Happy mothers day and breast cancer walk

I’m nearing the end of this weekend, and I have to say that I’m thrilled to have made it through. Yesterday was my mother’s birthday, and I survived the same way my father survives every day, which is by keeping myself extremely busy.

I’m getting a ton of work done to the house, and I’m happy to report that the countertops are in! That’s right, they are installed and everything. The granite guys arrived on Saturday morning as scheduled, and got to work immediately.

The bathroom guys, however . . . totally different story. They were originally supposed to be here on Friday, but they were late and I had to leave for work, so I told them to postpone the job until Saturday. This was partially a spite move because I technically could have gone in to work a bit later, but I’m a time person and I needed to show this contractor that lateness is a bad move — particularly if he wants any additional work out of me.

They finally arrived at roughly 10:00 am.

Like any other home improvement process, the day wasn’t problem-free. First, I had to run to the store to get primer for the bathroom ceiling. I had forgotten that the ceiling was new dry wall and would require primer — particularly before painting it the deep red paint that I selected (Behr - Vin Rouge — tried to upload a swatch, but kept getting error messages). I went to the neighborhood Ace Hardware store.

I wonder if Ace corporate is aware of this particular store, which looks like a throwback. They have no updated home improvement items whatsoever. Sure, they have paint and primer, but they also have the old school plastic window shades, and frilly curtains that look like they’d go up in flame if you even blew smoke in their direction. The cashier could not possibly be bothered with my request, and when I asked for primer, she didn’t remove her outsized ass from her chair. Instead she bellowed for “Mike” who was apparently in the back of the store, gossiping with someone who may or may not have been a fellow Ace employee. He finally ambled his slow ass up the front to help me, but by that time, I’d already located the primer.

While I was out, I grabbed a dozen donuts and a box of coffee for the boys (and myself — except I don’t like coffee. I’ll be in the gym an extra few hours this week to combat the effects of the donuts).

When I returned to Construction Central, was informed by Tom The Granite Man that I needed a new drain basket for the sink — unless I was excited about the idea of using the old cruddy one. I ran, once again to the neighborhood Ace Hardware, concerned that they wouldn’t have anything as sophisticated as a drain basket, particularly the kind that would match my sink. This time, Mike came through.

Granite was installed. I paid the remainder of my balance, and when the truck pulled away, I realized that they had dented my microwave. Yes a big freakin’ dent in my BRAND NEW MICROWAVE. I called Tom immediately to inform him that he would be having my microwave fixed, in a nice way, of course. He was nice, largely because it’s not too late to stop payment on either of the checks I’ve given him. We’re talking further in the morning.

I tried to calm down (I love the hell out of that microwave, dammit!), and the painter told me that I would need another gallon of paint. WTF???

I didn’t want to leave him there completely alone, so I requested the assistance of my father, who’s so sweet and always willing to help. But I don’t let the sweetness of my father fool me. Yes, he’s sweet, but he often gets things wrong. This was a risky request. I could have received the wrong color, the wrong finish. Hell, he could have brought a quart. Who knows? Anything could have happened. However, he came through, and the painting continued.

Then there was an electrical problem, and the electricity would have to be rerouted to change the vanity light. Ugh.

Needless to say, the work is not yet done. I’m not a happy girl, but by Tuesday, I should be . . . but keep your fingers crossed.

As for the breast cancer walk . . .

I woke up this morning to a mini-monsoon. Rainy, gloomy weather made me want to pull the covers over my head and hide, when, in fact I had registered to participate in the Y-Me breast cancer walk.

My friend Chris was planning to walk with me. Other people wanted to walk with me too, but truthfully, I couldn’t walk with anyone who wanted to talk about breast cancer. It sounds weird, because that’s the whole point, right? But I couldn’t deal with it, and couldn’t be with anyone who was inclined to spend the entire 3 miles basking in the glow of breast power — not another mother, not another child, no survivors, no other caretakers. I didn’t really want to be immersed in a group of people who were talking about it. I just wanted to complete the walk and pay homage to my mother and do my part in fighting the disease.

Chris was my guy. He and I were planning to laugh the entire time, which sounded like the best offer I’d heard.

So, when the weather sucked, I decided to call Chris. If he was game, so was I, and the reality is that I would have felt SO guilty raising money without even trying to get my ass out there and brave the weather for the cause.

Chris answered the phone “Good morning, sunshine.”

I replied: “Yes, but we have no sunshine. Have you looked outside? What do you think?”

He said: “Well, if you still want to do it, I’m game. I don’t care about a little water.”

I suddenly felt inspired: “Okay, well I’ll get myself together and pick you up.”

I scooped him up and we tried to park as close to Grant Park as possible. I got pretty damned close (because I’m a rock star parker). As it rained, I went to collect my bib. As we neared the starting line, it began raining harder, and harder still.

I could hear my mother (who never left the house in the rain) saying, “Nobody told your dumb ass to walk out in the rain anyway! You certainly don’t have to do that for ME. And just LOOK at your HAIR!”

We passed the starting gate, and walked about a block before I pulled the ripcord on our mission and made the executive decision to have breakfast.

By the time we walked the car, the rain was sideways and pelting us in the face. We arrived at Hash Browns on Maxwell and ate breakfast, soaked to the skin. I treated, of course, which was the least I could do, given that nobody else would have rallied as hard Chris.

I arrived home, having walked about .25 miles, and peeled off the wet clothes. I was so soaking wet that I had to wring out my thong. No joke.

So, for those of you who supported and sponsored me . . . THANK YOU!! I tried, Mom, I really did.

Happy birthday mom, and home improvement day

It’s my mother’s birthday today. I was SO hoping that she would live to see this day, but of couse, she missed it by nearly 3 months. I’m trying to keep myself busy, which isn’t hard because I have tons of work to do. I will also be happy to make it through Mother’s Day this year. I found out that she was sick last year on Mother’s Day, and it’s hard to believe that she was gone within one year.

Enough of the depressing stuff . . . to celebrate her birthday — to celebrate her in general, I have the contractors here doing my home improvement projects.

My mother was an advocate of having everything in your home the way you want it, and I can hear her saying “Gina, you work every day and make your own money. If you’re not working to make your life better, then what are you working for? You should have what you want.”

And people wonder why I’m so spoiled.

That’s right, today’s the day! The day that my new countertops are installed, and the day that the God-shaped hole in the ceiling of my powder room gets fixed, and the room is painted. I also get new recessed lighting and a new vanity. I can barely contain myself.

I’ll post before and after pics so that everyone can check out the progress.

Collabo - no

One of the (many) reasons why I’m still single is that I’m a HORRIBLE collaborator.

I’m not a great team player, and although I have to be somewhat teamy at work, I’m a much better individual contributor. I’m just wired that way. I’m an only child, and we tend to either need to have partners in crime, or not. I’m the latter. My friend Lorrie is an only child who’s my polar opposite. She loves a co-conspirator.

People occasionally ask to write articles with me, and I can’t think of anything less appetizing. In true only child fashion, I cringe when I hear anyone say: “We should collaborate on . . . “ I find ways to stave them off, and I’m pretty sure they think I’m being a bitch (which wouldn’t completely unheard of), but it’s not personal. And it’s REALLY not because I think I’m some great writer whose work shouldn’t be tainted (I’m very grateful for my editor). My process simply isn’t organized enough to bring someone else into the fold.

I often write in the middle of the night, sitting in my bed, after having spent the entire day thinking about how I’m going to put it down. I don’t want to talk about it; I want to either write it, or keep thinking about it. I’m introspective, and in my own head a lot.

I don’t want to have ideation sessions, or drafts of outlines. I do that at work, and I only tolerate it because of the amount of money that I’m getting paid, and the fact that what I’m doing during my 55 hour work week is hardly considered creative. When those processes spill over into my creative world, I’m totally miserable. Writing becomes depressing.

In certain cases, the suggestions come from people who aren’t really writers who think their ideas are great, but can’t express themselves. In other cases, the would-be-collaborators are interested in getting something out, but only doing half the work. Sometimes people think that I have a better chance of getting published (little do they know!) In some cases (a very select few – like only one that I can recall), it’s a person who has really given serious thought to our styles and how they would combine.

Or — and this is my fave — it’s a guy who wants to inject a counterpoint to my very opinionated point. I’ve received multitudes of these suggestions – typically from men who recognize me at parties (most of whom have trouble structuring a sentence verbally, giving me low incentive, but I digress).

I’m more aggressive about giving them the Heisman — Dude, if you want to express your opinion, trust me when I tell you that it won’t be in the context of my column. I have no interest in having witty banter with you in print. None whatsoever. That’s not why I write what I write. The purpose of my column is to give perspective, not to berate men. Believe it, or not.

Tea

I love tea, and I have to take the time to rave about a tea that I absolutely love.

Backstory — I was at a friend’s bridal shower a few weeks ago, which was a wonderful tea party and very un-bridal-shower-like. No silly word scramble games, no pin-the-penis-on-the-man (yes, I’ve actually been forced to play that game at a shower. It’s not fun.) Anyhoo . . . the hostess made several different varieties of tea, and each table was equipped with 5 decorative teapots so that we could all sample each tea. It was a beautiful event.

So . . . one of the teas was Green Coconut from TeaGschwender. If you like green tea and coconut, this tea seriously rocks.

The funny thing about tea shops is that the employees are total tea snots. When I went to purchase my very own bag of loose Green Coconut tea, the sweet salesgirl mentioned that I should make sure that I’m steeping at the right temperature, which is apparently 90 degrees.

I’m at a loss for how to measure the temperature of my boiling water. I didn’t dare mention to Tea Girl that I planned to boil water in the microwave. I’m sure she would have slipped into cardiac arrest, forcing her to drop the sample cup of Ayurvedic Chili Tea that she was handing to me (and by the way, if anyone ever offers you a cup of Ayurvedic tea that incorporates chili peppers, your esophagus would be grateful if you said no. In fact, say no, while you still retain the ability to speak).

Before my chat with Tea Girl, I was familiar with the perils of oversteeping green tea. I’m a bit of a green tea snot myself, and tend to give lectures on the dangers of allowing the tea leaves to steep for longer than 1-2 minutes.

For all of you who are unfamiliar, green tea tends to become bitter if allowed to steep for any longer. It tastes like bark and ass. Yuck. And if you order green tea at a restaurant, and it arrives in one of those continuous steeping pots, have one cup, and one cup only. By the time you pour your second one, you will be hit in the mouth with ass taste — and who wants that??

Anyhoo . . . I must have done a great job with the tea, because I’m sipping in between lines of typing and it’s delish.

Busted!

The new column released on Friday. It’s all about how people get busted cheating, and a surefire way to never get busted again! Check it out!

Also, if you haven’t yet read my new column — Date Night With Gina B. — take a look and find out where to go for a good date. I give good insider tips, so give it a try!

Politics?

To address Damon’s comment from the previous post, I’m not really so political. I have political views, and favorites, and reasons why I have my favorites, but really? I get sick of hearing everyone complain about politicians. I gravitate toward other things in conversation.

Having said that, I will say that I think this Rev. Wright thing has gotten completely out of hand, and that I wish he would continue his retirement quietly and without news cameras. There are certain things you don’t say in public . . . even if you feel that way.
It would be ridiculous if his outbursts could irrevocably damage the candidacy of Obama.

Okay, that’s it for me and political discussions.

Let’s discuss granite instead. I’ve been obsessed with replacing my countertops in my kitchen. I’ve hated them from the very beginning, and I’m finally going to do something about them. As I blogged a few weeks ago, choosing the countertop material was stressful. Did I want quartz, granite, or something else?

Well . . . I looked at quartz, which is an engineered stone. Not so much. The pattern was too regular for my tastes. I learned that I liked something with less regularity, which is why I decided on granite. Everyone says “but you have to seal it.” Not really. If you get it from the right place, they will seal it for you, and that seal will last 15 years.

Then, I decided to get quotes — because I don’t feel complete unless I get a deal.

I drove out to a remote suburb (where Jesus lost his sandals), and visited the Great Indoors. Nothing great there - particularly not the quote that I received — nearly $5,000 for 41 square feet of countertop. The funny thing is that they had marked up the granite that I liked by at least $20/square foot, but the salesman proudly announced that they were running a sale, which would reduce the price by $10/square foot. Thanks a lot. The guy looked at me as though he expected me to sign on the dotted line, and I looked at him as though he’d discovered a new incarnation of meth.

I moseyed across the street to Expo Design Center. MUCH better! The quote was nearly $1,200 less. I showed them the quote from Great Indoors and they couldn’t believe how much GI nickles and dimes the customers — hundreds of dollars to cut a sink hole, even more for function holes. And they work on commission at GI, so they have every incentive to try and bend you over the counter (pardon the pun) and screw you on the prices.

I decided to also follow a few leads from friends who are in real estate and restaurant development.

I’ve learned a lot about this very stressful process. First, I learned, importantly, that you have to know a few key things when replacing your countertop: 1) How thick is the granite (if it’s less than 3 cm, don’t do it). 2) How much do they charge for cutting holes — they all charge and it varies. 3) And this is the most important part, as far as I’m concerned — will they reconnect your plumbing? The last thing you want is to get your countertops and sink installed, only to realize that you no longer have running water.

One of the women at a granite shop on the north side actually suggested that I have one of my male friends reconnect my plumbing. That was last week, and I’ve only just now stopped laughing.

So . . . having said all of that, today is the day that I make the executive decision — do I go with Expo? One of the smaller guys? This needs to get done within the next week, so I’m itching to get started.

BTW — still haven’t solved the problem of the backsplash. Baby steps!

Is anyone else tired of the election, and my smutty shopping

I’m so sick of the mudslinging and issues that really have nothing to do with THE issues. And to think . . . we have several more months of this until the REAL election.

Funny . . . I was in a sex shop the other night and the guy who was working the counter was a young, clean-cut guy — looked like he could have come from Iowa, or some such midwestern state. So, I couldn’t resist talking to him, and asking him how one comes to work in a sex shop. He said that he was recently released from the armed forces (can’t remember which one), and that working in a sex shop was the first job that he landed post release. Apparently he’s card-carrying Barack supporter, and he said that if McCain wins, he plans to move to Paris, but if Hillary wins, he’ll only move to Canada. I don’t know why I found that to be so funny, but I did.

As for the sex shop — because I’m sure you’re wondering — it was a newer one on Milwaukee in Wicker Park. I was walking by with a friend and couldn’t resist. Besides . . . I like to look at the products. Whoever comes up with the names of porn movies and dildoes are geniuses. My favorite porn title to date has been “E3 - The Extra Testicle,” although I’ve always thought that “Shaving Ryan’s Privates” would be a great title. As for sex toys, I’ve always been pretty grossed out by something called The Anal Intruder, apparently quite the enhancer for gay men — although it appears to be nothing short of a torture device (I’m sure there’s a pun in there somewhere).

They do have cute little novelty and bachelorette party gifts, in case you’re in the market. My friend bought a lollipop for his girlfriend, and it was rather innocent. It was heart-shaped, as opposed to the predictable suckers, shaped like male sex organs, and it had a very subtle sexual message (”Let’s fuck”). Love it.

I’ll take “people who don’t get it” for $1,000, Alex

So, I get a lot of mail, and sometimes I get a message from someone who has clearly failed to understand the point.

I got one such letter today from Glen, who felt that my online dating column was an attack against racism in dating. So, dear Glen wrote the following note:

“Ms. Gina B. Let me enighten you about something. There is no such thing
as racism in dating. If people prefer one race (and/or gender) over
another, it is perfectlly fine. Have you heard of the word freedom or
“personal choice?” Some races and genders create a reputation that makes
them less desirable. They need to live with the consequences of their
actions.”

“Let me enlighten you about something?” Is he serious? He must be on that new crack.

I was SO ready to aim both smoking barrels and fire away. I thought of something like “Glen, I seriously don’t give a fuck about who you date, or what might be your perception of mine or any other nationality. All I really care about, Glen, is that you read my article thoroughly before sending a stupid letter. I ask that you put your reading comprehension skills to good use. Clearly I believe in personal choice. Our lives are nothing, if not a series of our personal choices. In fact, I’m sure that many women have exercised their personal choices by declining to date you.”

I was good. I was, in fact, rather sweet. I wrote, instead:

Dear Glen:

Thanks for you message, but I don’t think you understood the point of my column. My turn to enlighten you.

I will point you to the following paragraph:
“To set the record straight, I have absolutely no problem with anyone’s preference. If you don’t want to date someone who looks like me, no worries. I’m happy to find a person who does.”

To further clarify, my point is that I applaud freedom, and have my own, very specific personal choices about who I will or will not date.

My issue is with dating sites who don’t match people up BASED on their personal choices. To depersonalize this, if you don’t like dating purple women, wouldn’t it piss you off if you got a steady stream of purple women in your selection of choices? Particularly if you’ve paid good money to find blue women?

Understand?

Have a wonderful weekend.

Gina

Should I have been harsher? Thoughts?

Bus doors and Gator

So, the other day, at 7:35 am, I was getting off the bus to go to work. It was Monday morning, and if I measured my interest level in going to work on a scale of 1 to 10, it would land somewhere at 1.2.

I got off the bus at the back door, and felt the door slip behind me as I made an attempt to hold it. In case you’re not aware of the back doors of CTA buses, they have hyperactive hinges that snap shut, and will catch and decapitate you. If anyone has trouble applying strength to push a heavy door, they should make their way to the front of the bus, where the often surly bus driver will fling it open for you without any expenditure of energy.

I was making my brisk walk down the street toward my office building, when a man walking on my right began to mutter something in my direction. He was an older guy – I’d give him about 55 – a non-descript black man with teeth that have earned him the nickname of Gator.

I’m not really social in the morning (or with strangers on the street), and try to avoid any pre-8:00 am chatter (or any chatter at all that involves a stranger on the street).

I wrinkled my face in clear annoyance and said “What?”

Gator repeated himself, “You should hold the door open for a guy the way he would hold it for you?”

More annoyed, I said, “I’m sorry? What are you talking about?”

I quickly determined that he must have been behind me on the bus, and was upset because he felt that I had dropped the door on him. But instead of explaining that like a normal, communicative human being, Gator decided, instead, to repeat his ridiculous assertion: “A guy would hold the door for you.”

At this point, I rolled my eyes and kept walking, face forward.

I didn’t know what else there was to discuss. He took it personally that I let the door slam behind me. I can recall SEVERAL times where I thought that the person in front of me could have taken more time to hold the door for me. But you know what? Shit happens. Especially in morning when people have a lot on their minds. Those door-droppers weren’t trying to be malicious to me – they were just in their own worlds. And, given the amount of time I’m in my own head, I certainly can’t fault anyone for being in their own world – that’s for sure. The fact that he was making this a male-female issue was uber-annoying.

But did it stop there? Did he just let me continue to work and drop the conversation? Oh no. Gator had to repeat himself — AGAIN. I don’t know what he expected. At that point, he wasn’t getting an apology. Speaking to me in an accusatory manner never gets a good result.

So, I turned to him and said: “You know what? I don’t think I’ve ever even SEEN you, much less deliberately slammed a door on you. I suggest you get over it and move on to another problem in your day. And if this is your biggest problem, congratulations!”

I didn’t add what I wanted to say: “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve been the perfect gentleman your entire life, and have never wronged a woman. Maybe some woman did you wrong and left your splayed-tooth-having ass. I’m certain that’s where this hostility about an irrelevant bus door comes from. Well, leave me out of it. In fact, now that you’ve pissed me off, the next time I will deliberately slam the door on you, at which time you should just open it for yourself and shut the fuck up. Punk.”

Impressed at myself for avoiding an irrational rant (although it would have felt SO gratifying), I glanced over at him while he attempted a rebuttal that began with “I was just saying that . . . “, and gave him a cursory, dismissive “Whatever” and crossed the street.

Don’t give me any credit. I’m really not that mature. Of course I’ve looked for him the last few days on the bus, hoping that I would get the opportunity to exit in front of him and actively push the doors closed behind me.

Yes, I know. This is how people get shot in the street.

What a shock!!

What a shock!

BREAKING NEWS: Star Jones Files for Divorce
Originally posted Wednesday April 23, 2008 10:50 AM EDT

Star Jones has filed for divorce from husband Al Reynolds. In a statement to Entertainment Tonight, Jones says: “Several years ago I made an error in judgment by inviting the media into the most intimate area of my life. A month ago I filed for divorce. The dissolution of a marriage is a difficult time in anyone’s life that requires privacy with one’s thoughts. I have committed myself to handling this situation with dignity and grace and look forward to emerging from this period as a stronger and wiser woman.”

Read: Never again will I marry a gay man.