Got Game by the Pound

Did Blackstreet have more than one song? Who cares, because the best one, this one, was playing in the Clifton Chipotle yesterday during lunchtime.

Dave said, "Chipotle is throwing it down."

I was 'bout to turn it out when Dave got low then did that leg thing I haven't seen since the '90s. You know what I'm talking about.

I can't get her out of my mind
(WOW?!)
I think about the girl all the time


It was ON. Then we ordered burritos.

*snif, snif... My Baby!

I smacked its ass and brought this seven pounds of peaches, sugar, flour and cinnamon into the world.

Because all baked fruit dishes should weigh as much as a newborn.

Gina and the Giant Peaches

My late brother's peach tree is dragging the ground with peaches this year and last week I brought back several bags of not-quite-ripe peaches from my trip home.

I'll make a crisp, I thought. Easy.

For three days a cookie sheet and a pizza pan sat covered in ripening peaches on my dining room table, patiently waiting for time to turn them into the deliciously smelling peachy goodness that is summertime. I'd sit at my computer watching them ripen, encouraging them to be the best peaches they could be.

Give me a P! Give me an E! You guys will become the most delicious crisp on the planet. Gooooo peaches!

Last Thursday evening came around and I decided it was "go-time." With my super-secret peach peeling and slicing technique Carolyn taught me I figured it'd take me 30 minutes, max.

Riiiiight. In shocking news, I grossly underestimated the time it takes to peel and slice 900 pounds of peaches, even with kitchen ninja skillz. It took forever. As in, This-is-the-longest-I've-ever-been-in-my-kitchen forever.

Not to mention, peaches are weird. Their insides are all kinda... tentacle-y and fibrous around the pit. And red. Like some sorta peach blood. Plus those tentacle-y fibers cling to the pit for dear life. I must have jammed 40 pointy peach pit ends under my thumbnail digging those damn things out.

And do you have any idea what slippery little devils super ripe peaches are? I bet you don't. But let me assure you, I'd rather step on a banana peel than a ripe peach.

Halfway my epic skinning and slicing of one babillion peaches I was covered in gooey peach juice and sucking my sore thumb. It was peach freakin' bloodbath, people. Little chalk outlines of peaches everywhere. The cats were like, "Wtf is going on in here?!"

I needed help, and lots of it. Hmm... What would Martha Stewart do? Naturally, I decided she would call Carolyn, queen of the dark kitchen arts. I was totally calm. "Carolyn!!! What the eff am I going to do with all these peaches?!"

She was totally surprised to hear from me.

"I knew you were gonna call... Ok, do you have lemon juice? (crickets) Of course you don't have lemon juice. Do you have sugar? Ok, sprinkle sugar on them and put them in the freezer. Hope you like smoothies!"

Eventually I couldn't deal with it anymore and found myself halfway through a bottle of screw top wine (don't judge) when my schmoyfriend kicked in the door to rescue me, er rather, to rescue the peaches.

"Can I take charge here, is that ok? You seem overwhelmed."

Really. I seemed overwhelmed. Folks, I was drowning in peaches. So while I stood around getting drunk he sugared and bagged and pectin'd the peaches. I might be ignorant, but I'm resourceful in my choice of friends.

The next day I went to make my "crisp" and discovered my flour expired in 2008. How is that possible, how does flour expire?

But check this out, did you guys know that putting sugar on fruit creates some kind of natural fruity syrupy stuff? Like that deliciously gooey strawberry shortcut stuff only not high fructose corn syrup from a bag, but rather, natural delicious fruit gooey stuff... Yeah, FACT. It's pretty much a miracle of chemistry, fruit and sugar.

I should probably get my own cooking show.

Ignoramus

Boss Man: Your life is so easy.

Me: Phssht. That's what you think. You don't know anything about me.

Boss Man: I know that your life is easy.

Me: Like hell... I have to peel and slice five pounds of peaches when I get home. Then I have to make a "crisp" with them, which you need a casserole dish for, apparently. Who owns a casserole dish?!

Three colleagues all offer to loan me theirs.

Me: Oh. Right.

Then because she is smarter than me, Carolyn intervened and told me step-by-step how to peel peaches quickly, then how to score and slice them all Martha Stewart-like.

Me: Whoa, who knows this kinda stuff?! It's miracle!

Boss Man: Maybe the reason your life is so hard is because you're so ignorant.

I Missed The Kick

Ever since I saw Inception I keep waiting for Leonardo DiCaprio to enter my dreams and walk around looking hott. What's a girl gotta do to get dream stalked these days?

So Inception… basically it goes like this: Some dude wants to plant an idea (hence, inception) in someone's dream so one energy company can best another. Energy companies. *shrug. And there's this dude who is all sad because his dad doesn't love him or something. *shrug. And that girl from Juno runs around as the narrator, essentially, because sometimes it's kind of confusing. And that kid from 500 Days of Summer's character is boring.

Meanwhile, Leo runs around as a guy named Cobb looking gorgeous and incepting me. Wait.

But forget the caper and those characters. The most interesting aspect of the movie is the wild card - Mal, Cobb's dead wife. Beautiful and eerie and lovelorn and probably insane. The rest of the movie, backdrop. Window dressing for cool effects and gun battles. (Though I'd argue the scenes in my dreams are more interesting, the colors more vivid, the situations more surreal.)

Cobb is accused of maybe killing his wife, and so he spends the movie trying to get his kids back, which is nice and all, I guess, but mostly I wanted to know what was going to happen with him and his siren dead wife who kept popping up all over the place wrecking stuff. She may be dead, but the ghost of their old love certainly isn't. Will they live together in dreamland forever? Will he let her go? Can he just keep visiting her via the rickety elevator of his subconscious? Their story is only human element of the movie, and it is the best.

I guess I hoped they pulled off the inception for the energy company. I mean, I guess I didn't want them to die or whatever. But mostly, eh, I was along for the ride.

The ending is ambiguous and I liked it that way. Does Cobb end up with his kids, or no? Is the whole movie a dream? Or just maybe the ending? Maybe Mal was right, maybe we were in Cobb's dream the whole time. Or maybe I was dreaming... it was a really long movie.

All of this is to say I enjoyed Inception. It was entertaining. I also enjoyed the popcorn, Milk Duds, Diet Coke and cushy chair - and boy did I need it because this baby comes in at 2.5 hours. The best part though was when my schmoyfriend (look, I just can't say the words, ok?) imitated a rabid groundhog halfway through. But that was totally unrelated to the movie, but I did laugh so hard I cried.

Inception: B.

Tryin' To Get To Heaven

Mowed down Virgin Mary statue, not shown.

Because it's not awesome enough that I have to visit my brother in the cemetery, but whenever I am there I also get a big granite reminder that my parents, too, will be joining him, eventually.

Ray and Susie are nothing if not prepared. They've got their plot bought, their headstone engraved and in place, their funerals already paid for. This is so, "Gina, when we die, you don't have to worry about all that nonesense. You'll have enough trouble spending all of our riches." Then we laugh, hard.

The last time I visited my brother's grave there was this beat-up plastic statue of the Virgin Mary next to his plot. I winked at the Gods for this bit of amusement.

Hahaha. Of all the places for the Blessed Virgin to land, she ends up here. Does Billy even know Jesus had a mom, who was a virgin? Hahaha.

We are not a religious family. We are certainly not Hail Mary-ing Catholics. The only person I know who goes to church is my mom, and she doesn't even believe in heaven or hell. My only form of religion is buying those cool Mexican religious votive candles with Jesus and Mary and Joseph on them in the international food aisle at Bigg's.

God, I love those candles.

But there was Mary. All 5 inches of her, serene and draped in white and blue... and chewed-up looking... at my brother's grave.

Shit Billy. When you'd get all religious on me? I sniffled and giggled at the same time.

I imagined Mary's spiritual journey to this lowly spot in her plastic statue life. Some deeply religious person probably got her at some church gift shop, placed her on a loved ones grave with a sincere prayer of peace and love and the hope that one day, when deal goes down, they will run open armed to each other and sit watching the daffodils sway in the breezes of heaven. But then the groundskeeper, just trying to get his job done and get paid, probably listening to Black Sabbath on his iPod, ran over Mary with his cutting blades, flinging her across the grass to land hopelessly - and possibly taking that poor person's prayers with her - at my brother's headstone.

The indignity.

I went home and told my mom this story - Hahaha, Billy has a little plastic beat-up statue of Mary leaning on his tombstone.

Oh, I think the Mary is nice, my mom happily informed me. Then she went back to piddling around the kitchen - la-la-la-la.

Wait, whaaat?

Turns out, it was my mom who put the Mary there and is, therefore, responsible for Her getting run over by a lawnmower.

I will not repeat the rest of the story of how it came to pass that Susie Daugherty put the Virgin Mary at my brother's grave because certainly hell, fire and damnation would strike us all, and possibly burnout out the eyeballs of any religious person reading this post, but believe me, it. is. a. doozy.

Mary, I am sorry you got chewed up by lawn mower on our watch.

She Seems To Have An Invisible Touch-ay

Chambaland has made all necessary adjustments to Katy Perry’s first draft, and we now have the song of the summer.

You're gonna want to turn this UP. Get the MP3 here.

I have two ears and a heart, don't I?

*tears!!

Because the folks at the Huffington Post says it better than I can, and because I am laughing so hard I can't think for myself:

This guy really likes rainbows. I mean REALLY likes them. Then again, if I was some hiker dude (probably on mushrooms) and I saw a FULL DOUBLE rainbow, I'd probably enter crazypants mode as well. Watch as YouTube user Hungrybear9562 (amazing) goes through an intense emotional cycle, starting with "Woahs" and "Oh my Gods" and leading to crying, laughing, and wistfully asking the sky, "WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?" It's so hilariously awkward that by the end of the 3 minutes you'll be laughing and crying along with him.

Rainbows, unicorns and TGIF, y'all!

Stop. Hammer time.

There is this game I play with people, often even when they don't know they're playing, where I'll shout out whatever artist is playing on the radio, iPod, song from a car driving past, whatever.

Three notes of synthesizer from Say You, Say Me… Lionel Richie!!
The opening rap to Heard It All Before… Sunshine Anderson!!
The tinkling piano keys of Airplanes… B.o.B.!!
The bubble pop of Somebody to Love… Justin Bieber!! (oh wait, just kidding, I don't really know that one… omg embarrassing.)

In my head it's always Game, ON.

Shouting Madonna at whoever is in the car with me when Cherish comes on is just how I do. Following that up with, "Omg, you just got served a big ol' fat order of shut-the-hell-up" is also how I do.

Oh, you didn't know we were playing? Oh, well I don't really care. Ke$ha!!

It's fun for me to see how people react to this little game.

There was this one night I was peeing at this bar, heard the muffled sounds of Caught Up In You, charged out of the bathroom, rolled up to this dude I barely knew and shouted, ".38 Special, yeah... suck it!!!" and threw my hands in the air all, "In your face!"

That was a glorious moment. His brow crinkled with a "What the hell is wrong with you?" expression. But I know in his heart he was thinking, "This girl is amazing!"

One friend of mine can really hand me my ass when it comes to '70s and '80s rock, and he gets super aggressive about it… shouting "AC/DC!" or "The Who!" at me. Then he'll grab the steering in triumph and yell, "OH! MY! GOD! THAT JUST SUCKED FOR YOU!"

But… this is the same friend who when I serve him his lack of pop-knowledge on an '80s synthesizer will angrily turn off the radio and pout that he's not playing anymore. Hee hee hee. Some people are really sore losers in this game.

But not me, because I am awesome at it. I might lose a few battles, but I win the war, folks. Especially when the WIZ is on. Yes, yes I do believe I am the only girl who has backward skated to Glenn Jones' We've Only Just Begun. And certainly no one in a car with me would know this song because they didn't roll at the Idyl Wyld Roller Palace in Marion, Indiana where they spun '80s and '90s R&B during my formative years.

Hi-Five. New Edition. Dana Dane. Oran "Juice" Jones.

You Can't Touch This.

And speaking of… MC Hammer is performing at the Reds game Friday night. I'll see you fools you there. Mmm hmmm… I'm wearing a bra and biking shorts. I don't know why that look ever went out of style.

2 legit, 2 legit to quit. Haaay haaaay!!!

Tgif!

PSA: Don't Tell Your Doctor or Anyone Anything

If you're at Fountain Square on a Saturday night, just minding your own bid'ness watching Apollo 13 on that screen sponsored by Macy's (thanks Macy's!) and you pee blood and some clots again, just keep it to yourself.

You know why? Because everyone and their brother's-sister's-cousin will come at you like a freakin' tsunami when you say,'Geezus Christ almighty, you should have seen how bloody my pee was on Saturday! Clots mean I'm healing, right?'

And whatever you do, do not casually tell your doctor this happened when you're just trying to reschedule another appointment. Because your doctor will lose her shizzle all over you on the phone when you tell her you're probably too busy to come in… indefinitely.

Because nobody will understand that you can see around corners they can't and you already know everything is going to be a-ok because on Saturday night you dreamed you were being bounced around in a gale storm in the Gulf, tossed about with sea foam, BP oil and giant hunks of debris in 40 foot waves, and while it sucked and was exhausting and freezing and you wanted it to be over with, it was also kind of an interesting ride, like a rollercoaster, only wet and oilier, and you washed up on the shore tired but totally fine. (Except you were wearing acid washed jeans... so, mostly fine.)

And even though the dream wasn't really about your bladder it's all still connected and illuminating and armed with this sense of security you go ahead and succumb to your doctor's orders only to be told during another camera in your pee-hole experience (why stop at just one, party people?!), 'Hey, your bladder looks a lot better; blood and clots are signs of healing in this case,' which is what you said all along and you could have just avoided the hassle.

But you will get another little jar of M&Ms, which might be worth it if they were peanut M&Ms, but whatever, you'll eat them anyway.

So don't tell your doctor or anyone anything, unless you really want that little jar of M&Ms. And don't forget to thank your pal Rachel who offered to front bail money and a ride home if you did happen to lose your shiz and assault anyone who might mention another pee bag. And thank God it didn't come to that because you know she has a newborn and can't just be driving to the jail whenever your ass gets tossed in the slammer, because what kind of role model would you be then, and besides infants can't eat M&Ms so bribing them to forgive you is nearly impossible and Rachel would not be happy about that anyway.

This has been a public service announcement. And another photo of my bladder.

Because I'm A Jerk, That's Why

My sincerest apologies for not posting more photos of my orange boyfriend sooner. I was temporary blinded by his blue sequined banana hammock and orangey-ness.

Here. Please forgive me.


It's not every day you see a hott stud like this just walking in a parade, but it should be. (Former colleagues will note 'the Scorcher' in the foreground.)



What's that? You want a close-up of the full monty? Well, here ya go. Note how closely we are holding each other, and how our sunglasses almost match. Soulmates.


Also at the Northside parade last weekend, Touchdown Jesus rose again!





With love and salvation,
Gina

Don't Hate The Player, Hate The Game

The real reason LeBron chose Miami over Akron is because the owner of the Cavs uses suck-ass fonts in his open letter hissy fit to fans.

Geez Dan Gilbert. It's not like Tiger Woods cheated on you with prostitutes. Cowardly betrayal? Curses in Comic-Sans? ALL CAPS promises of championships? You'll be sorry, LeBron, you… you… jerk!

I too am disappointed. Ohio will be a lot less hott without LeBron in it. And I'd be mad too if I got dumped via text, er TV. But easy there psycho-lovelorn-cry baby. You're making LeBron look like the adult here.

I get it. What a great cinderella story had he stayed his entire career in the hometown that drafted him, built him up, built their whole world around him. But then again, no. It's his path. The kid's gotta make his own way, and sometimes that means leaving home. I outgrew my hometown too. It's not you, it's us. (Well, it's partially you. But thankfully I'm not talented or rich enough for them to notice and write me hatemail.)

He's an insanely talented 25-year-old kid who wants to play ball and win championships. If he thinks he can do that best in Miami, well, play on playa. I'll be wearing my No. 23 Cavs t-shirt tonight in solidarity.

Meanwhile, enjoy the greatest commercial ever made. Oh Lord!

The Days Were Just Packed

It was like the whole summer was packed into the Fourth of July weekend. Pool, diving board, bike ride in the dark, fireworks, parade, strawberry milkshakes, Nada outside, a movie at Fountain Square.

This happened.

Fireworks, Freedom, Sunshine, & Fierceness (Oh My!)

Please click, print and select all that apply for your weekend entertainment.*

*you're welcome for creating this for you guys!

Swing And A Miss

How have I missed this spectacular Dap Kings infused, Mark Ronson re-version of Bob's "Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine)," people?

Horns! Drums! Swinging beats! I had the pleasure of seeing the Dap Kings a few months ago with Sharon Jones at the Southgate House. I'll be spending my three-day weekend on my petition to be the only female Dap King. (Come on fellas, show your girl some love here!)

While I'm pleading, please enjoy this stellar, tour de Bob Dylan's iconic career. All the scenes, looks and decades are here folks. Great stuff.

I just can’t do what I done before
I just can’t beg you anymore
I’m gonna let you pass
And I’ll go last
Then time will tell just who fell
And who’s been left behind
When you go your way and I go mine

Bob said that.

Tgi-three day weekend!

The Night Jesus Got Struck By Lightning

We were watching this storm cloud roll over the S Building in Clifton. I said I wished I could catch a bolt of lightning in a photo, to which Carolyn said, 'The night that Jesus got struck by lightning…'

Ha! It's the Cincinnati version of, 'Where were you when Kennedy got shot?'

I was in bed, nursing my pee bag, and received an email from a friend in Venezuela with the subject, 'Big Butter Jesus is no more.'

God is an arsonist, y'all. And no, I will never get tired of this.

He Is Risen

"Umm yeah, the Jesus is on fire."

Tgif!

How I Ended Up With A Hole In My Bladder and A Bag of Bloody Urine Taped To My Leg... Or, Why Stadium Buddies Are Awesome!

Where were we? Oh right. I peed out that giant blood clot.

Yesterday I went to a urologist because, lo-and-behold, it seems if you pee out one blood clot more are surely to follow, and so it was, my pee was riddled with blood clots.

This is probably totally normal, I told myself. Noooo big deal. Nothing to see here.

But the urologist was all, "Ummm, this is not normal. And given your... (pause) history, we need a full workup. A CT-scan and a cystoscopy."

I was calm. Cool. Collected. Ok, I said, that sounds fine, but what's a cystocopy?

Hold up... You're gonna stick a camera up my pee hole?!

When you've had my "history" (read: Oh crap, she had cancer is probably going to die right in front of me at any second), doctor's talk to you a certain way. It's a hushed tone. Like, 'Well, you probably don't have anything serious wrong with you, but because of your history, there is legitimate cause for... concern.'

I am always irritated by this.  

Look, jerk-faces. I don't need you to imply that there might be something wrong with me because there isn't and I'm only doing these tests to confirm to you I was right all along, so suck it.

I could tell the urologist lady was a bit fearful of what the CT-scan might show (who isn't, right?) but ultimately she thought I had radiation cystitis. So I'll pee blood forever, whatevs.

On the CT-scan table that afternoon I could feel tears streaming down the side of my face.

I was crying, but I wasn't "upset," per se. It was mostly because CT-scan contrast makes me feel like I have to vomit and wet my pants all at the same time, and the CT-scan machine kind of gives me flashbacks. Plus, what if they do find something?! Oh god, I'm gonna die... and I never learned to read!

Oh wait. Nevermind.

Back at the doctor's office post-CT scan, the urologist comes barging in as soon as I get into the room, plops down and says, 'This is unexpected and... interesting.'

Oh for God's sake, lady! Just get on with it! Am I dying die or not?!

Turns out, y'all, my IUD had punctured my bladder and was stuck in there. So she put a camera into my pee hole to get a closer look while I took pictures of the monitor, and I'll be damned, there was part of my IUD, in my bladder, with blood clots swishing around everywhere.

Actual photo of the IUD protruding into my bladder

The good news, though, is as we were all saying, "Holy eff! Look at that!" she noted my bladder is the picture of health — what radiation, fools?! — and is in such great shape that it could probably win the World Cup.  

Gooooaaaallll!

I didn't say it, but I totally wanted to rub it in her face all, "Told you I was bulletproof. Suck it."

[Ronson described urologists as "the truckers of the medical community." Hilarious and true. This woman was brash and agile with humor and swear-words. I totally loved her.] 

Conveniently for me, my urologist's office is next to a gynecologists office, and the two doctor ladies are pals. So the urologist called the gyno doc to came over and she consulted on how they were going to get the IUD out of my bladder.

After an unexpected pelvic exam — thanks random gyno lady from across the hall! — they decided it could NOT come out of my hoo-ha because of scar tissue from radiation damage.




So the urologist was all, 'I bet I can get it out via her urethra.' It was then that I pretended to pass out. But I was totally numb "down there" and started chanting, "Pull. It. Out! Pull. It. Out!" Which she did, out of my pee hole, using a camera and what looked like really tiny cooking tongs. 



One minute I'd be cracking jokes during all this, the next minute I'd be crying because, well, I was traumatized from having a piece of plastic protruding into my bladder and I was lying on a table looking at it.

As the urologist tossed the newly freed IUD into a cup she said, "You want to keep it, show your friends?"

I would but my friends are kinda lame, I told her. I'd have taken a photo for you guys but I was hysterical over what happened next.

So the urologist tells me I can't "just go home" with a hole in my bladder — Why the hell not? It hasn't been a problem until now, I argued — and that I'd need a catheter.

A catheter?! Holy shiz. I saw my life flash before my eyes, y'all... no more swimming, no more bikinis, cute dresses or short-shorts, just long Mennonite jean skirts and baggy pants for the rest of my grim, grim life. I was sobbing.

"You only need the catheter for few days, until the hole heals."

Oh. Right.

Apparently bladders heal quickly, who knew. So if you're going to puncture an internal organ, the bladder is not so bad, minus the catheter. So until Thursday I have a tube coming out of my pee hole and a bag of bloody urine strapped to my leg.

But it's kinda awesome because I never have to get up to pee. Imagine how great it'd be at a bar. Not only attention grabbing (who wouldn't want to date me with this thing?!) but also useful, no more waiting in line or worrying if there's toilet paper.

I'm excited to show it to my coworkers tomorrow. It's a badge of honor really. I think they'll be stoked to see it.

I emailed my Boss Man about the whole thing, using the words "vaginally" and "IUD" and "bloody urine pee bag" to let him know I'd need a day at home to recuperate. I could have just said, "I'm sick," but I didn't want to half-ass it.

I made the mistake of telling my mom this whole ordeal — moms, they worry you know — and she was flipping out that I am considering getting another IUD. Is that weird? I mean, it was awesome for 2.5 years... minus this pee bag thing right now and the hole in my bladder.

Some people are just really sensitive. (Mom, I'm lookin' at you).

Anyway, after it was all over I was physically and emotionally exhausted, but then they gave me a sucker and some M&Ms that say 'Be nice to me, I had a cysto' on them and I was totally fine.



Mostly. Except I was too tired to go get my prescriptions so I called Ronson when I got home and was all, "I was peeing blood clots and they discovered my IUD had punctured my bladder and then they had to pull it out through my pee hole today and now I have a catheter and a pee bag strapped to my leg and I'm exhausted soooo, can you do me a favor..."

To which he replied, "I am terrified of what you are going to ask me right now."

He was grateful I just needed him to run to Walgreens for me. (And I didn't even make him look at my catheter, because I'm a good friend like that.)

I spent today checking email, filling in colleagues and emptying my pee bag. Then about 5 p.m. these lovely flowers were delivered to me! They are from my Boss Man and colleagues and the card says, "Sorry you're peeing blood! We feel punctured by your absence."

Ha!



Later on I'm walking over (slowly) to Yagoot with Erin and her husband and I'm getting the medium cup of Yagoot, because I deserve it, damn it.

Why God, Why?!

Touchdown Jesus and my red pepper plant... why has thou forsaken me?

Like White on Rice

I still got it, y'all.

Last night I got macked on by an ultrasound at a one of Hyde Park's finest drunken establishments. He couldn't have been a day over 22, but his dance moves were nearly as smooth as his baby face.

I called him "scary Justin Beiber," a) because he was shiny-young and had weird hair and b) he was hitting on me, which was kinda scary because, "Hey young man, I'm old enough to be your babysitter!" (But the really hott baby sitter who let's you eat Burger King and text your friends all night.)

So he goes, "Who is Justin Bieber?"

Riiiiiight. Like he doesn't have My World 2.0 his iPhone. Then he told me I had the most amazing hair in the bar, which was such a true and authentic line (er, statement) that I let him dance with me some more.

That kid's gonna be a real sweetheart when he hits puberty.

Everyone Was Uninvited

A few weeks ago at dance class our instructor was handing out recital fliers "to give to your friends and coworkers, so they can come see you."

I debated if I could jack her, swipe all the fliers and run away… in tap shoes.

Pretty much the last thing I need in my life is anyone to see me all blue-eyeshow'd, red lipstick'd and rocking a leotard with tap shoes. No thanks.

If you went through the cedar chest at my parents' house you'd stumble upon plenty of old dance costumes from when I was a kid. Sequins. Fringe. Ruffles. Leotards.

I am not 7 anymore, yet I still dress like one come dance performance time. For some reason dance costumes have not evolved all that much. There is a still a lot of skin-tight, sequined, sparkly madness going down.

I was so horrified anyone would find my tap costume that I hid it so well that the night before the final rehearsal I had to tear my apartment apart to find it. (It was hanging in the coat closet… pretty much the last place I'd look considering I was convinced it was stuffed into a ball at the bottom of my dance bag.)

I even drove more carefully on my way home from class the last few weeks because I was terrified of getting into an accident and overhearing the cops saying, "Her face is bleeding… OMG, guys, come look at this sequined fedora! Hahaha!!!"

On Sunday I looked exactly like Lady Gaga (see above), only not ridiculous on purpose.

The good news is that in hip-hop/jazz you get to always wear black dance pants, because no one wants to see anyone split-leap jump to a Britney Spears song in a leotard. My saving grace… black dance pants and a sparkly tank top.

It's too bad you guys didn't see me at the performance. I was in four dances. Three of them I flipped my hair around and acted like I knew what I was doing. But in one of them I completely forgot an entire combination - IN THE FRONT ROW.

Hahahaha! Ooops. Too bad you weren't there. Oh wait…

Pluto, Like A Disco Ball, Only Smaller

For some unknown reason I've had two conversations recently where I've found myself not so calmly telling someone, "Pluto is too still a planet, damn it! I'll look it up and show you!"

When the diminutive Pluto was punched in the orbit and downgraded to ice-ball a few years ago it made the front page. News that some big astronomy nerdfest decided it was a"dwarf planet," not so much.

The only reason I care is because I invested an hour of my life a few months ago watching a NOVA special on the rise and fall of Pluto. My favorite part was the hate mail from 3rd graders that Pluto downgrader Neil deGrasse Tyson received after saying Pluto was just an icy comet thingy.

Why, because it's small?! You jerk! Pluto was my favorite planet, now what?! What about the people who live on Pluto? Now they don't exist!

Pluto, still a planet. Kinda. Mostly. It's dwarf planet. Disagree with me and thousands of third graders at your own peril.

Speaking of planets, my scooter riding pal Dean works at the Cincinnati Observatory as the outreach astronomer. A few years ago he rigged up the ancient, giant telescope at the Observatory - which is a million ways badass, btw - and showed me Saturn through the lens. It's underwhelming in the sense that it's not like what you see in books or on TV. It's not giant, in your face, "I am Saturn See-My-Rings!" It's just tiny and ringed, but it's right there, and I was looking at it, and therefore it was cool as hell.

But if you want to see a photo of the giant version, and why wouldn't you want to sit in awe of this wonder of the solar system, then check out these amazing photos taken by the school-bus-sized spacecraft, Cassini. And if you don't already check in on the Boston Globe's Big Picture blog, you should. It's great stuff.

This Video, Better Than A Successory!

You mean people aren't just greedy, money obsessed materialists? You mean they actually want to be challenged, purposeful and engaged? People do things to just… have fun, be good at them and feel inspired… for free?!

Science says this is true. But I bet you already knew this. TGIF!

What's Up, Dirt Bag

Check out that bag of soil, y'all. Impressive, no? We're talking 64 quarts of super absorbing, nutrient rich, Twice-As-Big™ as redemption, tomatoes as big as your head inorganic plant feed.

Hallelujah!

It also "protects against over and underwatering. SOLD. (Is there such thing as overwatering? I know not of what you speak.)

I left work early on Friday to go buy it because my dad, balcony green-thumb extraordinaire, was driving three hours from Indiana to plant my petunias and tomatoes for me, as he does every year.

If I don't go buy dirt he will bring it with him, see. And then I'll have to help carry silt from the Mississinewa River up three flights of steps, on a tarp, leaving trails of fine dirt behind us as we go. It's just easier when it's already in a bag, you know what I'm sayin'?

Everyone's dad steals dirt from the river and loads it into his truck, right?

Hold On To that Feel-Aay-Aay-Aay-Aay-ing!

While a Miami University sorority was having a puke-tastic good time peeing on artifacts at the Underground Railroad Museum, Ohio State kids were synchronized dancing to the Glee kids covering Journey.

Keep it classy Miami! But seriously folks, who in their right mind thinks it's a good idea to let college students, in frats no less, rent out space at a museum? I wouldn't let these clowns drink out of my bathtub, let alone near anything valuable.

Come back next week when I "flash mob" here in my cubicle. Who's in?!

Has It Been A Year?

Today was the one year anniversary of my "new" job.

I guess it's not that new anymore but it's still shiny and heart-shaped. With a title like Senior Marketing and Communications Guru In Charge of Everything Awesome in the Heart Institute, how could it not be.

For my anniversary I asked for a Vespa, but I got a new desk instead. This means my head doesn't get radiated anymore whenever someone heats up their Lean Cuisine. So long microwave and mini-fridge!And check out my sweet new computer. Did someone say 21 inches?! I'm practically CEO now.

A year ago life was pretty dull… I knew virtually nothing about cardiomyopathy and no one ate the "leftovers" out of my trash can.

The Boss Man said to me recently, "You thought scientists were boring, and instead you got this wild carousel of delights!"

Indeed.

These days I can expect to be flipped off by the same colleague who also kindly shares his baby carrots with me; invited to dinner by coworkers who fear I eat only frozen pizzas (totally true, you should also invite me over for dinner); given mini-candy bars, hotel soaps and called Boo. Just another day at the office.

And when I call in sick for peeing blood clots, people are actually concerned. A job is only as good as the people you work with, and I have good colleagues in spades.

As for the work, pretty much everyone is smarter than me... you know, saving babies, trying to cure heart disease, scheduling appointments in an archaic email system, doing marketing stuff (whatever that is)... so it's humbling and challenging and most often, fun even.

I'd probably do it for free, but thankfully they keep paying me, cause it's looking like I will have to buy that Vepsa myself. Happy anniversary to me!

Mea Culpa

It was recently brought to my attention that I chew with my mouth open, which means I have repulsed and icked out everyone I've ever eaten with my whole life. So 592 people. Roughly.

My apologies.

Where Would You Wish To Wake Up Tomorrow?

Hope your wish comes true! Tgif.

ZOMG! My 6th Grade Heart Is Melting!

Beiber who? Tgif!

Happy Mother's Day!

Not much has changed since I was in college. I still eat frozen pizza pretty regularly, and on trips back home, I take my laundry. Oddly enough it's more convenient to drive it three hours away than it is to do it in the basement of my apartment building. For one thing, I don't have to scrounge up quarters when I take it home and secondly, well... truth be (embarrassingly) told, my mom does it.

I know, I know. I don't ask her to do it. I don't even want her to do it. It's just that she can't stand to have this much laundry piled up in her presence and rather than wait for me to do it, she just dives in. She swears she finds comfort in this, doing her perfectly capable daughter's laundry.

My dad and I went to church with her on Sunday for Mother's Day. The sermon was about moms of course. I don't remember what he said because I was too busy thinking about how badly the pew was killing my back, but as she was singing along to Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art I was thinking about her and the millions of things for which I never thanked her.

I swear I hit the mom lottery. She has always been unfailingly supportive and practical, hopeful for the best but always steeled for the worst. A calm voice of reason in an often unstable world. My mom was not the mom to come unglued over minutia of any kind. It's just not her style. Life has real problems, and the difference was always clear to her. This is not to say, unfortunately, that she wouldn't wear me out over a detention or a speeding ticket.

As she sang I thought about all the times she must have paced around worrying about me when I missed curfew or didn't call home when I said I would. The nights she must have stayed awake praying for me when I was sick. The suffering she still endures from my brother's death.

You got to be tough to be a mom. No doubt about that. And yet she maintains a tremendous sense of humor and happiness.

So I went to church with her, took her to brunch, bought her wave petunias and gave her books, none of which hold a candle to the warmth and support she's given me.

You can never repay your own sweet mom. But I do thank her a lot more now. And when she says, "Gina, you must have 40 pairs of underwear!" I kindly don't tell her it's because I do laundry only once a month or so, because she didn't raise me like that, and I don't want to disappoint her.

And I Did Only 6.8 Miles

This is what I've been reduced to.

My feet are covered in blisters, my hip-flexor is... broken? My legs and butt muscles feel like they were removed from my body and pulverized old-school, like with the steel hammer my mom used to use to tenderize meat.

But hey, my nipples feel totally fine. I got that going for me!

God Help Me

Other people are worried for me. They think I am unprepared, which I am. Concerned I am peeing blood still, which I am that too. And troubled I am not more concerned about the seven miles I'm supposed to get through Sunday morning for the Pig, which I'm not.

I wrote those words earlier this week. Up 'til last night I was feeling pretty smug about the relay. Pssht, I thought, how bad could it be. Then last night it dawn on me, pretty flippin' bad!

I no longer feel smug. I am in full-on panic mode, people!!!! Holy mother of God why didn't I train?! WHY?!

Four Days 'Til The Pig: AKA, I Am So Hard-Core I Pee Blood

Look, I was going to run this weekend, I really was. But Saturday was no good for me. I ended up way too tipsy on Friday night to think about doing anything more physical than ordering a pizza on Saturday so running was definitely out.

Then on Sunday I nearly died. No joke. On my way to meet Julie for dance rehearsal I suddenly had to pee so badly my back hurt, so I whipped into Brueggers and I'll be damned if I didn't pee out a GIANT blood clot and my pee was the color of pink lemonade.

Oh, you don't believe it was giant? Well, it was. It was so big I took a photo of it and I will gladly show it to you. (Do not doubt me or I will straight-up email you this very disturbing photo.) So then I was all, 'Omg, I'm probably going to die any second now. I should probably go to Urgent Care. But Julie is expecting me, onward.' So I went to rehearsal and Julie was all, 'Here's a tampon, it's probably your period.' And I was all, 'No Jules, I know period when I see it, and this was definitely pee blood.' Then I had to pee really badly again, and there was some more pink lemonade pee.

So then I was all, 'Well, not much I can do about it now. Let's dance.' After I finally nailed the maxiforward right, maxi-cross, shuffle hop-step maxiforward left, I drove home and everything seemed fine. No more blood in my urine. I'm cured, I rejoiced while eating a left over burrito. Then I was chatting with a friend of mine who was all, 'If I had peed out a blood clot I would be at Christ Hospital right now convinced I was dead. But whatever, sister.'

Which got me to thinking, 'Crap. What if something is wrong. I better go to Urgent Care.' Holy scary hell-hole, you guys. Have you ever been to the Urgent Care on Ridge? That place is terrifying. Like, dirty, holes in the walls, no soap in the bathroom, horror movie, former abortion clinic-looking scary. I figured whatever I had in my bladder was nothing compared to the staph infection I was about contract in that joint.

So the "doctor" gave me a prescription for antibiotics. Oh yeah, did I mention during my visit he pulled out his cell phone and checked his messages? Oh yes, that happened. Then he told me to see my doctor because there is blood in my urine. Yeah, no kidding buddy. I'm pretty sure I knew more about medicine than he did. I should have shown him the photo of the clot. He'd have probably passed out.

Then I went grocery shopping for pasta because I have to carb-load for the Pig on Saturday night. By then I was too exhausted from the day's festivities to run. Then it dawned on me... I ran so hard last week I peed blood, ya'll! God I am hard-core. Other people have to run really hard for miles for them pee to blood, not me. One awesome run/walk around the neighborhood and my urine is clotty and the color of pink lemonade a week later.

Google confirms this is obviously what happened to me.

The fact that I'm still going to run the relay after nearly dying in the Bruegger's bathroom and then again at Urgent Care speaks volumes about my dedication. It's a miracle I'm still alive.

Oh yeah, don't even give me that TMI crap. This is basic physiology people and I know a lot about that stuff because I sit near scientists.

Someone Is Trying To Kill Me And I Don't Appreciate It

Saturday evening I opened my front door and this granola bar fell from the doorknob. I live in a relatively secure building and I don't know any of my neighbors... so yeah, poison.

Cakes on a Plane

Martha calls it 'a delight.' The New York Times says it's 'a little slice of heaven.' '...a thing of tearful beauty,' sobs Delta Sky magazine. The Website notes it's 'the cake of choice for Charleston brides.'

The Ultimate Coconut Cake has gotten so much ink it has its own 'fact sheet.'

For weeks it was all I heard about. Colleagues Tiffany and Carolyn were going crazy about this cake. It's crack-tasticness, covered in toasted coconut, cream and butter icing and drizzled with simple syrup. The cost, $100 for 12 pounds of round cake. The Peninsula Grill, home of this frothy marvel, will even ship it, they exclaimed.

I don't much care for cake (most of it is crap) and I sincerely hate coconut. There are plenty of idle office conversations I will take a stand-on - ordering Indian for lunch, for example - but coconut cake is not one of them.

Then, the Boss Man decided he had heard enough, he would buy this cake.

'Did you hear? We are getting the cake! We. Are. Getting. The. Cake,' Tiffany and Carolyn squealed.

Eh. I think put my headphones back on.

But the issue became, How would we get the cake? The problem, see, wasn't the $100 price tag for 12 layers of pound cake. Oh no. The problem was the 75 additional dollars to have it overnighted from Charleston. That, my friends, was the issue. It was 'the principle.'

Then, the planets aligned for Tiffany and Carolyn.

A faculty member heard about the desire for this cake. His mother-in-law happened to be coming to visit from Charleston. She could bring the cake, on the plane, as a carry-on, so it wouldn't get smushed. She called TSA, 'Can I bring a cake on a plane?'

The story goes that when she arrived at airport security, an agent had her open the box and quizzically asked, 'You're taking a cake from Charleston to Cincinnati?' And another agent chimed in, 'Is that the Ultimate Coconut Cake?! Oh my god, it's worth it!'

One flight later, the cake was ours. Or rather, theirs.

I was at a meeting in another building the morning it arrived. Carolyn texted me, 'The cake is here! Hid a piece in your cabinet so Mountain won't get it.'

I got back to the office and everyone was talking about the $100, favorite of Charleston brides and Martha Stewart cake. I was on-board for the excitement but was skeptical of the hype. I was convinced it would taste like a Hostess SnoBall, one of those Pepto-pink disgusting wads of awful you buy at the gas station. That is my loathing for coconut. And cake too, really.

But there it was, hidden away in my cabinet. I made jokes. 'What if the first person you see when you take a bite is the person you marry? I feel weird eating Charleston bride wedding cake. What if it's cursed and I end up married?' Carolyn and Tiffany were tired of my games. They forced me to start eating it, waiting to pounce on my leftovers should I not like it.

I took three bites, maybe four... time stopped... the toasted coconut, divine... all 12 layers, perfection... it was like it was made especially... for me. So rich and creamy and yet light as a cloud, I was stuffed. I gave myself a minute to think over my new feelings about coconut and cake, then I put the rest of it back into my cabinet so I could eat more of it later, alone.

And that's how I came to eat the wedding cake of choice for Charleston brides.

Hudy Deee-licious

I had my first Hudy (Delight) Saturday night. Because I have no discernible beer palate, it tasted like every other beer I've ever drank, which is to say, delicious. In addition to the lovely urine coloring, I observed hints of water, hops and cheapness. Like passing out in a frat house.

Cheers!

Gloriousness

Yesterday I thought long and hard about running.

I was a vision. Passing runners left and right. Attacking the uphills, sailing on the downhills. In my head I was doing consistent 6 minute miles, even with stopping to help blind people cross the road. I hit the tape with thunderous applause. The winner's wreath was placed on my head, the winner's medal around my neck. Not only did I run the Pig plus my relay, I changed lives and gave hope for the future. Trophies were cast in my honor.

I had to eat a Gu I was so spent.

But by the time I finished visualizing about how amazing I was, I was too exhausted to actually go running. It's all mental anyway, right? At least 90 percent mental? Hell, probably more. Like, 98 percent.

But today, carpe diem, fools. The long taper has ended.

I did 3.5 miles in real life, not just in my head. And I only threw up in my mouth. Twice. Not on the sidewalk. And I didn't die. Mostly. I am an inspiration!

Minus my right hip flexor most certainly pulling from the bone, detaching, sliding down my leg and into my shoe to crinkle up my sock, I felt great. Ish.

Now I only have to do twice that distance in 12 days and I will be GOLDEN.

Here's lookin' at you, Greatness.

16 Days 'Til The Pig

A completely accurate transcript of a conversation with my relay teammate and colleague Patrick.

PATRICK: How was your run last night.

ME: Awesome. It was like the wind carried me on its sails.

PATRICK: You didn't run, did you?

ME: Nope... See, the thing is Patrick, I have other things on my mind. The Pig is at the bottom of my priority list.

PATRICK: So you're saying you couldn't care less.

ME: Right.

PATRICK: There is going to be a two-hour window in about two weeks where you're going to regret saying that.

ME: Maybe. I'm curious what will happen to me. If I die it's your fault.

PATRICK: I don't know what's going to happen you, but I know what I'm worried about... me not starting my part of the relay. Oh, and secondly, I'm worried about your injury potential.

ME: Glad me dying and being carted away by medics ranks second on your list.

PATRICK: I'm trying to help you avoid that fate.

ME: Second is the first loser.

UPDATE

Boss Man to Patrick upon hearing he follows me in the relay: You're in deep shit.

If You Can Dodge An Insult...

My parents have an uncanny ability insult to the careers of the people I date. It's not their fault really, it's more a lack of understanding. Though I can't say I've disagreed with their assessments entirely.

One ex told my parents he was going to go to architecture school, to which my dad replied, "Architecture? What's there to now about building a building? I've never understood why anyone would go to school for architecture. I've helped build half-a-dozen buildings and I never went to school for architecture."

I tried to rescue the conversation with, "Well dad, you have to know where to put the plumbing and stuff."

"Yeah, how hard is that?"

Ray Daugherty, architect flamer.

That same ex boyfriend happened to be a graphic designer (as a few of them have been), which was another mystery to my parents. "He designs the Bounce box? It just says Bounce on it, right?"

"Well, right. But sometimes it also says, 'Now more fresher!' Or whatever," I added, weakly.

My mom was the launcher of that insult. Who knew Susie Daugherty could rocket such accidental put downs. (But my god it was hilarious. I still crack up over it.)

Recently I acquired a chemist acquaintance who works on paper. Specifically, paper towel. (I've never known any chemists - nor have I ever taken a chemistry class for that matter - but you know it when you see it, right?) I was mentioning this to my mom and we couldn't help but note that paper seems largely figured out to us.

Paper towel? A 40-hour a week job? Seems like we've kind of nailed it already, right? I feel confident in saying I'm happy with where we are in the world in terms of absorbency and softness. But whatever.

Then my mom informed me I need a man who "works with his hands, like your daddy."

"Hell, I'd be fine if he could just carry the cat litter up the steps," I told her.

Sometimes I feel almost sorry for the poor saps who have to meet my parents. They don't mean to be, but Ray and Susie can be harsh critics. They're filterless.

Hmm... this is sounding familiar.

The Long Taper

Omg I am screwed. That's right party people, totally screwed. I've not run a step since November and guess what, the Pig is less than a month away. Holla!

I'm doing the relay again, and this year even more badly than in previous years. (Who knew that was even possible?! Oh wait, I did.) I've got four weeks to somehow increase my endurance, oxygen intake, prepare my legs, strategize how to fake like I'm actually running when I see the course photographers, etc etc. This could be my year to vomit at the switch point. Who wants to cook me up a plate of alfredo pre-run?

Do I have roof access from here? If I break something beforehand, that's a pretty good excuse, right? What about death? If I'm dead you guys can't really call me out on being out of shape and lazy, correct? Except I know you bastards and I know I could be laid up with my limbs hanging from chains in a hospital bed and you'd be all, 'Way to break your legs just to not embarrass yourself at the relay Daugherty.'

God I hate you guys.

Anyway... We are called Kathleen Turner Overdrive. Look for us to finish last. Ow ow!

Happy Easter!

This little girl watched Stella and me ride up and down the side street today as I was working some of the winter blues out of Stella. She came walking down the drive-way a few minutes after I parked, handed me this purple egg and said a cheery, Happy Easter!

She said she gave me the purple one to match my scooter. It had two little chocolate bars inside of it. Now how sweet is that? Then she happily posed for this photo for me.

Hope everyone got equally as sweetly surprised today.

Oh, and by the way, don't ever, ever doubt Stella. After five months of not being started and weeks covered in snow, she fired up today without so much as a complaint. I knew she would.

Hot Pink Shock And Awe

So there I was, minding my own bid'ness, turning on my desk light, hadn't even put my laptop bag down when out of nowhere the Boss Man comes wheeling into my aisle on a hot pink Razor scooter with a big sign that said "Vespa" on it. Then, Wham! He crashed into me yelling, "Where's the brake on this thing?!" Thank god I work at a hospital so I'm close to people who can sew human flesh back together.

Ummm, this is not what I had in mind when I told him I wanted a Vespa.

No matter y'all, the thing is awesome. It will freakin' fly on lab floor tile. Not that we did that. Definitely did NOT ride the hot pink wheeled Razor (er, Vespa) down the lab hallway, or past very important doctor and scientist's offices... and it certainly didn't happen in high-heels. By nearly everyone. Except the high-heels part. Ok yes, that did happen. I made everyone who wanted to ride it put on my ruby patent leather high heels first. Everyone looked so amazing.

But not as amazing as this photo. My face is saying, 'Pisser, it's not a real Vespa, but still, how fun!' His face is saying, 'I hired her twice. I am emotionally exhuausted.'

Jesus This Is Good!

Because I had to miss the first chocolate last supper, Boss Man acquired another one of these delicious, most holy of snacks and brought it in today. He cut me off a piece and said, "I'm giving you Jesus, because you need it the most."

It's also the biggest piece. Hallelujah!

I am going to straight to hell, btw. But you already knew that.

Together Through Life

Making her laugh.

My parents' relationship has always been a mystery to me. They met in October of 1971 and married in March of 1972. You could say, as Johnny Cash would, that they got married in fever. Except, it seems there was no fever.

My mom had two dates the week she met my dad. She went back to work on Monday and told her friends, "Well, it's certainly not that Ray guy." That Ray guy would be my dad.

They were both divorced when they met. Both had two kids. Other than that, I'm not sure what they had in common.

The way my mom tells it, she wasn't even attracted to him. He was blonde and blue eyed, she preferred men with dark hair and dark eyes. She was unimpressed. He worked in a factory, like she did, and he told her he ate dinner at his sister's house every night. She was not impressed by that either.

For their second date he asked her if she wanted to go see Elvis. Sure, by that time it was fat, drug addled Elvis, a few years away from death Elvis, but still, it was Elvis, and she wanted to see him. So they climbed into whatever old wreck he drove at the time and headed for Kentucky to see The King.

"He didn't have tickets, we had a flat tire, and he locked his keys in his car. It was a nightmare," she says.

She smoked back then and when she went to flick her cigarette out of the car window a piece of ash blew back in and landed on my dad's shirt. She was too embarrassed to tell him and thought he might not notice. Which he might not have, except it burned a hole in his shirt and started to burn him. All he said was a dry, "Thanks a lot."

What happened on that second date was they got to know each other, and when she got to know him she thought he was... funny. And if you can make my mom laugh, then you've got her. A more good-natured and good-humored woman you will not find, and she will laugh until tears roll down her face and she goes completely slack.

That second date led to a 38-year long marriage.

My mom claims this is untrue and if I have I don't remember, but I swear I've never seen a wedding photo of them. I am still not entirely convinced they're even married because of this, nor do I believe they had any type of courtship. (No evidence, no dice.) Everything I know about them I've had to extract. They are private people, and while they tell stories about growing up or what have you, they don't tell many stories about their beginning. It's very peculiar to me. I don't know that I've ever once even seen them kiss on the mouth. Maybe when I was younger.

A few weeks before their wedding they went back and forth on calling it off. What about the kids? Would they get along? Did he really want to move back to Kentucky? Where would they live if they stayed in Marion? Typical cold feet kind of stuff. But when he showed up at her house in "his little blue suit and tie, he just looked so handsome," my mom says, and off they went to the church.

"Plus," my mom says, "My friends at the factory had taken up a collection for us, it'd have been kind of humiliating not to go through with it." (Good a reason as any I guess.)

It was just them, their two friends as witnesses and the preacher.

They were supposed to get married on a Saturday, April 1, but that was April Fools Day. So they sealed the deal on Friday, March 31 instead. It was a full moon.

Last night I asked my mom why she ended up with my dad rather than the man she thought she liked more on those first few dates. The other man was a green beret, had a college education, made more money... all the things on paper that you would think a single mom at 30-years-old would want.

But in the end she thought my dad was kinder, funnier, a better partner for life... and his background was more aligned with hers. "He was hard-working, like my dad" she says, then laughs, "Though there were plenty of times later I thought, 'Man I could be living on easy street right now!'"

When I was about 5 my dad starting working third shift so he could go to technical school to be a mechanic, so we could have a better life. I carried his giant books to his truck every morning. He was so tired he says he often didn't know what day it was or if he was supposed to go to school or to work, so he went where my mom told him he needed to go. They talk about it now as some of their leanest years, how there wasn't much money. But it always seemed like there was plenty to me, and they were able to send me to college on that mechanic and factory worker's salary.

My mom and I laugh now about some of those 38-years, tolerating my grumpy-ass dad. And sometimes I truly didn't know why she put up with him huffing and puffing around the house, grouchy and groaning for what seemed like years. But then, he was also a good husband and dad, and he always made sure she was happy above all else. My mom didn't ask for much, just to be taken to dinner on Friday nights and a quiet room to read her books in. And so off they went, every Friday night for dinner. The rest, eh... it would work itself out.

And when she'd nag him to death (a skill moms excel at), he'd never snap or yell, he'd just look at me and roll his eyes and we'd snicker under our breath, bonded in our laughter.

At the end of the day, they liked and appreciated each other. My mom supported his interests and friends, and he always supported hers. Even in what seemed like the worst times, they had each others back. My dad wouldn't say a mean spirited word about her if you tortured him. And for all his faux grousing, when she said she wanted a porch and a new porch swing, he bought the porch and built the swing.

Idyllic? Hell no. But together through life.

So, happy 38th anniversary, mom and dad. I am so glad you found each other.

That Was Fun

Friday night a valet informed me his ex-girlfriend was a bartender at FBs and disgustedly added she was probably getting hit on by a bunch of dudes. I shrugged and figured he was probably right. Then I had a little too much fun at happy hour with some old friends and some new ones and lost my debit card.

Saturday afternoon I went out for ice-cream, twice. Graeter's is better than Aglamesis and don't let anybody tell you anything different. Saturday night I played a spectacular game of Ms. PacMan and then got into an argument over who won. (I did.)

Sunday at brunch I grossly oversyruped my waffle and learned that my worst injury is a "chick injury." And if Jack White were to wail on his guitar and come bleeding from his fingers into my apartment the drops of blood onto my hardwood would form into the shape of Jesus, holding a guitar.

Sunday night I invited myself over to Erin and Adam's for another homecooked meal (see photo), this time linguine with clam sauce plus bread and salad. (Bread and salad, y'all.) It was divine. We toasted to our fantastic new Sunday night ritual.

Oh, and then I got my debit card back.

Hope everyone had an equally fabulous weekend.

Oh Good, Bad Girls Club Reunion DVRd

Oh wait, I never ever, ever want to watch The Bad Girls Club Reunion. Or The Suite Life. Or Saved By the Bell.

See people, this is what happens when you are out of town and you have Ronson check-in on your cats. You come home to really stupid stuff recorded on your DVR. The last time it was the Price Is Right. It was a sneak attack. I flipped through my DVR list wondering, When the hell did I decide to record The Price Is Right? Did I get crunk and fall off a curb last night?

I live in fear of what might show up over the next week.

Please let me know if you are available to cat sit. I pay in dinners.

Why Where I Work Is Awesome

This was sitting on my desk when I got back from Atlanta. Carolyn, the coolest chick in the office said, "There was no way we were having 'chocolate last supper day' without you getting an Apostle. And when I stuck the pairing knife in, Matthew just popped right out."

Obviously this is deeply significant, as all things chocolate and Biblical are, and if I knew anything about the Apostles I could extract the meaning. But as it is, it means Carolyn rocks.

You can't tell, but it looks exactly like what a chocolate Matthew would look like. Exactly.

Hotlanta, Not That Hot

In fact, Hotlanta was cold. And windy. You really disappointed me Atl. I was super looking forward to saying things like, 'It's hotter than Georgia assa-phalt in mid-Ju-ly down here." Sad. Though I did hear a shuttle driver say "pert near." Fortunately, I speak southern (I learned it from my pappy) and that translates to, "Lil' darlin', yer almost there.'

The highlight of my dirty south adventure though was surely eating at Ludacris' restaurant, Straits, in Midtown. Y'all didn't know Luda represents with Asian fusion, did ya? Can a girl get a wonton? Thanks LUDA!

The joint has a jazzy/cool vibe and everyone was dressed real fly while instrumentals of R&B classics played loudly on the overheads, including Nite and Day. (Don't front, you know Al B. was smooth as hell back in the day.)

Unfortch, I can only assume Luda is in some kinda battle with the cabbies of Midtown because it took 20 minutes to get one back to the hotel. What, cabbies don't like Asian fusion? Luda get all Luda up on them after one too many dranks? Luda-Cabbie Midtown turf war? Whatevs.

Glad to be home.

And I Don't Have This, Why?

If the Boss Men really wanted to make me happy (and they should!) they'd get me this chair.

I'm off on a little work trip, my faithful readers. Perhaps I will run into those emblems of stability and modesty known as the Housewives of Hotlanta. NeNe, girl, you so craaaaazzzzy.

The End

The number 30 is an old symbol in newspapers that signifies the end of the story. That's how I feel about this week, ready for it to be over, finalized, in the books and done with.

-30-