Gin Is Juiced

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 02:26:00 +0000

I have been terribly busy today. Obviously.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 19:44:00 +0000

Note: !THAT'S A LOT OF TACOS! is my friend C. I just changed his IM handle to !THAT'S A LOT OF TACOS! on my friends list because I found it much more entertaining. Imagine if in the middle of a horrid workday, a window popped up with a message from !THAT'S A LOT OF TACOS!. Wouldn't that non sequitur make your day a little bit better? I think it would.

[14:33]

Gin: I'm going to have business cards printed

And they will be blank, except for my name, and underneath:

[14:34]

Gin: Ninja/Badass

And when people ask for my card

i will hand it to them

And they will read it

And by the time they get to "ninja"

They will look up, and I will have disappeared

And then they will know.

!THAT'S A LOT OF TACOS!: You did not just make that up.

[14:35]

Gin: I swear to God I did.

!THAT'S A LOT OF TACOS!: Shut up.

Gin: I PROMIS I JUST MADE THAT UP

I SWEAR ON WEE KITTEN GEORGE'S LIFE

!THAT'S A LOT OF TACOS!: You win today.

[14:36]

Gin: BECAUSE I AM AWESOME.

Do you remembah?

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 15:56:00 +0000

The twenty-first night of Septembah?

Happy Tuesday, my chickens. I miss you.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 16:21:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 22:34:00 +0000

John is out of the country for work for a couple of weeks - he's already been gone a week, and this marks, I believe, the longest we have been apart in the almost nine years we've been together.

It's kind of weird.

He traveled to the same, uh, continent a few years ago, when we were first married. At the time, I was such a chickenshit about being alone (we didn't even have one cat at the time, gasp!), so over the course of the 2 weeks he was gone, I had (alternately) Jamie, my sister-in-law, and my mom come and stay with me (there were only a couple of nights I was by myself). But this time around I decided to go it alone - after all, I now have three (THREE!) cats at the house with me, and all together, that's practically a human person, right?

And so I have spent a good deal of time alone over the past week, which is something new for me. I mean, I have work all day, but when I leave, it's just me. And even though I miss John a LOT, in some ways it has been nice. I've enjoyed the following over the past few days:

1. Not cooking very much

2. When I *do* cook, I don't always make a vegetable. TAKE THAT, MOM!

3. When I *did* make a vegetable, it was English peas, which John hates. Ha-ha!

4. Making weird, loud noises, just to see what it sounds like, and not having anyone there to make fun of me. Strange looks from the cats do not count.

5. Moving the oscillating fan to where it blows directly on me, so I can get nice and cold to fall asleep. John is a freaking hot water bottle in bed.

6. Not having to sneak around in the dark when I get up at 4:30 in the morning for 6 a.m. telecons. I turned the radio WAY up, just because I could.

7. Taking my very sweet time running errands after work, wandering around the aisles lazily, just because I can - who do I have to go home to?

However, there have been some totally unfun things that I've had to deal with alone.

1. Mothereffing fire ants randomly swarmed my kitchen counter, and I had to not only clean it all up myself, but it was deeply unsatisfying yelling "FUCKING ANTS! GAAAAH!" when there was no one else to hear it. Again, strange looks from the cats don't count.

2. When Wee Kitten George starts being a shithead at 3:30 in the morning, attacking feet under the covers and getting up in my grill, going MEOWMEOWMEOWMEOW, there is no one else to accidentally kick to wake them up so they can put him out and you can stay all snuggled and sleepy.

3. Dealing with the kitty cat poop box. That's long been a designated John chore.

That's really about it - I shouldn't complain. And I'm not, exactly.

It's just been...*different* being alone.

Tonight I am checking one more thing off my life list, and going to a movie alone. (I've done the restaurant thing by myself, but admittedly, it was while I was traveling alone - still, it counts.) I'm seeing Eat, Pray, Love. Yes, I know, terrible reviews, and I did not read the book, and it's not so much that I am that interested in seeing that movie, but since this is kind of an experiment anyway, why the hell not? Maybe I can make a drinking game out of it, like every time Julia throws her head back and laughs, all throaty and open-mouthed and toothy, I take a swig of beer (that is on special, $2 Shiner drafts, yay!).

Except that I have to drive myself home. Hmm...

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 15:59:00 +0000

I’ve been angry lately.

Well, it’s mostly cranky, with a thin layer of anger on top.

There are several things my mood could be attributed to, all of them poor excuses for my being such an asshole, but explanations just the same – hormones, being in a weird place at work, much-anticipated fantastic dinner party plans foiled, a dire need for a haircut, no dinner plan laid out for the week, and dirty dishes in my sink every night when I get home.

Last night I dreamt I yelled at Jamie. Like, SCREAMED at her. Y’all, I have never raised my voice in anger to my best friend – I think all of my yelling in her presence has been drunken and/or Trivial-Pursuit-related, or masked as “singing”. I woke up very upset and guilty – I’m sorry, Jamie, for being such a d-ck. If it helps at all, in the dream, after my outburst, I continued cooking you dinner in your kitchen, and no, I had not slipped anything in it (ha).

I am waiting for something to happen, something to spur me into action, something to propel me into the next phase of…something. A few weeks ago I went through this (weird) phase where I kept thinking I was twenty-five years old – for some reason my age kept coming up, and I kept thinking, “Yeah, I’m twenty-five. OH SHIT WAIT I’M TWENTY-EIGHT. I HAVE LOST THREE YEARS!”. Because nothing much has changed. And I realized that life *is* basically the same thing over and over again, but the only thing I have to mark the passage of time are my haircuts, six weeks apart. It’s depressing.

I need a change.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 20:35:00 +0000

Dear Jackhole On The Other Side Of My Cubicle Wall,

Hey, how about actually *carrying* your cell phone with you at work, rather than leaving it on your desk, set to A Level Of Vibrate That Would Make Even Jenna Jameson Blush, and then disappearing all day, except to return briefly in order to whistle tunelessly and tap your pen on your desk for 2 minutes, then leave again in order to wander the halls in too-short khaki cargo pants (THERE IS ROOM IN YOUR GEEDEE POCKETS FOR THAT PHONE) and a white undershirt WITH NOTHING OVER IT. GROSS.

Kisses and THROAT PUNCHES,

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 16:04:00 +0000

Did you see finslippy’s post about her dog Charlie?

My haircut is starting to look somewhat like hers (albeit mine still has 2 ½ month-old, busted-ass highlights, which I am sick of). And lately I’ve been thinking, GOD I NEED A HAIRCUT SO BAD (but I’m putting it off for a couple more weeks so I can afford to fix the color too), and so I’ve been on the lookout for haircut pics for variations on the short cut I have already. And so I’m looking at her pics, and I am all, I LOVE HER HAIR MUST SAVE THIS PICTURE. But then I will take it in to my hairdresser, and she will be all, THIS IS WHAT YOUR HAIR LOOKS LIKE THIS VERY SECOND EXCEPT WITHOUT OLD-ASS HIGHLIGHTS AND PERHAPS 1/8 INCH TRIM AROUND YOUR EARS. And then I will be all, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, JUST MAKE ME LOOK CUTE LIKE ALICE BRADLEY, because LOOK AT HER, AND I WANT A DOG TOO, and my hairdresser will be all Okay, CRAZY LADY, snipsnip, that will be 50 BUCKS, PLEASE, and then I will be disappointed because I will NOT LOOK LIKE ALICE BRADLEY and also I WILL NOT HAVE A DOG.

A ridiculous story. That's sort of two. But they are related.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 17:43:00 +0000

Note 1: this started as an email to Jamie and Jo, but realized that this story must be shared with the world.
Note 2: Two posts in one day, MY GOD THIS IS ALL-CAPS WORTHY.

This has nothing to do with my idiot sister, BTW (ha!). Also, this is kinda squicky.

So we have had a roach problem on our floor at work for some time – this happens every year from spring to fall, and no matter how many times the bug dude comes and sprays, we still see them fairly often. This year it’s gotten a bit worse, and the vermin have been making appearances in the large conference room my division uses for most of their meetings. There was an incident yesterday in the middle of our division staff meeting (which of course I was not at, because all the notable stuff has to happen WHEN I’M NOT THERE), in which a roach was crawling on the back of the chair of one of our mid-managers who was at the head table. One of my coworkers decided the best remedy for this situation was to try to brush the bug off the chair with his foot without any explanation, so to anyone who hadn’t seen the bug, it looked like he was walking up to this manager and kicking the back of her chair. I’m told that his explanation of, “Oh, there was a roach on the back of her chair” caused my Big Boss, her Second, and Semi Big Boss to squeal, raise their feet off the floor, and push away from the table in one fluid, girly motion. (I got a very detailed play-by-play after the fact, complete with reaction shots and sound effects.) Eventually, the roach was located and destroyed, in very dramatic fashion, by a co-worker at the front of the room, mid-presentation. I think they may have thrown a parade in his honor. Anyway.

Sooooo, I came in to work this morning for my 6 a.m. telecon, in the same conference room. It is 6:20, and we are all bleary-eyed and quiet, waiting for the translator to, uh, translate the point just made by one of the international dudes on the line. Then all of a sudden, my (very pregnant and adorable) co-worker rises out of her chair, squealing, and my first thought is, OH MY GOD HER WATER BROKE SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE AND GET ME A BALL OF TWINE AND ALL THE CLEAN TOWELS YOU CAN FIND, AND THE SCISSORS, AND DON’T COME TELLING ME YOU CAN’T FIND THEM. Turns out there was a huge roach crawling on the arm of her chair. And so there commenced wailing and gnashing of teeth as we all tried to run away without looking like too much of a fool. Meanwhile, the international dudes are still on the line, and they are all, WHAT THE EFF IS HAPPENING OVER THERE. It took several tries, interrupted by more squeals as the roach changed directions in its skittering, to communicate that, Yes, we here in Texas are freaking out over the appearance of a bug in the conference room. Eventually things calmed down, and the roach was destroyed, but we were never the same. I couldn’t bring myself to put my feet on the floor, because I’m wearing a skirt and open-toed shoes and what if another one crawls over here and OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT BRUSHING AGAINST MY LEG. Also, the international dudes probably think we are a bunch of candyass wusses, but YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THE SIZE OF THIS THING.

But some of them will be in town in a few days, for a week-long conference in this building, where they will (probably, unfortunately) be able to see for themselves that everything is, in fact, bigger in Texas.

Pic of actual roach in our actual conference room, although not of the actual roaches in either story - this was taken for a previous, uh, experiment. Mad props to C for actually getting close enough to take a picture of a roach, while simultaneously holding a pocket flashlight for better lighting, as I cowered in the opposite corner of the room and played lookout so no one would see we were taking pictures of roaches in the conference room.

UGH. GROSS. MUST GO WASH HANDS AND SCRUB SKIN RAW.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 13:30:00 +0000

I was up at 4:30 this morning in order to make a 6 a.m. telecon here at work.
My first thought upon waking: "DUDE, it would be SO AWESOME if Glee did a version of George Michael's 'Freedom '90'!"

Can't you see Finn belting the shit out of this?

With the rest of the New Directions tearing it up with the "FREEDOM!'s" in the background? And Mercedes taking on some pretty serious melismas at the end?

Actually, a George Michael/Wham! episode of Glee would be pretty amazing, no?

I smell a production number!

Dear Fox,
GET ON IT.

Love,
G

Pleasing.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 21:12:00 +0000

Running the side of a pen over a fold in the paper, in order to make a nice, sharp crease.

Hitting the heel of your hand on the flat site of the knife in order to crack open a clove of garlic.

Opening a new trashbag, and snapping your wrists so it makes a nice POPping sound, scaring the cats a little bit (ha!)

The first scrawl of your pen on a fresh notepad.

Pumping gas and having your total end on a nice, round number.

Making plans with friends many weeks in advance, so you have a good long time to savor your excitement.

Winding up the cord properly on the vacuum, instead of lazily looping over the top.

Remembering the words to a song you haven’t heard in probably ten years.

Sipping wine and cooking a delicious dinner while dirtying a ridiculous amount of dishes while you sing along to the radio and purposely avoid dealing with the unpleasantness of the outside world.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 14:18:00 +0000

I just made this my desktop background.

Thank you for giving me a sign, Paige.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 18:21:00 +0000

Do you have friends that you are like, “You are so awesome! I’m so glad we’re friends! I wish we had somehow been friends, like, years sooner! Because think of all that WASTED TIME when we could have been entertaining each other!”

‘Cause I have some of those.

Also, thank you.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 03:14:00 +0000

This is for you.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 07:41:00 +0000

It is 2:40 a.m., and I am painfully awake, my brain still a little addled and my abdomen pretty crampy.
My alarm will go off in two hours so I can get up, shower, and be at work in time for a 6 a.m. telecon.

This is so not happening.

Instead, I am in here on the computer, stagewhisperyelling at the cat for thinking that my being up at this ungodly hour gives him license to be an asshole and tear up my furniture (unless this is something he does *every* night, which could explain a lot and also debunk my theory that friendly but naughty elves sneak into the house each night and muss things up and drink all the tea in the fridge and THAT is why the pitcher is always nearly empty, not because I forget/am too lazy to make more).

I am suddenly inspired to bake these cookies that I watched Giada make on TV this morning. Also, I am struck with the urge to vacuum, because on Monday we went to That Orange Home Improvement Place to finally pick up my Dyson - I compromised and went with the original yellow, no-fancy-ball-or-magical-pet-hair-cleaning-properties model, because it was on sale for $318 (vs. $399), and I have been scouring and had not seen a better deal. So we brought it home - I didn't have time to whip up a Welcome Home banner, but I think it got the gist that it is somewhere it will be loved and cherished - and I used it right away, and I have to say, it's everything I hoped it would be (short of pouring mama a glass of wine and then running itself). So I am very, very pleased with my purchase. But I didn't get to do *all* of the rooms because I had to do stupid crap like cook dinner and write a longwinded whiny post about my retarded ovaries.

However, I will refrain from engaging in either of these activities, as I think John might not take kindly to being awakened in the middle of the night, wondering what kind of crazy Suzy "Cokehead" Homemaker he finds himself married to.

Now it's 3 a.m.! {Yay!} The perfect time to officially call in to work today, and then settle in for some infomercial watching.

This is gonna be the best day ever.

In Which I Write Frankly and Angrily About My Reproductive Bits And Related Subjects And Perhaps Am Just A Wee Cranky

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 23:50:00 +0000

So, you are forewarned.

Seriously, I'm going to launch into it now.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, OVARIES???

Against all odds, I started my period today, which means my last cycle was 35 days long.
This last month I started Clomid again, and followed up with estrogen. We had a doctor's appointment on the 22nd day of my cycle, and did a blood draw to see if I'd actually ovulated - Nope. Nothing. Zip.

When I went in 2 days later to go over my (not good) results with my doctor, we talked about upping my Clomid for the next month ({Awesome.}), and said that if I hadn't started a new cycle within 2 weeks (which would be this Wednesday), to come in for a pee test and for a scrip to induce a period.

I've been in a shitty mood for the past couple of days (which John can totally attest to), but I didn't attribute it to PMS because, well, I didn't think I was at that point, and also, sometimes long weekends can do weird, bad things to my brain (which I know makes no sense - you'd think it would be relaxing, but sometimes it just hits me the wrong way and throws me out of whack and I spend a good part of the time off brooding and picking fights with John).

Last night we had sex, and as happens sometimes when it is especially, uh, vigorous and wrecking but in that very satisfying way, I cried after. I'm not in pain, or sad, or upset - sometimes it's like, I don't know, I guess this sounds cheesy, but letting myself go like that kinda knocks things loose. Most times it's just a minute and a few tears and I'm fine - last night I laid there thinking, unhappily, for hours, making a most unattractive pool of snot and tears on my pillowcase.

(GOD, this post is depressing to read. Sex should be awesome and fun and not induce crying jags, but it just goes to show how a crazy, overthink-y person can fuck up [ha] even the best things.)

John tried to talk to me, but my thoughts were so jumbled - and well, pitiful - I couldn't put them into coherent sentences (nor did I really want to). So I stayed up into the wee hours, thinking and thinking and thinking, and crying, feeling pretty fucking pathetic.

So today, when I discovered that SURPRISE!, I was like, "GOD, this explains a whole fucking lot."

And you're probably wondering why I didn't put it all together - how could I *not* know I was PMS-ing? To which I answer, I really never know I'm PMSing until the "pre" part is over.

Sometimes I get cramps, sometimes not.
Sometimes my lower back hurts like a sonofabitch, sometimes not.
Sometimes my boobs hurt, sometimes not.
Sometimes I want to walk around punching people in the face for being ALIVE in my GENERAL VICINITY, but this happens pretty much every morning until I've been awake for about 2 hours.

And I should mention that all of these symptoms sometimes happen AT THE SAME TIME, out of nowhere, and they do not indicate a) ovulation, or its imminency, or b) menstruation, or its imminency.

So when, at my last appointment, my doctor asked if I *felt* like I was going to have a period, I opened my mouth to begin my lengthy diatribe, but we were interruped by a phone call about another patient (whose ovaries probably functioned beautifully! FUCK YOU AND YOUR PERFECT FUCKING GONADS.) in labor. He is lucky we never got to finish that conversation, because it likely would have gone something like this blog post - that is to say, hysterical, pitiful, and riddled with obscenities.

I am just SO FRUSTRATED.
WHAT THE FUCK, OVARIES????
WHAT THE FUCK, BODY?????

You women that are in tune with your bodies, with your cycles, with your MIND, I am jealous.
I'm jealous of your sense of control.
I'm jealous of your peace.
I'm irritated at the fact that you may take for granted that your body just DOES WHAT IT IS SUPPOSED TO.

I'm angry at myself for letting all of this factor into my sense of self.
I know it's not fair to judge myself so harshly because of this - my lazy ovaries and my infertility don't make me less female, less a woman. I KNOW THAT. And the rational part of me says that over and over and over, every day.

And yet.

There is still that small but painfully vocal part of me that feels like a failure for having such a hard fucking time doing the ONE THING I should be able to Just Do without thinking about it.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 05:11:00 +0000

This nostalgic late-night post brought to you courtesy of I'm Remembering!

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 03:35:00 +0000

G: HEY!
J: What?
G: Guess who just texted me. KIM!
J: Seriously?
G: YES! "Been 2 long gurl, what is up?"
J: Wow.
G: I KNOW. See, that is why I'm glad I have not deleted her number - so that way I can know to avoid her.
J: So text her back, see what she wants.
G: IT IS TEN THIRTY AT NIGHT. ON A TUESDAY. I AM IN BED. Except that I wasn't, I was on the computer. And it's been well over a year since I talked to her. So this probably means that she's moving again and wants help.
J: You don't know that - maybe she's changed.
G: (The Look)
J: Yeah, probably not.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 18:33:00 +0000

[12:14]

Gin: http://jezebel.com/5571767/rainbow-bacon-actually-exists
I'm a bacon traditionalist. No colors, please - just give me the good old-fashioned stuff, with a side of buttery grits.

C: Wow, a combination of two of your three favorite things: rainbows and bacon!

[12:15]

C: The third being, of course, unicorns.
Wait, it's not unicorn bacon, is it?

Gin: But see, bacon is bacon and rainbows are rainbows, and never the twain should meet.

[12:16]

Gin: See, the only acceptable combination of these things would be a unicorn leaping majestically over a rainbow, with a basket held delicately in its mouth, contraining delicious, crispy (NORMAL-COLORED) bacon.

[12:17]

Gin: And then it would fly away, to the faint strains of The Flamingoes' "I Only Have Eyes For You"

C: I disagree. I think bacon made from the flesh of a unicorn would be inherently rainbow flavored and, of course, delicious.

Gin: NO. Bacon should taste like BACON.

[12:18]

Gin: Only ONE THING can taste like a rainbow: SKITTLES.

[12:19]

C: BUT IT'S BACON MADE FROM UNICORNS! WHY is this so hard for you to accept?!
Post this on your blog because it's inherently hilarious.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 17:48:00 +0000

Hey asshole coworkers,
May the smell of my supermegadelicious leftover spaghetti and WAY AWESOME baked turkey meatballs torture you. Enjoy your shitty $8 chicken finger basket from the cafeteria.
SUCK IT.

Love,
G

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 12:16:00 +0000

Last night I dreamt that I was the subject in an episode of “Intervention”, only instead of getting my crap together, I opted to leave treatment before completion (for what vice, I don’t know), and live on the streets in a fuzzy pink bathrobe with a matching backpack. I don’t know what this says about my future as a productive adult, but perhaps it is a sign that I should not take a Tylenol PM and then watch the show.

Also, for what it’s worth, when I woke up and remembered the dream, I was extremely disappointed in myself/the episode.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 16:27:00 +0000

It is unclear to me, as it has been for the past week or so, if my almost perpetual waves of nausea are due to stress and/or impending panic attack (which I have only very narrowly avoided), due to my strange peckish eating habits (which may be due to the stress), or if it is all tied to hormones.

I let a lot of stuff go this past week.

My stress levels being what they were, I focused on just getting through each day without falling apart, which meant that I did not:

· Cook a meal past last Monday

· Clean any dishes at all the entire week, to the point that we ran out of clean forks so I started using spoons instead

· Call my Nanny on her birthday (because I’d already forgotten to buy her a card in time to put it in the mail in time)*

· Buy Father’s Day cards for my dad, John’s dad, or John’s grandpa (to put in the mail in time to get it there in time)*

· Buy Father’s Day gifts for my dad of father-in-law*

· Cook Father’s Day lunch for my family at my house, as has become the tradition*

*Add a layer of Bonus Mother Guilt

When we were out at lunch on Father’s Day, and I got the Disappointed Mother Look when it came to light that I had *not* been able to call my grandmother on her birthday, despite reminders from both of my parents the day before, it was all I could do to not throttle my mom. HELLO. WOMAN. Do you not remember the near-hysterical phone call you got from me last week, in which I unloaded to you all of the plates I have spinning, the same one in which I asked for reassurance that I am, in fact, a Good Person, and am trying to do the Right Thing, and that I am *CAPABLE* of doing the Right Thing???

This is all just too much, when coupled with my still-festering annoyance at her embarrassing outburst the other day (in which, at a work event, surrounded by strangers and colleagues, I was called up to receive an award, my mother exclaimed “THAT’S MY LITTLE GIRL!”, much to my mortification, because I am twenty-effing-eight years old – we are not in the high school gymnasium for Freshman Year-End Awards), PLUS her inability to pay attention while I’m trying to show her (at her whining request) how to upload pictures to Facebook because Look! Andy Griffith! On the TV! Oh, that Opie! WOMAN. It is ANDY GODDAMN GRIFFITH. Every episode follows the same pattern –

1. Andy is so clever!

2. Opie/Goober/Aunt Bea/Barney gets into a pickle, because they do not follow Andy’s advice!

3. Oh no, what to do? Worried look/dramatic music – CUT TO COMMERCIAL.

4. Andy swoops in and saves the day with his down-home wisdom!

5. Opie/Goober/Aunt Bea/Barney learns a lesson!

6. Let’s drink iced tea on the porch together! THE END

At any rate, my patience with her within the past week has gone from Worn to Thin to Please Leave My Home Before I Say Things I Regret Except Maybe I Won’t That Much But You Will Pout About It For Weeks And I Am Just Not In The Mood To Look At Your Face Anymore. When I gave the very clear It Is Time For You To Leave Now Before I Start Yelling cues, she acted all pissy and called me mean for kicking her out, and I was like Dude, you don’t know from mean yet – IloveyouokaybyebyePLEASEGO.

I should specify, my patience for anything or anyone is stretched, and again, I don’t know if it’s because of the stress or the hormones or both plus the effort it takes for me to hold my shit together on top of both of that which makes me grumpy and also very restless at night.

I don’t know exactly what this is about, except an explanation for being kind of crazy lately. SORRY. GOD.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 02:47:00 +0000

So yeah, I suck - I totally have not fully honored my NaBloPoMo commitment this month - I fell off the wagon, oh, the first day? A bunch of stuff both personal and professional in nature came up, and yeah, by the end of the day I have just not had the energy and brainpower to post something, but I think about it! A lot! Because I do not like to fail! But oh well - I have already surpassed my posting frequency for the past 3 months, so at least the juices are flowing again. That said, if you are still terribly disappointed in me (OH MY GOD I'M SORRY.), feel free to express your displeasure in the comments (or not).
On a totally different note, I've had a bit of a windfall (which NEVER HAPPENS), and I'm looking into finally accomplishing the American dream: buying a Dyson. But Y'ALL, there are like 15 different kinds. CHOICES! If you have one, or know someone who does, what model is it, and how much do you love it and want to make out with it? Keep in mind that we've got the cats, so any feedback in re: to pet hair is a plus. If we end up buying the model you suggest, I will totally name it after you.

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 18:40:00 +0000

Dear Dude That Caught The Last 2 Seconds Of My Elevator Dancing Because The Doors Opened More Quickly Than I Thought They Would,

Hope it was good for you. It was for me.

Love,

noreply@blogger.com (Gin) — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 02:03:00 +0000

John, waking up after a nap on the couch: Wait, you missed 'Glee'?

Gin: No, I caught the last 15 minutes [which I will not post about].

J: You better not tell your little nerd friends that you missed it.

G: Meh, I don't care, I'm not as into it as I used to be - I kinda thought it jumped the shark a few weeks ago.

J: Jump the what?

G: You don't know what "jump the shark" means?

J: Uh, no.

G: It's a phrased used to describe a specific moment when a show has gone from Good, then to Cheesy Campy Good, to No Freakin Way This Is Just Too Much - it comes from that episode of 'Happy Days' where Fonzie jumps over the shark with his motorcycle.

J: NO WAY. First of all, he jumped over the shark on waterskis, and that was a really good episode! He overcame his fear of the shark, and stood up to the beach bullies!

G: ...I love you so much.