Two Wheelin'

I spent the majority of the weekend on two-wheels on Route 8.

Saturday was the Mods vs. Rockers rally. Scooters and motorcycles of all shapes and sizes - vintage, café racer, Vespa, Triumph, three-wheelers, aggressive looking eat-your-family-bikes, and those that looked rode hard and put away wet.

But mine was the coolest.

You like my new pinstripes? Ray got them for me for Christmas and put them on last weekend so I'd have them for the rally. It gives the Baby Blue Angel a whole new vibe I think.

But if I had to chose second place, these two would win.

For one thing, that bike looks menacing, like it was an extra in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.

But the little guy who rode side-car was the real highlight. He rode the entire rally with his Doggles on, taking it all in like a boss. He was the coolest rider out there. His owner told us: "The bike is his. He just lets me ride him around."

Saturday was a beautiful day to spend with 400 of my closest scooter and motorcycle riding friends, and at about 1 pm we all broke-up into groups to head through rural Kentucky.

Both sides of Plum Street downtown were packed with scooters and motorcycles. The Baby Blue Angel soldier'd up and got in line.

She says 'what up.'

I hadn't spent much time on the blue highways of Northern Kentucky before this weekend and wow, what lovely stretches of road. We went over hills and through valleys and watched the hay bales rise up on the sides of the foothills. We zipped past farms and churches and outpost gas stations and broken down cars.

An adorable little donkey (redundant: donkeys are always adorable) watched us ride past, along with a couple of gigantic white horses.

Also pretty excited to see us were the cicadas, who I think were attracted to the sound of our motors. They came buzzing out of the tall grass and trees, pelting us with their rock hard little bug bodies. If you haven't taken a cicada to the chest or face shield at 50 miles per hour, really you must. One hit me in the rib and I thought I'd been shot.

'How many cicadas did you eat' was a legit question by the end.

We rode every bit of 90 miles round trip, all the way to Augusta, Kentucky. On the way there we took mostly rural backroads and I had no idea where I was or where I was going. And that's the beauty of a group ride, you get to sit back and follow the other scooters.

We cruised into Augusta about 3 pm and it was already packed with scoots and motorcycles and town-people, all there for a little art gallery walk.

Todd and I in Augusta. His scooter inspired me to get pinstripes.

Funny thing about Augusta, Kentucky - there are only 1,190 people, and yet they have a little 'downtown' packed with restaurants and shops. For such a small place, they've got patios and food and ice-cream shops and cafés on lock. Ol' Augusta has life figure out.

And you really haven't seen it all until you watch a bunch of tatted-up motorcyclists and scooter enthusiasts eating ice-cream cones in what looks like Mayberry. Because nothing says bad-ass like a twist cone bent to your face by an arm with a tattoo sleeve.

On the way back we followed the river exclusively down Route 8. Unfortunately, the ride back was way too fast, much faster than I prefer and I was silently complaining into my helmet that I was 'hanging on' rather than enjoying the ride.

And sure enough, on one of the hilly S-curves, a rider went too wide and ended up driving off of the side of the road and crashing his scooter.

I saw his bike lying on the side of the road (I was about 2 seconds behind him) and my heart went into a tailspin thinking he might be seriously hurt and that I might hit him, his bike or something else.
Fortunately, I saw him come up out of the mud so I knew he was at least mostly ok, but it scared the hell out of me. We all pulled over and called 911. He was mostly ok but pretty shook up.

Lucky for him he landed in the mud and not the road or gravel or a pole or a car, but it was scary and a reminder for me that I don't need to go any faster than I feel comfortable, regardless of what the 'group' is doing.

Needless to say, Todd and I moseyed on back into Cincinnati at a much more leisurely pace.

I got to experience the exact same scenery and cracks in the pavement on Route 8 on Sunday morning. Ray and I were up bright eyed and bushy tailed and early for the Ride Cincinnati for Breast Cancer Research.

I just realized that Ray and I kind of match. Sorry about that.

I absolutely love this event. There are so many walks and runs in Cincinnati, literally every weekend is packed with them from spring through fall, but there are few biking events. Ride Cincinnati is one of them.

Riders could choose between these distances down Route 8:

62.8 miles

45.2 miles

27.0 miles

18.4 miles

8.2 miles

and a 1 mile kids bike rally

Guess which one we chose? The 1 mile kids bike rally!

There was a clown. Actually, there were two "lady clowns," which Ray noted that "Nothing is scarier than lady clowns."

We actually did the 18-miler, but it turned into 20, so technically, we went way above and beyond. I haven't ridden more than 10 miles on my bike in about ohhhh, 10 years, so no surprise that my legs felt like jelly after about the 11 mile mark.

Thankfully, my trusty new steed got me through. (And there were animal crackers and Gatorade at the turn-around point. I hadn't eaten in at last 20 minutes during that bike ride.)

It's a Trek 7.4 FX if you're in the market for a bike that weighs about 4 pounds, has brakes,
handlebars, some aluminum and some carbon on it and rides like a dream.

I got a new bike this spring and have been bonding with it at Lunken and Armleder Park. And after Sunday's ride, we're officially a team. I also really love that it doesn't weigh 50 pounds like my old bike and that the gears actually change when you tell them to.

The bike practically rides itself; I can put it wherever I want it.

(I also realize that all of my modes of transportation are a shade of blue. The Blue Angel, The Baby Blue Angel and my as yet to be named Trek. This wasn't intentional, but maybe I have a transportation 'type'?)

The rides made the weekend seem longer and more fun, which is always the goal. But let me tell ya, I don't care if I see another scooter or bike anytime soon. I'm happy to be back in my car where there is a windshield to keep the wind and sun and cicadas off of me.

Now I need a weekend from my weekend. The normal kind, where I sit at the pool and read magazines books and my biggest 'activity' is either walking three blocks to Graeter's or driving to the Newtown Dairy Corner. 

Keeneland Is Decadent and Depraved

I picked Dance With Fate to win the Derby yesterday. Alas, California Chrome won the roses.

I'm terrible at picking horses it turns out, along with everybody else. 

A few weeks ago at Keeneland we picked all horses with cat-inspired names, and they didn't fare well either.

Emotional Kitten, Kitten's Point, Bad Ass Cat... all failures. And they cost us a small fortune.* Maybe next year we'll change our strategy from cat-named horses to horses that actually have good odds.

The last two years Ray and I have gone to Keeneland on a chartered bus filled with friends, friends of friends, complete strangers, beer and Jell-O shots. Last year, our friends got engaged on the bus.

Obviously, our crowd is less about horse racing and more about having a good time. But I never drink because I'm reluctant to have to pee 40 times on a bathroom bus. And this year, someone accidentally dropped the hand sanitizer into the toilet. So there's also the possibility of not being able to clean your hands. 

But anyway, I go to Keeneland to watch the real beasts perform, which is to say, people watch.

Drunk college kids decked out in their J. Crew seersucker suits and sunburns. Women in pressed dresses, giant hats and heels (the brave ones wear stilettos, the realists wear wedges), their husbands in navy jackets. The moneyed owners and hangers-on. The genuine gamblers with their crazy hair, cigars and studied knowledge of the horses and the drugs they're on.

How the good people of the Commonwealth tolerate this influx of characters each April and October is beyond me.

One of the natives was an older woman, probably in her mid-60s, who took our hotdog order like she was happy to see us. She was sweet and southern and her wiglet ponytail matched her real hair almost perfectly. 

'Look, Ray. That woman has a wiglet. It's just like Madonna on the Blonde Ambition Tour.'

That's when I had to explain to Ray what a wiglet is.

'They're like wigs, only smaller.'

The good thing about Keeneland is you actually see horses. I went to the Kentucky Derby twice and I didn't see a single horse. The Mint Juleps could have been to blame the first year, but not the second. (I still won't go near a Mint Julep.) 

Next year we've decided we're getting grandstand seats. And maybe we'll study up on odds, breeds and jockeys. Or we'll just take our $2 to a betting window where some kind woman or man won't flinch when we bet on cat names again.

*And by small fortune, I mean we could have bought a few more hotdogs and a couple of beers with that money.

Delightful

I think the reason the internet was invented was for cat photos and this video. 

These two women charmed me completely and totally. It is one of the most joyous things I have seen in a long time. 

Four Glorious Years!

I don't know why he complains when I take pictures of him. Obviously I ensure that we both look great.

Today is the four year anniversary of when Ray and I met.

We had brunch at Coffee Emporium in OTR, next door to where he lived at the time. It was a white hot occasion, marked by me wearing jeans and a t-shirt (is there any better way to make a first impression?) and Ray was wearing a pea green zip-up that I still make fun of.

I asked him, 'Are you going to a track meet after this?'

I sure am charming!

I made a fleeting reference to this auspicious occasion in a blog post that weekend called That Was Fun.

From the post:

Sunday at brunch I grossly over-syruped 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 dripping onto my hardwood floor would form into the shape of Jesus, holding a guitar.

Those were the highlights of Ray and I's first face to face conversation apparently. He said I had a "chick injury," which I'm not sure now what we were even referring to, and I obviously talked about my love of Jack White, who even bloodied, is awesome.

Sounds about right.

I'm surprised I ever saw Ray again given that he said I had a "chick injury." But he was funny and cute, which can get you a long way in life really. And he told me his condo next door had a rooftop terrace with a grill, and I thought I'd look real good up there that summer sunning myself and eating hamburgers. (And indeed, I did.)

Over the last four years I've occasionally kept track of the funny things Ray has said to me, in addition to insulting my "chick injury."

In honor of our anniversary, here they are:

• I know yoga is no joke and all, but I don’t think you should tell people that you have a yoga injury.
• Have you ever noticed that chicks who are really into horses have hair that is way too long?
• You aggravate the hell out of me! Being mad at me, needing tissues, demanding tea, taking my photo all the time!
• I don't claim to know a lot about housing and infrastructure, but I know a firetrap shithole when I see one. 
• Are you feeling a Reds game tomorrow night? It might be kinda nice to drink an overpriced beer, eat some stale nachos, watch a ballgame and bail when we get bored.
• If we were broke up and you texted me a year later, hours before you’re supposed to get married to someone else and said, ‘I’m in over my head, come get me,’ I’d come get you. But I’d still be pissed you almost married someone else.
• You know, I don’t think I ever felt teen angst. I never felt put upon or confused or ill-at-ease. I just wanted to get the hell out of Greenville, Pennsylvania.
• I don’t why they call them boyfriend sweaters because this doesn’t look like anything I would wear.
• Gina, I would walk through hell in gasoline underwear for you. But if you asked me to drive back from New Mexico when there are perfectly good planes, we’d be in a big fight.
• General Tso's is the bomb. It's fried chicken with sugar sauce on it.
• We cannot ever break-up. You have to love me forever because there is no way we'll ever be able to get all the furniture out of this house. The dressers barely made it through the window. We just have to stay together until the end. 
• It looks like the Easter Bunny took a pastel dump in here.
• I swear to god that place was a Superfund site. We drove all the way to Indiana to pay $8 for a JTM burger that made us sick and a packet of Swiss Miss with some lukewarm water. They just handed us the packet and told us to put the water on it ourselves. Plus, it was the shittiest hayride ever. ...God I loved that place.

Everyone should be so lucky to have a Ray.

Happy anniversary to us! 

Two Turn Tables and A Half-Read Book

When I pulled this off the shelf to take the photo, I was stunned to see I got better than halfway through it.

The summer of 1996 was a formative one.

I was an intern writing features at the Journal Gazette in Fort Wayne, a city far bigger than the one where I grew up, working with people far smarter and more creative than I was, and those people listened to cool music.

I was learning more and writing more than anything three years of college had taught me, plus I met a cute weird boy who I would go on to date for several years.

Fountains of Wayne's Radiation Vibe was always on the indie radio station and Beck's Odelay was always in my CD player. I didn't have cable in my short-lease studio apartment, but I'd watch the Atlanta Summer Games on the newsroom TV.

The entire experience was transformative, like drinking from a firehose. But I loved it. 

I was also reading Naked Lunch that summer. Or rather, I was trying to.

I remember one of my friends/coworkers left me a message on my answering machine (it was 1996, after all) telling me:

'You're never going to finish Naked Lunch so just forget about it. It's too much, too weedy. We're going to The Emporium, all of us, to check out the scene. If there's no scene, we'll be our own scene. See you there.'

I was at once delighted I was invited to be part of the 'scene,' but also stunned. How could he say I was never going to finish Naked Lunch? I mean, other than the fact that it is impenetrable, how could he say that?

I was reminded of my storied history with Burroughs' seminal novel last weekend when I read a review of the new book Call Me Burroughs, by Barry Miles. 

From the review:

Miles charts in detail how dependent this singular iconoclast was on the inspiration and editorial skills of his friends. Without Allen Ginsberg, who spent 10 weeks establishing some kind of order on the pages of “Naked Lunch,” scattered around the floor of Burroughs’s room in Tangier… we wouldn’t have any of his major works in their present form. Though the first and last drafts were always his, collaboration rescued Burroughs from the terrors and falsities of single authorship, giving him access to kindred minds with different resources. He knew they made his work, as Ginsberg put it, more “decipherable.”

I was staggered to read that Ginsberg spent 10 weeks putting order to the book. I can't fathom what it would have read like without that influence, nor can I fathom spending 10 weeks in the vain exercise of reading Naked Lunch as a 'draft.'

Ginsberg, you poor bastard.

I can't say for certain but I'm pretty sure I went to The Emporium that night with my coworkers. I can say for certain that I never finished Naked Lunch that summer… because I still haven't finished Naked Lunch.

I've moved that book from Fort Wayne to Virginia to Ohio and to probably 10 apartments in Cincinnati. I will never part with it.

I will never likely finish it either. It is a bright yellow, bound reminder of a great summer.

Cassius Clay, The Greatest Kitty of all Time

Cassius and I lived in 9 different apartments together over 13 years.

This past summer, the day before we had to put him down, Cassius Clay, The Greatest Kitty of All Time, caught a mouse.

Technically, the mouse ran right into him as he was lounging around in the liriope. But still, he chased it and caught it fair and square, pinning it to the sidewalk by its tail.

Even at death's door, he was still a bonafide attack cat. No mouse would be tolerated running through The Greatest Kitty of All Time's liriope.

Say what you want about kids cats and "screen time," but I think all that practice with the iPad mouse game really paid off.

Cassius had several favorite iPad games and videos, including the bird feeder video. He also liked the squeaky cries for help that the iPad mice let out when they were 'caught.'

The next day we told him he'd soon be going to kitty heaven because of the tumor in his mouth.

We described to him the miles and miles of grass there was to eat in kitty heaven; how numerous the lawns were that kitties could trespass on; the stacks of ponytail holders that just sit and wait to be batted around; and how there is all the turkey and gravy baby food that a kitty could want.

At that point he hadn't eaten in five days. The tumor had severely distorted his jaw and left his tongue dangling outside of his mouth at all times. He drooled constantly.

Regardless, he remained a true threat to all mice and ponytail holders... when he wasn't asleep in a shoe box.

The Greatest of All Time

Cassius was no ordinary house cat. He enjoyed several careers in his nine lives, including serving as the hush puppy frier at Long John Silvers when he was a teenager. Unfortunately, he was fired for smoking cat nip before his management dreams came true.

After that he started his own limo service, Top Cat Rides. He worked the night shift driving partying alley cats to and fro, which explains why he slept all day and was always groggy. He especially loved wearing the little limo driver's hat and bowtie. (Very handsome.)

Later in life he became quite the outdoorsman, begging to be let outside where he always followed the same pattern - he jumped off of the porch, snaked behind the big evergreen bush, had a grass snack in the neighbors' yard and then headed to back to our yard where he would lounge in the liriope.

'All of the mice! All of the yards! All of the porches!'

This outward appearance of relaxing in the flowering yard plants was really a ploy to lull us into disinterest. Because as soon as we were diverted to other topics, Cassius would seize the opportunity to trespass into the other neighbor's yard and run up onto her porch.

For hobbies, he enjoyed criticizing neighborhood dogs - I saw him laughing at a greyhound once, which he said was the weirdest dog he'd ever seen - downloading apps on his iPad and offering his opinion, without being asked, on blog copy.

'It's ok. I've read better. Is there any Cat Sip in the kitchen?'

He was also a convincing liar. He once told Ray during an extended front porch petting session that he was a physicist. (There is no way this is true as he was 'held back' in kindergarten at least five times.)

Even with all of these achievements, his crowning moment was catching that mouse.

He was preceded in death by his frenemy, Cassady Daugherty, (RIP Cassie), and is survived by his mom and dad, Gina and Ray, and two little brothers he didn't meet, Hunter S. Tomcat and Chuck Norris.

Frenemies: Cassady Daugherty in the box; Cassius Clay horning in.

He went peacefully into that great good night with his mom and dad rubbing his head and ears, just the way he liked.

His final request was that we not forget to mention the mouse. Also, he would like to let aluminum foil  - that noisy, terrifying, substance of evil - know that it can go straight to hell.

Until next time, Cassius Clay.

Winter Chill

Because the last thing you want to hear your wife say when the pipes freeze and you're covered in sweat and anger from tearing out the wall is, 'I told you so.'

But I couldn't help myself.

At the beginning of this arctic winter, when the threat of the first subzero temperature in Cincinnati was upon us, I told Ray we should let the faucets drip. This was before unfreezing pipes became a weekly past-time.

He dismissed the suggestion and we went back to talking about the winters of our youth, when we had to walk to school uphill both ways through 10 feet of snow and they never cancelled school not even once, ever.

The next afternoon, when the temperature really did hit the negatives, I received a text that said: 'The pipes are frozen. I had to tear a few walls out to get at them. Don't freak out when you get home.'

Don't freak out when I get home?

No worries there. I was already freaking out. Tear the walls out?!

I drove home bundled up in my parka with my snow hat pulled all the way down to my eyebrows and a scarf wound around my neck and face. The only thing exposed were my eyes, which were trained on the road, glowering.

He never listens to me. Just because I'm not the “chief engineer of our house” - I thought mockingly - doesn't mean I don't have good ideas. We turned the faucets on all the time in Indiana, I'm a pro at winter. He doesn’t even KNOW who I am. 

I was so mad I was happy he was working that night at the firehouse so I could call a plumber in peace and get this straightened out myself.

So I was surprised when I pulled into the driveway and saw his truck.

Oh, GOOD. Now I can tell him what I REALLY think.

I came into the kitchen to find part of the wall exposed and a fan swirling heat around the pipes. I could hear swearing upstairs. Loud swearing.

Sonuvabitch… I swear to God, you no good…

I found Ray lying under the pedestal sink in the bathroom with a cat sized hole cut into the wall. Calmly, but in my best aggravated tone, I gave Ray a piece of my mind.

I don't appreciate you dismissing my suggestion to let the water run. Just because you do all the work around here doesn't mean that I don't add value. Of COURSE they were going to freeze, it's negative one degree outside! I TOLD you this would happen.

Ray, sweaty and desperately trying to unfreeze the pipes says, 'You're right. We should have let the faucets run. I'm sorry.'

It was like that scene in American Hustle when Jennifer Lawrence's character nearly gets her husband killed by mafia henchmen.

He tells her: ‘They put a bag over my head and pushed a gun into my temple! But as this happened I came up with an idea to get out of this.'

She replies: ‘Good. I knew they'd knock some sense into you.”

Him: ‘They were going to kill me!’

Her: ‘Without me almost getting you killed you wouldn't have had your great idea, so you're welcome. Thank God for me.'

Defeated and emotionally exhausted he says, 'Thank you. Thank you for giving me the idea.' He doesn’t even bring it up again that she nearly got him killed.

I looked at Ray under the sink and threw my hands up like, ‘I’m no engineer but I know pipes freeze! Thank God for me!’

Never mind that time I cost us $500 last winter by flushing baby wipes down the toilet.

We had to have a plumber come and snake it with this gigantic scary tool, on a Saturday, five hours before we were having a party and 40 people were coming over.

Surprise, party people! The toilet’s clogged up!

But in my defense, I was the one, not the plumber, who noticed that the wet wipes on the back of the toilet, the ones I’d been flushing for weeks, weren't flushable.

Now, why on earth would they even make wet wipes that aren't flushable? I swear they are in cohoots with Roto-Rooter. But anyway, I just quit using those wet wipes after the plumber snaked it and voila! -  problem solved.

The difference here is that we knew it was going to be freezing and I didn't know the wipes weren't flushable.

Anyway, as Ray continued his unfreezing efforts in the bathroom I huffed off to the attic to get the space heater.

These pipes won't be frozen for long, I thought. Imma about to blast this joint with some equator style heat right here. Stand back and watch how it gets done!

We called a plumber, just in case, who said he'd be over in an hour and a half. The cost was whatever it took to unthaw the pipes plus another $200 for the after hours service call.

Two hundred dollars before the problem was even solved? $200?! The race to unthaw the pipes before the plumber arrived was on.

I pointed the space heater into the hole in the bathroom wall while Ray started cooking the kitchen and basement pipes with a hair dryer.

I joked that what we really needed to speed this process up was an open flame.

'Where is our blow torch,’ I wanted to know. ‘I could have this fix in seconds.'

I was informed we do not have a blow torch, which I find unacceptable. (Christmas idea!)

As hot air was blowing on the insides of our house, I started making dinner (cheese tortellini with bread and olive oil). It didn't seem that anything was working, so we might as well have full bellies when we wrote the gigantic check for the plumber.

And then, something thawed. I heard Ray yell from the second floor, 'I think we got it!' I shoved the last bit of bread into my mouth and headed for the stairs. We met in the kitchen and double high-fived.

One-and-a-half hours later, we had hot water again.

Ray rushed to call the plumber back.

‘Yes, we are sure. Positive. Yes, that is close, but thanks anyway.’

The plumber was only a half-mile away.

Before Ray left for the firehouse we marveled at the exposed walls in the kitchen - we could see the horse hair that was holding the plaster together. (That’s how they rolled in 1906.) And we saw that our kitchen had previously been covered in paisley wallpaper and had at other points been painted green and possibly… is that orange?

In our elation of thawing the pipes and saving ourselves a small fortune, we bonded over these formerly hidden secrets of the house. I apologized for saying ‘I told you so’ and he apologized for having to tear up the joint.

All of this is to say: Let your facets drip when the temperature dips below freezing; go see American Hustle; and make sure your wet wipes are flushable.

NYE 2013

New Year's Eve 2013 - The night my shirt matched the curtains in Kari's kitchen. Jenna Lyons would not be pleased by this. Or would she?

How To Nearly Burn Your House Down, A Recipe

Have some wilting vegetables at your in your fridge? Each rich.

Where Ray comes from they eat pork and sauerkraut on New Year's day. When I was growing up we'd go to my aunt's house for cabbage.

“Eat poor on New Year’s day, eat rich the rest of the year,” the adage goes.

But that wasn't what I was thinking when I started dinner last night. I was thinking I wanted to order in, have a hoagy delivered or maybe make a frozen pizza. I was feeling too lazy to make anything and Ray was in the basement sawing things.

But since it was the first day of 2014 I thought we should kick it off by having dinner at home - start us on the right foot healthwise and moneywise.

There was a sad, wrinkling red pepper in the vegetable crisper, a bunch of broccoli that needed to be eaten, some pine nuts in the pantry and a half a bag of penne. Good enough, I thought.

Maybe we just should have ordered in.

Within minutes I had nearly burned the house down. Or at least nearly killed us by smoke inhalation.

Turns out, you shouldn't leave a red pepper and broccoli to sauté in olive oil on high heat while you do other things, like unload the dishwater.

No matter. We feasted on only slightly charred penne and ate around the scorched little pieces of red pepper flakes.  I tossed in some side salads with cut up string cheese for a bit of protein and we had ourselves a New Year's evening meal.

I called it 'everything but the kitchen sink,' because I tossed in everything we had, which wasn't much.

After we cleaned up I remembered the adage about eating poor on New Year's day. A little accidental luck never hurt anybody, even if you do almost cause a kitchen fire.


Everything but the kitchen sink pasta

[Feel free to make your own and pretend it's New Year's again.]

Sauté in plenty of olive oil everything that is going bad in your crisper - red peppers, yellow peppers, broccoli, spinach, mushrooms, whatever. If you have any garlic cloves or minced garlic in the fridge, add that too. Add in red pepper flakes for heat. I like a lot of heat, so I add a lot of them. Don't walk away and unload the dishwasher; keep the veges moving.

In another pot prepare whatever pasta you have in the pantry, letting it get not quite al dente. (It will finish cooking when you sauté it.) Drain the pasta and toss it into the pan with the veges. Add a bit more olive oil and red pepper flakes; throw in those pine nuts you've had in the pantry for months. I like a bit of the penne to be crispy, so I intentionally scorch a bit of the pasta for texture.

Add a side salad of spring mix, string cheese and the rest of those pine nuts you're never going to use.  

Eat rich the rest of the year.

To 2014 And Beyond

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

Dickens' memorable opening perfectly summarized my 2012. And now that 2013 is over I feel like I can finally look back on 2012 with some distance.

It would be wrong to say 2012 was the worst year ever when there was so much that was wonderful. But as Bob Dylan said, behind every beautiful thing, there was some kind of pain.

There were times when the sun seemed to shine perfectly on everything - Ray and I went on some wonderful trips, we moved, moved again, searched for houses, picked out an engagement ring.

We saw Madonna in concert (!!!!).

And there were other times when it felt like everything was falling apart.

My mom began to suffer terribly from her Rheumatoid Arthritis. In the midst of her crippling flare-up with seemingly no treatment options, my dear brother died. We buried him the day before my birthday, leaving my mom with two deceased sons and me feeling like I'd been orphaned.

A few weeks later, I suddenly faced some serious health complications. After six weeks of doctors appointments and surgery consults, we still weren't sure what was going to happen or if they could correct the problems. I wouldn't really know anything until I woke up from anesthesia. It was horribly scary.

Then, two days before the surgery, my beloved cat died. It seemed like the ground just kept coming out from under us.

2012 was tough. But in all that was grim, there were still those bright spots. But you know it's bad when you can't even say, 'Well, at least we have our health.' All we could really say was, 'Well, at least we have health... insurance.'

I think this is what folks call 'a silver lining.' Sure you got your ass kicked, but all the swelling gave you that bountiful booty you've always wanted!

When the end of December finally closed in, I couldn't wait to turn the page to 2013. It was a chance to mentally start over, wipe the slate clean. And I couldn't have been more in favor of that.

I had the first surgery in December 2012 and woke up to the reality that, "It went ok. Sort of. But you'll need another surgery and you might start crapping your pants."

We considered that a victory. Ray and I practically high-fived it was so exciting. "You might crap your pants, that's it?! Woo hoo!"

We moved into our new house a few weeks later and as I hobbled around with my new 12 inch incision I declared right then and there that 2013 was going to be my year.

And what a wonderful year it has been.

Our house felt like home as soon as all of the boxes were moved in. With one more surgery in the spring, the difficulties that surrounded my health problems were largely repaired.

Ray and I got engaged shortly before my second surgery and we planned our wedding from my hospital bed. Then we threw a big housewarming/engagement party and the rest of 2013 just flowed.

We had a lovely wedding, honeymooned in Hawaii and hosted our first Thanksgiving. We did lose our other sweet kitty, Cassius Clay, but our hearts were healed with the addition of Chuck Norris and Hunter S. Tomcat.

We also saw Bob Dylan and LL Cool J (!!!!).

And, gift of gifts, my mom was able to finally find a medication to alleviate the crippling pain and misery of her RA.

Way to punch 2012 right in its stupid face, 2013.

As the leaves changed and the weather got cooler this fall Ray and I were reminiscing about when everything went to hell last year.

"I wish I could whisper into our ears: Hang on," he said. "It's going to all be fine. It's going to be a lot of good and bad, but it's going to be ok."

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could do that? To whisper to our past selves that it's going to be ok, just hang on.

I would also like to whisper to my past self not to worry so much, that taking Imodium will keep me from crapping my pants. (But wasn't it a fun few weeks figuring that out!)

So, I'm going to go ahead and call it again, 2014 is also going to be my year. Ray and I are going to win the lottery! Ok, maybe not. But still, greatness.

Health, happiness, friends, love. Maybe some more kitties! (Ha ha, just kidding, Ray.) (Not really, readers.)

Here's to a wonderful 2014 for all of us.

Happy Christmas, My Little Elves!

It's time for our annual Christmas video card!

This year features our new house (that is 107 years old), mucho attacking and pouncing and Chuck Norris in a wonderfully festive winter scarf. 

Here's hoping all of your Christmas shopping is done and you are happily awaiting your own bounty of presents to come down the chimney!
  

A Modest (Christmas) Proposal

Ever since Ray got this gigantic saw weekend naps have been eliminated. The cats and I will be this close to dozing off on the couch when we hear it snarl into action.

BZZZZZZZZZ!!!! SHHHRRRRRRRRR!

So far he's built a set of Adirondack chairs and a cross-cut sled, whatever that is. (When he first told me that's what he was building I thought it was a sled for snow storms, like a toboggan. FUN! Turns out, no. Not so fun). And he's almost finished with a cabinet for the bathroom.

You can sort of see the frame of the cabinet in this photo. But mostly this is a photo of Ray playing air guitar in the basement.

All this practice is good because I have a long list of things I'd like built, including:

• A mid-century modern record table
• Built-in bookshelves for the third floor
• A storage bench for the ballet room 
• Nightstands

He said Christmas will be easy for him from now on, I can just get him wookworking stuff.

I started thinking of ideas - woodworking magazines, how-to books, a mallet maybe. I read on a woodworking website that 'every woodworker should have a mallet.'

If that's what my man needs, that's what my man gets. Mallet, done.

Then he told me he'd like a router.

Even better, I thought. He's just going to tell me what he wants.

'Great, send me a link. Then, surprise! Right under the tree.'

I began to bask in my awesomeness as a new wife. 

'The one I want is $400.'

'Four hundred dollars?!' I thought he had gone insane. 'Only if I get a subscription to the Kitten of the Month club!'

'What? Is that real? There is a Kitten of the Month Club?'

'Of course it's real. It's been my dream since I was a little girl to be in it.'

I looked away wistfully, as if to say, This is the year my dreams will come true.

Naturally, I made this up. I'm pretty sure there is no a Kitten of the Month club, but there should be. Every month you'd get an new adorable kitten. Or maybe every quarter - the Kitten of the Quarter Club.

That's when Ray put Hunter S. Tomcat on top of the bathroom cabinet he was building and proclaimed that my wishes had come true.

'Look! It's Mr. December!'

Behind us, Chuck Norris meowed from the basement stairs.

'And I think I hear Mr. January!'

I won't be the only one disappointed on Christmas morning then, because guess who's getting some books and a mallet? No kitten, no router. (So much for my man getting whatever he wants.)

For me, I am both unimpressed and wildly impressed with Ray's projects.

Ray: I'm surprised at how well the chairs turned out.

Me: I'm not. I knew they would turn out great.

You can kind of see the chairs in this photo. Somehow, we forgot to take portraits of them.

Ray's woodworking projects have actually equated to a fair exchange between us. I run back and forth  to the basement so he can show me his progress on things, and I yell for him to come upstairs when my latest Zappos delivery arrives.

Me: Do you like this black boot, or this black boot?

Ray: They look the same.

Me: No, they don't. This one, or this one. See the difference? This one, or this one.

Ray: I like the one that looks less slouchy.

Me: What? Neither of them are slouchy.

At least the cats have specific opinions. They obviously prefer the boots from the pink box.

Gas Monkey Ruined My Marriage

Last night Ray and I were watching Fast N' Loud, the one where the Gas Monkey crew are making a Trans Am and Burt Reynolds appears on the show in a nod to Smokey and the Bandit. 

My understanding of Smokey and the Bandit is vague at best.

There is a Trans Am and a semi-truck, right? And Burt Reynolds. And there is a monkey? And the monkey punches people and is named Clyde? Or that is a different movie with a semi-truck?

Anyway, I revealed to Ray during this episode that I've never seen Smokey and the Bandit and he broke up with me.

Like, on the spot broke up with me, without hesitation.

Worse, not even my "friends" were supportive. Those turncoats sided with Ray.

My (former) friend Amy even questioned if I'm American.  

Phsst. Am I American. I was watching a show about gas guzzlin' cars built in Texas. 

But seeing as how I'm single again, at least until I see Smokey and the Bandit, Richard seems like a good guy. He's sweet and humble and just the right amount rugged. Plus, he is always losing his ass on the cars he's wrenching on. All things I find endearing.

Heeeeeyyy Richard… call me. I like cars. My dad is a retired mechanic. I know how to bleed brakes, push-start a stick shift and hold a flashlight under the hood of a car while someone swears at me. (Damn it, Gina, hold the light still!)  

Ax Me Again

I thought the most interesting thing that was going to happen at the Boss Man's Thanksgiving dinner was that we were celebrating the once-in-a-life event of Thanksgiving and Hanukkah on the same night.

I was wrong.

Just after the Menorah was lit and the blessings were sang, the Boss Man sparked something far more interesting: A bet.

"I bet you can't split a piece of firewood," he said.

If this dare was provoked by something, I can't remember what. It seemed to come out of thin air,  as if he was sitting there, looking around the table stacking his skills up against others.' Apparently mine appeared lacking.

I looked at him, incredulous.

"Pssht. Of course I can split a piece of firewood. I get an ax, right?"

"Yes, you get an ax."

"I bet you those loafers I want I can do it. Maybe not on the first swing, but I can definitely do it."

He must have forgotten who he's talking to, I thought. I felt insulted. Ray Daugherty didn't raise no chump.

I mean, I had never actually raised an ax in my life, but really, how hard could it be? Isn't that what axes do, chop firewood?

"Fine. How much are they, like $30?"

"Thirty dollars?! Ha. If they were $30 I'd buy them myself. No, they're $180."

I'd been stalking these Madewell loafers for months and had even showed them to him and Carolyn when he tried to shove a pie in my face last week. At work. ('You shove that pie in my face, you buy the loafers' was the threat.)

"Fine, the loafers. I still bet you can't."

Visions of all of the Pinterest-worthy outfits I could build around these loafers danced in my head.

The deal was that I had just had to split the wood in half anyway I could do it, and I got as many whacks as I needed. Even with all of this, he was convinced I couldn't do it.

Again, INSULTED.

The Boss Man and Carolyn and I headed to the garage where he put a piece of wood onto the concrete floor and handed me an ax.

Now, let me tell you, this ax was a lot heavier than I thought it would be. But more importantly, there was no way in hell I was going to try and hit this hunk of wood against a concrete floor. I felt certain that least one, possibly two, of two things could happen:

1.) I might take out a car mid-swing. (Say goodbye to your precious Audi! Hey, while we're here, why don't you just hand me this ax and a piece of wood next to your Boxster!)

2.) If I missed the wood, I didn't want the impact of the ax hitting the concrete to hurt my hands. Or worse, send me vibrating out of the garage and into the cold.

Like I said, I don't know that I've swung an ax in my life. But wow, what a beauty this one was. It looked like it had been glued back together about 30 times and had streams of thick yellow wood glue dripping down the sides of it. I think I also saw duct tape.

It was the jankiest ax I've ever seen.

If you're going to accidentally chop your foot in half or break your back wielding an ax on Thanksgiving/Hanakkuh, then look no further. This is the ax for you.

Janky or not, I started whaling on the wood sideways, swinging the ax as close to my body as possible. For one thing, I didn't think my aim was good enough to hit it if it was standing upright. And for another, I could just see myself winding up with the ax over my shoulder only to have the weight of it pull me down face first into the grass.

Carolyn tried to coach me.

"You're going against the grain. It's going to be harder."

But already 10 whacks in and I had a good chunk out of it. Pieces of bark were flying everywhere.

I stopped to pull my hair back into a ponytail and dig the wedgie out of my butt.

Pro tip, ladies - I would recommend boy cut or booty shorts for cutting wood. Bikini cut, not so good.

I started again.

"Watch your foot," the Boss Man said. "People can get really hurt doing this. And careful with your back."

"Oh now, NOW we're going to talk about safety, when I've been hitting this thing for ten minutes."

My back was getting super tired and my hits were wimpier. I was also afraid I was going to chop my foot off since the wood wasn't raised up on anything.

I looked at the wood and realized it was harder than I thought it would be.

Plus, it was freezing outside, and even though I was warm from swinging the ax, I couldn't believe they were still standing out in the cold watching me hit this thing.

I made a joke that I might have to come back tomorrow to finish it. (I wasn't really joking. And I wondered if the bet could include me going home and watching a few YouTube pointer videos and coming back in the daylight.)

I hit the log a few more times and then, out of nowhere, the thing split in half like it got struck by lightning. A perfectly clean split right through the middle.

Even I was surprised. I thought it would take at least another 10 minutes of whaling on it before it cracked.

Triumphantly, I raised the ax up into the air and shouted, 'YEAH! DID YOU SEE THAT, INDIAN HILL?! DID YOU SEE IT!"

Counting out my winnings. 

I double high-fived Carolyn while the Boss Man, dejected, went back into the house. (Or maybe he was just really excited to be warm again. But I'm going with dejected.)

As any true outdoorsman would, I breathed in a few more crisp cool breaths of fresh air before I carried my kindling - now in TWO pieces - into the house to show them off.

No one else was really impressed, which I chalked up to no one else underestimating me. Of course I could do it, why would they be impressed?

As I washed dishes and basked in my glory, the Boss Man snidely told me the wood was rotten.

Maybe. But that wasn't my problem. My problem was deciding if I wanted the black loafers or the red loafers.

But anyway, I don't think it was rotten. I think someone who was about to buy me a pair of $180 shoes was just mad he lost the bet. I believe that is called 'loser's limp.'

It turned out the shoes were only $142.50 (with tax) thanks to a Black Friday sale. That's like $45 worth of stacked heel for free.

I cannot wait to get them. They will arrive on my front porch in all their hard-earned glory in about five days.

Sidenote: Twenty-four hours after the axing my arm felt like I had gotten 20 flu shots. Essentially, the entire right side of my body is in revolt - my right hamstring, glute, shoulder, tricep and especially my deltoid. It hurts especially to change my shirt. Which is why I might have to wear a Flashdance off-the-shoulder sweatshirt to work tomorrow.

Throwback Thursday - Birthday Edition

I think this was my 19th birthday. Home from college enjoying some Kroger cake, peanuts and my BFF Lori.

The Boys - A Short Introduction

Hunter S. Tomcat - Aspiring writer, poet, ladies man, moonshiner; a true tomcat and gentleman of the Commonwealth (Kentucky); also, hardcore snuggler.

Chuck Norris - Aspiring outdoorsman, diplomat, panther; a fearless explorer, dishwater/stove/toilet inspector and intrepid ninja; also, hardcore snuggler.

Hunter S. Tomcat looks to Chuck for guidance - seeks advice for jumping off of furniture with finesse, wants details on how he squishes himself under the bedroom door. Chuck doesn't have time to answer questions.

Throwback Thursday - I'm A Model (You Know What I Mean)

My shirt said 'Property of the Cincinnati Reds.'

Pumpkin Bust

I'm outta here...

'I swear to god that place was a Superfund site. We drove all the way to Indiana to pay $8 for a JTM burger that made us sick and a packet of Swiss Miss with some lukewarm water. They just handed us the packet and told us to put the water on it ourselves.

Plus, it was the shittiest hayride ever.

God I loved that place.'

That was Ray's assessment of the pumpkin patch I excitedly took him to last year. I had bragged to him about the hayride and the big field of pumpkins. I thought he would love it.

There is a hayride! They pull you in a wagon, from tractor! You grew up near farms! It's going to be great!

I guess I had forgotten the hayride is only about 25 feet. When the tractor stopped at the pumpkin field Ray goes, 'That's it? That was the hayride? I paid fifty cents for that?!'

I personally thought it was awesome.

I vowed not to take him back to that pumpkin patch. Instead, I would wow him with another bigger, exciting pumpkin patch with a longer hayride. We were going to go this weekend so we could get a pumpkin family (a dad, mom and two baby pumpkins for the kittens; oh yeah, we got kittens!) but we got so busy enjoying the lovely weather this weekend we never made it to the patch.

Guess this year's pumpkin adventure will take place at Home Depot, where we will 'pick' our pumpkins from a big bin.

I bet that lame pumpkin patch is looking a whole lot better now.

Throwback Thursday - Easy Rider Edition

Flying through the kitchen/living room. We were 'open concept' way before the Property Brothers came along.

Explain This To Me

I wake up each morning between 2 and 2:30 and can't fall back asleep until about 5 am.

Not awake thinking of anything in particular. Not worried about anything, not stressing. Just not sleeping.

I Googled this new-to-me phenomenon today and one of the suggestions to bide your time while you wait to get drowsy again is to read a 'not too thrilling book.'

I guess I could read Eat, Pray, Love again. (I don't want to spoil it for anyone but basically she eats, she prays and she loves.)

She also annoys. So I don't want to be awake and irritated.

This is what made me think of Ray's book Sprinkler Hydraulics.

I noticed it sitting on his desk when we first started dating and I couldn't believe it was a real book. Sprinkler Hydraulics is a thing? Plus, it has this cool, 1980s cover and you just don't see that anymore.

The thrill stopped there.

Says one reviewer: Harold was not only brilliant for understanding sprinkler hydraulics but for being able to convey the message. He also gives some invaluable tables for converting pipe sizes to ease calcs of telescoping systems. 

Zzzzzz.

We Do!

Three weeks ago today Ray and I said 'I do.'

It was absolutely wonderful. There was so much happiness and love from family and friends it was in the air like perfume. The whole day was just thrilling.

We spent the next week or so just recounting funny and sweet stories from the day, and there were so many.

One of the things that I am grateful that we did was spend the day together before the ceremony and reception. So often brides and grooms don't see each other until the "big reveal," but I was very against this. I wanted to spend as much time together on our wedding day as possible, and I knew once the party kicked off we might be pulled in different directions.

So a few hours before the wedding we were sitting on the couch eating a frozen pizza and watching HGTV. Because on our wedding day, we go BIG. (Well, Ray ate frozen pizza. I managed to only choke down a few bites because I was so nervous.)

After our DiGiorno wedding pizza (supreme, original rising crust) we helped each other get dressed. It was just the two of us, tying sashes and ties, smoothing our clothes and grabbing cameras on the way out. It was perfect.

Just ignore the horrible saturation of this photo. I can't seem to correct it. 

Ray ironed my dress the night before. He helped me decide on this dress so it wasn't as if he hadn't seen a million times before. 

Funny thing about my dress. It was an off-the-rack Ann Taylor summer dress. I knew I wanted a simple, classic A-line silhouette, and it didn't get much more simple than this dress.

Whenever anyone would ask me what it looked like I would show them the photo of me trying it on. The reaction was always the same.

A long pause followed by, 'Oh... It's... nice?'

Which was to say, You're getting married that?!

I'd defend my choice by noting I'd dress it up with a lovely sash and flower and some fun red heels. But no one was really impressed. I guess they expected something more classically bridal - something long, strapless and beaded.

Ha. Oh well.

The two things I heard most about the wedding was how laid-back it was and how tender Ray's vows were.

Rather than have guests take a seat and wait for the wedding, we had the bar open and were mingling with everyone, having drinks and greeting people as they arrived. I think people were surprised to see us. But we wanted to maximize time with everyone and join the party, so we set it up to do just that.

About 5:10 I looked around and everyone was having a beer, chatting with each other and playing cornhole. It was the exactly the laid-back summer wedding we envisioned.

When it came time for the ceremony, everyone grabbed their cocktails and a seat and we got married surrounded by 85 of our friends and family. Simple enough.

The other comment I heard more than any other was how sweet and wonderful Ray's vows were. Several girlfriends admitted they teared up or had to choke back tears, and Lori, who was standing right beside me and looking directly at Ray also, said she was holding back an 'ugly cry.' Ha!

She wasn't the only one.

His vows brought the house down.

As he was reading them my internal dialog went: "Wow. These are so wonderful, so touching and poignant. This is my man. Right here, this one. He's awesome. This is why we're here. I am so proud to be his wife.  ...Oh God, these vows are way better than mine. Oh crap. Oh god, I hate my vows. I can't read those crappy vows now. Would it be weird if I asked for a short break so I can rewrite them?"

Later someone told me I should have dramatically wadded mine up and threw them behind my back all, 'I'll just wing it from here!' to steal the scene. This was after everyone kept saying to me: 'Ray's vows were sooo amazing. Such sweet poetry. ...Oh, and your's were pretty good too. I guess.'

Ha! So much for me being the writer in the family.

And even though I had been, what shall I say... concerned?... about the Boss Man's ceremony, it was perfect. Just the right mix of sweet, funny, thoughtful and weird, which was exactly what we wanted.

And he totally got me before the ceremony too. I was kind of freaking out because he kept telling me beforehand, 'Don't worry. I talk a lot about lubrication, but it totally fits. Lubricant, lubricant, lubricant! Funny!'

And it seemed like he was slurring. There is a series of photos a few minutes before the ceremony where Ray and I are having 'a moment' by ourselves in the middle of the lawn. That 'moment' consisted of me starting to freak out.

'He keeps talking about lubricant being part of the ceremony. My parents are here!'

'Don't worry, he's just joking. You know this man, you know the ceremony will be great,' Ray reassured me.

'He's slurring. I think he's slurring. He took too many Valium.'

'No he didn't. Gina, he's rock solid. He's totally rolling over on you. He's just trying to mess with you.'

'He keeps slurring the word lubricant.'

Halfway through the series of photos the Boss Man appears in the background, walking toward us. Each subsequent photo shows him getting closer and closer until we finally see him and we all three start talking. And then this photo happened.

And of course, he was totally rolling over on me. Magically, come ceremony time, there wasn't even a hint of slurring. There was a lubricant reference that did inappropriately hang in the air for a few minutes, but he brought it back around to an actually very sweet story I told him.

He also mentioned birds eating our dry, brittle, dead bones and made a few Republican jokes because we were in Indian Hill. It was great. (I realize I'm not really selling the greatness of it here, but the standouts, as with all ceremonies, are the funny/weird things that happen to make it interesting.)

Oh, he also noted during the ceremony that he and his wife have been married for 50 years. I looked over into the crowd and saw her mouthing "forty five!" at him from the front row. Ha!

I'd tell you the sweet highlights of the ceremony from the copy he gave me but, for the most part, he winged it. The copy actually says "blah blah blah" on it.

You can see all of our wedding photos here if you like perusing other people's wedding photos (and who doesn't), but I've collected the best ones into a separate set of Outtakes and Favorites here.

Anyone can take great shiny and posed wedding photos. But we are not anyone. The Outtakes set features the best of the bad and entertaining shots, and I also sprinkled in a few favorites too. Like this photobomb from my dad.

A week after the wedding we left for Hawaii and spent nine days exploring Maui, which is the most staggeringly beautiful place I've ever seen.

Everywhere you look there is one surprised after another - volcanoes, beaches, rugged cliffs, rainbows, mountains, sugar plantations, pineapple farms - just all this beauty. So much so that it that seems incongruous to have it all in one place, much of it within a mile of each other. One minute you're at the beach and a half-mile away is a volcano.

We aren't particularly religious, we were married by my agnostic/scientist/nemesis Boss Man, after all, but if you're looking for proof of God, look no further than Hawaii.

Thanks to all of our family and friends who joined us or wished us well on the big day, it was all truly wonderful!

Does Anyone Have a Priest I Can Borrow?

The Boss Man 'showing off' his Pope hat.

It sounded so good in theory.

When Ray and I decided to ask the Boss Man to officiate our wedding it seemed so obvious - he's thoughtful, eloquent, occasionally even funny.

Plus, he's been married for about 100 years. That's just good karma, right?

Besides, I told Ray, I've never had a conversation with him that's lasted over 7 minutes, professionally or personally. So that bodes well in terms of ceremony length.

I asked the Boss Man on a Monday if he would officiate. He wanted to say no. He was invited to be the keynote speaker at a conference in China the weekend of our wedding and he was considering the invitation.

'Ugh, conferences. That sounds boring,' I told him. 'Besides, the plane ride will wreck your back and no one wants to hear you complain for a month. This will be fun! You'll be an ordained minister!'

I lured him with promises of a laminated "minister's card," which you can buy for the bargain price of $12, along with your official minister's certificate.

He accepted on Wednesday. By Thursday, weird things started to happen.

He bought a pope hat and a priest collar. He started touching people on the head and saying, 'Bless you my child. God is speaking to me now.'

Which was really strange coming from the Jewish, atheist, scientist we work for.

Then the "ceremony ideas" started.

"Envision this," he told me. "A George W. Bush inflatable with a 'Mission Accomplished' banner behind it. We're in Indian Hill, you know... And I'll say, 'By the power invested in me by the Republican Governor, I now pronounce you… sequestered!"

His eyes lit up with excitement at what a spectacular idea he thought this was. "Get it?! Everyone is Republican in Indian Hill! You're finally getting married. Mission Accomplished!" he said.

I sat in my cubicle for a few seconds silently absorbing this.

"Wow... Yes. What a great idea," I said. "But I was hoping for maybe something about marriage. You've been married for 40 years, maybe you could offer some advice or something poetic about how to have a successful marriage."

"Oh. Like grudges, resentment and not forgiving your spouse then." And he walked away.

That was the end of that four minute conversation.

Once his paperwork from the state came he started walking up to people in the office and aggressively announcing 'I AM GOING TO MARRY YOU!'

The sudden threat of having to marry him was terrifying everyone in the Institute. So his admin started  calmly telling stunned employees, "The difference between 'marrying someone' and 'performing their ceremony' hasn't quite sunk in."

As word spread that he is officiating our wedding, I realized that colleagues weren't asking about it because it was interesting, they were asking because... they felt sorry for me.

Last week one of our cardiologists emailed me with a work question. At the end of the email she wrote: "Also, I understand that [the Boss Man] is officiating your wedding. Are you sure that's a good idea? Just askin'... and you need to know that he has seen the wedding scene in The Princess Bride, so you should be forewarned."

So that explains why our normally pop-culturally bankrupt Boss Man has been yelling 'MAW-RIDGE' at people.

Another colleague, not believing the rumors were true, asked: "Have you considered the ramifications of the drug induced zaniness that's likely to occur?"

"Of course, but he's a great wordsmith," I said. Science, cell death, love, marriage. He can simplify complex things. Besides, that's part of the fun, right? Whether he brings his well-spoken, thoughtful self or his inappropriate, bizarre self, we're going to have a great story."

"Well, you're insane. That's all I've got to say."

With less than two weeks to go, I asked the Boss Man if he had some ideas ready for what he wants to say.

"Don't forget our vows and rings," I said.

"There are vows? I thought I did the vows? And I thought you already had a ring?!"

"Maybe I should make you an outline."

"Yes. Maybe you should."

"And we have to kiss at the end too, don't forget that."

"I have to kiss you at the end?! What on earth for?!"

It could be a long seven minutes up there.

Oh, Hey There

Working on dance music and stealing moves from the Soul Train line.

What are you doing?

Catching Up

As if there was any doubt, the Marion High School class of '93 has done just fine for itself.

Fortunately, no one asked anybody what they've done with their lives. I guess if we're all there and we're all looking timeless (as we were), enough said.