Together Through Life

Making her laugh.

My parents' relationship has always been a mystery to me. They met in October of 1971 and married in March of 1972. You could say, as Johnny Cash would, that they got married in fever. Except, it seems there was no fever.

My mom had two dates the week she met my dad. She went back to work on Monday and told her friends, "Well, it's certainly not that Ray guy." That Ray guy would be my dad.

They were both divorced when they met. Both had two kids. Other than that, I'm not sure what they had in common.

The way my mom tells it, she wasn't even attracted to him. He was blonde and blue eyed, she preferred men with dark hair and dark eyes. She was unimpressed. He worked in a factory, like she did, and he told her he ate dinner at his sister's house every night. She was not impressed by that either.

For their second date he asked her if she wanted to go see Elvis. Sure, by that time it was fat, drug addled Elvis, a few years away from death Elvis, but still, it was Elvis, and she wanted to see him. So they climbed into whatever old wreck he drove at the time and headed for Kentucky to see The King.

"He didn't have tickets, we had a flat tire, and he locked his keys in his car. It was a nightmare," she says.

She smoked back then and when she went to flick her cigarette out of the car window a piece of ash blew back in and landed on my dad's shirt. She was too embarrassed to tell him and thought he might not notice. Which he might not have, except it burned a hole in his shirt and started to burn him. All he said was a dry, "Thanks a lot."

What happened on that second date was they got to know each other, and when she got to know him she thought he was... funny. And if you can make my mom laugh, then you've got her. A more good-natured and good-humored woman you will not find, and she will laugh until tears roll down her face and she goes completely slack.

That second date led to a 38-year long marriage.

My mom claims this is untrue and if I have I don't remember, but I swear I've never seen a wedding photo of them. I am still not entirely convinced they're even married because of this, nor do I believe they had any type of courtship. (No evidence, no dice.) Everything I know about them I've had to extract. They are private people, and while they tell stories about growing up or what have you, they don't tell many stories about their beginning. It's very peculiar to me. I don't know that I've ever once even seen them kiss on the mouth. Maybe when I was younger.

A few weeks before their wedding they went back and forth on calling it off. What about the kids? Would they get along? Did he really want to move back to Kentucky? Where would they live if they stayed in Marion? Typical cold feet kind of stuff. But when he showed up at her house in "his little blue suit and tie, he just looked so handsome," my mom says, and off they went to the church.

"Plus," my mom says, "My friends at the factory had taken up a collection for us, it'd have been kind of humiliating not to go through with it." (Good a reason as any I guess.)

It was just them, their two friends as witnesses and the preacher.

They were supposed to get married on a Saturday, April 1, but that was April Fools Day. So they sealed the deal on Friday, March 31 instead. It was a full moon.

Last night I asked my mom why she ended up with my dad rather than the man she thought she liked more on those first few dates. The other man was a green beret, had a college education, made more money... all the things on paper that you would think a single mom at 30-years-old would want.

But in the end she thought my dad was kinder, funnier, a better partner for life... and his background was more aligned with hers. "He was hard-working, like my dad" she says, then laughs, "Though there were plenty of times later I thought, 'Man I could be living on easy street right now!'"

When I was about 5 my dad starting working third shift so he could go to technical school to be a mechanic, so we could have a better life. I carried his giant books to his truck every morning. He was so tired he says he often didn't know what day it was or if he was supposed to go to school or to work, so he went where my mom told him he needed to go. They talk about it now as some of their leanest years, how there wasn't much money. But it always seemed like there was plenty to me, and they were able to send me to college on that mechanic and factory worker's salary.

My mom and I laugh now about some of those 38-years, tolerating my grumpy-ass dad. And sometimes I truly didn't know why she put up with him huffing and puffing around the house, grouchy and groaning for what seemed like years. But then, he was also a good husband and dad, and he always made sure she was happy above all else. My mom didn't ask for much, just to be taken to dinner on Friday nights and a quiet room to read her books in. And so off they went, every Friday night for dinner. The rest, eh... it would work itself out.

And when she'd nag him to death (a skill moms excel at), he'd never snap or yell, he'd just look at me and roll his eyes and we'd snicker under our breath, bonded in our laughter.

At the end of the day, they liked and appreciated each other. My mom supported his interests and friends, and he always supported hers. Even in what seemed like the worst times, they had each others back. My dad wouldn't say a mean spirited word about her if you tortured him. And for all his faux grousing, when she said she wanted a porch and a new porch swing, he bought the porch and built the swing.

Idyllic? Hell no. But together through life.

So, happy 38th anniversary, mom and dad. I am so glad you found each other.

That Was Fun

Friday night a valet informed me his ex-girlfriend was a bartender at FBs and disgustedly added she was probably getting hit on by a bunch of dudes. I shrugged and figured he was probably right. Then I had a little too much fun at happy hour with some old friends and some new ones and lost my debit card.

Saturday afternoon I went out for ice-cream, twice. Graeter's is better than Aglamesis and don't let anybody tell you anything different. Saturday night I played a spectacular game of Ms. PacMan and then got into an argument over who won. (I did.)

Sunday at brunch I grossly oversyruped my waffle and learned that my worst injury is a "chick injury." And if Jack White were to wail on his guitar and come bleeding from his fingers into my apartment the drops of blood onto my hardwood would form into the shape of Jesus, holding a guitar.

Sunday night I invited myself over to Erin and Adam's for another homecooked meal (see photo), this time linguine with clam sauce plus bread and salad. (Bread and salad, y'all.) It was divine. We toasted to our fantastic new Sunday night ritual.

Oh, and then I got my debit card back.

Hope everyone had an equally fabulous weekend.

Oh Good, Bad Girls Club Reunion DVRd

Oh wait, I never ever, ever want to watch The Bad Girls Club Reunion. Or The Suite Life. Or Saved By the Bell.

See people, this is what happens when you are out of town and you have Ronson check-in on your cats. You come home to really stupid stuff recorded on your DVR. The last time it was the Price Is Right. It was a sneak attack. I flipped through my DVR list wondering, When the hell did I decide to record The Price Is Right? Did I get crunk and fall off a curb last night?

I live in fear of what might show up over the next week.

Please let me know if you are available to cat sit. I pay in dinners.

Why Where I Work Is Awesome

This was sitting on my desk when I got back from Atlanta. Carolyn, the coolest chick in the office said, "There was no way we were having 'chocolate last supper day' without you getting an Apostle. And when I stuck the pairing knife in, Matthew just popped right out."

Obviously this is deeply significant, as all things chocolate and Biblical are, and if I knew anything about the Apostles I could extract the meaning. But as it is, it means Carolyn rocks.

You can't tell, but it looks exactly like what a chocolate Matthew would look like. Exactly.

Hotlanta, Not That Hot

In fact, Hotlanta was cold. And windy. You really disappointed me Atl. I was super looking forward to saying things like, 'It's hotter than Georgia assa-phalt in mid-Ju-ly down here." Sad. Though I did hear a shuttle driver say "pert near." Fortunately, I speak southern (I learned it from my pappy) and that translates to, "Lil' darlin', yer almost there.'

The highlight of my dirty south adventure though was surely eating at Ludacris' restaurant, Straits, in Midtown. Y'all didn't know Luda represents with Asian fusion, did ya? Can a girl get a wonton? Thanks LUDA!

The joint has a jazzy/cool vibe and everyone was dressed real fly while instrumentals of R&B classics played loudly on the overheads, including Nite and Day. (Don't front, you know Al B. was smooth as hell back in the day.)

Unfortch, I can only assume Luda is in some kinda battle with the cabbies of Midtown because it took 20 minutes to get one back to the hotel. What, cabbies don't like Asian fusion? Luda get all Luda up on them after one too many dranks? Luda-Cabbie Midtown turf war? Whatevs.

Glad to be home.

And I Don't Have This, Why?

If the Boss Men really wanted to make me happy (and they should!) they'd get me this chair.

I'm off on a little work trip, my faithful readers. Perhaps I will run into those emblems of stability and modesty known as the Housewives of Hotlanta. NeNe, girl, you so craaaaazzzzy.

The End

The number 30 is an old symbol in newspapers that signifies the end of the story. That's how I feel about this week, ready for it to be over, finalized, in the books and done with.

-30-

Juxtaposition

About twenty years ago my dad crochet an afghan. No one could believe it, least of all my mom, which is how the whole thing got started in the first place.

We had been over to my dad's sister's house, and my mom asked my aunt if she would crochet her an afghan if she bought the yarn.

"I could do that. I'll crochet you an afghan," my dad piped in, to which my mom fell into hysterical laughter. A lot of things my dad is - mechanic, wood-worker, hunter, at once hilarious and grumpy - but a crocheter he is not.

Except when you tell him he can't do something and laugh in his face while you're saying it. Then he's the most stubborn man on the planet and I'll-be-damned if he won't prove you wrong or go to his grave trying to. So, an afghan it was. People would come over to the house stunned to find my dad, who is usually found in his garage sawing something, in the recliner crocheting.

Whenever he'd get stuck, he'd call my aunt and she'd help him around corners and through changing balls of yarn. It was something. It took him about 80 hours (he kept track, of course) and in the end he crocheted my mom this big ol' blanket that gets brought out every winter still.

I believe when he gave it to her it went something like, "Here's your damn afghan. And I'm not making anymore either."

Except now, he is.

My mom and I were chatting today for our Sunday catch-up, and when I asked what dad was doing she said, "He's crocheting. He can't hunt right now, so he's been crocheting."

Now there's a contrast for you. He's traded in his rifle in the off-season for crocheting needles. His response to this was a flat but funny, "A real man can do any damn thing he wants."

My mom is all about this because when he crochets he doesn't watch tv.

"Gina, I think I am going to ask him to crochet an afghan for everyone I know," she said. "It's so quiet without the tv blaring all the time, I just love it!"

I don't know about everyone she knows, but I put in dibs on this most recent afghan. I'll be excited to go home again and see how it's turned out.

In other news from the Daugherty Farm today, my mom, who so rarely swears and is so sweet it makes you laugh when she does, said to me, "I have jury duty and I am pissed!"

In my life I'm certain I've never heard my mom say the word "pissed," and I totally cracked up when she did.

She actually loves regular jury duty, but this is federal jury duty, which is about 45 minutes away from her, in a much bigger city compared to Marion, and it totally terrifies her to go there by herself because she's afraid of getting lost. So she wrote the judge a letter saying she was too old and scared to drive by herself.

I told her it totally won't work. You practically have to kill someone in the courtroom to get out of jury duty these days, but she swore her letter was "awfully pitiful sounding," so maybe.

Anyway, good stuff from home today.

The Blue Angel, Still Awesome Though

The poor Blue Angel has been stuck for days now.

Last week she was lost in a sea of snow, which forced me to walk to the dentist's office - in five feet of snow! up hill both ways! in a blizzard! - just to get my teeth cleaned. It was like Little House on the Prairie and shizz. Only instead of going to see Doc Baker for typhus, I was going to see Doc Singel for a fluoride treatment.

Then I had to hitch rides to and from work for two days.

The sucks that run apartment complex don't bother plowing the parking lot, and only occasionally do they plow the driveway, which is long and a kind of steep (see photo). So I knew yesterday when Snowpocalypse II hit that I wasn't going anywhere once again.

Fortunately I live near two friends who also work at Children's, and they kindly take turns carting me around. (And sometimes this means getting to work crazy early, at like, 8:15!!)

But tonight I decided I really wanted to dig out the Blue Angel a) because I was supposed to meet Ronson for Indian, because seriously, if I have to eat another plate of noodles because I'm stuck and can't go get something to eat I'm gonna flip and b) people are probably getting sick of driving me around. (But I doubt this. I mean, driving me around is probably awesome for them.)

It was the pride before the fall. I was thinking the Blue Angel would not fail me when it came to Indian food. We both love Indian food. She probably loves naan and spicy curry more than I do.

I pop her into reverse, get kind of stuck but work my Indiana snow driving skillz on her and we make it through a few dicey moments. Then, wham! Snow wall under my tires.

It's a trap! It's a trap! The Blue Angel is yelling.

Eject! Eject! I'm yelling back.

Too late.

I hop out and decide I'll just push her out. How hard can this be, right? It's a two-door Civic that gets stuck everywhere because it weighs like, 40 pounds, I can totally push this car out of the snow. Noooo problemo.

Hahahahaha!!!

That's when JJ came into my life. A neighbor I've never met before rolls into the parking lot - in his Jaguar - rolls down his window before he even parks (what a guy, right?!) and asks if I need help. Indeed. I need a push, buddy.

He parks, walks over and says, "Have you ever pushed a car out before?"

Pssht. Have I ever pushed a car out before? Did you hear this guy? Have I ever pushed a car out before. You don't even know about me, dude.

But I don't say anything but "Yes" because JJ has an all-business-like attitude and can tell this ain't his first rodeo. So I let him take charge.

"Here's what we got to do... we get it rocking, then on three we really go for it."

I push with all my might, and so does JJ, and we get the Blue Angel unstuck and about two feet farther before she gets stuck again. We push some more, I hop in, burn the tires, hop back out.

Damn.

Then ol' JJ asks me, "Do you have a shovel? What about some old car mats?" And I'm like, "no" and "huh?" (Old car mats??) So then he gets down into the snow and starts removing it from the front of my tires with his hands. (At least he had gloves on.) And I'm thinking, Epic fail, Daugherty. Some corn-fed Indiana girl you are. Shovel? What shovel?

Turns out ol' JJ is from Toledo, so I suspect he's pushed more than a few Civics out of the snow in his time. And I appreciated his take-charge attitude. I had complete faith the Blue Angel would get unstuck if JJ had anything to do with it. He was not a triflin' man. We were going to get shiz done, people.

So hell to the yeah, we got her unstuck and back into her spot where I abandoned her for a ride with Ronson to Baba. And who needs a shovel anyway when you can just text your neighbors who will drive you to work. And if it's really bad, your Boss Man will drive you home early (woo hoo!) during Snowmageddon 2010 in his fancy four-wheel drive car with snow tires.

Now, if only I could get a ride in JJ's Jaguar I could really round-out this tour de cars I will never own. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Everything Else Is Boring To Me Right Now

Curling. Biathlon. Speed skating. Snowboarding.

I could not care less about these sports any other time of the... ever, but when it's Olympics time I'm at the edge of my seat watching... skiing.

Yes, I am SO into skiing!

Biathlon? Hell yes. Why wouldn't I want to watch people ski, with guns. Who's bringing over the hot chocolate?!

(Dear god, why was I born into a blue-collar Mid-western family in virtually the flattest state in the Union instead of an outdoorsy Norwegian family where I would have mostly likely/totally probably become a world-renowned Alpine skier, marksman and Olympian? Inspiring NBC Olympic Vignette title: She Shoots, She Skis.)

It's also during this time of year I come down with seasonal Olympic allergies.

I'm not crying, ok?! It's just... my allergies. Olympic allergies. This is a serious medical condition, people! Now, pass me my hot chocolate. *snif

And can I make complaint, NBC? Where is my ability to download a giant all-encompassing tv schedule with fun animated graphics, where luge athletes speed across the screen and you can feel the cold and spray of the snow on your face when you click on the freestyle skiing button? The schedule that will also alert me with Shaun White's voice whenever there is something being broadcast I might want to watch or set my DVR to watch. And why can't it intuit events I might not even know I want to watch but will end up totally loving for their inherent talent/drama/divine showing of sports as metaphor for life?

Really? That's too much to ask? Hello, iPad? Where is the app for this?

And another thing, NBC, these mobile/email alerts I signed up for. You're not going to alert me of a final when I haven't yet watched it on my DVR, are you? Because that would be really, really uncool. And cruel. Is there a box I can check that will eliminate any updates that includes heat, semifinal, or medal results? I just want to be alerted that shiz at the Olympics is awesome as usual and, 'Oh, hey Gina, don't forget you DVRed hockey to watch tonight.' (Shaun White's voice.)

Oh yes, hockey! I freakin' love hockey!

Happy Galentine's Day To Me!

My girl Missy called me today to tell me she had a Galentine's Day gift for me. 'Because I love you, girl,' she said.

Everyone knows Missy is a tremendous cook, and as she was making up something fab for her man for the romance holiday, she made extras, just for me, because 'I wanted you to have something fabulous to eat for Valentine's,' she said.

(Snif, snif. Is it dusty in here?)

Being sans-Valentine certainly has it's advantages. Not only did I get some of Missy's home-cookin' (better than a restaurant any day), but she also made an extra little cake, for me. Not some dinky left-over piece thrown into some Gladware, oh no, that is not how my girl rolls. I got a whole cake.

I don't deserve her.

It's About To Get Real, Real Sporty - TGIF!

Woo hoo! Yee ha! Ow ow! Yippee! Hooray! Huzzah!

Opening Ceremonies start tonight at 9, y'all, which means I will be glued to the tv from 9 p.m. to midnight eating pizza and wondering what the hell I've done with my life. Gonna be exciting!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to concentrate on how Shaun White rocks my world apart. Careful with them double corks, boo.

Déjà Vu

Today a colleague asked me what I do for fun, and much like the last time someone asked me what I do for fun, I really brought the house down with all of the amazing things I do.

"Umm, I watch crappy tv shows and go to dance class, I go to dinner with friends, I like to eat brunch, and chocolate covered strawberries, and sometimes I go to a bar and drink too much and fall down in the bathroom stall because hovering over the seat while you're drunk is hard. But mostly I just watch crappy tv shows."

The last time a random coworker I barely know asked me what I do for fun, a full year and a half ago, life suddenly turned on its end, did a full 180 triple axel double flip while spinning three rotations down the superpipe and dropped me somewhere completely different but all together rejuvenating and perfect.

Given this, I can only assume (once before is totally statistically meaningful, right?) that it's really code for, 'Enjoy the ride."

Sa-weet, who wants wine?!

Lunch: Totally Worth Fighting For

>>> Erin 01/13/10 10:41 AM >>>
Email relations continue. Lunch today?

>>> Gina 1/13/2010 11:04 AM >>>
I have to go to Milford to look at some booth stuff. Tomorrow?

>>> Erin 01/13/10 11:05 AM >>>
Clinic tomorrow...Friday?

>>> Gina 1/13/2010 2:39 PM >>>
Can't Friday. Monday?

*I feel like we're breaking up.

>>> Erin 01/13/10 2:56 PM >>>
Can't Monday. Tuesday?

*Is it something I said?

>>> Gina 1/13/2010 3:02 PM >>>
Can't Tuesday. Wednesday?

* It's your work. It's tearing us apart.

>>> Erin 01/13/10 3:59 PM >>>
Wednesday works.

* Are you seeing someone else?

>>> Gina 1/14/2010 11:16 AM >>>
Wednesday it is.

*we're gonna work this out girl

>>> Erin 01/14/10 12:41 PM >>>
Cool.

* Some relationships are worth fighting for.

You Can't Front On This Video

TGIF!

Close Encounters of the Owl Kind

This time last week I was walking up the back steps to my apartment building, minding my own bid'ness, not paying attention just 'la la la la la' negotiating the snowy steps when all of sudden, I see this GIANT, brown furry wing spread out inches from my face.

Holy effing shiz! Is what I said. Sort of. Except I said the real thing, because, well, when a giant nocturnal bird nearly clips your cheek with its wing, it's both startling and awe inspiring, and those two things make me swear like a longshoreman.

So I look up and see this beautiful owl fly silently into the tree beside me and perch. It was stunning.

Encounters with nature like this are so rare for me I felt like it was some kind of gift. Immediately I decided this owl and I were best friends, even though it probably could have eaten me had it taken a notion. It was like the size of one my cats, which, as many of you know, are freakin' huge.

In fact, I'm not so sure this thing wasn't sizing me up for a late night snack. It must have seen coming and thought I'd see it and pause for a look. Except at 11 at night on my way home from dance class bumping into an owl was the last thing on my mind, so I never even saw it, even when it was a foot from my face.

But still, total besties. A good omen somehow.

P.S. Dear National Geographic, I totally approve if you want to publish this amazing story and photos.

Dear Sweet Jesus, Thank You

Taking The Stage (Season 2) - MTV Shows

So pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me is back. Taking The Stage, my fave show EVER (after the Wonder Years, come on, that show was awesome) is in season two.

Hallelujah!

You might remember I recapped every episode last season except for the finale. Why not the finale? Cause I was so in love with the show I refused to watch it. It was like admitting it was... over. (*sobs)

But that didn't stop me from totally stalking, er... casually running into the cast at the Southgate House last May while MTV cameras filmed one of Mia's shows. That's the night I completely lost my shiz and told Tyler, 'I love you... But not in a weird way.' (My dude calls this incident "the time you gushed all over Tyler like a crazy person.")

So anyhoo, last month I learned Taking the Stage was finally coming back for season two, and even though I kinda already know what has happened to these kids (cause I follow them on Twitter... what? Is that weird?) I still freaked at my desk a little bit.

Omg omg omg, thank you, Jesus!

*climbs onto the couch holding her remote and pressing the DVR record button

I would like to take a moment here to thank all of my friends and colleagues who so generously supported me during this exciting time, with links to the story that the show was coming back and kind words such as, 'In case you don't already know... even though you totally do, you crazy stalker freak-a-zoid.')

But now I'm back to bid'ness. The season one finale (a really, really, really late) recap:

• Jasmine's mom, looooove her. The sweetest most generously encouraging woman on the planet. Elodie, should anything happen to my mom, would you please adopt me? Oh, and Jasmine moves to NYC to dance for Ailey in Harlem, which is a pretty big deal. Except she only stays the summer then goes to school in Texas on scholarship. Eh, whatever.

• Malik get cuts from the Bloc audition. He tears up and tells his mom he's just "going to settle for some office job." His mom grabs him, hugs him and with such sweet conviction says, "don't talk like that Malik, you're going to be a phenomenal dancer on Broadway" that I halfway believe I'm going to be a phenomenal dancer on Broadway. Thanks Malik's mom!

• Tyler brings the house down at the Bloc audition, location: Cincinnati Ballet studio. (Not bragging here, but Tyler auditioned in the same room where I occasionally take dance classes, which means our sweat has probably intermingled. Dreamy.)

• Tyler and Mia agree to go on a date but we know what happens here, folks, cause your girl stalked accidentally ran into them at the Southgate House. You're welcome.

I don't know if I'll do a recap of the new season. I'm still into it, but less so. The new crop of kids are mostly suburban white kids and you can read about them anywhere. (One of the girls is recovering from an eating disorder. Another girl has a steel rod in her back. Another girl is built like a normal girl rather than a lithe ballerina. Eh, kinda boring.) The great thing about the first season of Taking the Stage is we got to see urban black kids doing some pretty incredible things. And we didn't have to hear them whine about how they overcame their circumstances either. They just danced and sang and struggled with their art and had normal high school kid drama.

It sounds callous but tales of anorexia and back surgeries and thick ballet dancers is far less compelling to me than the gay black dancer/choreographer from Walnut Hills who wants to be on Broadway, yet who never once mentions how being gay and black and male affects him. It was refreshing. Now we have to endure post-scene interviews about they will not be limited by their eating disorder/back pain/previous home-schooling/ blah blah blah.

But anyway, it's still a great show and these kids are all legitimately talented and I admire their pursuit. And besides that, Tyler is back for season II. Swoon. Here's a photo of us destiny.

To Unbridled Joy

A few weeks ago Ronson and I were having brunch at The Green Dog Cafe when a couple of toddlers came teetering past our table all smiles and waves, their little bodies stuffed into puffy coats and mittens.

"That's what I want in 2010," Ronson said.
"Babies?" I asked, surprised.
"No, unbridled joy. Completely oblivious. Look how happy they are. You just walk up to strangers and they tell you how cute you are."

I raised my coffee in solidarity and polished off the above breakfast burrito. It wasn't quite unbridled joy, but it was damn good.

Look out Vancouver!

Wintry mix from GinaBlogs on Vimeo.

If sledding were an Olympic sport... Adam would crash into parked cars on the street, Aiden would rush over to laugh at him and I'd flip off my sled and get snow in my butt. But still, Olympics!

This Little Blog of Mine

I was at just about hook my thumbnail in between my teeth and rip it from the quick when a guy appeared in front of me and asked, 'Is your name Gina.'

It is, I told him. And I took my thumb out of my mouth.

"I read your blog," he said. "I just thought I'd say, 'Hi.'"

How awesome is that?!

This was today Target. I was giving up my search for sticker paper and was on my way to the potato chips granola bar aisle, so I guess I was somewhere near the notebooks and party planning aisles when I met Dan, a blog reader I've never met.

In the five or so minutes we stood there chatting I learned that he's a graphic designer and that his friend, Heather, who moved to San Francisco, sent him my URL when he was looking for local blogs to read. He told me Heather's last name, but I didn't know her. Then I learned that his sister has her dream job at Children's as a child-life specialist at the Liberty campus. I asked if he has a blog (he doesn't) and we agreed we both probably spend too much time reading about other people's random lives on the Internet.

I was happy to meet him.

Back in CiN's heyday it wasn't uncommon for me to be occasionally recognized (usually by a teenage boy) while I was out and about, an occupational hazard of having your photo in the weekly entertainment rag. But never has anyone recognized me simply because of my blog. How outstanding. I'm just sorry I had my thumb in my mouth for my first in-person impression. Aww well.

As I was pushing my cart away I wondered what Dan, my new blog reading BFF from Target, must have thought of its contents, because come on, who wouldn't look, right? So I took a photo and while I can't pretend to know what Dan thought, here's what I'd have thought if I'd have bumped into me at Target:

1.) She's addicted to Advil.
2.) She has sensitive teeth and might also be addicted to toothpaste.
3.) L'Oreal Excellent 9A Light Ash Blonde is a fantastic color on her. (Cooler blonde shades really bring out her brown eyes and pale skin.)
4.) She has a cat, or two.
5.) Wow, this girl really loads up on the toilet paper and cleaning supplies.

All of which is true, of course.

So anyway, a big 'Howdee' to all you Gina Blogs readers out there who I don't know. Which, now that I've met Dan is probably like, no one. So 'Hi' to everyone I do know. See you at Target!