Saturday, March 28, 2009


This weekend marks the first tournament in Dave's spring season, which means no trip to Cleveland for me. I met him and the guys for dinner tonight in Mt Vernon, then drove to my brother and sister-in-law's house to prepare food for my Dad's birthday dinner tomorrow. Potato salad tonight, pies tomorrow. I'm embracing my inner domestic goddess. In fact, I think I could be a good 1950's housewife. I love the fabulous dresses, I look good in pancake make-up and matte red lipstick, and I can down the vodka like nobody's business. Get me some valium and I'm there!

I picked up the Pearl Jam re-release last night on a shopping spree. Spree is defined very also included two shirts,
MAC primer, and a new journal. The CD? It's awesome. Incredible tracks, new music. The only thing that sucked was that the CD player in my car stopped working, so I had to wait until today to listen to it. I really need to get that thing fixed.

March Madness moves on and my bracket is in flames. That's not so awful; it happens every year. What stinks is that the person who picked Siena over my Buckeyes also made a few other picks which trumped mine. Retribution will be swift. It's one thing to win one game but to absolutely trounce my bracket on your own? Unacceptable.

The birthday week is almost over. It will soon be followed by the treadmill week, then the step up the cardio week and so on, to counteract the massive amount of sweets I've eaten. My new boss turned 50 on Wednesday and, suffice it to say, I made a piggy of myself that day as well. There was just so much to eat. Except coffee cake.

Let me tell you the coffee cake story. It's a good one.

Wednesday morning, my co-worker and mentor (and all-around funny girl), Virginia, was carrying a coffee cake from the parking garage to our department for the birthday foodfest. She loaded herself down and set off for the stairwell. At the door, disaster struck. The load shifted and the dish with the coffee cake plummeted to its demise. That dish broke into a jillion pieces. I would have loved to have overheard the streak of words coming out of her mouth when it happened. She brushed the shards to the side in one pile, and called building services to let them know. On Friday, it was still there. Like a little memorial. Here lies Ginny's suicidal coffee cake.

Tomorrow I'll be writing about my niece, Palmer. She just discovered Barbie, and I'll say this...that damn doll ruins everything.

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