A Holiday Spectacular

Last week Jen drew a schematic of her yard and her neighbor's yard with illustrations of all of her neighbor's Christmas decorations. They wanted to erect a giant, inflatable, light-up penguin on the property line, which would have made the Penguin look like it was in Jen's yard.

Like any good neighbor, she was outraged. But only to Pat and me. And fortunately, the neighbor ended up putting the penguin in his front yard instead.

Well, along with the penguin, the neighbor also put up lighted teddy bears and snowmen on the porch, wood snowmen cutouts and lighted reindeer in the yard. (There is a photo of this merry-madness in my Merry Christmas post earlier this week.)

Holidays on Jen's street are always fantastic, which is why for the last two years I've spent the Fourth of July and New Year's there. Last year, her neighbor nearly caught his house on fire when a firework flew from the street, onto the porch and under the porchswing where someone was sitting, all while spraying sparks everywhere. It was FANtastic. (He almost caught the tree on fire another time.)

The first time I saw his house he had a huge HAPPY THANKSGIVING sign projected onto his garage door. Ahh. Good stuff.

But my personal favorite from this holiday season are the gelatinous-looking snowmen that sing Jingle Bells. All. Night. Long. Last night, Jen and Pat slept in their guest bedroom because, she said, "It was like they were singing in my closet."

Because I am such a good friend, I laughed out loud at her pain and suffering.

We decided she should tape the snowmen so we could post it on YouTube for others to enjoy.

"I was thinking, 'This is very risky to tape this for Gina," Jen said. "Too bad we're not staying for another two or three years, god knows what holiday craziness I could videotape for you."

So enjoy the little video while Jen's still living in Cincinnati. You can hear her shoes click as she scurries down the driveway. And the penguin is there, too. Hee hee hee.

Whew!

Now back from a whirlwind visit to Indiana.

And by whirlwind I mean mostly I sat around my parents's house for three days with no Internet access (bloody hell!), went to the mall, went to Wal-Mart, then went to the mall again. Wait... I think "mall" is overstating here. Did I mention you could fit all the stores in the Marion Mall into Macy's at Kenwood?

Had a great time, though.


Got a record player for Christmas, but only because my mom had gotten one for my dad, then my dad went out and got himself one before we opened presents. That means I got the one dad didn't want. Jackpot!

Then I took some of their old records. Made out with the Elvis' live TV special and a two-record Kiss set. (Cool. Records came in sets, like CDs.)


Got my mom a Senseo single cup coffee maker. I told her mine changed my life. She thought I was exagerating, then the Senseo worked it's magic on her and she was waking up early to make single cups of coffee.


I hung-out with my high school BFF Lori and made candy. Technically, she made the candy. But I helped make such important decisions as "watermelon or cherry?" And I helped break it apart by hitting it with a hammer.


Got my dad a new hunting cap. It has earflaps on it like Holden Caulfield's. We took his hunting dog Moochy to the vet. Video to come on that later.

"She just ain't feelin' right," he told the vet. "Won't hunt."

The vet thinks she "got into something" while hunting. "Could be," my dad said. "People gut deer and leave the entrails and everything else out there."

I'm don't exactly have an iron stomach, but I can handle my fair share of blood and needles and entrails, but when my dad wiped Moochy's seeping, puss-filled eyes with a tissue, I started to gag in the parking lot. Bleh.


Also, here is a photo of my dad's truck that was totalled. I wrote about it a month or so ago and how he got insurance money for saying he was injured (he hit his knee and elbow or something) and said his dog died. Which, technically, the dog did die, but not because of the accident probably.

Merry Christmas

From the penguin who lives next door to Jen and Pat.

Looks Like Cornhole Has A New Beatwriter

My life-long dream of being a fringe sports reporter came true this weekend.

I've long wished to write fringe sports stories, and I've even chalked up a few peculiar bylines with stories on dirt track racing (where I got hit in the face with a dirt clod), cage fighting (where I was horrified when my boy got knocked unconscious) and bull riding (where I interviewed professional rider Jody Newberry, who was absolutely hilarious).

But I finally got a byline in the sports section on Sunday, which now makes me honest. (I bought three papers for my dad, who will be so proud.)

It was pretty sweet. I covered the first ever national cornhole championship, and while you might think these guys are just tossing feed bags into a hole (because they are, in fact, just tossing feed bags into a hole), it was pretty serious for them. (Several of them make some nice change traveling to tournaments and beating people.)

I thought it would be a festive tournament, with lots of beer drinking and rowdiness. Instead, it was very quiet and serious, with several players storming away from the cornhole court, swearing and pissed. One of them even kicked the cornhole board - twice - and flipped it over he was so mad he finished fourth.

I reported the tournament as though it was an actual sporting event - like a baseball or basketball game - complete with post-game quotes, comentary and play-by-plays. I'm pretty proud of it, really. It's my first excursion into that kind of writing, and since it was on deadline, I had only 20 minutes to finish it, so that made it even more exciting and sports-like.

I also got some feedback on the story, which is rare. Some guy emailed me with a question for the winner: "Is the crown going to be big enough for his head?" Ouch. He also pointed out that his friend, Dewi, who won the doubles competition, would have beaten the winner had he entered the singles competition. Cornhole smack-talk is vicious.

The Tall Drink of Water, while reading the story on Sunday, laughed out loud thinking that the winner's quote, which compared himself to Randy Johnson pitching 9-innings, was a joke. It wasn't. He was very serious. But not in an over-inflated sense of self way, though it seems that way. It was just his way of pointing out he was tired from throwing bags for two days.

The preview video was an underground success, too, though not because of anything I did.

If you wait for it - or skip ahead - you'll see an old guy walking out of the frame wearing only his underwear. He was a regular at the bar where I reported the preview for the tournament who kept threatening to streak. Finally, he came prancing out in just his skivvies. The whole clip is hilarious, but I didn't include it in its entirety for fear the Enquirer would make me redo it if there was too much old guy in his underwear.

Pretty fun stuff.

Actually, I just realized this is only partially true. In fact, my first official sports byline was Saturday with a trampoline preview story for the same sports festival that the cornhole tournament was in. But I still feel like it was Sunday's piece that made me legit, I think because it was the first sporting event I actually covered, not just previewed.

Happy. Sad. Mostly Sad.

Yesterday Jen and Pat accepted new jobs in Detroit.

I've known for a long time that they want to get back to her family before they start their own, so I thought I'd be cool with it when it finally happened. I was wrong. The fact that they're leaving ran over me last night like a Mack truck.

Jen's been my confidant, co-conspirator and partner-in-crime for the last two years. She's also my biggest fan and greatest ally. It's great comfort knowing that should the situation arise, Jen would kick a pointy heel in the face of anyone who even remotely implied I am not the greatest thing in the world. (Go ahead, I dare you.)

No one's ever asked me to be in their wedding before, but Jen did. She didn't even get mad when I screwed up the poem I read for them. And she gave a nod to me in the vows she wrote to Patrick.

Jen's also the only person to pick me flowers from her garden and leave them for me with homemade cards. She's made some of the nicest dinners I've ever eaten. And when she runs off to get a scarf at the Race for the Cure, she brings me back one, too. And I don't even have to ask.

You just don't find friends like her very often. If ever.

And yet, this sudden move is partially my fault. They weren't even looking yet. I was the one who found the job postings, first for Pat, a job I thought he'd like doing Flash and graphics. Then a few weeks later, I found the mirror image of Jen's job here, only in Detroit, covering Detroit Public Schools on a site I didn't even know had job postings. (Secretly I considered not sending her the link.)

Within weeks they had interviews, job offers, signing bonuses and counter offers. (If you're looking for a new job let me know. I'm kind of on a roll.)

Of course I'm happy they've found great new jobs together in the city where Jen's family lives. But it's bittersweet. Truthfully, I'm mostly sad about the whole thing.

Pop Rocked

Video lowlights of Rob's poster show. I edited out the highlights.

Dan has more here.

The Tall Drink of Water and I arrived an hour later than we had planned because someone (TDW) couldn't tear himself away from the open bar at his office's holiday party. And who can blame him!

Pink... It's The Whip

The front end of the Blue Angel got burried under a pile of leaves last week while some landscapers were working next to the Tall Drink of Water’s apartment.

When I went out to leave for work, one of the guys told me to wait and he’d blow the leaves off. Cool, I said, and proceeded to wait on the sidewalk.

After he pulled the cord and got his backpack leaf blower started, he walked over to me, leaned in because of the noise and said I should get into the car since leaves were about be blown everywhere.

Then he looked at me and said, “Whatever you’re wearing is the whip!”

He was so excited it made me excited.

“Really! It’s the whip? It’s good?" I said.

“No, it’s not good. It’s great. What is it?”

“Aww. That’s nice of you to say. It’s Pink, from Victoria’s Secret.”

“Well, it’s made my day,” he said.

“Well you’ve made mine,” I told him.

Then I got into my car, he blew the leaves off and we waved excitedly as I pulled away from the curb.

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Pink is the whip.

Buy it for your girlfriend, wear it for your man. Or wear it for the man who works on the yard next to your man’s.

Mag Loading

Chuck Klosterman has a sidebar to his Esquire column this month on taking magnesium supplements, a little mineral advice he got from reading Bill Romanowski’s autobiography, “Romo: My Life on the Edge–Living Dreams and Slaying Dragons.”

Chuck writes:

Romanowski started taking magnesium supplements in 1995. “From then on,” writes Romo, “my dreams were so real and so vivid that the only way I can describe it is this: It was as if the rare dreams I had [in the past] were broadcast in black-and-white. The new ones were being transmitted in high-definition TV.”

Amazingly, this seems to be a very real phenomenon. I’ve started “mag loading” before going to bed, and my dreams have become memorable, dynamic, and beautiful; taking magnesium is akin to ingesting Michel Gondry in tablet form.

So today, the Tall Drink of Water picked up a bottle of magnesium. And while he was at it, he picked up an extra bottle for me after the label touted it also "helps nerve and muscle function, is essential in the formation of bones and teeth and in converting blood sugar into energy."

Jackpot!

We each took one tonight. I don't really have any dream requests, but here's hoping for something crazy fun.

Top 'O The Muffin To Ya

How humiliating.

In my defense, I had to wrench my jeans together, but still.

Trainer Drew helped out with this muffin top article. And he gave us this great treadmill workout. (No more mailing it in!) Don't like to run? Tough muffin.

And here are some muffin busting exercises.

Good luck, Cupcake. (Oh, wait. That's me.)

There Goes The Neighborhood

Soon this house going up will block my beautiful, winter-time only view of the Ohio River and Northern Kentucky.

One day I woke up and it was already half built. Then a few weeks ago a big SUV came bounding down the drive and out popped a handful of children with a women I presume was their mom. She walked around the construction site while they played on a big pile of dirt.

I bet they'll be really excited to live next to the frat guys who rent the house next door. It's not a weekend on Golden/Lockland unless the band gets together for practice and then a bonfire.

It must be at least a half-million dollar house, much more I'm sure. Jeff Ruby lives up the street and his house is worth over a million, though he does have a better view.

Other than the view, though, I don't get why they'd build a house there. There's no yard, just a gravel driveway in the back and a precipice for a front yard. I guess they figure the kids are old enough not to sled down the cliff onto Columbia Parkway.

"Oh hon, it'll be so nice having the kids play in the alley. It really is a dream!"

I Give Thanks For Funny Stories

I went home Friday for turkey and noodle leftovers.

My dad and I were walking around the house to check the mail - as we walked he explained how he tricked his hunting buddies into helping him rake the leaves - and he got an insurance check for an accident he was in last month.

The accident totalled his truck. More precisely, his pride and joy, which is certainly not the pride nor joy of the driveway or neighbhorhood.

The truck is his hunting truck, a 1989 Ford Ranger with the doors dented in (not sure how that happened) and rust covering good portions of it. But it's good for hauling his hunting dogs in, five beagles.

I offered him $500 for the truck this summer when I briefly (very briefly) entertained the idea of buying a junker truck to haul my bike around in. He should be so lucky to get that much for it, I told him.

He scowled, insulted, and said, "Shut yo' mouth, girl. You ain't gettin' my Ranger."

Well, last month he was driving home with his dogs in the back when an elderly man pulled out in front of him on a country road.

"I thought about getting out and smackin' the old man," he said, in his dramatic retelling of the accident. "Hurt my truck. But then I saw he was old, 84-years-old, so I didn't. But, well, it made me mad. I turned the wheel to keep from him hitting him on the drivers door. Coulda hurt that old man, you know. Did $800 damage to his Cadillac. Said his wife was going to be mad at him."

My dad thought the Ranger was drivable and told the Sheriff's deputies he didn't need to tow. To be sure, though, he got back in to start it up. Then, Surprise! No brakes!

"I turned the wheel to the right and then the left and it turned all right, then I hit the gas," he said. "Everything seemed fine. Then I went to stop and BOINK! Right into the back of the deputy's car."

"You hit the cop car!" Perhaps I was a bit too excited about this part.

"Yeah. But I wasn't going very fast. Anyway, I needed a tow. Didn't have any brakes."

"Was he mad," I wanted to know.

"Didn't seem to be."

(Awesome. I now know someone who has a hit a Sheriffs deputy's car. And that someone would be my dad. Oops!)

As he was swinging around the check for $900-some, dancing around on the sidewalk singing "A-shopping-we-will-go," he said the check was only for his truck, not his "injuries."

"Did you get hurt, Dad?" Suddenly I was concerned. He hadn't mentioned this before.

"Oh yeah! I told the insurance lady that I hit my shin, jammed my hand and got a place on my arm. And my dog died."

"Oh no! One of your dogs died! You didn't tell me that before."

"Yeah, Fancy died. But I don't think it was from the wreck. She was sick. Though those five puppies sure were shakin' when I went back and checked on them. They were scared, boy."

"I bet they were," I said. "So wait, you told the insurance lady the crash killed your dog?"

"No. I told her my dog died, which was true. She did die."

Hmmm. Then he went on.

"She asked me how much a hunting dog like that costs and I told her about $300 to $400. She said, 'I live in Dearborn County and you can get a hunting pup for $50 to $100 around here.'

"I told her you get can't get a dog like I got for no $50 to $100. Huh. 'Bout made me mad." For effect, he shook his head in feigned disgust and adjusted the safety orange hunting cap he had on.

The Tall Drink of Water and I stood there on the sidewalk, amused and amazed.

So this insurance woman asked my dad if $650 would cover the cost of a new dog and the pain of his "injuries."

"That sounds about right," he told her.

For $50 he bought the totalled truck back from the insurance company, and now it sits in the driveway worse than before. Instead of just dents and rust it now also has a crushed in front end.

Ahh... Thanksgiving at the Daugherty Farm. (And by "farm" I mean the acre of land where my dad has parked his junk trucks since I was born.)

I'm Sorry Safari, But It's Over

Dear Safari,

We've been together for what, two years? Three years now?

I think we can safely say it's been a lovely, useful relationship. Still, this should come as no surprise, but I kinda hate you.

It only got worse earlier this week when you smacked me across the face with more of your impotence.

When I opened you up and tried to view YouTube videos on blogs and Web sites and you showed nothing, nothing! Well... That was hurtful. But for you turn your back on me and offer no updates for Panther, it didn't make me sad, it angered me. (Safari doesn't care about poor people.)

So it's over, playa. You go out and be with Tiger, fine. See ya. I just hope Tiger realizes what a whore you are when you leave it for Leopard. And you know you will.

I've found a new browser anyway. It's name is Camino, , and it's fast!

See ya, Mr. Selfish. And no, we cannot be friends.

P.S. You're getting fat.

So Long, Scruffy Sexy

I'm pretty upset about the LaRue trade.

The Tall Drink of Water warned me repeatedly - "It's going to happen. I'm just preparing you" - but it didn't soften the blow when I found out this afternoon.

What happens to a team when someone gets traded? All your favorite players end up somewhere else, so you're not even cheering for your favorite team anymore, you're cheering for a city, or a certain uniform, or whatever.

I liked the team the Reds had at the beginning of the season. LaRue. Dunn. Kearns. Willy Mo. Lopez. And now, only Dunn is left. So is Dunn "my team?" Isn't the team the men it's made of? And if you're not a fan of those men, then is that your favorite team anymore?

Maybe you're a little kid and you fell in love with the Reds because of the Big Red Machine and the men who made up the machine - Rose, Morgan, Perez, Foster, Bench, Concepcion. And those guys were your team. You loved them.

Then they got traded, got old, retired. But you still love that team. Those Reds. That Big Red Machine.

So some new players came along and you thought they were OK, but they were no Big Red Machine. Then a few guys came along that you liked almost as much and you got to appreciate them and then they were your team.

Well, the '05-06 Reds were my team.

I went to 16 Reds games this year. 16! (And I ate a helmet sundae with extra sprinkles at all of them but one.) I high fived strangers for them! And now what?!

Yeah, I root for the Reds, but my team is gone.

Who Knew?

Much to my surprise, I discovered this morning that an egg white has only 17 calories. (And 3.5 grams of protein, if you're curious.)

That explains why I'm starving about seven minutes after eating one.

I usually eat two egg whites in the morning, peeled away from the yolk of a hard-boiled egg. Until today, I thought I was eating plenty for breakfast. (No more for me, thanks. I'm stuffed!)

Turns out, I'm eating a whopping 34 calories. Wow. I've pretty much burned off 34 calories by the time I get to my car to start it.

For some reason I thought an egg/egg white would have at least 60 calories or so. And by eating two, well... I was well on my way to finishing a marathon.

Shocked by this 17 calorie egg white discovery, I asked the Tall Drink of Water how many calories he thinks an egg has.

"I don't know. About 800," he said.

Lemon Lime Redux

Tuesday morning I went the gym and worked out with Trainer Drew. After about 35 minutes, I started to not feel well. So I sat down on a nearby machine to relax for a few minutes.

After I felt better, I got up and proceeded to finish the set of tricep extentions I was doing.

Then I felt sick again and sat down.

"I think I gotta go," I told Drew. He was all, "Not again!"

I felt a little faint, but mostly I felt sick to my stomach. No sooner did I open the door to the locker room did I throw up - in my mouth!

So I rushed into a stall and proceeded to relieve myself of the Gatorade I had drank. As I was shaking and vomiting, I thought of how grateful I am that the bathrooms at Revolution are so clean. Even the toilet was spotless.

Then I showered and went to work.

Stop Lookin' At My Lemonade!

This commercial is pure genius.

1.) LeBron plays himself in four roles, hilariously
2.) But none better than the sneering old man
3.) Oh Lord!
4. The music - somewhere between "I just smoked a bowl" and "Baby, lemme call you"
5. The look playa Lebron gives from the pike position
6. The devish grin at the end

CiN Green Party

Thursday night's Green Party was the most fun I've had in at least six days. Ok, I'm lying. I can't remember the last time I had more fun.

Here are some photo highlights.


Dave and his beer had lots of fun... They were inseparable.



Air guitar. Lip syncing. And shock.



Blown out... But still smokin' hot. (I'm talking about Shana and her sister, of course.)



What drunk people look like standing on chairs.



Lovin', touchin,' squeezin' into the photo.



Hee hee hee. Look how Dan is smooshing his hand into Julie
hair. Move, Julie!



Straight thuggin'.



I harrassed this guy for at least 20 minutes. I was convinced he looked like Malcolm Gladwell. I even made the Tall Drink of Water meet him, too. (TDW said afterward it was "awkward.") The next day I decided he looks more like Gilbert Gottfried. Oh well. You win some, you lose some, you have too many vodka cranberries.

Merry Christmas To Me

Election Day is my favorite day ever. Better than Christmas morning, better than birthdays, better than any other day ever. I love it.

The last few weeks I've been giddy with excitement about getting to vote. I've voted in every election since I turned 18 - at my old elementary school, in the office of my former apartment complex, at the Chinese American Church. All sorts of interesting places.

Yesterday I was feeling achy and stiff and feared getting sick might ruin my voting experience. But fortunately I woke up this morning feeling much better and couldn't wait to scoot on down to the big red church on Eastern to ink-in the squares.

So I was horrified when I realized my drivers's license is expired. I've been driving under a lapsed license for nearly a month. Oops. (Not to mention I haven't yet put my current sticker on my plate either. I'm a rolling misdemeanor.)

I rushed home to grab a utility bill to prove my address and identity since Ohio now requires ID. But all I had was my state retirement statement. I was pretty certain it wouldn't be good enough, and since my ID was expired, I thought for sure I was going to have to go the BMV before I could vote.

But thank god I'm a former teacher in Ohio, because so was the older gentleman asking for my proof.

"I get these, too. Where do you teach," he asked me.

"I taught at UC. I don't anymore though."

"What did you teach?"

"Chronic and communicable diseases. I was a grad student in public health," I told him. Then I asked what he teaches.

"K-3. Little kids," he said. "I'm a sub now."

"Yeah, but I bet your little kids act more adult the whiny college kids I taught."

Then he handed me my two sheets of fun!

I'm a little sad I'm not in the newsroom tonight, eating greasy pizza and watching the results come in. But it's still exciting. I'll be up all night, agonizing as the results crawl in, cheering when my people win and being disgusted when they don't.

Lemme Get a Bun... And A Jomocha Shake

I was so hungry after work tonight I was going to eat at Arby's. So I hit the drive-thru at the one in Oakley.

You know the one: Incompetent, slow, sometimes they never get on the speaker and actually take your order.

Well, I go there and the guy on the speaker tells me he'll take my order at the window. Alright. Whatever. So I drive around and wait behind another car. Good sign, I'm thinking, because this at least means they've taken one order in the night.

Then it's my turn.

With his headset and black windbreaker on, he leans toward me out of the window and says, "We're out of beef. It's gonna be about an hour."

Out of beef? It's Arby's!

Crazy, but not nearly as crazy as the stuff that happens at the Scary Arby's downtown. They always have beef, but it's served with a side of scary.

Happy Halloween!