The weekend and kitchen issues

The weekend was fun. I went to a boxing match with a few friends. I like boxing. I used to box, in fact. I trained for 4 years and a few times my trainer (who’s also a promoter) asked if I would ever consider taking off the head gear and fighting professionals. I thought about it for a total of 5 seconds – enough time for my father’s disappointed face to appear in my mind. Also running through my head was the image of my nose being shoved to the other side of my face by a manly-chick-kissing-woman who wears her broken cartilage like a badge of honor. I think not. I do enjoy a good spar and it’s fun to go to the matches. They’re gritty and raw.

Celebrated a friend’s birthday for the first time (we will be celebrating again on Friday). And last night, went to see “21” with Kevin Spacey. Great movie. I’m now obsessed with learning more about the true story upon which the film is based. I swear, I need to spend more time watching documentaries.

Another highlight of the weekend was countertop and tile shopping. I’ve been on a kick to update my kitchen. If for no other reason than my kitchen sucked when I bought the place, and the last 8 years has only solidified the sucking. Laminate countertops are the worst, and I don’t care what that woman on HGTV’s kitchen remodel show says – laminate may have come a long way . . . but it still sucks.

So, I went to pick out new ones. I thought I had settled on quartz, because it’s supposed to be less maintenance than granite. That was until I actually laid eyes on the quartz. Not so much. Now I’ve decided to revert back to my original decision of granite.

There’s so much involved here. I’m overstimulated by choices. Once I select the countertop, I need to choose a backsplash . . . and a sink! Not only is this adding up, financially, but I’m stressed to death over it. What if I choose a countertop, and I hate it once installed? What if my backsplash clashes with the rest of the kitchen? What if the grim reaper shows up and takes me in the middle of the night? (That last one is probably the least ominous, because I would actually be absolved of my countertop selection responsibilities.)

I’ve narrowed it down to two styles – one is very dark. One is dark, but not as dark as the first one. Initially I said I didn’t want dark, yet here I am, drooling over dark granite. And then there’s the matter of the backsplash. I want small glass tiles, but what color? More decisions!!!!

It’s raining but i have to review a bar tonight. I swear, my work is never done.

Happy Easter

Easter is one of those funny “holidays.” When my mother and Aunt were both alive, my mom would call me and make sure that I called Aunt Willie to wish her a happy Easter, which made as much sense to me as wishing her a happy President’s Day. Happy Resurrection of Christ Day, Aunt Willie! Bizarre.

Anyhoo . . . I’ll think of all you who are boiling smelly eggs, sitting in a 4 hour mass in ridiculous hats and stuffing your faces with chocolate while I’m getting a full-body massage. On second thought . . . no I won’t!

Therapy?

It’s interesting, but people keep asking me if I’m seeing someone for my grief. I’m not.

I tried a form of therapy while my mom was sick, and I honesty hated talking about myself for an entire hour. Before I decided to stop, I felt like I was rambling endlessly about things that aren’t important because I didn’t know what to say. Not a good use of anyone’s time, in my opinion.

So, no . . . I have no further plans for therapy. I noticed something though . . . did anyone else realize that if you separate the syllables, Therapist becomes The Rapist? Just thought I’d share.

Keeping Busy, Easter Plans, TiVo, et al . . .

First of all, the new column has released. It’s about Google etiquette when you begin dating a new person. Check it out. Also, check the new column, Date Night with Gina B., if you want reviews of The Tasting Room, Exposure, La Pomme Rouge, and coming up next will be The Bungalow Lounge.

I’m a bit miffed because The Gina Spot has been cut in half to conserve newsprint, which means that I run every other Friday, and alternate my column with Jenni, the lesbian columnist. I’ve said it before, but I can’t help thinking that my 650 weekly words in a 45-70 page newspaper aren’t contributing to environmental destruction. I hate writing every two weeks because it wrecks the continuity of my deadlines and the audience. Also, to alternate my column with one whose audience is drastically different doesn’t really keep the readers interested.

If you would like to complain, feel free to write a letter to the editor. Or perhaps, since I’m so up in arms about it, maybe I should complain.

My friends have been keeping me very busy lately, which is great, although I’m typically “loner girl,” so I’m experiencing a lot of togetherness.

The problem now is that I’m eating too much. Scoozi last night, RL the night before, thai food the night before that. I love you all, but if you think I’m mourning NOW, think of how sad I’ll be when my size reaches double digits. I need to go out dancing more. I’ll have to build that in to the schedule.

Speaking of eating, I’m avoiding a big meal this weekend. I’m not exactly doing my mother proud with my quasi-Easter plans this year. She was the Catholic in the family. My father, I believe, is Baptist, and I’m nothing. I’ve never been baptized, and have no religious alignment whatsoever.

Some would call me a heathen (and by the way, if you call me a heathen? Yeah, you can go straight to hell), but I would call myself “spiritual.” We don’t exactly have religious unity in my family. Just recently, when my mom died, I found out that ½ of her siblings are Baptist, while the other half are Catholic. I don’t get it, but I also don’t understand the concept of 11 children (or even 1, for that matter). But I digress . . .

This Easter – which is really any given Sunday, by my upbringing – I will be praising the Universe while getting spa treatments at the Peninsula.

Hallelujah!

BTW, does anyone watch The Bachelor? Those who know me know that I consider The Bachelor to be television crack. This Bachelor is a cutie – I’m a sucker for an accent. I’m more concerned about the bachelorette contenders, per usual. Some of these women are deplorable.

Chicago had awful representation with skanky Stacy, who had heinous blonde extensions and found it appropriate to stick her panties in his pocket as he was talking to another girl. When he didn’t pick her, she said what I’ve heard so many women say over the years – “He just couldn’t handle me.” Nor would he want to.
I’m also surprised because the black woman made it past the first cut. Usually, the show makes sure that there’s a token minority in the house, and it’s usually moot because she never gets picked. Let’s see how long this one lasts. In the previews for the following week, I see she’s arguing with one of the other foofy girls in the house, so they may keep her on for the sake of drama.

Stay tuned.

New date night review

Now that I’ve accumulated a few reviews, I have my very own section on Metromix within Bars and Clubs. I’m the first of the features. Last Saturday I reviewed La Pomme Rouge. Check it out.

More transitions and being okay

I got my mom’s urn yesterday and took it to my house. It was delivered to my dad, but we agreed that I would take it. When I was selecting the urn, I originally chose a generic marble marker that essentially looked like a tabletop tombstone which would have included her name, date of birth and date of death. I didn’t know where I would put it – seemed pretty creepy to have that thing sitting on an end table as a daily reminder and potentially off-putting to guests (not that I have a lot of guests to put off).

After going through the urn catalog (everyone’s gotta make a living, right?), I ultimately selected a different one – a blue urn made of blown glass that included no inscribings. It’s signed by the artist. Very elegant, like my mother.

The problem now is that it’s weird to have her body in my house. I find myself talking to her – saying hello when I enter, goodbye when I leave. I’m wondering if this makes me crazy.

I also wonder if she would want to be at home with me, or if she would prefer to be someplace else. Maybe sprinkled in one of her favorite places. But it doesn’t matter. She didn’t state a preference and for the time being, she’s with me whether she would like it or not.

People keep asking me if I’m “talking to anyone” about it. I wonder what there is to talk about. She’s not here anymore and it sucks. That’s the long and short of it – the summation of what this truly is. I think that anyone who’s lost a parent will agree. It’s something that has profoundly changed my life that I have to walk around thinking about, even when I’m not supposed to be thinking about it – or even when I appear that I’m not thinking about it.

I’ve always known this, but lately it’s been reinforced that our friends, family, coworkers and even strangers – everyone - wants us to be okay. When people ask how you’re doing, they’re subconsciously crossing their fingers, hoping the answer will be “fine, how are you?” Anything beyond that could be too much, and not appropriate for that conversation. It’s almost as if they want you to be okay for their sake – not because they don’t want to deal with your issues, necessarily – but partially because they don’t want to have to worry about you and hurt for you. If you’re okay, they’re okay. And they can proceed with worrying about their own issues that make them not so okay.

I also find it interesting that some people follow up the question “How’s you dad handling everything?” with “Are you dating anyone?” I get it, primarily. I know that people want me to have someone to talk about this with, because I’m not really big on talking about it with friends. Or anyone, really. However, I’m not sure that dating someone is the answer. I’m finding men to be pretty baffling these days, and because I’m slightly impaired and not on my ‘A’ game, I need something simple. I can’t say that the words “dating” and “simple” belong in the same sentence.

In fact, writing the column and being a dating analyst of sorts, I often wonder how the whole thing gets done with all of the mitigating factors. Especially as we get older and have more baggage. But I digress . . .

The transition of the week is trying to get accustomed to my mother’s presence, all while trying to get used to her lack of presence. The ugly side of life . . .

St. Patricks Day AGAIN?

Why does it seem like just yesterday that the city was awash in stale green beer and the Chicago river was dyed green?

So . . . the column is running every other Friday because the paper is supposedly trying conserve news print — even though I am doubtful that my 650 words is doing so much to harm the environment. Date Night With Gina B. is also running every other week, and frankly, I’m having trouble keeping up with which week what column runs.

So stay tuned.

Trying to have fun . . .

These days, I have to concentrate on having fun. I’m slowly starting to go out again, and I will actually find myself having a good time, until I let my mind wander, and my hand reaches for my mother’s rings, which I wear on a black cord around my neck. I plan to find a beautiful silver chain for them, but the black cord actually feels more durable, and against black, the rings appear to be floating against my chest.

I went to a birthday party last Saturday night. It was a huge party where I saw a lot of old friends. Some of them knew, and we spent the first minute or so with them expressing their condolences. Afterward, I settled in to the rest of the party, and had the most fun talking to people who I’d just met, and those who didn’t know that my mother died.

Those who know me know that I like to dance. Love to dance, in fact. I’m always looking for a good dance partner, and I’m not the girl who will turn a guy down just because I don’t find him attractive (because let’s face it — the attractive ones rarely ask me to dance). Many times, I’ve heard my male friends complain that women take dance requests too seriously. They say “Damn! I wanted to dance with her, not marry her!”

So, I dance. And I get myself in trouble every time. Twice that night I danced with guys who thought that, just because I spent about 15 minutes on the dance floor with them, that I should be willing to forfeit a phone number. Not so much.

I slinked away from both of them without submitting any digits, and spent the remainder of the evening talking to one of my girlfriends who I hadn’t seen in forever, and consorting with my lady-slayer friend T., and his boys who made the evening much more fun. I told them about the column — even showed them the column, hoping they wouldn’t hold it against me.

The best story of the night happened after the party. I was limping to my car, as my feet were threatening a hostile coup from being made to dance in high-heeled boots all night, and I was approached by a man who I’d seen inside the party. (In that neighborhood, if I hadn’t seen him earlier, I would have forced my feet to break into a swift sprint.) I couldn’t take my eyes off of his horrific, faux man-fur. Maybe it was synthetic, maybe it was a hybrid rat-badger coat. I don’t know. Whatever it was looked like something that would hesitate to wipe my feet on. But I digress . . .

So, he approached me and told me that he found me to be “sensual.” Never mind that I doubt he could see me in the dark, much less determine my sensuality, but whatever. He told me that he is from Trinidad, and that his name is Dominique, all the while writing his phone number on a card. I looked up at him — he was a tall guy — about 6′3″ — and noticed that his winter hat said “I love sex.” It actually said “I [heart] sex,” similar to the “I [heart] NY” hats that the tourists love.

At that moment I thought that I’d sunk to a new low - I was in the freezing cold, with throbbing feet, walking to my car (that was parked in front of a White Castle), talking to a man named Dominique who is wearing a hat that advertises his love of sex. Really? Could it get worse?

Oh, yes it could!

Dominique insisted on walking me to my car. I protested, because I simply didn’t have the energy to beat his ass if he got out of line. He said “this is a bad neighborhood. There are a lot of crazy people out here.” I asked if he could be one of the crazies. He said: “I’m safe. I work for the state. Wanna see some ID?”

Well, of course I did.

Dominique whips out the ID — trying to keep up with my speedwalk pace — and I could tell that he was holding it kind of funny. It just wasn’t right. At that point, I noticed that his name is really Steve. So, in true Gina-style, I called him on it. Why? Who knows? But I couldn’t let him get away with it. He told me that Steve is his American name.

At that point, sensing that abduction was imminent, I jumped into my car and jetted, leaving Steve/Dominique/whomeverthefuck in the dust.

A fun night of dancing, flirting and drinking — and dodging derelicts. Hopefully more to come. Sans derelicts, hopefully.

Not such a fun post

Okay, so I haven’t posted in a while. Not the typical negligence on my part this time. This time, my lack of communication is actually warranted, if not expected.

So . . . my mother passed away on February 18th. She had been struggling for nearly a year with breast cancer, and it finally got the best of her. I never blogged about this because she was extremely secretive about her illness. My family members didn’t know — most of her friends didn’t know.

We had one memorial service last week, and then another yesterday in her hometown. It sounds pretty horrible to have to sit through two memorial services, and it IS horrible, but not as bad as I imagined. The first one was very musical, and people have told me that it was uplifting. The second was mostly family members who were able to drive in for the day. Bad, yes, but I was happy to see some of the relatives that I only seem to see at funerals, since we haven’t had a wedding in a long time.

There are few things that you can predict when you get together with family. There are dynamics that always seem to be present, no matter how old we get. More on that later. My family is actually pretty crazy, and there can be tons of stories about them. But, as I’m sitting in the lobby of my hotel, using the Business Services, I think the craziness would be much better addressed at a later time.

Anyway, to answer the vital questions — my father’s okay, I’m okay. We’re both task-mastering our way through this. I keep thinking that I’ll hit a brick wall one day, but I’m doing everything in my power to prevent that from happening. One day at a time.

In the meantime, I do have a new column that released — yes, in the midst of this I’ve managed to keep my deadlines. Don’t as me how. The new one is in Metromix, and this time I rated Exposure in Chicago’s South Loop. Enjoy.