It’s come to my attention — or rather it’s been b…

It’s come to my attention — or rather it’s been brought to my attention — that I should be more of a planner. My father is always reminding me that I need to devise a “five-year plan.” He’s been trying to get me to do this for years (more than five), and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not a planner, I’m a faller. “If you fail to plan,” he insists, “you plan to fail.”

I envy planners. They know themselves, and their capabilities. I have friends who are planners, and they completely kick ass. They’re successful and deliberate. I am the antithesis of this. I’m more of the rambling commitment-phobe who tends to fall into things, which is probably why I’m not successful or deliberate.

I’ve decided that I’m too tired and old to continue to fly by the seat of my pants and stumble across lukewarm opportunities, so during the last few days, I’ve been trying to create a five-year plan. I had no idea how hard it was. I have not one item on my list of things to-do. How pathetic is that?? Does this means I don’t have goals or aspirations? Maybe. More on this later . . . I hope.

I forgot to discuss my WTF moment of the week. Ap…

I forgot to discuss my WTF moment of the week. Apparently, Julia Roberts gave birth to her twins, which she named . . . are you ready? . . . Hazel and Phinnaeus. WTF??? I thought she was one of the normal ones. What the hell is wrong with celebrities and their child-naming strategies? It’s just wrong! How can you carry something for nearly 10 months, lay on a table being stretched all to hell and pushing out every internal organ during delivery, and when you finally get what you’ve been waiting for, you decide that it’s appropriate to name him Phinnaeus or her Hazel, or Apple, or Banjo, or whatever-the-hell else people have been naming their kids. I don’t get it. I guess I never will.

Yes, I’ve been a negligent blogger. It seems that…

Yes, I’ve been a negligent blogger. It seems that I took a holiday from everything over the weekend. So . . . to catch you up . . .

I managed to do all of my major Thanksgiving shopping early — on the Monday before Thanksgiving. It was a good thing, too, since horrible weather struck on Wednesday. However, although I was really efficient this year with my list-making strategy, I still ended up making small trips to the store almost every day.

Fortunately, I was also ahead of my pre-Thanksgiving cooking because at exactly 9:36 am on Thursday morning, with about 9 dishes in various stages of preparation, my sink clogged. Horrendously. AND the side that was stopped up was the garbage disposal side. The garbage disposal is my absolutely fave appliance on a normal day, much less on a day when there’s an abundance of organic wet garbage that could easily be shoved down the sink and forever removed from my sight. If there was ever a day that it would have been good to have a man in the house, this was it.

I did a few routine tests and figured out that the problem was probably not the garbage disposal itself, but a clogging in the drain. I was overjoyed because the last time the garbage disposal was blocked, someone had to come over, remove the entire thing and clean it out.

So, I put on some respectable clothing and went to the neighborhood Jewel, the grocery store from hell, where I was expecting mass havoc and chaotic shopping tactics executed by the unprepared. I was pleasantly surprised to find the lines moving smoothly and the absence of excessive price checks on 40 oz bottles of malt liquor.

On a mission, I went directly to the aisle for cleaning products and found a bottle that purported to contain “the strongest declogger EVER.” I read the fine print, found that it was, indeed, safe in garbage disposals. How could I go wrong, right?

Then, just to be on the safe side, I grabbed a gallon bottle of white vinegar, in case I needed to get medieval.

I rushed home and began the declog process. Okay . . . in case anyone ever thinks that the claims on the bottle of a product are a true representative of what the product really does, think again. Not only was this product NOT the strongest declogger ever, I think I might have heard my sink utter a taunting chuckle as I watched it fill with an ominous-smelling foam that was supposed to be getting the job done.

I read the back of the bottle and it said that, for stubborn clogs, I should allow an hour for it to work. So I ignored the sink for a while, but an hour later that nasty mess was still there, foam and all.

Just as I was entering the primary stages of a nervous breakdown, and reaching for the chilled bottles of wine, I decided that it was Medieval time. I did what I should have done to begin with. I bailed all of the sludge out of the clogged sink, poured a box of baking soda down the drain, chased it with about 1/2 gallon of white vinegar and backed it all up with about a minute’s worth of hot water. It was, literally, the bomb. The sink miraculously unclogged and I was stress free and back on schedule.

Everything turned out well. My guests asked for leftovers-to-go, and my father ate seconds, which is the best compliment. He’s persnickety about … well … everything, but especially his food.

Speaking of which, Saturday was my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. Jeez! Now that’s what I call perserverance. Or insanity. I can’t decide which.

I’m trying to break my mother of a bad habit. I k…

I’m trying to break my mother of a bad habit. I know that this is an exercise in futility because I’ve never, to date, been able to break her of any of her other bad habits, but hey . . . I’ve gotta strive for something, right?

She does this thing I hate, which is that she leaves incomplete messages on my voicemail. She says things like “Gina, it’s your mother. Call me. I have a question for you.” After I hear that, I think of how nice it would have been if she’d actually told me what the question was on the machine. That way, I can prepare the answer before I call her back.

That would be a luxury, actually, because my mother’s questions are never easy. They always involved far too much brainpower on my part. She asks things like: “Remember that girl that you went to grammar school with? The one with the pretty red coat? Well, I think I saw her today. What was her little brother’s name?”

Okay, now clearly, this will not be an answer that I can provide. And if I could, I’m not sure if would — just because I don’t want to set the precedent that I can decipher such foolishness. But if she were to leave that on my voicemail, I would have been better prepared for the ridiculousness of it all. I would have been able to brace myself for the annoyance.

Somehow, I think the ‘question’ is a mere lure . . . designed to get me to call her. It’s just plain mean.

The countdown to Thanksgiving dinner begins. Yest…

The countdown to Thanksgiving dinner begins. Yesterday, I did every bit of food shopping for the meal, including the gi-normous turkey that’s taking up an entire shelf in the fridge. Today, I shirked all client responsibilities and went on a mission for new tableware and festive stuff for Casa de Gina. The thing on the top of my list was a very boring purchase — a new flour sifter. Not exciting, but very necessary. I went to, of all places, Ikea, just for shits and giggles. $170 later, with no clue of what I actually bought, I emerged sifter-less. I’ve told all of my friends that if ever they hear me talking about making a trip to Ikea, they should throw themselves in front of my car, and beg me not to go. Of course, they also run the risk of getting run over . . .

Speaking of which, I got caught in the middle of the Festival of Lights on Saturday. And for those of you who haven’t had this wonderful experience, it’s the night that all of the Christmas lights are officially activated on North Michigan Avenue. I agreed to help my friend Jen at her Mirror Me holiday store in Chicago Place during the busy part of day, and as I was driving up Michigan, I noticed that people were driving even crazier than normal. The dead giveaway was when I saw that the silver barriers had been installed all the way down the street.

This day is legendary in Chicago, although I don’t understand the hoopla. It’s that fated event that draws suburbanites and people from out of state — complete with their unruly children. You can tell the out-of-staters a mile away. They’re way short of fashionable, and they’re fascinated by the tall buildings, which makes walking behind them a harrowing experience. They’re in no particular hurry, looking up and pointing — although it’s always unclear as to what they’re pointing at. Do they see one of our native falcons? An airplane? Or are they trying to glimpse the top of the Hancock building? I’m never sure. All I know is that they peer upward in the midst of what would be an efficient stream of pedestrian traffic, causing an annoying sidewalk traffic jam.

This event culminates after sunset and the complete blockage of Michigan avenue so that a cadre of miserable people dressed as Disney characters on steroids can march down the middle of the street, while entertaining a crowd of chipper Iowans, rural Illini, Michigan fans, American Girl shoppers, and those who weren’t aware that FAO Schwarz has been closed for a few years.

Am I bitter? No, just an innocent city girl who enjoys an uninterrupted brisk power walk through a steady flow of fellow experienced city walkers. My favorite quote was from my friend, M., mother of a 2-year-old who was asked if she was taking her child to the Festival of Lights. “Oh, no! We’ll probably NEVER do the Festival of Lights. Now . . . if we had a room at the Ritz Carlton that overlooked Michigan Avenue, we might consider watching. Otherwise, until my daughter is old enough to have cocktails with me at Nomi [posh restaurant/bar in the Park Hilton], it won’t be happening.”

It’s already a good day. Even if it’s only 7:41 a…

It’s already a good day. Even if it’s only 7:41 am and rainy.

First of all, Ellie (my sick cat) is eating happily. This might not sound like a big deal, but when you have a 4 lb cat with Chronic Renal Failure who was finicky even before her illness, trust me, it’s a BIG DEAL. Animal mealtime here at Barge Manor consists of feeding the other cat “the good stuff” in a different room, and giving Ellie her less-exciting food, while waiting to see if she’s going to turn her nose up at it. And then if she doesn’t eat, trying to resist resorting to medieval measures to get some nutrients in her little system. Sad.

The other bit of happiness is that I successfully connected with the garbage man. Friday is garbage day around here, and I always like to hand my trash directly to the sanitation guys, who are really nice, and actually think there’s a problem if they don’t see me running out toting large garbage bags with disheveled morning hair, and wearing mis-matched sweats.

This week, it was especially important that I give them the trash. Since I’ve been giving Ellie fluids, I have exciting trash like IV bags and old hypodermic needles. The vet’s office told me, after I’d gone through the first batch, that I should bring the used needles in to be disposed of as medical waste. This concept blew past me the first time, and I was just putting the little plastic cap back on and throwing them in the kitchen trash can. Damned if I was going to sort through garbage to retrieve the 10 or so needles that had already been tossed. This means that, if a street person went through my trash, I would have made some heroin addict REALLY happy. I’m sure there’s a comedic sketch here somewhere.

As I type, I’m half-watching Good Morning America. I looked up and saw an assortment of greasy cheeseburgers, the largest of which is the Hardee’s Monster Thickburger, which has a staggering 1420 Calories and a gelatinous 107g of Fat. And then they have the nerve to charge nearly $6.00 for this clogged-artery-in-a-box. My first WTF moment of the day! Do we wonder why middle America is frickin’ obese?

Okay, so now it’s 8:00 am, and I’m off to find more happy moments.

Smooches,

G.

I was just (procrastinating) watching my TiVo of O…

I was just (procrastinating) watching my TiVo of Oprah, and it was about celebrities who are admitting that they have chemical inbalances, and talking about their coping mechanisms, etc. Does this surprise anyone? There are more celebrity nut jobs out there than are letting on, and there’s a reason for it.

It’s funny how, in society, creative people are glamorized. It’s not unwarranted. Creativity is a beautiful thing, and the world would be a sad place without it. But doesn’t everyone understand that true creativity begins with pain? Creativity is a great outlet for pain — it enables us to turn pain into beauty.

If you think about it, all of the TRULY creative people (and we’re not talking about the fluffy pseudo-creatives who have a gimmick and a penchant for the limelight) are a little nutty? People slam Eminem all the time for how “disturbed” they perceive him to be. But, however off-kilter he might be, and how much he might offend you, you have to admit that he’s extremely creative and talented. Michael Jackson is chided for being pervert, but I’ll be damned if every one of us won’t watch him perform. Van Gogh amputated his own ear. Andy Warhol had bad hair. Countless other artists substance-abused themselves to death. As an occasionally creative person who was raised by a creative, I can tell you firsthand that my most creative pieces are written when I’m in a dark place. That’s just the way it works.

Why am I on this soapbox, again? I can’t remember. Oprah does that to me — she makes me go on tangents. (I know . . . blame it on Oprah, right?)

Other excitement . . . I’ve been downloading Christmas tunes for my holiday CD, and I’ve determined that everyone shouldn’t sing Christmas songs. In fact, I feel the need to give the award for the “Worst Rendition of a Holiday Song.” And the G-Spot award goes to (drumroll, please) . . . HOOTIE AND THE BLOWFISH for their eardrum-shattering bastardization of “Ave Maria.”

And, no, I’m not kidding. This is a VERY serious WTF moment. WTF made Hootie — and yes, I know he has a real name, but right now, for these purposes, his name is Hootie, dammit! Where was I? Oh, yeah. WTF made Hootie think that his gruff and gravelly voice would do justice to a delicate classic like Ave Maria??? If you notice, we haven’t seen anything from Hootie lately, and I firmly believe the band’s been blacklisted from studios across the country because of their ruination of this song.

If my pain theory holds true, he missed the point. The objective is to turn pain into BEAUTY, not into more pain. Jeez!

Thanksgiving has taken me by surprise this year, w…

Thanksgiving has taken me by surprise this year, which is a problem, because I cook the entire dinner every year. Forgive me if I’ve blogged about this before, but I’m always confused about how I ended up with this responsibility.

Before we get much further, let me say, for the record, that I love to cook. This surprises most people, but I really do love to cook. I’m a “slop cook,” which means that a recipe is merely a loose guideline when it comes to me and my cooking. My nose is better than a measuring cup when it comes to seasoning. This is why I have such a difficult time when people ask me for recipes. But, as usual, I digress . . .

My mother, who is not nearly as enamored with cooking, used to cook the dinner. When I was living in a small apartment on the Gold Coast, I was merely a guest. I showed up. I ate. I left. I had all of the benefits of the holiday, with none of the trappings. No preparation, no shopping, no special flatware, no tablecloths, and, above all, no cleaning. Then, one day, I, like a dum-dum, shared my new love of cooking (prior to that time, the kitchen was a place to chill my wine). She asked me to contribute “a dish or two” to the Thanksgiving dinner. I was happy that I could actually contribute.

The moment that I moved into a larger place and bought an actual dining room table was when she threw that responsibilty in my direction. So, for the last 6 or so years, I’ve been Turkey Girl. No longer does she lift a finger to make anything. She’s taken my previous role as the pampered guest. Over the years I’ve gotten much better at making the meal, and it’s not nearly the scary event that it used to be. After all, there are only three of us. Thanksgivings are actually more boring than anything. They’re like regular family dinners with way more food. I like to invite others when I can — as long as total number for dinner doesn’t exceed six. I only have six chairs!

I guess I should be spending my time planning my meal at some point. Perhaps today.

I watched the American Music Awards the other nigh…

I watched the American Music Awards the other night. I don’t know why. Actually, I do. I really enjoy the live performances, and seeing musicians in their drug- and alcohol-induced splendor. As was proven the other night, you don’t really need to be a musician to substance abuse prior to the AMAs. I’m sure that, by now, we’ve all seen the Anna Nicole Smith introduction of Kanye West. I think she might have combined TrimSpa with Prozac, and washed it down with Jack Daniels. It wasn’t a good combo.

On another note, I’ve gotten to the point where I prefer the self-serve grocery lines, no matter how many items I have. I visit the “questionable” Jewel (I’m being diplomatic) that’s near my house, and the cashiers — who have long lines waiting — ALWAYS feel the need to comment on what I’m buying. The other day I was buying hummus, and the cashier started perusing it (instead of ringing it up), looked up and said: “Dis dip?” I didn’t understand what she was asking at first, and I said “It’s hummus.” Then I thought about it, and said “Yeah, it’s dip.” It was the path of least resistance.

It’s been a sad week, actually. Ellie, my cat who has renal failure, is getting worse. She needs more regular attention from me, and I’ve been giving her fluids everyday, which is essentially like giving her an IV for 5 minutes each day. She responds well to this, but I have a heart attack every time I have to stick the needle in. The vet says that the fluids, vitamins and special food will help her to be more comfortable and buy her a few more months of life.

There are only certain friends that I’m sharing this with, going forward, because people who aren’t pet people say really stupid things. The other night, I told someone about it, and she asked me how old Ellie is. I replied (she’s 17), and then she said “Well, it’s about time.” Okay . . . just in case you’re not a pet person . . . no matter HOW old a pet is, a pet owner NEVER thinks it’s “about time” for her to die. Someone else asked me if it would be “easier” to put her to sleep. Yeah, I suppose it would have been easier to put her to sleep when she was having litterbox issues a few years ago, but I decided not to. Some people have children that should, arguably, be put to sleep based on their behavior problems, but I would never suggest that (aloud).

And then I’m having vet problems. I couldn’t get in with the normal vet because she was in surgery. I was desperate, so I scheduled an appointment another vet in the practice. My primary vet is a woman who’s kind of cold, not very helpful, and very overweight (even though that’s not really the point). She’s not very personable, nickle and dimes me to death, and somehow always takes the expensive option when it comes to giving my cat tests.

Yesterday, I had to make an appointment for Ellie, and the only vet available was a man, who is the antithesis of my primary. He’s nice, helpful, spends a lot of time talking about your pet, and will even give samples. Whereas my primary vet likes to send blood work to the lab for a crazy amount of cash, this guy recommended an in-house scan for a fraction of the cost, and he even waived the charge for the visit — which took nearly an hour. AND he gave me tangible signs to look for if her health is failing irreparably — something the other vet seemed unable to do, for some reason.

As I was checking out at the reception desk, my original vet was standing there and didn’t even say hello or ask me about Ellie. I know she recognized me because I was just there, and I might be the only black person I’ve ever seen in there. I’m always chatting with everyone, so I know she knew who I was. She was too busy ordering her sandwich and contemplating whether or not she should have fries. I had a suggestion, but I kept it to myself.

You’d better believe that I will be scheduling every appointment with the other vet from here on in. And I will walk past the other vet and wave, smiling, as she stuffs her face.

Smooches,

G.

Today we’re mourning the death of Wu-Tang Clan’s O…

Today we’re mourning the death of Wu-Tang Clan’s Old Dirty Bastard, also known as ODB, Big Baby Jesus or Dirt McGirt. How do I know all of this? I have no idea, but don’t hold it against me. But apparently he was YOUNG Dirty Bastard, because he was only 35. Not that he led the cleanest of lifestyles, but I’m wondering the cause of death. I’ve known a few people in their thirties that have just dropped dead of “natural causes,” which I’ve learned only means that it wasn’t homicide. It’s scary.