Last week, I had a meeting with my manager, in which he showed me the paperwork for what my raise will be this year. (It was a nice number, I’m not complaining.)
Anyhow, he hands me my copy of the paperwork for my records, looks me in the eye, and says, “You’re doing an excellent job, Gin – keep up the good work.”
And as I smiled, shook his hand, and thanked him, I realized that he has absolutely no idea what I do all day.
I haven’t done more then about half an hour of real work in an entire day since well before Thanksgiving. I’m between tasks, so the lull will be short-lived, but still – I’m getting a raise for cruising blogs and shopping online for the past 3 months.

I was talking to J about this the other night, and had an epiphany – how many people that I work with half-ass it and get away with it like I am? I work with incredibly smart people; I am PROUD to tell people where I work and what I do, because there really is a Cool Factor to it. But how hard are we really working, or are we pretending to work?
I had an hour long discussion with my coworkers this morning about Lost. Afterwards, one of them sent out an Outlook meeting invite, requesting my attendance to a Lost new episode forum tomorrow morning, in his cube at 8 a.m., complete with IM conference room for those that cannot attend in person. I accepted, because DUH, but how many hours of our work day tomorrow will be spent dissecting new plot points and rehashing old ones?

Maybe it’s my old, rusty conscience kicking in.
But I’m still gonna slack tomorrow.

Oh man, these were the coolest commercials back in the day (who am I kidding; I still dig ‘em.)

It makes me feel old to think that it’s been over 10 years since this ad campaign first aired.













I think my favorite is Swing.
J and I swing dance, but we don’t do any of that crazy aerial stuff.

The weather here is gross again – thunderstorms, hail, tornado warnings, the works – and it reminded me of a story.

I used to love thunderstorms – I liked to watch the lightning.
When I was a freshman in college and still living at home, a bad thunderstorm came through one night. I was sleeping soundly through it, when lightning struck very close by, and the force was such that it actually shook the house (and yes it is a HOUSE with a foundation, not a trailer or pre-fab home).

I will step back here and mention that I was a big nerd in high school, involved in a lot of different stuff, and had all the trophies and plaques to show for it. Some of the plaques were above my wall. Above my bed. Specifically, above my headboard.

Okay, so when the lightning struck, the thunder shook the house so hard that the plaque knocked the heads off the tacks it was hanging on, and the heavy, wooden, gold-plated plaque fell, corner first, onto my head.
Surprisingly, this did not fully wake me up – I rubbed the sore spot, and rolled over and went back to sleep (or maybe it knocked me unconscious, who knows – it would not have been my first concussion).
I woke myself up a short time later when, when I had turned over and thrown my arm across my pillow, I noticed it was wet. And my head was wet. I went to the bathroom, saw my head covered in blood, and started screaming.
My mom was the only other one home at the time, and she came running in to see what the racket was. I was screaming, “I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding!”, and she tried to see what was going on, but realized she couldn’t see shit without her glasses, so she spent 10 minutes looking for them all over the house while I was freaking the hell out.
Finally, we figured out that the wound was very small, but head wounds bleed like crazy, so I just cleaned it up as best I could, took some Advil, and went back to bed.
It is extremely difficult to let such a wound scab over and heal when it is well into your hairline, and it is summer in south Texas, which means that your hair must be in a ponytail at all times, and your head will be sweaty and gross and necessitate that you wash your hair every day.

The morals of the story are:
1. Don’t hang anything heavy on the wall above your head, or it could fall on you in the middle of the night and you could die, or at least suffer a head injury.
2. If you are one of those people who gets annoyed when scaredy cat-types jump with each thunderclap, don’t sit next to me. Sorry.

I love me some George Michael.
This song is included on my "Rock Out Driving Music" mix cd, and if you happen to be in the car with me when it comes on, you will witness my pathetic attempts at sexy writhing, and plenty of belted "FREEDOM!"s.

This song is fucking sexy. (The video is pretty damn sexy, too.)

This is the song that, if I had the (figurative) balls to do so, I would totally strip to.

If this doesn't make you smile even the teeniest bit, YOU, my friend, are dead inside.

I feel kind of like ass today.
Or I should say, if I were able to feel my body, it would tell me “You feel like ass today.”
I’m congested and cough-y and struck with fits of lighteadedness, so I’ve spent the morning breathing slowly and deeply, and doing important things like organizing our community snack drawer or using the hole-puncher.

My weekend was Meh.
Was not able to see Sharon Jones on Friday night, dammit, because I got roped into helping my parents out with some stuff, and by the time I got home, I was exhausted, and the show was sold out (glad I called ahead). Poop.

Saturday night we went to the Continental Club to see Two Tons of Steel. I’m not a particularly big fan of theirs, but it had been a while since we’d been out, and they are pretty danceable.
It turned out to be more crowded than we’d expected, as a bunch of annoying nerd dance club members were there, and were just annoying as fuck. They were all in their little jazz dance shoes, with their shirts tucked in, dancing to the house music in between bands. WE ARE IN A BAR. Sulk condescendingly in the corner with your beer like normal people. Do not get all huffy when someone spills their Lone Star on your precious Capezios or whatever the fuck they are.

I’ll admit to being perhaps judgier than most (but trust me, as much as I slag on other people, I give it to myself 10 times worse), but these people were ripe for the snarking – there was a lady wearing a red velvet shirt with an actual matching clip-on red velvet bow in her hair, which she wore just above her ear. Most of the guys were of the light-wash-tapered-leg-jeans, white-athletic-socks-with-shiny-black-dress-shoes variety. They all looked like crazy cat people. It was almost too much for my little catty mind to bear, so I went back on my self-imposed abstention for the night, and got a little drunk.

I’ll throw in here that, for the most part, I like Drunk Gin. Drunk Gin tends to use lots of big words, interspersed with all manner of uses of the word “fuck”. It’s how I wish I could talk all the time, but somehow I don’t think that my government supervisors would take kindly to me carrying around a water bottle full of Shiner. Plus, since Drunk Gin only shows up a handful of times a year, I treasure her appearances all the more.
I will also admit that it’s entirely possible that the only reason I find Drunk Gin so charming is because I’m drunk when she comes around.
I will now stop talking about my drunk self in the second person.

Back to the point (wait, there’s a point?). J had had a few beers too, so while he was only very slightly buzzed, his tongue was loosened enough that we had a really good conversation on the way home. What we talked about was trite and boring – about our (hypothetical) children, and how we intend to raise them, blah blah blah, and wait, when are we going to get our taxes done? – but we don’t talk about deep things that often, and it was nice.

I think I started this post with a point in mind. Huh. Can’t remember what it is now.

Tomorrow night at Walter's, SHARON JONES AND THE DAP KINGS, y'all.
WOOT! I am so there - I'll be the drunk girl, shaking my ass.

Gin Cooks!

I saw this on Rachael Ray last week, and it sounded good, but I wasn’t paying the greatest attention (I cannot listen to that woman for extended periods of time - more often than not, I keep her on mute), so I kind of guessed at the recipe – it still came out pretty tasty.

6 kaiser rolls (or any large, crusty roll)
Ricotta cheese
Italian blend shredded cheeses (I used a parm, asiago, and Romano blend)
2 chicken breasts*
Spinach (I used frozen)*
Tomato
Basil leaves

First, I coated the chicken in olive oil, sprinkled it with some Italian seasoning, and browned it in the pan.
While it was cooking, I cut the tops of the Kaiser rolls and hollowed them out.
After the chicken cooled, I diced it, and mixed the ricotta, blended cheeses, chicken, and (thawed) spinach, and filled the rolls.

Per RR’s instructions, I put the roll tops back on, and put a thin tomato slice, some mozzarella (or more blend, or whatever), and some shredded basil on top, and baked the stuffed rolls for about 30-40 min. at 350.

The basic recipe is pretty easy – ricotta, blended cheeses, and whatever else you have lying around (RR used pepperoni and salami, I think), stuff it in a roll, bake it, done. The chicken and spinach, while delicious, took longer – it was an hour of prep, though I admit to having quite a large glass of wine before I got started, so I was perhaps a little, um, distracted.

Next time I make it, I think I will leave the tops off and put the tomato, cheese, and basil on top of the exposed stuffing mixture. J said he would have liked some sauce in it too, as the point was that this was liked an easy, mini-calzone. The original recipe may have had sauce…I don’t know, whatever. It tasted good, and one stuffed roll was enough for me.

Awkward

1. I am wearing some slinky, seamless panties today, since I am wearing for-real grownup dress pants to work, and am combating the dreaded VPL. An unfortunate side effect to these panties in connection with these particular pants is that said panties have a tendency to slowly slip down my ass over extended periods of walking. I have no idea why this is – the panties are new and have plenty of elasticity, and they don’t do this with other pants. Stupid panties. Panties panties panties.

2. There is a good 200-yd. walk between the parking lot I have to use and the building I work in – close parking is reserved for bigwigs and people who get to work at 6:30 in the morning so they can get the 8 highly vied-for “civilian” spots in the close parking lot.
What seems to happen to me all the fucking time is that I get caught walking next to a manager or some higher-up that does not know me very well, and insists on making small talk with me over the course of this walk.
I should also mention that I am a dumbass and always end up trying to carry too much in each morning; my purse, a giant umbrella (stupid rainy season), my lunch, my coffee, and maybe some papers so I look important.

The planets aligned just right (or wrong) this morning, and I ended up having to make said trek across the parking lot with a former superior, aware that my underwear was slowly creeping down my ass, concentrating on not dropping all of my crap, and trying to carry on a stupid “So how was your weekend? This cold and rain is so awful. Are you enjoying your new position?” bullshit small talk.

UGH.

Shake your ass...

...but watch yourself.

Sometimes I hate working in an uptight government agency.
An IM conversation I just had with a coworker:

[11:22]
C: SOOO ready for this week to be over.
Gin: Word. I need a drink.
C: Something stiff.
Gin: I don't need something stiff, just a LOT of Something.

[11:23]
C: I need a lot of something stiff.

[11:24]
Gin: Ouch.
Gin: (Also: "That’s what she said!")

[11:24]
Gin: I'm sorry, that was really, really bad
C: Wow. That is SO inappropriate.

[11:25]
C: I'm gonna screen-capture this and use it for blackmail.
Gin: Whatever.

I get that the “That’s what she said!” thing is juvenile and lame most of the time, but it’s been a long week, and COME ON, I had to take it there.
And if your virginal little mind didn’t take it there, and it offended that I did, you can no longer sit at my lunch table.

It has been a very, very slow afternoon. I’ve spent the past hour searching for old boyfriends on the internet. It’s not stalking, it’s research. Sidenote: the internet connection here at work is being a piece of shit.

I am kind of between tasks at work right now. I’ve officially been given the New Job Title, and I will see New Job Title Money in my paycheck beginning next month, but I…have nothing to actually do with the New Job just yet. So I’ve just been biding my time for the past few weeks (hence starting this blog) and waiting for the inevitable huge wave of preliminary stuff to do.

I can’t say that I’ve been totally sad about having the down time. I’m actually pretty terrified of my new job, so I’ve been dragging my feet a bit to get started, lest things get going, I get overwhelmed, and my boss and coworkers figure out what I’ve been trying to hide for years: I am not actually a grown-up.

I am an old lady.

I love Luby’s.

Something I honest-to-God did not realize until about the last year was that Luby’s is a Southern thing. Tragic!
I’d like to buy the world a Coke, and a Luann platter with fresh homemade mac and cheese and a buttery cloverleaf roll, and some fruit salad on the side, and then we can sing in perfect harmony about how wonderfully full our bellies feel, and then take a nice long nap.

There is probably not a single day that goes by that I’m not thankful that no one can read my mind. I was stuck in a 2-hour meeting yesterday and covered the whole gamut of thoughts; from G-rated, “What should I cook for dinner tonight?”, to the, um, more R-rated kind (but those only involved my husband). Speaking of such things, I’m especially glad no one around me possesses that telepathic superpower, as my dream last night featured a coworker pretty prominently. It wasn’t anything bad, but I was flirting pretty heavily, and so I woke up this morning feeling guilty and embarrassed. Have passed said coworker in the hall a few times already this morning, and every time I do, I want to apologize for acting like such an inappropriate idiot last night…in the dream he…doesn’t know about. Just shut up, Gin.

Apparently, I sound like I actually know shit:



Unfortunately, my personal blog only got an elementary school reading-level rating. Maybe because I cuss too much...? Meh.

Q: Who needs a good Monday morning jam?
A: Me.

So I’m trying to get pregnant.
I promise to make a concerted effort not to turn this into a baby blog – I’m not hating on them; they have their place, but I don’t want to focus just on that here, despite the fact that I spend a lot of time thinking on it.
Anyway, I am just about to start my second month of hormone treatment –I've been off the pill for just over 6 months, but the ovaries are rusty and are having trouble getting going. My husband J and I were okay but not great about taking advantage of the fertility window last month – it fell right before Christmas, and between me being sick, then him, then all the family obligations and bullshit, it just wasn’t really happening. So the other night I got out my handy-dandy chart and the calendar, and figured out my peak days so we can be sure to get on it this month.

Me: “So we’re gonna need to have sex about every day from the16th to the 21st, so don’t make any after work plans during that time. You'll need to come home and do your wife.”
J: “Wow, you’re serious about this.”
Me: “Well, we kind of have to get on it. The next step is injections, and I am not sticking any needles in my ass if I can help it. And you’re not getting any younger.” [J is in his thirties, and has this self-imposed rule that he wants to be done with all babymaking before he’d 40.]
J: “So that means that no matter what, you can’t turn me down…hmmmm…”
Me: “Oh, shit.”
J: [in horrid Canadian accent] “Wanna bone, eh?”
Me: “Oh GOD.”
J: “Do you feel like some…sausage? Hee hee hee! Wanna touch my wang? Hee hee hee!”

And this has gone on for the past few days. I’m really, really hoping he tires of it or forgets (not likely), so when the time comes I won’t feel like I’m sleeping with a 7th grader.

Word.

I am really into lists. It’s like a sickness, y'all.

But while I crave organization, I am also really, really lazy. Therefore, here are some lists from my other blog, carefully cut and pasted for your reading pleasure.


Things I Do That Drive My Husband Nuts

1. When I clean the floors, I:
-Move all possible furniture out of the room so that every possible bit of exposed floor is clean. (I don’t fuck around with my floors, man)
-Vacuum instead of sweep
-Insist on using a Clorox Ready Mop instead of an old grody Libman string mop as his mom does (*pointed look*)
2. I make a big mess when I cook
3. I am not that great about recycling plastic – I’m too lazy to walk into the other room to put things in the recycle bin, so I just stick things in the trash and cover it up. However, he will usually dig through the trash and wash off whatever it is and put it in the bin for me, so I guess it works out in the end
4. I shed a lot of hair (he’s just got to get over that on his own)
5. I drive fast
6. I’m pretty spendy
7. I talk loudly
8. I insist on people turning down/off the radio/tv when we’re talking to each other
9. I kick the covers off my feet when I sleep, and he likes his covered up
10. I hoard wrapping paper (but I am prepared to fulfill your gift-wrapping needs for any occasion – Hanukkah included! Even though we don’t know any Jewish people! But just in case!)

Things I Dig

1. New socks
2. When I’m at the store and my total purchase, with tax, equals an exact dollar amount
3. Tearing paper along a perforation
4. Taking a bath in a freshly scrubbed tub (that I didn’t have to clean)
5. Multiples of 5
6. Opening the door to pull yummy food out of the oven and letting the aroma hit you, all warm and comforting
7. Writing in large letters with a Sharpie
8. Putting on fresh, clean underwear after a shower
9. The sound of crunching into an apple
10. Leisurely, messy cooking
11. Wearing jeans to work
12. Christmas music after Thanksgiving
13. Stripes
14. Grilled cheese sandwiches
15. Using my clicky highlighters
16. Major chords
17. Folding a paper and making sharp creases
18. Big production numbers in musicals
19. Funny magnets
20. Going to a funny movie and laughing along with everyone else in the theater
21. Receiving postcards
22. Being deemed a “culinary goddess” by one’s coworker for the fucking badass from-scratch, still-warm-from-the-oven chocolate pecan pound cake you brought to work
23. Saturday afternoons
24. Soft hair
25. Rearranging furniture
26. Wings and beer

Things That Bug The Shit Out of Me

1. Obviously bottle-fake red hair that is attempted to be passed off as "natural" (Case in point, my mother-in-law. That should tell you a lot about her.)
2. People that insist on having long conversations in the middle of the narrow, busy hallway, and get all huffy and offended when people have to say “Excuse me” and walk between them
3. When people leave their blinker on for too long
4. Mussed-up eyebrows
5. Over penciled-in eyebrows
6. Women of A Certain Age that, props to them, are in great shape, but wear their jeans painted on. Pardon me; your junk just called, and it can’t breathe.
7. Men with long fingernails. Gross.
8. Half tucked-in shirts
9. When socks start to lose their elasticity
10. Pens or pencils put back in their cup pointy end up
11. Smeared ink
12. Leg stubble
13. Greasy hair in the workplace
14. Wet Band-aids
15. Watered down drinks
16. Televised car chases. Dude, they’ve got 20 cruisers and every new chopper in town on you – you are not going to slip away.
17. The smell of stale take-out in my car
18. When food runs together on my plate.
19. Public bralessness in big-boobie women (I’m not hating – I’ve got big knockers too, and never walk past the end of my driveway without strapping them down.)
20. At the beginning of TV shows, when they go “Previously on [x]…”
21. Condensation rings
22. When the toilet flushes so violently that it leaves water droplets on the toilet seat
23. Prime numbers (23…it’s a…prime number…get it???)
24. Yeah, I can’t end on a prime number, so…pastel colors