OK, so it's been a really wicked long week. I'm still decompressing after my trip back to Jersey for my HS reunion, and will post in more detail later this week. I'm still trying to wrap my head around all that happened--and my BAC is still inching it's way back towards normal--suffice it to say, I'm just not ready yet.
One tidbit I heard about that struck me prior to the weekend was the fact that one of my favorite songs ever-ever-ever is celebrating a very big anniversary. Yes, much like the class of 1989, Bust A Move is also turning 20 this year.
This is hands down one of the greatest songs of all time, because you simply cannot hear it without dancing--even the white boys need to shake a little tail when that tune comes on. Don't believe me?? Here--I defy you to sit still...
And the fact that this is actual poor-quality video footage from the year the magic happened is even better--and from the Arsenio Hall Show no less. I absolutely looove everything about it--the girlie "dressed in yellow" dancing in her spandex bra/biker short ensemble, the backup dudes with their sculpted hair and very pegged pants--so very, very awesome. The only way it could possibly be better is if it was taken at at house party with big-haired chicks dancing on tables, and I will neither confirm nor deny how I know that a video such as that exists
I'm not ashamed to admit it is a tune that harkens back to the days when there was a kinder, gentler hip-hop, that I still listen to today (and am training the Chicas to appreciate). I still know most of the words to 5 Minutes of Funk, Rapper's Delight, and just about everything on Run DMC's Raising Hell. I love Grandmaster Flash, Rob Bass, and especially the Beastie Boys. Don't get me wrong, I dig Public Enemy as much as the next white chick who grew up in suburban Jersey, but at a certain point, I just couldn't relate to hip-hop anymore, and my affection stayed with the originals. I am just Old School. No pun intended. And now that it's been 20 years, it's official.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Who's Who
OK, so I'm getting ready to take a little trip this weekend. I'm heading back to Jersey for the first time in 10 years, second in 20. Well, I actually did enter the state back in early 2007 for a couple of days, but I was at my Aunt's place in New Brunswick the entire time celebrating a family birthday on St. Patrick's Day, and no one else knew I was there, so I don't count that time (although it was wicked fun from what I can recall). Yes, Kelly-Girl is going home.
It's funny because for my entire life, I've felt like a transplant. I was born in Chicago, moved to Jersey when I was eight and lived there until I graduated, so I really didn't move around that much, but I somehow feel like I got uprooted a lot. In the summer after 6th grade we thought we were moving to London, said tearful good-byes to all we knew, packed up all of our worldly-possessions, and schlepped across the pond, only to come back 3 months later, having missed the entire summer of Recreation and pools, and sleepovers. My parents sent me to the Catholic high school because they were trying to ruin my life by making me find new friends at age 15 at the absolute pinnacle of my awkward stage. Then I went to college where I knew no one, and moved to the D after that, also not knowing a soul (well, except for the FM, which, OK, yeah I was right, I didn't know a soul). Even now, I work an hour away from home, on the other side of town, far away from what familiar Western Wayne surroundings I may have. I guess in a way, I've never been able to shake that new-kid feeling that everyone is staring at you, so apparently I've continued to recreate that scenario throughout my life. Holy Crap--I have been in therapy for entirely too long if I can come up with that one on a Tuesday...
So yeah, I'm the chick who is secretly bored senseless, but looks blandly and nods politely when friends talk about that girl that went to Bishop Borgess, and then married this guy from Northville, and now they live in Plymouth next to that hot guy who went to Churchill, you know the one who was a cousin of that girl with the unfortunate nickname who went to Harrison--no not her, she went to Ladywood. No clue. I can drive my ass all over this entire Metropolis and not get lost, but I am no good at the game of Who's Who. At all.
Recently, I've finally come to understand that I am not truly adrift, bouncing around without an anchor of history and stories and acquaintances. Sure, I am building toward that with my friends here in the D, but I already have that connection with my friends from Jersey. And I have recently realized that not only do I share with them these same common experiences and memories, but that I myself am remembered fondly, and that shock of all shocks, I feel like I belong. Finally. It has truly been the greatest gift I've received in a very long time, and I am eternally grateful for it.
And before you start to wonder if you've somehow wandered into some whiny-self-improving-potpourri-eating-Yanni-listening-Blog, I will tell you that the first thing I am going to do after I get off that freakin' plane in Newark is get my sappy-chick-ass a proper slice of pizza. And fold it in half. The way God intended.
It's funny because for my entire life, I've felt like a transplant. I was born in Chicago, moved to Jersey when I was eight and lived there until I graduated, so I really didn't move around that much, but I somehow feel like I got uprooted a lot. In the summer after 6th grade we thought we were moving to London, said tearful good-byes to all we knew, packed up all of our worldly-possessions, and schlepped across the pond, only to come back 3 months later, having missed the entire summer of Recreation and pools, and sleepovers. My parents sent me to the Catholic high school because they were trying to ruin my life by making me find new friends at age 15 at the absolute pinnacle of my awkward stage. Then I went to college where I knew no one, and moved to the D after that, also not knowing a soul (well, except for the FM, which, OK, yeah I was right, I didn't know a soul). Even now, I work an hour away from home, on the other side of town, far away from what familiar Western Wayne surroundings I may have. I guess in a way, I've never been able to shake that new-kid feeling that everyone is staring at you, so apparently I've continued to recreate that scenario throughout my life. Holy Crap--I have been in therapy for entirely too long if I can come up with that one on a Tuesday...
So yeah, I'm the chick who is secretly bored senseless, but looks blandly and nods politely when friends talk about that girl that went to Bishop Borgess, and then married this guy from Northville, and now they live in Plymouth next to that hot guy who went to Churchill, you know the one who was a cousin of that girl with the unfortunate nickname who went to Harrison--no not her, she went to Ladywood. No clue. I can drive my ass all over this entire Metropolis and not get lost, but I am no good at the game of Who's Who. At all.
Recently, I've finally come to understand that I am not truly adrift, bouncing around without an anchor of history and stories and acquaintances. Sure, I am building toward that with my friends here in the D, but I already have that connection with my friends from Jersey. And I have recently realized that not only do I share with them these same common experiences and memories, but that I myself am remembered fondly, and that shock of all shocks, I feel like I belong. Finally. It has truly been the greatest gift I've received in a very long time, and I am eternally grateful for it.
And before you start to wonder if you've somehow wandered into some whiny-self-improving-potpourri-eating-Yanni-listening-Blog, I will tell you that the first thing I am going to do after I get off that freakin' plane in Newark is get my sappy-chick-ass a proper slice of pizza. And fold it in half. The way God intended.
Monday, March 23, 2009
60 Minutes
OK, so I work about 40 miles from my home, which means I have a wicked long commute every day--it takes at least an hour. Sometimes on weekends I can bang it down to about 45 minutes, but after all is said and done, it's just far away, and that's how long it takes. One hour.
Now, if I were a respectable human being, and a responsible adult, I would spend my time wisely. I would have learned a third or fourth language, and perhaps even brushed up on my Spanish enough to truthfully consider it a second. I'd have listened to about 91 books on tape, or at least a little NPR to maybe broaden my horizons and try to learn something that wasn't first published in Us Magazine. Have I done any of that? Hella No!
After about 14,362 hours on the road this year alone (it was a brutally long winter, folks) what can I show for my time? Well, I have memorized each and every word of every song in the anthology of the K-I-D, and that is a whole lotta bitches and hos. I have decided that the icicles hanging from the land tunnels on 696 in Oak Park scare the hell out of me, because they are precursors to the entire thing crashing down on my car, smothering me to death in a traffic jam. I am fascinated by the Chop Suey House in Warren with its "Free Parking in Rear" sign that makes me laugh every time I see it. I am dying to know who John R is, and why is he important enough to have a street named after him, yet not so much that it's only his last initial? And finally, I have come to the conclusion that the only viable car colors are black, red, and white (not all together). I don't understand blue or green cars, and don't even get me started on yellow. Or orange. Or Hummers.
Yep. That's it. All that time in the car, and that's all I have to show for it. A wonder-filled showcase of my razor-sharp intellect and lightning-fast synapses firing on all cylinders. No wonder I'm always late--too much thinkin' goin' on.
Now, if I were a respectable human being, and a responsible adult, I would spend my time wisely. I would have learned a third or fourth language, and perhaps even brushed up on my Spanish enough to truthfully consider it a second. I'd have listened to about 91 books on tape, or at least a little NPR to maybe broaden my horizons and try to learn something that wasn't first published in Us Magazine. Have I done any of that? Hella No!
After about 14,362 hours on the road this year alone (it was a brutally long winter, folks) what can I show for my time? Well, I have memorized each and every word of every song in the anthology of the K-I-D, and that is a whole lotta bitches and hos. I have decided that the icicles hanging from the land tunnels on 696 in Oak Park scare the hell out of me, because they are precursors to the entire thing crashing down on my car, smothering me to death in a traffic jam. I am fascinated by the Chop Suey House in Warren with its "Free Parking in Rear" sign that makes me laugh every time I see it. I am dying to know who John R is, and why is he important enough to have a street named after him, yet not so much that it's only his last initial? And finally, I have come to the conclusion that the only viable car colors are black, red, and white (not all together). I don't understand blue or green cars, and don't even get me started on yellow. Or orange. Or Hummers.
Yep. That's it. All that time in the car, and that's all I have to show for it. A wonder-filled showcase of my razor-sharp intellect and lightning-fast synapses firing on all cylinders. No wonder I'm always late--too much thinkin' goin' on.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Random Dude 2
OK, so I meant to post this yesterday, admittedly as more of a filler, but as with all of my good intentions lately, things seemed to have slipped to the wayside. I did find out yesterday that I am really, legitimately sick, and have the prescriptions to prove it, so I'm feeling a bit better about being so lax with my duties herein. I'm not sure what it is about that 10 day mark when you are sick--you go in at 9 days and it's "I know it's miserable, but it's just a virus, and everyone has it, you just have to tough things out." But you go on day 11, and they throw the medicine cabinet at you--I even got a new inhaler thrown in as a very special bonus. Kind of like the asthmatic equivalent of diggin' thru the pirate's booty chest--instead of choosing a stretchy lizard that sticks to the ceiling or a packet of Jonas Brothers tattoos, I got a little ventolin-delight.
But I digress. I wanted to hand out another Random Dude Commuting award to the doofus I saw yesterday traveling westbound on Hall Road. I was just exiting the parking lot where the uber-dreamy P.A. Paul saved me from my respiratory woes, when I came upon our current winner. He was an older fellow, I'd say mid-50's, heavy-set, with a shock, and I do mean a shock of highly unfortunate Don King hair. He was driving a swear-to-God purple Ford F-150, and had 3 rear-window stickers that I just have to share with the world.
Sticker 1 was a number "3" wearing wings and a halo above it, which I believe is referencing the late Dale Earnhart, and is a fairly common sight in these parts, especially on F-150s. Unremarkable. Sticker 2, however, was yet another one of those Calvin Peeing stickers, but this one was extra special. Young Calvin was peeing on the words "My Ex-Wife." Nice. And finally, Sticker 3 was a bumper sticker emblazoned proudly across the back window that said, "My Middle-Schooler is Sleeping with your Honor Student." Really.
It was all I could do to not swerve and force his truck off the road into that deep median ravine thing right by Van Dyke, where there's all those electrical transformers that would turn his purple bestickered jalopy into the stupid-guy barbecue he so justly deserves. Yeah, if it had been just a day or two later, when I was all hopped up on a Dreamy-P.A.-Paul-prescribed prednisone-frenzy, he might not have been so lucky. Still pretty freakin' classy, but definitely not so lucky.
But I digress. I wanted to hand out another Random Dude Commuting award to the doofus I saw yesterday traveling westbound on Hall Road. I was just exiting the parking lot where the uber-dreamy P.A. Paul saved me from my respiratory woes, when I came upon our current winner. He was an older fellow, I'd say mid-50's, heavy-set, with a shock, and I do mean a shock of highly unfortunate Don King hair. He was driving a swear-to-God purple Ford F-150, and had 3 rear-window stickers that I just have to share with the world.
Sticker 1 was a number "3" wearing wings and a halo above it, which I believe is referencing the late Dale Earnhart, and is a fairly common sight in these parts, especially on F-150s. Unremarkable. Sticker 2, however, was yet another one of those Calvin Peeing stickers, but this one was extra special. Young Calvin was peeing on the words "My Ex-Wife." Nice. And finally, Sticker 3 was a bumper sticker emblazoned proudly across the back window that said, "My Middle-Schooler is Sleeping with your Honor Student." Really.
It was all I could do to not swerve and force his truck off the road into that deep median ravine thing right by Van Dyke, where there's all those electrical transformers that would turn his purple bestickered jalopy into the stupid-guy barbecue he so justly deserves. Yeah, if it had been just a day or two later, when I was all hopped up on a Dreamy-P.A.-Paul-prescribed prednisone-frenzy, he might not have been so lucky. Still pretty freakin' classy, but definitely not so lucky.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Slainte!
OK, so St. Patrick's Day is upon us, and I have to admit, I'm a little crabby. It could be that, once again, I am not sleeping well or that my Neti Pot addiction has failed to kick this freakin' cold. But let's be honest, more than likely it is because I am not bellied up to the bar in a dark Irish pub swilling down my 9th Black and Tan while belting out "Drunken Sailor" and "Green Alligators" at the top of my lungs with 185 of my closest friends. Yeah, it's not much fun when an adult-oriented, irresponsible holiday falls on A) a work day, and B) on a day when I have Chica-Duty.
So it was with this spirit of pissy unwillingness that I greeted my day, and slogged through it like a 3 year old at the mall two days before Christmas. I even wore a (very cute) green sweater today, which I never do because I'm very Irish every day so why bother show it one one particular day, plus it strikes very close to my policy that grown-ups should avoid holiday-theme-clothing at all costs. I gazed longingly at the full parking lots at Rosie O'Grady's and listened intently to the reports of the drunken sots screaming "WOO HOO!" live from Duggan's and the Old Shillelagh. I reminisced about the St. Pats' of old at Murphy's Law where we'd start the day at the crack of noon and stay til we closed the bar and my shoes would stick to the floor and we couldn't afford Guinness so we drank Miller O'Lite, but never, ever the green kind.
Yeah, I missed that today. Today weighed heavy with meetings and emails, and carpools and homework and it was, quite frankly just a regular Tuesday. Not very Irish or even very holidayish for that matter. But I have a sneaking suspicion I will wake up tomorrow, my hair will not reek of cigarette smoke, I will have more than 6 crushed slightly damp dollar bills in my pocket, and I won't be trying to piece together how on earth I managed to lose a shoe, come home braless, and get that monstrous bruise on my left forearm. Yes, tomorrow, March 18th, I will wake clear-headed and alert, and blessedly hangover-free. Man, does that suck or what?
So it was with this spirit of pissy unwillingness that I greeted my day, and slogged through it like a 3 year old at the mall two days before Christmas. I even wore a (very cute) green sweater today, which I never do because I'm very Irish every day so why bother show it one one particular day, plus it strikes very close to my policy that grown-ups should avoid holiday-theme-clothing at all costs. I gazed longingly at the full parking lots at Rosie O'Grady's and listened intently to the reports of the drunken sots screaming "WOO HOO!" live from Duggan's and the Old Shillelagh. I reminisced about the St. Pats' of old at Murphy's Law where we'd start the day at the crack of noon and stay til we closed the bar and my shoes would stick to the floor and we couldn't afford Guinness so we drank Miller O'Lite, but never, ever the green kind.
Yeah, I missed that today. Today weighed heavy with meetings and emails, and carpools and homework and it was, quite frankly just a regular Tuesday. Not very Irish or even very holidayish for that matter. But I have a sneaking suspicion I will wake up tomorrow, my hair will not reek of cigarette smoke, I will have more than 6 crushed slightly damp dollar bills in my pocket, and I won't be trying to piece together how on earth I managed to lose a shoe, come home braless, and get that monstrous bruise on my left forearm. Yes, tomorrow, March 18th, I will wake clear-headed and alert, and blessedly hangover-free. Man, does that suck or what?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Pot of Gold
OK, so I've been valiantly fighting this cold for the past week or so. It hasn't been easy, for he is a stubborn SOB who is showing no mercy. I am wicked congested, my neck hurts, and my eyes itch like a Mother, all of which is putting a damper on my usual sunny disposition--hey, I almost said that without laughing.
A few years ago, I would have been just fine, and fallen back on my old-reliable light blue Sudafed gel caps. These delicious nuggets were chock full of pseudo-ephedrine with a delightful guiafenesin chaser that took care of any and all cold or allergy symptoms within a couple of days without being overly drying. I loved them dearly. And then, all those Crank-Heads out in Kansas with their double-wide-meth-labs went and ruined it for the rest of us. I cannot remember a day when I was more pissed off than when I went to CVS to obtain the Light-Blue-Gel-Wonder only to be told by the little tiny pharmacist that they no longer stocked it because they didn't have room now that all the decongestants were behind the counter like the pharma-equivalent of Grey Goose and Hot Damn. And to add insult to injury, they now required a driver's license to purchase the useless Red-Sudafed-Crap-Tabs--and best of all, they need to actually swipe your DL. I would have no problem with this, but no one, not even the TSA swipes my driver's license, but to buy Sudafed it's abso-freakin-lutely necessary! Really. Apparently it makes the folks in the poly-fabulous vests at Rite-Aid feel powerful and more content in their career choice.
So yeah, I have issues with getting a cold now and I'm always on the lookout for the next greatest thing, so it was in this spirit of intrepid ague that this week I purchased a Neti Pot. Now for those not in the know, a Neti Pot is this little watering can looking thing that you use to flush out your sinus cavities with a saline solution. Many people swear by them, and I figured it couldn't possibly make me feel worse, so I decided to give it a go. Plus I figured if I could tout myself as an edgy homeopathic chick, I might just be able to scare up some new dating action live from the streets of A2.
So the directions seemed simple enough. Pour 1/2 of the packet of stuff into the Pot, add lukewarm water, stir until dissolved, then insert the tip of the Pot into your nostril, tip your head to the side so that said nostril is above the other one, and flush away all the germs and goo. Of course, the 14 year old in me was immediately giggling about the irony of the white powder/spoon/nose thing, but other than that it was pretty straight-forward. Or so I thought. I am here to report that I very nearly died that night.
Technically it was my own fault because first, I misread the directions that said to add water to the top. The directions actually said to fill it to the top of the label on the side of the pot, so I inadvertantly forced about 7 times the amount of fluid as necessary into my head. Second, I am not sure that the Neti Pot is advised for someone who's suffered a broken nose as many times as I have, for I would speculate that this created some sort of detour through which the liquid rushed, surging into my brain and cascading down my throat which caused me to panic mightily. And of course, when one panics, one tends to breathe irregularly, which is a huge negative with the Neti Pot. I ended up aspirating salt water, choking and sputtering, desperate for liquid-free air--I swear to God I saw the light and heard my grandfather's voice. But as I slowly regained consciousness, I realized that for the first time in days I could breathe freely and completely on that one side. Holy crap this thing is a miracle!
It was with mild trepidation that I completed the task on the other side, but it has gotten easier with each subsequent attempt. I have now worked my way up to one full packet per sinus cavity, and I can flush away without blacking out--though that was kind of a trippy bonus. I wouldn't say I'm an expert yet, but I am getting pretty darn good at it--after all, I went to college, I'm a mom, and I play a doctor on TV.
I am a proud convert and I am eagerly awaiting allergy season and all of it's trials, because I have my new best friend and secret weapon. I have to be, especially since I heard Warner-Lambert doesn't even make the Light-Blue-Gel-Wonder any more. Stupid Crank-Heads. I'm still jonesing for my old stand-by so I'm left wondering if crossed the river into Canada, if they might have my drug of choice in their wonderland of socialized FDA-less medicine? And I'd venture to guess the crack border-patrol agents at the tunnel in the D would never give a second thought to a hot soccer mom re-entering the US with a Highlander full of light blue Sudafed gel caps. I bet they'd just wave me on my way without even swiping my driver's license. It might just be worth a shot, eh.
A few years ago, I would have been just fine, and fallen back on my old-reliable light blue Sudafed gel caps. These delicious nuggets were chock full of pseudo-ephedrine with a delightful guiafenesin chaser that took care of any and all cold or allergy symptoms within a couple of days without being overly drying. I loved them dearly. And then, all those Crank-Heads out in Kansas with their double-wide-meth-labs went and ruined it for the rest of us. I cannot remember a day when I was more pissed off than when I went to CVS to obtain the Light-Blue-Gel-Wonder only to be told by the little tiny pharmacist that they no longer stocked it because they didn't have room now that all the decongestants were behind the counter like the pharma-equivalent of Grey Goose and Hot Damn. And to add insult to injury, they now required a driver's license to purchase the useless Red-Sudafed-Crap-Tabs--and best of all, they need to actually swipe your DL. I would have no problem with this, but no one, not even the TSA swipes my driver's license, but to buy Sudafed it's abso-freakin-lutely necessary! Really. Apparently it makes the folks in the poly-fabulous vests at Rite-Aid feel powerful and more content in their career choice.
So yeah, I have issues with getting a cold now and I'm always on the lookout for the next greatest thing, so it was in this spirit of intrepid ague that this week I purchased a Neti Pot. Now for those not in the know, a Neti Pot is this little watering can looking thing that you use to flush out your sinus cavities with a saline solution. Many people swear by them, and I figured it couldn't possibly make me feel worse, so I decided to give it a go. Plus I figured if I could tout myself as an edgy homeopathic chick, I might just be able to scare up some new dating action live from the streets of A2.
So the directions seemed simple enough. Pour 1/2 of the packet of stuff into the Pot, add lukewarm water, stir until dissolved, then insert the tip of the Pot into your nostril, tip your head to the side so that said nostril is above the other one, and flush away all the germs and goo. Of course, the 14 year old in me was immediately giggling about the irony of the white powder/spoon/nose thing, but other than that it was pretty straight-forward. Or so I thought. I am here to report that I very nearly died that night.
Technically it was my own fault because first, I misread the directions that said to add water to the top. The directions actually said to fill it to the top of the label on the side of the pot, so I inadvertantly forced about 7 times the amount of fluid as necessary into my head. Second, I am not sure that the Neti Pot is advised for someone who's suffered a broken nose as many times as I have, for I would speculate that this created some sort of detour through which the liquid rushed, surging into my brain and cascading down my throat which caused me to panic mightily. And of course, when one panics, one tends to breathe irregularly, which is a huge negative with the Neti Pot. I ended up aspirating salt water, choking and sputtering, desperate for liquid-free air--I swear to God I saw the light and heard my grandfather's voice. But as I slowly regained consciousness, I realized that for the first time in days I could breathe freely and completely on that one side. Holy crap this thing is a miracle!
It was with mild trepidation that I completed the task on the other side, but it has gotten easier with each subsequent attempt. I have now worked my way up to one full packet per sinus cavity, and I can flush away without blacking out--though that was kind of a trippy bonus. I wouldn't say I'm an expert yet, but I am getting pretty darn good at it--after all, I went to college, I'm a mom, and I play a doctor on TV.
I am a proud convert and I am eagerly awaiting allergy season and all of it's trials, because I have my new best friend and secret weapon. I have to be, especially since I heard Warner-Lambert doesn't even make the Light-Blue-Gel-Wonder any more. Stupid Crank-Heads. I'm still jonesing for my old stand-by so I'm left wondering if crossed the river into Canada, if they might have my drug of choice in their wonderland of socialized FDA-less medicine? And I'd venture to guess the crack border-patrol agents at the tunnel in the D would never give a second thought to a hot soccer mom re-entering the US with a Highlander full of light blue Sudafed gel caps. I bet they'd just wave me on my way without even swiping my driver's license. It might just be worth a shot, eh.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Junkie
OK, so I have been all awhirl this week, eagerly anticipating my favorite time of year--March Madness!! (you need to say that with a sing-songy-lilt to your voice like when Oprah announces her favorite things). I have stayed up way too late all week watching games, catching Sportscenter--I'm beginning to think I may have a slight problem. But hey, if being a Hoops Junkie is wrong, I don't wanna be right.
So the Big East Tournament this year has been one for the ages. Were it not for Marquette's inability to rise above losing their point guard and thus crapping out of every game for the past 2 weeks, I'd say it has been nearly perfect. That Syracuse team is simply unbelievable--I can't possibly add anything more to the litany of well-deserved praise that followed the 6 OT spectacle the other night, so I won't even try. Even better, they then sent Bob Huggins packing, and anyone who does that is A-OK by me. Don't tell Buzz Williams, but I think they may be my new favorite team--certainly one that will factor heavily in my bracketology this week. And, I'm not ashamed to admit, even though it is very Coo-Coo-Catchoo of me, but that Eric Devendorf is now my newest IB.
I'm currently watching Michigan State in the Big Ten tourney. I love State because they are always a solid team that you don't hear much about (probably because I am not an alumni, but still) and then all of a sudden the season's over, they're ranked in the Top 10, and making lots of noise. I do not, however, understand everyone's love-affair with Memphis. Don't get me wrong, they are a good team, and that John Calipari is kind of delicious, but how can we take them seriously as long as they continue to play in Conference USA? I mean, they won their conference championship game against a team that only managed 39 points--really? 39 points? Come on. Should that even count as a real game? And then there's the ACC, the Pac-10, the Mid-Majors, and is Dayton going to be Cinderella this year?, and--holy crap, I need to calm down...
And so the waiting begins. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, just itching for all the fun that is just a few hours away. Well, since the selection show isn't until the evening, today is probably still mostly like the 23rd of December, but still--I'm pretty geeked. Back in the day, I'd watch the show and feverishly write down all of the pairings on a yellow legal pad while my brother screamed out the teams and the seeds. And then neatly, very neatly I'd transcribe them into my fresh new Sports Illustrated and/or Courier News bracket sheet. Now I'll just cozy up to the telly, watch to see who makes it and whose bubble bursts, and then just download that bad boy and get to work. I'll be back in Jersey for the Sweet Sixteen, and I'm looking forward to catching some games with some old friends. Still not my Vegas Dream weekend, but a pretty good substitute. The Final Four is here in the D this year--I really hope we don't screw it up--and I would absolutely kill to be able to go. I'm considering selling off either a Chica or a limb to make that happen, but the terms and conditions are tripping me up a little bit, so it's a work in progress.
Yes, it is a pretty freaking magical time of year, full of electricity and hope and excitement, and this here chick loves it madly and completely. My name is Kelly, and I am an addict, proud and true.
So the Big East Tournament this year has been one for the ages. Were it not for Marquette's inability to rise above losing their point guard and thus crapping out of every game for the past 2 weeks, I'd say it has been nearly perfect. That Syracuse team is simply unbelievable--I can't possibly add anything more to the litany of well-deserved praise that followed the 6 OT spectacle the other night, so I won't even try. Even better, they then sent Bob Huggins packing, and anyone who does that is A-OK by me. Don't tell Buzz Williams, but I think they may be my new favorite team--certainly one that will factor heavily in my bracketology this week. And, I'm not ashamed to admit, even though it is very Coo-Coo-Catchoo of me, but that Eric Devendorf is now my newest IB.
I'm currently watching Michigan State in the Big Ten tourney. I love State because they are always a solid team that you don't hear much about (probably because I am not an alumni, but still) and then all of a sudden the season's over, they're ranked in the Top 10, and making lots of noise. I do not, however, understand everyone's love-affair with Memphis. Don't get me wrong, they are a good team, and that John Calipari is kind of delicious, but how can we take them seriously as long as they continue to play in Conference USA? I mean, they won their conference championship game against a team that only managed 39 points--really? 39 points? Come on. Should that even count as a real game? And then there's the ACC, the Pac-10, the Mid-Majors, and is Dayton going to be Cinderella this year?, and--holy crap, I need to calm down...
And so the waiting begins. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, just itching for all the fun that is just a few hours away. Well, since the selection show isn't until the evening, today is probably still mostly like the 23rd of December, but still--I'm pretty geeked. Back in the day, I'd watch the show and feverishly write down all of the pairings on a yellow legal pad while my brother screamed out the teams and the seeds. And then neatly, very neatly I'd transcribe them into my fresh new Sports Illustrated and/or Courier News bracket sheet. Now I'll just cozy up to the telly, watch to see who makes it and whose bubble bursts, and then just download that bad boy and get to work. I'll be back in Jersey for the Sweet Sixteen, and I'm looking forward to catching some games with some old friends. Still not my Vegas Dream weekend, but a pretty good substitute. The Final Four is here in the D this year--I really hope we don't screw it up--and I would absolutely kill to be able to go. I'm considering selling off either a Chica or a limb to make that happen, but the terms and conditions are tripping me up a little bit, so it's a work in progress.
Yes, it is a pretty freaking magical time of year, full of electricity and hope and excitement, and this here chick loves it madly and completely. My name is Kelly, and I am an addict, proud and true.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
