Off-List Item #4: Rush the Field at the Big House

What has 2 thumbs and loves Fitzgerald Toussaint?

I love sports rivalries. 


I talk about the movie Miracle more than any normal human being should. Plus, I'm a Red Sox fan. I'm a UNC fan. And I'm a Michigan fan. As such, the Yankees, Duke and Ohio State rank among my more disliked sports teams; that said, I have many friends who fall on the opposite side of this rivalry, and I like to think it gives our friendship an edge. Spice. Flavor. Okay, now I'm just getting hungry.


Anyway, this past Saturday not only marked the last of my home games as a Michigan student, but arguably the biggest game I've attended yet: Michigan vs. Ohio State, at the Big House. Michigan hadn't beaten OSU since 2003, and on top of that, I had done a LOT of shit talking to my Ohio State friends in the previous weeks. We needed this win.


And we got it! With 114,132 people in attendance, Michigan beat Ohio State 40-34. The Michigan-Notre Dame night game this past September had a vibe I'd never experienced before, but this game definitely topped it...the feeling was just electric. I know that sounds super corny, but it's true. And best of all, there were no overt acts of violence (at least that I saw). Despite the fact that we'd booed and heckled every stranger in scarlet since 8am that morning, overall it was a good-natured, exciting and ridiculously fun experience.


Without a doubt, the most memorable part was after the game ended. From our rows in the high 60s, we saw people moving out onto the field after the game. At first we thought it was just everyone on the team, but then we realized it was everyone. And if you can't rush the field after a win like this, then when can you? So Kate, Renee and I pushed forward...

That's a lot of Wolverines, yo.

I use the term "rush the field" really, REALLY loosely. It was more like a slow trudging down the steps, stopping to high five random strangers, then moving a little more slowly as you tried not to get trampled and/or jammed in the leg by bleachers. The people moving in the opposite direction, trying to get out of the stadium, also really cramped our style.


Finally we made it to the field, where a lot of general revelry occurred. I'm pretty sure just about the second we got down to the field was when the announcer started first suggesting, then asking, then outright demanding that we all remove ourselves from the stadium. We took a ton of pictures first, and laid down on the turf, and I harassed a trombone player for a photograph (the Michigan Marching Band ranks very high on my "things I'm obsessed with" list). The only thing that could have made it better is if Denard himself had set us up a picnic of cold beer and hot dogs on the 50 yard line right after the big win.


I'm sure I'll come back for at least a game next year, and probably (hopefully) many, many years beyond that. But I really don't know if anything could top this. What a truly fantastic way to end a fantastic season. GO BLUE!


Oh, and as a side note: Michigan totally won the Blood Battle too. BOOM.

Friends on the field.

Off-List Item #3: (Attempt to) Donate Blood

I was originally going to write this post last Friday, when I was still seething with frustration from this experience, but actual work got in the way. Probably for the best. After a fantastically fun weekend of tailgating, football and general revelry with my friend Nick, I'm feeling slightly less incensed and now just dully annoyed. Regardless, here's the story...


Last Thursday, I very eagerly attempted to donate blood for the first time with my two friends Lindsay and Lindsay, with 0% success. I'm not really sure why I hadn't tried to donate before, but when the Lindsays said they were going, I jumped at the chance. I had no reason not to: needles don't bother me, I have a high pain threshold, I don't know what my blood type is but was somehow hoping to wrangle that information from the Red Cross, I like free stuff, and I'm really enjoying this kick of trying new things. Plus, it was the Ohio State/Michigan "Blood Battle", and I love any excuse to talk smack to my OSU friends. So I signed up for an appointment and started iron-loading...


There was lots wrong with this blood drive. First off, appointments apparently don't really matter, or so we learned when we showed up only to be greeted with a 1+ hour long line just to find out if we were eligible -- we just got lumped in with all the walk-ins. Secondly, I'm not entirely sure the test they give you to test your iron level matters either. They tested my right middle finger and I was about a point below the minimum iron reading. Not willing to give up after the hour of waiting, I asked for a re-do, only to find out that the iron reading in my left middle finger was a solid 0.8 above the minimum. So yeah, that's whack.


But the levels of whack-ness really escalated when I actually got through the screening after having been deemed -- at least by the first round of nurses -- to be worthy of donating my blood. We waited another hour and a half (side note: I'm really enjoying the italics function to convey my irritation) to actually get onto the gurney, then another 30 minutes for the nurse to come over and stick me. Or not. Turns out when she got to me, put the tourniquet on and poked around my arm a little, then did the same with the other arm, she determined that I have deep veins and was not "a suitable candidate for blood donation".


I was crushed. I offered alternatives -- let me drink a little more water, tie the tourniquet tighter, let me sit up for a few minutes to get the blood going (at that point I'd been laying completely flat for a half hour), something. I had waited 3 hours, I explained. I wanted this pint of blood OUTTA ME! But nope. She quickly dismissed me and called over the next person in the seemingly endless line of more desirable blood donation candidates. I walked away. And because of the frustration and disappointment of the night plus the rejection of my veins plus a general aura of school-related exhaustion and apathy, I may or may not have cried. In the hallway of the Union. And dramatically ripped off the "I Make a Difference" name tag sticker I had been given 3 hours before and threw it into the trash can. Except I missed, so I had to pick it up off the floor and then slightly less dramatically place it in the bin. Then cried some more. It was a really pathetic 5 minutes for me.


Thankfully I had the Lindsays there to comfort me, and make me feel that indeed I had made a difference, even if my pint of blood stayed comfortably within my veins. L-Bo even gave me credit for her pint, because she said without my commitment to staying, she would have left long before and thus deprived the world of her donation. Hey, I'll take it.


I lodged a complaint with the Red Cross on Monday and fully plan on finding another donation site to try again. JUST TRY TO HOLD ME BACK. So stay tuned for (hopefully) another blog post about actually successfully donating some blood.

And in the meantime, Ohio State still sucks. GO BLUE!

#6: Attempt to salsa dance with reckless abandon at Cafe Habana

Mojito #1 + crazy eyes =
let's do this.

One down. 29 to go.


This post is embarrassingly late, but this was the first weekend I had to myself, in town, since probably the end of September, so I attempted to turn my brain -- and computer -- off for most of it and have fun.


Last Thursday night, I rounded up a group of my amazing friends to hit Cafe Habana for its weekly Thursday Night Salsa Dancing extravaganza. This was not my first Thursday at Habana by a long shot, but every time I go, I scoff at the idea of dancing. 


I could claim many reasons for this, but the fact is, I'm just a wuss. Everyone on the dance floor always seems so sultry and salsa-y and just generally good at dancing. Like, actual dancing. I can teach you how to Dougie like a champ, but throw on any sort of music that involves bongos and I'll smell ya later. So in keeping with the spirit of this blog, I decided to step outside my comfort zone and give it a shot. I figured I could always fall back on my other signature dance move, the Bye Bye Bye arm snap, if necessary.


We got to Habana around 10pm, promptly ordered the $5 mojitos and carafes of sangria, and I began mustering up enough rum-fueled courage to hit the dance floor. It took 3-4 (relatively weak) mojitos until I powered forward to the dance floor with my wonderful friend Rudy, who spun me around like a Latin lothario would. I failed somewhat miserably at doing anything other than flailing my limbs about and laughing awkwardly, but I'd like to think I really nailed my impression of Elaine's "Little Kicks" from Seinfeld. Sweet fancy Moses, indeed.

Amigos!

I came up for air after that, and by "air" I mean "2-3 more mojitos", and then went back out onto the floor with Josh, whose feet I unabashedly trampled on while attempting the elusive hip swivel that seemed so much easier when watching the other couples on the dance floor. They either had far more, or far fewer, mojitos than I did. Or like, actual salsa dancing instruction. Whatever. The best part about the actual dancing was that nobody actually cared! Sure, I took note of the people who seemed like semi-professional salsa dancers, but there were definitely plenty of other uncoordinated schmucks like me on the floor, and everyone was just having a great time. If that's salsa dancing, sign me up for more.


Though the drinks were delicious and the music was festive, the best part about the night was certainly the company. To everyone who came, thank you so much for helping me cross my FIRST item off my list, and for being super awesome, super supportive friends. I look forward to sipping many more mojitos with you all, minus the dance floor toe-smashing. But hopefully plus some more Dougie-ing.

The Quest for #1.

I hate running.


There, I said it. I feel so much better now.


Okay, so maybe hate is a little too strong a word...but I really, really, seriously don't like running. It stems from a couple of factors: first, I strongly dislike sweating; and second, I don't enjoy participating in activities that I have previously determined I'm not much good at. Running fits into both of those categories for me.


Then why, you may ask, is my first, and most likely my most challenging, 30 Before 30 list item "run a full marathon"? Because I LOVE the feeling I get after I'm done running. Runner's high, endorphins, that awesome "I'm sore but not so sore that I can't walk but sore enough to remember the next morning when I wake up that I chose to run instead of watching Man vs. Food reruns on the couch last night" feeling. Whatever it is, it's like athletic meth (or at least what I know about meth from watching Intervention). And when there's a medal involved, it's even better.


I first discovered my dislike of running in 8th grade gym class, when we had to run 1 timed mile around the George Washington Middle School (what up, Ridgewood, NJ!) track for the Presidential Fitness Competition Torture Thingy...do you guys remember this noise? I'm not totally sure we ever established which president cooked up this hellish little pre-teen ritual, but it was a weird display of brutal, unadulterated non-athleticism. Except for that random kid who smelled like beef jerky, liked Magic: The Gathering, and, as it turned out, could run a 6 minute mile like it was an afternoon stroll. He lived for that day.


Fast forward to high school varsity field hockey at Rocky Hill (what up, Rhody!), where running was slightly more fun because the president wasn't making you do it and you were usually chasing after a ball and trying to win. Except for practices. No winning involved, just lots of running. Too much running. Drills. Yelling. More drills. It was like the movie Miracle with less ice and Kurt Russell and more kilts and teen girl angst.


Then, in late 2005, I saw an ad on the Metro in D.C for the AIDS Half Marathon Training Program. My friend Nick and I were feeling ambitious and decided to check it out. The premise seemed simple enough: we raise $2,700 for the Whitman-Walker Clinic and participate in weekend group runs, and they pay for our registration to the Miami Beach Half Marathon, flight and hotel. It was obviously a big challenge, but one we were up for. We had 6 months.


So Nick and I completed our first half marathon in Miami on January 29, 2006. Crossing the finish line was, without any doubt, the proudest moment of my life. Seeing my parents at the end, after many miles and months before then doubting I could actually get there, was a moment I'll never, ever forget.


The training had been tough, and long. The first mile on the first week of our group run was certainly the hardest, but with lots of after-work runs at the gym and early Saturday morning group runs around the National Mall, plus lots and lots of fundraising, we did it. 


And then a few years later, we did another one -- a St. Patrick's themed half marathon in March 2010 in Virginia Beach. We trained separately, I in D.C. and Nick up in Boston, but we kept each other motivated during race day when ankle tendinitis (me) and shin splints (him) started to suck the fun out of the experience. And when we finished, we got to take our shoes off on the beach, grab a free Yuengling (the race sponsors) from the finishers tent and dip our toes into the Atlantic Ocean. Not a bad way to finish up 13.1 miles. 


As I write this, I get more and more excited imagining the feeling of crossing the Marine Corps Marathon finish line after 26.2 miles in D.C. on October 28th, 2012. So that's what's going to keep me going, along with the milestones -- both big and small -- along the way.


While I'm confident I (and hopefully Nick, if I can convince him to join me again!) can do it, I also am cognizant of the fact that 26.2 miles is definitely a lot more than anything I'm used to running. So I've got resources: books...back issues of Runner's World...tips from friends (shout outs to Bridget, Colleen and Marisa) who've run many marathons before...


...and a gym that has treadmills with TVs on them. So I never have to choose between Man vs. Food reruns and the gym.

March 2010. Yep, ran the entire race
in that wee leprechaun hat.

Going Places.

Oh heyyyy Eiffel Tower.

No, literally. I'M GOING TO PARIS!!!!!!!!!!!


I put it on my list because I both wanted and intended for it to happen. And yet when I see the email subject in my inbox -- "continental.com reservation for Paris, France (CDG)" -- I have 0.5 seconds of that "wait, whose inbox did I just hack into?" stomach flip-flop before remembering that it's myyyy email. So yeah, I kind of can't believe I'm actually going.

I wish I could Photoshop
sequined berets on our heads.

So, this is the deal: I set a price alert on Kayak a few weeks ago, after my friend Andrew and I decided that we were really going to take le show on le road (note: after 12+ years of French classes, I should probably consider brushing up with some Rosetta Stone, or at least dig out my old Berlitz tapes when I go home this month). Prices were dismally high until yesterday, when a too-good-to-be-true-especially-for-a-non-stop-flight-to-Paris-in-May flight showed up in my alert. I promptly forgot about it, as I tend to do after I check my email on my phone in the morning and then snooze for 15 more minutes, until I got to work later and saw the email again. Yadda yadda yadda, we booked, and we're going to FRAAAANCE, bébé!


I'm so ridiculously excited. I've never been, but I've talked a BIG game about wanting to go for a very long time, probably since I read Madeleine when I was about 8. And I have to say, even though I like to think I would have done something like this without creating a list and subsequently holding myself to that list by creating a blog, I'm not sure I would have. So I guess this thing works!

Okay Fyodor, show me
what you're working with.

Andrew has promised to indulge me in eating crepes and champagne, so I look forward to officially being able to cross off #4 on my list sometime in early May, shortly after I cross #8 off my list. I want to see the touristy stuff (for those of you who know my Keira Knightly-as-the-Duchess impression, I really think it's going to reach new levels at Versailles) but I also want to just wander the streets, eat lots of cheese, drink lots of wine and butcher the French language while wearing a striped boat neck top and beret. Pretty standard, really. Suggestions for other must-dos in Paris are welcome!


I also finally got the Brothers Karamazov in the mail, and it is a MONSTER (see right...she's a girthy one), but I'm going to break into it sometime in the next few days, and next week I plan to hit Café Habana for some en fuego salsa dancing (most likely bookended by a number of $5 mojitos). And I am officially planning my inaugural "hey, I think I'm going to start running again because I have to run a marathon at some point in the next year" run for this coming Monday. Perhaps I will do it in a sequined beret.


Vive le progress!

Off-List Item #2: Get Lost in a Corn Maze

One of the greatest pleasures of the last 15 months of my life has been owning a car. I lived in D.C. for just about nine years, and the only time I kept a car there was the summer before my junior year of college, during which I paid out the nose for parking and a cab rear ended me after it made an illegal U-turn on Virginia Avenue. Needless to say, between my dislike of city driving, my love of not paying $200+ a month for a parking spot, and a truly superior D.C. public transportation system, I never needed -- or really wanted -- a car.

Suburban delights: cider mills.

Then I moved to Michigan, bought my beloved Iris (my car...yes, I named her, but we Clements name all our vehicles), and fell in love. She is wonderful and allows me to do fun things like go to Trader Joe's, visit drive-thru ATMs, and take trips to corn mazes and cider mills on lovely fall afternoons, things public transportation never allowed me to do in D.C. My fantastic friend Janet flew in from New York City and we really pulled out all the stops to show her a true Michigan weekend: Halloween parties, tailgating, football, more Halloween parties and, finally, corn maze-ing at Talladay Farms. It was a lovely autumnal AND suburban weekend.

And patriotic! The theme of the maze, we found out upon arriving, was "American Pride", as the maze was cut into the shape of the U.S. (and, according to the website linked above, there's another maze -- perhaps the haunted one that was out of commission that day? -- that's cut into the shape of a bald eagle. AMURRRICA!). We snapped quick iPhone pictures of the map posted at the entrance before venturing in, and it's a good thing, because 30-45 minutes of mud, group speculation, more mud, dead ends, Girl Scout troops, attempts to husk corn and use it as trail markers, and probably too much reliance upon the "feelings" we all had (i.e. "I feel like we should go this way, this feels right"...that's what you get for going to a corn maze with a bunch of social work students), we were straight-up lost.

But, we kept reminding each other, being lost in a maze is the point, isn't it? It's as nonsensical as people who get mad when they have to drink during a game of beer pong. So even though we grumbled a bit about finding our way out, we mostly enjoyed the weather, the company and the novelty of doing something so new and seasonal. Then, when we'd had enough corn, we pulled out the iPhone map pictures and found our way to the end, unscathed except for some mud-caked footwear. 

Corn mazes: a-maize-ing & a-maze-ing.

Now is where I get all Forrest Gump philosophical on you guys. Even though we were "lost", and we had several group conversations about pooling our resources in case we got stuck in an "Alive"-like scenario (we had half a can of Diet Coke, breath mints and some nasty corn to get us through the night) or the likelihood of getting an airlift out of there, we knew we'd make it to the end.

Lately, it's been super easy for me to get bogged down -- and frustrated -- in the day-to-day of paper writing, classes and work. I've been assured by many that this is natural, and nearly every friend who's been through grad school has recalled feeling roughly, if not exactly, the same. So I think I am going to stop grumbling and start looking at grad school a little like the corn maze. It might be some work, I might pick up some mud on my cuffs along the way, and even though I don't have an iPhone map or a waiting airlift, I'll make it out. And hopefully, like on Sunday, there will be a caramel apple and a picnic table full of friends on the other side.

And there ya have it: a super corn-y post.