Twitch

Or, I think it's called a "tweet."

CLEARLY, since I have so very much to say (nod to the near eight-months of radio silence), I have inexplicably joined the ranks of the weirdo friendless fatheads who blow hot air all over the internets via Twitter. Or let's say I joined small businesses, yeah, I realize they get lots of traffic and dollar bills from there (maybe), WHATEVER. Point is, I'm on it. I'm sure you can expect as much from my Twatter feed as you get from this blog.

@giniandtonic

I love Facebook

In the spirit of my girl Kailey's recent post about Facebook stereotypes (my favorite is #2), I thought I'd expand her list by several more ridiculous examples except more in the realm of Facebook gripes. Because they're funny! Or annoying? Whatever the case, buyers beware because I'm about to get judgey.


*The Oversharer
Okay. I get that Facebook is an efficient way of getting interesting information about you to as many (or as few) people as you choose. It's passive and you don't have to explain things to a bunch of different people a bunch of times. I like it for that reason-- it's great to post a status update about the show you're in the middle of seeing and potentially excite other people to hightail it to the same show, or that you had a terrible day and you'll be at this bar for dollar shots if anyone wants to join you, or to tell all 220 of your friends that your new baby's name is Twila. I think it's handy and cool and I do value efficiency. We straight on that? Good.


Now what I do not like and think is totally stupid is sharing EVERY ASPECT OF YOUR DAILY LIFE with your entire Facebook friend list. I do not care that you think your cat is a reincarnated pirate because her back leg wobbles and her meows sound like "arrrrs." That's moronic. Also moronic is that you think you're psychic because the phone rang just as you were thinking of calling the insurance company. I don't want to hear that the wind's blowing through your hair as you drive because what the fuck is your stupid ass doing Facebooking while driving anyway? And I certainly don't want to read over and over how up and down you're feeling about your husband leaving you for some younger slut. Broadcast to hundreds of people! That shit is private-- how about you go old-school, call a fucking friend and quit subjecting the rest of us to your misery just so you can collect dozens of "oh im so sorry" comments below? And what if you get back together? What are you going to broadcast then?


Ever since I've grown to be incredibly annoyed with these people, I've found myself culling my own status updates and I like to think they are slightly less shitty for that reason.


*The Hider
This person generally has crap tons of photos and they are ALL of that person's child/ren or pet/s and NONE are of the actual person who runs the Facebook account. Lots of the time the child/ren and/or pet/s are in the exact same position as in the previous picture, only with a slightly different facial expression or maybe they're looking to the left instead of down. That shit is boring. More often than not, one of those pictures is also the profile picture, which I find just pathetic. It's like saying you've surrendered your individuality now that you have a pretty family, and now that you are represented by this small, pretty babyfriend, you don't matter anymore. I suppose that substituting pictures of your kids for your own frees you of the burden of looking halfway decent for a picture, but I did not befriend your children. I befriended YOU. Where is that person? Is it really so torturous to be yourself? Why are you hiding behind a photo of your child?
Another point on the zillion pictures of your kids-- I think that makes you kind of a jackass. It's not like the kid had a choice in you putting his or her picture on the internet to be immortalized for all time. And nobody in their right mind is going to look at all 73 identical photos of Junior in his baby swing. If they do, it's either Angelina Jolie thinking that's fresh meat for sale or a pedophile scoping your kid out. I don't think you really want any of those vibes, do you? Speaking of which....


*The Toddler
Once in awhile, I run across a profile for a real-life child. Like, a babyfriend or sometimes a kid in elementary school but the vast majority of child profiles I've seen are for toddlers. Who does that?? If the issue is to share your child's progress and pictures with trusted friends and family, why wouldn't you open a secure blog instead and invite people to view it? Do you know how many child predators there are on Facebook (and MySpace)? LOTS. It doesn't matter that a parent or guardian is running the child's Facebook page (not to mention that it's probably against the user agreement, if you want to get compliancey about it), it is a gross misuse of your child's trust and lack of free will.


*The Pet
To people who open profiles for their animals: WHAT THE FUCK. Why don't you have anything better to do than don the persona of your pet and keep a whole separate Facebook page for it?


*The FarmVille/Mob Wars/Sorority Life Junkie
Why would you join a social networking site just to play games and endlessly annoy your friends by demanding that they "buy eggs from your farm!"? VIRTUAL EGGS that cost not only virtual money (that you must earn somehow by virtual means), they also cost you minutes and perhaps hours of your actual life that you will never, ever be able to retrieve. I did enjoy the Oregon Trail application Facebook had for awhile, for nostalgia's sake. But as novelties do, that obsession faded in about five minutes and now I actually talk to friends on Facebook since that's, you know, what it's FOR. Sadly, that was not the case for people I know who are still helplessly (albeit happily?) addicted to the hardcore idiocy of Mob Wars, the insipidity of Sorority Life (gag me), or the mindless fuckery of FarmVille.


*The Random Friender
 Has everyone gotten that friend request from a total stranger? Sometimes by someone who lives in your city but also sometimes by someone in a place you've never even heard of? What the hell is that about? Especially since I'm careful to make sure my profile and photos are for friends only, I get confused and irritated at this. What is the point if all you can see in my profile photo is a volcano? If you actually cared to get to know me, you'd strain a finger and write me a MESSAGE. The last person to randomly friend me? He had over 1000 friends, nearly all of them women.


*The Poker
Because sometimes you just can't be bothered to actually type a sentence asking how someone is-- you have to "poke" them with an annoying, online finger and hope they ask how you are.

If I could turn back time....

Today I was laughing over those awesome de-motivational poster emails people so frequently forward, and this one spurred a memory:

Have I ever told you that I went into one of those "free hugs" tunnels? Like super deep inside. No, of course I haven't. Well, I did. I didn't get a hug out of it. But on the up side, I didn't get raped or murdelized either. 

I was walking home from middle school with my best friend, and every day we walked over a huge sewage drain/tunnel thing like this. It was at least ten feet high. Once in awhile we'd stop into the entrance and just hang out and talk or whatever, because it was kind of a novelty. You know kids and their fascination with little buildings with privacy like box forts and tree houses. And it was always daytime so it wasn't scary. We'd stop and gossip (as if we weren't doing that walking together anyway) and dawdle and make plans. One day as we were talking, I heard a faint voice from deep inside the tunnel. "Heeey! Hey you! Come back here. I got something cool!" 

"Is that Matt So-and-so?" I asked my friend. "What's he doing in there?" 

"I don't know. It's creepy though, don't go in."

"Whatever. That's totally his voice. I want to see what he has. Let's go!"

"Seriously?? I am not going in there, I don't want to die!"

"Fine, hang out here then. You can call for help when I die seeing the cool thing. Scaredy!"

And in I went. 

And in and in and in and in and in. Every time I ventured a little farther, Matt's voice beckoned me farther still. "You're not close enough yet! I'm back here!"

"Matt, is that you? I'm getting bored."

"Yeah, sure. It's cool, it glows in the dark! Come on!"

After ten minutes of this, I started to figure out that the closer I got, the farther into the tunnel Matt retreated. I looked back and could only see a little pen cap of light, and I couldn't even see my friend's silhouette anymore. That scared me. Which, good thing?? Because apparently I was too dumbass to be scared of the obvious. I called out to her. No answer.

"HEY, you're almost here!" I jumped and turned, and behind a curve in the tunnel, I could see a face. And that face was definitely not Matt's. 

I turned and ran my stupid ass back to the entrance, ignoring the curses and protests of the mystery man-- not mystery middle-schooler-- behind me. My friend was waiting at the entrance and said she hadn't heard me yell for her. I was that far in. What, like half a mile? Maybe a little less? Jeebus.

I was relating this for co-workers and the looks on their faces were horrified. I hadn't really thought about the incident since, honestly, and thought it would be kind of a funny story. Uh, apparently not. One advised me never to tell my mother, which sparked a conversation about the stupid shit we did as kids, which had us speculating over whether we as kids would actually listen if we as adults could go back in time and warn ourselves. Which led me to make the following list of things I would warn against if indeed I could go back in time. WHICH was actually the original subject of this post but I have a rambly mind. 

-Be nice to Seester. She's so cool and interesting and later you will be good friends. If you have a suspicion her finger's in the door, don't close the door to find out. Forgive the womb-juice incident.

-Your cousin's going to tell your dad you spit on her when really you just blew a raspberry. And you will get the belt. Don't hang around for that one, run the fuck away!

-Pretending to be Vanna White and showing that a razor "works" doesn't exempt you from bleeding.

-Keith A. will turn out to be gay, don't cry over him and his stupid surfer shorts.

-You will never be able to hold a match to your finger long enough to see what the bone looks like. Quit trying!

-Don't swallow your barf because you didn't want to make the school bus stink. No one else was that considerate.

-Dr. Pepper doesn't actually taste like pepper.

-Drowning actually feels good, try not to do it anyway.

-Sadly, 4th grade penmanship just can't emulate a parent's signature very well. 

-Whippets are so not worth the money you paid for the can.

-Just let your friend play Nintendo at her turn instead of "helping her" pass the level.

-Throwing sand in a boy's face will make him cry and he will not man up, regardless of the fact that it was obviously Evilyn from He-Man who did that, not Gini.

-Do not hang off the hallway banister and let go just to see if you break a bone.

-DON'T GO INTO THE TUNNEL!

-Don't go out with that pedophile. The fact that he is 20 and still sexually attracted to your 15-year-old flatness is a big red flag.

-Start sharing, bitch. You should have learned by this 19 already.


Yeah, so I'll probably update this list now and again because I did lots of stupid shit.

Why couldn't you have been a Jew?

Last night Husband and I went to get a new package of canning jars, because I am a nerd who likes to can and I have a bumper crop of bush pickles and tomatoes. And of course I ran out of jars in the middle of a canning sessions. ANNOYING. So we went to the store and as we were checking out, the cashier said "It's not often I see young people come through here with canning supplies!" I love talking about canning and stuff because once again, nerd, so I started to talk with her when the woman in front of us turned around and exclaimed in a too-loud, too-cheery voice "WELL, GOOD FOR YOU! WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO CAN??" 

I wish I had just kept talking with the cashier, because she was really sweet and I think I might bring her a jam sometime. Or at least let Husband handle the chatty-mouth customer woman. But Chatty Mouth was kind of insistent and being nice to Office Loony has me being nice to pretty much everyone, and she was so enthusiastic about my pickles and it was impossible to talk to them both at the same time and so somehow we ended up walking out of the store with Chatty Mouth and talking with her in the parking lot for like 30 friggin minutes.

At first it was canning tips and make-sure-you-only-freeze-asparagus and did-you-know-you-could-can-meat, BUT THEN it turned into her interrogating me with beady eyes on how exactly I wash my vegetables, why I use that particular ratio of vinegar to water instead of buying vegetable wash, AND THEN she was telling us about her business that is 12 or 17 or 27 fruits and vegetables in a single capsule or something and I was like "oh neat, an entrepreneur, I'll listen to her invention, whatever. She told me not to can asparagus, I owe her one." So I listened patiently, totally believing that she had invented this product.....until I realized she wasn't very familiar with her bottom line, and that she was randomly spewing "facts" about this capsule that sounded scripted and choppy and she wasn't really sure how many nutrients were in the capsule but it did only cost $1.38 per day. At which point I figured out that she was one of those fucking pyramid schemers and was trying to sell us her product.  I should note that Husband (who was carrying my heavy canning jars, by the way) had all this figured out way before me because his head is on earth instead of floating around the stratosphere thinking about what lychee sangria might taste like, and had been shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot in an attempt to get a subtle message to me.

Chatty Mouth was also one of those lonely people who talks and talks and talks because their cats and walls don't talk back so when they're in public and ensnare you, you are one fucking ensnared dumbass and find it nearly impossible to get away. So while Husband is shifting around with my heavy jars, she and I have exchanged business cards and she's chitty chat chatting about how I'm so smart to grill bok choy and could she have that Filipino recipe from me because a Filipino exchange student lived with her family when she was in high school and then she went on a mission trip to the Philippines much later in life and one time when she called Qwest or Cox or whoever about her service she recognized the distinctive accent of her Filipino client service person and got to talking about her mission trip to the Philippines, and then the Filipino lady was like "Oh! What church was it??" and Chatty Mouth said "The born-again church!" and the Filipino lady said "Me too!!!!" and I was screaming in my head BORN-AGAIN???? FAAAACCKKK!! WHY COULDN'T YOU HAVE BEEN ONE OF THE BAZILLION JEWISH PEOPLE WHO GO TO THIS STORE?!?! BACK AWAY GINI, BACK AWAY!!

Because I? am a MAGNET for the people who live to convert others. And I've been a sucker more than once. In junior high, an extremely strange girl name Rose convinced me I was a chosen child to help save the world before the apocalypse came on the eve of the year 2000 (I spent that eve drinking Two Dogs and champagne and calling my brand-new boyfriend by his friend's name), and we used to "speak with the wind" together and use our magical stones to help us find answers and do weird shit. (I still have that rose quartz-- omg, ROSE quartz??-- and it actually did help me find a shit ton of lost things so go figure? And one time I was completely unprepared for a French test but I was sitting near the window and had my stone, so I asked the wind for answers and got a 100%.) 

Throughout my twenties I've unhappily fielded many unsuccessful attempts by my super-religious uncle to talk about the deep spiritual meanings behind the Bible (ironically, he was never interested in the actual historical, political or sociological meanings), not to mention the door-to-door Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses who hate to leave you alone and who apparently like to walk around the Old Market and accost people on the weekends. Another time, I was training a guy at work who asked me about my religious preferences and against my better judgment I answered him, and he was like "I'd like to talk to you some more about that, I'm born-again and I really think you're headed in the wrong direction with this 'live and let live' ideal you got goin on..." and then I was like "Hey, we are totally working right now and being born once was just fine for me and SURPRISE, I'm pressing the button so you get another call." And in between calls he would try to engage me again, insisting that I needed to go to his church and see the Lord, and you know, he didn't really make it in my department. Or at my workplace. I should google that fool and see where he ended up.

Obviously none of these proselytizers are bad people-- they are trying so, so hard to be great people and great citizens and great for their Lord. That's lovely. I simply do not care for it and do not care to be roped into even talking about such silliness, and the easiest way to avoid it is to avoid those people. Call me closeminded, I really don't care, but I think organized religion in general is a bunch of hooha and believing the Rapture is really going to take place is tantamount to believing in magic. I believe in science and proof and that religion simply fulfills a psychological need for direction and structure in many people, and you know, maybe there is an omniscient deity who turns his glaring eye on this blog post and is like "GINI'S GONNA FUCKIN BURN FOR THIS ONE" (or is that every day?), but maybe there isn't. Maybe I really don't care. Because I don't believe in magic, no matter how many times I insist on having a serious discussion with Husband about what we need to do to prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse.

Maybe the answer for me lies in combining Jesus-magic with the Zombie Apocalypse? Then the born-agains AND I would all be happy in Heaven (which is like a Resident Evil game, yessss) together! Oh, except Husband. He thinks all of it is silly. Crap.

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.

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.