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.

[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.

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

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.

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.

1. 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).
2. 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.

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,

G

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.

Is there one of those compound German words for “Oh-my-God-where-have-I-seen-that-actor-before-this-has-been-driving-me-nuts-for-days-until-in-the-middle-of-a-random-conversation-at-home-I-yell-SELMA-FROM-BIG-LOVE-OH-SWEET-RELIEF!”

Well, there really should be.

Important dinner conversations

Boy: “Aunt Gin, can a cow and a horse have a baby together?”
Me: “I don’t think so, dude.”
Boy: “Well, if they could, you could call it a ‘how’ or a ‘corse’. That would be awesome!”
Me: “I love you, my boy.”