My Annual Love Letters
It's that time of year, the time of year when fantasy football is in full swing and I start realizing that my draft strategy was similar to throwing darts while blindfolded, facing the wrong way and possibly after being spun around 20 times as if I was about to play "pin the tale on the donkey." Except this time of year, I am the donkey, because I made some sad and sorry choices.
Before I can write my letters to my players, I should show you my line-ups in both of my leagues. In the first league, my team is called "Team BBM" (because I am lacking originality genes); and I have the following players (if you can call some of them that). . .
Drew Brees, LeSean McCoy, Peyton Hillis (a recent and highly intelligent pick-up), Steven Jackson, Greg Jennings, Marques "Disappointment" Colston, Antonio Gates, Packers D/ST, and Jeff Reed. Currently warming my bench either due to bye weeks or absolutely suckiness: Jeremy Maclin, Mike Wallace, Ben "I used to like you a whole lot better before you started treating girls like crap" Roethlisberger, Dez Bryant, Darren Sproles, Cadillac Williams and Dustin Keller.
In this league, I am currently 2-2. Last week I won by two points and I owe that entirely to Gates who is my favorite person in the world right now. And here, are my letters to Team BBM. . .
Dear Drew Brees,
You're doing fine and all, but if you could return to the Drew Brees of last year that scored my opponents 50+ points every time they played me, that would be fantastic. Oh, and I don't know what kind of lovers quarrel you are having with Colston right now, but fix it. Fix it now. For the love of all things football, and for my sanity, FIX IT. Get some couples counseling, have some coffee and work it out, or just go out and have a couple drinks together and make-up while listening to the sweet sounds of Trey Songz. Whatever you do, it's important you do. . . something. . . NOW!
Dear LeSean McCoy,
If you could just pretend that you didn't get a crushed rib, that would be cool. Losing you this week is going to feel like that time when I cut all my hair off and then mourned it for the three years it took to grow it back. Don't be long sweetheart, m'kay?
Dear Peyton Hillis,
Normally when I make a pick-up, it means that one's performance will drop off to complete toilet levels. You, however, proved me wrong. You made me a believer. And you're freaking cute. . . in a creepy overpowering jock kind of way. I like it and I like you. Keep it up and you can keep your starting spot in my line-up. How were you still available on the waivers I will never know (but I am glad).
Dear Steven Jackson,
Can you do me a favor and like stretch out or something before practice and games? I swear you are wrecking your groin every other day, every single year. Stop that man. You're too valuable to be spending my playing time on the sidelines with a sore nether region. 'Nuff said.
Dear Greg Jennings,
You seem like a super nice guy. However, it would be to your advantage (and mine) if Finley and Driver could get a nasty case of food poisoning this weekend and every weekend thereafter. Can you invite them over for some bad scallops or something?
Dear Marques "Huge Let Down" Colston,
You can also read my letter to Jennings and heed that advice. And also, are you seriously going to go out like this? You're getting targeted less than a deer during hunting season buddy! Are you cool with that? Because I'm not! Why don't you do something drastic to get noticed. Put some fluorescent stripes on your helmet or attach a megaphone to your headgear so you can be like "Yo Breesy, over here buddy!" Colston, I'm seriously about to plant your heiney on the bench. Step up buddy. The time is now!
Dear Antonio Gates,
I want to make you a nice dinner, pour you a glass of wine, and rub your feet. And if you knew how very badly I despise feet, you would know how very much I am loving you right now. Love you SO much.
Dear Jeff Reed,
I picked you up because I used to live in Pittsburgh and because I cheer for you bumble-bees when you're not playing my team, the Eagles. Don't make me drop your butt. Don't make me do it!!!! Because I will DO IT!
Dear Darren Sproles,
Remember those couple times when you were giving LT a run for his money? What was he, your muse or something? Why the fumble? Why the lack of point-getting? Why? Why? Why?
Deep breath. . .
On my other team, where my team name is Super Sucktastic (the league I won last year), I have the following players currently starting: Kevin Kolb (although I played Vick last week which just sucked), Michael Turner, DeAngelo Williams, Steve Smith, Marques "You're letting me down twice" Colston, Nate Washington, Tony Gonzalez, Steelers D/ST and Rob Bironas. On my bench, I have (and you should prepare for the awesomeness that is not): Michael Bush, Brett Favre, Dez Bryant, Laurence Maroney, Mercedes Lewis, Michael Vick and Jason Snelling. I am also 2-2 in this league, although my loss was so catastrophic this week that if point totals have anything to do with deciding the season end winners, I am way behind the eight ball right now.
Sigh. . .
Dear Kevin Kolb,
I feel like we have a bad relationship. I picked you up and had faith and then dropped you like a hot potato when it was clear that Vick was the man. Now you're the man and I'm confused. I'm so very confused. Can you make it less confusing for me, please?
Dear Michael Turner:
Like Katy Perry says, "you're hot and you're cold; you're yes and you're no; you're in and you're out; you're up and you're down." Can you decide what you're gonna be? Because a love triangle with you and Jason Snelling is not what I'm looking for right now. I need stability. Show me some.
Dear DeAngelo Williams,
I like your name because you remind me of that R & B guy; and I like your playing because you're improving and getting me some points. Let's make it clear though. I am in no way, shape or form ready or willing to rub your feet. You've got some ground to cover and some serious work to do DeAngelo.
Dear Steve Smith,
Get better soon. I liked you a lot better in weeks 1 & 2.
Dear Marques "Do Nothing Right Now" Colston,
See the above letter to you. You don't deserve two letters from me.
Dear Nate Washington,
So I pick you up and your point totals for the past three weeks add up to your point total in the first week. Is this how you treat people who put their trust in you? Shame on you. Shame on YOU!
Dear Dez Bryant,
I had so much faith in you, despite the fact that you are indeed a Cowboy, that I drafted you in both of my leagues. And in both of my leagues, I am crying buckets over how craptastic you have been lately. I expect more from you. Your Mom expects more from you. We all expect more from you. Now go eat some Chunky soup or something and replenish yourself post-bye week. I need to see some good action baby!
Dear Bench Warmers,
I swear that last week you got me a total of about three points. . . total. Um, what am I supposed to do on bye weeks? I'd almost rather leave spots empty than place you there right now. I know I picked you up late in the draft and I know that your teams sort of stink and all, but if you could show some effort, maybe score a touchdown, or resort to tripping those who are getting more air time and run time than you, I would surely appreciate it.
Are you experiencing fantasy football related anxiety? Tell me about it, and for the love of God, tell me who I can pick up off the waiver wires that's scoring more than 1 point a week!
Hey, if you're on Facebook, throw a thumbs up at the "Black Belt Mama" page. You can find it by clicking here!
Happy Birthday to Mini Me
When I was pregnant with Lil C, I was ecstatic but I also wanted her out as soon as possible. I was a gestational diabetic and I felt that every day that she was inside of me was pushing me closer to becoming a Type 1 Diabetic, which is exactly what happened to my Mom when she was pregnant with my sister.
I wondered how I'd ever love a second baby as much as I already loved my first. I thought about how my little sister used to knock down my blocks and drive me insane and I worried for Big I. I worried for myself. Did I have the capacity to love another child the way I already loved my first, especially after all she put me through during the pregnancy?
But I shouldn't have worried for a second. Lil C came into this world and I fell in love, head over heels in love. She was born looking like neither of us, but she was cute. So ridiculously cute. I remember taking her home the day I had her and walking around my bedroom with her. I caught a glimpse of myself in my bathroom mirror, Lil C curled up on my shoulder. It seemed like she fit into an eight inch space as she cuddled into me. I remember thinking, "Freeze this moment. Don't ever forget this. . . " and I haven't.
I can't believe it's been five years since that day now. My daughter, who looked like no one, turned into a little clone of me in no time. What's funny is that she looks like me now, not like what I looked like as a child. And she's like me in more ways than just appearance. She has grown into a smart and feisty little girl who doesn't take crap from anyone. She loves to sing and dance and that girl can totally bust a move (just like her mama). She'd rather sing "Bad Romance," "Alejandro," or "Like a G6" any day of the week over those silly preschool songs.
Any adult who meets her remarks that she has quite the personality for someone so young. She practically oozes it and that's not always a good thing. She'll tell you your hair looks messy in a heartbeat and if you need to take a shower, she'll also be happy to point that out as well. She's told men with long hair in shopping lines that they look like girls, and she's reassured her mommy "Your butt is not big like hers mommy. You have a nice butt" in public and loudly.
And this kid is affectionate like no other I have ever met. She "queezes" you and tells you she loves you 100 times a day and she means it. This fall, it was challenging for me to give her up to preschool three mornings a week, because until now I've had her all to myself and I have enjoyed that immensely. She's the only one in the family who volunteers to help me fold laundry. She thinks making beds is fun and she is completely ticked off if she doesn't get to help make dinner.
She is, in a word, amazing. . . she is now five years old.
Happy Birthday to my Lil C. I'm soon going to have to do something about the "Lil" part of her name, because she is getting SO big. In fact, in honor of her 5th birthday, Lil C is getting a new blog name. We'll call her "Sassy."
Important Recalls? Really?
I don't wish to make light of the recalls that have been happening across the toy and baby care world lately. Ok, maybe I do wish to make light of it. It's just that when I read them, sometimes I have to laugh a bit. If it were my child, hurt by a faulty product (and truly the product's fault), I would definitely be upset. But aren't some of these recalls going a bit over the top?
I saw one today for a child's trike bike type thing. It said that the ignition key sticks out and can cause harm to a child if they fall into it or onto it, potentially causing genital bleeding. Can't the same thing be said of handle-bars or cross bars on bikes? One time when I was in college, I was riding my bike home from work. I decided to jump up the curb instead of getting off and placing my bike on the curb. What happened next was brutal and made me realize that crotch-shots, no matter if on a girl or a boy, are ridiculously painful. I slammed down onto the cross bar of my mountain bike and into a bush. It wasn't pretty. I couldn't sit right for a good week. Should my bike have been recalled? No, I was a naive idiot with an ego-inflated Lance Armstrong complex. Who did I think I was, trying to jump that curb on a busy Pittsburgh street? Is it really necessary to recall a bike with an ignition key that sticks out? I mean, hand a kid a Nerf ball and he's going to find a way to hurt himself with it. What if he tries to eat the thing and chokes on it? Should the Nerf ball be recalled? It's called childhood and that's what happens.
I don't know. To me, some of these recalls just seem silly. It would be like recalling toothpaste because it shouldn't be used as an eye make-up remover; screwdrivers because they fit into electric sockets; or Boppy pillows because they could be tripping hazards if left on the floor.
Personally, I think a lot of these recalls are brought about because of fly-off-the-handle parents who don't watch their kids well enough and they end up getting hurt because of a lack of parental supervision. We live in the blame-it-on-everyone-else society and these toy recalls are really no different. If my child had fallen into a protruding ignition key on a bike, I doubt I would be contacting the company and reporting a faulty product. I'd be chalking it up to childhood. Injuries and accidents are just a natural part of that world.
If you're looking for something to recall, how about that screw that broke into four pieces while in my tibia? Now that would be legit.
A Bittersweet End
Today was my last day of physical therapy. These "last days" are always bittersweet. I'm happy and excited to be on my own, but it usually means I'm saying goodbye to new friends too. I walked into physical therapy with a bad attitude this time around. I had not expected to need PT after this last surgery. I wasn't anxious to give up hours of my week once again; but after one day of PT with this group, I was feeling motivated again. Leaving PT though, means that it's all up to me from here on out. I need to get to the gym on a regular basis and treat it like it's a required appointment.
The best part about physical therapy, this time around, is that I'm leaving with some confidence I didn't have before. My PT pushed me outside of my comfort zone, making me stand on wobbly foam while doing squats, snap kicks and side kicks. He added weight to the leg press when I didn't think I could take anymore, and I did. He made me do crazy one-legged squats while balancing on a crescent shaped piece of styrofoam; and while I initially was kind of cursing him for it, I can't think of a time when my leg was stronger. The visual difference in my muscle over just a few weeks is obvious. The way it feels makes it even more exciting. My leg truly feels good for the first time in a really long time.
I brought the guys a giant container of donut holes this morning as a "thank you." I'm feeling better than I have ever felt and I owe the new strength in my leg to them. Donut holes don't seem to be quite enough for what they've done for me.
We talked this morning about a game plan for heading back to karate and eventually tennis. The plan for now is to continue working out on my own and building up strength and confidence. Then I'm going to start doing some karate at home on my own, slowly, to get used to things again. Once I find time in my schedule again to make paying the monthly fee worth it, I'll go back on a gradual basis. My PT warned me against going in there all gang-busters and then messing something up. He doesn't need to worry about that. Caution is practically my middle name now. I need to give my bone sufficient time to heal from the hole that removing the screw made.
Graduating from PT this week was the boost I needed to make me feel like I'm getting somewhere. I have to say though, I'm really going to miss those guys. Randy and Brandon. . . thank you SO much. One of these days I'm going to buy you both a drink (or school you at beer pong, your choice). You helped me gain strength and confidence; and I consider you both friends.
Getting Back Six Hours
Today I arrived at my orthopaedic surgeon's office with a folder full of grading to complete. I finished all but three speeches. That's how long he typically makes me wait. Usually I am accompanied by Lil C who puts on quite a concert in the exam room, but today Mr. BBM kept her at home while he worked. He read my blog post of yesterday and I'm pretty sure he knew I needed some "me" time. Funny that the only "me" time I get right now is waiting to be poked and prodded by a doctor, huh?
My surgeon came in and examined my leg as usual. He took a bunch of notes, and then asked me what I want to be able to do, activity-wise.
"I want to be able to go back to karate," I said. And then, because my PT told me it's a possibility, "I'd also like to be able to play tennis again."
He nodded, talked to me about my braces, and told me to get to a track and start running three times a week. Sure, I'll do that. In all my spare my time. He told me two weeks of running, followed by two weeks of agility stuff can get me back to tennis in four weeks. I'm thinking I'd be totally cool with being able to play tennis next summer.
Then he told me I can stop going to PT and just get to the gym three times a week instead. I was hoping to be released from PT, but not fully expecting it. Yesterday I was able to get my heel stretched to my butt again for the first time in a long time. Tomorrow will be my last day there.
Yesterday I had no time to do a thing; today I was given back about six hours a week. Those six hours happen to be when Lil C is in school. Coincidence? A sign not to give it up?
When I came home from campus today, Mr. BBM was dealing with me with kid gloves. I didn't know he had read my blog post. So we started talking about it and I got upset. This is what it boils down to. . . I am a super competitive person. I like to be the best at everything I do. Ask anyone who has ever played me in a simple game of beer pong. I don't like to lose and I don't like to hang out in the middle. I either do it right, or I do it right. There are no other options.
That's why this whole knee business has been so mentally trying for me. It's why being on the board of directors at the club has frustrated me so much. I've been held back and limited physically and by other people, and I don't like it one bit. Sometimes, although those of you know who know me may find this difficult to believe, I just get tired of fighting all the time. It's exhausting.
One of my friends said something on my Facebook page today that made me really sit up and take notice. I've lost so many of the things that define who I am: karate, tennis, being that girl who can jump in and play any sport she chooses. Right now I'm nothing more than a stressed out Mom and a teacher with too much stuff to grade and too many lessons to plan. With my writing though, it doesn't matter if my knee is banged up. It is the one thing I have that is all mine, and hasn't been taken away from me. So why am I not happy with it? Why would I consider stopping it when I haven't reached where I want to go with it yet?
I'm not happy because I want to write more. I'm not happy because I want to find an agent and a publisher and do amazing things. I'm not happy because I sent a book proposal over a year ago and haven't heard anything back yet. I'm not happy because I simply don't know what to do about any of these things I'm not happy about. I have no clue how to get an agent or how to get my blog syndicated more than it is right now. I don't know how to grow it and get my writing out there. I really don't even know where to start.
It feels like standing on the edge of a giant trash heap and being told to find that one lonely paper clip. I don't have time to be misguided. I don't have the energy or the time to send out query after query to the wrong people. And it's not like people who are published are telling people like me their secrets. There is a giant brick wall and on one side are those who have made it to the publishing world; I'm on the other side with the ones who are dying to be published, but we simply can't figure out how to get over that wall.
I have had a post from this blog published and I was paid nicely for it at the time. But that editor found my post when she was out searching for writing on a certain topic. I didn't approach her. I've been syndicated and published in other places. An entire page of my resume has my publishing credits on it, but the gaps between them are spreading out and I need and want more. Every once in a while, I'll buy myself the new Writer's Market book, send out a bunch of queries, articles and manuscripts and then I wait months at a time as I watch rejection letters roll in, and that is if they even bother to tell me they're not interested. There has got to be a better way. Someone has to know someone. Someone has to be able to point me in the right direction.
If my readers keep coming back for more of my drivel, there has to be some agent out there who would like it too right? I've been told that if you don't have an agent, there is no point in even trying to contact a publisher. There has to be a way to break into that world; and today I was handed back two mornings of my week to try to find it. I can't give up; I just have to find a way to make this happen more efficiently. I have to, because that's just what I do.
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