What's In Your Drawers?

You know that drawer in your fridge where you forget stuff, so you never put anything in there?

Apparently I put some Honey Roasted Turkey in there two years ago. I found this black, drippy lunchmeat horror scene last week. It expired in November 2009.

Lunchtime.

Sole Blues

I think I broke my foot. Or at least broke a bone in it. Or maybe I just bruised it, but whatever, it hurts. I'd like to complain about it some more but everyone has stopped listening. So now you guys are going to have to deal with it.

I am creating a bruises, broken bones and sore muscles mix*... for the elliptical (of course), because I can't run on the treadmill. Because my foot hurts.

Please text song suggestions to 'Omigod Gina, Your Foot Is Totally Broken, Probably.'

*there will be no backwards skating to this jam, my friends.

What Do You Call A Dude With An Umbrella Shoved In His Pie Hole*

Some dude today lobbed a blonde joke at me. For reals.

The scene: Crossing the street near work; it's misting.

Man with an umbrella: "Blondes don't need umbrellas, huh?"

Me, without an umbrella: "That's how we roll."

Man with an umbrella: "Or blondes are smart enough to carry one. Hahaha!"

Me (sarcastically): "Clever!"

Maybe his wife left him for a dude with more hair and now he's lashing out at manes everywhere. Or maybe he totally wanted me... it did seem like the playground equivalent of pulling my ponytails.

*this dude.

Study Of The Heart

I've been writing a piece on an unusual case of transposition of the great arteries and I came across Dr. Richard Van Praagh and his wife, Dr. Stella Van Praagh.

Together in 1965 they created the Cardiac Registry at Children's Hospital Boston, a collection of over 3,600 specimens, some dating back as far as 1944. Pathologists, cardiologists and cardiac surgeons use the Registry to learn more about the anatomy of heart defects.

They continued to direct the Registry until 2002. A tremendous lifelong collaboration, but an even better love story it seems.

He first noticed her at a conference in 1961. She was the woman with the big brown eyes who asked smart questions. They married in 1962.

She died in 2006 and he says, "I miss Stella in so many ways, but I'm making steady progress on our life's work - a clinico-pathological study of more than 3,400 cardiac cases, some never described before... How I wish I could share them with Stella."

Aww. I wish he could share them with Stella too.

Do yourself a favor and read this short bio, in Dr. Van Praagh's own words, about his life and love.

Things Are Gonna Change Around Here

A few times a year I like to come up with some half-assed resolutions I won't follow. Without further adieu:

1.) Stop saying "adieu."

2.) More cat petting and brushing. (The cat hair tumbleweeds in my apartment are kitten sized.)

3.) Finally download some new music and update my sad iPod(s). (What do you mean my new "Sexy Slow Jamz" mix featuring SWV as the backward skate highlight isn't new music?)

4.) Actually train for the Pig relay this year. (Oh god, I'm exhausted already.)

5.) Lift weights. (This will require going to the gym… which I will need a Google Map to find it's been so long.)

6.) Ensure I am still a member of my gym. (Come on guys, I really want to belong.)

7.) Start that book club I keep I talking about. (The one where I don't have to read anything I don't want to read but I still get to enjoy finger foods and drink wine.)

8.) Finish the closet/bedroom re-org of 2010. (My new shoe shelves really showcase my collection, but they deserve better than to be surrounded by medical records, pen holders and kitten sized cat hair tumbleweeds.)

9.) Try to understand why even when I am being sincere everyone thinks I am joking. (Me: "Ha, you're hilarious!" Other person: "God, you're such a sarcastic jerk, Gina." Me: "Huh?")

10.) Schedule appointments for dentist / acupuncture / podiatrist / rehab (the physical therapy kind, unless I get that wine drinking book club started, then maybe the Charlie Sheen kind.)

11.) Never surrender.



I am ON this.

The One Where I Change My Mind And Debate the Benefits of Lying

When I was in kindergarten, one of my brother's friends rode his ten speed bike over to our house.

It was yellow and big and exciting and the porch light lit up what looked to be millions of sparkly chrome spokes in my 6-year-old eyes.

I asked my brother's friend to take me for a ride on it.

No way, was his answer.

I asked my brother to take me.

Again, no way.

They were less afraid of me getting hurt and more afraid of what my dad would do to them if I got hurt.

But it occurred to me that if I asked my dad he would take me for a ride. There was little I asked from him that I didn't get. So I knew it was a matter of time before that 10-speed and I would be gliding down Poplar Street together.

My dad sat behind me, holding onto me with one hand and steering with the other as he pedaled. I remember feeling excited. It was nighttime in the summer, and it felt free and adventurous.

It was about that time that the light from the street lamp made those sparkly chrome spokes look irresistible, a twinkling carousel of enchantment, and I stuck my foot straight through those shiny spokes.

The bike went back over front. To prevent me from hitting the pavement my dad took the brunt of the impact to his face and head, driving asphalt and a considerable sized rock into his forehead.

Thanks to him, my only injury was a busted lip.

In the emergency room I watched them wheel my dad away on a stretcher with gauze covering his face. He had to have surgery to get the rock removed and a plastic surgeon consulted on the big scar it'd leave behind.

But mostly I remember him having to wear a gauze hairnet for several weeks while his stitches heeled and how hilarious we all thought it was. The gauze hairnet, not the injury.

It was not hilarious, however, when I returned to kindergarten with scratches on my face and a fat lip and the other kids looked at me in horror and I had to drink out of a straw for a week or so while my giant lip healed.

I feel now about him getting hurt the way he must have felt then about me getting hurt.

He and I have always had an agreement — We are a team, thicker n' thieves, and we do what we must to protect my mom from anything we do that might upset her. Which has been plenty over the years.

It's not that my mom is so easily upset. But she is a mom, and a mom's default is to worry. It's not that we want to lie to her, but moms compel you lie to them just by their very being.

We kept it to ourselves all the times he let me "drive" his old truck while I sat on his lap as a kid. And when I got caught sneaking out of the house as a teenager, my dad gave me a good talking to, but to save ourselves from endless haranguing, we kept quiet. Ditto for the myriad transgressions of high school and college. And I never ratted him out for anything either.

Better to just keep that stuff to ourselves. It's our common bond.

So I've never told my mom I have a scooter. Scooters are dangerous and she would worry to death. My mom's been through enough, why put her through that. But my dad knows. Every time we talk about he says, "Don't let your mom find out; she'll nag us both to death... and if you get caught, I'm gonna lie and say I had no idea and I can't believe a grown woman as smart as you would do something so dangerous. Hee hee hee!"

He'd throw me under the bus in a heartbeat because when it comes to mom's flying off the handle, it's everybody for themselves. And besides that, he has to live with her. 

When I got my new scooter this winter I excitedly told him about it. "It will go 60, as opposed to Stella, which will only go 40. Sooo slow!" I exclaimed.

Excitedly, he wanted to know if he could have my old one, and with some hesitation but still under the glow of getting a new scooter, I promised Stella to him. He enthusiastically talked about it and figured out a plan that he could bring it to Indiana without my mom knowing it was formerly mine.

As the time for him to come get it draws nearer, I am more and more worried about him having it.

I mean, scooters are dangerous. I don't want my 70-year-old dad riding around on my old scooter that will go 40. Forty is fast. What if he gets hurt? What if he pulls out in front of a car? What if he breaks a hip, or worse?

For the first time ever, I tried to thwart him. I tried to get my mom on attack. I asked her what she thought of him taking this scooter. He told her it's a friend of mine's and that it won't start. Him being a mechanic, he figured he'd "tinker around with it" and maybe get it started.

"Gina, I wish you hadn't told him about it," my mom said. "Now he's all excited, and the last thing I need is him out racing around on a scooter. I hope he won't be able to get it started."

But of course It will start fine; there's nothing wrong with it. (My poor mom.)

I've been thinking about how to get out of this. If I give my dad that scooter and something happens I'll never forgive myself. Could I cut the breakline? The gasline? Could I break something on it? But he's a mechanic. He'll figure it out and fix it.

I debated telling him it got stolen. But then that totally curses my new scooter to actually get stolen.

I could tell him I sold it, and legitimately sell it. But he's very excited to have it and I don't want to go back on my word. He wants to ride it around the neighborhood... and probably speed! Without a helmet! And do wheelies!

Or something like that.

Yes, I see the irony here. But it's different for me. I mean, I'm safe. I always wear my helmet. I go slow around corners. I'm not 70 years old.  And though he's promised to always wear a helmet, this has given me little solace.

I've been asking around for advice - Do I give him the scooter I promised him, or do I not in an effort to protect my sanity, my mom's sanity and his well-being?

One colleague told me to give it to him, he'll be fine. Another told me to just sell it.

I don't know... I hate after all these years to sell him out when he's always had my back, but man, I sure wish I'd have told him it was spoken for already.

I mean, if he crashes the damn thing I'm not gonna be there to help take the hit like he was for me with the 10-speed.

Anybody willing to call my dad and offer to "buy" it from him?

I will give you the money.

I'm A Model, You Know What I Mean

Because the only photo that really matters in life is your driver's license picture, I got all gussied up a few months ago because the BMV wanted to give me a new license for my birthday.

Sexxxy photoshoot time, y'all.

I put on an acceptable license outfit: mascara, lip gloss, stilettos. Ok, not really with the spiked heels... buuuuut there was a chick who came in after me who was really taking her photo for the next four years seriously - silky purple camisole, make-up, hair did.

But I'm not gonna hate because seriously, when everyone is passing around their license over drinks at the bar there are only two ways to go - really awesome photo or really terrible photo.

"Omg look, you had hair four years ago!"

Or, "Holy crap, you looked like a werewolf back then!" (A friend of mine really does kinda look like a werewolf in hers.)

Six years ago I was really stoked to get my new photo. Finally I was getting rid of my mean-face photo (half-smile, half-shock, half-disgust) and I was prepared, damnit.

I knew when the surly clerk said "three" I would be smiling, I would look natural and I would mean it. I would mean it hard, I tell you!

I waited patiently for the magical Polaroid thingy to spit out my four years of fun and then... oh god. Oh god no. NOOOOO!!!!

The collar on my jacket was popped. *sob. The small, crappy photo resolution made my big smile look like I had buck teeth. *oh sweet Jesus. And hey there, nice roots. *awesome.

So this time around I vowed not to wear a jacket, smile too big and made sure my hair was dyed. I felt more prepared. Hair, combed. Gloss, applied. Smile, restrained.

And this time I look... smug and swollen.

I was too defeated to ask for a retake.

Here's to 2014.  

Modern Love

Technically, we celebrated on Friday with a bottle of chianti and dinner at Wine Guy Bistro, followed by heart shaped pink iced cookies from the 24-hour Busken.

And because we are drunkards, apparently, we continued to celebrate with another glass of wine at Poco A Poco and a nightcap at Arthurs.

Even though we weren't really celebrating because Valentine's Day is totally loaded and the opposite of romantic and besides anyhow, I had plans on actual Valentine's Day and he was rowing.

But then my plans ditched me at the last minute and he was hungry after working-out so, hey, let's get some Chipotle and eat the rest of those cookies.

And so Valentines Day was duly honored with chips and salsa and food wrapped in aluminum foil.

My hungover heart sang.

Hope yours was equally fantastic, celebrated or not.

"Yes, Gina, Bearcats Are Real"

A rat looking thing popped up on the Jumbo Tron at the UC game yesterday and I said something like, "What, is that supposed to be a Bearcat? Ha, like bearcats are real. And if they were they'd be way cuter than that thing."

UC fans are dumb, I thought to myself. A bearcat. Phssst.

Ray (my bf not my dad) peered at me sideways. The following conversation transpired from here:

Ray: Bearcats are real.

Me: Riiiight. Of course they are, baby. (Patting his shoulder and thinking, Poor thing. Go to UC for four years and you'll believe anything, I guess.)

Ray: What do you want to bet? Anything you want.

Me: (I was already eating a soft pretzel with cheese so I was pretty much set for life already.) It's your funeral dude, whatever you want.

Ray: (smugly) I just want you to admit you're wrong.

Me: Fine with me. (Pulling out iPhone.)

Ray: So you think bearcats are like unicorns, just made up.

Me: Totally made-up.

Wikipedia: Bearcat is another name for the Binturong, a viverid mammal from Southeast Asia. Also known as the Asian Bearcat, the Palawan Bearcat, or simply the Bearcat. The binturong is not a bear, and the real meaning of the original name has been lost, as the local language that gave it that name is now extinct. It is nocturnal and sleeps on branches. It eats primarily fruit.

Me: It does exist! It looks like a rat with cute paws!

Ray: Say it.

Me: Say what?

Ray: (sideways peering again.) You know what.

Me: Ok fine, but I bet no one else knows they're real either. It's a fake mascot name.

Ray: Why would they make-up a mascot name?

Me: For affect. You know, like the Marion Giants. Giants aren't real, but that didn't stop them form naming them as their mascot. Or the Panthers. Panthers are real, yeah, but you don't see any of them running around outside gyms during sports games. It's not like there are bearcats running around the UC campus. Seriously, why wouldn't they make-up a mascot name?

Then I texted Rachel and asked her if she knew that bearcats were real. Her response was, "Dude. You went to UC."

Once again, people - I went to UC for grad school. Doesn't count.

And since when is it ok to lash out at me because they don't understand how mascots work?

We were playing St. John's yesterday, who are known as the Red Storm. Hmm, sounds made-up... unless you live on Jupiter!

But this whole ridiculous conversation was worth it. Not because I learned that bearcats are real live animals (or so says Wikipedia) but because for Valentine's Day Rachel gave me this homemade cookie that says: "I Heart Bearcats." Which you can sorta see in this photo but not really because I messed up the icing carrying it to my desk as I warded off bearcats.

And here is a photo of a "real" bearcat. High-five, bear.

Shoot The J - SHOOT IT!

When all else fails, "Prince can ball!"

Thank you Charlie Murphy for getting me through this long, cold winter day.

Let's Stay Together

Hotel weddings. Banquet weddings. Church weddings. Receptions that overlooked Baltimore Harbor. Ceremonies that went down in the UAW Hall.  

Lovely. Elegant. Destination.

Traditional. Tearjerkers. Overwrought.

Boring. Drunken. Expensive.

Open bar. Closed bar. (Wtf?) 

If there's a wedding out there, I've seen it. And I loved them all.

So I was honored Saturday to be one of only a handful of guests at a friend's quickly put together wedding. I believe she spent three weeks in the planning. I got my invite with 72 hours notice.

Seems about right to me.

They got married in a private room at a restaurant. The ceremony lasted 5 minutes, and afterwards we dug-in to a five course dinner. No DJ. No singing. No readings from the Bible.

The bride didn't even walk down the aisle. Because, well, there was no aisle. And (gasp!) she didn't wear a white dress she will never wear again.

It was one of my favorite weddings ever. Entirely singular, casual and lighthearted. At last!

God knows the myriad reasons people get married, but I am in favor of all of them. (God knows the myriad reasons people stay together too - kids? practicality?)

And God knows the myriad ways people defy and embrace something so traditional.

But I can say now that I've seen every tradition bucked, all the pomp and circumstance dismissed, and everything I've known about weddings happily chucked.

In word, it was bad-ass.  

Congrats to Carolyn and Christian! 

The Big Picture

The Boston Globe's Big Picture is one of my favorite sites. Their photo blogs capture the best and worst of the world - wars and unrest, love and celebrations.

Usually I'm in awe of what it captures - beauty and brevity and pain and hope. At least once a week the pictures make me smile and/or tear up.

Today they made me tear up with a tribute to the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster.

It's heartbreaking to remember how excited everyone was for Christa McAuliffe, the first teacher in space, and how we sat in our classroom to watch the launch. Our class didn't really know anything had gone wrong. We'd never seen a space shuttle launch before, so watching it explode and break apart in the sky didn't have the immediate impact on us that it had on our teacher.

When I lived in Northern Virginia I once spent about three hours walking all around Arlington National looking for the Challenger Memorial.

A friend of mine insisted on seeing it. Everything is BIG in Washington. So we expected to easily find and come upon this grand scale tribute. It's the opposite. The Challenger Memorial is small, just a plaque really with all of the astronauts' faces engraved into it.

But it's a cemetery, so probably a wise choice to not to erect some giant rocket memorial in the middle of all that hallowed ground.

If you're hanging out on your slick iPad right now and you want to check out some more photos from the Big Picture here are a few. Remind yourself:

How small you are

What wonder there is beyond what we can see

That nature is unforgiving

That war is brutal

That bobsleds can unite

That love is essential

30

In journalism -30- signifies the end of the story. It's a copy editing symbol for, "you'll never get the last 20 minutes of your life back. Sorry for making you read this crap story! Hahahaha!"

But Friday it meant my bestie Missy is actually 30. Which means in addition to being suspicious and untrustworthy to anyone under 30, she'll now be called "ma'am" and is one early bird special away from an AARP membership and having her skin hang off the bone like a boiled chicken.

To prevent this awful fate, we celebrated calorically, at night. Wine. Crab cakes. Gossip. I wondered where in the hell I went wrong in life. I mean, why couldn't I have been born a boy, or gay, so that we could date each other? Is that too much to ask?! Well God, is it?!

Happy Birthday to one of my favorite girls on the planet.

* Pretend like this photo was taken earlier this week at a birthday dinner and not this summer at a sweltering Red's game. And pretend that I'm not biting her head but instead looking reasonably at the camera, like Missy.

Yes Please

I love a good Groupon. I love restaurants with weekday vaudevillian alpacas even more.

What I Learned in Puerto Rico

• Four years of college Spanish, completely worthless.

• HOLA! with conviction followed by "Madalla Light," solid.

• Translation for "oatmeal raisin cookie," pointing and smiling.

• Adding "o" to the end of every word makes it "Spanish," for example, OMG-o.

Because I Work With Emblems of Fashion, Apparently

Picking out my clothes for work is one of my creative outlets. Not every day, and it might not always seem like it, but I put some thought into my clothes. I accessorize. I layer. I wonder if anyone will notice the subtle but important difference between the black shoes I wore Monday and the black shoes I wore Tuesday. (They look completely different, ok.)

Sometimes I build entire outfits around a pair of shoes, or earrings, or maybe a belt I want to wear.

Like today for instance, I wanted to wear this brown leather belt (can you ever go wrong with a brown leather belt? Hell no) because I saw a photo of Gwen Stefani in a magazine wearing a long belt twisted like this. It looked awesome.

Basically, I want to look like Gwen Stefani at all times. But since I work a normal job and am not a singer, band leader, fashion designer or married to the insanely hott Gavin Rossdale, I thought the belt was close enough.

Just when I go around thinking, "Damn, Gwen Stefani is gonna want to be my bestie today!" I have my colleagues to howl at me:

"Haha! Oh my god what are you wearing?! It's a toga! And what's up with your belt?!"

and

"OMG!!!! You look like a pirate!!! ARRRRRGH!!!!"

Really now people… The first jab from a researcher who's shirts are so tight the threads are holding on for dear life and the latter from the Boss Man who accompanied his insult with, "Permission to come aboard, Matey!"

I seriously do not know why I waste my creative sartorial choices on these fools.

So tomorrow I have decided to up the ante. Cords, a tunic and a belt are so outrageous, are they? Tomorrow I am building my whole outfit around my black and white polka-dotted knee-high Wellies.

They're gonna lose it. I can't wait!

(Side note: Ok fine, not my best effort here, but come on, I just got back from Puerto Rico, it's a blizzard outside and neither my nipples nor my belly is showing, which is more than I can say for them.)

11 Things

1. I am a working on new poem. What rhymes with 'dry skin'?

2. I got only two Christmas cards this year. I guess you babies finally got sick of not getting any in return from me… well, your loss. Now I don't get to put YOUR card on my mantle. But I did post Kari's Charlie Harper bird Christmas card, which said, "Hey Girl Hey, it's Christmas!" WORD.

3. Wait, Christmas is 2 days away… Really? Really. That's great. Way to sneak up on me again, Christmas. Oh hey, guess what… I didn't any of you fools anything - again. Sorry 'bout that. But I really do think about you a lot, ok? Ok. I'm glad we're made up now. Yay!

4. I forced my boyfriend to put up my three foot Christmas tree with me, even though he kinda hates Christmas. Then I forced him to decorate ANOTHER new Christmas tree with me, this one a whopping two feet, because I thought it would look "cuter." (It was white, like it had built-in snow.) Then I decided I hated the white one and the put the original one back up. Merry Christmas!

5. My new scooter made it to its new home two weeks ago. I rode it through a parking lot then quickly handed it over to Dean for the heavy lifting of driving it downtown. Is it springtime yet?! Did anyone get me those goggles I asked for for Christmas? What about gloves, did you get me the gloves?!

6. Said to me last week: "Ummm, you just planted a big one on me, in front of everybody, at lunch rush, in Chipotle... And all your stories are about heartache and misery." Translation: Eating burritos with me is awesome.

7. We used to play this game called "stand and take it" when I worked at the Enquirer. The "game" consisted of letting your coworker kick a beachball at you and you couldn't protect your face or hoo-ha area, you just had to "stand and take it." This was a fun game. But not as fun as the new game in our office called "terrorize your staff with an icicle by shoving it down their back."

8. Speaking of, Boss Man to me: "I don't like this, but if other people in the Institute like it I'm fine with it. I'm able to compartmentalize myself. For example, I don't like you. But you do a reasonable job, so…"

9. Read this. Now let's all get drunk and discuss.

10. My friends are kick-ass and gave me really great, thoughtful gifts this year. And because Rachel loves me extra much she got me Misfortune Cookies. Because nothing says Merry Christmas like a fortune that reads, "What the fu** is wrong with you?" wrapped in a tasty cookie shell. See above.

11. I will repay her (and all my closest friends) with this bad-ass tequila gun sometime in the next five years or so.

So Help Me God He Will Pay!

It's been freakin' war, people.

A few weeks ago I slid a Flintstone vitamin into the Boss Man's sandwich, because I was being NICE and because I CARE about him and was trying to make him HEALTHY.

But then he got all bent about it and threatened to kill me. (Oh, I still have the voicemail.)

Like it's my fault they taste bad. I was being HELPFUL. Doesn't anybody recognize kindness anymore. Wtf?

In retaliation he burst into my cubicle last Friday wielding a giant icicle pronouncing it the perfect murder weapon and stabbing it at me all Psycho shower scene. Perfectly calm I said, "Excuse me, sir. I am working hard here, as per usual."

And because he's like, 100 times my age and I didn't want to give the man an angina and go all Chuck Norris on his ass immediately I crouched in pretend fear - oh no! not a giant icicle, I'm sooo scared! - and hunched over my keyboard.

And do you want to know what he did? I will tell you what he did… He stuck that giant icicle down the collar of my shirt and onto my back.

On. To. My. Back. Giant icicle!

It was like an ice-cream headache for my spinal cord. I almost died. I got frost bite. I think I threw a clot, all while dutifully trying to work.

So, totally justified to whup your Boss Man's ass for this, right? Damn right, right.

Well, I don't want to start rumors or anything, but I think the old man has been taking steroids. We were scuffling over this icicle, me trying to shove it down his shirt and him trying to stop me, and he was getting the best of me.

I mean really. I am young. I am sinewy. I am a ninja!

So what if he's got 100 pounds on me, is a man and chops wood as a stress reliever. Steroids. What kind of person goes around stabbing innocent underlings with an icicle if they're not 'roid-raging. Only the kind that's 'roid-raging, I say.

Or, I might have body dysmorphic disorder y'all, because in my head I am a total badass who can pretty much beat up anyone. Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven? Yeah, I taught him that shizz. Bourne Ultimatum? I choreographed the stunts.

I was straight up about to Moonwalk across his face when... umm, sniff-sniff... the Boss Man started batting me around like a kitten with a ball of yarn, easily overpowering me as I got all red faced and sweaty and yelled things like, "You're old! How on earth are you stronger than me?! Hold still!"

In my head I exploded into a 12-foot high in-air somersault where upon I came down on him like a hurricane and gently but firmly planted that icicle onto the back of his neck, down his stupid shirt and onto his back where I welded it (with my laser beam eyes) with dry ice there forever. Bwahahahaha!

Except in reality my wrists were getting red and sore from struggling to get away from him so I could maybe possibly kinda get the icicle near his head.

Needless to say I spent the weekend licking my wounds and lamenting to anyone who would listen that my old Boss Man bested me in a physical icicle confrontation. Imma start training tomorrow for a rematch, y'all. I'm gonna go all Rocky on him.

Imma look like this, outfitted solely in gray sweats, doing things au naturale - like running stairs and tromping through chest-high snow.




He's gonna continue to roid, just like Drago.



God revenge is gonna be so sweet. Down, I say. He is going DOWN.

I need an Apollo. Sure you'll have to die but it will be worth it because I'll win. Who's with me?!

So Awesome Your Spark Plugs Will Short Out

I make a lot of difficult decisions - frozen pizza or delivery, for example. But none more difficult than my decision Saturday - the blue scooter or the black scooter. Or what about the red scooter... oooh orange!

Friday before I left work the Boss Man told me the blue one matched my "icey" personality. Carolyn said anybody can drive black. But my boyfriend was in favor of the black because if he ever took it for a spin a powder blue scooter is... so badass he couldn't handle it! (Ok that's not exactly what he said.)

The red looked more retro to me. The blue one was so cute I wanted to hug it. But ooh shiny! Look at the black one!

The guys from Metro tried to help me decide. Ray (my boyfriend not my dad) tried to help too. Even a stranger weighed in. But ultimately everyone walked away because I had that "all you dudes need to drink a big cup of shut the hell up so I can think because this is serious!" look on my face.

Then, the baby blue scooter was all "Helloooo soulmate." And I was all, "You my Boo!"

So, with all due respect to my first love, Stella, I can now go 60 on my new baby blue ride. 'Cause that's exactly the kind of bad-assery I need on two wheels.

Then I celebrated at The Precinct with steak and wine and crack potatoes. So basically Saturday was the best day of my life.

Sweet Jesus, Phil. Buck Up!

Damn, y'all. You know who has it bad? Phil Collins.

I just read an interview with him in Rolling Stone about how sucky his life is because everyone hates him because he was the soundtrack of the '80s and he's been divorced three times and he can't drum anymore because of nerve damage or something and he just wants to "end it all" because he hates being "Phil Collins" so he makes his new girlfriend call him Phillip. And you can tell he's kinda losing it because he thinks the dust orbs in his photos are "paranormal" energy and that he lived a past life.

Daaang, Phil.

Except all this makes me giggle because whenever I think of Phil Collins I smile because of that 30 Rock scene:

Tracy Jordan: "I'm gonna make you a mix tape. You like Phil Collins?"
Jack Donaghy: "I have two ears and a heart, don't I?"

Do not be discouraged, Phil. The drum solo to In The Air Tonight is enough to live for! Oh wait, you can't drum anymore. Shit. Phil, you're throwing it all away! Wait one more night! I bet you and your girlfriend have a groovy kind of love!

It's still gonna rain down? Well ok, but you'll always have an invisible touch-ay in my heart, Phil.