NBA All-Star 2009 - Phoenix, baby!

I tried to write a blog that matches the tremendous experience of All-Star in Phoenix, but my attempt fell flat. So, I'll humbly sum it up in a slideshow and list of highlights:




Best All-Star moment:

NO DOUBT, "dancing" with the Jabbawockeez trumped everything!! It happened so fast, but I swear it felt like I floated up out of my body and watched the whole thing go down in slow-mo humiliation. Here's what happened:

I was head-bobbing in sync with the small crowd of spectators that surrounded the free-styling Jabbawockeez on the dance floor, when I saw Heidi whisper to one of them, then point my way. The Jabba nodded once, then glided toward me with outstretched arms. I froze. I stared. I started sweating. Waves of panic and adrenaline coursed through my body. I shook my head -- slowly at first, then furiously back and forth -- as he dragged me onto the dance floor.

I stood there, surrounded by seven pop-drop-and-lock-it Jabbawockeez amid a handful of scrutinizing spectators; the music reverberating against my body taunting me to bust a move. (THIS was the opportunity that every daydreaming young girl fantasizes about as she dances and sings in front of her mirror at home. It was the moment I had always imagined -- the moment where I'd unveil some incredible, secret talent, then leave the awestruck crowd gaping in my awesomeness. BUT, all I felt in those few seconds was FEAR.)

Seconds flew by as I awaited my miracle talent to kick in.

But my body did nothing miraculous that night. No smooth moonwalk or head spin; I didn't even undulate on the floor per my infamous Worm. Instead, I closed my eyes, clenched my fist and thrust my hand up over my head. Then, I did the unthinkable and FIST-PUMPED to the beat. The crowd erupted with noise -- (laughter, I think) -- so I smiled and shy-ed away, content enough in the knowledge that, even if I didn't WOW and AWE the crowd, at least I entertained.

Sadly, there are no pics to show off my moment of glory as a "wannabe Jabbawockee." (My friends either laughed too hard and couldn't whip out their cameras in time, or they laughed too hard and couldn't hold steady their camera phones.) Either way, the only documentation I have are the videos I took before I hit the dance floor. Please enjoy!



Best musical performance:

Maroon 5 at the dude ranch, where not even the 30+ heat-lamps could have kept me warm, (but Adam Levine's voice sure did!!!).

Best "meandering mind" moment:

On Friday night, I briefly sat with Yao and his wife Li for a bit by the pool at the Valley Ho hotel. I warmed my hands by a blazing fire and wondered whether all Chinese people are related somehow, through some crazy, long-spanning family tree. Then I pondered whether a "tall" gene lies dormant in my DNA, and whether a growth spurt was in my near future. Then I imagined that my kids would be tall, and how surprised my friends and family would be if I punched out a few 7-footers. I smiled to myself, lost in my own thoughts. Then Yao and Li got up and left.

Best "what happens at all-star, stays at all-star" moment:

Best happy ending:

On my last day in Phoenix, I had a few hours to kill before I needed to leave for the airport. So I turned on my TV and browsed the "Still in theaters" movies. To my surprise and delight, TWILIGHT was on this list! I ordered the flick and spent my last few hours in Phoenix having breakfast in bed and watching Cedric Diggory of Harry Potter attempt to play Edward Cullen of Forks, WA!!!

PACKING, PARENTHESES, and PROCRASTINATION

Packing for Phoenix tops my list of weekend chores. But I'm a master procrastinator when it comes to packing. I can't start until my sense of urgency becomes a state of panic and I'm forced to whip through my closet like a twister that sucks everything up and scatters it back down. It's my most dreaded task. It's like opening Pandora's box of mental disorders. As soon as I zip open my suitcase, I unleash manic OCD and adult ADHD. My focus gets foggy. I try on different outfits. With different shoes. With different jewelry. With different bras and panties. I decide to wash the tank top I want to wear under my BCBG suit. I start a load of whites.

As my clothes swish and swirl in the washer, I try on my skinny jeans -- (just for fun) -- since they're stashed in the far corner of my closet next to my high school pictures. (This corner is marked in my mind as "Things I Never Want to See Again.") I slip my right leg into my skinny jeans, then my left. I'm happily surprised(!); by some miracle, they fit! I decide to try on all the jeans in my arsenal to see what else works. Some slide on like a glove; others take a little negotiating (i.e. tugging, jumping, stretching, grunting and tears). I decide it's no biggie -- nothing that a few weeks on a treadmill and my exercise ball can't fix.

I ponder the whereabouts of my exercise ball. I find it stashed under a layer of clean clothes. I clear it off and sit down. It sags a few inches too low to the floor. I refuse to believe it's because of me. I get up and hunt for my air pump. While searching I find the right side of my thin black stocking. I gladly return it to its partner. My sock drawer is in a sad state. The white work-out socks contrast against the striped toe socks. I re-org ASAP. I finish -- every sock now has a partner and is arranged by type, color, and thickness of material. I glance at my open (still empty) suitcase. It taunts me. I shudder. It reminds me of the giant, man-eating plant from The Little Shop of Horrors. "FEED ME!! FEEEED ME!!!" I hate that movie. I hear the washer click to a stop. I go and check my laundry.

Somehow a tricky napkin, business card or equally easily-disintegrating material snuck into my heap of dirty clothes then pulverized into lint, matting EVERYTHING down in flaky, white fuzz. My favorite Bob Marley shirt will never be the same. I furrow my brow in frustration. I put my clothes in the dryer and hope the lint filter will do its job. I remove the lint screen -- it's caked in fuzz. Gross. The fuzz falls to the floor. Double gross. I reach for my broom and start sweeping. My broom is dirty. I clean off the bristles with my hand duster. I chuckle. I feel like Danny Tanner.

I glance at my empty suitcase and the clothes strewn across my bed. I pause and ponder packing again, but decide it's time for dinner. I chat with Chris and heat up tomato soup with a cheese quesadilla. I wonder whether it's a weird mix. I ask Chris. He says I should eat whatever sounds good to me. I am happy again.

I enjoy my dinner and upload pictures from today. (The girls and I brunched, then watched "He's Just Not That Into You.") I laugh at the video of us singing "Happy Birthday" to Meagan. I laugh especially at the server who catcalls Meagan's name during the song. He "cracks" me up. (Now I'm recalling our funny convo about people who use "quotations" and (parentheses) incorrectly.) I'm still laughing outloud. BTW - Happy (almost) Birthday, "Meagan!"







I've filled up on soup; but my suitcase is still empty. I sigh. I shrug. I glance at the ticking clock. It's 9:55 pm. So here I am again, "packing."