Chicago - A Photo Essay (With Some Naked People)

We just got back from a long weekend in Chicago where we did mostly sight-seeing, eating and watching naked people bike ride.

Saturday night we stumbled upon the World Naked Bike Ride, which was hundreds and hundreds of Chicagoans pedaling through the streets bare-ass to bike seat!

Well, most of them were bare-assed.















My photos didn't turn out well but believe me when I tell you we saw lots of weenies dangling off bike seats and boobs bouncing around. It was terrific!

That's one of the best things about traveling, just when you think you've experienced it all - Willis Tower, Hawks in OT, crack popcorn - here come 400 naked people pedaling by.

Here is the video I took.



You can't see much because we were in the back of a cab and I didn't start filming until it was nearly passed (as I was too busy gleefully looking at strangers' private parts), but the atmosphere was great. Traffic completely stopped and everyone was taking photos. Ray and I were practically high-fiving in the car while the cabbie asked us, 'Are these the gays?' 

And isn't that the other thing about traveling, things surprise you that surprise no one else. We had brunch the next morning with my friend Sandy, who is photographer in the city, and she goes, "Oh yeah, photographers do photo essays on it every year."

She was shrugging it off while I was mapping out where I should stand next year.

It's all downhill from there, but here are some of the other sights we saw.




Buckingham Fountain - Famous for Married with Children, Jen and Patrick's engagement and the site of our Garrett's Chicago Mix popcorn eating frenzy.

The Chicago Architecture Foundation had this scale model exhibit of downtown. Come to think of it, we stumbled upon it as well.

 

We walked about 9,000 miles on Friday. Actually is was less than 5, but it nearly killed us. We are soft Cincinnatian's who drive everywhere.

The next day when Ray proposed an architecture tour (as seen from a boat on the Chicago River) I couldn't have been more delighted. We'd get to sit down for 90 minutes!

Willis Tower from the boat.




The Civic Opera Building was my favorite on the tour. It was built in 1929 and is shaped like a throne. You can see better here.



This wasn't on the river tour but what an odd little marvel. Plus it was gorgeous. My guess is that it leads people in one building directly to the snack machines in the other building.



Here we are in the lock waiting to get into Lake Michigan. About seven minutes after I took this photo I started to get sea lake sick. The bigger the boat, the sicker I get.

 The last event at this abandoned lighthouse was a wedding. I loved that.

This lion demanded a photoshoot. And a snack.

The Ralph Lauren restaurant requires reservations for lunch and looks like a country club, and is about as uptight. There are portraits of horses hanging the walls.

The interactive mirrored public art of Chicago. Or, the bean.

Hi!

I'm not sure if they photobombed me or if Ray is photobombing them.

Hang the DJ

A few nights ago I dreamed that I didn't have time to give our DJ playlists for the wedding and reception. Something horrifying was playing - Locomotion? Love Shack? - and I was staring at the DJ from across the lawn thinking, 'How did this happen? What is this horrible music? This isn't Sam Cooke!"

My nightmares are not about marriage or long-term commitment, but about party music.

A few weeks ago I asked Ray if he was nervous about getting married. He said that he is.

"I'm nervous about being a good husband. I'm nervous I won't see problems until they are too late, and I want to be sure that I can fix things before they become bigger problems."

Then he asked me if I was nervous about getting married.

I stared at him while I debated if I should tell the truth or if I should make up something more soul-searching.

I opted for the truth.

"Yes. I am nervous people aren't going to have fun at the party and it will be lame and no one will dance and everyone will leave by 8 and we'll be stuck with all those brownies to eat by ourselves."

Then I started to make up stuff to be nervous about, except I am terrible at conjuring up fake feelings.

"I mean, I might be nervous about being a good wife. But... umm... not really because... well... I adore you. That will be easy. But there's the reception... and I have to make sure we have a photobooth because if you don't have a photobooth at your wedding then your party is nothing."

Visions of wedding guests gleefully piling into the photobooth drunk on Summer Shandy and brownies danced in my head.  

So while Ray is wringing his hands over the type of man he wants to be, I'm making Do Not Play lists for the DJ. Because so help me God if YMCA comes on I will lose it.

I am bride music-zilla.

A Wedding, Ain't Nobody Got Time For That

Between LL Cool J, Bob Dylan, our Hyde Park Blast porch party, Chicago, Norris Lake, my class reunion, a potential trip to Boston and weekends at the pool, I'm not sure we're going to have time for a wedding this summer.

Maybe we'll just wear our pool clothes and have it on the front porch.

But just in case we're able to squeeze it in, I've ordered several boxes of Franzia and the DJ to only play Justin Bieber.

Close friends and tweens only, obviously.

Our Yard, In The Middle of Our Street

Spring has brought all kinds of surprises to our yard.

It seems like every day another mysterious plant pops up, and it's been fun seeing what will sprout up next. 

It's like lawn sorcery. This is our first spring in our house, so we have no idea what perennials are buried there.

Actually, we don't know anything about plants in the first place, let alone plants we didn't put there, so whenever a new one comes in we just name it what we think it is, but who are we kidding, we have no idea.

Last weekend the green plants around the Japanese Maple came in like gangbusters. (We only know it's a Japanese Maple because there's a tag on the tree that says so.) So we stood around last Sunday afternoon holding tiny lawn rakes and admiring them, saying things like, 'Oh, the hostas are really coming in strong.'

Then we Google hostas and realize what we think are hostas probably aren't.

Then we're all, 'Oh, the plants formerly known as hostas are looking really good.'

It's like Prince is in our yard. 

Like Prince, only green and probably not Jehovah's Witnesses.

I spent the better part of Sunday afternoon trimming these crazy Spidery Pouf Balls (official name) we have.
 
Our yard is smaller than our living room, which is really small. But you'd be surprised how long it takes to give these things haircuts.

Unruly Spidery Pouf Balls

Unruly, I say.

The neighbors' Spidery Pouf Balls are cut way back, so taking a cue from the Joneses, we decided to cut ours back too.

I trimmed them just enough to make them tidy but left them long enough that they should feel free fro-out this summer, if that's how they chose to express themselves. (Trimming them into mullets didn't look as funny as I thought it might. Disappointing.)

But they look way better with haircuts.

Before




After

 


Keeping up with the Joneses on our street is no easy task. Everyone has perfectly manicured yards, perfect bushes, perfect flowers, perfect landscaping.

Then there is our yard. We have yard envy. Even our yard hates our yard.

As I was getting Edward Scissorhands on it, sending clipped bits of Spidery Pouf Ball flying, I fantasized about trimming my neighborhoods neatly shaped bushes into different animals.





I thought if I snuck around in the middle of the night and turned everyone's perfect rows of bushes into fun animals - a bunny, a kitten, maybe a small bear - people would come out of their houses in the morning delighted to find these sculptured surprises.

It would be the talk of the neighborhood. Everyone would chatter about when the 'Silent Sculptor' (that's what I'd named myself in my fantasy) would strike again, and they'd all secretly hope they'd be next.

This is where our yard would finally shine.

While everyone else has neat little rows of landscaped shrubs in their yards, we have a horrendously gigantic and overgrown bush in front of our house.

As the Silent Sculptor, I'd save it for last and turn into a gigantic dinosaur so that our yard would be the prized yard, finally.




I told Ray my idea and said he should do this for us, since I don't know how to sculpt bushes into animals. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how to do it either.

No biggie. Some neighbors may end up with butchered bushes while we get the hang of it, but that's the price they will have to pay for a neighborhood playground of fun shrub animals.

But judging by the superior haircuts I gave the Spidery Pouf Balls, this is definitely doable.

Soon our yard will be the envy of the neighborhood. Soon.

The Days Were Just Packed

It will be at least a few more days before I forget my Friday night visit to the new Incline Public House. That's because I forgot the leftovers in my car all weekend.

I found them Monday morning when I was leaving for work. Whoops.

It's not because the food wasn't good though. It was.

Friday night Ray and I decided to try a new place and Incline seemed like a nice departure from OTR and downtown. I didn't realize it was so far on the West Side, but that's because I'd never been to Price Hill before.

We made friends with the women seated next to us and when we told them we came from Hyde Park they asked if we brought our passports. I told them a sherpa brought us and that we packed snacks for our long journey. Which I actually did.

If you guys want to try the food but don't feel like driving to Price Hill tonight I'll share the leftovers from my car with you. But all you really need to know about Incline is that is has Summer Shandy on tap, a great patio and delicious spicy pickle fries.

Shandies, a view and good food. You're all set for summer now.

The tour of new places continued Saturday night at 50 West Brewery.

It was too crowded to try one of the beer flights I keep seeing everyone post photos of on Facebook, so we winged it and got pints. I had the 'most approachable' beer (I forget what it was called) and Ray had the Thirty-37 pale ale. I forget what Kari and Brandon had, but I ended up trying them all because I am not afraid to swap beer spit with people. On second thought, I guess I did have my own version of a beer flight at 50 West.

Between the far west Incline Public House and the far east 50 West Brewery, we crisscrossed our great city leaving a wake of beer foam behind us.

Back in the day Kari and I used to frequent this Mexican restaurant in Mt. Washington called Los Portales. It's called El Rancho Grande now, but we still affectionally refer to it by the nickname we gave it years ago, LoPo.

I hadn't been there since Kari's going away party to NYC almost five years ago, (I was grieving), but now that Kari is back we went for dinner after leaving 50 West.

Dear sweet baby Jesus in the manger, I forgot how amazing this place is. Deliciously spicy salsa, divine enchiladas and burritos as big as your head. I'm a regular again. Even Ray was bullshit about it, all 'Why haven't you brought me here before?!'

Because I am Mexican-restaurant-next-to-Bigg's failure, that why.

So yeah, we basically ate every meal out this weekend, but at least several of them were at new places. You can't say that all the time.

Since we were disgusting pigs and ate a bunch of crap, we hit Lunken for a few laps on Sunday. Man it was great to get the bikes out and sweat a bit. I haven't so much as pretended I was going to exercise in the last six months since I've been either cut open or been waiting to get cut open again, but now that the surgeries are behind me, I'm itching to workout and sweat again.

I think my scars are looking pretty good though. Don't you? Yeah, I'll probably still wear a bikini. 

The middle one is raised, like I was branded in a fraternity that specializes in mid-line abdominal incisions.

Oh, I forgot... Friday night after dinner we went to Unwind in Hyde Park, the wine bar just off the square. I'm a big fan of this place, mostly because I'm a big fan of wine bars.

Unwind is always crowded and Friday night featured a special array of people in vests. I guess the statement is 'I'm outdoorsy but don't want to get too hot while drinking indoors.'

I get it.

But that's how the Incline leftovers ended up in my car all weekend. Ray got kinda drunk at Unwind and forgot to grab them when he stumbled out of the car.

Shark Bait

I recently discovered that the shark oven mitt I've been using for 10 years...




Is for 'decorative' use only.



This discovery changes nothing. 

This Is Love - Water Shooting At Your Butt

Behold, my new bidet.

This bad boy is no joke. It will shoot water clear across the house.



Isn't it amazing?!

Ray installed the BioBidet 250 last night to help me with 'butt burn.' In case you are unfamiliar, 'butt burn' is a scientific condition that results from going to the bathroom too much.

It's a long story but, in essence - Some of my intestines decided to revolt (I dunno why, my insides seem like a fun place to party to me), so they had to be cut out and the good parts had to be sewn back together with the rest of the good parts that were still down to party inside my abdomen.

Post surgery number two, this means sometimes running to the bathroom. Literally, running.

But with my new bidet, my booty is fresh in no time! I can't believe I didn't get one years ago, just for fun.

It's amazing just how accurate the water trajectory is too - BAM! Right in the sweet spot.

Speaking of sweet spots, it features 'posterior' and 'feminine' wash settings. I'm afraid to try the feminine wash setting though for fear I will never leave the house again.

I strongly urge all of you to come over and try it. Clean. As. A. Whistle. And refreshing on your bum too.

Tell all your friends.

How We Got Engaged... and Failed at Getting Free Ice-Cream

Where was I? Oh right, Ray proposed.

That was Friday, February 8.

In my head I threw my hot chocolate and gloves up into the air and went for the ring, all in one fail swoop. But that might not be exactly how it happened.

But it was at Fountain Square, and it was simple and sweet and perfect. He said: 'Marry me. Please.'

We were by the ice skating rink and had just had a lovely dinner at Via Vite, following by cookies and hot chocolate at Graeter's.

Though we both knew we were getting engaged that night, we decided to get married a long time ago. To that end, I've been wearing Ray's mom's engagement ring for months.

This classic beauty is 52 years old. All we did was resize it.

It's gorgeous, isn't it.

His parents got engaged in 1961, and Ray's dad couldn't have had better taste. It's simple, understated and classic. I wear it on my right hand because we knew we'd eventually get me a flatter ring, something I could wear more everyday. But with all due respect to the ring we picked out together, his mom's ring is my real favorite. There's 52 years of history behind this beauty.

Now, how the proposal happened depends on which one of us you ask. But regardless of who you hear the story from, the one thing we both agree on is that I tried to persuade him into proposing at Graeter's.

I maintain it was perfect.

1. It was warm inside and we were having Valentine's cookies and hot chocolate (romantic!)
2. I wasn't wearing gloves but knew I would be once we went outside (no hassling with gloves to put the ring on)
3. It was quiet and I thought the Macy's jumbo-tron might be blaring outside again (when we walked to Graeter's from Via Vite there was a Trojan ad playing, no joke)

So I laid out my case as we sat at a window table.

'Yo, you could propose to me right now. It's warm and cozy in here,' I said as I gave him doe eyes.

'What? In Graeter's? No way. I am not proposing to you next to the pop machine.'

About that time the Graeter's worker came over and asked us if we wanted some cookie samples.

I gave him the 'Beat it! I'm trying to convince my man to propose here' angry eyes.

'Besides, there's some weird guy passing around cookies,' Ray said.

'No one passing out cookies is weird,' I said. Then added: 'Besides, Graeter's is super romantic.' *doe eyes again

'I can hearing the pop machine humming, Gina. And it says Coca Cola right behind your head.'

Well, this is awkward, I thought as I finished my cookie. So much for my doe eyes.

We got up a few minutes later and even though we'd been planning this all night, I was nervous as we walked across the square. I briefly feared he was going to make me take a carriage ride. But as we turned toward the ice skating rink, that's when he took the box from his pocket and formally asked.

I don't even think I said anything honestly. Again, in my head I feel like I just threw my gloves and hot chocolate into the air in favor of the ring box. But really I think I just handed it all to him, like, HERE, take all this crap!

I remember he asked me again and then I said yes.

This is my engagement ring. It's pretty awesome if I do say so myself.

This is what it looks like in its natural habitat, at the keyboard.

Ray has a slightly different version of all this. His version might involve me pressing him harder in Graeter's and demanding to know where the ring was. I contend this is erroneous.

The next night we had an open house and 45 of our closest friends came over. It was great. A proposal on Friday night and then a big party on Saturday with a new ring, an engagement and a new house to celebrate. It was awesome.

P.S. Whenever I tell people this story they insist we should have gotten engaged at Graeter's. 'Dude, you'd have gotten free ice cream for sure! Maybe for life!' I should have mentioned that when I was trying to convince Ray. 'Ice cream for life, we'd be stupid to not get engaged here!'

It's Official

We're getting hitched!

First Impressions

Earlier this week I met my neighbor for the first time. We were standing in my driveway making idle chit-chat - 'Where do you work-where do you work' - kind of stuff.

About that time my pal Rachel ran up with her dog.

"Can my dog poop in your yard," she asked.

There was a pause and then the neighbor said, 'Ummm… sure?'

I introduced them and invited him to Ray and I's open house tomorrow night.

'You'll already know someone there, Rachel, who's dog might poop in your yard.'

It was pretty much the most hilarious first meeting ever.

Adventures in Babysitting

I have some modest babysitting experience, most of it from middle school watching my nephews or a neighborhood kid or two. But no one really asks me to babysit their kids anymore. Even less people ask Ray.

And yet, I love kids. Other people's kids mostly. But still... kids. Love. You know.

So I was pleasantly surprised last week when my friends Erin and Adam found themselves in a bind and asked me if I could watch their twin girls. I happily obliged. And since there were two kids and only one of me, Ray graciously volunteered to tag along so I wouldn't be out-numbered. 

"She must be REAL desperate to be asking me to babysit," I told him. "We can rummage through their fridge and make-out. It will be just like we're in high school."

Sunday morning we woke up early (we had to be there at 10:30, whew!), and headed to our babysitting gig.

When we got there their dad was carrying a girl on each hip as he told us what time they eat and nap, what games they like and how to entertain them. It was so adorable I could hardly stand it.

Then it got real. Real teary.

The girls went in to complete hysterics at the realization they were going to be left with us and cried  "Dada dada dada dada" the entire time Adam was trying to leave. As he was walking out one girl was clutching a toy in each hand and begging him to stay while the other was sobbing for something that sounded like "bab bab bab-babeeee bankeee."

As he escaped out the front door I saw a slight smirk spread across his face.

"Poor things," I'm sure he was thinking.

About us.

After a few minutes of panic on our part at the thought that they might not stop crying, Ray and I quickly settled into a groove with the girls. 

We plied them with puzzles and books and it was no time until they were sweetly and calmly sitting next to us enjoying the afternoon. And after much interpretation and some 1,000,000 Pyramid guessing - Me: 'I think she's saying baby. Is there a baby here, Ray? Did you see a baby somewhere? Can you take us to the baby, little one?' Ray: 'I think I know! She wants the baby from her crib, or maybe the blanket. I'll go get them!' - we even soothed the crying one.

(I was prepared to run out and buy her a baby - real or in doll form - if that's what it took to quiet her heartbreaking cries. Yes, I am sucker.) 

We spent the rest of the afternoon super busy. We read, played 'tiny fake kitchen,' had lunch and I even changed their diapers so Erin wouldn't have to when she got home. (Confession: We had to Google how to work the Diaper Genie. We were baffled. Ray Googled and read directions while I wiped and changed them.)

We've never had so much fun. Truly. The girls were an absolute delight, and for a childless couple who have little interaction with children, it was a rare treat. They were so sweet and affectionate and fun. I think we were both a little disappointed to not have more time with them.

And let me tell you something else, I have never been more baby crazy than when watching Ray lift them into their high-chairs for lunch and carry them upstairs for their naps.

I've never really been one for kids of my own, but I swear I felt myself ovulating just seeing him put tiny cut-up pears on their little lunch trays while calling them "sweet pea" and running after their blankees and baby dolls. Swoon. Had Ray been wearing a plain white t-shirt so his biceps were perfectly showing as he flexed while lifting them, I would have exploded.

Forget Anne Geddes and her weird images of babies coming out of flowers, Ray doling out pears to these baby girls is where it's at. 



In fact, if you're a woman of baby-making age then I am sorry to inform you but you just got pregnant from looking at this photo.

I hope it's twin girls. Ray and I are available to babysit. Just sayin.'

Enjoying The Ride

"Name me someone that's not a parasite, and I'll go out and say a prayer for him."
Bob Dylan, Visions of Johanna

Tonight is my Christmas Eve. I am waiting with eager anticipation for Lance Armstrong to come down the chimney... in the form of the Oprah interview tomorrow night. I haven't been this excited since that whole Petraeus thing broke out.

I even considered having a party for the occasion but decided against it because I don't want a bunch of people talking during the interview and keeping from enjoying this magical moment. So I will be at home curled up on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate. I hope Lance and Oprah both cry… while wearing Livestrong bracelets.

Everyone else is just as excited as me, it seems.

While waiting to buy coffee this morning I couldn't help but smile while reading this breathless, sensational contempt of Lance on the front page of USAToday. 

"After a decade of denial, Armstrong is still looking out for No. 1: Lance. Which is why he deserves nothing but disdain. ...The worst cheater in the history of sports has come clean not because it's the right thing to do, but because he must believe it's the expedient thing to do."

The writer goes on: "He also all but destroyed the entire sport."

Disdain deserving!
The worst cheater EVER! In history! In all sports!
Destroyed an entire sport!

It's all very… emotional. And I can't get enough of it.

Who cares if Lance has finally admitted to being a liar and a cheat, what folks are particularly upset about is that he's a world class a-hole.

Lance is just one blip on the steroid map of sports, but people are coming undone, calling for blood (his dirty, dopey, EPO spoiled blood!) and demanding that everyone take a moment (including Oprah) to remember all those who he screwed over on his head-stomping way to the top (er, bottom).

People are pissed. And that's my real interest here. People still give a shit about Lance Armstrong? Huh. I didn't even realize he was still infamous. (What's that kid doing these days, anyway?)

His 'wins' and 'success' story are so far gone, so long ago 'won' and tarnished, that I sort of forgot about him. Now he is back on the front pages. Does this mean I can wear my yellow Livestrong bracelet again? Are those back in fashion now that he's is back too?

Long ago I was a conflicted Lance Armstrong fan. Not because he won the Tour de France a million times or rocked yellow, a color that doesn't do anyone any favors really, but because of his book with Sally Jenkins, It's Not About the Bike.

It's still one of my favorite all time reads, be it memoir, non-fiction or now I guess, fiction. (They can re-release it as fiction now, right?)

Even though my fandom (it's relative, he's no Madonna or Dolly Parton), was untenable all those years ago because his cheating was already widely known and well documented, I still championed his Livestrong cause. I appreciated that his charity raised money and helped people affected by cancer of all kinds, not just certain types. Livestrong gave people who's cancer didn't originate in the breast community too. Just look at those millions of bracelets. (But hey, we want our dollar back, Lance!)

His story really isn't anymore interesting than anyone else's fall from grace story. Lance Armstrong: Liar, cheater and a straight-a asshole. Eh. Kinda boring. But you know what is exciting, when people cry to The Oprah. Or jump on her couch.

I'll make popcorn.

Shelter From the Storm

It's been a huge few months.

I had a pretty big surgery in December, which left me laid-up with a 12 inch incision down my abdomen, and in the midst of recovery from that (I still am) we bought a house.

Omg, WE BOUGHT A HOUSE!



I prayed for this house.

What I should have been praying for was that the surgery I was about to have went well. But a month ago I was wide awake all night praying for this house.

Since we moved into our tiny one-bedroom apartment while we house hunted, Ray had been searching the MLS every 20 minutes or so ready to pounce on new listings.

He was so frequently searching I began to worry.

Are you miserable here? Would you rather than die than come home? Do you want to move to a larger apartment until we find a house? 

He was basically like: Gina, our stove is a Hotpoint. It's electric. I can't live like this.

So the house hunt proceeded in earnest.

When this one came on the market we looked at it immediately and made an offer.

And so did several other people. Ugh. After six months of searching we finally found a house we loved, and everyone else loved it too - let the bidding war commence.

So I laid in bed thinking I should be praying for my health and a successful surgery but instead I was praying for a house. In the midst of praying for the house I was having a philosophical debate in my head on what it meant to pray for something like a house, versus something more important, like good health, or peace, or the end of hunger.

But I don't feel materialistic, I thought. I drive an old car. I buy my clothes at Target. I've been saving money for this for 10 years.

Argh! Concentrate, Daugherty. The house! Your health! Peace! Pray for all of it, whatever!

Ultimately, the night of the bidding war, if I'd have thought The Secret would have worked, I'd have tried it. (I think you just read the book and awesome things happen to you, right? I gotta get on that.) Praying, meditating, good vibes to the universe? Sure! I was throwing it all out there.

After a few days of agony and waiting, we were under contract. 

Two weeks later I was in surgery (it went well) and I spent a maddening six days in the hospital. The one bright spot was when Ray would come to see me we'd talk about the house - Where we would put the furniture. How we would decorate it. What projects we would do first. When we'd have our first party. How he and the movers would have to do all the lifting and moving because, hey, I got this giant incision and can't sit up yet. (Not having to do any of the moving was an unexpected freebie for me.) 

The house gave me something to look forward to during one of the scariest, most anxiety producing times of my life. It was the perfect distraction for both of us - house inspections, constant loan paperwork, packing, Christmas. Oh shit, it's almost Christmas?! But I'm virtually bedridden!

We closed two days after Christmas and moved the next day. I hobbled around with my giant incision and handed out Gatorade to Ray and the movers. It was an important role. 

And now here we are, the insanely proud owners of this sunny, 106 year old two-story. It felt like home as soon as the movers drove away.

See ya, movers! Oh wait, that's Ray

At a century old we anticipate all kinds of things that will keep us busy and probably cost us plenty over the years. Unlike new construction, it has all kinds of quirks and weirdness we'll have to repair and paint and worry about.

For example, it has a fireplace in the living room that doesn't work. You know why it doesn't work? Because it burns coal. Coal, my friends. You should stop by and have a look. I can bet you've not seen a 106-year-old coal burning fireplace before.

And also unlike new houses, it has history and personality and lots of people have lived their lives here and experienced untold joys and sorrows and wonderful memories.

We are happy to be the newest caretakers of this old place. It's going to be great.

And the biggest relief of all, Ray no longer has to cook on an electric Hotpoint. Though first we're going to have to figure out where to put the antique typewriter... and about a million other belongings that are in boxes or have landed in unusual places.

Happy Christmas My Little Elves

Because it just isn't Christmas without our annual holiday video. And this year's has everything - a cat, a robot, Billy Squier. Even some sneaky Gangham style. HEY, SEXY LADY!

Hope everyone has a great Christmas and Santa brings you lots of gold, frankincense and myrrh. (Or jewelry and perfume, whatever.)  

We Should All Be So Lucky

Did everyone have a good Thanksgiving? Of course you did. I bet there was food, family, maybe some weirdness.

My Thanksgiving had all those things and more. While I wasn't with my kin family, I did spend Thanksgiving with my work family, who are every bit as generous and perhaps even stranger than my kin family. They text me when I am sick, tell me stupid jokes, eat off my plate, nag me to death and expect more of me. God, it IS like they're related to me.

On Thanksgiving they even talked to me through the bathroom door while I tried to pee, just like home!*

Before dessert and after the most delicious stuffing I've ever eaten in my life (sorry mom), we went around the table and said what we are thankful for.

I was happy to look around and see that Ray and I were in the midst of a terrific extended family. Weird and funny and embarrassing and awesome and accepting and perfect, just like every family should be.

When it was my turn I said I was thankful for Ray, my health, my work family, delicious food and boxed wine.

I might have been especially thankful for that boxed wine because I was getting tipsy from it. That's the kind of guest I am - I brought a box of wine to the Boss Man's house as a funny gift - to offend his wine snob sensibilities - and ended up drinking it.

That's why his face is so sad here, he knows he's not going to get to drink that much of it.





Or it's because he hates boxed wine AND Sauvignon Blanc. Who doesn't like SB, anyway? Crazies, that's who.

This particular vintage was super refreshing - it tasted mostly like city tap water (Houston, maybe? Ashtabula?), but had Applebee's dishwater undertones and finished like a Target aisle spill in lane 8. (Which makes sense, since that's where I bought it.)

I don't know what he was crinkling his nose at. I followed the wisdom of at least a 100 sommeliers before me - white wine with white meat. Plus, drinking SB in great quantities can make even the virtual strangers you're eating Thanksgiving with feel like real family - I LOVE YOU GUYS! *sobs into wine glass





But our thankfulness didn't stop there. Saturday morning Ray fried up some potato pancakes with the leftover mashed potatoes Rachel gave us. I'm not even sure if I like mashed potatoes anymore since realizing you can fry them and turn them into something else. Fried mashed potatoes from now on, I say.







Anyway, I hope everyone counted their blessings and had a great Thanksgiving. Next up, Christmas! 


* Because I don't like to stop on the three hour drive home to Indiana to visit my parents, the first thing I do when I walk in the door is drop my bags and run into the bathroom to pee. But my parents are so excited to see me that rather than wait until I come out, they just start talking to me through the bathroom door. How was your trip? Was the drive ok? Did it rain? Why do you have all these bags? Are you feeling ok? What do you want for dinner? And I answer all of them to a point, until finally I'm just, "FOR GOD'S SAKE, GIVE ME ONE MINUTE TO PEE HERE!"

But you really haven't lived until your Boss Man reenacts this for you during Thanksgiving at HIS home. He actually ran after me when I went to pee. I was mid-flush when I heard "Everything ok in there?! Need anything?!" from the other side of the bathroom door. Confused, I was all - GA-WOOSH (flushing) - and opened the door startled: "What?! Is something happening?! Omg, is there a fire?!" And there was the Boss Man, smiling maniacally saying, "Hahaha!!! Just wanted to make you feel at home!"

It was Marion, Indiana in Indian Hill my friends.

Ray of Light

The weeks leading up to my birthday last month were nearly intolerable.

I can't stand it when someone knows something I don't, and somehow I ended up with Ray, who is the king of secrets. Worse, he delights in lording them over me.

For weeks he was bragging, gloating, even relishing the fact that my birthday present was in his possession and it was so amazeballs, apparently, that I would die upon the first sight of it.  

He was really laying it on thick.

Woo!!! Wait, just wait. You're going to LOOOOVE your birthday present so much you're going to freak. Want me to give you a hint?!

Then he'd either lie to me about the hint or forget, because he was bragging so hard.

It's so awesome that even if I completely FORGET your birthday next year you'll HAVE to forgive me. God I'm so awesome - la la la la la!

He was insufferable and worse, unbreakable.

I was suspicious but played along. I figured the present was probably an 8 on the awesome scale, even though he was selling it as a 10.

I thought: Yeah, I love boots, I'll be stoked for boots or a bag or whatever, but come on, this is the pride before the fall. But I'll play along and act like it's a 10 when really it's going to be an 8.

I practiced my 'It's a 10!!!" face.

Besides anyhow, I had already decided whatever it was couldn't be as awesome as what he got me last year: Dylan's Time Out of Mind on vinyl, which you basically have to kill someone for or be willing to sell your first born to get, and a Tiffany lock necklace, which was a nod to the romantic lock bridge we stumbled upon in Paris.

The Pont des Arts bridge in Paris.

I actually cried when he gave them to me. Mostly I was crying because you know how birthdays are always kind of disappointing because you realize no one really knows you, but then suddenly this one shining gift comes through every 20 years or so and you're like, Holy hell, someone DOES get me.

That's what it felt like, so I cried a little at the realization that I was not alone on the planet and that someone in the big giant world understood me. There was a lot going on, ok?!

Finally, after weeks of suffering like this, it was my birthday. I opened the box and my face fell off my face.

MADONNA TICKETS.

Holy effing shit. He got me Madonna tickets!!!!

COME ON, GIRLS! DO YOU BELIEVE IN LOVE?! CAUSE I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT IT, AND GOES SOMETHING LIKE THIS!

He also got me a fancy watch and the Joe Biden coozy and coffee mug I've been dying for.

Cheers, Uncle Joe.

Look how manically happy he is.

But whatever, MADONNA.

We see her this weekend in Cleveland. Imma dance the entire time and maybe cry and pass out a little and possibly even pee my pants. It's going to be the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Now enjoy some throwback Madonna. That's right, relish it. And be jealous. Verrrrrry jealous.