I’m participating in a blog hop hosted by one of my favorite blogs, Rub Some Dirt On It. When I EVER have children, it’s blogs like hers that will help me be a better mother. In the meantime, hopefully I can start getting it together (again) on here to do blog hops regularly. It’s a great way to “meet” people, read new things and realize you’re not as crazy as you think you are. Most of the time.

The theme of this particular blog hop is “Happiness Is…” Obviously happiness is MANY things. A hot shower and coffee after a cold run. Knowing that you don’t have to set an alarm in the morning (my personal fave). The COO telling you you’re sales numbers look great. A new pair of shoes. A dirty martini and a filet mignon done JUST right. A text from a cute boy (no matter that it will never amount to anything, but it makes you smile just for the hell of it…and because you’ve not had a date in seven months). Coming home to three fur babies who are so happy to see you, it’s like you’ve been gone a decade. And last but not least…Yu Darvish joining the Rangers.

I could go on and on. Those are just the things that came to mind without putting TOO much effort into it. (PS I’m four days into tracking food and being a good girl…explains the lustful thoughts of a dirty martini and filet. With creamed spinach. From Nick & Sam’s). But overall right now, happiness for me has been getting a firm grip on who I am. It only took almost 32 years, folks! It all started with a unique shift in perspective a few years ago.

Five years ago, when I was in the most miserable part of my marriage and inexplicably couldn’t pull the trigger on divorce, a light bulb turned on one day. I thought to myself “self, what would you say to you if you were a character in a movie?”

Think about it. Think about one of your favorite episodes of Sex and the City. Or any given Sandra Bullock movie. There’s always that moment: when Carrie cheated on Aidan with Big, when Sandra wouldn’t listen to what Hugh had to say…you were MAD. You yelled, you called her stupid. You didn’t know WHAT she was thinking.

What would you say to YOU if you were paying $10 to see yourself on screen?

Makes you think doesn’t it? I realized if I was a character in a movie, at that time, I would DESPISE me. I would hate me for making all the excuses, for accepting less than I deserved, for settling, for even thinking it was going to get better. Because it was all rubbish. I wish I could tell you I shaped right up after the divorce and only dated guys who were nothing less than stellar. But if you’ve done any extensive reading on here or know me personally, you know better. But the good news is I’ve learned when to pull the plug and walk away. I did it for the first time last year without a second thought. I didn’t realize what a milestone that was until a couple of months ago.

And that?

That made me happy.

==============

Note: to those of you who are new here, for several years now this blog has been predominantly about sports. But my friends are under the impression I have many, many other things to say. They have to listen to me though, they’re my friends. Howev…I’m in the midst of changing things around here. Although there will still be PLENTY of sports…there will be shoes. And cocktails.

When I was in 3rd grade I decided I wanted to be a lawyer. I was going Harvard, graduate a lawyer and buy a BMW.

Well, THAT turned out well.

Here we are 24 years later, I have a Journalism/Public Relations degree from University of North Texas, been in the movie and/or movie theater business for 16 years and drive a Mazda 6 (that’s paid for, bitches) . I’ve been an assistant, a coordinator, a director and now a national manager. I’ve followed the natural progression of things. All in all, I’ve done well. I’m proud.

Having said that…no one ever told me there was no way on the Good Lord’s Green Earth I was going to Harvard.

You’ve seen the articles written by or about and interviews with the Tiger Mom, yes? She may seem harsh to some, but she’s got a point. A very, very valid one. We love us some mediocrity in this country…we reward it, we encourage it. We tell our kids they can be anything they want but then reward them for only participating, not necessarily for doing well or winning. You sat on the bench all season, but here’s your trophy! I mean come on, you’re not going to get into John Hopkins just because you participated in the high school science fair.

I dare you to find a child nowadays who is as hard on herself as I was growing up. My mom was called in to see the teacher more than once out of fear I was under too much pressure at home. It wasn’t my parents…at all. It was all me. I have an extremely unhealthy ability to torture myself to this day about anything and everything. So needless to say, I never did anything less than my absolute best. But at the end of the day, I wasn’t born into the lifestyle or genetic pool that would lend itself to an eventual Harvard degree. I didn’t go to private schools (Denton only had two after all) and I wasn’t kin to any alumni. For the record, as of right now, I’m still the only grandchild on both sides of the family to even graduate from college.

Not going to Harvard didn’t make me less of an individual. Didn’t make me less successful. I wouldn’t trade the education I received at Southern Methodist and UNT for anything. But half-assing it, just showing up and just participating didn’t get me across that stage. I put sweat and tears into it…while also working full-time. And I sure as hell didn’t have Wikipedia to help write the papers that got me there.

I still believe in setting big goals and having big dreams. After all, as of 9th grade I was also going to marry Mike Modano! So one can still set the bar high, nothing wrong with that. But get your head on straight when it comes to knowing how and if you can get there. (I’m MUCH better off without him by the way…Willa Ford, really?)

I successfully avoided anything and everything to do with the NFL for the first, oh, eight days of the playoffs. I am not entirely sure how I did it, but by god, when I set my mind to something it bloody well happens. Even if I don’t friggin’ realize it. I think that’s called denial, right? Something like that…cause you’ll be hard pressed to find someone as distraught over the Cowboys as I. But, I’ve resigned myself to the fact Jerry Jones has filled Al Davis’ wart covered shoes and we’ll never win another Super Bowl with him in the GM chair and Tony Romo as QB. Sometimes you just gotta learn to let shit go.

We got MLK day off for the first time in the 12 years of this company. As soon as they let us know, which do you think I did? A. Express my joy that at long last we were celebrating the life and efforts of the greatest American civil rights leader of all time or B. Immediately make plans for Sunday Funday.

I think you passed that quiz, yes?

After I’d done my long run and popped over to Bed, Bath & Beyond to pick up two boxes of K-Cups I didn’t need (but WANTED), one of my friends was like what are we doing? Is there a game on? At first I thought, game? A game of what? I realized that neither the Stars nor Mavs were playing when this question was posed. So I was…confused. Then it hit me. There’s still football. Apparently. So I looked and turned out the Packers and Giants were playing. WHO KNEW.

Then I looked and saw the 49ers had beaten the Saints. Before I had the chance to have someone explain to me exactly how that happened (I needed it written down with formulas), the Giants beat the Packers.  And then my brain fell apart.

I was having a conversation with someone yesterday, who shall remain nameless because I heart him and it’s completely inappropriate on several levels, and I was asked who I am pulling for. That answer, Readers, is easy and obvious. The Ravens. For all that is holy…the Ravens. Even though as I have repeatedly said, I’m pretty sure Ray Lewis’ diet consists of ox blood and small children. I can’t in good conscience root for the 49ers out of respect for the old days and the last time the Pats and Giants were in the Super Bowl I am pretty sure I obtained a mild form of alcohol poisoning.

So, GET YOUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT PEOPLE. Ravens. All the way.

As I sat watching Criminal Minds (shocking) and eating my honey peanut butter on a bagel thin this morning I had a searing pain in my frontal lobe. It stemmed from realizing that we’ve entered into the time of year I typically lose my mind and date. I’ll start out on a dating site and do the standard number of first dates then end up with someone who had nothing to do with it for 3-5 months. And it never works out…ever. Last year was as close as it’s got and well, if that had panned out we wouldn’t be having this conversation. That was when I realized Sex and the City wasn’t just a comedy I enjoyed when I was in my early 20s, but a documentary of what my 30s would be like.

Upon realizing it was the first quarter of a new year and what that has meant to me and my life you’d think I would be excited. But no…no I wasn’t. In fact, I actually got a little paranoid. Apparently I thought if I jumped up and peeked out the window a suitor would be standing there all bright-eyed and eager (that’s how they start out, it’s all a ruse). And that half frightened me, half made me go “ew”.

I would much rather go ahead and focus on how in God’s name I will pass Financial Accounting if I go for my MBA 19 MONTHS from now than what to wear on a date within the foreseeable future and eventually waste my time  on a relationship that I know will fail before phone numbers are even exchanged. So optimistic, this one. But for real, passing Financial Accounting will be so much more satisfying (and HOT) than a relationship that has an expiration date 3-5 months from purchase.

These are words that shouldn’t come out of the fingers of someone who fears ending up alone in at the end of the it all, but hell, I hear things can get pretty racy in the nursing homes these days.

I’ve decided that one shouldn’t rush into New Year’s Resolutions. Think about it – have you gotten to know this year yet? Do you know its likes, dislikes, fears and desires? No…no you don’t. Because I can tell you that given what’s happened in the past 11 days I’ve named this year Sybil.

Readers, meet Sybil….Sybil, meet Readers.

What I’m suggesting is to give it a couple of weeks of thought if you can. Patience has never been one of my better virtues (if at all one of my virtues…) so I understand if at 12:01 a.m. and one second you were like “I AM GOING TO LOSE 10 POUNDS THIS YEAR!” It happens. However, I’ve managed to give it 11 days. I’ve read many, many blogs and articles both online and in real live newspapers (!) about the dos and don’ts of resolutions. At the end of the day (or year), who sticks to the damn things? I’ve stuck to ONE in my entire almost 32 years. Overhauling my shoe wardrobe. Now than I own approximately 100 pairs, I’m not exactly sure sticking to that one was a good thing, but it’s whatever.

One thing I swear I will not resolve to do this year is lose weight. Because I am sick of hearing myself say it every stinking January. Losing weight is a subject matter I dare not even delve into at this time. It’s been a lifelong battle that insists on sticking around. It’s the full-blood sibling I never had.

I don’t have many resolutions this year, but here’s what I got…

1. Run 600 miles.

I ran 440 miles from mid-April to the end of December last year. That’s roughly 50 miles a month, which should be more than attainable given the way my training schedules will play out and the fact I began Jan. 3 this year. However, I’m realistic and know my penchant for getting burnt out, so 600 is my reasonable number.

2. Read 40 books.

My GoodReads goal for 2011 was 35. I’ll admit, I didn’t make it. But I blame it all on Call and McCrae. Whilst reading 900 pages of Lonesome Dove, I COULD have finished the four books I was short. That’s now water under a bridge on the Guadalupe and I vow to not only make up for last year’s goal, but get past it. I think the six nights I’ll spend as the World Laziest Person Ever in Cabo will help this.

3. Shut up and do it.

This, Readers, is the open-ended resolution. I’m not going to lie, losing weight falls into this – but under the disguise of “getting in goal shape”. But so does traveling, studying to go back to school, learning a third language, finally becoming a decent housekeeper…many, many things. It’s a bottomless bucket of possibilities. I am not putting a check mark by any one or six things to get done under this category. Instead, it’s resolving to silencing my nitpicking, soul-sucking, self-esteem-destroying inner voice and get things done.

Hockey fandom was a good portion of my life from middle school until midway through college, which is rather well documented. Aside from the one gazillion good times and memories, being a part of such an avid fan base (read: obsessed) was seriously a tremendous study in human behavior.  I’m probably going to ruffle a few feathers with the words about to come out of my fingers. But this is a subject matter that’s been on my mind quite a bit of late and a very long-winded explanation of why my boots won’t be seen at the PBR Finals this year.

Strictly speaking from my experience, I believe being as absorbed in something as I was in hockey is a sign that something else is missing from one’s life. If we lose self-awareness when it comes to our passions and interests, they can quickly become obsessions or worse (in my opinion), substitutions.

I’ve never had luck with boys…like pretty much FOREVER. Although sometimes frustrating, I still know I’m bad ass and it’s not like I am some frigid bitch. I have plenty of fun; I’m just not winning any prizes at dating and relationships. Totally okay with it now that I’m knocking on the door of 32. But during a girl’s teenage years it’s the WORST. Smother than on top of family issues and it’s a recipe for disaster. I’ve watched enough Criminal Minds lately to know that we’re all lucky I turned out as pristine as I did. High five.

I was in the latter part of 12 years of age when the Stars faced-off for the first time in Dallas. Given the emotional instability of becoming a teenager and what was happening in my home life, they couldn’t have skated into my life at a more perfect or detrimental time. Please don’t misunderstand me; I would not change a damn thing. But I will also admit that hockey was my boyfriend and my team sport, if you will, until I was at least 20. It provided an escape and a comfort, a sense of belonging and even importance that I didn’t have elsewhere. The boy I crushed on for two years in high school didn’t like me back? That’s okay because Jamie Langenbrunner knew my name. I didn’t go to prom? Who cares! I was in a prime seat at a playoff game that night and talking to hot rookies at the StarsClub afterward. I didn’t go on the band trip to DisneyWorld? Please, I went to Stars training camp in Kalamazoo, baby! I was the popular kid in hockey. The homecoming queen.

Why I denounced my membership in the super fandom is pretty obvious. For starters, I got a boyfriend. He eventually became my husband (now ex), which is a whole other episode of Springer, but I think you get what I’m saying. He didn’t replace hockey, nothing ever could. However, having him in my life made me take a hard look at what was happening around me. I realized I was going to end up 50 years old getting an autograph from a player THIRTY years younger than me while my friends played with their grandchildren.

For the longest time, I thought that this level of super fandom (usually always females) was unique to hockey. But then I got into the PBR. And we know I can’t half ass anything, I can’t just be a pseudo interested fan. So behold, there it was. Only worse because bull riders are even more accessible than hockey players are and hockey players are by far the most accessible out of the big four. And because dating has whooped my ass for the past four years, I got wrapped up in it all over again.  Only it’s not so PG-13 anymore because I can drink. Lil mama has had her some REAL good times. Copious amounts of alcohol and cowboys are a deadly combination that my mother has warned me about since birth. Whoopsies…I forgot to listen. Now given, I have never ever been delusional enough to believe I was going to marry a professional cowboy. That makes me LOL. Being a bull rider’s girlfriend is the LAST thing I want to do with my life. It doesn’t mean the PBR hasn’t made a fun playground.

2011 was my year to do whatever the hell I wanted. And I did. And I won’t take any of it back. But as I sat obsessively planning my New Year’s Eve at a bull riding in Fort Worth, I had a palm to forehead moment. I thought to myself, self, what in the holy hell are you doing? I had NO business spending that evening around a bunch of girls who despise me (yeah, stick a pin in that for later) and a bunch of boys in their 20s whose ability to commit is about as great as my desire to see the Eagles win the Super Bowl. I was doing it…again. Substituting. (Side note, I had a wonderful NYE in Dallas – where I belong – at dinner with my running group and a wine bar with two of my best friends).

I realized all of the plans I’d made thus far for 2012 were PBR-related. Then I realized it was time to stop the madness and I wiped the slate completely clean. Instead of Anaheim in January for the PBR I’m going to a resort in Cabo in March. I’ve never been to Mexico! And instead of Vegas for the Finals in October I’m going to England with my best friend. A trip we’ve talked about for at least two years. Now given, I may end up at the NFR in Vegas in December, but only because I want to run a half-marathon there at the same time…trying to make it well rounded!

I still love me some hockey. And I love me some PBR and cowboys (yum!). But they’re not who I am and they will not be substitutions for what my subconscious thinks I’m missing in life. Because honestly, I couldn’t ask for more at this point…it would be awfully selfish of me. And awfully insane.

Oh if only I could count the times I’ve abandoned this blog. I could give you a really good reason for this latest disappearance like work or life or something like that. But really, I’ve just been lazy. And I’d much rather watch TV or read a book than get back on a computer once I get home. However, you’ve seen Eat, Pray, Love, yes? So the scene in the barbershop with the dude whose last name is Spaghetti talks about how Americans sit in their pajamas and watch TV all weekend…that scene? That’s me. He must’ve met me at some point in the last six months. Cause that’s what I do. The only saving grace is I still run (a lot). But overall, it’s a sad state of affairs, readers. And we’ve got to stop the sadness.

I have decided if it’s not the night before a major run and my household chores are done, there’s really no reason for me to be at home on my ass. The chances of me sticking to said decision are kind of slim to rather slim, this I know. But we’re a mere three days away from a new year, so why not give it a go? Right?

Right.

Blogging should probably be a part of that. So be warned, Crazy Lil Sports Lady my not always be about sports anymore. Gasp. I mean, come ON, the Cowboys are heinous, what did you expect? Good news is the Stars remain consistently acceptable and the Rangers are about to start up again (though they’ll be CJ-less, *tear*). Anyway, what I’m saying is I like to drink. And eat. And shop. AND I need to write about all those things that come out of my mouth that solicit the response of “Nikki, you really need to write a book” from my friend Allyn.

Eventually even my URL and banner will change, but for right now I’m still being lazy. 327 words is all you get, kids.

There are multitudes of things that annoy me in this world, especially when it comes to words and certain grammatical issues. The inability to consistently distinguish amongst their, they’re and there (a slip up every once in awhile is allowed, it happens to the best of us). People adding S to my last name (there is only one of me). The term “best frann” (seriously, WTF is that? Is it so hard to type friend, lazy teenagers of the world?). The improper use of apostrophes when it comes to pluralization. And speaking of pluralization…I despise f*cking it all up when it comes to team names.

“Hey Nik, going to the Ranger game tonight?”

Um…is CJ Wilson playing by himself?

“Can’t wait for that Maverick game tomorrow!”

Oh, so Jason Terry is taking on the Thunder ALONE? Awesome. Let’s not put it past Dirk to do so, but I digress…

I don’t know if it’s “proper” or not to use the S, but hells bells it bugs the bajesus out of me when people don’t. You wouldn’t say Star game, now would you? (Don’t you dare say yes). NO, because there is an ENTIRE team playing, meaning more than one. Meaning use the S, fool. Miles Austin is a Cowboy. But you go to the Cowboys game to see him play. Well, if there’s ever one again.

Sitting here flipping amongst Bones, the Mavs game and the Lightning/Bruins game. Just finished up a glass of almond milk and a banana (I call that dessert these days) after completing almost two miles with running club earlier tonight. The point of me saying all of that? My life is not very excited these days. Oh wait, I did get my very own washer and dryer for the first time in four years…never underestimate the power of clean clothes, Readers. Anyhow, this week is especially dull, as my boyfriend (yes, I actually have one…pick your mouth off the ground, no one is more surprised than I) is in the middle of the ocean on his way to Alaska. He could be stuck on a glacier for all I know. He regains connectivity to the world tomorrow upon hitting Juneau; therefore, I should get reassurance he’s not floating on a suitcase holding hands with Leonardo DiCaprio. My fingers are crossed he gets back to Dallas in an unfrozen state. He cooks really good, makes me laugh, is okay if I start fights with Philly fans just for the hell of it (it’s their fault for existing, dammit) and hates the Red Wings.

It’s pretty funny, this running thing. I’ve never been an athlete. I have loved sports for many, many years (you don’t say) but except for one season of basketball when I was in second grade and still the same height as everyone else, I’ve never played them. I never thought I COULD. And the LAST thing I thought I could ever be is a runner.

Color me surprised that I’m now six weeks into running club and am preparing to sign up for the next two levels (with goals of a 15K and a half-marathon respectively). My ultimate goal is the Rock-n-Roll Vegas Half Marathon in December. My love for Vegas is very well known and documented, so I figure that’s the perfect first half. They shut down the strip and run at night. Sign me up.

So the most bad ass thing I’ve discovered? Given my height and build I have the potential to be fast…I know it’s not about that now, now is about learning. However, I know it’s there because I dip a toe into it on occasion already and it feels amazeballs. I have to work on my endurance and definitely get weight off. Knowing I can be good – nay, GREAT – gives me  new purpose in my life-long battle with weight loss. For once I know I got this.

So basically it’s time to put down the cupcakes and vodka. See…I’m no fun anymore.

And I don’t necessarily mean that in a good way. The last two weeks have kind of been a blur. Lots of stress. Lots of good things. Some shenanigans. And I have 12 bruises on my legs to show for it.

I’m sitting here with a hot cup of green tea contemplating the finer points of what this day brings: my first Rangers game of the season, hopefully the Mavs wrapping up a first round series as to not get crucified upon their return to Dallas and the pseudo end to the NFL lockout. I also can’t help but have a “how did my life end up here?” moment. That happens from time-to-time. If you would have told me two years ago that I would be back in Dallas, who my best of friends here would be, where I’d be working (er, again)…and in SALES, who’d be working across the hall from me, I’d own a cat (who is obsessed with the bathtub) and that I would actually find a good guy to spoil me rotten and deal with me while I’m drinking I would have LOL’d in your face. Then ordered another Cape Cod and went back to dancing to Britney. I honestly never thought I would have it this together.

But there’s one more thing. That I would be a “runner”.

Not quite completely, but getting there...slowly.

Wait, what?

That’s right…a runner. Or at least almost one. A year ago The BFF started in on me (we start in on each other about many a things, it’s what makes us super BFFs, who wants a passive aggressive BFF? Not I!) about joining a running club. I of the prone to laziness was quick to snort at this. But she persisted. And nagged. Said it would be a good way to meet a man. That’s the LAST place I needed to meet a man, while all stinky, sweaty, fatty and slow ass. Serioulsy. Anyhoo, fast forward a year. Still fatty and slow ass, but the Dallas GFs and I decided to join a local running club. Three of my pals paid my registration as a b-day present, so I was committed despite the love I have for my couch and DVR. (The perfect threesome if I do say so). I’m boring you, so I’ll just say the GFs flaked on me *still shaking fist at them*, but I kept my self-promise and am actually starting to LIKE running. It’s not easy. No ma’am, Pam. It hurts EVERYWHERE and the first 3-4 minutes are torture. Or maybe the last 3-4 minutes are worse? Whatever. It can suck sometimes, I’m not going to lie. But I’m making progress, despite wanting to cut my right leg off after every session.