Horrible Soccer Injury!

Allright, so it's not really horrible. Or even an injury for that matter. But look, you can see the seams of the ball imprinted into my leg.

It's funny. You know how usually when you get hit, it hurts really bad for a few days whenever you touch it but it doesn't leave a mark? God I hate that, because it's like you're whining about an injury you don't really have because people can't see it.

In the case of the soccer ball imprint, it stung pretty bad when I got whacked, and there are still red lines and bruise marks on my leg where the seams were on the ball, but oddly, it doesn't hurt. No internal brusing at all. It's like skin injury.

I'll take what I can get.

I was hoping there would be another similar mark on my right arm from when I body blocked a different flying pass. It hurt pretty bad, but alas, it left no lasting imprint.

That's my contribution to defense: Block the ball with my soft tissue and hope it bounces off me in the general direction of our goal. (Being that I have no dribbling, running or technical soccer skills.)

FYI

Home brew is combustable, my dad told me last night.

"In case you've been meanin' to make any," he said.

Let's Glow Girls!

The shelves are glowing at Target, awash in daily moisturizers that also have self-tanners in them.

And I can't get enough!

Over the last few weeks I've been obsessed (you could call it my new hobby) with trying the different types.

Here are my very unscientific thoughts on three of them.


Neutrogena Summer Glow
Me and Neutrogena Summer Glow are like peas and carrots. Like peanut butter and chocolate. Thickern thieves we are.
It was the package that attracted me yet made me question how effective it could be. How could a product advertising itself as a moisturizer with self tanner not be copper or bronze like all the other lotions with tanner?
Didn't Neutrogena do focus groups and product testing with the public to realize that people only associate self tanners with bronze packaging? Apparently not.
But I bought it anyway, doubting my decision all the way through the checkout line. But I love it!
The smell is subtle (a big plus), and is a bit like baby powder. The lotion is fast drying so you're not still sticky after it dries and it leaves a subtle yet noticable amount of color. I've been using it the last few days on my face, and not to brag or anything, but I've gotten several compliments. (Ok the compliments were from girls, but girls notice stuff like that.) The color would likely be too subtle for someone with darker skin, but for fair and medium tones, Summer Glow is where it's at.


L'Oreal Sublime Glow
Before Neutrogena Summer Glow came into my life, I was singing the praises of Sublime Glow. But it was one of those things where you fall in love fast, ignoring the irritating things, then you realize that something is amiss. Sublime Glow smells nice enough, a kind of a sweet, thick smell, but what I kind of hate about it but didn't notice at first is the way it sticks to your skin long after you've rubbed it in and it has dried. I feel like I'm salve collecting dust and small insects when I'm wearing it, and it feels like my clothes are sticking to me.
The color is great, though, which is why I ignored the faults at first. It's a natural color, not orange or streaky, and aside from a few blotches around my knees and elbows, it developed pretty evenly.
I used it one day last week and let it dry several minutes before dressing to see if the stickiness lessened, but no. After about an hour or so, though, I either forgot about it or it absored enough into my skin that the stickiness went away.
Either way, I still use it and am a pretty big fan. I've been using both Neutrogena Summer Glow and L'Oreal Sublime Glow back and forth and can't decide if Sublime Glow gives me more color or if that's just my perception because I used it first and had such good results or if it's because the packaging is bronze and therefore I think it makes me darker. (Ahhh packaging.)


Jergens Natural Glow
Jergens Natural Blow is more like it. This one came out last year and launched lotion tanning boom. The tan with this one was fine, a light, non-orange type tan, but I could not get get over the smell. At first I thought it was OK, but then it really started stinking like regular self-tanner and I couldn't wait to wash off. I felt like I was walking around emanating that tannic, self-tanner smell. Because I was.
If you can handle the smell, by all means. Otherwise, leave this one the shelf.

Discuss

What is the sound of one cat napping?

Home Brew From The Hollow Tree

Conversations with my dad last usually only a few minutes and consist mostly of my dad telling me how hard he's been working.

"Yep, I've been pretty busy. Why, just today I washed the dishes and drove over to Lowe's," he will say. "I'll tell ya, I don't get no rest."

It's almost always my mom that calls, and, like I said, I'll chat with my dad for a minute or two, but it's my mom that gives me the family updates, chit-chats about what she's read in the Marion paper and who I went to high school with that now works at the mall or at her doctor's office.

But yesterday, my dad called and left a message.

"Gina. It's dad. Call me."

I could tell by his voice it wasn't any cause for alarm. But it's always interesting when it's him that calls.

The last time he called I spent 20 minutes on the Internet looking for hinges and latches so he could build his own poolstick case. When I told him I couldn't find just the hardware, I suggested he buy a case already made.

"I've already got one already made. I wanted to make my own, see."

That's sort of his thing, too, in addition to sounding wiped out about how busy he is, he's a woodworker by hobby and is always embarking on something new to build. He's built gun cabinets, knife cases, toy boxes and gliders, but mostly he makes porch swings and cedar chests.

But I digress.

Last night I called him back.

"What happened to Don Gullett," he wanted to know.

"Who the hell's Don Gullett? I've never heard of anyone named Don Gullett."

"The Reds pitching coach," he said.

"Oh. I don't know. He guess got fired or something. We got some new owners. I'll found out for you."

Somewhere between talking about the Reds and talking about how busy he is, we got to talking about drinking, which is kind of unusual. Kind of.

"You know who can tip it back, the hard stuff I'm tellin' you... Your aunt Wanz," he said.

That's my aunt Wanda who's about 65 now.

"There was an old hollowed out tree where papaw and dad kept their home brew, and we all decided one day we were gonna try it," he said.

I start to giggle at this point. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, he gets on a roll with these old stories of growing up in Kentucky, where his dad and grandfather were tobacco farmers who drank all the time.

"How old were you," I wanted to know.

"I don't know. About 11 or 12. Anyway, me, and Ada and Wanz and Jean all met at the tree to get the home brew."

"What's home brew? Is that like moonshine," I asked. I was thinking it was moonshine because my dad's uncle Badger was a moonshiner in Bath County around that time. (Interesting side note: My great uncle Bagder's son, Bob Daugherty, is the director of the Associated Press's state photo center in Washington, D.C. All the AP photos you see in the paper goes through his office. Pretty cool, I think.)

"No, it's a malt liquor," he said. "Malt and yeast and you put it in a about a five gallon crock and let it sit there for a week. The longer it sits the stronger it gets. And there's a scum, a film that forms on top of it, and you take your hand and skin it back. And it draws flies and gnats real bad."

He paused for effect.

"Oh, it's a lot fun to drink. It's not illegal like moonshine. Moonshine, it's too long a process, and you have to have a good supply of water and heat."

He went on:

"It'll get ya drunkern a dog and sickern a mule. That's right. Papaw would say, I ain't gonna drink home brew no more. Then he'd say, We got any more, boy? Anyway, me and my three sisters were gonna try it. Now, your aunt Wanz, I ain't lyin' to ya, she can drink that hard stuff. But your aunt Ada, I'll tell you what, you've not seen a rubber ball bounce back faster than that home brew came back up. Nothin's ever been returned that fast. I bet it didn't even hit her stomach."

"Were you able to drink it," I asked him.

"I've never been able to drink hard stuff. And I can't chug or shoot anything either."

I called him back today to tell him that Don Gullet got fired along with Dave Miley last year.

"Guess it's a little late to send my condolences, huh? Oh well. I'm pretty busy right now. I'm peeling potatoes. Here's your mom."

My Blood Is Poison

It's toxic to anyone but me. It has alarm bells. Flashing lights that warn others. It comes with its own security system.

Tonight I learned that I cannot donate blood. Ever. Which was only somewhat shocking.

I had suspected that I would throw up red flags on blood center questionaires. (Or maybe that was just wishful thinking to avoid further needles...)

But it was confirmed tonight when I read the contraindications for donating blood. I'm bad news. Poison. My blood is too hard core, and when you get to the core, that's hard too.

So much for my lofty Thursday evening of donating blood, drinking juice and eating cookies and learning my blood type. (Don't people who know their blood type say it all smug, like they're in on some secret? It's weird.)

I'm kind of sad about it, really. I was thinking of how useful my blood was going to be, how someone was going to be really grateful to get it, how my blood was going to perform like champ. Like the best blood ever! Who ever got it was going to wake up and be like, "Wow! I feel terrific! I've never felt better in my whole life!"

My blood is going to need therapy after this blow to the hemoglobin.

I'm going to eat cookies and drink juice anyway, though. Besides, I hear science is making great strides with artificial blood. So you all you blood-type knowing, blood donating smug bastards can piss off! (But you should donate blood first, just in case that whole artificial blood thing doesn't pan out.)

The Horror. The Horror.

This, my friends, is the look of real fear.

Fear at the prospect of having to eat a veggie dog from Great American Ball Park. My face is like something out of psycho. The camera truly captured how loathesome I was to take a bite. At the time I think I was saying something like, "But I don't want to... It's not funny... You try it!"

See how the dog is all gnarled and jagged? (Click on the photo for a bigger, scarier view.) That's because the soy doesn't separate, even when you pull it apart, or bite it.

And note how it's blocky, like it was squished through a square tube instead of a round one. And the color was streaky, like fake tan stuff, only red instead of orange.



In this picture I am less horrified because I hadn't yet bit into it.

Oddly enough, it did actually taste like a hot dog, though the consistency was like Styrofoam. When I bit into it, it kind of sprung back.

Bulls and Girls

Finally, my dream of boozing at Bobby Mackey's in Wilder came true last night.

My hope was for drunken fights. Shit kickin'. Ten-gallon cowboy hats and Durangos.

But alas... It was a pretty calm Saturday night in Kentucky. Though we did get to see a lot of people flung off this here bull. Which was pretty fun.

We didn't ride it, but Kari and I got the closest with this picture.

(Half the) Team Photo

If it's not 40 and snowing it's 80 and humid.

But I did get two goals. (And by goals I mean we were playing half field and I don't think there was a goalie.)

But whatever.

Come On Down To Ronsonville!

Big News: Ronson met Babe Ruth!

Just kidding. Rather, he's decided to go public with his blog.

Here's what I learned about Ronson from my visit:

1. He was born in Iowa, became a vegetarian in New York and met the most hilarious person he's ever met (me) in Cincinnati.

2. The blog is a companion to his highly-successful, rarely-updated, much-hyphenated Website, Ronsonville.com

3. He has a sister named Angie who turns 30 today.

4. He's no longer buying CDs or listening to music from indie rock bands with "wolf" in their names, i.e. Wolf Parade, Wolf Eyes Wolfmother, AIDS Wolf. What's interesting about this is that he listened to wolf-named bands before.

Fascinating. But don't take my word for it...

In other blog news:

K-Hud posted a hilarious update this week. (Poor kid.)

And Craig's been on a roll, first with the headline for today's post (soo funny, but so bad) and the picture of that kid snarling behind Hannah. Every time I see it I crack up.

Allright kids. That's enough nerd talk for the day. I'm back tomorrow working on my new hobby - tough love.

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
- William Butler Yeats

I Want To Marry This Guy

On his way to a "routine" interview in Baghdad in January, British freelance journalist Phil Sands was ambushed by AK-47 wielding mujaheddin, bundled into the trunk of a maroon BMW and kidnapped. Sands spent five days in captivity, after which he was rescued by chance by U.S. soldiers in a routine raid.

Now, this isn't supposed to be funny, but I can't help but laugh.

In an interview with the Washington Post, Sands is asked if he ever tried to formulate an escape plan or think about what his last words would be. I know if it were me, I'd be considering how brave I was (even though I wouldn't be), how it's all part of a bigger, more important role I play in the world. Blah... blah. A bunch of bullshit like that to make myself feel better about getting kidnapped and facing certain execution.

But not Phil Sands. Here is his response to the question:

"Yes, I tried to formulate plans. Some simple (like, go to the toilet one night with the fat, slow guard, and run like hell) other complicated (steal guns, car keys etc etc). Last words: no. There's no point. I remember thinking: Oh well, I'll be dead. It didn't seem like the end of the world and nor would it have been. I don't mean to sound cold, but that's how it felt. In a way it's nice to know that when death feels close, it's not as bad as you might think. It's just something, almost like having to get out of bed in the morning (to be a bit too blase about it). That's not the same, I'm sure, if you see someone else you love dying, but in terms of myself, I wasn't too deeply upset."

I wasn't too deeply upset!

I wish I knew people like Phil Sands. I want to hang out with the kind of person who gets taken hostage and doesn't get "too deeply upset" about it.

After all, we are not that significant.

Meet Mayor Mark Mallory

What do you say to the mayor after your third cosmo while wearing a Hustler t-shirt?

"Hi Mr. Mayor. I'm Gina Daugherty. I know your brother." I was shaking his hand and had my left hand on his arm, which was very, very thin.

"Oh really. Which one," he wanted to know. We were at Havana Martini Club (I was there for Sue's bachelorette party) and Salsa Caliente was bringing down the house.

Had I not just pounded three cosmos, the last of which was incredibly strong, I would have remembered his brother's name, and maybe even had a plan for what I was going to say before I approached him. But no.

"The one that works for the prosecutor's office. We trade emails and have lunch occasionally," I told him, trying to sound authorative about how well I know I this brother who's name I can't think of.

"Oh, Dwayne!"

"Yeah, Dwayne! I wrote him after you were elected telling him how excited I was for him, and you and me. I was so excited that someone I voted for actually got elected. It doesn't happen to me very often."

"You don't know how many times I've heard that," he said.

Then he introduced me to his lackey, who Christine and I (she was my wing-man and the only person who agreed to go chat up with the mayor with me) decided was too polished... and too cute.

Another cosmo later, I was walking to the bathroom and saw him sitting at a corner table with a crowd of Latino men, and the lackey.

So I ran back and begged Christine to take my photo with him.

"What are you gonna say," she wanted to know. "Are you just going to walk by and I'll take a photo of you walking by, or are you going to tell him?"

"I'm gonna tell him it's for my blog," I said.

Then I plopped down next to him, told him I wanted a picture of us for my blog, put my arm around his shoulders and Christine took the shot. Then his lackeys were like, "Hey look at your Hustler shirt..."

So I said, "Yeah... I support all downtown businesses." Then I ran away.

Back the table Christine goes, "I'm surprised he just did that. I mean, that picture could end up anywhere."

"Yeah, like my blog," I said.

There's More Than Corn In Indiana

Now there is also Daylight Savings Time.

The first time I ever had to "spring forward" was in 1998. Location: Front Royal, Virginia. It was traumatizing then and it isn't any less so now.

My mom called this morning after to church to give me the weekly family update. (For example, my sister called last week to ask for $75 for grocery money and demanded it be sent Western Union. All told, it cost my dad $90-some dollars and my sister never called to thank them. Big shocker.)

But I digress. My mom said she nearly missed church this morning because she thought she had changed all the clocks but hadn't changed the one in the den, so she thought she had an extra hour, but didn't.

"We have, like, 12 clocks in the house and about 12 watches," she said. "The VCR changed all by itself. Like magic."

Then we had a ten minute discussion about how we are on the same time all the time now.

Anyway, I hate daylight savings on change-over week. It totally wrecks everything. Like now, it's already 2 p.m. and I've pissed away my whole morning and part of the afternoon. And it's totally daylight savings time's fault.

Sucking Wind

You know that position people go in to when they're standing, hunched over, head down staring at the ground with their hands on their knees?

Typically it means either they're A: Exhausted, or B: Vomiting.

Today I was in that pose at Oakley Playground during our soccer scrimmage.

Amber asked: "Are you throwing up?"

"Nah," I said. "I'm just sucking wind."

If only I worked hard enough to throw up. That would be awesome.