You guys! IT’S FALL!! Sure, I’m still wearing a tank top, but there is actual rain water predicted to fall from these Bay Area skies this weekend. Did you hear that?! RAIN! Temps are going to drop, I am going to stop perpetually sweating in all my nooks and crannies, and it will be seasonally appropriate to break out my well loved galoshes. […]
Here we go again. I’ve allowed my counter top to turn into a banana graveyard. My husband hates this. Mostly because, banana pranks. But, lucky for him, I’m kind of a wizard when it comes to using these mushy brown spotted naners.
If I was writing an important short bio, it might look like this:
Gina is a hard worker and first class worrier, living in the SF Bay Area. She has a complicated relationship with natural deodorant, and on occasion will transform the menagerie of rotting bananas on her counter into a mothertrucking cake. She likes jazz, as long as it isn’t too smooth, and kisses her dog on the mouth. She’s married to a man who likes sandwiches, and tends to fall asleep in his “nook”–the swoopy part along his side that is neither underarm nor lap. She does not excel at jumping rope or reading maps, but makes up for these short comings with questionable charisma.
Does this sound professional? In fact, the next time I’m published in a magazine I might just submit that to go along with it. Special skills are important to list. Plus, everyone likes it when you talk about your husband’s swoopy non-armpit parts. Not uncomfortable. […]
I’m going to level with you. I had a fever when I created this pie.
Not in the dramatic “I have an insatiable fever and the only cure is pie” kind of way, and not in the overtly-sexy “you give me fever” jazz-standard kind of way. But, rather the “I’m cold sweating, and this thermometer tells me I’m NOT actually cold on the inside” kind of way. Things aren’t generally awesome when you’re sporting a fever. Shivering happens. Clammy-face happens. Your husband might come home from work to find you laying on the couch, wearing nothing but a long sleeve shirt with an ice pack stuffed into your bra. Who needs pants when you’ve got long sleeves? Using fever logic, the answer to that question is NO ONE. Or, maybe it’s seven. I’m not sure. Basically, things don’t make sense. […]