Today’s post is brought to you by the number 2, as in 2nd degree, and the letter S for Sunburn.

A week and a half after my 2 hours uncovered in the loving springtime sun in Austin, the pink, then dark pink, then RED of my upper arms and shoulders has faded, the pain has mostly subsided, and I am left with puckered, peeling, leprous arms – this has easily been the worst sunburn of my entire life.

Luckily, a slight cold front came through this past weekend, so I am able to continue wearing long sleeves to cover my unsightly, flaky limbs without looking out of place. It is really disgusting. I had intended to take pictures of my ugly red shoulders as a warning to you all, but the weak flash from my camera would have been too much for my skin to bear, and now they are all gross – I could still post a picture, but I’d like to keep my readership from retching all over their keyboards, rendering them unable to navigate to my humble blog.

Anyway, here’s my point: If you never, ever heed any other crappy advice I shill, hear me now: OH MY GOD PLEASE WEAR SUNSCREEN.

I have no segue for this next bit, so HERE:

J decided to try to grow some facial hair again, for fun, and out of boredom, and I hated it. After about 3 days worth of growth, I did a close inspection of the progress, and noticed a white hair or two in with the bright red. I pointed this out, and J denied, denied, denied. After 2 more days of growth, it became a little more obvious that I was right – I am married to a white-whiskered oldman.
I was getting ready this morning when J rolled out of bed, shuffled over, and pointed his chin at me – clean-shaven.

And so, I have agreed to have sex with him again. (I will admit that the weeklong sabbatical had more to do with my sunburn than with the unsatisfactory development of his scratchy scruff, but that was a good excuse to avoid whiskerburn).

So very busy this week – three meetings just today. I will make it a personal goal to have some kind of post at least twice a week – I hope I can stick to it.

So driving back from Austin on Sunday, J and I ended up listening to NPR (because I love to listen to Garrison Keillor, because I am old and out of vogue like that). That sentence has nothing really to do with what I’m posting about today, except that it serves as a disclaimer to the admission that I willingly listened to contemporary country music: Brad Paisley, and his wife, Kimberly Williams Paisley, were guests on the show, and Brad performed a few songs. Surprisingly, sitting through them did not make my head explode – maybe it was my fever, nausea, and fatigue, but I found them kind of charming.

In particular, I liked the song “Letter To Me”, which was written as a letter to himself at age 17. I was inspired, and have been thinking of the things I would tell the 17 year-old, circa-2000 me. In typical Gin Form, instead of bothering with formalities, I’ll just make a list of things I’d want to tell myself.

1. You really are skinny. No really, you are. Shutup, yes you are. Enjoy and appreciate your metabolism.

2. You will get over Sean. I promise. It will just take some time. In a few years you will realize that even though you both loved each other, you are really too much woman for him. You will have more great loves in your life, ones that appreciate and love you for everything you are, and trust me when I say that the pain will make you value the good times even more. In the meantime, get out more. I know you don’t want to, but try – there is so much fun that you’re missing out on because you insist on staying at home in your pajamas moping.

3. Don’t feel like a loser townie because you’re not going away to college right away. Half the people who run off to UT or A&M or Tech as freshman will drink away their first year, flunk out, and end up back at community college with a few thousand dollars wasted, pissed off parents, a shitty academic record, and a beer gut. Then half of them will drop out completely, and will have three kids by 22. You will eventually go away to school, and it will be awesome and the most fun you’ve had in your life.

4. Don’t worry about not knowing what you want to major in, or what you want to do when you grow up. Focus on the classes you enjoy, and that will lead you to where you need to be. You’ll end up happy, I promise.

5. Take comfort in the fact that Jamie will be a good and true friend to you for many years to come, through all the dumbass things you will do.

6. Don’t ever take a debate class. Despite what you may think it is, it will only end in frustration and heartache. Stick to arguing with your mother – you will get really good at that.

7. You will never, ever regret not having sex in high school. You should be proud of yourself for holding your ground on that.

8. You should also be proud of all the plates you keep spinning for your age. Your older self will look back and wonder how you had all the energy and stamina to pull 18-hour days all of the time. You have accomplished so much; don’t feel like a failure compared to other people who seem to do more, because they are totally abusing Ritalin anyway.


I’ve been thinking about this for a few days, and there was more stuff that I came up with, but these were the most significant; the rest was all, “Dude – Britney will end married to a backup dancer, have 2 kids, lose her shit, and shave her head. I KNOW.”

Is there anything you’d tell your teenage self?

Oversharing

I have a love of office supplies that borders on fetishism.
If J could incorporate Post-Its and Sharpies into our sex life, it would get me unreasonably excited.

Hello, my chickens!

Sorry for the dead air the past several days; I was Austining Friday through the weekend, was sick with some kind of stomach bug or food poisoning Monday, and spent yesterday, and still today, playing catch-up and combating waves of nausea. (On the only plus side of spending the past few days becoming well-acquainted with my bathroom, I believe I have dropped a pants size. Still not worth it, though.)

ARGH!

I started typing this post at 9 this morning, and now it’s nearly 4 and it’s still not really anything (damn you, work!), but I would feel really bad not posting anything for an entire week, so HERE, YOU CAN EAT THIS OR GO TO BED HUNGRY, YOUNG LADY!

Food For Thought

Which is worse:
Being talked about behind your back in your absence, or being talked about deliberately within your hearing?

I accept that being talked about behind your back, despite being tagged as adolescent behavior, is still rampant in the adult world. It’s going to happen to me – it already happens to me; whatever bitches, I do it too.
Discretion on the part of the gossipers at least allows the subject to maintain a slight shred of dignity, right? But being talked about within your hearing – they know you hear them, and don’t care if you know what they say about you – is pretty demeaning and humiliating, but at least you know the specifics of what’s being said, and whether it’s true or total bullshit.

So would you rather know or not know?
I, personally, would rather be kept in the dark – the things that other people may say about me, though hurtful, I’m sure are no worse than the things I tell myself. Not to mention that there are certain truths I accept about myself anyway – calling me a bitch behind my back; not very original, and also no big secret, so if the intent was to inflict pain, You Lose. Also, I know I’m kind of chubby – Next, please.

The question is more of a rhetorical one, and something I’ve been mulling over myself for the past few days, but feel free to add your 2 cents if you like.

Can I just say something: I love it when people cuss at work.

I mean, not like every other word, but to make a point, or in times of great frustration. People who do this, “Oh, fudge!” business (unless you’re a grandmother, in which case I can maybe buy it) drive me up the wall. Get over yourself, no one cares if you say Shit! under your breath when you get a crap email or something.

Anyway, lately I’ve heard more and more of the word Fuck around here, and I really cannot tell you how happy that makes me. Maybe that’s weird, but I use fuck in all its incarnations when I’m at home, so much so it’s maybe a little ridiculous, so hearing it at work makes me feel more comfortable (assuming it’s not directed at me, as in You Fucking Bitch).

I’ve been assigned to manage the training for an important group of people here at work for the next year or so, and the last several times I’ve met with the lead of that group, he’s called things out as Bullshit, or said “such and such will bite us in the ass”, and when he does that, I think, “Oh Dude, you and I are going to get along splendidly.”

I’m rereading what I just wrote now, and it sounds totally dopey, like I’m all “Yay, cussing! Supercool!”, but I’m easily entertained these days, so cut me some slack.

In other news, today is my Friday (YAY!) since I’m taking tomorrow off so J and I can go to Austin for the Lone Star Roundup and to run around and hear bands and spend money and maybe have some nice Hotel Sex.

My mood has been better the past couple of days, which is nice – it’s tiring being irritable all the time. I saw an agenda for a meeting I have next week, and it included something that I thought would resolve an ongoing conflict and relieve some of the tension that’s been getting to me over the past couple of weeks, but I just found out it’s just about an aspect of said conflict, and that sucks, because I am really just ready to rip the Band-Aid off already – will I have a job in two years or not??? I’ve been busier though, and I know that’s helping – being bored for so long would make anyone crabby.

Boo. Enough of this boring, depressing work crap.
Look – baby monkey!

Things To Do Before I Die

(In honor of the impending nuptials.)

Cultivate an ass of comparable bootyliciousness (no pun intended)

Learn to shake it like this: