Just checking whether or not I should insult you...

We went to a College World Series game on Friday with some friends and it was fun. Bloody hot and disgustingly sweaty, but fun. Far more entertaining to me than the baseball games (TCU won and I was rooting for UCLA because I love California and hate Texas, GAH) are the people. Omaha draws rabid fans of slutty, tooly college students to this extravaganza in baseball and drinking every year, and holy Hades are they funny! One girl not far in front of us (we were row 3 in some section behind another section! Which translates out to row 13...I don't know why) was standing and grinding in the air, in a mini-skirt and glitter top for most of the game....by herself. Also she was holding a purple stuffed frog which I guess is sort of TCU's mascot being that they're the horned toads or something, but anyway. Grinding. And "whooo"-ing. Nevermind that there was a family one row in front of us and actually, families everywhere. 

Speaking of that family in front of us, they were RUDE to their little boy. The mom was all like "Gimme that bag of sunflower seeds, he's just playing with them and not watching the game!" And she snatched the bag away. Who the fuck cares, lady? Let him do his thing, he's ten! And clearly a TCU fan, being that he made a huge, creative sign with a little square cut out for his face and a caption that said "Frogs fan!" with an arrow pointing to the cutout. Then his dad took him to get a hot dog and they came back an inning later, the dad complaining that the kid "didn't know what he wanted and then he had to go to the bathroom and there was a line, so now we missed an inning and a half." Hey guess what, jackass? That's what happens at the CWS, your kid gets hungry and has to pee and there are going to be lines. They also threw his sign on the ground when someone wanted to take a picture of them. I felt kind of bad for the kid but he was having a good time whooping it up for his team, so whatever. 

There was also an ESPN commentator in front of us and behind Grind Girl, so hopefully she didn't get on TV and make Omaha look trashy in addition to the already pre-conceived notions of it being tiny, boring and full of cows. But hey, WE were on TV! Wee!

Let's get back to slutty girls. Last time I went to a CWS game, you didn't go to look hot. Well unless you mean like, temperature-wise. Tank top, shorts, preferably breathable materials, and sandals or sneakers. Ponytail and sunglasses. I don't know when I missed the memo, but apparently heels, clingy acetate dresses, artfully curled hair should be left down, and you need to pile on the makeup. I guess that's what guys like now. Baby, it is sooo sexy when your makeup sweats off and you have raccoon eyes. Your pit and crotch stains in that tight dress are making ME sweat. I love when your heels get stuck in the beer-soaked grass at tailgating parties and my drunk ass has to lift your drunk ass onto the pavement and hopefully we don't take a tumble unless it's into a stranger's bed at this party we're crashing. 

Actually, that sounds kind of fun. Maybe I should've dressed like that and gone slumming. COL-LEGE!

After our game, we strolled down 13th Street looking for a bite when we ran into a friend's brother. We hopped into a bar and hung out with him for a bit before he said the most predictable thing ever with a cautious look on his face: "...anybody here from Iowa?" 

Which of COURSE means "Can I feel free to bash Iowa or is someone going to be offended?" I actually like Iowa, I think it's much prettier than Nebraska and the landscape is way more interesting, but whatever. We all said no and he proceeded to declare his true and undying hatred for Iowa because of some sports rivalry. I dunno, I tuned it out and told my girlfriend who I was reminded of when this guy made his his opening statement about Iowa.

A few months ago, I visited Tampa with my mom and sister. It was a GREAT long weekend, very relaxing and the beaches in Florida were lovely and hot. I brought a novel for the weekend and my Spanish book to study on the plane. On my flight into Dallas, I sat in the middle of a row of three. Hate that-- it doubles my chance that I might have to talk with a freak. Often I have very nice conversations but lately it's been smelly freaks, arrogant freaks, or freaks afraid of flying. I put my headphones in to decrease the probability that anyone would talk to me, opened my Spanish book and began to go over "por" versus "para" because OMG, I fucking SUCK at telling the difference. The plane filled up and nobody was by me yet. Sweet! 

Or not, because trundling down the lane was a big red-haired woman, complaining bitterly to her husband just behind her. "Why is this plane so full? Why isn't there anywhere to put my (two giant) carry-ons? Why is it so hot and this aisle so narrow? This is ridiculous! I'm writing Spirit Air! I'm writing my congressman!" AND OF COURSE SHE SAT RIGHT NEXT TO ME. ( I found it funny that she wanted to write Spirit Air; it's the cheapest airline in the industry. Oh, and congressman have nothing better to do than answer your frequent letters, I'm sure.) 

I have a point, but one aside please: I have pretty much never understood people who complain about their terrible, awful, no-good very bad flying experiences because SERIOUSLY, WE'RE FUCKING FLYING THROUGH THE AIR! IT'S AMAZING! SHUT UP AND APPRECIATE! but it wasn't until the Husband discovered Louis CK that I realized other people feel this way too:

You'll want to start at 2:35 for the flying bit, but the whole thing is great. The man can't not be funny!

Okay back to it. So the lady (we'll call her Red, uninspired but it works) flops into her aisle seat next to me and gives me a scrutinizing look, then turns back to her husband and is all complain complain complain some more. Whatever. Then, a nice-looking guy my age comes up to our row and says he's in the window seat. And of course this is a big inconvenience for Red as she huffs and puffs and stands up to get out of his way. I ignored them both, but after the plane took off and created that vacuum where you can't talk to a person across the aisle without shouting, she was suddenly very interested in talking to us. And this is where she said the thing I was reminded of when I Hate Iowa Guy asked if we were from his favorite state. She touched my arm and said "Dear, you're not Hispanic, are you?" 

Really? It's going to be that kind of flight? I do look like I could be anything-- Latina, Mediterranean, Italian, Israeli, someone once asked if I was Mongolian. I'm the great Any-Ethnicity! So, at least she asked before launching into her anti-immigration tirade? I guess? What would she have done if I said I was Hispanic? Would that have mattered? Enflamed her further? Insulted my imaginary wetback mother or accused me of taking her jorbs? Maybe I'll try a social experiment next time. But this time, I decided I didn't actually care and not to get into an argument with her as I still had two hours to go and I preferred to pass them stress-free since people piss me off in general and I was sure she'd piss me off in particular. Wasn't like she wanted her mind changed anyhow.

I simply shook my head that I wasn't and she got into a very spirited discussion with the young man to my right, and I was doing a good job of staying uninvolved when he poked me on the shoulder and asked "What do you think about all this?" with a pleading look in his eye.

I replied "Well, I'm studying Spanish in this book in my lap right now, so you can infer what you like from that." And Red gasped a nervous laugh, and put a hand up by her face in that affected feminine gesture-- you know? the one that's like "oh my!"-- except I had no idea what she was doing and thought she was trying to give me a high-five? So I touched her palm with my cold fingertips and quirked my lips in confusion, and then it was awkward. The end.

Look at this stuff, isn't it neat?

I was in one of our break rooms just now heating up my awesome lunch of leftover chicken fried rice from Dragon Café Express (Omahans, check this out. Seriously, so awesome), and my hair was snaggy, so I combed it with a plastic fork. But maybe I should back up a minute.

I had been in the restroom trying frantically to dry my hands before the Office Loony came out of her stall so I could run my fingers through my hair and "comb" it that way, but I heard her unlocking the door so I high-tailed it out of there. (Underlying story: we used to be friends except she's a neurotic freak and I broke up with her and now she glares at me as I sunnily smile back at her because now, ever so conveniently, she works literally right next to me and I kind of have to be civil. I have taken to peering through the crack at the edge of the stall door whenever someone comes in the restroom to see if her color cardigan and messy hair bun pass by.) GOD her voice is so annoying.

I digress. Another story, another time.

THEN I went to the break room to heat up my super awesome chicken fried rice, and as I was dragging my fingers through my snaggy hair, I decided to replenish my desk drawer spoon supply. And then I thought I should take a couple forks, which immediately made me remember this:

So I slowly picked picked one up, looked around furtively, and swiped it through. You know, just as an experiment. It sort of hurt. But my hair stopped being tangled, so WIN. Then a lady came in and I was all "lalalalala, putting this fork in my lunch bag...." But when she left, I finished combing my hair and now it looks awesome! All shiny and sleek! 

All these years and I am still obsessed with mermaids. I FUH-REAKED OUT when The Little Mermaid first became available for public purchase. I remember it was right before school let out for the summer in my third grade year. And I of course got grounded so I couldn't watch it until school started again! 

Picture it: Subic Bay, Philippines, the sweltering summer of 1989. The scene, a small classroom of fidgety third-graders and a harridan of a teacher named Mrs. Eckert, discussing whether the pronunciation of "Illinois" did or did not include the "s." I was having my own little discussion with my neighbor Sammy because SO MANY students were insisting that it included the "s" and the teacher kept saying "no" that obviously it didn't include the friggin "s." I don't remember if Sammy disagreed or not, because Mrs. Eckert called my name very sharply and then wrote it on the board. It appeared I was in trouble for talking. Name on the board was a warning. Transgress again and you got a checkmark next to your name, which meant you had to take a note home for your parents to sign. Inevitably, I got the checkmark less than an hour later.

My mom was pissed. She said if I dared to bring home another of these, I wouldn't be watching The Little Mermaid all summer and she'd already bought it, so I resolved immediately to get ahold of myself and behave.

Which lasted less than 24 hours, because the very next afternoon, I was riding the schoolbus home with dread in my stomach and another stupid note for her to sign.

I decided there was pretty much no way I could ask her to sign it. The stakes were way too high-- I would NEVER survive an entire summer without watching The Little Mermaid. I couldn't ask my dad or my aunts to sign, because they would tell my mom, and I couldn't ask an older kid in the neighborhood because Mrs. Eckert had already seen an example of my mom's signature. So I did the logical thing: I grabbed a pen and paper, practiced for about 30 minutes, and signed it myself. 

Needless to say, I got caught. My mom would tell you at this point that it's because I signed the paper in green crayon or green marker or something like that-- but seriously, I couldn't have been THAT retarded, could I?? I've been devious since I was little. I totally would have known that signing it in anything other than a regular ballpoint pen would be the death of me. Yeah! I totally signed it in ballpoint pen. BLACK.  :)

So for this reason alone, I should have decided that mermaids are nothing but trouble. But hey look! One of them helped me comb my hair today! That's handy!

Purse Bitch

Okay. So I have this dilemma and prease help me. I promise the end of this post has a point. I have a Blackberry and it's whatever. I refuse to pay for internet service because it's like $30 and what tard is going to pay that to have internet on their phone? (read: all my tard friends I LOVE JOO) I clog my head with the internet all day long as it is, I don't need to be available while I'm in the john too. AT&T doesn't require us to buy internet for this smartphone because we got bought it before the data plan was required to be purchased along with. Anyways. A couple years ago, I lost the super special Blackberry sheath that came along with it. My cousin Bev keeps telling me to call it a "sleeve" like any other normal person, but I like "sheath," it makes me think of condoms. 

So this awesome sheath protected the phone and had some crazy magnet magic in it that automatically "slept" the phone while it was in there to conserve battery power-- and, most importantly to this gal who really likes drinky drinks with a clutch under her arm, I discovered that it also prevented my purse from roller-balling through my address book and calling random people. Yes, I am aware I have a lock feature on the phone. I use it all the time. You hold down the Mute button and it locks-- I use that all the time but it's wimpy and somehow whilst moving around in my purse any given weekend night, the lock gets turned off and then all hell breaks loose. My purses will purse-dial, purse-text and leave drunk purse-messages and sometimes it's funny. Normally I wouldn't care that much. But it is a PROBLEM and this is why: Purse doesn't like to call random people. She prefers to call one person.

More often than not, stupid ass Purse decides it would be hilarious, HILARIOUS!! to purse-dial one of my Spanish classmates (now former classmate given that I've independently graduated from the shackles of corporate schooling albeit while shackling myself to corporate America but I DIGRESS), a classmate who happens to be a very good-looking 42-year-old corporate lawyer. With a hot name. WITH A FAMILY. Of all the 200+ contacts I have in my phone, Purse thinks it's the fucking BEST to scroll down to his letter and give the guy's balls a jingle. It's happened like a million fucking times. Lucky for me she only calls his office since I have that set as the primary number. But really, if Purse can scroll to his name, she'll figure out how to scroll to the secondary number. So I changed his name to just the last name, then just his initials and then HCL (Hot Corporate Lawyer...to whom we will now refer as HCL, assuming I ever mention him again) to see if that stopped the madness, but bitch ass Purse was on to me and somehow figured it out. How does this happen in a fucking purse??? It's just getting jostled under my arm, maybe by my ass if the bar table is all wet and I tuck it behind me on the chair-- that's ALL. It's not like I'm playing catch with the purse and she decides to get revenge. I'm not losing her in the bar or dropping her on the gross ass floor. I don't spill shit on her. I take care of my things and she is just an UNGRATEFUL frenemy bitch! Purse doesn't purse-dial anyone so much as she purse-dials him because she knows he is the absolute worst person I could ever pick for a purse-dial, pocket-dial, or drunk dial. (Note: I have never drunk-dialed anyone. Wee!) Purse hasn't yet figured out how to purse-dial his cell phone instead of his office phone, so he has miraculously only received one purse-dial out of literally a dozen attempts by Purse (which was actually a pocket-dial). But really, it's just a matter of time. Purse is gonna figure it out and when she does, HCL's wife is going to crucify me and murdelize him. 

So this brings me to my dilemma. I told you there was a point and the point is that I'm looking online for a new sheath so I can contain this plague of frequent Purse-herpes and they are a whopping $29.99 on the Blackberry site. Uh, fuck you. I got mine for free with my phone, I want another for near-free. So I looked on eBay and I found the same damn thing for prices ranging from $0.99 to $3.95. I really want to buy one of those but I'm paranoid-- they're not from Blackberry dealers, what does that mean? Is there going to be some crazy software in the magical sheath that downloads all my friends' info and sends them spam? Will there be mystery charges on our bills? Obvi I don’t even get online with this phone much less access anything password-protected, I just call and text, but I still don't want anything creepy downloaded on it. Is that even possible to do with a chip thingy in a sheath?

I thought perhaps I could change the lock feature to another button that might be harder for Purse to unlock, but I did and then look what happened when all I did was go to the symphony. By the way, I'm sparing you most of this text convo since it's awesomely cat. OOH, NEW CATEGORY!


Me: DUH, vicious snub! Bitch was a bitchy bitch to me!
Ellie: Just checkin yer brain. Husband want to be nice?
Me: He always does but I am a grudgemaster. Good thing she didn't approach.
Me: 
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Ellie: PURSE-DIALING!!!!
Me: 
Me:
Me:
Me:
Me:
Ellie: Tell purse bitch I'm goin to bed so knock it off!!
Me:
Me: 
Me: GOD DAMN PURSE!!!
  


So as you can see.....nipping this in the bud is of the utmost importance. 

Self-smarting myself

After 11 years of struggling to finish a degree program, debasing myself to beg my managers to please let me leave early or at lunch and come back later so I could attend class, doggedly wrapping my schedule around the irrational, inconsiderate ones of the programs at UNO (which are clearly not created with full-time workers in mind), after the frustration of moving money between accounts so I could float a tuition check and almost choking on the cost of ridiculously expensive textbooks, after the countless swallowing of my retorts when a professor I might have to take again rebuffs my questions on homework assignments-- and still getting home in time to fix dinner...I am DONE.

I AM DONE WITH IT. FINITO!

I had an epiphany this morning. For years I have been pushing so hard to mold myself into what I was pretty sure I would need to be in order to get where I want to be. I have been pushing my education 100% on top of work and other things that are important to me, thinking that stupid slip of paper was the gateway, the requirement necessary to pursue other opportunities-- because really, every grad program requires an undergrad degree. Duh. Creighton's Master's program in Portfolio Planning and Securities Analysis remains a pipe dream without it. But I'm just so tired and stressed and a little depressed that it's taking so long, and I know this bitch of a feeling. If she rears her head in the middle of next semester with a prof I don't particularly like, I'm SO fucked. So I decided to take the fall semester off to relax and cook and knit and get happier. Even though I'm pretty sure it'll fuck up my class rotation and it'll be harder to get back into the Spanish after that. And then I thought it-- am I going about this wrong, thinking about it so rigidly that I'm not leaving room for any other creative solutions? Are there any ways around this motherfucker of a wait? MAYBE there's a way around a degree. MAYBE I can still go in the direction I want without the benefit of that fucked piece of paper. MAYBE I could apply into a financial advising program and just fudge my resumé with a "UNO grad May 2010" and nobody would check! Oh, you think I'm joking. I'm not above lying. Whatever. What'd be the worst to happen? "Ms. Maggie, we checked on your 'degree' and you are a liar. DENIED." Oooh, burn.

So anyways, I looked online at what would be required to earn a Certified Financial Planner designation, and yeah, pretty much don't qualify for that. "After you pass the CFP® Certification Examination, you will be required to provide evidence (official transcript from the degree-granting institution) that you hold a qualified bachelor's degree or higher degree." Bastards. I can't fake that one. 

I left that site and went to see what would be required to certify as a Chartered Financial Analyst instead. And here, my friends, here you can see my future. Also YOUR future since you bitches are gonna come to me and let me handle your retirement funds, right? RIGHT?

"Have a bachelor's (or equivalent) degree

- or be in the final year of your bachelor's degree program at the time of registration

- or have four years of qualified, professional work experience

- or have a combination of work and college experience that totals at least four years"

I totally knock "or equivalent" out of the fucking PARK.

Pretty much the entire curriculum consists of what I've already studied to earn my licenses at work. Rehash it all? Can DO. So not a problem. So, I'm going to:

1) Do this program and become a CFA.

2) Leave Compliance and the beautiful days of no client interaction, become an Investment Consultant and move to the branch in Rockbrook to get cozy with actual clients again.

3) Leave the branch at Husband's go-ahead (bc he'll be a super hot exec by then, yeah!) and become a Registered Investment Advisor through work, handling my own accounts for our friends, family and people we love. People whose retirements and money I actually care about and who don't piss me off and make me feel stabby. And I'll do this in my own building. With my own employees. Maybe in my own house with my own offspring. "Maggie and Sons Retirement Planning." HA!

4) Everyone will retire on sunny tropical islands and drink mojitos all day. Because that's what retirement should be!

How funny-- six years after I met Husband, I married him. Six years after I met my work, I decided to marry it! And I feel totally comfortable with it.

Don't get me wrong-- I love speaking Spanish and I definitely plan on being fluent (or near fluent) for the rest of my life. I will talk to as many Spanish-speakers as I can and travel to Spanish-speaking countries as often as possible. For a really long time, up until as recently as a week ago, it was a point of shame for me that I am one of the very few people I know who doesn't have a college degree. It's weird to have such a wonderful group of smart, successful friends and be the only one without it. But as of today, that shamefaced shit is over with--I am no longer contorting my life to fit into the stupid mold UNO demands. Because I don't need the degree. I can go where I want to go without it, I can actually build a successful advising business without it-- and that makes me feel freer than I have in years. I'm going to self-smart myself. SO THERE.

Four more class periods and my long and illustrious career with universities is over. And I will be loud and proud to never go back. I think I just might throw a kegger! Keg stands all around!

And then I went to the bar because Woodchuck and live music make everything better.

So I'm in school because I am one of those people who thought it would be fine to have a dozen different college majors and then drop out and get a job because then I'd have all this money and live on my own, and I didn't really care for any of these subjects anyway, right? Money = better! Money = drinking and fun and your own apartment with kooky neighbors! Consequently, I have a smorgasbord of credits that technically should qualify me for some kind of Bachelor's Degree in Hodge Podge, but doesn't fulfill the requirements of any actual university. And as such, I'm one of the very few people I know without a degree, and this bothers me because it's hard to get taken seriously if you don't have a stupid slip of paper. (Wait-- do I care about this?) So I'm effectively trudging through college one painstaking class at a time for a Spanish degree because me likey speak Spanish. This is the first class I've taken in my Spanish curriculum that I think I actually hate. Which doesn't make any sense because A) I love Spanish and B) I love reading literature, so C should naturally be the love child of A and B which would be a good grade in this class. I will instead be happy to just pass it.

Last night's class was awful. I discovered that I hate talking in it because half the people in there are native speakers and speak really fast, including the professor, and I know I sound clumsy, slow and grammatically incorrect. I get the side eye and oh I know what they're thinking: "Girl can't even tell the difference when to use imperfect subjunctive instead of preterit, how did she get in this class. *snap in Z formation*" So whatever-- I just avoid it. And because it's literature, the discussion questions are things like "analyze the societal norms during which time this epic poem was written and reference the various allegories and metafors displayed in this piece to indicate the author's feelings on the political climate of the day." Which I can handle really well in writing, not so much in speaking on the spot. So of course, last night the professor called me to answer in detail just such a question and I was so flustered and taken by surprise-- even though I had just discussed this with my small group and knew exactly how to answer-- that I FORGOT. THE LANGUAGE. Seriously. How do you forget the fucking language?? I got around a whole entire country with this language and I forgot it in a tiny hot classroom??? And then in the middle of my face flaming red, my armpits drenching my non-breathable satin blend work shirt with that nasty sour sweat you only get when you're really anxious, and my blathering in broken spanglish-- SPANGLISH?!-- the super annoying gay guy next to me turned the pages of my book, laughed loudly and then said really sweetly, "Here, read the poem aloud and it will help you." And then the teacher was like "Yeah, do what he said so you don't suck so much at life." But it DIDN'T help, it embarrassed me MORE and then I blathered MORE, AND THEN I SAID I DIDN'T WANT TO TALK ANYMORE. IN FRONT OF 20 PEOPLE WHO ALL STARED AT ME. I REFUSED TO ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION. I CAN'T STOP YELLING. FML.

Then I tried not to cry in my seat because for crissake, I am almost 30 years old and haven't cried in school since 7th grade when Tramein Garris smashed me into the wall with her ass to see if I would "break" because I was "such a twig."

But at least I didn't get called the rest of the three-hour class. I guess.

So I registered this blog address months ago while kind of drunk.

Well, I was on the verge of drunk but not quite drunk enough to misspell "giniandtonic.blogspot.com," which, you know, would be an understandable error because there are like four "i"s and a bunch of "o"s and who knows where they all go. I was drunk enough to think "giniandtonic.blogspot.com" was SUCH a clever and appropriate blog name because HAHA! my name is GINI and part of that name spells gin! And I love gin, especially in gin and tonics! GINI & TONIC, I AM SO WITTY! I was also drunk enough to think Ellie vs. Eleanore might be right and maybe my musings on vanity and general inanity might be of some interest to somebody (i.e., her) because I can be kind of funny in print even if I'm not so much in real life-- very often I'm just laughing at someone else because they look like a dumbass or else because they really are funny in real life and all my funnies come way after the fact, sometimes hours but more often days after the situation at hand. Sometimes years!!

SO ANYWAY. I digress. Welcome to this silliness. There will be cursing.