When In Doubt

Be the Golden Retriever.

Shock and Awe

Tomcat looks like he just saw a ghost. But what he is actually reacting to is The Corrections.

He can't believe what a terrible book it is.

Summa Summa Summa-time

Porch sitting has commenced in earnest.

Next up for summer 2015:

• Grill-outs and the Mt. Adams pool
• Picnics and scooter rides
• Helmet sundaes and crunch coat
• Nashville and Norris Lake
• Iced-tea and lemonade, together 

Time to sit back and unwind. 

The Constantly (Angry) Gardener

Ray sowing tomato plants in our enormous garden.

It's easy to buy pricey tomatoes - just go to the Hyde Park Farmer’s Market, where a pound of bruised tomatoes is more expensive than a Jeff Ruby’s dry-aged steak. 

But to grow expensive tomatoes, that takes skill.

Fortunately, Ray and I got ‘em. We have consistently grown the most expensive tomatoes in Hamilton County going on two years. Let us show you how it's done.



First, get some $4.99 tomato plants from Home Depot.

We prefer Home Depot over Lowe’s because the Wendy's is right there, so you can get a spicy chicken sandwich and a large Diet Coke on your way. And you're going to need that sustenance because shopping at Home Depot takes like nine hours, even if you're just going for some tomato plants.


Second, over-buy. Get all of the tomatoes!  



We usually buy 5-7 tomato plants; I have no idea why since our garden is about the size of a dining room table.

So take a guess at how big your garden is and buy triple the tomatoes that will actually fit into it. You want make sure that when they start to get big, they take over the entire plot, then the yard, then the neighbor's yard.


Third, notice that your green tomatoes are being eaten.

Realize too late that the squirrels and chipmunks are gorging themselves on your fruit. Be sure to realize this a) when the plants are gigantic and b) when half of your ripening tomatoes have been eaten or left with hunks out of them on the fence. (Squirrels are really proud of this and will leave your half-eaten tomatoes on the property line fence for you to admire their work.)


Fourth, scour the internet for weird pest control suggestions. Buy all the pest control!

Nothing is too strange or too expensive to try for your new war on squirrels and chipmunks. Buy loads of cinnamon, wolf urine and horrific smelling pest spray to keep the animals out. When that fails (it will), buy some talismans from a shaman and try that. (Specifically, bags and bags of peanuts. Maybe if you leave out gobs of peanuts in the shell for them to eat they will choose that over your tomatoes.) (They won't; they'll eat both.)


Fifth, search for fencing.

Now that the plants are enormous and there is no easy way to install a fence, definitely start looking for fencing. Search the Internet for "easy solutions."

When that fails (it will), go back to Home Depot and buy a bunch of garden/landscape aluminum fencing at $20 a panel. Wrestle with your 12 panels of fencing until they are (relatively) connected together (with zip ties) and fencing in the (dining table-sized) garden.

Stand back and admire your ingenuity in the face of overgrown plants, uneven ground and impossible fencing. Spending an entire Saturday afternoon in the heat of July to protect your tomatoes is going to be so worth it.  


Sixth, realize the fence doesn’t work.

As you are sitting on the deck drinking coffee one morning, notice another half-eaten, ripening tomato on your steps. Take back all those thoughts of you being an ingenious fence engineer as you realize that the squirrels can walk right through your elaborate fencing.

Go back to Home Depot for plastic fencing to line the inside of the aluminum fencing. Get the biggest roll of this stuff they have. Sure, your garden is small, but those squirrels are crafty and THIS IS WAR.

Make sure to get the kind of plastic fencing that cuts your hands when you maneuver it or try to reach for a tomato anywhere near it.

Use the entire roll to line the fence of your tiny garden. Next, use another big sheet of it to create a top. Use zip ties to lock the 'roof' on. When you run out of zip ties, use the spool of wire ties you found in the junk drawer... Because you are not freaking going back to Home Depot.


Seventh, realize you can no longer really access your tomatoes.

Hooray, you see a red ripened tomato that is ready for eating. (!!!!!) Now turn that excitement into disappointment when you realize that you've made it only slightly more difficult for the squirrels but nearly impossible for humans to access the tomatoes. No matter. When your hand gets cut on the plastic fencing and zip tied roof, proudly consider it a hard-fought battle wound.


Eighth, harvest your bounty!

We estimate that our "bounty" was about four tomatoes in 2014, which cost us about $200 a tomato, roughly.


Ninth, become fully aware of your failure.

Slowly realize what a bargain those $5 tomatoes were at the Hyde Park Farmer’s Market.

Vile Weed

The surest way to get poison ivy is to claim you are immune to it. Put that hubris out for the fates to hear and you will be promptly rewarded.

And for my money, it just can't happen at a better time than when you're going to be in a wedding, with a knee-length bridesmaids dress.

About a month ago, Ray and I went to the art open house at Brazee Street studios where we had to park out in a field. I was literally moseying through weeds, bragging that I'd never gotten poison ivy in my entire life because I am one of those special, blessed human beings who are immune to it.

Except, I didn't even realize I had parked in poison ivy. I was just making conversation about how special and immune I am.

So special. So immune. 

I'm also 98 percent certain I closed a few stalks of it in my car door. Ray and I thought it was funny that leaves we're dangling out of the bottom of my door while I was driving around.

Ha ha ha.

So funny. So dangly.

The first signs were innocuous enough - a welt across my ankle that didn't itch or turn red. Until it did.

At first it wasn't that bad.

No big deal. Just a few spots. I can still walk around in public like this.

 
Then it got severe. 

Turns out, I'm not immune.

The best part was that I'd wake up several times in the night overcome with itching. The second best part was the cankle it gave me.

Have you no mercy, poison ivy?! A cankle?

It was pure misery for weeks. I'm pretty sure poison ivy is an advanced interrogation technique for enemy's of the state.

But here's the thing that really blew my mind: If you get poison ivy and have to have a steroid shot, it will be in the butt. I thought after adolescence shots were upgraded to the arm. Nope. When the nurse told me to "pull your pants down and lean over the table," I thought she was joking.

It's truly the gift that keeps on giving.

Here Comes Auntie Gina

How are you supposed to choose one tutu? Trick question, you can't.

Despite my pleas for Ray to go back in time and have us a baby with a previous girlfriend so that we can be weekend parents, he has not been able to make this happen.

But nearly the next best thing has happened: Rachel is having another baby. And according to the sonogram, we're she's having a girl! The days of being the super close-by, super cool auntie is finally coming true for me.

I'd been on the edge of my seat for months waiting to find out what kind of baby it was going to be. (And I made no secret that I was gunning for a girl to fulfill my auntie dreams.) I even had the sonogram appointment in my reminders. 

It's a girl, I do WIN!

After I found out I immediately started planning the baby shower and shopping for baby sized tutus and leg warmers. Rachel, however, has refused my baby shower vision because, she says, a) this is her third child and b) she already has a lot of girl baby stuff 'from friends.'

From friends? Friends?

'Who wants their old stuff,' I lamented to Ray. 'But she refuses to let me throw her a shower.'

'I don't think she really gets to decide that,' Ray said. (Which is why I love him.)

And I couldn't agree more. 1) I The baby deserves her own party and 2) my soon-to-be God child deserves way better than hand-me-downs.

Oh! Speaking of, I've appointed myself God parent. When I told Rachel I'd make and excellent God parent - especially for a girl, no pressure, we can formalize details later - she said that her kids do not have God parents. So I was literally forced to appoint myself. (No big deal.)

And since I am self-appointing things, maybe the shower could be for me? As a God parent, I could throw it for myself and register for things for the baby would want from me. Would that be weird? I don't really think so but I know some people are uptight about things like showers for self-appointed God parents.

I had to stop texting Rachel about all this - When will she be born? What is your due date? Gina is a good name for a baby who is going to have me as a God parent. What kind of cake should I order for her shower? Do you think she'd like a yellow playhouse for my yard, or a white one? - because I suspected that I was being annoying.

I've since channeled all of my energy toward creating the baby's social media handles and first Tumblr. It goes without saying she's going to be really into scooters, owls, Bob Dylan, cats, blocks, tree climbing, dance, sea life, animals of all types, Polaroids, typography, rebellion and books.

Just like her Auntie Gina.

While I've stepped back outwardly - I've refrained from asking Rachel if I can be there for the delivery (so far) - internally I am still bursting with excitement and pride. And in my own home I feel safe expressing this enthusiasm by asking Ray to make the baby various wood toys - bikes, blocks, cars, rocking animals, very small chairs.

Do you think she'd like her own very tiny adirondack chair? Hey Ray, can we convert the garden shed into a playhouse? Don't you think flower boxes would look really cute on the playhouse? While you're in the basement, could you make a wooden train set for the baby?

And have you SEEN the clothes and accessories for infant girls lately?! I am danger to society right now, clicking this, clicking that, running through the baby aisle at Target throwing tulle skirts into my cart and picking out pacifiers with mustaches attached to them.

How can you chose from all this amazing stuff?! You can't, people. You can't.

She's not coming until late summer so that gives me some time to finalize her Amazon Wish List.

For her shower.

How To Lose A Foul Ball

The first (and probably) only time I'll hold a foul ball.

I've been struck by lightning, ridden a zamboni and last spring at a Reds game, a got a foul ball.

Basically, I am on fire.

I had gotten us baller seats to celebrate Ray's birthday. It was to be a night of close-up baseball, stadium food and fireworks. Ray was already enjoying a gigantic basket of fries early in the game when a high-foul pop-up came into our section. I nudged him. 'Yo, life-threatening ball ricocheting into our section, look alive.'

He glanced up and promptly returned to his fries. A few rows behind us what looked to be about 10 dudes starting clamoring for the ball, grabbing and pulling and pretty much knocking each other out for it.

The ball bounced up a row up, then another and then the people next to me started grabbing for it.

That's when the ball rolled beneath my seat.

It was as if fate herself had gently placed the ball in section 115, Row W, seat 15. I snatched it from under my seat and proclaimed "I GOT IT!"

I couldn't believe it. A major league foul ball, in my grip. Gotten fair and square. I beamed. Three dudes a few rows ahead of me turned and scowled out of jealousy. I beamed directly at them.

I leaned over to Ray to note how amazing it was, how this ball just landed right here for us, and how cool. We couldn't believe it.

We started to wonder whose bat it came off of. In all the excitement, we weren't sure, but we could figure out.

That's when the woman a few seats down asked if she could take my picture with it. Sure! I held up my trophy as she snapped my photo and then she said, "If I ever caught a ball, I would give it to a kid."

My smile faded.

Oh.

I briefly considered my obligation here. Am I supposed to start looking for needy kids in section 115? The needier the better? But what if I want to keep it, can I do that? What if I want to give it to a kid I know? Or my dad, a lifelong Reds fan?

I've been a Red's fan my entire life, thanks to my dad, who is also a life-long Reds fan. My dad took me to my first game when I was 8 at Riverfront Stadium to watch Johnny Bench catch his last game at Johnny Bench Night. I got a Red's pennant with Johnny Bench's photo on it.


Pack your bags, you're going on a guilt trip

A few minutes after the woman snapped my photo Ray said, "You should give it to the kids behind us."

I stopped beaming.

I didn't want to give it to the kids behind us. I was excited. No one ever gets foul balls at baseballs games and it wasn't as if I took it from the kids or like they were even trying to get it. I think they were playing on their iPad or something.

Besides, I knew he only said it because that woman had said it.

"What are we going to do with it," he asked.

What are they going to do with it, I wondered.

I looked at the ball and admired the scuff mark left by the bat. I envisioned writing the date on it, our seats, who's bat it came off of and who pitched it. I was going to tell my dad how awesome it was; he was going to be so pumped to hear this story. I thought maybe I'd give it to him for Father's Day.

But between Ray and the woman, I felt like there was some rule that I was supposed to give it to a kid. That I wasn't allowed to keep it, or that keeping it made me a jerk when there were kids in the stadium.

So I had Ray take my photo with it so I'd at least have evidence it happened before I gave it away.

Ray snapped the photo and I turned to the dad behind us and asked him if he'd like to give the ball to one of his kids.

He looked at it like it had the plague on it.

"Uhh, I guess," he said, and just stared at me.

Ingrate, I thought. So I turned to his son directly behind me and asked if he'd like to have the ball.

The kid just looked at me like, "Uhh, whatever stranger lady giving me some random baseball."

They couldn't have cared less about that ball, but it was too late. I had handed it to the kid. He didn't thank me. His dad didn't thank me. I think they only took it to be nice. Which is what I get for succumbing to peer pressure.

I immediately regretted it.

It was as if the ball lost its magic as soon as I claimed it. It went from being a ball I got at a Reds game to a ball some random lady handed to them 10 minutes later. I don't think they even knew it was a foul ball.

Misery loves company

The next day I called my dad to tell him the story. Misery loves company and I knew he'd be as miserable about it was I was.

He went from incredulous: 'YOU GAVE IT AWAY?! YOU GAVE IT AWAY?' To quiet resignation: 'I can't believe you gave it away...'

We were beside ourselves. I told him I'd forgive him if he gave me up for adoption.

'What you should have done is told Ray to have some more fries and keep his mouth shut.'

'Yeah, he and that lady both should have kept their mouths shut," I said.

It felt good to have someone on my side, someone who thought giving it away was as dumb as I did. (Even though I was the dumb one.)

My dad then explained his decision tree on worthy and unworthy kids to give a foul ball to.

'Now, if me and the kid were both going after it and I got it, sure, I'd have given it to him and been happy to do it. But I can't believe this... What'd that kid behind you have to do with anything? He wans't even going for the ball! I'll tell you what, if I ever catch a baseball at a Major League baseball game like that, nobody's getting my ball. And if that kid is healthy and can walk, he's definitely not getting it. I've never even held a Major League ball!"

I cracked up laughing. Basically, if you are a kid who can walk without crutches or a wheelchair, you are not getting my dad's imaginary foul ball.

Ray tried to make me feel better by telling me that the kid's dad was a jerk and that the kid was probably going to be really excited to have the ball when he got home. He'll probably take it to school to show his friends, Ray said.

He's probably home schooled, I snarked. 


Well, It's a Good Story (Sort of)

It's been nearly a year since this happened and it's always entertaining to hear the mixed reactions from people about it. Mostly people feel sorry for me and console me by noting it was good deed. Others just think I'm a moron.

Why do kids automatically get the ball? Screw those kids!

Deadspin offers this chart to determining if you deserve a foul ball, which I see their point. But this Dodgers fan's post called Please Let My Dad Keep His Foul Ball is my favorite. He hopes that his old dad will one day get a foul ball while also fearing that the surrounding crowd will angrily make his dad give it to a kid.

I am still seething at myself for giving away that baseball. It was stupid. I regret it. So if I ever get another one, which is likely never, I'm keeping it and I don't care what squalling kid is around me to complain about it. And then I'm going to give it to my dad, because there is no way that a kid, even a kid I know, but especially a stranger's kid, would be more excited to have it.

____

Epilogue: It's good to know people who know people... A friend of mine who works for the Reds was able to get me a ball for my dad for Father's Day, so at least he could hold a Major League Baseball. It doesn't have the scuff of a bat on it, but it is an authentic ball that COULD have been someone's foul ball, or home run, or Grand Slam. (Giving this ball it's own imaginary future has been half the fun.)

My dad keeps it on his desk in a plastic baggie... "so it won't get dusty," he says.

Adorable.

Birthday Girl

It's easy to forget you are getting older while you're in Paris. The city forces you to walk everywhere, to take the subway, to linger over breakfast, to pay attention. You can't dwell on birthday wishes or what you've done (or not) with your life when you're absorbed with living it.

And isn't that the best thing about traveling? You sort of forget who you are for a while because you are busy leading a life that you don't normally live - sitting in outdoor cafés in strange cities, attempting to communicate in a language you don't speak, getting to know neighborhoods outside of your own.

Rodin's The Thinker at the Rodin Museé.The Rodin Museé is this quiet, museum oasis of sculpture away from the fray.

We started the day of October 17 at an outdoor table at Café Charlot in Marais to watch the Parisian world go by.

It doesn't seem to matter what you're doing in France, you're having bread while doing it.

Having coffee?  
How about some bread?!
Zipping through traffic on your scooter while talking on your cell?  
Why not add some bread to that!
Shopping along the street?  
Here, eat some bread.
Watching half-naked women can-can at Crazy Horse?
You know what pairs well with nudity? A baguette.

I am fully supportive of this because truly the bread is unmatched. It is so delicious it is its own meal.

The 'only' thing I asked for for my birthday was to have a picnic at the Eiffel Tower. Miraculously, it was 75º and sunny that day. 

We got sandwiches from the bakery a few blocks from our hotel – along with chocolate croissants – and picked up cheese and crackers from a convenience store in the Champs de Mars subway stop. (It was basically the French version of 7-11 inside the subway. We fancy.) And I brought a towel with us from the hotel room to use as our picnic blanket.

With our bag full of sandwiches, cheese, croissants and the hotel towel, we headed to the Eiffel Tower.

The weather was so perfect it looks fake. If this were Instagram I'd hashtag it #nofilter.

Picnic blanket or hotel bath towel? You can't even tell the difference.

From there we went back to the Ponts des Arts lock bridge, which we discovered by accident on our first trip Paris three years ago.

It looks terrible. The locks are a blight on the bridge now with so many that parts of the railings are breaking from the weight of them.

Unsightly, like locusts tourists have descended upon it.

This is what the bridge looked like when we were there three years ago.





We were happy to just take a photo and not add to the destruction.

Lock bridge selfie. If you squint, you can see the Eiffel Tower.

Before we left for Europe Ray gave me the Eiffel Tower Tiffany charm necklace as a reminder of our trip. It was perfect.

If you are going to turn 40, the only reasonable way to do so is in Paris with your love after coffee and a baguette for breakfast. 

Apropos Of Nothing

I sent Ray a text this afternoon complaining about Ernest Hemingway.

We weren't having a conversation about Hemingway and we hadn't recently had any conversations about Hemingway. I just happened to became irritated with him while I was eating my lunch. I imagine a lot of people probably feel this way, likely Ray too, so sent him a text so he wouldn't think he was alone with these feelings.

This is how many of our conversations begin... in the middle. Books, Hollywood D-listers, outfits, blood sugar levels at home improvement centers - all great conversation starters.

A few recent examples:

Me: The real love story was Levin and Kitty.
Ray: Who?
Me: Levin and Kitty. Sure, Anna and Vronksy get the headlines, but I think it depends on when you read the book. If you read the book when you're younger, say in your 20s, you think Anna and Vronksy are fated but star-crossed, like Romeo and Juliet. But that isn't true. The interesting story is really about Kitty and Levin and how they struggle, suffer, forgive.
Ray: Didn't you finish that book two years ago?

Me: Oh my god, I almost died. I just ate an entire bag of Bugles and a Reece's Cup in the checkout line. Where were you?!
Ray: By the paint.
Me: My blood sugar was so low that I was shaking. I abandoned the plants in the garden center so I could get to the snacks in the check-out line quicker.
Ray: What happened to the plants?
Me: Did you hear what I just said? I said I had to eat Bugles because I ALMOST DIED.

Me: What do you think of these shoes with this?
Ray: They look good.
Me: I don't know… they look kinda weird. I'm just not feeling the color. Does it look like I'm going to a fancy funeral?
Ray: I guess...
Me: I knew it.

Me: If you cheat on me with some skank in Canada, I will throw all of your stuff onto the lawn and light it on fire.
Ray: What? What skank in Canada?
Me: Dean McDermott cheated on Tori Spelling in Canada while he was filming some crappy TV show or something.
Ray: Don't worry, I'm not even going to Canada this year.

Me: Does my belly look poochy in this?
Ray: Poochy? No.
Me: I feel kinda bloated, like I'm going to explode, and like this shirt is clinging to my gigantic poochy belly, you know what I mean?
Ray: There is nothing I can say that will be good at this point.

Me: I was never a big fan of Tiger Woods, but ever since his big scandal broke and he got his tooth knocked out and started sucking at golf, I have to say, he's much more interesting.
Ray: Why?

Me: He was so boring before, at least now there is evidence there is blood coursing through his veins. Dirty, washed-up blood, but blood none-the-less.

Me: Why don't teenagers moon people anymore? I remember when I was kid, getting mooned by a gaggle of teenagers in a station wagon was a legitimate possibility.
Ray: We should moon people.
Me: YES. Pale butts in car windows for everyone! My brother was a notorious mooner. I remember he mooned my mom in the kitchen once. It might have been the best thing to happen to me as a kid.
Ray: People wouldn't know what to make of my juicy booty.
Me: They are not ready for your jelly.

Singing and Swearing

In between the whirring of the drill in the basement, I can hear Ray singing along to My Sharona.

Drill.
'My motor run.'
Drill.
'Come a little closer, huh.'
Drill.
'My, my, my, WOO!'
Drill.

He is building built-in bookcases for the office, which I requested so that we can remove the bookcase from our bedroom. Having nearly 300 books stuffed into your house without built-ins takes up a lot of room. Somehow our three-story house is barely big enough for Ray, me, the cats and my 300 book friends.

The built-ins are on the heels of my sawhorse desk that he built me for Christmas. Unfortunately for him, my wish list for Santa isn't as simple as ordering from Amazon. I asked him to create me a sawhorse desk with an old door we had. This was the result.

What you can't see on my shirt is that the cat is a DJ. He is wearing headphones and scratching vinyl.

As usual, it's perfect. The next step is to create an attic library around the desk so we can move some more books around.

My real goal in all of this is so that one day, when the reporter from the New York Times Magazine comes to profile me at my home for my amazing invention/Great American Novel/scientific discovery/ability to eat frozen pizza every night for a year, our house can be described as "book-lined."

It's also my not-so-subtle way of justifying my book buying habit – look at all this storage space we have now! – and keeping Ray flush with woodworking projects so he can justify his tool buying habit. I am such a good wife.

Right after My Sharona ended I heard: "Damn it. That's not gonna work!"

With all these bookcases to be built, there is no shortage of time he can spend singing and swearing at things in the basement. Ray is a lucky man. 

FRA-GEE-LAY

Ray got a MAJOR award for Christmas. It looks Italian.

Miami Nice

The last photo I took before leaving Miami.

I had a final 20 minutes a few weeks ago to spend soaking up the last bit of warmth and sun in Miami before I had to get to the airport and return to the cold and perma-cloud of Cincinnati.

I was on my way to the patio by the pool when I was stopped by a hotel security guard who asked to see my room key. I showed him my baggage tag (I had already checked out) and he said, "Aww, you should have kept your key, you're about to leave and now you can't even get back in the gate to go see the beach... where are you from?"

I told him Cincinnati.

What followed was a true, genuine conversation. This is what I learned from Sandy, the security guard at the hotel.

Sandy has a coworker at the hotel who talks about Cincinnati all the time. Specifically, Over-the-Rhine. His coworker is actually from Cleveland - "the mistake by the lake, he calls it," Sandy said. But his coworker considers Cincinnati his real home and wants to go back there. But Sandy personally has never been to Cincinnati.

Sandy doesn't like Miami because no one is genuinely nice. "Miamian's don't do anything to be nice," he said. "Everything they do is because they want something from you."

When he first moved back to Miami after being in the Army some guy called him "Carlos." My name isn't Carlos, he told the guy. "All you Mexican's are Carlos or Juan or something," he told Sandy. Some people are very racist, Sandy said, so it left a bad taste in his mouth as soon as he got back.

When he was wearing his Army fatigues, people in other parts of the U.S. would come up to him and thank him for his service and hug him. Not in Miami, he said. Everyone just ignores you. No one cares.

He has a wife and a child now so he can't just pick and move like he wants to. Plus, Sandy worries that racism might be even worse if he lives outside of Miami. Even though he "looks white and has blue eyes," he says his accent gives him away. And at least in Miami he can get the type of food he likes. But he'd love to move away.

Sandy's favorite place he's ever been is Raleigh, North Carolina. And he's been all over because of the Army.

"The people are so nice. Genuinely nice. They say hello and ask how you are. They hold the door for you if you're coming in behind them. And I love the accent," he said.

He came from Cuba to the U.S. when he was 3 and grew up in a Spanish speaking household but his wife doesn't speak much Spanish and they are way behind on teaching Spanish to their daughter, even though he knows it would be good for her to learn.

He doesn't understand why people think he is not an American. He served four years in the Army, he grew up in the U.S. and he couldn't care less about Cuba.

"My dad and uncle constantly talk about Cuba. All I hear about from them is Castro and baseball, Castro and baseball. I don't care if I ever hear another word about Castro and baseball. I don't care about either of those things."

What Sandy does love is country music and car racing, so he thinks he'd fit in well in Raleigh.

For my part, I told Sandy I had never been Raleigh, but I felt he'd fit in well anywhere.

In A Suprise to Absolutely No One

Well, technically, I didn't win the office bake-your-face-off bake-off.

And, technically, I didn't bake because I brought Rice Krispie treats. And, well, if you want to get really technical, I didn't even make them. Rachel did.

What's better than bake-off cheating? Double bake-off cheating. (It's like a double oven, only much cheaper.)

I would have made them myself (maybe), but I was dying. Or nearly dead. Or at least severely dehydrated. I woke up the Sunday before the bake-off throwing-up off the side of my bed in my childhood bedroom. (We were visiting my parents for Thanksgiving.)

Ray was so pumped to be sleeping in a full sized bed (read: nearly the smallest bed possible), next to someone barfing. That afternoon he drove us back to Cincinnati while I drank Gatorade and swore-off Thanksgiving leftovers forever.

So when Rachel texted me Sunday night asking how the treats were coming along, I told her my dreams of wowing everyone were dashed.

'Want me to make them for you?'
'You have Rice Krispies and marshmallows?'
'I had a feeling at the grocery something might happen.'
'You know me too well... I'll owe you forever.'
'It takes like five minutes, dude.'
'Ok, I'll owe you until at least Christmas.'

An hour later, the cat-shaped Rice Krispie winners of 2014 were at my home, and they were pure purrrfection. (Sorry, not sorry.)

I ushered them into the bake-off headquarters Monday morning (read: the office conference room), proudly stating the obvious: 'They're shaped like cats!'

I told everyone they were no ordinary Rice Krispie treats, they had a secret ingredient.

Cat hair, I said.

No, not really. I told the truth: It's love.

Ok, not that either. The secret ingredient is better than love, it's white chocolate chips. And they're the best you've ever tasted. The treats made the barfing totally worth it.

The cupcakes, lemon bars, mousse pie and brownies limped out of their fancy plastic storage cases and left the room. 

But being a good sport, a sampled a few other desserts and cast my ballot. Well, actually, I cast two ballots - one for the mousse pie (it was crazy delicious) and one for my Rachel's cat shaped Rice Krispie treats. (It's not voting for yourself if you didn't actually make them.)

When the ballots were counted I learned that "technically" I didn't win. But I did get three votes, which means two other people either a) recognized their greatness amid the wanna-bes or b) are crazy cat people.

That cat-shaped treats consider that a win.

The Hyde Park Griswolds

We spent the weekend being so festive that when it was over, a decorated tree and Christmas lights had spontaneously appeared at our house. I filmed the occurrence as our annual offering to Santa Claus in the hopes that he brings us everything on our list.

(Ray wants an impact driver. I want Ray to make me a desk from an old door and saw-horses. Unfortunately for Ray, my gift is dependent on him being Santa Claus.)

We put up more lights than we ever have this year and to be honest, when Ray flipped the switch I thought, "Holy crap, we're the Griswolds!"

Sorry neighbors, it wasn't our intention to sap the electric from your homes... Have you met my husband Clark?

Next year, I'm thinking a gigantic inflatable lawn snowman will really pull it all together.

Bring The Noise

Who needs Le Creuset bakeware and a convection oven and when you have these guys.

There is a bake-off coming up soon at my office, and I am going to win.

Granted, I don't actually bake unless it's that chocolate chip cookie dough from a tube, but I'm going to bring Rice Krispie treats to the bake-off, thereby assuring my victory.

Everyone loves Rice Krispie treats. People mistake them for being the humble underdog, but they win at everything, especially bake-offs.

My colleagues are already intimidated. I was explicitly and pointedly (firmly, even) told that I am not "allowed" to bring them because they are "not made from scratch" and because "they are not cookies and are not baked."

But I know that is really code for, "You cannot bring them because they are delicious and you will win."

As for them not being cookies, ridiculous. I will cut them into circles with a cookie cutter. Voila! Rice Krispie treat cookies.

Take that, American's Next Top Naked Cake Boss.

Rachel is an excellent baker and I considered asking her to whip me up a batch of her most prize-winning cookies and giving her the spoils of my winnings in return. (Which is probably a ribbon. Or maybe a trophy.) But that wouldn't be fair to everyone else to go up against Rachel like that. Their cookies would probably combust into a heap of flour and butter if pitted against her's, and I'm not trying to be mean at the holiday bake-off.

Ray suggested, "Just buy a bag of those Soft Batch cookies and put them on a plate. No one will know."

I told him that not only did people in my office look at me with pity and contempt when I said the exact same thing about tube cookies, but they all wholeheartedly disagreed. "Everyone can tell," they said. "They don't taste even remotely the same."

Ray scoffed. "What would they do if you brought in Oreos and put them on a plate? What, are you not going to advance to the medal round? Are they going to escort you from the building?"

"Maybe not for the Oreos," I told him. "But possibly for tube cookies, which they basically said are horrible and disgusting and shameful."

I felt shame for even bringing them up, I confessed to Ray. For about .257 seconds.

None of this matters though because I am going to win with the cookie-shaped Rice Krispie treats. Well, technically, I guess Ray is going to win since I asked him to make the treats. (The last time I made them they were terrible. They tasted like burning.) But with Ray at the stove, ain't nobody gonna have room for their salted-caramel bon-bons or red velvet cookie lumps or whatever.

Snap, crackle and pop, suckas.

P.S. Hey, does anybody have a cookie cutter I can borrow?

They Grow Up So Fast

Chuck Norris and Hunter S. Tomcat turned one year old this summer.

We threw them a big party with a pinata filled with Pounce. It was pretty amazing watching them hit it with tiny little bats.

Chuck Norris is a natural athlete, able to leap tall buildings - with style and grace - in a single bound. He eats shoes (awesome) and his favorite subjects in kindergarten are nap time and bird watching.

Hunter S. Tomcat is a true cat's-cat - meaning, he will prowl up on you, debate eviscerating you but then just head-butt you for affection. He favorite subject is entomology, specifically, eating stink bugs.

They've both joined a old time string band. They play at the Southgate House Revival if you ever want to see them.  

Needless to say, we adore them. And they've really grown into their ears and personalities.

Kittens, age 3 months.

 

One year old.

Turns out, it's much harder to hold two grown cats than it is kittens for a family portrait.

Like A Boss

Don't I look fantastic in this corner office?

I mean, just look at me. Talking on the phone, wearing glasses, drinking cappuccino.

LIKE A BOSS.

Some people who have corner offices think they are the boss, but they don't own it like I do. They can't just put on someone else's glasses and expect to get things done (because the glasses are so thick they can't see out of them), but I can. Because I don't need to see... I can send 40 emails in less than a minute, and I can write them while holding a phone and coffee.

I write them with my MIND.

I'm so busy one computer isn't enough for me, I need two. Two computers. Two computers to send emails, give orders, write content, edit copy, retouch photos... create beauty.

All that while reading children's books, shuffling papers and printing edicts.

And I do all this with my foot up.

We'll Always Have Paris

The first place we ate in Paris was the mall. It served steak and had a stained glass dome.

It was a kind of upscale food court with windows lining the dining room that looked out over Paris. You could see the Eiffel Tower. Which, I guess technically, was the first time I saw the Eiffel Tower - from the mall food court.

What I remember most about our first meal in Paris wasn't the food, but rather, the wine fountain. It was like a soda fountain, only instead of Diet Coke, you put your glass under the fountain and got Chardonnay, or rosé, or whatever. So we all had wine with our food court food steaks. 

Gabriel, who is well traveled in Paris and speaks French - he doesn't consider it a "good year" unless he's visited the City of Lights -  insisted we go to this mall first thing because the view from the top is a hidden gem, he said.

And he was right. The rooftop terrace rewards you with a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower, the Opera House and the Paris rooftops. 

The view from the Galeries Lafayette.   

But the first real "Parisian" meal I remember was at Le Fregate, across from the Louvre. It was the real hidden gem. The Louvre is so enormous, so many city blocks, that Le Frégate was a bit out of the way for Louvre goers, and when we went that first night we had it nearly all to ourselves. Plus, restaurants in Paris don't really stay open that late. When we arrived about 9, it was nearly empty.

It isn't the best restaurant in Paris, and we probably didn't drink the best wine. But it was my favorite because it was the first, and because we sat outside on a cool fall evening and overlooked the Seine in those classically Parisian wicker chairs at one of those round, classically Parisian tables.

Gabriel speaks French and told the waiter that I wanted my filet with no pink (well done), and I thoroughly enjoyed the waiter hardly and hilariously tolerating me pouring my own wine. (It was his job and he wanted to do it, so he stopped me when I tried to do it myself. If this is the notoriously bad French service, I'll take it, I thought.)

Gabriel and I post-dinner at Le Frégate in Paris.

Sean and Gabriel, our travel companions to Europe that trip, eat at Le Frégate whenever they go to Paris. It's their thing.

It's soon to be Ray and I's thing as well.

We went to Paris this time three years ago, and we're returning in a few weeks for my birthday. Definitely on our agenda is having dinner at Le Frégate again.

When we first went to Paris I wasn't sure if I'd ever be back, you know how way leads on to way... But, happy birthday to me! We are celebrating October 17 with a picnic at the Eiffel Tower, followed by a stroll across the famed Pont des Arts 'lovers bridge.'

On our last visit, we stumbled upon this gorgeous pedestrian bridge that links the Louvre and the Institute de France by accident.

We had hopped off the double decker tour bus at the Louvre when we idly decided to walk across. It was filled with people milling about, some of them sitting on blankets having picnics and drinking wine. (Life is better in Paris.)

Ray noticed the locks first. On closer inspection, they were everywhere, all the way down the bridge, on the fences down both sides.



Engraved. Blank. Ornate. Simple. Masterlocks. Antiques.

Locks of all kinds with names from all over the world - Alan, Stephanie, Amelie, Bikounet, Lulidle et Doudeu.

We poured over the locks - the names and dates and types.




I especially loved the message on this one.




Leaving a lock is controversial now, but stumbling upon this lover's bridge is one of my favorite memories from Paris. This time around, I hope we're one of the people on the bridge having wine.

But my favorite place in Paris is the Latin Quarter, just over the lock bridge on the Left Bank.

The famed Shakespeare and Company bookstore is right across the Seine from Notre Dame Cathedral. It gets all the ink and is a worth a visit because of its history, of course. And it makes an excellent cameo in Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. (Love that movie.)

But the true wonder for bibliophiles are the outdoor booksellers in the Latin Quarter, whose bookstalls line the Seine with stall after stall of paperbacks for next to nothing. The titles are all in French, as opposed to Shakespeare and Company, which is English speaking, but I preferred the French books. Browsing titles in French was much more fun.

I told Ray I wanted a copy of something very American, in French. We opted to search for something by Hemingway, which was harder to find than you'd imagine given that Hemingway is intertwined with Paris.

Is there a Hemingway in here?

But what a great mission to be on - to find a French copy of a Hemingway among the thousands of titles in French along the Left Bank.

Finally, Ray found a copy of A Farewell to Arms. L'adieu aux Armes.

It is one of my most prized souvenirs ever. It is still covered in the cellophane that was used by the seller to protect it from moisture and wear. It sits prominently on our dining room bookshelf among the English Hemingway titles.

Me among the books.

It wasn't a few blocks from here where we had another of our most memorable meals in Paris. I don't remember the name of the brasserie but we were exhausted, hungry and needed a break, and the outdoor tables were just what our weary legs needed.

We filled up on wine, bread and an assorted cheese plate. Despite the steaks and delicious crepes we had at other restaurants and take-aways, it goes down as our favorite meal in Paris.

The perfect meal.

Before we went to Paris I had written that I didn't want to do anything but walk around and eat and drink and see the city and the people living it. And that's my goal for our trip in a few weeks.

You can do a lot when you're doing nothing.

Lying in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

One more for scale.

Breaking A Leg

 

Ray and I were lucky enough to get tickets to the Lumenocity dress rehearsal this summer. I knew there would be a lightshow, but other than that, the only thing I knew about it for sure was that we needed to get there early. 

So for two hours we sat in Washington Park with nothing really to do but shovel pasta salad into our faces and look at Music Hall as we waited.

I knew there would be a light show but I did not expect everything to be so uniquely Cincinnati.

Ray’s favorite part was the Charlie Harper tribute. All of Harper's stylized animals - cardinals, mallards, lady bugs, flamingos - all playfully making their way across the building.

We giggled as alligators snapped up from an invisible swamp and looked on amazed as flocks of Harper’s birds flew 5 stories tall across Music Hall.

It was a whimsical and loving tribute to Cincinnati's favorite artist.

But it was the Cincinnati Ballet that took my breath away. Principal dancers Janessa Touchet and Cervilio Miguel Amador were staggeringly beautiful and graceful projected onto Music Hall.

When it was over, I looked at Ray and said, ‘That was delightful.’

It was understatement.

In truth, between the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra's beautiful rendition of Nimrod, which I had never heard before, and the dancers elegantly pirouetting across the building, I debated tearing up it was so beautiful and lovely and sublime.

It all reminded me that I don’t see nearly enough classically trained dancers, musicians or artists.

It also reminded me, listening to the talented, hard-working musicians of the CSO, that I haven’t done anything with my life.

I do not play an instrument. I cannot dance with the poise of a Cincinnati Ballet ballerina. I couldn't have even run the light show. At best, I could have written the program for Lumenocity. (And I’ve have gladly written that program!)

And in truth, I saw Music Hall really for the first time. If there is a better way other than Lumenocity to expose people to our own unique cultural arts in Cincinnati, I don’t know what would be.

Bravo, Cincinnati.

Another List

Remember a few years ago when those '25 Things About Me' lists were going around on Facebook and you learned strange things about people, like that they're addicted to the ass-slap dance move?

Well, I love reading those lists.

Since a few of you might be new here thanks to Soapbox Media's feature Girl-Powered: 9 Must-Read Cincinnati Bloggers featuring yours truly, I thought I'd redo my own list of useless facts about myself.

1. A few summers ago I got caught in a rip current and had to be saved by a lifeguard. My husband (then boyfriend) had to be brought in with me. He says he wasn't going to come back without me, and that if I was going to drown, he was going to drown trying to save me. So basically, I saved his life by yelling for that lifeguard.

2. I've seen Bob Dylan in concert about 12 times.

3. I ride a baby blue scooter. For Christmas, Ray put racing stripes on it. It used to go 65 miles per hour, but with the stripes, it will go at least 67.

4. I have about 374 (roughly) unpublished blog posts in my draft folder.

5. It pains me to watch someone damage a book by bending a page corner (use a book mark, ya morons), crack the spine or deface the cover. That said, I underline passages and write in the margins of mine. (Completely different... I do that out of love.)

6. In my head, I look like J. Lo. Hourglass figure, honey-colored Latin skin, juicy booty, phenomenal dance moves. Imagine my surprise when I look in the mirror. But I do have phenomenal dance moves.

7. I am extremely practical. For example, my car is 10 years old. I flirt with getting a new car occasionally, but I will likely drive my car until the wheels fall off and burn. The conversation in my head goes like this:

Wow, look at that amazing new car. I bet it has a USB outlet. I could jam to some Katy Perry from my iPhone with that.

You don't need a new car, you love the Baby Blue Angel!

True, and she's paid for. What you love more than USB outlets is not having a car payment - more new shoes!

But not driving a stick shift would be terrific. It's really hard to eat sandwiches, drink a pop and shift gears, you know.

Yes, but the Baby Blue Angel would be very upset to be replaced. Others might have a USB outlet, but you, Gina, have a tape deck. No one else can listen to cassingles in their car but you.

SOLD on the Blue Angel!

8. I used to hide under my bed when I was a kid and when my mom would call for me that it was time for bed, I'd take swipes at her and pull on her pant leg. She was not amused, but my dad and I thought it was hilarious.

9. I also used to hide behind the curtains and under the kitchen table and spy on my parents when I was a kid. Prowling around the house was my favorite activity. 

10. I was also the only girl in school who could climb the rope to the top of the ceiling in the gym;  I also thought the Presidential Physical Fitness Award in elementary school was 'my time to shine.'

11. Quitting hobbies is my favorite hobby. My favorite thing to do is nothing.

12. I spend most Sunday mornings with the New York Times. I'm old school. I have it delivered - in paper form - to my house.

13. I like to host parties and then hunker down in the kitchen heating up appetizers from Trader Joe's and drinking. I am social but solitary.

14. This summer Ray thought I had drowned in Norris Lake (separate incident from when we had to be saved by lifeguards), but really I was getting tipsy at the Tiki Bar with one of our friends. We were waiting for Ray and the group to come get us from the marina and at first we were like, "Damn, where ARE they?" But after a few hours and a few beers we were like, "Oh bummer, there they come." We were sad to leave to the Tiki Bar.

16. When I was little I wanted to be Stevie Nicks. Now when I grow up I want to be Blondie.

17. I moved to Virginia for my first newspaper job. My apartment was at the corner of Stonewall and Jackson Streets; not to mention everyone still talked about the Civil War. It was a culture shock.

18. I keep telling Ray we should have kids, but what I really want is another cat. I know he doesn't want kids or more cats, but he definitely doesn't want kids more. So getting a kitten is only a matter of time.

19. I've had a pen pal since the 6th grade. She is a pediatrician at Brooklyn Hospital in New York and grew up in Florida. She's fabulous. We wrote letters to each other - actual letters! - up until a few years ago when we became Facebook friends. Stupid Facebook.

20. The first time I snuck out I was about 11 years old. I snuck out so I could dance under the street light. It was so exhilarating that I excitedly twirled and jump and did cartwheels at the corner of Poplar and 40th Streets in Marion, Indiana. I'm sure the neighbors were like, "Aww, Ray and Susie's daughter must be going bonkers. It's so sad... they seem like such nice people."

21. Things I like: Vinyl, record players, cats, kittens, scooters, swimming (which is to say, sitting by a pool reading magazines), books, traveling, photos, blogs, art, delicious food, Totino's Party Pizzas and sitting on the front porch.

22. Things I do not like: The band Rush, noise, the book Eat, Pray, Love, double spaces after periods, and like every other sane person, moving.

[Since I can't think of anymore things about myself, I am going to write things about Ray.]

23. Ray really is addicted to the ass-slap dance move. I don't even think he knows he's doing it.

24. He was super fat when he was in middle school; and he had an afro. (Those girls who turned him down obviously had no idea he'd grew up into the stud he is today.)

25. His first job was as a garbage man. He was 15 and rode around on the back of the garbage truck dumping people's trash. It's also how he lost a bunch of weight and became normal sized again.