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.

Happy Thanksgiving! (Who Needs a Xanax?!)

Let's talk about how Ray (my boyfriend) met Ray (my dad) on Thanksgiving and now I'm pretty sure that Ray (my dad) is going to shoot Ray (my boyfriend).*

Really dad? Like it's not suspicious you asked him to go hunting a half-dozen times? Really?

* Yes, they have the same name. I know. I KNOW.

Talk About Your All Time Slaps in the Face With A Tutu

I got up early on Saturday all excited to cash in my adult ballet Groupon and they didn't have adult ballet this weekend.

Outrage!

So I went to the grocery store in pink tights, furry boots and a bun in my hair.... Which is to say I looked like everyone else at Hyde Park Bigg's on a Saturday morning.

In A Name

Had I been a boy I'd have been named Clint… as in Eastwood.

My dad talks about "Eastwood" as if he's an old family friend. "You see Eastwood on TV last night?"

He even squints and mumbles and walks around enacting justice and barking orders like he's in an endless loop of Dirty Harry.

Ray and Clint. Peas and carrots. Spaghetti and westerns.

My mom wanted to name me Wayne, except my dad hates John Wayne, so… overruled.

Because my mom had already had two boys she was certain I'd be a boy. Clint it was. But just in case they decided Gina would do for a girl.

Gina, pronounced... G-Na.

Gina shortened from Regina, meaning "queen."
Or "silvery," if you're Japanese. (Cause you know, lots of Japanese girls are named Gina.)
"Garden," in Hebrew.
The pet of the Latin Virginia, meaning "maiden" and the English pet form of Georgina, meaning "earth-worker" or the Italian Luigina, meaning "warrior."

A name meaning placard I had as a kid pronounced girls named Gina "mischievous." It's the only description I've lived up to thus far.

Gina is a family name on both sides. I have a cousin on my mom's side, Gina Michelle, and another cousin on my dad's side, Gina Lynn. They both go by their middle names and are both about 12 years my senior.

I was named after my dad's niece, who he affectionately calls "crazy Lynn" because she is vivacious and fun and prone to talking out of turn and saying hilarious things.

I had a lot to live up to.

The most famous Gina is probably Gina (Luigina) Lollobrigida, an Italian actress and dancer popular in the '50s. Or Geena Davis, but she doesn't really count with the double "e"s.

But Gina G totally counts, depending on if you remember that one hit wonder from the mid-'90s. (World's biggest tragedy is that this amazing performer stopped making music.)

At work GINA is best known as the acronym for the Genetic Information Nondiscrimination Act.

G-dawg is a common variant. But mostly people call me Gina or G, depending on when you met me and how you know me. If you met me through work you call me Gina. If you met me in college or high school you call me G.

If you know me through my kin you have completely forgotten that my first and middle names are actually separate and you call me Gina Lynn, with a southern twang, as in "Gee-na Lynn, time for supper!"

My birthday was last month and as I was chatting with my mom about the momentous occasion that was my birth we giggled at her first words to me, "A girl!! What am I going to do with a little girl?! Awww, she's beautiful." Then she passed out.

Then she said, "Your dad wanted to name you Clint. I'm glad you were a girl."

The Sun Also Rises

Just home from the Florida coast where I saw the sun come up. Which got me to thinking, when was the last time I watched the sun come up? Hmm... Guess I'm more of a The Sun Mostly Sets kinda girl.

The highlight of the trip was an unplanned excursion to Key West and the Hemingway Home and Museum. To be honest, I was lured in by the ridiculous number of cats I saw through the fence. Fueled by a strawberry daiquiri and a mango margarita I was overcome with a deep desire to pet them all.

But then I was surprised at how much impact and inspiration the house had on me, less because of the books and belongings in it and more because I learned a lot about the man. Hemingway has a terrific life story, full of great and perilous adventures, famous writerly and artistic friends, multiple wives and unfortunate injuries.

The stuff great stories are made of.

Later that night on a barstool I was chatting with a fishing boat captain (seafarers love me, apparently), a couple from Rhode Island and a plastic surgeon from Boston about the novella The Old Man and the Sea. The woman from Rhode Island hated it.

It's been ten years or better since I read it, but I remember loving it and thinking in spite of everything it was more a book about triumph rather than defeat, even though the only image I could conjure from the story was that of the old man coming back with the giant marlin skeleton, evidence of his luck and subsequent misfortune at sea.

I thought about reading it again to see if I'd have the same perspective but I'm not going to. I don't want to ruin it. I was a lot smarter back then; god knows how I could screw up that novel by reading it now.

They Don't Make 'Em Like This Anymore

Presents for me are always from my mom. I open them up and my dad looks over and excitedly says, "What'd I get you?!"

In his defense, he bought me a sapphire necklace about 10 years ago for Christmas, and another time when I was in the hospital I sent him to the gift shop for a toothbrush and he bought me a very small stuffed bear. But other than that, presents from my dad are A) scarce and B) random.

Thanks, Dad, for the... pliers?

I'm glad you like them. I saw them at an auction and thought of you.

Great, I love them.

But this year he kept saying he had a birthday present for me... and that it was "starting to smell."

Usually my mom tips me off to any strange presents he might send my way so my reaction isn't one of complete bewilderment.

She was silent this year when I pressed her.

Hmm... Suspicious.

Last weekend he stood beside me as I unwrapped my birthday present. When he told me to be careful cutting the tape off the box I envisioned god knows what oozing out from the puncture wound, smelling like rotten garbage and prepping for my "ooh, what a nice surprise!" face.

Then, I was legitimately surprised.

He'd made me an afghan. I'd forgotten that during the hunting off-season last winter he'd started crocheting again after a one-off afghan he made 20 years ago.

And there it was. I was smitten. He made my porch swing, has built me bookshelves and flower boxes and countless picture frames and stands. Those things are what he does. This is different.

I don't think I've ever loved a present a more. I gushed over it sincerely and even admired his color choices, black and gray, to better hide cat hair.

Initially he had plans to make all three of his sisters one, my mom's two sisters one and me one. But that was before the afghan meltdown of 2010, where stitching turned to bitching and he had to redo all of his work - twice.

He thought he was getting faster. At first it took him 40 minutes to complete a row, then 35, then 30. Before long he was down to 20 minutes per row.

But when he was nearly finished and finally spread it all out on the living room floor my mom goes, "Why is one side shorter than the other?"

"Damn it all, Gina Lynn," he told me. "I wasn't getting faster, I was dropping stitches!"

There's a sentence I never thought I'd hear my masculine old man say.

So he pulled it out and started over.

The ladies at Jo-Anne Fabrics thought he was buying yarn for his wife and adored how sweet he was to shop for her at the craft store. When they found it was him doing the crocheting they admired his diversity and told him, "Isn't crocheting so relaxing!"

"Bullshit," he said. "I can't watch TV while I'm doing it, I got two blisters and my rows got all messed up."

Then he grabbed his bag of yarn and walked out with an, "Afternoon, ladies."

I bet they are still gossiping about him.

"I hope you like it because I'm not making anymore," he told me. "I'd die of old age as long as it took me make that one." Then he added he'll be spending this winter where he belongs, in the garage sawing wood and making knife cases and porch swings.