Flash!

This bitch-ass prairie wind just blew my skirt up in front of a group of suits smoking outside the building. It's a flippy, swishy jersey skirt too, so my frantic attempts to keep it down were all but ineffectual. Also, BRIGHT red sheer panties. Joy! What? They're stretchy and don't show lines.

I guess since I can't go back and scrape my modesty up off the sidewalk, then I hope they enjoyed their tawdry glimpse of nine-month pregnant squishmitten.

Turn that shit off!

There is a woman near me at work who leaves the ringer on her phone on, and it is constantly ringing during the day. I have no idea what she looks like since she's a row over from me and I can't be bothered to get up to look (not that I could see over the cube wall anyway), but I've heard her name for the past eight years so I know she's been around the block. But that's beside the point. The point is, she leaves her fucking ringer on, and the ringtone just happens to be this song:



I hate it. I have to hear this at least five times a day since it penetrates THROUGH my earbuds, and I HATE THAT RINGTONE MORE THAN ANYTHING IN LIFE!

On an up note (pun so intended), their faces all look like they're having great orgasms.

SECRETS don't make FRIENDS!

Last week I got a mass email forward from a friend with some inspirational wisdom, something about letting go of stress and freeing yourself from the trapping of worry and frustration and la la la. I have no problem freeing myself from worry, but Husband? Husband is a ball of stress. So I replied to the friend saying I would send it to him, and then she replied saying she thought he was copied on there, so I went and looked at the recipients...and indeed, I saw an email address next to his name. An email address of which I had previously had NO. KNOWLEDGE. 

Um?! Insert screeching tires track.

WHAT WAS THIS??????

I have known this man for 11 years and he's never had any more than one personal Yahoo account and only recently one work account. Earlier this year I tried unsuccessfully to switch him to Gmail and he was resistant. And yet HERE in front of my FACE was a GMAIL address with very identifiable details and his name next to it! I felt dread and fury swell up in my chest and color my face. And I knew in an instant that I HAD to break into that account and see what this secret shit was about. 

(By the way, homegirl here has broken into TWO bitch ex-friends' email accounts to snoop, wreak havoc and erase contacts. Don't piss me off. I can do shit.) 

I grimly exited all my windows and brought up a new browser page. Entered the previously-unknown (!!!) Gmail handle and clicked the forgot-password link. Chose to answer the secret verification question, typed in all his details, fingers stamping the keys, and then got hung up on the stupid question I was pretty sure I'd know. What was the name of his first teacher!? SERIOUSLY??? WE HAVE EVEN TALKED ABOUT THAT. GODDAMMIT!

I decided to break into the Yahoo account instead on the bet that I'd know the answers to those secret questions, and then just have Gmail email the password to Yahoo. Oh yes-- I know all the tricks. Usually. So I went to Yahoo and went through the whole rigmarole again, entered the deets, cracked the questions.....and then the screen said "Husband, you are verified! Create your new password below."

And then I couldn't do it.

Stupid, soft, not-desirous-of-trust-breaking wife. STUPID! SOFT! GUILTY-FEELING!

I had expended my unreasoning ire in the multiple steps required to break into his accounts and, unbidden, rationale came charging back to break up my party. I HATE YOU, RATIONALE.


So I emailed him instead, after closing the page to remove the temptation to set the password as "Di11hole."

From: Gini & Tonic

To: Husband

Re: WHY DO YOU HAVE A SECRET GMAIL ACCOUNT??????

Tell me immediately before I break into it and find out for myself. Because I can. MY FINGER IS ON THE BUTTON.

From: Husband

To: Gini & Tonic

Re: YOU HAVE TOO MUCH TIME ON YOUR HANDS

Uh, HELLO?!?!?!?!???? Spam box! Do you not have enough to do? I am seriously drowning in work over here. I might just let it pull me under and take me slowly to the bottom.

From: Gini & Tonic

To: Husband

Re: WHY DO YOU HAVE A SECRET GMAIL ACCOUNT??????

 Oh yeah, I'm sure every husband caught with a secret email account has said that! Don't even try your Catholic guilt thing on me. If it's for spam, why does HALEY have it? Silly Haley sent a mass forward and included my address AND your secret one. Who else is secretly emailing you on it? How long have you had this under wraps? I HATE SECRETS, STOP WITH YOUR SECRET-KEEPING THIS INSTANT!

From: Husband

To: Gini & Tonic

Re: YOU HAVE TOO MUCH TIME ON YOUR HANDS

PSYCHO!! I am not keeping secrets, it is for spam. And why do you think Haley has it?? Obviously I don't want her stupid anti-vaccine forwards and inspirational quotes! (oh, the irony) Quit freaking out, I'll show it to you later. I have work to do.

From: Gini & Tonic

To: Husband

Re: WHY DO YOU HAVE A SECRET GMAIL ACCOUNT??????

 Very convenient that you'll show it to me "later" after you've had all day to clean it up instead of just giving me the password.

From: Husband

To: Gini & Tonic

Re: YOU HAVE TOO MUCH TIME ON YOUR HANDS

I am not feeding your psychosis. WORKING NOW.

By the end of the day I'd forgotten about it. Ha! No, it's true. I didn't remember until the next day when Husband had to do some work from home and left his Yahoo account open in a neighboring tab when he got up to take a break and get a soda. I hijacked that shit right away to look at Facebook and why was that tab blinking? Click....what is this? Anya Slutyakovska wants to be your Yahoo chat friend? WHAT????? 

I am not a dummy. I know there are girly show spambots that want to friend you, chat with you on webcam and then infiltrate your computer and give it syphilis. I have had similar friend requests in my own Yahoo account (which isn't a secret). But that doesn't mean I didn't give him some maaaad shit for it. :D

Mister Beer Keg

Today's tall tale comes to you courtesy of office creepers. There will be at least one more of these, but this guy's tale of grossness will be enough for one day. 

When I first started at my job, I worked on a phone team. I was a temp and didn't really ever plan to stay, but I grew to like the characters on my team so much (and the pay was GREAT) that I just kept hangin out. One person on my team with whom I was not really friends was Mister Beer Keg (MBK), so-named because he chose that for his Yahoo! chat screen name (which he shared with me along with a host of other undesirable information) and also because he resembled a beer keg. Which may be why he chose it along with the fact that he loved beer. He was hugely overweight, sarcastic, unpleasant and generally downcast. I didn't have any interest in him for these reasons and ALSO because he was an ogler and extremely obvious about it-- like, did not EVER, AT ALL, disguise that he was ogling a woman. He would flagrantly stare at every part of your body under clothes, and he would do this both while talking and while listening to you talk. Rarely made eye contact. It was really unnerving and shifty and I started to hate being around him. At some point the team went out for beers one night and you know how sometimes there is a lull in talking to people you actually like and that provides the perfect opportunity for a less-than-savory character to swoop in and monopolize your time? Yeah, that happened with MBK. It was discovered during this time monopolization that we shared a mutual love of Guinness. And that is the one and only thing I think we ever had in common. It was the birth of a beautiful friendship. *sarcasm font*

So, I am way too fucking nice. Or was, anyway. When I moved to a new team, MBK began IMing me now and again to chat. And because I like to slack (hello, blogging at work) and because I at least didn't have to talk to him face-to-face, I chatted. Whatever. I didn't care. We sort of became friends, except for the part where I didn't really like him because he was a jerk to people and lazy to boot, OH AND HE OGLED, and so I made it a rule with myself that I never initiated the chatting. I would just answer his chats. Pretty soon he started telling me about the problems in his marriage, and I thought maybe that explained his general attitude, so I gave advice if I thought it would be helpful, and sometimes he followed it. Mostly not. 

And then one day...THEN! He started telling me, in chat, at work, about their problems in the bedroom. IN DETAIL. Here are some examples:

"Isn't the point of being a wife to let her husband finger her hot hole?"

"I exfoliated my balls just for that night and the woman didn't even have the decency to lick them."

"Then after the bitch got me hard and ready she said she didn't want to get pregnant and made me jerk off by myself and sleep on the couch."

"I was hoping she'd get drunk at the wedding and pass out so I could bang her in peace, but she refused to drink anything." 

AT WORK!!!!

I was thoroughly disgusted and tried to deflect the comments and talk about other things, but he would always bring it up. I started to avoid answering his chats specifically so I could avoid his bedroom talk. And because I was a freaking PANSY, I had such a hard time confronting people or saying anything that might hurt their feelings, even at a cost to myself. Even if I didn't like them. I've gotten much better but before, oh, it was bad for awhile. There was more than one person I barely knew dumping personal shit on me at that time, and I was so pathetic. How fucking hard can it be to say "Don't talk to me about this at work. Or ever." ??? One day I raged on MBK about someone else who was telling me detailed crap I had no interest in hearing (hoping he'd get the message-- he didn't), and he told me it was because I was approachable and kind, and I really listened and cared, and it showed. BAH! HA! HA!

Once in a great while, we went to lunch. I tried super hard to avoid it since I hated the way he looked at me, but it did happen once or three times because we were in the same building. One day we were mercifully finishing up and he blurted out that he was pretty sure he hated his wife and that for the first time, he really, truly wanted to cheat on her with someone else. Then before I could say anything, he flushed a deep, flaming red and said his ideal person was someone at work to whom he talked frequently. Oh, swoon, right? I babbled something along the lines of "Don't cheat, that's not cool, look at the time, gotta go." And I never had lunch with him again.

So this IM thing went on for nearly a year-- I remember that because my team got a new manager, and on his third day on the job, I flew into his cubicle and begged him to discreetly help me with this problem. Because that morning, the moment I logged into my work computer, MBK IMed me with this:

"So I got her to do it last night and I know she got off bc there was a huge wet spot on the bed."

IT WASN'T EVEN 8 O'CLOCK YET. Not that it's ever appropriate to say such a thing at work, as we have already discussed, but to start so early in the morning? For SERIOUS?! It was finally more than I could handle.

So my new manager helped me stop it. I knew this was a fireable offense, especially if I divulged how long it had been going on, and I didn't want that to happen-- MBK's wife was a bum and had no job, and they had a new baby, and I knew his paycheck was the only one coming into that household. I told Manager such. And he....he fibbed for me. I felt really awful about it, but he said if I didn't want the guy fired, it was probably the only way to go about it. He told MBK's manager that he had intercepted that morning's chat and I confessed that it made me really uncomfortable but that I was afraid to say so (truth) and that I tried to avoid talking to him at every opportunity. That manager gave MBK a verbal warning that he would be monitoring his chats from then on. And I assume there was more to the warning, given the content of his disgusting message, but I never bothered to find out.
 

MBK also still chatted me now and again, but since he couldn't talk to me about his marital or bedroom problems, there was nothing to chat about. He got laid off last month and I know I should feel sorry for that, but all I can muster is a deep sense of relief that he will never be chatting with me again. I don't give a crap about anything in his life, and I'm pretty sure he only pretended to care about mine so he could eventually (somehow? did he seriously ever think this would be a consideration?) lie on me with his huge beer-keg-shaped stomach.

United against hate

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd be shoulder-to-shoulder on the same side of a protest as the Tea Party and Glenn Beck crowd. 

Even the Nebraska 912 Project, whose leadership, ironically, tolerates the worst kind of racism, homophobia, xenophobia and all other forms of intolerance among its members, was all over this and had a healthy presence this morning. 

I'm talking about the funeral of a very young Army soldier, Private First Class Eddie Wood, which was held at a church down the street from me this morning. He was killed in Afghanistan just a week after he'd been home to visit his family.

Sad, right? 18-year-old kid gets himself signed up, is all gung-ho about serving his country and is promptly blown to bits? So much life wasted. Even though military enlistees are well-informed of what they're getting themselves into, I can't help but feel these brave people, especially the very young ones, really have no idea of the gritty, bloody reality of combat. Even those who survive and come back into regular society, how damaged are they from their awful experiences?

So this nice boy's heartbroken family had to prepare to put their child in the ground and face the prospect of the rest of their lives without him, and then here comes the Westboro Baptist Church. PICKETING. At his FUNERAL. With their SIGNS. I read that they were legally required to stay a "respectful distance" away from the funeral, but really? Exactly what the fuck is any sort of respectful about holding up hurtful, horrible signs at the funeral of a child?? In Nebraska's case, that distance is 300 yards away. It took me a couple of questions to figure out what exactly they were there picketing against, because it's been awhile since I've heard of these people, and I learned that they travel to any military funeral within driving distance of their home base of Kansas to spread their message that there will be no end to fallen US soldiers until we actively prevent homosexual individuals from entering the military. Indeed, the apocalypse will be upon us faster than we can say "eat a dick, you bastards" if we don't repent of our lives of rampant homosexuality and the enabling of it, and grovel before the wrath of the Lord.

Fucking really? Yes. Really.

Of course, Omaha immediately reacted, and in what numbers! I'm still waiting to find out how many people were reported to have created a huge human buffer between the WBC assholes and the grieving funeral-goers, but I would venture to guess it was at least 500. 

There were innumerable bikers there. See:

And the bikers were handing out big flags to the civilians lining the streets surrounding the church:

It was VERY organized, far more so than I expected, especially given that we were asked to come very informally via email forward. There were people handing out little flags, bottles of water, and walking around with garbage bags so the crowd didn't leave a mess. Police everywhere. Husband and I stood with his parents and one of the nice big biker guys. He ended up being our main source of information-- telling us this biker was leaving to bring a trailer of flags to the cemetery (where the WBCs would protest later), that biker was planning to "introduce himself" to the WBCs afterward, that they were standing on a street corner just a block away (straight ahead in this last pic). Haha, "introduce himself." I liked his diplomatic way of putting it. After standing next to such a mild-mannered mountain of a biker, maybe they aren't so scary.

I was interested in having a look at the bad people, so I left Husband and his parents to hold the flag and walked up the street with a friend. They were heinous and loathesome-- so disgusting that I didn't even want to validate their nasty message by taking a picture. So I just peeked at them from around a tree, grimaced, and left. I heard tell they were going to burn the flag there, and while I'm no hard-core nationalist, I just couldn't stomach such a vile display of abject disrespect and ignorance. There are no limits with these people!

There were several groups of Omahans standing all around them, holding up huge white sheets with poles to obscure their signs. Awesome idea. The signs were the usual WBC fare-- vicious words of "gratitude" for IEDs and the oil spill (what does that even have to do with anything?), the title of the URL to their site (hover over the link and see, also nothing to do with this), prayers for more dead soldiers and expressions of hatred for Omaha and the US in general. 

Husband brought up an interesting point just now, that the WBC people are actually accomplishing the opposite of their goal, in that they're pushing people who might not have been big fans of homosexuality in the first place to defend them since they serve in the military like everyone else. Haha! Bitches. Let's all have a laugh at the following. Start at 2:05 to see Colin Firth flirting with Fred Phelps Jr.:

Anyway, that was our big thing of the day. Oh and on the walk home, I saw this really pretty tree with almost neon green leaves.

:D

SARA, YOU ARE SUCH A CREEPER!

And yet I'm going to do it because I heard that if you don't do these internet survey thingies, pus-infested warty trolls with hair like that girl from The Ring and faces like Office Loony crab-attack you with flaming hands while screaming that horrendous Lee Greenwood song, and I'm home alone in the middle of an insane Nebraska storm right now with no bra on and the power's gone off once already, which was terrifying because it's NIGHT and the flashlights are conveniently MIA and I really can't fight supernatural creatures effectively under these circumstances. So I'm going to do it specifically so I don't die a disgusting, excruciating monster-chewy death, Sara, you bitch.

Apparently, these blog survey things are like the MySpace ones everybody did a few years ago with the random questions, you know? Except here you have to link to people's blogs and pick new questions for them to answer. And because Sara loves to make people squirm, she tapped me to answer pretty much the most embarrassing questions EVAR! I'm not giving you the detail you want though, you creepy creeper!

1. At what age did you discover masturbation and how did that happen?

I was 14 and reading The Valley of Horses late at night, and I was like what the fuck are these ladyparts they're talking about. Lo and behold, they actually existed. 

2. What's the worst sexual encounter you've ever had?

Um, my first time. Because I thought that if you did it in the butt, it didn't count and you were still a virgin. Yes, I was retarded, like Juliette Lewis retarded obviously. Plus my boyf was practically a pedophile since I was 16 and he was 21 and was all like "yeah! high school poon! er, ass." JEEBUS that hurt. It wasn't even in a bed-- it was on the floor. AND was totally gross since I had no idea how buttsecks worked, much less what an enema was or how it would have helped me.

3. What is one thing that will get you all hot & bothered almost every time?

Watching Husband hold a baby. ACK!

4. What is one thing that you haven't tried sexually that you think you might want to do. Eventually.

I can honestly say I've tried everything I ever wanted to. However, I would like to do it in an airplane again, nearer to the beginning of the flight this time. Eight hour flight + impulsive  decision to join the Mile High Club = "Try to breathe through your mouth, OMG, don't touch any surfaces but still try to put it in me, mmkay?"

5. If there is one thing that you would change about your partner's sexual technique- what would it be?

I wish he would hum the theme song to Young Frankenstein more often while we're gettin busy.

6. Top or bottom?

Surprisingly, I'm definitely a bottom bitch.

7. Talking or no talking?

NO TALKING

8. Oral sex- yay or nay? 

SUPER YAY!

Um, now off to write a real post so I can cover this one up and hopefully very few of my even fewer readers will see it. And I'm not requesting any of my readers to do this, that's just cruel.

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.