downhill from there. Brian's Song in 7th grade reading class - hey, even if you're not a sports fan, that movie will make you cry. Titanic years later. Bawling, sobbing, gasping my way through hours of films, shredding tissues and enduring the snickers and laughing of my friends (and sometimes of significant others.) When Rob and I started dating, I got so tired of hearing the words "you're not crying, are you?" that I would pick an opportune moment in the movie to escape to the restroom to cry in quiet and then wipe my nose and compose myself. (But I did not cry at the end of Field of Dreams and to this day, cannot understand why anyone does. Really, guys?)
But for some reason, my emotional attachment to all things schmaltzy in Hollywood rarely extended to real life. I had a hard time crying when it really meant something to me, personally. If you've seen the movie The Holiday with Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet (yes, it is o.k. that you have seen and even liked that movie,) there is a part where Cameron's character can't cry. She even tries to force herself to cry when she breaks up with her boyfriend (Ed Burns.) It doesn't work. Sometimes, I felt that way. A few years ago, I was telling this to a therapist (yes, I saw a shrink - there is only so much shit in a person's life that they can handle alone and without professional assistance!) and she asked questions and commented on various things relating to my inability to cry at "real" life, rather than just at movies. At this point, I don't even remember what she told me or why she thought I reacted to things that way. I do know that I started to let the emotions of "real" life in a bit more and started to cry a little more at things in my own life, that really mattered. I still cry at movies (and the Cotton commercials still do me in. Oh and there's that Pampers commercial at the holidays where they show all of the sleeping babies and the song, Silent Night is playing in the background... where was I?) Ah, yes... I still cry at movies, but now I cry at real life too.
These days, it goes a bit beyond that. I used to read stories in the news about kids and think "oh, that's sad," or "I hope I never have to worry about that." Then I had kids. Now I can't read about something happening to a little baby girl without internalizing it and thinking about what I would do if that happened to my child. Where I could once read stories with merely a passing interest, I now read sad stories and cry, hoping that as a Mom, I will never have to experience such heartache. I started reading an account from Auschwitz about the sorting that took place when the trains were emptied and felt such unimaginable sorrow at the thought of being separated from either of my girls, just because they are still babies.
You may have heard the line "this hurts me more than it will ever hurt you," that parents sometimes say to their kids when they are grounding them or swatting their behinds for misbehaving. I never truly understood it until I had kids. Now I know what it feels like to discipline and have to face Brooklyn, tears streaming down her face and "deprive" her of something she might have had her heart set on, because she was misbehaving. The act of going through with my punishment is so much harder when faced with those tears. Ten minutes later, she will have moved on to something else, and I will still be haunted by those eyes, welling up with tears and the sounds of her crying. Yes, it does hurt me more than it hurts you.
Sometimes, I just sit back and chuckle at myself. (yes, a good, old fashioned "chuckle.") I am sitting right where I never thought I would be - married (10 years in August!) with two kids, living in a sub-divided neighborhood. Hey, this is what they write country songs about (except we don't have a dog or a pick-up truck.) I must say though that I like the view from here, and things are good. I chuckle about how I ended up here, but also about how my emotions finally caught up to me, thanks to my girls. Some people say that they never truly understood "love" until they had a child. I wonder if I truly ever felt real emotion until they came along. Sure, I cried when a guy would break up with me (sometimes) and I think I cried when we lost at District finals my senior year of high school in basketball, but these days, I cry (when appropriate - and sometimes when it is inappropriate) at life. I cry at friends' weddings and when babies are born. I cry when I get frustrated or when Brooklyn is just too much for me, or when Kensi smacks me in the head with a toy. I cry, hoping that my girls will never have their little hearts broken (although I know that they will) and I cry hoping that I can always be there to help them pick up the pieces. These days, I cry the "mommy tears" - of pain and of joy and sometimes, sheer frustration. I just keep more tissues handy. And yes, I still cry at the movies too.
It was all downhill from there. Brian's Song in 7th grade reading class - hey, even if you're not a sports fan, that movie will make you cry. Titanic years later. Bawling, sobbing, gasping my way through hours of films, shredding tissues and enduring the snickers and laughing of my friends (and sometimes of significant others.) When Rob and I started dating, I got so tired of hearing the words "you're not crying, are you?" that I would pick an opportune moment in the movie to escape to the restroom to cry in quiet and then wipe my nose and compose myself. (But I did not cry at the end of Field of Dreams and to this day, cannot understand why anyone does. Really, guys?)
But for some reason, my emotional attachment to all things schmaltzy in Hollywood rarely extended to real life. I had a hard time crying when it really meant something to me, personally. If you've seen the movie The Holiday with Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet (yes, it is o.k. that you have seen and even liked that movie,) there is a part where Cameron's character can't cry. She even tries to force herself to cry when she breaks up with her boyfriend (Ed Burns.) It doesn't work. Sometimes, I felt that way. A few years ago, I was telling this to a therapist (yes, I saw a shrink - there is only so much shit in a person's life that they can handle alone and without professional assistance!) and she asked questions and commented on various things relating to my inability to cry at "real" life, rather than just at movies. At this point, I don't even remember what she told me or why she thought I reacted to things that way. I do know that I started to let the emotions of "real" life in a bit more and started to cry a little more at things in my own life, that really mattered. I still cry at movies (and the Cotton commercials still do me in. Oh and there's that Pampers commercial at the holidays where they show all of the sleeping babies and the song, Silent Night is playing in the background... where was I?) Ah, yes... I still cry at movies, but now I cry at real life too.
These days, it goes a bit beyond that. I used to read stories in the news about kids and think "oh, that's sad," or "I hope I never have to worry about that." Then I had kids. Now I can't read about something happening to a little baby girl without internalizing it and thinking about what I would do if that happened to my child. Where I could once read stories with merely a passing interest, I now read sad stories and cry, hoping that as a Mom, I will never have to experience such heartache. I started reading an account from Auschwitz about the sorting that took place when the trains were emptied and felt such unimaginable sorrow at the thought of being separated from either of my girls, just because they are still babies.
You may have heard the line "this hurts me more than it will ever hurt you," that parents sometimes say to their kids when they are grounding them or swatting their behinds for misbehaving. I never truly understood it until I had kids. Now I know what it feels like to discipline and have to face Brooklyn, tears streaming down her face and "deprive" her of something she might have had her heart set on, because she was misbehaving. The act of going through with my punishment is so much harder when faced with those tears. Ten minutes later, she will have moved on to something else, and I will still be haunted by those eyes, welling up with tears and the sounds of her crying. Yes, it does hurt me more than it hurts you.
Sometimes, I just sit back and chuckle at myself. (yes, a good, old fashioned "chuckle.") I am sitting right where I never thought I would be - married (10 years in August!) with two kids, living in a sub-divided neighborhood. Hey, this is what they write country songs about (except we don't have a dog or a pick-up truck.) I must say though that I like the view from here, and things are good. I chuckle about how I ended up here, but also about how my emotions finally caught up to me, thanks to my girls. Some people say that they never truly understood "love" until they had a child. I wonder if I truly ever felt real emotion until they came along. Sure, I cried when a guy would break up with me (sometimes) and I think I cried when we lost at District finals my senior year of high school in basketball, but these days, I cry (when appropriate - and sometimes when it is inappropriate) at life. I cry at friends' weddings and when babies are born. I cry when I get frustrated or when Brooklyn is just too much for me, or when Kensi smacks me in the head with a toy. I cry, hoping that my girls will never have their little hearts broken (although I know that they will) and I cry hoping that I can always be there to help them pick up the pieces. These days, I cry the "mommy tears" - of pain and of joy and sometimes, sheer frustration. I just keep more tissues handy. And yes, I still cry at the movies too.
Monday, February 6, 2012
40 Before I'm 40
My sister is turning 40 this week (wait, was I not supposed to tell anyone about that?) If my 20th high school reunion wasn't enough to put me into a tailspin, the impending doom of my sister's birthday will surely put me over the edge. Why my sister's birthday, you ask? Because that means that mine is looming on the horizon, just waiting to sneak up and attack me when I least expect it. Ah, the fun of the passing of years, the marking of our lives.
As some of you already know, I try to document my life through scrapbooking. My latest projects, over the past few years, have been something called "Project Life." More on that in other posts, but I mention it because I follow the creator of Project Life on her blog and on Facebook. From time to time, she posts links to other blogs that she finds interesting or inspiring. Last week she posted a link to a woman's blog about 39 things that she is working on before she turns 39. The post in itself was not about anything particularly special, just her progress on one particular thing on her list. But it was enough to get me thinking. What do I want to accomplish? Of course, it begs the question of why 40, why should a random number be a watermark for my life and the accounting of my success in life. Why not 50 or 60? Then again, this list isn't really about success, but instead, it is about things that I have longed to do, but never got around to doing, or things that I have wanted to do but can't seem to get the spark going to finish. 40 is just a random number, but it seems doable, enough to get me going, but not so far away that my motivation would stall out and I would stop working on these things.
Strange as it may sound, though, I'm having trouble putting the list together. That's right, I'm having trouble figuring out what to put on my list of 40. I think I'm up to about 15 or 16. My birthday is in September, so I figure I have about 30 or 31 months to get the things on my list completed. But what's on that list? Of course I have some of the obvious ones, like sky diving (I have a cousin that has done this already!) and to finish writing my novel. I have other slightly more personal ones (like learning how to swim properly and skiing a blue or black diamond run); there are the quirky ones (learning to pilot a plane and running the LA marathon - I am so NOT a marathon runner!) and the next-to-impossible one (I would love to go to the Oscars!) And there is even one that is not really about or for me (I've made it my goal to raise at least $50,000 for breast cancer research.)
I guess if I want to get moving on completing the things on the list, I should get moving on the list itself, right? How about you? What would be on your list? Maybe my number 1 should be to finish the list of 40?
As some of you already know, I try to document my life through scrapbooking. My latest projects, over the past few years, have been something called "Project Life." More on that in other posts, but I mention it because I follow the creator of Project Life on her blog and on Facebook. From time to time, she posts links to other blogs that she finds interesting or inspiring. Last week she posted a link to a woman's blog about 39 things that she is working on before she turns 39. The post in itself was not about anything particularly special, just her progress on one particular thing on her list. But it was enough to get me thinking. What do I want to accomplish? Of course, it begs the question of why 40, why should a random number be a watermark for my life and the accounting of my success in life. Why not 50 or 60? Then again, this list isn't really about success, but instead, it is about things that I have longed to do, but never got around to doing, or things that I have wanted to do but can't seem to get the spark going to finish. 40 is just a random number, but it seems doable, enough to get me going, but not so far away that my motivation would stall out and I would stop working on these things.
Strange as it may sound, though, I'm having trouble putting the list together. That's right, I'm having trouble figuring out what to put on my list of 40. I think I'm up to about 15 or 16. My birthday is in September, so I figure I have about 30 or 31 months to get the things on my list completed. But what's on that list? Of course I have some of the obvious ones, like sky diving (I have a cousin that has done this already!) and to finish writing my novel. I have other slightly more personal ones (like learning how to swim properly and skiing a blue or black diamond run); there are the quirky ones (learning to pilot a plane and running the LA marathon - I am so NOT a marathon runner!) and the next-to-impossible one (I would love to go to the Oscars!) And there is even one that is not really about or for me (I've made it my goal to raise at least $50,000 for breast cancer research.)
I guess if I want to get moving on completing the things on the list, I should get moving on the list itself, right? How about you? What would be on your list? Maybe my number 1 should be to finish the list of 40?
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