Happy 3 a.m. breast feeding, Amanda!

Please enjoy this out-of-context snapshot of things people have texted/said/emailed to me recently.

• Like ALL of them. HILLBILLIES. Really, who wears those sweat pants anymore? Can you even buy them at a store anymore?

• (Redacted) and (Redacted) were always sitting around getting drunk and self-medicating, probably so they could tolerate one another. After a few drinks I tolerated them better myself too, that's for sure.
 
• I am dressed like Luke Skywalker today.

• Going to go take a pic of my underpants... stay tuned.
Why not? I've already seen a pic of u on the toilet. Let's go there.

• So for now that has meant making my own fun... like making my own pipe cleaner people and have them go on adventures. It's like TV, only waaaaaaayy more intense.

• It's like putting together one of those photomosaic puzzles, which is to say it's like being in hell. ...And what's wrong with Atlanta? Gladys Knight's Chicken & Waffles, bitches!

• I just found out that I might have to go to China. I'll certainly bring you something back - maybe a cute Asian baby.

• Let me get this straight, you think God is out to get you, and is just effing with you, by you losing those files?

• Just hold off disassembling your airbag 'til Sunday so we can hang out.

• Did you sign Jared up for Black Enterprise magazine? 

• Oh my god, you think a dolphin would be able to push the button better than a lion? You're crazy. The maintenance involved in keeping a dolphin would be a way worse than a lion. And you're supposed to be the smart one here.

• I think we're a better couple in the warmer weather.  Perhaps in November we should just hibernate until we're able to walk to Yagoot again in the spring.



• Remind me to tell you the story of my delicate little system being wrecked. Let's just say you can't eat a half box of Raisin Bran without repercussions.

• I know you're going through a divorce and your entire personal life is in the crapper, but let's talk about your personal watercraft...  can I borrow your Jet Ski?

• You don't know who Malvina is?! She's better than that Lady Goo Goo!

• There's something about you that makes me think about murder.

• Let Gina know her blog gets me through the 3 a.m. breast feeding. <-- thanks, Amanda.

Happy hump day everybody.

Let Us Commence

*clears throat

To the class of 2011... Everything I would say to you has already been said better by smarter, funnier people with richer life experiences. Let me guide you.

Steve Jobs 2005 commencement address to Stanford is an incredible speech. Funny, inspiring, heartfelt, and he makes a helluva case that getting fired from his own company was actually… awesome.

Set backs. What setbacks?

You have have to trust that dots will somehow connect in your future… because believing the dots will connect down the road will give you the confidence to follow your heart even when it leads you off the well-worn path.

...

Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

...

Stay hungry. Stay foolish.

Do you yourself a Big Favor and watch this speech. Or read the full text.

Comedian Amy Poehler to the Harvard class of 2011.

You can't do it alone. As you navigate through the rest of your life be open to collaboration. Other people and other people's ideas are often better than your own. Find a group of people who challenge and inspire you, spend a lot of time with them and it will change your life.

God, Allah, Buddha, Gaga... whomever you pray to. They have helped you get here, and that should make you feel less alone and less scared.

The woman has swagger. And you can't teach that, my friends.

And finally, writer Annie Lamott.

Your problem is how you are going to spend this one odd and precious life you have been issued. Whether you're going to spend it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over people and circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it and find out the truth about who you are.

Read the speech, it's spectacular.

As for me... For you students considering publishing, writing, art, performance, I would advise you to work with the human genome instead. Waaaay easier.

Just kidding. See Jobs, Lamott speeches again. Otherwise, trust in Gaga.

Who's In?!

It's gonna be a WHITE HOTT Friday night, you guys.

Breakin' The Law! (And Planting Flowers)

"We felt like total badasses."

It's Baaaaaack

Two trips to the pool(s)
Two trips to Taste
Two grill-outs
Nada
MotR
A funnel cake
Bridesmaids (hysterical)
Girls night out
Old friends, new friends
And several date nights with this dude I've been seeing, who also happens to be my boyfriend

Hello again, Summer. It's great to have you back!

Don't Look Back

To celebrate Bob's 70th birthday today I created this list of my fave Bob songs for you guys.

I tried to make it ten but couldn't so I decided to make it 15, then I couldn't do that either and since I make the rules around here it's 16+.

They're in no particular order other than the order I thought of them in, so basically that means all 16+ plus is my favorite Bob song of all time.

Right click on mp3 to download them. And you damn well should. I chose each version based on years of listening. My gift to you. Don't thank me, thank Bob.

I have to go to bed now because I have to be at work at 6:30 in the morning tomorrow... 'They'll stone ya when you're tryin' to be so good.'

1. She Belongs To Me
'She's got everything she needs, she's an artist, she don't look back.'
mp3

2. Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You
'If there’s a poor boy on the street, then let him have my seat, ’cause tonight I’ll be staying here with you.'
mp3

3. When The Deal Goes Down
'More frailer than the flowers, these precious hours, that keep us, so tightly… bound.'
mp3

4. Visions of Johanna
'Louise, she's all right, she's just near.'
mp3

5. You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go
'But there’s no way I can compare, all those scenes to this affair, you're gonna make me lonesome when you go.'
mp3

6. Standing In The Doorway
'Don’t know if I saw you, if I would kiss you or kill you/It probably wouldn’t matter to you anyhow.'
mp3

7. Abandoned Love
'I love to see you dress before the mirror, won’t you let me in your room one time ’fore I finally disappear?'
mp3

8. It's All Over Now, Baby Blue
'Take what you have gathered from coincidence.'
mp3

9. Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again
'An’ she says, “Your debutante just knows what you need/But I know what you want'
mp3

10. Most of the Time
'I don’t compromise and I don’t pretend/I don’t even care if I ever see her again... Most of the time'
mp3

11. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
'I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind/You could have done better but I don’t mind/You just kinda wasted my precious time/But don’t think twice, it’s all right.'
mp3

12. Your a Big Girl Now
'I can change… I swear.'
mp3

13. Tomorrow is a Long Place (Or Time, depending on which Bob source you're referring)
'I can’t hear the echo of my footsteps/Or remember the sounds of my own name.'
mp3

14. Most Likely You'll Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine) - Dap Kings/Mark Ronson remix
'You said you told me that you want to hold me, but you know you're not that strong.'
mp3

15. Girl from North Country
'Please see for me see has a coat so warm/She once was a true love of mine.'
mp3

16. Not Dark Yet
'Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb/I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from.'
mp3

+ Bonus track - Talkin' Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues (The funniest song you will hear in your ENTIRE life.)
'Maybe we just better call off the picnic.'
mp3

Happy Birthday, Bob

Oh, We Fancy

Excuse me people, but you can't just roll into an upscale, expensive joint like Nicola's because you feel like it. Because you feel like dropping a bunch of money on dinner.

No, no, no. You need a reason. An excuse.

Since we didn't have any excuses - it's not your birthday? what about mine, could it be my birthday? what about a fake anniversary? - we made one up: I had a fantastic new dress and boots I needed to take for a spin, and Ray (my boyfriend not my dad) wanted an excuse to see me in a fantastic new dress and boots.

Excuses, check.

Nicola's was ours for a night.

First Course - Booze

The Boss Man is a complete wine snob (snif).

"Rotgut" is what he calls the wine I call delicious. So I sent him the URL to Nicola's wine list with the demand, "something awesome and reasonable." From his office I heard, "I can't believe they're charging 80 bucks for that swill!'

Who says wine snobs aren't charming?

But within minutes he'd consulted his fancy-schmancy wine ratings nerd site and recommended the Pinot Noir, Oliver Lane, 2007 for a mere $60. SOLD.

We drank it like we knew about notes and finishes and vintages, which we don't. But in a word, it was deeee-licious. (Dear Wine Spectator, that review is copyrighted, hands off.)

Second Course - Bread



I'd heard great things about the bread basket at Nicola's but daaaamn. Did Jesus knead this stuff?

I know what you're thinking, 'It's a bread-basket, whatever.' No, dude. It's not just a bread basket. It's a work of culinary art. All kinds of delightful varieties - some buttery, others brushed with olive oil, some adorned with tomato slices and cucumber, others flat or twisted into pretzel shapes. I wanted to hold it in my lap and dare someone to take a piece from me.

We agreed we could just sit and eat bread all night, forget about dinner. But we had to soak up all that wine, so...

Third Course - Treasure salad

We both had the Boucheron goat cheese salad, which was apple-vinaigrette dressing covering mixed greens and hiding a slice of warm goat cheese. Basically it was like discovering a treasure at the bottom of your salad. A warm, flavorful little treasure.

Fourth Course - Dinner



I went with a classic, the bolognese with tagliatelle. It's been on the menu at Nicola's either as a special or a permanent fixture since the restaurant opened 13 years ago, the waiter told me.

Sure, there are all sorts of lavish dishes on the menu and far fancier pastas, but I wanted something traditionally Italian. I wanted to be impressed by something you can get almost anywhere, but the one thing you can rarely get exquisitely done.

And here it is. Creamy, hearty, thick and perfect. I'm sure the people next to us were sick of my raves but I couldn't help it. Everything was so fantastic.

Ray had the short ribs with pureed parsnips. But let's be clear, he was completely green with envy over my choice. I get this giant bowl of pasta and he gets a giant plate with some short ribs and a circle of parsnip puree in one corner. His was good, but mine was better.

The best thing about dating me - in addition to my phenomenal dance moves - is that I always leave food on my plate. So he gets to eat 1.5 meals wherever we go - his and the rest of mine. When I'd eaten all I could take I slid my plate across the tablecloth so he could finish the rest.

He is a lucky guy.

Fifth Course - More Booze



Now, this is really going to surprise you guys but we decided to have a nightcap, which is a euphemism for "this is probably a bad idea."

Embracing this, we headed to Below Zero, which has become our 'go-to' on any given night, mostly because it's practically in Ray's backyard.

It's a gay bar frequented by older, established gays. You won't find any shirtless, oily younguns looking to mash on other shirtless, oily younguns here (sad) though I do happen to love shirtless oily younguns dancing to techno.

I drank a margarita as we sat the bar and watched videos. Remember music videos? BZ plays them on a constant loop. It's spectacular, and by spectacular I mean I revel in crushing Ray at naming artists - Madonna, Kylie Minogue, Janet Jackson. Like he has a snowballs chance in hell at a gay bar in besting me in naming artists.

Please. It's not even fair really.

The problem with Below Zero is I love it too much - because I can sit and watch videos of Madonna and Lady Gaga all night, and that makes me want to live there. (Did we bring my sleeping bag? What do you mean I don't have a sleeping bag?!)

I'm always up for another drink at that joint. Sit. Your ass. Down. Madonna is on. We are NOT leaving during Like A Prayer.

The other great thing about dating me are my completely reasonable responses to Madonna videos playing on a TV at 1 a.m.

So anyway, Nicola's date night - fantastic.

I Had A Dream, I Had An Awesome Dream (That Lionel Richie Was My Boyfriend)

"Can I ask you a question?"

It seemed... serious. The colleague asking is from India, and usually we talk about the differences between American and Indian culture - sports, music, marriage, etc. It's always enlightening.

"Sure," I told him.

"Who is that man in that picture?"

"That man is Lionel Richie, my friend. And he's a lyrical genius."

Then I began singing the words to Hello. And I kinda got into, and started breakin' it down in my cube.

"Oh. I thought it was your boyfriend."

"Phsssht, I wish. If only my boyfriend had a bad-ass Jehri curl like that."

He used to have a mullet though. My boyfriend, not Lionel Richie. Buuuuut... then again, Lionel is looking very business in the front party in the back here.

This poster is awesome on so many levels.

Well, It Could Have Been Worse!

Julie's not in this photo because she decided to get drunk instead of eat crepes. Or something like that.

The swear words I said to the rain on Sunday morning as my pony-tail and Mizunos filled with water would have made a longshoreman blush.

And the expletives I used to get my out-of-shape ass up Gilbert Avenue and then Eden Park hill… no one should be cursed at like that, least of all by their own foul mouth.

"Damn-it, Daugherty, you SUCK. How do you live with yourself, you miserable, lazy, horribly out of shape piece of (beep)! You should be (beeping) ashamed! (BEEEEEP!!!) This! This is all you've got to show for (beeping) yourself?! You're gonna let this hill kick your ass again?! Of course you are, because you (beeping) SUCK! You don't even deserve that gummi bear you're gonna eat... oooh! Gummi bears!"

Then I felt better.

It rained on me again this Pig. And it was a same out-of-shape slog for 6.8 miles as it was last year. And I could hardly walk for two days afterward I was so sore.

And yet, I would describe it all as fun. Can't wait for next year even!

But next year, things are gonna change - Imma be in shape! Imma run the whole time! Imma be lightning fast! Imma... wait, didn't I say this all last year?

Eh, whatevs.

To 2012!

Oh Hey, Great

It's Monday morning and there is a giant snake skin draped over my desk.

For the love of God it's Monday morning and there is a giant freakin' snake skin draped over my desk!

The end.

Spring And All*

Ault Park daffodils on April 10, right before it started raining and never stopped.

It is hard to concentrate. It's like I've returned to high school and the shining sun and humid air has me completely restless and drunk on the smell of lilacs and the sight of daffodils. Which is then only pulled out from under me when it starts pouring rain again. And again. And Again.

April is, indeed, the cruelest month.

APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding 
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 
Memory and desire, stirring 
Dull roots with spring rain.

T.S. Eliot, 1922
The Wasteland

Consider this my spring poetry thesis (from dead white guys), because as I thought of that stanza, which I memorized a hundred years ago not because I had to, but because I couldn't not remember it, I thought of about a half-dozen more poems about spring and April that cut to the quick of this jarring season.

Leave it to poets to take the freshness of spring, when everything is supposed to be hopeful and new, to remind us of this yearly rollercoaster of longing and wishful thinking.

Eliot's "lilacs" brought my mind to Walt Whitman's When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd, Whitman's public mourning over the assassination over President Lincoln, and the "sprig of lilac" he intends to lay at his coffin.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Walt Whitman, 1865

Every returning spring, Walt? Ouch.

Since studying Wordsworth in English litch-rah-cha I can't see a daffodil and not think of the lines:

I wandere'd lonely as a cloud…

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils

Wordsworth, 1804
Daffodils

But whatever joy and promise Wordsworth gave me in his Daffodils, Ted Hughes took it away when I read his Daffodils in Birthday Letters, his deathbed response to his wife, Sylvia Plath's, suicide.

Our lives were still a raid on our own good luck.
We knew we'd live forever. We had not learned
What a fleeting glance of the everlasting
Daffodils are. Never identified
The nuptial flight of the rarest epherma-
Our own days!
We thought they were a windfall.
Never guessed they were a last blessing.

Ted Hughes, 1998

Read the whole poem. Go ahead. And I challenge you to find me a more heartbreaking, nostalgic, bittersweet and remorseful poem about spring and death and relationships. Or daffodils, for that matter.

Now that we are all duly hopeful for better, sunnier days while filled with regret over gray skies and rain, who wants wine?!

Come over, we'll discuss. New topic: How to disable your car's airbag, because if we're gonna be up all night boozing over heart-wrenching spring poems we'll wanna die in the crash.

But let me end on a sunny note of spring here.

Though April remains the cruelest month, ee cummings' joyful, made-up words 'mud-luscious' and 'puddle-wonderful' from In Just make mud and rain seem fun, no? I could no more explicate this poem than I could cure heart disease (what, in the hell, are you talking about, ee?) but In Just has a vibe to it like it's a wet and wonderful spring whatever planet he's living on.   

* Of course the title of this post is after a William Carlos Williams poem of the same title, with the title parenthesis, By the Road to the Contagious Hospital. So, you know, there's that ray of sunshine too.

Praise Jesus!

It's Good Friday and I have the day off not because it's a holiday for me, but because I told the Boss Man I needed this important religious observance off to cleanse my soul.

I argued that if anyone needs to get closer to God it's me, so, pony-up with the approval, Boss Man.

He ripped up my request.

In fact, I have a stack of PTO requests he's ripped up. He doesn't believe in God or work-life balance, while I happen to be a firm believer in work-life balance.

I will go to the mat for PTO. I will judge anyone who isn't a zealot for time off. I observe days off with reverence, like it's my religion.

Me: Tomorrow is an important religious holiday and I'd like the day off to observe and reflect.

Boss Man: You can't even say that with a straight face!

Me: I can. Really. But... I just heard a really funny joke and umm... back to my serious convictions about wanting the day off tomorrow...

Boss Man: *rips up my PTO request

Me: What would Jesus think about your complete disregard for the environment... and my desire to get in touch with my spiritual side?

Boss Man: *beating his head against the filing cabinet

Me: I'm going to walk up all those steps at that church in Mt. Adams. You know, get ready for the Pig and repent all at once.

Tiffany (who teaches Sunday school): Do you even know what happened on Good Friday?

Me: Yes. Jesus rose from the dead, that's why it's called GOOD.

Tiffany: No. It's when he DIED.

Boss Man: Ohh, sorry we don't all have YOU as our Sunday school teacher.

Me: YEAH!

* wait, Boss Man and I can't be on the same page here... back to the fight

Me: You're not helping, Tiffany. Er... I mean, this is why I need the day off, to educate myself. I'm a sponge thirsting for divine knowledge.

* Knowing he'd rather be stabbed than touched, I resort to guerrilla tactics and touch the Boss Man's hand, forcing a pen into it; he cowers in fear and disgust

Me: Sign the PTO slip or the hand gets touched again.

Boss Man (finally signing): You are the devil.

Ok, he didn't really call me the devil, but probably only because he doesn't believe in the devil.

I'm off to get this long-weekend party started begin my spiritual cleanse.

My Heart Just Sank (It's Probably The Oily Pizza Slices)

Sbarro is going bankrupt, you guys. A moment of silence for that little slice of mall food court heaven that hardened my arteries one slice at a time.

This is really really sad for me because when I used to work at the mall I would always eat Sbarro.

Ok, that's a lie. I never worked at the mall. But I did eat at Sbarro like clockwork, to the point where the Sbarro worker-guy who always heated up my greasy pizza slice thought I did and would give me the mall discount. For Sbarro. 

Let me explain.

Travel back in time with me, will you, to the year 1998, when your intrepid hero here, (that'd be me, jackasses), moved to Ohio from Virginia.

I lived in Hamilton for my second newspaper job and minus a boyfriend I had in Cincinnati (who worked nights), I didn't know anyone. So on Saturdays, since I was bored and didn't have any friends and was like, 23 years old, I'd go to Tri-County Mall and walk around and buy crap.

This was before Tri-County mall became a ghost-mall. It was in its two-story heyday, filled with commerce, Starbucks, American Eagle and a giant food court.

So basically, it was everything my 23-year-old heart desired.

Every Saturday afternoon I'd speed through the back roads of Butler County excited for a Frappuccino, a slice of Sbarro and some more clothes from American Eagle I didn't need.

The Starbucks was on the first floor near the tobacco shop and the pet store and I'd always get the same girl taking my order, "a light, tall, coffee Frappuccino." ("Light" because I was healthy.)

One day I noticed the price was a little lower. As she rung me up she pointed and said, "You work back there, right?" Which meant she a) thought I worked at the mall I was so consistent in my visits to Starbucks and b) thought I worked at either the pet store or the tobacco shop.

"Umm, yeah," I stammered.

I lied not because I wanted the mall employee discount so much, but more because of what it meant to admit that I spent so much time at the mall that the mall workers thought I worked there too.

Sad, people. Just sad. (Ok not really, I actually like the mall, still.)

A few weeks after getting called out at Starbucks I was getting my usual slice of Sbarro to wash down with my Frappuccino when the Sbarro worker guy says to me, "I thought you'd quit. I haven't seen you in a few weeks."

I stared at him.

Quit what, I wondered. Pizza? Food courts?

Ohhhhhhhh.

Oh.

He thinks I work at the mall.

"Umm, no. I didn't quit."

I got the mall employee discount at Sbarro too.

Now that I see Sbarro is going bankrupt I can't help but feel a tinge of sadness in my hardening arteries for them. I mean, they were really, really good to me as a fake mall employee.  

I'm sorry Sbarro if you're going bankrupt because I got 25 cents off my pizza order those few months in 1998. Or if because I finally made some friends and stopped eating your "Italian" food every weekend.

Oh god, this is all my fault. *sob

UNCLE

Dear This Week:

We are broke-up.

It's not me, it's you. You suck and I've had enough. I don't ever want to hear from you again.

Kisses,
Gina

P.S. You're getting fat.

P.P.S. Don't let me see your fat ass at happy hour tonight.

Pap Spears at Walgreens, Y'all

Skip to 1:37 - hilarity to ensue.

"Between the Swiffer refills and the cat food. Ladies, just look for the stirrups."

We Are 'Balls To the Wall'

1) Because we're all ovaries and 2) We're slow as hell.

Look for us at the Pig:

• I'll be the one dying on the hill into Eden Park
• Julie will be anxious about the serious runners near her who are bouncing around and stressing at the first relay stop
• Rachel is the one mostly likely to have 'Balls' lettered on her singlet
• and Michele will be enjoying a glazed donut while she waits for us at the fourth leg.

This is serious, you guys.

Friday Night With Gina Dreamboat

Some women storm out of bars on their boyfriends because he's a big jerk, or he's ogling other women, or maybe because he's dumping her.

Not this girl.

I left Ray sitting at bar this weekend because - wait for it! - he told me he didn't vote for the smoking ban.

I said, 'I can't date you anymore.' And I meant it.

For about 7 minutes.

Then about halfway home I thought, 'Uh oh, I just got all crazy pissy about a smoking ban... that passed five years ago. And I left Ray sitting at the bar. Oh. Crap. He's gonna be maaaaaad.'

Think, Daugherty, think! Tell him you're sorry. No wait, tell him you're having your period! YEAH. Oh, right. Umm... tell him it all started in the fourth grade... and you never learned to read!

Fortunately, Ray is more rational than I am when I've been, how shall I say this... overserved.

He wasn't even that mad that I dumped him, left in a fury and abandoned him at a bar by himself.

But seriously, who doesn't vote for the smoking ban?

Eh, he was young and stupid. As opposed to me, who is occasionally drunk and stupid.

Best. Girlfriend. Ever.

April Fools Day, 2011

It's 5:30 on Friday. My tax return is lighting a fire in my bank account and I'm halfway to Kenwood Mall.

My phone rings; it's the Boss Man. He never calls.

Shit. He's gonna want something and I'm gonna have to drive back to work. Ugh.

I answer anyway, because I'm good a employee like that.

He says, excitedly, "Did you hear about the new restaurant on the moon?"

I respond with silence.

He continues, undeterred: "It got bad reviews; the critics said it had no atmosphere."

Oh god, I think. It's even worse than having to drive back to work... on a Friday.

"Hahaha! Good, right?! There's a little April Fool's from a scientist for ya!"

It was the longest 31 seconds of my life.

Fortunately I was able to salve my mental anguish with a soft pretzel and some new clothes.

Name Our Relay Team

Training is easy.

In addition to working out like, six times already (and probably breaking my foot) I am also eating burritos, frozen pizzas and lots of Mexican food. You know, to get "in shape" for the Flying Pig Relay.

I plan to suck it kick-ass again this year, so look out world.

No, training is easy. The difficult part is coming up with an awesome team name, amirite?

Won't you be lambs and help Rachel, Julie, Michele and me with naming our relay team.

The suggestions so far are:

• Lady lumps
• Bad Case of the Runs
• Worst Pace Scenario
• Sole Train
• Balls to the Wall

(My personal fave is Balls To the Wall. I can't even say it without cracking up.)

We're having our first team meeting on Saturday, where we will continue our "training" over breakfast potatoes and further discuss this important race time topic.

Blue Light Specials

Cincinnati Magazine came out with its best restaurants issue this month and all the food is appropriately... vertical... and... angular.

Cause it ain't fancy unless it's sharp and pointy and jutting out from the center of the plate like a weapon.

Who in the hell wants to eat a lamb chop just lying limp on dinner plate? Not me.

I want my lamb chops arranged artfully, protruding from the plate like a Frank Lloyd Wright angle, with a bunch of other stuff stacked on top of it. I want those lamb chop bones upward and reaching for the sky, and also supporting a teetering potato or something.

Look people, I don't think I'm alone here in saying that if I'm going to eat a hotdog I want the chef to engineer a way that it angles toward the ceiling. If it's not inverted, what's the point? I don't want my dog languishing horizontally - You can't stop my dogs shine!

Even the fries are uppity - they get their own glass so they too can be vertical. Yeah. Just like in the red McDonald's carton... until it tips over in the bag.

Oh, who am I kidding, I love trying new restaurants and I love ridiculousness even more. Of the 10 best restaurants named by Cincinnati Magazine I've eaten at seven of them.

1. Orchids at Palm Court - Been only for lunch, and it was a damn fine lunch; though there was also the time the Boss Man had me go with him to check out the space for an event, but I only went 'cause he drove me in his convertible Porsche boxster, and I'm shallow like that. (Update: I went for dinner with the Boss Man and he passed out in his scallops. We had to call an ambulance. True story.)

2. Boca - Spent a weird, drunken night here a few years ago with some dudes I barely knew; food was awesome.

3. Nicola’s - Had dinner here for the first time a few months ago; my own personal review coming soon, please stay gripped to your computer screens for this event, people.

4. The Palace - Is this a real place?

5. Bouquet - The food is great but my advice is to experience it through wine and appetizers, then finish off the night with a nightcap at the bar. (Update: Thursday is burger night. DO IT.)

6. Cumin - Never been, and it's kinda in my 'hood. Sad. (Update: Cumin is closed now... Cumin, I hardly knew you.)

7. Via Vite - I love Via Vite. The pizzas, the bolognese, the half price bottles of wine on Sunday nights, the terrace. There's much to love here, though it's no Nada.*

8. Nectar - Brunch is tremendous; I should go back here soon.

9. Daveed’s - Never been, but I did walk past it last weekend on my way to Mt. Adams Bar and Grill for hummus and chicken buddies (totally awesome).

10. Honey - Again, brunch is my thing. And Honey's is delightful. Go there immediately. (Update: Honey is closed now.)

Also listed was Jean-Robert’s Table as the best new restaurant and Senate was the runner-up.

I'm a big fan of Senate, and the bar is great, but you also can't go wrong with a regular ol' hotdog from a regular ol' concession stand or cart. But as soon as Senate figures out a way to make their hotdogs as inverted as the truffle fries, I will fall madly in love extra madly in love with it!

*I can't believe Nada isn't on this list; the reviewers at Cincinnati Magazine are savages. (Savages who are well-versed in fine dining and who know lots of creative adjectives to describe food. But still, savages.)

As Luck Would Have It

A year ago today I met Ray (my boyfriend, not my dad) at Coffee Emporium for our first "date." We ate waffles. 

I wouldn't have guessed then that a year later we'd still be eating breakfast together, or that he'd be helping me pick out an area rug for my dining room and saying sweet things like, "I'm gonna have to carry that motherf*&^%$ up three flights of stairs, aren't I?"

Sometimes it's hard to know at first how lucky you really are.**

* I mean, look at that rug, right? Such a vibrant blue, and it was cheap. Thanks Pottery Barn Outlet!

* And the boy, well, what can I say, I got lucky. (Just keepin' it real here, folks.)

The 8 Phases of Dating

'Before I met you my heart was a crap taco.'

It's so funny and sweet at first and then, oh god - save yourselves!

Paris

I must go there immediately so I can can sit in Montsouris Park and think about this poem.

Thousands and thousands of years

Would not be enough

To tell of 

That small second of eternity

When you held me

When I held you

One morning

In winter’s light

In Montsouris Park

In Paris

On earth

This earth

That is a star


Jacques Prévert French, 1900–1977)

What's In Your Drawers?

You know that drawer in your fridge where you forget stuff, so you never put anything in there?

Apparently I put some Honey Roasted Turkey in there two years ago. I found this black, drippy lunchmeat horror scene last week. It expired in November 2009.

Lunchtime.

Sole Blues

I think I broke my foot. Or at least broke a bone in it. Or maybe I just bruised it, but whatever, it hurts. I'd like to complain about it some more but everyone has stopped listening. So now you guys are going to have to deal with it.

I am creating a bruises, broken bones and sore muscles mix*... for the elliptical (of course), because I can't run on the treadmill. Because my foot hurts.

Please text song suggestions to 'Omigod Gina, Your Foot Is Totally Broken, Probably.'

*there will be no backwards skating to this jam, my friends.

What Do You Call A Dude With An Umbrella Shoved In His Pie Hole*

Some dude today lobbed a blonde joke at me. For reals.

The scene: Crossing the street near work; it's misting.

Man with an umbrella: "Blondes don't need umbrellas, huh?"

Me, without an umbrella: "That's how we roll."

Man with an umbrella: "Or blondes are smart enough to carry one. Hahaha!"

Me (sarcastically): "Clever!"

Maybe his wife left him for a dude with more hair and now he's lashing out at manes everywhere. Or maybe he totally wanted me... it did seem like the playground equivalent of pulling my ponytails.

*this dude.

Study Of The Heart

I've been writing a piece on an unusual case of transposition of the great arteries and I came across Dr. Richard Van Praagh and his wife, Dr. Stella Van Praagh.

Together in 1965 they created the Cardiac Registry at Children's Hospital Boston, a collection of over 3,600 specimens, some dating back as far as 1944. Pathologists, cardiologists and cardiac surgeons use the Registry to learn more about the anatomy of heart defects.

They continued to direct the Registry until 2002. A tremendous lifelong collaboration, but an even better love story it seems.

He first noticed her at a conference in 1961. She was the woman with the big brown eyes who asked smart questions. They married in 1962.

She died in 2006 and he says, "I miss Stella in so many ways, but I'm making steady progress on our life's work - a clinico-pathological study of more than 3,400 cardiac cases, some never described before... How I wish I could share them with Stella."

Aww. I wish he could share them with Stella too.

Do yourself a favor and read this short bio, in Dr. Van Praagh's own words, about his life and love.

Things Are Gonna Change Around Here

A few times a year I like to come up with some half-assed resolutions I won't follow. Without further adieu:

1.) Stop saying "adieu."

2.) More cat petting and brushing. (The cat hair tumbleweeds in my apartment are kitten sized.)

3.) Finally download some new music and update my sad iPod(s). (What do you mean my new "Sexy Slow Jamz" mix featuring SWV as the backward skate highlight isn't new music?)

4.) Actually train for the Pig relay this year. (Oh god, I'm exhausted already.)

5.) Lift weights. (This will require going to the gym… which I will need a Google Map to find it's been so long.)

6.) Ensure I am still a member of my gym. (Come on guys, I really want to belong.)

7.) Start that book club I keep I talking about. (The one where I don't have to read anything I don't want to read but I still get to enjoy finger foods and drink wine.)

8.) Finish the closet/bedroom re-org of 2010. (My new shoe shelves really showcase my collection, but they deserve better than to be surrounded by medical records, pen holders and kitten sized cat hair tumbleweeds.)

9.) Try to understand why even when I am being sincere everyone thinks I am joking. (Me: "Ha, you're hilarious!" Other person: "God, you're such a sarcastic jerk, Gina." Me: "Huh?")

10.) Schedule appointments for dentist / acupuncture / podiatrist / rehab (the physical therapy kind, unless I get that wine drinking book club started, then maybe the Charlie Sheen kind.)

11.) Never surrender.



I am ON this.

The One Where I Change My Mind And Debate the Benefits of Lying

When I was in kindergarten, one of my brother's friends rode his ten speed bike over to our house.

It was yellow and big and exciting and the porch light lit up what looked to be millions of sparkly chrome spokes in my 6-year-old eyes.

I asked my brother's friend to take me for a ride on it.

No way, was his answer.

I asked my brother to take me.

Again, no way.

They were less afraid of me getting hurt and more afraid of what my dad would do to them if I got hurt.

But it occurred to me that if I asked my dad he would take me for a ride. There was little I asked from him that I didn't get. So I knew it was a matter of time before that 10-speed and I would be gliding down Poplar Street together.

My dad sat behind me, holding onto me with one hand and steering with the other as he pedaled. I remember feeling excited. It was nighttime in the summer, and it felt free and adventurous.

It was about that time that the light from the street lamp made those sparkly chrome spokes look irresistible, a twinkling carousel of enchantment, and I stuck my foot straight through those shiny spokes.

The bike went back over front. To prevent me from hitting the pavement my dad took the brunt of the impact to his face and head, driving asphalt and a considerable sized rock into his forehead.

Thanks to him, my only injury was a busted lip.

In the emergency room I watched them wheel my dad away on a stretcher with gauze covering his face. He had to have surgery to get the rock removed and a plastic surgeon consulted on the big scar it'd leave behind.

But mostly I remember him having to wear a gauze hairnet for several weeks while his stitches heeled and how hilarious we all thought it was. The gauze hairnet, not the injury.

It was not hilarious, however, when I returned to kindergarten with scratches on my face and a fat lip and the other kids looked at me in horror and I had to drink out of a straw for a week or so while my giant lip healed.

I feel now about him getting hurt the way he must have felt then about me getting hurt.

He and I have always had an agreement — We are a team, thicker n' thieves, and we do what we must to protect my mom from anything we do that might upset her. Which has been plenty over the years.

It's not that my mom is so easily upset. But she is a mom, and a mom's default is to worry. It's not that we want to lie to her, but moms compel you lie to them just by their very being.

We kept it to ourselves all the times he let me "drive" his old truck while I sat on his lap as a kid. And when I got caught sneaking out of the house as a teenager, my dad gave me a good talking to, but to save ourselves from endless haranguing, we kept quiet. Ditto for the myriad transgressions of high school and college. And I never ratted him out for anything either.

Better to just keep that stuff to ourselves. It's our common bond.

So I've never told my mom I have a scooter. Scooters are dangerous and she would worry to death. My mom's been through enough, why put her through that. But my dad knows. Every time we talk about he says, "Don't let your mom find out; she'll nag us both to death... and if you get caught, I'm gonna lie and say I had no idea and I can't believe a grown woman as smart as you would do something so dangerous. Hee hee hee!"

He'd throw me under the bus in a heartbeat because when it comes to mom's flying off the handle, it's everybody for themselves. And besides that, he has to live with her. 

When I got my new scooter this winter I excitedly told him about it. "It will go 60, as opposed to Stella, which will only go 40. Sooo slow!" I exclaimed.

Excitedly, he wanted to know if he could have my old one, and with some hesitation but still under the glow of getting a new scooter, I promised Stella to him. He enthusiastically talked about it and figured out a plan that he could bring it to Indiana without my mom knowing it was formerly mine.

As the time for him to come get it draws nearer, I am more and more worried about him having it.

I mean, scooters are dangerous. I don't want my 70-year-old dad riding around on my old scooter that will go 40. Forty is fast. What if he gets hurt? What if he pulls out in front of a car? What if he breaks a hip, or worse?

For the first time ever, I tried to thwart him. I tried to get my mom on attack. I asked her what she thought of him taking this scooter. He told her it's a friend of mine's and that it won't start. Him being a mechanic, he figured he'd "tinker around with it" and maybe get it started.

"Gina, I wish you hadn't told him about it," my mom said. "Now he's all excited, and the last thing I need is him out racing around on a scooter. I hope he won't be able to get it started."

But of course It will start fine; there's nothing wrong with it. (My poor mom.)

I've been thinking about how to get out of this. If I give my dad that scooter and something happens I'll never forgive myself. Could I cut the breakline? The gasline? Could I break something on it? But he's a mechanic. He'll figure it out and fix it.

I debated telling him it got stolen. But then that totally curses my new scooter to actually get stolen.

I could tell him I sold it, and legitimately sell it. But he's very excited to have it and I don't want to go back on my word. He wants to ride it around the neighborhood... and probably speed! Without a helmet! And do wheelies!

Or something like that.

Yes, I see the irony here. But it's different for me. I mean, I'm safe. I always wear my helmet. I go slow around corners. I'm not 70 years old.  And though he's promised to always wear a helmet, this has given me little solace.

I've been asking around for advice - Do I give him the scooter I promised him, or do I not in an effort to protect my sanity, my mom's sanity and his well-being?

One colleague told me to give it to him, he'll be fine. Another told me to just sell it.

I don't know... I hate after all these years to sell him out when he's always had my back, but man, I sure wish I'd have told him it was spoken for already.

I mean, if he crashes the damn thing I'm not gonna be there to help take the hit like he was for me with the 10-speed.

Anybody willing to call my dad and offer to "buy" it from him?

I will give you the money.

I'm A Model, You Know What I Mean

Because the only photo that really matters in life is your driver's license picture, I got all gussied up a few months ago because the BMV wanted to give me a new license for my birthday.

Sexxxy photoshoot time, y'all.

I put on an acceptable license outfit: mascara, lip gloss, stilettos. Ok, not really with the spiked heels... buuuuut there was a chick who came in after me who was really taking her photo for the next four years seriously - silky purple camisole, make-up, hair did.

But I'm not gonna hate because seriously, when everyone is passing around their license over drinks at the bar there are only two ways to go - really awesome photo or really terrible photo.

"Omg look, you had hair four years ago!"

Or, "Holy crap, you looked like a werewolf back then!" (A friend of mine really does kinda look like a werewolf in hers.)

Six years ago I was really stoked to get my new photo. Finally I was getting rid of my mean-face photo (half-smile, half-shock, half-disgust) and I was prepared, damnit.

I knew when the surly clerk said "three" I would be smiling, I would look natural and I would mean it. I would mean it hard, I tell you!

I waited patiently for the magical Polaroid thingy to spit out my four years of fun and then... oh god. Oh god no. NOOOOO!!!!

The collar on my jacket was popped. *sob. The small, crappy photo resolution made my big smile look like I had buck teeth. *oh sweet Jesus. And hey there, nice roots. *awesome.

So this time around I vowed not to wear a jacket, smile too big and made sure my hair was dyed. I felt more prepared. Hair, combed. Gloss, applied. Smile, restrained.

And this time I look... smug and swollen.

I was too defeated to ask for a retake.

Here's to 2014.  

Modern Love

Technically, we celebrated on Friday with a bottle of chianti and dinner at Wine Guy Bistro, followed by heart shaped pink iced cookies from the 24-hour Busken.

And because we are drunkards, apparently, we continued to celebrate with another glass of wine at Poco A Poco and a nightcap at Arthurs.

Even though we weren't really celebrating because Valentine's Day is totally loaded and the opposite of romantic and besides anyhow, I had plans on actual Valentine's Day and he was rowing.

But then my plans ditched me at the last minute and he was hungry after working-out so, hey, let's get some Chipotle and eat the rest of those cookies.

And so Valentines Day was duly honored with chips and salsa and food wrapped in aluminum foil.

My hungover heart sang.

Hope yours was equally fantastic, celebrated or not.

"Yes, Gina, Bearcats Are Real"

A rat looking thing popped up on the Jumbo Tron at the UC game yesterday and I said something like, "What, is that supposed to be a Bearcat? Ha, like bearcats are real. And if they were they'd be way cuter than that thing."

UC fans are dumb, I thought to myself. A bearcat. Phssst.

Ray (my bf not my dad) peered at me sideways. The following conversation transpired from here:

Ray: Bearcats are real.

Me: Riiiight. Of course they are, baby. (Patting his shoulder and thinking, Poor thing. Go to UC for four years and you'll believe anything, I guess.)

Ray: What do you want to bet? Anything you want.

Me: (I was already eating a soft pretzel with cheese so I was pretty much set for life already.) It's your funeral dude, whatever you want.

Ray: (smugly) I just want you to admit you're wrong.

Me: Fine with me. (Pulling out iPhone.)

Ray: So you think bearcats are like unicorns, just made up.

Me: Totally made-up.

Wikipedia: Bearcat is another name for the Binturong, a viverid mammal from Southeast Asia. Also known as the Asian Bearcat, the Palawan Bearcat, or simply the Bearcat. The binturong is not a bear, and the real meaning of the original name has been lost, as the local language that gave it that name is now extinct. It is nocturnal and sleeps on branches. It eats primarily fruit.

Me: It does exist! It looks like a rat with cute paws!

Ray: Say it.

Me: Say what?

Ray: (sideways peering again.) You know what.

Me: Ok fine, but I bet no one else knows they're real either. It's a fake mascot name.

Ray: Why would they make-up a mascot name?

Me: For affect. You know, like the Marion Giants. Giants aren't real, but that didn't stop them form naming them as their mascot. Or the Panthers. Panthers are real, yeah, but you don't see any of them running around outside gyms during sports games. It's not like there are bearcats running around the UC campus. Seriously, why wouldn't they make-up a mascot name?

Then I texted Rachel and asked her if she knew that bearcats were real. Her response was, "Dude. You went to UC."

Once again, people - I went to UC for grad school. Doesn't count.

And since when is it ok to lash out at me because they don't understand how mascots work?

We were playing St. John's yesterday, who are known as the Red Storm. Hmm, sounds made-up... unless you live on Jupiter!

But this whole ridiculous conversation was worth it. Not because I learned that bearcats are real live animals (or so says Wikipedia) but because for Valentine's Day Rachel gave me this homemade cookie that says: "I Heart Bearcats." Which you can sorta see in this photo but not really because I messed up the icing carrying it to my desk as I warded off bearcats.

And here is a photo of a "real" bearcat. High-five, bear.

Shoot The J - SHOOT IT!

When all else fails, "Prince can ball!"

Thank you Charlie Murphy for getting me through this long, cold winter day.

Let's Stay Together

Hotel weddings. Banquet weddings. Church weddings. Receptions that overlooked Baltimore Harbor. Ceremonies that went down in the UAW Hall.  

Lovely. Elegant. Destination.

Traditional. Tearjerkers. Overwrought.

Boring. Drunken. Expensive.

Open bar. Closed bar. (Wtf?) 

If there's a wedding out there, I've seen it. And I loved them all.

So I was honored Saturday to be one of only a handful of guests at a friend's quickly put together wedding. I believe she spent three weeks in the planning. I got my invite with 72 hours notice.

Seems about right to me.

They got married in a private room at a restaurant. The ceremony lasted 5 minutes, and afterwards we dug-in to a five course dinner. No DJ. No singing. No readings from the Bible.

The bride didn't even walk down the aisle. Because, well, there was no aisle. And (gasp!) she didn't wear a white dress she will never wear again.

It was one of my favorite weddings ever. Entirely singular, casual and lighthearted. At last!

God knows the myriad reasons people get married, but I am in favor of all of them. (God knows the myriad reasons people stay together too - kids? practicality?)

And God knows the myriad ways people defy and embrace something so traditional.

But I can say now that I've seen every tradition bucked, all the pomp and circumstance dismissed, and everything I've known about weddings happily chucked.

In word, it was bad-ass.  

Congrats to Carolyn and Christian! 

The Big Picture

The Boston Globe's Big Picture is one of my favorite sites. Their photo blogs capture the best and worst of the world - wars and unrest, love and celebrations.

Usually I'm in awe of what it captures - beauty and brevity and pain and hope. At least once a week the pictures make me smile and/or tear up.

Today they made me tear up with a tribute to the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster.

It's heartbreaking to remember how excited everyone was for Christa McAuliffe, the first teacher in space, and how we sat in our classroom to watch the launch. Our class didn't really know anything had gone wrong. We'd never seen a space shuttle launch before, so watching it explode and break apart in the sky didn't have the immediate impact on us that it had on our teacher.

When I lived in Northern Virginia I once spent about three hours walking all around Arlington National looking for the Challenger Memorial.

A friend of mine insisted on seeing it. Everything is BIG in Washington. So we expected to easily find and come upon this grand scale tribute. It's the opposite. The Challenger Memorial is small, just a plaque really with all of the astronauts' faces engraved into it.

But it's a cemetery, so probably a wise choice to not to erect some giant rocket memorial in the middle of all that hallowed ground.

If you're hanging out on your slick iPad right now and you want to check out some more photos from the Big Picture here are a few. Remind yourself:

How small you are

What wonder there is beyond what we can see

That nature is unforgiving

That war is brutal

That bobsleds can unite

That love is essential

30

In journalism -30- signifies the end of the story. It's a copy editing symbol for, "you'll never get the last 20 minutes of your life back. Sorry for making you read this crap story! Hahahaha!"

But Friday it meant my bestie Missy is actually 30. Which means in addition to being suspicious and untrustworthy to anyone under 30, she'll now be called "ma'am" and is one early bird special away from an AARP membership and having her skin hang off the bone like a boiled chicken.

To prevent this awful fate, we celebrated calorically, at night. Wine. Crab cakes. Gossip. I wondered where in the hell I went wrong in life. I mean, why couldn't I have been born a boy, or gay, so that we could date each other? Is that too much to ask?! Well God, is it?!

Happy Birthday to one of my favorite girls on the planet.

* Pretend like this photo was taken earlier this week at a birthday dinner and not this summer at a sweltering Red's game. And pretend that I'm not biting her head but instead looking reasonably at the camera, like Missy.

Yes Please

I love a good Groupon. I love restaurants with weekday vaudevillian alpacas even more.

What I Learned in Puerto Rico

• Four years of college Spanish, completely worthless.

• HOLA! with conviction followed by "Madalla Light," solid.

• Translation for "oatmeal raisin cookie," pointing and smiling.

• Adding "o" to the end of every word makes it "Spanish," for example, OMG-o.

Because I Work With Emblems of Fashion, Apparently

Picking out my clothes for work is one of my creative outlets. Not every day, and it might not always seem like it, but I put some thought into my clothes. I accessorize. I layer. I wonder if anyone will notice the subtle but important difference between the black shoes I wore Monday and the black shoes I wore Tuesday. (They look completely different, ok.)

Sometimes I build entire outfits around a pair of shoes, or earrings, or maybe a belt I want to wear.

Like today for instance, I wanted to wear this brown leather belt (can you ever go wrong with a brown leather belt? Hell no) because I saw a photo of Gwen Stefani in a magazine wearing a long belt twisted like this. It looked awesome.

Basically, I want to look like Gwen Stefani at all times. But since I work a normal job and am not a singer, band leader, fashion designer or married to the insanely hott Gavin Rossdale, I thought the belt was close enough.

Just when I go around thinking, "Damn, Gwen Stefani is gonna want to be my bestie today!" I have my colleagues to howl at me:

"Haha! Oh my god what are you wearing?! It's a toga! And what's up with your belt?!"

and

"OMG!!!! You look like a pirate!!! ARRRRRGH!!!!"

Really now people… The first jab from a researcher who's shirts are so tight the threads are holding on for dear life and the latter from the Boss Man who accompanied his insult with, "Permission to come aboard, Matey!"

I seriously do not know why I waste my creative sartorial choices on these fools.

So tomorrow I have decided to up the ante. Cords, a tunic and a belt are so outrageous, are they? Tomorrow I am building my whole outfit around my black and white polka-dotted knee-high Wellies.

They're gonna lose it. I can't wait!

(Side note: Ok fine, not my best effort here, but come on, I just got back from Puerto Rico, it's a blizzard outside and neither my nipples nor my belly is showing, which is more than I can say for them.)

11 Things

1. I am a working on new poem. What rhymes with 'dry skin'?

2. I got only two Christmas cards this year. I guess you babies finally got sick of not getting any in return from me… well, your loss. Now I don't get to put YOUR card on my mantle. But I did post Kari's Charlie Harper bird Christmas card, which said, "Hey Girl Hey, it's Christmas!" WORD.

3. Wait, Christmas is 2 days away… Really? Really. That's great. Way to sneak up on me again, Christmas. Oh hey, guess what… I didn't any of you fools anything - again. Sorry 'bout that. But I really do think about you a lot, ok? Ok. I'm glad we're made up now. Yay!

4. I forced my boyfriend to put up my three foot Christmas tree with me, even though he kinda hates Christmas. Then I forced him to decorate ANOTHER new Christmas tree with me, this one a whopping two feet, because I thought it would look "cuter." (It was white, like it had built-in snow.) Then I decided I hated the white one and the put the original one back up. Merry Christmas!

5. My new scooter made it to its new home two weeks ago. I rode it through a parking lot then quickly handed it over to Dean for the heavy lifting of driving it downtown. Is it springtime yet?! Did anyone get me those goggles I asked for for Christmas? What about gloves, did you get me the gloves?!

6. Said to me last week: "Ummm, you just planted a big one on me, in front of everybody, at lunch rush, in Chipotle... And all your stories are about heartache and misery." Translation: Eating burritos with me is awesome.

7. We used to play this game called "stand and take it" when I worked at the Enquirer. The "game" consisted of letting your coworker kick a beachball at you and you couldn't protect your face or hoo-ha area, you just had to "stand and take it." This was a fun game. But not as fun as the new game in our office called "terrorize your staff with an icicle by shoving it down their back."

8. Speaking of, Boss Man to me: "I don't like this, but if other people in the Institute like it I'm fine with it. I'm able to compartmentalize myself. For example, I don't like you. But you do a reasonable job, so…"

9. Read this. Now let's all get drunk and discuss.

10. My friends are kick-ass and gave me really great, thoughtful gifts this year. And because Rachel loves me extra much she got me Misfortune Cookies. Because nothing says Merry Christmas like a fortune that reads, "What the fu** is wrong with you?" wrapped in a tasty cookie shell. See above.

11. I will repay her (and all my closest friends) with this bad-ass tequila gun sometime in the next five years or so.

So Help Me God He Will Pay!

It's been freakin' war, people.

A few weeks ago I slid a Flintstone vitamin into the Boss Man's sandwich, because I was being NICE and because I CARE about him and was trying to make him HEALTHY.

But then he got all bent about it and threatened to kill me. (Oh, I still have the voicemail.)

Like it's my fault they taste bad. I was being HELPFUL. Doesn't anybody recognize kindness anymore. Wtf?

In retaliation he burst into my cubicle last Friday wielding a giant icicle pronouncing it the perfect murder weapon and stabbing it at me all Psycho shower scene. Perfectly calm I said, "Excuse me, sir. I am working hard here, as per usual."

And because he's like, 100 times my age and I didn't want to give the man an angina and go all Chuck Norris on his ass immediately I crouched in pretend fear - oh no! not a giant icicle, I'm sooo scared! - and hunched over my keyboard.

And do you want to know what he did? I will tell you what he did… He stuck that giant icicle down the collar of my shirt and onto my back.

On. To. My. Back. Giant icicle!

It was like an ice-cream headache for my spinal cord. I almost died. I got frost bite. I think I threw a clot, all while dutifully trying to work.

So, totally justified to whup your Boss Man's ass for this, right? Damn right, right.

Well, I don't want to start rumors or anything, but I think the old man has been taking steroids. We were scuffling over this icicle, me trying to shove it down his shirt and him trying to stop me, and he was getting the best of me.

I mean really. I am young. I am sinewy. I am a ninja!

So what if he's got 100 pounds on me, is a man and chops wood as a stress reliever. Steroids. What kind of person goes around stabbing innocent underlings with an icicle if they're not 'roid-raging. Only the kind that's 'roid-raging, I say.

Or, I might have body dysmorphic disorder y'all, because in my head I am a total badass who can pretty much beat up anyone. Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven? Yeah, I taught him that shizz. Bourne Ultimatum? I choreographed the stunts.

I was straight up about to Moonwalk across his face when... umm, sniff-sniff... the Boss Man started batting me around like a kitten with a ball of yarn, easily overpowering me as I got all red faced and sweaty and yelled things like, "You're old! How on earth are you stronger than me?! Hold still!"

In my head I exploded into a 12-foot high in-air somersault where upon I came down on him like a hurricane and gently but firmly planted that icicle onto the back of his neck, down his stupid shirt and onto his back where I welded it (with my laser beam eyes) with dry ice there forever. Bwahahahaha!

Except in reality my wrists were getting red and sore from struggling to get away from him so I could maybe possibly kinda get the icicle near his head.

Needless to say I spent the weekend licking my wounds and lamenting to anyone who would listen that my old Boss Man bested me in a physical icicle confrontation. Imma start training tomorrow for a rematch, y'all. I'm gonna go all Rocky on him.

Imma look like this, outfitted solely in gray sweats, doing things au naturale - like running stairs and tromping through chest-high snow.




He's gonna continue to roid, just like Drago.



God revenge is gonna be so sweet. Down, I say. He is going DOWN.

I need an Apollo. Sure you'll have to die but it will be worth it because I'll win. Who's with me?!

So Awesome Your Spark Plugs Will Short Out

I make a lot of difficult decisions - frozen pizza or delivery, for example. But none more difficult than my decision Saturday - the blue scooter or the black scooter. Or what about the red scooter... oooh orange!

Friday before I left work the Boss Man told me the blue one matched my "icey" personality. Carolyn said anybody can drive black. But my boyfriend was in favor of the black because if he ever took it for a spin a powder blue scooter is... so badass he couldn't handle it! (Ok that's not exactly what he said.)

The red looked more retro to me. The blue one was so cute I wanted to hug it. But ooh shiny! Look at the black one!

The guys from Metro tried to help me decide. Ray (my boyfriend not my dad) tried to help too. Even a stranger weighed in. But ultimately everyone walked away because I had that "all you dudes need to drink a big cup of shut the hell up so I can think because this is serious!" look on my face.

Then, the baby blue scooter was all "Helloooo soulmate." And I was all, "You my Boo!"

So, with all due respect to my first love, Stella, I can now go 60 on my new baby blue ride. 'Cause that's exactly the kind of bad-assery I need on two wheels.

Then I celebrated at The Precinct with steak and wine and crack potatoes. So basically Saturday was the best day of my life.

Sweet Jesus, Phil. Buck Up!

Damn, y'all. You know who has it bad? Phil Collins.

I just read an interview with him in Rolling Stone about how sucky his life is because everyone hates him because he was the soundtrack of the '80s and he's been divorced three times and he can't drum anymore because of nerve damage or something and he just wants to "end it all" because he hates being "Phil Collins" so he makes his new girlfriend call him Phillip. And you can tell he's kinda losing it because he thinks the dust orbs in his photos are "paranormal" energy and that he lived a past life.

Daaang, Phil.

Except all this makes me giggle because whenever I think of Phil Collins I smile because of that 30 Rock scene:

Tracy Jordan: "I'm gonna make you a mix tape. You like Phil Collins?"
Jack Donaghy: "I have two ears and a heart, don't I?"

Do not be discouraged, Phil. The drum solo to In The Air Tonight is enough to live for! Oh wait, you can't drum anymore. Shit. Phil, you're throwing it all away! Wait one more night! I bet you and your girlfriend have a groovy kind of love!

It's still gonna rain down? Well ok, but you'll always have an invisible touch-ay in my heart, Phil.