And This One Belongs To The Reds

Dear Reds,

Just when I start to eat my helmet sundae and not pay attention, you go and pull another one out in the bottom of the ninth. No one can make me double high-five like you can.

LaRue, you know I love you like no other Red, and you know I loathe those other catchers who keep you from the field, but tonight, I had to give it up for Ross. And Dunn, you big hunk of man meat, you drop the bomb on me like you dropped that bomb into the left field seats tonight. And I love every inch of your sweaty, 275 pound manliness. (Call me.)

Also, you guys might want to give me free tickes to the rest of your games, because the last two I've attended you've pulled out thrilling wins in the ninth. I've high-fived strangers because of it!

Darlings, you thrill me.

xoxo,
Gina

Last Night's Dream

John Cusack and I were chatting, just a foot or two from each other's faces. Wherever we were was well lit because his face was very clear and in the dream I concentrated solely on his face.

I was telling him about my first iMovie. I was being self-depricating about it, saying how it was just an iMovie but that I had a lot of fun working on it. Which led us to talk about movies in general, and I told him I wasn't a big fan of Clerks II. (Which is true. I saw it Friday night and I thought it kinda sucked. Though there were a few funny lines.)

He told me he didn't much care for it either and in the dream I started thinking that we had to be soulmates since we both didn't like Clerks II.

Then I told him how I've been "struggling" to find another iMovie subject and that I would need to enlist friends to execute any future ideas. I went on to tell him how I've been a huge fan of his since Better Off Dead. But I refrained from quoting any of his famous lines because I thought people probably did that all the time when met him so I was calculating how I'd be "different."

Then John Cusack told me he'd love to be in my next iMovie and that he'd do some acting for me, or I could just film him doing whatever and use it in my iMovie. I was completely elated. Then I gave him my blog address so he could watch my first movie.

It was a good dream.

Find out which John Cusack you are with this fun quiz. I'm Rob Gordon: Lovesick, stuck in the past but with a kick-ass record collection.

New Hobby Alert

No one is safe!

A few days ago I got the very tiny, very clandestine PureDigital point and shoot camcorder, which allows me to take videos with this little beauty no bigger (or heavier) than an iPod.

Needless to say, I've been busy uploading to YouTube.

Last night Paul and I spent three hours making my first full-lenth iMovie (three hours for four minutes of entertainment), which consists mostly of Ronson talking about his new haircut and Rob pornographically eating ice-cream.

It goes without saying that the movie is pretty awesome.

Now the trick is to find more subjects who want to appear in my D-movies.

So far, the cats seem willing subjects and were the stars of my first experiments with iMovie. The film consisted of them meowing into the camera while "Damn It Feels Good to be a Gangsta" played.

Go Mud Hens!

I ordered a box of checks a while back and when the lady asked me what kind I wanted, I told her just the plain ones.

You know, the plain ones. The ones without cartoons, dolphins, watermark swirls and decorative borders. There are no sunrises I want to see on my checks and no teams I'm interested in supporting.

Or is there?

Apparently there is, because when my box o' checks arrived, each one had a Toledo Muds Hens logo on them. At first I thought it was an ad. You know, like, Your next box of checks can have a cool logo like this one! But no, that wasn't the case. Every check in the box had a angry looking Mud Hen (whatever that is) holding a bat.

I'd never heard of the Toledo Mud Hens before. I've since learned they are a minor league ball team. (Sometimes when I tell this story to people I accidentally call them the Toledo Mud Heels.)

Briefly I thought about calling the bank, just to tell them they had made a mistake. But I thought, Eh well, so I love the Toledo Mud Hens, it could be worse.

Partying Like It's June 21

Nothing says summer solstice party like Kevin raising a yellow gourd, Kari and Kelly dancing in the kitchen and Ronson and Paul ( or should I say Cole?) talking soccer.

I woke up today just before noon, still feeling drunk. How did I get home?

My sincerest apologies to anyone who tried the swill I tried to pass off as wine. God it was terrible. Yet somehow delicious when mixed with Chianti. Two reds that made a right!

Happy Summer Solstice.

Careful Out There

I was in Bruegger's earlier this week when a girl passed out and collapsed onto the floor. She was fine. But she knocked over the chips on her way down.

For a moment I thought she might really be in trouble. She was not of this world. But within a few minutes she was having some water and chatting with EMTs. Then she went traipsing down Fourth Street like nothing happened.

Crazy.

Ready To Rumble

I tried to steer clear of the outcome of the Vargas vs. Mosley fight last weekend. But when Sunday morning came, it was killing me not to know. I was rooting for Fernando Vargas after their bout a few months ago was called because Shane Mosley pounded a knot the size of a lemon on Vargas' orbital bone (see photo).

I ended up accidentally on purpose finding out that Mosley won in the sixth of the rematch. I was so disappointed.

I love boxing. It can be brutal and sometimes difficult to watch, but it's pure. The Sweet Science of bruising. I like it probably because my dad and I would watch it when I was in high school. If we didn't get the heavy-weight fights on Pay Per View, we'd go over to one of my dad's friends who did.

On Sunday I finally got to see how Mosley won.

Vargas didn't even show up for the fight. He was slow, lethargic, barely able to throw a punch, let alone land one. Mosley looked good, though how could he not? He was practically in the ring by himself.

In the end, Mosley hit Vargas right on the button. You can beat a man to a pulp, swell his eye shut and bloody his face and there will still be plenty of fight in him. But hit him on the chin and it's over. Vargas went down easy. He wobbled around and tried to get up, but that was it.

Six rounds. Glad I saved the $50 and caught it a week later. But I had to convince myself of that last weekend.

You Cannot Touch The Mango

Ray and Susie came to visit today and bring back my porch swing my dad made. He'd taken it back to Indiana a few weeks ago to fix a cracked board and paint it.

I'm writing a cover piece on the Cincinnati Art Museum's 125th anniversary, and since my mom said she'd never seen an original piece of art, I took them for a Sunday tour.

My dad wandered off as I was pointing out the Monet and Van Gogh to my mom. So when I needed to check out the Sean Scully exhibition, I told my mom to find dad and show him the Van Gogh.

"The mango?" she said.

Sheesh.

"No. The Van Gogh," I told her.

A little while later I found them and tracked down the Warhol of Pete Rose for them to see.

"Man, that's something, huh," my dad said. "I'll tell ya, that little girl eating porridge was real. Her eyes followed me wherever I went."

He was talking about Adolphe Bouguereau's Girl Eating Porridge.

Kitty In The Paper

Pop Vulture closed in on Cassady, one badass cat from Mt. Lookout.

A highlight:

Q: Cassady, what was the last good movie you saw?
A: I haven't been to the movies in a while - too busy sleeping. Though I am looking forward to the cat-remake of M. Night Shyamalan's Lady in the Water, Kitty in the Litter. I have some indie friends who do some crazy sh— with iMovie.

Enjoy.

Hot, Firey Action

This morning as I was pulling onto Golden Avenue there were two firetrucks parked alongside the road. One of the trucks had its hose connected to a fire hydrant and there were about 10 firefighters milling about. A cop car was behind them with its lights on.

The hose was stretched across the road and before I ran over it, I wanted to make sure it'd be OK, so I slowed down and waited for one of the firefighters to give me a nod.

A man in probably his 40s waved me through. He was sweaty and tan and the wrinkles at the sides of his eyes were so deep they looked streaked white in contrast to the rest of his face.

I gave him a wave and a nod and passed through. He crinkled his wrinkles with a smile.

"Hmmm," I thought. "They must be draining that fire hydrant. Or whatever firefighters do when they're milling about."

Turns out, a house across the street from my apartment complex burned down at 3 a.m. this morning. Apparently the second floor collapsed as firefighters were battling the blaze.

Now, explain to me how a fire can engulf a house across the street, causing at least two firehouses in Cincinnati to respond, and I don't even stir. Not so much as a "Mmmph. I'm tired. Are those sirens? Oh well."

Nope. Slept like a baby. Woke up around 8:45 to my CD alarm clock groovin' to "Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing."

That's the most interesting thing that's happened on Golden Avenue since the Audi girl's boyfriend jumped her car over the concrete and got it stuck on the embankment. I thought for sure it was going to slide down the hill, nosedive into the pavement and crash at the bottom. She ended up getting it towed out, after her man sheered the bottom of it off, nearly wrenched it into the Jeep beside her and grinded the gears out of it.

Damn that was funny.

Caption Contest

I'll start:

"The Purple People Bridge Climb: We'll put your ass in a sling."

"As effective as The Pill, but more stylish."

"Look out Project Runway, this suit's fly."

Enter as many times as you like.

Just Call Me Ginogrosso

My bitter disappointment that my first World Cup would be won by either of two insufferable teams, Italy or France, dissipated as soon as the whistle blew. I was hoping to see the French fall. (If they loathe Lance, then I loathe them.)

Like all the World Cup games I’ve watched over the last month, I was not disappointed.

The final had everything: Bad calls that led to penalty kicks that led to an unearned goal; Oscar worthy injury performances; a vicious head butt to the chest (!); and a heart-pounding shoot-out to end it.

It was 120 minutes of beautiful sport. Reminding me once again that there is nothing better in this world than to be young, and strong, and fast.

And let’s talk about the ridiculous good looks of many of these players. Meow! The tattoos running up the inside of their forearms and biceps rocks my world (cup)!

Picture This...

...Only without the brown shoes and white bra. This is what I'll look like walking down the aisle in front of Jen next month, with the dress hemmed to about where I'm holding it.

And this is what Jen will look like, only without the flashbulb popping in front her face.

My Blog, Or Whatever

My dad happily reported to Jen that the bathroom is fixed and he and my mom are no longer having to go to Wal-Mart to relieve themselves. Here are they deep in conversation about hostas, or some other such vegetation.

"Do you love digging in the dirt and getting your fingernails all dirty," my dad hopefully, and excitedly asked Jen.

"I do!" she told him. And the gardening discussion was on.

On the way home my mom attempted to get me in trouble with him by saying, "Gina writes articles about us on her blog and probably all of Cincinnati knows we didn't have a toilet for three days."

"Well that's allright," he said. "I'm happy to get into her blog, or whatever."

Plastic Fantastic

It was exciting at first. Coming in on a red-eye flight from Denver, I saw the lights of Vegas creep up on my plane window and I felt the excitement well up in me. This is it, I thought. Finally. Vegas, baby. Vegas.

I decided the next morning to head out onto the strip and take it all in. I got so far as the Sphinx in front our hotel.

There were a dozen or so tourists out taking photos of it, and I stood there trying to figure out what was interesting about it. Usually, I'll take pictures of anything. But this, meh. I had no desire to take a photo of the big, fiberglass, day-glo blue trimmed Sphinx.

And that kind of sums up my general feelings about Las Vegas. Eh.

I feel like a failure for not loving it. Tell someone you don't like ice-cream and they'll think you're freakish, but they'll forgive you. Tell someone you're unimpressed by giant fiberglass Sphinxes, and Vegas as a whole, and they're likely to have you carted off by men in white coats.

Then they'll tell you all the reasons they loved it and why you're lame because you didn't: You didn't gamble enough. You didn't drink enough. You weren't with enough people.

But truly, the lights are the best part. If you've seen one casino, you've seen them all. They're like bowling alleys - smoky and sad with bad '80s carpet. Only they're worse, because you can't get out of them. I spent hours walking listlessly through casinos looking for the way out. Like department stores and malls, they're intentionally disorienting.

And the spectacle - or what I thought would be the spectacle - of casinos and pyramid shaped hotels, scaled eiffel towers, roller coasters and fake New York City skylines, all of it was so... plastic and ordinary. Dare I call Las Vegas boring? I dare!

I was trying to explain my feelings about it to a friend of mine last week when he asked me if I thought Vegas was as ridiculous and garish as the giant Jesus on I-75.

"Ridiculous! Are you kidding me," I said. "That Jesus is awesome. I'd take my picture with that fiberglass beauty anyday. Sheesh. I can't even believe I'm friends with you."

Barf-A-Rama

I've gone months, years even, without seeing someone throw-up. But today I saw two people vomiting.

The first was David Beckham during the England versus Ecuador match. I could watch him toss his cookies onto the pitch all day, I decided.

And the second was some poor girl who was heaving into the grass at the outlet mall in Jeffersonville.

Some days you just get lucky. And some days you get lucky enough to see David Beckham bent over, with that sweet ass in the air. Yes please!

Grrr Is For Ghana

Ugh! It was so frustrating watching the US vs. Ghana World Cup match this morning.

How big does the hole in front of the net need to be before you shoot the damn ball? Geezuz.

And let’s talk about flopping. How un-American and unseemly.

When Americans get hurt during games, they really get hurt. Bone-crushing, ACL-tearing, concussion getting hurt. They’re certainly not lying on the grass clutching their shin, wincing and whining to get a penatly. And when American’s are carted off the field on a stretcher, they don’t jump back into the game 12 seconds later.

But back to the playing.

When Clint Dempsey scored the only U.S. goal, the packed house at McFadden’s errupted, with strangers slapping double-high fives and cheering and clapping. During the at least half dozen replays, everyone got excited all over again and would cheer each time. It was fun.

But that was the only time the U.S. stretched the back of the net.

By the end it was painful for me watch the U.S. squander its ample opportunities to score again. Mostly I stood there saying, “It’s so painful. So painful. JUST SHOOT THE DAMN BALL!”

Wal-Mart: More Than Low Prices

The bathroom floor in my parent’s house has been slowly but surely sinking.

Whenever I would go home, it was more and more dangerous to step too close to the toilet or put all your weight down too near it because there was the real possibility that you could go through the floor.

My dad finally got around tearing up the floor last week, and told me that the water damage was far worse that he’d expected. Though I’m not sure how this is possible considering nearly everyone who went in there would come out and say, “Your floor is about fall through.”

Dad and his friend Willie fixed the leak and built a new floor, and mom picked out new tile. The tile was supposed to arrive three days ago. It didn’t. So they have no toilet for three days.

Where are they using the bathroom, you wonder? Me too.

“At Wal-Mart,” my mom said.

“But where are you going in the morning when you have to go really bad. Or what if there is an emergency,” I asked.

“Wal-Mart,” she said.

I asked my dad why they don’t just use the neighbors’ toilet.

“Mmm. I don’t want to do that. For one thing, I don’t want to track through their house. Besides that, Marianne is always about half drunk and Tom’s house is kind of dirty.”

But Wal-Mart is just a mile away.

Oh Snap!

Of all the things I saw in Vegas, this sign was my favorite.

It totally cracks me up. It's the mustache. And the question the sign raises: What's he snapping about? What is it in Mandalay Bay that makes this Latin honey snap his fingers?

The reason the commercials say, 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas' is because nothing actually happens and they don't want the word to get out. At least nothing was particularly crazy during my stay. Just ringing slot machines and shiny facades rising out of the dessert.

The craziest thing I saw in Vegas was Bob Roncker. I was getting out of a cab at the Las Vegas airport when I looked out of the window and there stood Bob at the curbside check-in. He and Joe were in town for an Asics conference and the three of us shared the same flight schedule back to Dayton.

Bob refused to let me pay for my sandwich during our two-hour Denver layover, and the three of us sat watching the World Cup and chatting about running shoes.

Crazy!

Like Peas and Carrots

My friend Mike got married last weekend, and I made the trek over state lines to watch.

It was my first Jewish ceremony, and it was incredible.

There was a time, when we were both just out of college and living in Virginia, that Mike and I were like peas and carrots. We ate dinner together most nights, stayed up late writing cover letters and drove into West Virginia to go to a sketchy bar/dance club to get down.

It always surprises me when someone surmises something about me I haven't before noticed. But this weekend, my Tall Drink of Water pointed out that I never think the people who marry my friends are good enough.

"No I don't," I said.

"You always say, 'She's lucky to have him' or 'He's lucky to have her,'" he said.

Hmmm. It's true. I do always say that.

Not that I don't think Mike's new bride is good enough, but if I were to, say, pick out a woman for him, she'd probably be a cancer-curing supermodel who hung on his every word.

Vegas, baby. Vegas.

This blog is on vacation in Fabulous Las Vegas.

Wow. No Really. Wow.

Sunday's dance retical was brought you by Kentucky's finest - bourbon. Cut with a little water and served in a Gatorate bottle, my fellow dancer, Jane (not pictured), kindly passed it around.

I helped myself to a few swigs to take the edge off.

I was more nervous than I thought I'd be back stage - wringing my hands and biting my fingernails. (What else is new?) And during the first tap dance, I had a few moments of "What the hell is the next step? Crap. I'm just gonna stand here smiling until I figure it out."

During the kick line, the audience started clapping and I sort of stopped kicking. Like, "Hey, that's all for me folks! I'm going out on a high note!"

But by the second and third dances, my nerves had calmed and I was on FIRE! Fo' real. I remembered all the steps, added a little extra hip to the jazz moves and embraced center stage during the second tap dance.

It was almost as for real as these costumes.

Susan here, whom you may remember from the CiN Weekly story Bye Bye Batwings, did all sorts of saucy moves that many of you, had you seen it, would not have been disappointed. I sure wasn't!

For those of you who didn't attend the big recital (which is all of you), I'll be having a special DVD showing in July when the video comes in.

Hot!

Last weekend I went home to Indiana for the first time since Christmas.

I'm ashamed to admit that I hadn't been to visit my parents, just three hours away, since December. So I used the long Memorial Day weekend to my advantage and even spend the night! Shocking, I know.

It was about 900 degrees and my dad decided that the window that the air conditioner is in HAD to be cleaned. So he took the A/C out and proceeded to spend the afternoon wiping down the windows and putting the A/C back in. He was right - the window did need cleaned.

I thought this photo of him was hilarious. That's the housing of the A/C, without the A/C in it. I never realized that some window units aren't one piece. Crazy.

This weekend will be a whirlwind.

Tomorrow morning is my dance recital rehearsal at 9, then I have soccer at 11. (I'm spent just thinking about it.)

Sunday is the big dance recital, which I've decided to dance in. My class has been ramping up all week for the stage with extra practices. Though I'm not sure it's helped me any.

I'm getting ready to practice right now in my kitchen while I wait for my soccer clothes to dry.

Sound Advice

This afternoon I interviewed Wall Street Journal reporter Dorothy Rabinowitz.

I rarely get nervous before interviews, but I was a bit nervous today before calling her because, well, she's a columnist for the Wall Street Journal and she's a Pulitzer Prize winner. In fact, she's the only Pulitzer Prize winner I've ever interviewed - or even talked to - I'm sure.

She won the Pulitzer in 2001 for commentary, mostly for columns about people wrongly accused of crimes. You can read the pieces here.

After a few questions I relaxed and she also became more open and conversational. I of course found her wildly entertaining. She must be at least in her 60s.

Anyway, we were discussing what journalists love to discuss: The supposed any-day-now demise of newspapers and the fact that advertisers are leaving them.

I told her it is worrisome for me. She agreed that it is very worrisome.

Then she said: "But if I were you, my dear, I would write more and worry less."

Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty

Free zoos rule!

When I found out the Lincoln Park Zoo was free I anticipated some stray dogs, maybe some kittens napping on each other and perhaps a bear.

Instead I found this gorgeous beast. He was in a cage by himself, and of course I felt a little bad for him that he wasn't out stalking prey on the veldt. But a few cages down was a lion and lioness, who were taking turns roaring, which I'd never seen before, and their roaring made the tiger roar too.

They were very passionate cats.

It's the closest I've ever been to these big kitties. They were only about ten feet away, with no glass between us. It was pretty cool.

Here's a crappy picture. The lighting was low and my hand wasn't steady enough to keep the shutter open long enough to take a decent photo.

In other whirlwind weekend news, Jen and Pat got officially engaged, which was why I was in Chicago. Apart from the engagement and tiger, my next favorite part of the weekend was the pizza pot pie I ate at Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinders.

Hello? Pizza pot pie... Best food ever.

AND... drum roll... we won our first soccer game!

To Move Or Not To Move

The first night I came to my apartment to see it after I signed the lease, there was water leaking from the light fixture and onto the floor in the foyer.

Months later during a heavy rain, my apartment sprang about a dozen leaks, with water coming up through the floor in the living room and closet, seeping through the drywall and light switches, even down through the ceiling fan.

I called the fat perv of a maintenance man and he gleefully came down to have a look-see and then asked, "What do you want me to do, hold an umbrella over the roof?"

He was soon replaced by another maintenance guy, who had high hopes of fixing the problem. The funny thing is, I live on the fourth floor of a seven floor building, but neither of my neighbors' apartments leak, only the crazy lady downstairs, and they fixed her leaking pretty early on.

Over the last year or so, these leaks have occurred with varying degrees of magnitude. Sometimes there's a lot of water and it smells really bad, other times there's just a little water.

I lovingly call my apartment The Maxi-Pad. Because it's super-absorbant.

Granted, there should be no water at all, but I've gotten kind of used to fearing heavy rains. Besides, the worthless yet genial rental girl knocks my rent in half whenever it happens. So it's saved me a lot of money, really. But it's also caused me a lot of grief. Fortunately it hasn't damaged any of my belongings, but my couch has gotten plenty wet. But it's been shredded by my cats, as well, so it's not like I care much what happens to it anymore.

The last time it leaked, a few months ago, it was really bad, like it was raining inside my apartment. So they replaced the horrible, indoor/outdoor type crap carpet that was in here with some really nice plush carpet. I was pleased. And the new maintenance guy stuck all sorts of stuff on the deck above mine to stop the water from coming in. So far so good.

I told them then though that I wanted another apartment. I couldn't deal with it anymore.

The rental girl called me last week to tell me another apartment on my floor, exactly like mine, will be open soon and I do I want to move into it? I told her I'd think about it.

It's very likely my apartment will leak again. (Which is really unfortunate with the new carpet and all.) But I really hate moving, which is why I've been tolerating this all this time. It's traumatizing for me. I've had some pretty rough days in my life, and I can truthfully say that some of them have been moving days.

Even though I'd be moving only a few doors down, I'd have to pack up my stuff, move it myself (it's not like they're going to hire movers for me), change my address, magazine subscriptions, cable, Internet, phone, etc., and then unpack. It would take up a weekend that I don't really have the inclination to fill with the tediousness of moving. And like I said, it really is somewhat traumatizing for me.

I haven't gotten back to the rental girl yet. I guess I'm still "thinking it over."

Right now, it is either thundering or the Reds hit a home run. I've got my fingers crossed for the latter.

Saturday Soccer

I whiff the ball three times for every one time I kick it.

But I'm really good at posing for pictures after games.

When I'm not whiffing and posing during games, I'm team photographer. Some of my finest work is on the The Kicking Kincades soccer blog.

Dance Class Costume. Discuss.

I’m thinking about not attending my dance class recital.

On the way to Starbucks with Kelly, Mike and Jon this week, I told them the story of how I don’t want to go because no one I know will be there.

The reason no one I know will be there is because I won't let anyone go. The costume is too ridiculous.

Kelly said she was surprised that I would worry what others thought of the costume. Her opinion was that I should own the look, no matter how heinous, and attend the recital.

Jon said the costume is just an excuse for not wanting to dance in the recital in the first place.

Mike said if the costume makes me uncomfortable, and clearly it does, then I shouldn’t go it if I don't want to.

It’s not bad enough that I danced at the Florence Mall wearing mariboo around my neck. That I can live with. Mostly because I was also wearing black pants and a long-sleeved shirt, and even though it had mariboo pinned around the scoop neck, it wasn’t too horrible.

But this. This awful, black, velvet body suit with the shiny pumpkin orange upper, not to mention the diamond studs, it’s just so bad. So very bad.

The capper is that for tap (of which there are two dances), we’ll be wearing an equally terrible black velvet fringed skirt. For hip hop, there are black velvet pants.

I’ve tried it on, and yes, it does look that bad.

The problem with dance classes is that the costumes haven’t progressed since I first started. In the third grade.

It’s not that I’m so vain that I can’t allow my friends to see me in it, it’s just that I’m not in the third grade anymore.

Initially I thought I’d dance in the recital, wear the outfit and just not invite anyone. But that’s no fun. I at least want someone I know to see the moves that months of dance class has got me.

But at what cost? At what cost I ask you.

Lucky shot, eh?

Suegus and Doogus kissing, just after being pronounced husband and wife.

Yay!

Public Service Announcement

Beware of this guy at Clearwater Beach. He is armed, with a camera (see his right hand), and takes pictures of all large breasted women in bikinis who come near him.

Needless to say, I wasn't worried for myself.

A woman with a pretty rockin' bod was on a towel near mine with her boyfriend and at one point Ol' Lech here walked over closer to her with his camera aimed right at her. It was brazen. But when her man sat up and caught him, he skittered away.

Just to ruin his fun, I would sit up and block his camera view of her when he'd try to photos while she was lying down. Whenever I'd sit up, he'd give up until I layed back down.

It was pretty shocking, really. Sort of.

Sick Mac

Poor iBook. For the last two months it's been tethered to the outlet. The battery won't recharge anymore yet the computer still thinks its fully charged. So sad.

I took it to the genius bar in it's gorgeous pink little Timbuk2 laptop bag to get it fixed last week. I was all excited to get home from Tampa and hopefully have it back, but no, it's not ready yet. I even called the Apple store twice yesterday to see if it was ready to bring home.

I'm nothing without my iBook.

Stay tuned for exciting photos from Florida and Sue's wedding! But of course, there will be no photos of lecherous fat men on the beach until I get my Mac back.

Horrible Soccer Injury!

Allright, so it's not really horrible. Or even an injury for that matter. But look, you can see the seams of the ball imprinted into my leg.

It's funny. You know how usually when you get hit, it hurts really bad for a few days whenever you touch it but it doesn't leave a mark? God I hate that, because it's like you're whining about an injury you don't really have because people can't see it.

In the case of the soccer ball imprint, it stung pretty bad when I got whacked, and there are still red lines and bruise marks on my leg where the seams were on the ball, but oddly, it doesn't hurt. No internal brusing at all. It's like skin injury.

I'll take what I can get.

I was hoping there would be another similar mark on my right arm from when I body blocked a different flying pass. It hurt pretty bad, but alas, it left no lasting imprint.

That's my contribution to defense: Block the ball with my soft tissue and hope it bounces off me in the general direction of our goal. (Being that I have no dribbling, running or technical soccer skills.)

FYI

Home brew is combustable, my dad told me last night.

"In case you've been meanin' to make any," he said.

Let's Glow Girls!

The shelves are glowing at Target, awash in daily moisturizers that also have self-tanners in them.

And I can't get enough!

Over the last few weeks I've been obsessed (you could call it my new hobby) with trying the different types.

Here are my very unscientific thoughts on three of them.


Neutrogena Summer Glow
Me and Neutrogena Summer Glow are like peas and carrots. Like peanut butter and chocolate. Thickern thieves we are.
It was the package that attracted me yet made me question how effective it could be. How could a product advertising itself as a moisturizer with self tanner not be copper or bronze like all the other lotions with tanner?
Didn't Neutrogena do focus groups and product testing with the public to realize that people only associate self tanners with bronze packaging? Apparently not.
But I bought it anyway, doubting my decision all the way through the checkout line. But I love it!
The smell is subtle (a big plus), and is a bit like baby powder. The lotion is fast drying so you're not still sticky after it dries and it leaves a subtle yet noticable amount of color. I've been using it the last few days on my face, and not to brag or anything, but I've gotten several compliments. (Ok the compliments were from girls, but girls notice stuff like that.) The color would likely be too subtle for someone with darker skin, but for fair and medium tones, Summer Glow is where it's at.


L'Oreal Sublime Glow
Before Neutrogena Summer Glow came into my life, I was singing the praises of Sublime Glow. But it was one of those things where you fall in love fast, ignoring the irritating things, then you realize that something is amiss. Sublime Glow smells nice enough, a kind of a sweet, thick smell, but what I kind of hate about it but didn't notice at first is the way it sticks to your skin long after you've rubbed it in and it has dried. I feel like I'm salve collecting dust and small insects when I'm wearing it, and it feels like my clothes are sticking to me.
The color is great, though, which is why I ignored the faults at first. It's a natural color, not orange or streaky, and aside from a few blotches around my knees and elbows, it developed pretty evenly.
I used it one day last week and let it dry several minutes before dressing to see if the stickiness lessened, but no. After about an hour or so, though, I either forgot about it or it absored enough into my skin that the stickiness went away.
Either way, I still use it and am a pretty big fan. I've been using both Neutrogena Summer Glow and L'Oreal Sublime Glow back and forth and can't decide if Sublime Glow gives me more color or if that's just my perception because I used it first and had such good results or if it's because the packaging is bronze and therefore I think it makes me darker. (Ahhh packaging.)


Jergens Natural Glow
Jergens Natural Blow is more like it. This one came out last year and launched lotion tanning boom. The tan with this one was fine, a light, non-orange type tan, but I could not get get over the smell. At first I thought it was OK, but then it really started stinking like regular self-tanner and I couldn't wait to wash off. I felt like I was walking around emanating that tannic, self-tanner smell. Because I was.
If you can handle the smell, by all means. Otherwise, leave this one the shelf.

Discuss

What is the sound of one cat napping?

Home Brew From The Hollow Tree

Conversations with my dad last usually only a few minutes and consist mostly of my dad telling me how hard he's been working.

"Yep, I've been pretty busy. Why, just today I washed the dishes and drove over to Lowe's," he will say. "I'll tell ya, I don't get no rest."

It's almost always my mom that calls, and, like I said, I'll chat with my dad for a minute or two, but it's my mom that gives me the family updates, chit-chats about what she's read in the Marion paper and who I went to high school with that now works at the mall or at her doctor's office.

But yesterday, my dad called and left a message.

"Gina. It's dad. Call me."

I could tell by his voice it wasn't any cause for alarm. But it's always interesting when it's him that calls.

The last time he called I spent 20 minutes on the Internet looking for hinges and latches so he could build his own poolstick case. When I told him I couldn't find just the hardware, I suggested he buy a case already made.

"I've already got one already made. I wanted to make my own, see."

That's sort of his thing, too, in addition to sounding wiped out about how busy he is, he's a woodworker by hobby and is always embarking on something new to build. He's built gun cabinets, knife cases, toy boxes and gliders, but mostly he makes porch swings and cedar chests.

But I digress.

Last night I called him back.

"What happened to Don Gullett," he wanted to know.

"Who the hell's Don Gullett? I've never heard of anyone named Don Gullett."

"The Reds pitching coach," he said.

"Oh. I don't know. He guess got fired or something. We got some new owners. I'll found out for you."

Somewhere between talking about the Reds and talking about how busy he is, we got to talking about drinking, which is kind of unusual. Kind of.

"You know who can tip it back, the hard stuff I'm tellin' you... Your aunt Wanz," he said.

That's my aunt Wanda who's about 65 now.

"There was an old hollowed out tree where papaw and dad kept their home brew, and we all decided one day we were gonna try it," he said.

I start to giggle at this point. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, he gets on a roll with these old stories of growing up in Kentucky, where his dad and grandfather were tobacco farmers who drank all the time.

"How old were you," I wanted to know.

"I don't know. About 11 or 12. Anyway, me, and Ada and Wanz and Jean all met at the tree to get the home brew."

"What's home brew? Is that like moonshine," I asked. I was thinking it was moonshine because my dad's uncle Badger was a moonshiner in Bath County around that time. (Interesting side note: My great uncle Bagder's son, Bob Daugherty, is the director of the Associated Press's state photo center in Washington, D.C. All the AP photos you see in the paper goes through his office. Pretty cool, I think.)

"No, it's a malt liquor," he said. "Malt and yeast and you put it in a about a five gallon crock and let it sit there for a week. The longer it sits the stronger it gets. And there's a scum, a film that forms on top of it, and you take your hand and skin it back. And it draws flies and gnats real bad."

He paused for effect.

"Oh, it's a lot fun to drink. It's not illegal like moonshine. Moonshine, it's too long a process, and you have to have a good supply of water and heat."

He went on:

"It'll get ya drunkern a dog and sickern a mule. That's right. Papaw would say, I ain't gonna drink home brew no more. Then he'd say, We got any more, boy? Anyway, me and my three sisters were gonna try it. Now, your aunt Wanz, I ain't lyin' to ya, she can drink that hard stuff. But your aunt Ada, I'll tell you what, you've not seen a rubber ball bounce back faster than that home brew came back up. Nothin's ever been returned that fast. I bet it didn't even hit her stomach."

"Were you able to drink it," I asked him.

"I've never been able to drink hard stuff. And I can't chug or shoot anything either."

I called him back today to tell him that Don Gullet got fired along with Dave Miley last year.

"Guess it's a little late to send my condolences, huh? Oh well. I'm pretty busy right now. I'm peeling potatoes. Here's your mom."

My Blood Is Poison

It's toxic to anyone but me. It has alarm bells. Flashing lights that warn others. It comes with its own security system.

Tonight I learned that I cannot donate blood. Ever. Which was only somewhat shocking.

I had suspected that I would throw up red flags on blood center questionaires. (Or maybe that was just wishful thinking to avoid further needles...)

But it was confirmed tonight when I read the contraindications for donating blood. I'm bad news. Poison. My blood is too hard core, and when you get to the core, that's hard too.

So much for my lofty Thursday evening of donating blood, drinking juice and eating cookies and learning my blood type. (Don't people who know their blood type say it all smug, like they're in on some secret? It's weird.)

I'm kind of sad about it, really. I was thinking of how useful my blood was going to be, how someone was going to be really grateful to get it, how my blood was going to perform like champ. Like the best blood ever! Who ever got it was going to wake up and be like, "Wow! I feel terrific! I've never felt better in my whole life!"

My blood is going to need therapy after this blow to the hemoglobin.

I'm going to eat cookies and drink juice anyway, though. Besides, I hear science is making great strides with artificial blood. So you all you blood-type knowing, blood donating smug bastards can piss off! (But you should donate blood first, just in case that whole artificial blood thing doesn't pan out.)

The Horror. The Horror.

This, my friends, is the look of real fear.

Fear at the prospect of having to eat a veggie dog from Great American Ball Park. My face is like something out of psycho. The camera truly captured how loathesome I was to take a bite. At the time I think I was saying something like, "But I don't want to... It's not funny... You try it!"

See how the dog is all gnarled and jagged? (Click on the photo for a bigger, scarier view.) That's because the soy doesn't separate, even when you pull it apart, or bite it.

And note how it's blocky, like it was squished through a square tube instead of a round one. And the color was streaky, like fake tan stuff, only red instead of orange.



In this picture I am less horrified because I hadn't yet bit into it.

Oddly enough, it did actually taste like a hot dog, though the consistency was like Styrofoam. When I bit into it, it kind of sprung back.

Bulls and Girls

Finally, my dream of boozing at Bobby Mackey's in Wilder came true last night.

My hope was for drunken fights. Shit kickin'. Ten-gallon cowboy hats and Durangos.

But alas... It was a pretty calm Saturday night in Kentucky. Though we did get to see a lot of people flung off this here bull. Which was pretty fun.

We didn't ride it, but Kari and I got the closest with this picture.

(Half the) Team Photo

If it's not 40 and snowing it's 80 and humid.

But I did get two goals. (And by goals I mean we were playing half field and I don't think there was a goalie.)

But whatever.

Come On Down To Ronsonville!

Big News: Ronson met Babe Ruth!

Just kidding. Rather, he's decided to go public with his blog.

Here's what I learned about Ronson from my visit:

1. He was born in Iowa, became a vegetarian in New York and met the most hilarious person he's ever met (me) in Cincinnati.

2. The blog is a companion to his highly-successful, rarely-updated, much-hyphenated Website, Ronsonville.com

3. He has a sister named Angie who turns 30 today.

4. He's no longer buying CDs or listening to music from indie rock bands with "wolf" in their names, i.e. Wolf Parade, Wolf Eyes Wolfmother, AIDS Wolf. What's interesting about this is that he listened to wolf-named bands before.

Fascinating. But don't take my word for it...

In other blog news:

K-Hud posted a hilarious update this week. (Poor kid.)

And Craig's been on a roll, first with the headline for today's post (soo funny, but so bad) and the picture of that kid snarling behind Hannah. Every time I see it I crack up.

Allright kids. That's enough nerd talk for the day. I'm back tomorrow working on my new hobby - tough love.

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
- William Butler Yeats

I Want To Marry This Guy

On his way to a "routine" interview in Baghdad in January, British freelance journalist Phil Sands was ambushed by AK-47 wielding mujaheddin, bundled into the trunk of a maroon BMW and kidnapped. Sands spent five days in captivity, after which he was rescued by chance by U.S. soldiers in a routine raid.

Now, this isn't supposed to be funny, but I can't help but laugh.

In an interview with the Washington Post, Sands is asked if he ever tried to formulate an escape plan or think about what his last words would be. I know if it were me, I'd be considering how brave I was (even though I wouldn't be), how it's all part of a bigger, more important role I play in the world. Blah... blah. A bunch of bullshit like that to make myself feel better about getting kidnapped and facing certain execution.

But not Phil Sands. Here is his response to the question:

"Yes, I tried to formulate plans. Some simple (like, go to the toilet one night with the fat, slow guard, and run like hell) other complicated (steal guns, car keys etc etc). Last words: no. There's no point. I remember thinking: Oh well, I'll be dead. It didn't seem like the end of the world and nor would it have been. I don't mean to sound cold, but that's how it felt. In a way it's nice to know that when death feels close, it's not as bad as you might think. It's just something, almost like having to get out of bed in the morning (to be a bit too blase about it). That's not the same, I'm sure, if you see someone else you love dying, but in terms of myself, I wasn't too deeply upset."

I wasn't too deeply upset!

I wish I knew people like Phil Sands. I want to hang out with the kind of person who gets taken hostage and doesn't get "too deeply upset" about it.

After all, we are not that significant.

Meet Mayor Mark Mallory

What do you say to the mayor after your third cosmo while wearing a Hustler t-shirt?

"Hi Mr. Mayor. I'm Gina Daugherty. I know your brother." I was shaking his hand and had my left hand on his arm, which was very, very thin.

"Oh really. Which one," he wanted to know. We were at Havana Martini Club (I was there for Sue's bachelorette party) and Salsa Caliente was bringing down the house.

Had I not just pounded three cosmos, the last of which was incredibly strong, I would have remembered his brother's name, and maybe even had a plan for what I was going to say before I approached him. But no.

"The one that works for the prosecutor's office. We trade emails and have lunch occasionally," I told him, trying to sound authorative about how well I know I this brother who's name I can't think of.

"Oh, Dwayne!"

"Yeah, Dwayne! I wrote him after you were elected telling him how excited I was for him, and you and me. I was so excited that someone I voted for actually got elected. It doesn't happen to me very often."

"You don't know how many times I've heard that," he said.

Then he introduced me to his lackey, who Christine and I (she was my wing-man and the only person who agreed to go chat up with the mayor with me) decided was too polished... and too cute.

Another cosmo later, I was walking to the bathroom and saw him sitting at a corner table with a crowd of Latino men, and the lackey.

So I ran back and begged Christine to take my photo with him.

"What are you gonna say," she wanted to know. "Are you just going to walk by and I'll take a photo of you walking by, or are you going to tell him?"

"I'm gonna tell him it's for my blog," I said.

Then I plopped down next to him, told him I wanted a picture of us for my blog, put my arm around his shoulders and Christine took the shot. Then his lackeys were like, "Hey look at your Hustler shirt..."

So I said, "Yeah... I support all downtown businesses." Then I ran away.

Back the table Christine goes, "I'm surprised he just did that. I mean, that picture could end up anywhere."

"Yeah, like my blog," I said.

There's More Than Corn In Indiana

Now there is also Daylight Savings Time.

The first time I ever had to "spring forward" was in 1998. Location: Front Royal, Virginia. It was traumatizing then and it isn't any less so now.

My mom called this morning after to church to give me the weekly family update. (For example, my sister called last week to ask for $75 for grocery money and demanded it be sent Western Union. All told, it cost my dad $90-some dollars and my sister never called to thank them. Big shocker.)

But I digress. My mom said she nearly missed church this morning because she thought she had changed all the clocks but hadn't changed the one in the den, so she thought she had an extra hour, but didn't.

"We have, like, 12 clocks in the house and about 12 watches," she said. "The VCR changed all by itself. Like magic."

Then we had a ten minute discussion about how we are on the same time all the time now.

Anyway, I hate daylight savings on change-over week. It totally wrecks everything. Like now, it's already 2 p.m. and I've pissed away my whole morning and part of the afternoon. And it's totally daylight savings time's fault.

Sucking Wind

You know that position people go in to when they're standing, hunched over, head down staring at the ground with their hands on their knees?

Typically it means either they're A: Exhausted, or B: Vomiting.

Today I was in that pose at Oakley Playground during our soccer scrimmage.

Amber asked: "Are you throwing up?"

"Nah," I said. "I'm just sucking wind."

If only I worked hard enough to throw up. That would be awesome.

It's Friday Night

God I'm bored.

I've tried reading. Watching TV. Writing. Nothing helps.

Some days you just can't help but feel listless.

Tonight is one of them.

...Like Muscle Being Torn From the Bone

It's the only way to describe my incredible muscle soreness.

I have to use my hands to cross my legs. And my triceps feel like they're separating from the tendons and about to slide down into my hand. Not to mention my upper back, pecs and deltoids.

Those chin-ups Sunday morning weren't such a good idea. Neither was soccer practice.

Ouch.

Saturday Morning Mud Fun

The mud turned my new red soccer shoes honest this morning.

At one point it started to snow... Damn we're hard-core. Though I'm less hard-core because whenever I would kick the ball my toe rings felt like they were slicing off my toes. I think I'm gonna have to take them off next time. But I never take them off, so I'm sure I'll forget.

It was my first experience kicking a soccer ball since high school gym class. And it was damn fun. Mud. Snow. Cold. Running.

And I even fell once, too... Very fun!

CiN Weekly - Not Just A Hobby

A few weeks ago at dance class, Jane brought in a CiN Weekly to show the other girls my picture. I wasn't there that week, but she was telling me about the next week.

"I told them you were really a reporter spy and was going to write about our class," she said.

And then she a few of the other girls started laughing and making jokes about what an uninteresting story it would be.

Then Jane said: "I don't really pick up Cincinnati Weekly that much, but when I saw you picture I thought 'Hey, I know her.' That must be a lot of fun. How often do write for them?"

I told her I write for CiN full time.

"Really," she said, confused and surprised. "What do you really do? I thought you did something else."

"No, that's all I do. I work there full-time. It's my job," I said.

Then another girl chimed in: "Really? So what do you do there?"

I told them I'm a writer for CiN and that it's published by the Enquirer, and before writing for CiN I wrote for Tempo. This seemed to give me some legitimacy, though I suspect they still see my "job" as more of a glorified hobby.

Yes, people: CiN Weekly - Not just a hobby, a real job.

Back In Order

Though you can't tell it from this picture, my apartment has finally been put back together.

Last Sunday I woke up at 5:20 a.m. to what sounded like a combine moving down the Ohio River. The sky was eerie gray and the rain was coming down so hard I just sat in bed and stared at it. A few minutes later, my apartment sprang about ten leaks.

After being displaced for several days because of the wet carpet and mildewy smell, I finally came back home Thursday after new carpet was installed. (And fabulous new carpet it is. It's plush and soft and is an absolute delight to walk on barefoot, as opposed to the other indoor-outdoor crap that was in here before.)

But when I came home my shoes were piled in a huge heap in the bathroom, my books were on top of the divider (see photo) that separates my studio apartment into a living area and bedroom area, and anything that wasn't furniture and didn't weight 8 pounds or more was in the kitchen, bathroom or on top of the divider.

So I spend the weekend basically moving back in.

I must say, it's never been better in here.

The View From Here

It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

Bridesmaid-Zilla

In my bridesmaid debut, I will be wearing this halter dress in palm beach coral.

Pretty hot, huh?

I love it. Of course, I picked it out. (With Jen's approval.) And we thought the color would be bright and fun for her August wedding.

In my first "assignment" as bridesmaid, I was asked to call David's Bridal to find out how long it will take to get the dress. Whew! Jen is such a Bride-Zilla!

What I really want is a project that will allow me to use a glue gun. That's when the real bridesmaid fun will begin.

Full Disclosure

Like it says on my little bio here, quitting hobbies is kind of my hobby.

I'll admit, I've been conveniently mum about my pastimes lately.

So it's not like I need to mention it, because I assume it's pretty obvious, but that little flirtation into knitting... Yeah, I'm over that. I knitted a scarf, gave it to mom my and that's that. No more knitting for me.

Of course, in my zeal to embrace the hobby, I bought a knitting book (yet to have the spine cracked), four rolls of yarn and some bamboo knitting needles. All still in the package. (Maybe I'll have a yard sale.)

And my decision to become "addicted" to running, well, that didn't quite pan out either. I think I ran three times. But hey, I was reallly on a roll there for those three days! But that was about two months ago.

While I'm add it here, I might mention I've all but dialed the numbers to tell my dance teacher I'm quitting, but I went tonight after a three week hiatus, just to make sure I was over it. I love it when I'm there, it's just knowing it's on my agenda that makes me want to quit it. But so far, I'm still in.

I have, in my defense, kept up with writing in the daily journal I started January 1. That's 61 days of dilligence. Quite possibly a new record!

"Your Diet Sucks"

We were discussing the possible causes of my recent abdominal and back pain, the severity of which left me postrate with a heating pad Thursday and Saturday nights. Within 24 hours I had taken 14 Advil.

I told Dr. Bowling the symptoms were consistent with the problem I had last May, when trapped fluid in my uterus was causing labor-like contractions in an effort to expel the fluid.

Though I hadn't had any pain for several days, I told her I lived in fear of the symptoms returning again.

But we were discussing other possible causes, potentially related to radiation damage to my small intestine.

She asked if I had eaten anything unusual or introduced any new foods to my diet.

"No," I said. "I eat about the same six things."

"And what are those things," she asked.

"Chipotle. Panera. Pizza. Skyline. A banana every morning. And sometimes lunch meat."

I should add here that I am in awe and fear of this woman.

I have watched her eviscerate her medical contemporaries with a single judgment. I've seen operating rooms filled with specialists and nurses bend to her will. Otherwise full schedules have miraculously cleared when she has decided I need an immediate test. When she walks into her offices, her staff stops and waits for her instructions.

I've never really seen anything like it. She is a sheer force of will. (My mom is terrified of her.) She tolerates no bullshit, no excuses and accepts nothing but determination from her patients.

Yet with this edge she carries a cool wit. In addition to being an incredible surgeon and patient advocate, I find her to be hilarious, in an all-business kind of way. Even still, I was somewhat reluctant, and rightfully embarrassed, to admit my poor eating habits.

After I rattled off the roughly six things I eat each week she said: "Well, your diet sucks."

Then she ordered a sonogram. For the next day.

Happier, I Could Not Be

Lance and Sheryl have split. And I couldn't have happened a day sooner considering he was about to marry that chick.

I never thought she was good enough for him. And it's not that I don't like her necessarily. I thought the Globe Sessions was a pretty good album. She recorded Mississippi, a song Bob Dylan wrote and asked her cover. So she can't be all bad. But she was of no caliber to date Lance Armstrong.

He's a cancer survivor. He's won 7, count 'em SEVEN, consecutive Tour de France victories. His foundation gives big fat millions to help improve the lives of cancer survivors, it funds research and community outreach for their caregivers and friends.

I mean, Sheryl dated Kid Rock, who's just too heinous for words. And Eric Clapton for Christ's sake. The most boring musician alive.

So who's good enough for Lance? I don't know. Someone interesting, like Rachel Weisz. But he tends to go for blondes... So maybe me!

Citius, Altius, Fortius

Faster, Higher, Stronger

The Culprits

I’m watching the Opening Ceremony tonight for the 2006 Winter Olympics and have decided that my mom and dad are to blame for me not being an Olympian.

So I called to tell them as much.

“Hi. I’m leaving a message you tell you that you failed me. I should have been an Olympian. You should have started me training when I was five so that by now I’d have already been to the Olympics. If you decide to have any more kids, then you should raise that kid to be an Olympian."

What Olympic sport I did not specify. (Is it better to be celebrated as part of a team, like the 1980 U.S. Hockey Team? Or is it better to be one shining standout, like Jesse Owens?)

A few minutes later my mom called back, laughing.

"I thought you said you wanted to be a lesbian. And I asked your dad, 'Why would she have wanted us to make her a lesbian?' And your dad said, 'An Olmpian, Susie. An Olympian.'"

More laughter from her. She went on to tell me that "only one in about two million people" go to the Olympics.

I told her we'll never know if I could have been one of those people.

Two of those people happened to be from Marion in the 1988 Calgary Olympics. Kim and Wayne Seybold are the brother and sister figure skating duo who finished 10th. (Wayne is now the mayor of Marion.) They got their start doing counter-clockwise laps on four-wheels at the Idle Wylde Skating Rink on Meridian Street, just a few miles from my house.

I spent many hours on that polished hardwood, grooving to such artists as Whodini, Dana Dane and L. L. Cool J.

The little city of Marion raised $40,000 to help send them to Calgary. And though they didn't medal, it's unlikely anyone from Marion even remembers that. But they do remember that Kim and Wayne are Olympians. When they got home, Marion threw them a parade and later named a little spot of grass with swings and slides on it Seybold Park.

Too bad I didn't do better by Ray and Susie. That little park could have been Daugherty Park.

"Well, I'm sorry we failed you," my mom said. "But I'm glad you didn't say lesbian. I've got enough to worry about."

Yeah, I Tapped That

Except for a few minor mistakes, I tapped the roof off Florence Mall yesterday afternoon.

Though it was less Tiffany and more Madonna, a la Truth Or Dare.

Remember the part of Truth Or Dare when Madonna bitches to her stage manager it's only "industry" in the front row and everyone is scowling at her?

That's what it was like for me at Florence Mall.

Just behind the ropes were lines of bored-out-of-their-mind dads and grumpy grandparents, all scowling at me while they waited for who they really came to see take the stage. It was awesome. The moms, meanwhile, were busy backstage applying red lipstick and blue eyeshadow to their sequin-clad daughters.

I kept thinking: "Remember to smile. Remember to look like you're not in hell. Remember you're supposed to back-essence, ball-change, ball-change next." For the most part I was able to keep the smile plastered on my face, and even supplied a real one toward the end when I realized it was almost over and I hadn't slipped and fallen or forgotten anything major.

Overall, our adult class was pretty good... But the real show stealers were the second graders who brought the house down with The Peppermint Twist.

Cat Lazy

There's normal lazy and then there's cat lazy.

Give It Up For Amenorrhea

See all these awesome running shoes? Well, I've actually worn a pair of them twice this week.

What is that you say? Impossible? Gina, doesn't run... Well, you're wrong.

As of Saturday, I'm addicted to running. Yep. Addicted. So on Sunday, I laced up my running shoes (Mizunos) for the first time in... well, I'll just say it's been a long time... and ran. Sure, I could only actually run a few minutes at a time before I started sucking wind and had to walk. But hey, at least was doing something.

The impetus for this magical transformation was an article I read in GQ. It was written by a newspaper reporter who hated his job so much that he faced his ill content by developing a raging running habit. Only it was so bad that it really was detrimental to him. (Hence the word "addiction".) He was even sneaking off to do it so his wife wouldn't hassle him about running several times a day.

During this addiction his resting heart rate and body fat percentage plummeted, and he became faster (in his mid-30s) and stronger than he'd been in his whole life. Not too shabby. In the end he was debilitated by a knee injury and was forced to stop. But he did eventually leave the paper for a new gig. (And apparently got a freelance assignment from GQ.)

So what's the best way to convince myself to start running? Just say I'm addicted to it. If I'm addicted, then I can't make excuses because, well... I'm addicted and addicts have to have their drug.

The benefits will be many. In addition to a stronger heart and body, I hope that my resting heart rate and body fat lowers while my stamina and strength increases.

As a special bonus, I'm hoping that my new leaner, meaner body results in amenorrhea, not an uncommon problem among (elite) women runners. And you know how awesome that would be!

P.S. Cassady is a camera whore.

Go Steers, Yee-HAW!

Last night I went to the Longhorn Rodeo at U.S. Bank Arena.

Let's just say it's no PBR. (That's Professional Bull Riding for you city folk.)

I went to the PBR last year and it was awesome. I was instantly a huge fan, especially after interviewing one of the riders and having someone to root for.

But the Longhorn Rodeo didn't have nearly the talent of riders the PBR did, and they had lots of dog and pony show stuff that was annoying to sit through. Like a really annoying clown and tiedown roping, which was kind of disturbing after this little calf got his leg lassoed and started wailing to get away. So I cheered for the steers and the calves.

Still, Saturday at the Rodeo... Good times.

Festivus for the Rest of Us

George Costanza's boss hangs out at O'Bryon's.

I saw Mr. Kruger last night - K-UGER! Like one of those old time car horns - hanging out at the bar, playing the juke box and, in festivus tradition, challenging people to feats of strength. Or just drinking at the bar and playing the juke box.

He had some younger, lacky kid with him. And I saw him chatting up what appeared to be a Seinfeld fan, but other than that, Mr. Kruger was pretty low key. Had I had my camera, I would have taken my picture with him. You know, for the blog.

A quick IMBD searchs shows that Kruger is from Cincinnati and has been in just about everything, from Seinfeld to Silence of the Lambs, usually playing cops and generals.

K-UGER!

The Florence Mall, Y'All

Just call me Tiffany.

Last night I learned that the dance studio where I take lessons will be participating in the Dance for Heart for the American Heart Association. My tap class will be the only adult class dancing. The rest will be the cute little kids and teens.

Very cool, I thought. Until I learned that it's at the mall. As in the Florence Mall.

How humiliating.

What's worse is because I didn't go to class last week as they started making adjustments for the new song and missing people, my line spot changed.

So when I used to be in back, now I'm in front. When I used to shuffle left, now I shuffle right. When I used to start second, now I start first. Everything about the dance I've practiced over the last few months is now reversed, and I have three weeks to learn it again to not make an ass out of myself. (Which is impossible because no matter how well you dance or how many steps you nail, it's still dancing at the mall!)

And I'm sure my neighbors are thrilled to hear my tap shoes ringing against the tile.

Friday the 13th

Today I had my first $110 lunch. Not including tip.

Jen and I had three courses (almost) at Jean-Robert at Pigall's. Last month Jean-Robert started serving lunch on Thursdays and Fridays, affording people (like me) the opportunity to eat at a four-star restaurant with a little less severe price tag.

We both had wine (I'd recommend the Riesling). Jen had the rock shrimp and sea scallops while I got the warm goat cheese with dried fruit and the baked chicken. And we shared some sort of apple desert with cappuccino.

Sort of sounds like we were on a date...

But what I'll most remember from the $110 lunch had nothing to do with the food.

First, Jen found a cat hair in her rock fish, which we guessed was probably from the waiter's shirt.

Second, one of the hosts dropped a plate, shattering it by the table next to us and also shattering the illusion (as with the cat hair) that jacket required, four-star restaurants are pristine beyond reproach. I was even a little nervous going in... Unsure of what fork to use, when to tip, what to order - basically of showing my blue collar roots.

And the third was another host we met who told us that Hamburger Mary's is changing its name and won't be affiliated with the chain anymore; that Phillip Seymour Hoffman better win the Best Actor Oscar for his performance as Truman Capote; and that Brokeback Mountain isn't nearly as good as everyone keeps saying it is.

"It's all mountains and rivers and scenery," he said.

On our way out he and I discussed the differences between the book In Cold Blood and the movie Capote. Jen confessed to never having read the book.

While crossing the street on her way to get the book tonight, she got hit by a car. A minivan, of course. Thankfully she wasn't hurt, but it knocked her back and scared her. I told her to get the book and head home ASAP.

It's Friday the 13th, after all.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
— Robert Frost

A Resolution... of Sorts

I have no intention of becoming a better person this year.

No weight to lose. No catching up with long lost friends (Ok, maybe one). No ambition to run any marathons, climb any mountains or learn any new skills.

But I did buy this journal.

Though I've kept a real journal for decades (and have piles of old ones filling my dresser), I've been lax over the last few years. So I bought this journal, with one page per day, with the hope that each day I will write something.

No monumental feelings. No petty bitching. Just a one page record. Things like what I did, maybe what time I woke up, what I ate, who I talked to. Small things.

I've been good so far.