Why God, Why?!

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

Like White on Rice

I still got it, y'all.

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

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

So he goes, "Who is Justin Bieber?"

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

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

Everyone Was Uninvited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pluto, Like A Disco Ball, Only Smaller

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Video, Better Than A Successory!

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

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

What's Up, Dirt Bag

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

Hallelujah!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has It Been A Year?

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

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

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

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

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

Indeed.

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

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

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

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

Mea Culpa

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

My apologies.

Where Would You Wish To Wake Up Tomorrow?

Hope your wish comes true! Tgif.

ZOMG! My 6th Grade Heart Is Melting!

Beiber who? Tgif!

Happy Mother's Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I Did Only 6.8 Miles

This is what I've been reduced to.

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

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

God Help Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Google confirms this is obviously what happened to me.

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

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

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

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

Cakes on a Plane

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eh. I think put my headphones back on.

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

Then, the planets aligned for Tiffany and Carolyn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hudy Deee-licious

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

Cheers!

Gloriousness

Yesterday I thought long and hard about running.

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

I had to eat a Gu I was so spent.

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

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

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

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

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

Here's lookin' at you, Greatness.

16 Days 'Til The Pig

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

PATRICK: How was your run last night.

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

PATRICK: You didn't run, did you?

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

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

ME: Right.

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

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

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

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

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

ME: Second is the first loser.

UPDATE

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