You stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you.

Dear Blog,

I am sorry for ignoring you the past few weeks. And now I am going on holiday and will continue to slight you. In fact, I'm having an affair with another blog -- http://roadmonkey.net/blog/.

Follow me there and when I return, I promise to give you some TLC.

Love,
Stef

If you're going to become true dodgeballers, then you've got to learn the five d's of dodgeball: dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge!

So, some more commentary on one of my favorite subjects: No longer being a real athlete, and (more importantly?) no longer being treated like a real athlete. Let's compare a couple of foot injuries.

Situation 1: Broken Ankle
After falling on black ice like the raging klutz that I am, I wait out the weekend before ending up at the trainers. Without even having a chance to shave my leg one last time, I am slapped with a cast and crutches and told I might need crazy surgery and will be out for at least 6 weeks of season. Tears ensue. A day later I see a (hot) orthopedist who also happens to be an ex-lacrosse player and intimately understands the burning desire to participate, at least in part, in my season. He says I definitely will not need surgery, takes my cast off in 3 weeks and allows me to start aerobic exercise before I can even walk properly (still in a boot). With 3 regattas left to go, I'm given the green light to row with a canvas brace. This man understood my priorities; this man worked to get me active.

Situation 2: Stress Fracture in Second Metatarsal
Titles aside (let's be honest, "stress fracture" sounds way more pussy than "broken"), this injury is not all that serious. It hurt at first and it's a pain in the ass (especially since I haven't ponied up for a gym membership yet) because you have to stay off it. So, my (not hot) podiatrist takes an ex-ray and CAN'T SEE ANYTHING (please, remember this for later). Now, for an abbreviated 'he said she said': He says, I think it's a stress fracture, but it could be tendinitis. Well, I say, I am climbing Kilimanjaro at the end of the month, so what can be done. And he says I don't think you can climb a mountain. And I say -- What if this were my job? What is possible? He says, Well, if it's your job, can't someone go in your place? (I start to get pissy). No, it's a start up company, no replacement. [pause] Isn't there anything that might enable me to do this? It's still 3 weeks away. And he goes: Well, if it was the Olympics and it was going to be another four years until you could do this again, then well...

(oh no you didn't)

Then tells me to go get an MRI (tears ensue, I had to skip the Phish concert). MRI, sadly, says I do in fact have a stress fracture. After my massive attitude problem of the day before, he ups the effort a little bit and gives me crutches to help keep the weight off, some creatively cut padding and a bone stimulator (use your imagination. okay, your imagination is wrong and dirty. it's sorta like ultrasound). Then I see him the next week and HE TAKES ANOTHER X-RAY. Guess what? It doesn't show anything. So he says come back on Tuesday (yesterday). And then (wait for it) HE TAKES ANOTHER X-RAY. Guess what? He claims it shows the bone healing. Just barely. What a crock of...

Anyway, then he puts a graphite in-sole in my hiking boot, charges me $135 dollars (Dear Socialized Health Care, I miss you. Love, Stef) and says "If you were doing 6 miles out and 6 miles back...or hiking a day and stopping then it would be okay. But 7 days...I don't think you should do it." Shut up! You just told me I could walk 12 miles and now you are saying I can't do it?


Today, I am allowed to wear my hiking boots instead of the boot (I look very styling. Think female Steve Irwin). So. I'm putting it to a vote. Can I climb this mountain? (note this is "can" not should. I know I shouldn't, please. But can I do it? Please note that the ugly podiatrist noted that it would be highly unlikely I would actually "break" it. Also note I have a high pain tolerance...I think.). Weigh in! My fate is in your hands.

Current score:
Do it: 5 (me, my friend's fiancee who is a recently crowned resident, someone who's climbed the mtn and calls it "easy", J, Clark)
Don't do it: 2 (podiatrist, dad)

The Latin for banana is arienna. Banana tree is pala.

What does it take to get ignored in this city?

I got hollered at twice in the 5 minute time frame that it took me to eat a banana while waiting for a cab. Twice! AND I was on crutches. Who knew that cripples eating fruit was part of a typical Manhattan male's fantasy. I thought that kind of weird sh*t only happened in Jersey.

Nobody f*cks with the Jesus

Normally when people run up in my face waving Wachtower literature, I Carl Lewis the other way (fun Brooklyn fact: Jehovah's Witnesses have their logo all over the Heights -- and apparently still own about a dozen buildings in the area).

But what does one do when the people trying to convert you aren't waving pamphlets or wearing orange sarongs? What if the are two normal looking girls, with boring purses and cute sneakers?

While waiting for a ride to come pick me up (note: I am on crutches...I probably looked like easy prey...more on that in the next post), I was approached by two members of the Church of God like this:

- BLOND GIRL, WITH SOME EASTERN EUROPEAN ACCENT: Excuse me, can I ask you a question?

- ME (thinking she wants directions): Sure

-BG, WSEEA: We are just walking around this area and asking different people the same question.

- ME (now thinking it's survey for hair products or something): Okay

- BG, WSEEA: Have you ever hear of Mother God?

- ME (thinking maybe it's some German punk band): Uh, no.

- BG, WSEEA: Yes, that is what everyone says. But you have heard of Father God.

- ME: I haven't heard of Father God either.

- ASIAN CHICK: Well, you know, when you pray, you probably pray to "Our Father who art in Heaven, but if there is a Father in Heaven then there is a Mother in Heaven."

(okay, so now is normally when I would start running or drop an F bomb. But I am trying to increase my tolerance for the "other" and admit - gasp - that maybe I'm not always right and maybe my way isn't the only way. Plus, I have to stand on this corner and wait for my ride, so, I crack the knuckles and prep for spiritual debate. Here is where I wished I had actually read the Bible...as literature. I didn't get much past the first few chapters of Genesis...you know, the chapters where it seems like the telling of two different stories of how the world was created.)

- ME: I don't pray.


- BG, WSEEA: No? Oh okay, well the Bible refers to both our Mother God and our Father God yet people only pray to Father God and we believe in both... (more talking about the Bible) ...are you Jewish or Christian?


- ME: I'm neither...or both. One of my parents is Jewish.


- AC: Is your mother Jewish?

- ME (what does that have to do with it? Yes, I know this technically does make me not a Jew, but if they are trying to convert people, really, does it matter?): No, my father is.


- AC: So when you talk to God -


- ME: What if I don't believe in God?


- BG, WSEEA: Do you have a spirit?

- ME: Sure, I have spirit

(this was the wrong answer. It's the true answer - whatever the hell the spirit means...maybe it means I have good jazz hands -- but it definitely steered the conversation back to God. Apparently, if you have a spirit, then you must be spiritual and if you are spiritual then you must believe in god. So it's impossible to be spiritual and not believe in god...right, now I've even confused myself....)

Anyway, I'm tired of writing in conversation form, so the "net net" is that they have a radio station (89.9? Or is that NPR?). And you can tune in to hear the word of Mother God. And they celebrate Passover and the Sabbath on Saturday, not Sunday (no wonder they are going after the Jews...). Next time strangers (or salesmen) accost you on the street, privacy of your own home, etc., see how long YOU can maintain an argument for whatever you believe. Thankfully (for them?), just as I was delving into my own belief system regarding sin (that is to say, maybe coveting thy neighbor is aight by me...) my ride showed up. If I actually knew my Bible, my spirit tells me I could have held out a lot longer.

A Sheldon can do your income taxes, if you need a root canal, Sheldon's your man... but humpin' and pumpin' is not Sheldon's strong suit.

I am boring.

Let me rephrase: My life -- daily life -- is boring.


And this is actually a good thing because it means (drum roll) that I have successfully moved back to New York without feeling the need to Van Gogh my ear.


I'll elaborate: The most awesome thing about my time in Amsterdam was the routine. And my sweet apartment. Now, given that 1/2 that routine is illegal in the U.S., I was a bit underwhelmed at the prospect of re-adapting to This American Life (read: getting my shi*t together), especially in the city that ate small pieces of my soul for two years.


Strangely, I am now a law-abiding citizen (though I still wouldn't make the cut at The Company) and even more strangely, I like it. I'm high on life (most of the time). I have a similarly sweet apartment in Brooklyn -- a two-bedroom bungalow on the BQE -- and live far enough away people who look like this or this, my two biggest fears of living in the boro (can you imagine being pregnant and trying to dress like that? Oh wait, hipsters don't try to do anything. It's all accidental. And ironic. Trying isn't ironic. Does that mean an accidental pregnancy is ironic? All you people out there studying for the LSATS, solve that logic problem for me). Sadly, I have no washer or dryer, but the woman on the corner is really good at folding my t-shirts in perfect golden rectangles.


Cobble Hill: 1 Murray Hill: -5 (Amsterdam is still +6, but it's not a fair comparison...yet...)

Harry? Harry? You do not have time to tango, buddy. You copy?

So often when one basks in the glory that is cable, they forget the joy of the "modified for TV" movie. If it weren't for TV movie replays, would I ever have seen Trading Places as a kid? Or Short Circuit? Or Splash? Or memorized the handshake in Big? Seminal films here, people.

As a person that is currently living (despite my sick new flat screen) in the 1996 equivalent of home technology, a big shout out to the 10/55 Movie at 8. So far, this channel has played some of my all-time favorites (e.g. True Lies, albeit with the scene where Simon pisses himself cut out) as well as the kind of movie trash you hope to see on TV, like bad movies with good actors (e.g. Dustin Hoffman in Sphere).

This channel is great at playing stuff that either a) you don't want to pay for or b) are happy to let play in the background -- like an album you know all the words to, but would never actually choose to put on the stereo...think the Immaculate Collection (remind me one of these days to tell you how I learned the meaning of the word "virgin"...thank you Madonna for speeding up my sexual education). Anyway, it's strengthening my resolve to put the inevitable confrontation with Time Warner on hold (I just Googled "cable internet options brooklyn" and in addition to the Time Warner site found about 2,543 blogs on crappy installation experiences. Sweet).

By the way, I will not apologize for loving "low brow" movies like True Lies and Hudson Hawk. If you haven't seen them, put it on the NetFlix list. Then let me borrow it, because I don't have that yet either...

Don't like her? What's wrong with her? She's beautiful, she's rich, she's got huge...tracts of land.

While living happily in The Land of the Giants (which is a direct English translation of "Nederlands") I was of average height. And it was glorious. And I forgot how glorious it was until I almost stepped on this girl/woman/midget on the Subway. Seriously, I could have eaten this person -- she maybe came up to my belly button. Maybe.

So a few philosophical questions for the week:
Why is New York such a short city?
Am I a heightist?

To answer the later, yes, I am -- not to say that I hate short people (but maybe I fear them...small hands, smells like cabbage), but that I don't uh, proactively surround myself by them (only argument in my favor is Coltrane -- who arguably has his own bedroom in my apartment; that's got to count for at least 3 "Nice to Small People" points). A friend reinforced this for me on Monday: "I felt so short at your party. All your friends are so tall." Really? But she was right -- and a 6'4" chick wasn't even there yet. And, I refuse to date men under 6' (or men under 6' refuse to date me). And I think about sending angry letters of protest every time a mirror is set too short for me to have a full length view (Dear Club Monaco: You sell long pants but have mirrors for people of 5'6" and under. Please get your sh*t together. Love, Stef).


For the former, I have many theories, most of which would involve me ragging on various and sundry shorter ethnicities, including my (1/2) own (lots of short Jews in NY. lots. like, at least 326. in my office building alone). But since that would make me a Nazi of sorts, I'm going to pass.