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>Such is the theme this Friday.

Preface:
The Doomsday Clock.

The doomsday clock is an imaginary clock created by the board of directors of the magazine Bulletin of the Atomic Scientiststo illustrate the threat of total destruction posed by nuclear weapons. On the clock, midnight is “doomsday,” the time of global destruction. When the clock first appeared on the cover of the magazine in 1947, scientists set it at seven minutes before midnight. In the decades since then the clock has been adjusted to reflect changes in global stability.

Prompted by the fact that said Doomsday Clock has in fact dropped a couple of minutes and thereby snatched yet more time away from our immensely profound yet relatively comical lives, I made it this Friday’s official theme. ‘Doomsday Friday’ seems to have a rather sinister undertone to it, no? Oh, what to do?

Run amok, you bastards! Run amok! Shennanigans and tomfoolery abound!!

My goal before the end of life as we know it in 2012 is to finish my rubberband ball. This is what I need to do to make me feel as if I have contributed to humanity. I’m not sure just yet at what stage I would consider it completed, ie, circumference, etc., but when it happens, I will just know. We shall jetascend a time capsule into the vastness of space which will contain, alongside such hits as the Virgin Mary French Toast and the World’s Largest Kidney Stone, the summation of my life that is The Rubberband Ball. It’ll be beautiful, I tell ya. The likes of which this doomed planet has never seen.

The contemplation of my own life’s work led me to ponder what others would consider meaningful and contributive as their final salute to humanity.

So, I have sent the question out into the void that is my email address book. Observe:

Dear Friends, Family, and Random Naked Mole Rats:

Here’s the thing.

Being that today is Doomsday Clock Friday and all, I am naturally inclined to make my friday blog about the aforementioned topic. In order to enhance my contribution to the blogsphere, I hereby pose this question to you as a sort of survey to see what people would like to accomplish before 5 minutes to midnight on December 22, 2012. Any replies will be graciously accepted and considered, and there is no wrong answer. Unless it involves midgets and donkeys, and in that case you can keep it to yourself, you sick freak.

Thanks
Niff

I am awaiting responses.

Thus Far:

Dawn: I hope to find the right guy to chain to my bedroom wall.

Carrie’s Sister: get a lion from the zoo. Put a remote control bomb up its butt. When the lion starts tearing you up, press the bomb button.
You and the lion die like as one.

Carrie: To be able to pat my head, rub my belly, and chew bubble gum all at the same time.

Peter, aka Rexorg, Destroyer of Worlds: I want to beat WoW, while landing on Mars. The second part isn’t strictly necessary.

Matt: I want to be finished having to use CSS and scripting hacks for IE 6.

Dan: I would like to reach the summit of Mt. Everest on a clear night…remove my pack…and watch the world end.

I will continue updating as the responses come in.
Although thus far I am somewhat disappointed by the lack of responses I have received…sheesh people…y’all are probably the type that don’t like sales calls, either.

>Damn the broccoli,
Damn you,
Damn the Wright brothers,
And double damn Thursdays.

Yep. Still here. I am in the Seventh Circle of Hell.
It is winter. It is beautiful out. And because it is winter, that ceaseless motherfucking thief of sunlight, I will spend every last second of potential exposure to unobscured solar radiation behind a desk.

Somehow the Wright Brothers must be at fault.

Sometime back my coworker and I had decided that since Thursdays were so bloody pointless we would obliterate them altogether and create “First Friday”. It was ruddy brilliant. Jumping from Wednesday to Friday? The sheer brilliance of it was blinding. “Second Fridays”, or what the rest of the sane world considers to be the only Friday, became somewhat of an event. We had themes.
– “Alice’s Restaurant” Friday. We had Arlo Guthrie looping nonstop for 9 hours solid. It was absolutely beautiful.

– “Dunce Cap” Friday : Self-explanitory.

– “In-a-godda-da-vida” Friday: Awesome in theory, but I must confess, this one was a bit trying.

– “Pi” Friday: A tribute to all things 3.141592653589793…

Unfortunately, the concept of “First Friday” was solely based in dellusions of grandeur. Once you lose the ability to delude yourself, you’re fucked, and once again left with Thursdays.

Double damn Thursdays.

I am supposed to be working. You can see how well that is going.

“This must be Thursday,” said Arthur musing to himself, sinking low over his beer, “I never could get the hang of Thursdays.” – The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

>Why are legal pads yellow?

Did someone just wake up one morning and say, “I know…yellow…”

This must be investigated. Let me call upon the “Series of Tubes”…

AH! Here we go.

Dear Yahoo!:

Why are legal pads yellow?

Chris Middletown, New York

Dear Chris:

A company called the American Pad and Paper Company, or Ampad, claims to have invented the legal pad in 1888. A young inventor named Thomas Holley made the tablets from cheap leftovers, or sortings, from paper mills. His low-cost lined pads were quickly adopted by the scribbling professions, and the legal pad was born. AMPAD made business headlines a few years ago when it filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. But fortunately, the Plano, Texas, based company was bought out of extinction, and now sells an array of office products, including EnviroTech Dual Purpose Legal Pads, made from 100% recycled materials.As for their distinctive hue, an article in IS Magazine claims that, “The yellow legal pad — a must among lawyers, executives, students, writers and thinkers of all sorts — was devised specifically because yellow was thought to be a color which stimulated the intellect.” The piece goes on to mention that F. Scott Fitzgerald was a big fan.Though we couldn’t verify the claim (considering AMPAD’s origins as a discount retailer, perhaps yellow dye was simply the cheapest?), in general dark text on a light background is considered optimal for reading. And yellow tends to be easier on the eyes than a harsh white background, a fact that 3M took to heart when they invented the Post-it note.

>There is a drawback, at least in my case, to overcoming a cold.

When I’ve recovered from an illness, so joyous am I at the reclaimation of health that in an expression of great joie de vivre and exhuberance I thusly become thoroughly annoying.

Especially when that joie de vivre is coupled with one or two cans of Red Bull.

Very few things on this planet are as destructive or perilous.

Well, perhaps with the exception of Old Navy ads.

So I have spent a majority of my workday alternating between playing “Lazy Sunday” on Google Video and the “Colonel Sanders/Orange on a Toothpick” scene from So I Married an Axe Murderer. You can only listen to these so many times before your brain folds in upon itsef. How many times has not yet been determined; further study is required.

You know that cat that was just in here? Just ran out the door? Well, he comes up to the counter, you know, and I say, “What’s the word, turd?” and he lays down this burrito, and he kinda looks at me, kinda stares at me, and says, “I have but recently returned from the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I am rapturously breathing in all the odors and essences of life. I’ve been to the brink of total oblivion. I remember and foment the desire to remember everything.”

Daft little pillock.

>So, this is yet another pathetic attempt of mine to resurrect my blog. I think two posts in a row is a good start, is it not? I’m on a roll, people!

One thing that caught my attention this afternoon in the context of blogism was when a friend of mine popped up on Google chat.

On a sidenote, I must say that Google chat is one of technology’s finest creations. Since I do not have admin privileges on my computer at work, I am restricted from installing any major chat programs upon it (MSN, Yahoo, etc.). But thanks be to the powers at Google who felt the pain of cubicle denizens nationwide and gave us a venue for which to communicate our collective boredom and discontent. I give you: web based chat. Brilliant. (Yes, I am aware that Google itself did not invent such a thing. But as it is the first of its kind that I have encountered, I thusly give them credit for it. So sue me.)

So, anyway, she mentioned that since I was ill that Pho (?) was the perfect thing to soothe my cold-laden self. I know not what Pho is, though she explained it, I de-prioritized it and have thusly forgotten what she said. What I do remember, however, is something she said immediately following the “Pho” discussion:

me: I was home yesterday too
I feel so laaaazy
Kristen: man, that is teh suck
watch any good movies?
me: teh??? You know teh????
dude
you rock
Kristen: blame Matt. He’s the cool one. I just copy his awesome geekitude.

Okay, now, I know that the types to hang out in the blogsphere will be nonplussed by this information. However, I am used to using the “teh hawesome” phrase so often (I’m such a pathetic follower, aren’t I?) and having it completely not-register on the faces of my friends. I was thoroughly convinced no one had any clue to what I was referencing.

Until today. In the most unlikely of places.

It was ruddy brilliant.

voulez-voulez-vous teh brilliant.

>
Indeed.

So in the course of human events when it becomes necessary to decide upon a “just woke up with a cold” breakfast food, do not opt for Cheerios sans milk. The reason I say this, as well as the reason I know this, is because oftentimes when a cold has made itself known to your immune system, your immune system reacts by way of creating an inhospitable environment for said organism. ergo, a sore throat. Sore throat + unmoistened Cheerios = supreme discomfort.

Hypothesis tested, lesson learned. Noted.

I think soup may be in order for lunch. If I can make it to lunch. I am dying, after all.

Ah. Interesting segway here. Ready? Here goes.

So. Wednesday. Walking to work from the bus stop.

I take the bus to work, and as such I usually have a good 3/4-mile culmulative trek from my front porch to my desk. More often than not this is a nice, pleasant peaceful stroll through some of the more eccentric parts of Pioneer Square.

Eccentric can be a rather subjective term.

So. As I said. Wednesday. Walking to work from my bus stop.

As I turn the corner onto second ave. south I feel a tug at my sleeve. I look down, and find myself trapped in some random Japanese-horror flick remake.
Attached to the hand tugging persistently at my sleeve was a ragged-looking old woman, seemingly homeless with thinning hair and – I shit you not – blind in one eye.

Like I said. Japanese-horror flick remake. Right here amidst my Wednesday morning stroll.

The fact that she tugged on my sleeve is not what I found startling. Nor was it the scraggly gray hair, the no-longer functioning right eye. No, it was none of these things which completely jarred me and threw my entire morning into one befuddled turmoil.

It was her words.

As she peered up at me, with her one good eye, she rasped at me out of the corner of her gnarled lips, drooling slightly as she spoke…

“You’d do well to make your peaces, missy…”

side note: what the $@$%&*!@???

I’m sure the confusion registered completely on my face as she continued:

“I see a curse…over your head…”

Ahhh…hmm. Yes. You know, I was just thinking that same thing. Thanks for clarifying that for me.

When something like that happens to you before your day has even begun, it tends to set a tone, despite your best efforts…

It was at this point when Dan reminded me that he had experienced a rather odd feeling on the previous Monday that something unpleasant was going to occur to someone in his life. Brilliant. I had forgotten about that, most likely because I had brushed it off as I believe not in such things.

And I still don’t.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must call my mother and apologize for tormenting her when I was a teenager.

Voulez-voulez-vous karma.

>Didn’t ya know?

At least Zoe thinks so.

Why is it so ruddy hot? Didn’t the meteorological forces that be get the memo that this is the Pacific Northwest and we weren’t meant to reach temperatures of 98 degrees, even if it is July? Perhaps they were busy with the new cover sheets on their TPS reports.

Being a transplanted Texan, the heat does not bother me as much as some. It is rather amusing watching these PacNW-ers mope around, lethargic and morose, bemoaning to all those who will listen about the oppressive heat. You should try going to college in San Antonio while it’s 102 outside and your black Jeep Cherokee with tinted windows has been sitting in the sun for 10-odd hours absorbing heat like a tin can. I had to buy a steering wheel cover to shield my hands from the possibility of second-degree burns. Then, perhaps, complaining is warranted.

Yet here I sit, whining about the fact that my hair won’t behave in this weather. What a bullshit hypocrite am I. Eh. My blog, my double standard.

Of course, I venture to say the reason so many PacNW-ers complain about the ruddy heat is in part due to the fact that most residences in Seattle do not come equipped with air conditioners. In Texas, the Port-a-Potties have a/c. Perhaps I should cut them some slack. The people, not the Port-a-Potties. Of course, being a Port-a-Potty has it’s downsides…I won’t go into that now, however. Though I would find it amusing.

Ah, Madison has come in to say hello. Madison is a cat who enjoys sleeping, chasing bugs and humping door frames. I won’t go into that now, however.

I now have things to do which have nothing to do with my blog. I am trying to catch up, I promise. But I won’t go into that now.

Voulez-voulez-vous procrastination is the key to getting nothing done.

>Having several tumultuous things happening in my life all at once as of late, I have been rather piss-poor at keeping up with my blog-reading. And writing. But that’s none of your business.

So last week I decided to see just what was happening in the blogosphere, and learned of Magazine Man’s recent Blaze

incident. I felt for he and his family, having two dogs myself that I also consider to be part of my family, and felt thankful that both were home and safe.
Until this morning.
I receive a panic-stricken call from my husband.
“Duke…he…got out…can’t…find…him…helpmehelpmehelpme!!!!”

Shit.

Duke has…issues. I have questioned his sanity before. He is a beagle. Four years old. We acquired duke three years ago next month when we still had my boxer, Kaia, who passed a month later after his acquisition due to kidney failure, and Duke was a true comfort. Actually, comfort is the wrong word. Distraction would be more accurate.
Duke was a rescue dog. He had been removed from a home due to abuse and placed in foster care, which is where we found him. He was sweet, and cute, and had us completely snowed. He knew the score. We did not, and thusly took him home.

I’m not how sure of this you are, but beagles tend to be…loud.
And hyper.
And troublesome.
And obnoxious…destructive…mischevious.

And as such, Duke qualifies. For the ruddy honors program at that. He’s an overachiever.
And a raging cleptomaniac. Preferably when it comes to bright yellow tennis balls. At the dog park. This makes the Labs very put-out.

But I digress.

Hours are spent searching for my wayward canine. The house sits on a sort of greenbelt, which basically translates into a 5-acre or so forest with lost of trees and underbrush, perfect for a 13-inch beagle to get lost in. Which he did. I remained hopeful.

We gave it the ole college try, interrogating neighbors and passers-by, informing them that yes, he was tagged and microchipped and would they be so kind as to call blah blah blah. Everyone seemed eager and willing to help, and thusly restoring my faith in humanity. Of course, they hadn’t met duke yet, so their attempted philanthropy was completely objective. Duke has a way of changing people’s minds.

After several hours of fruitless searching, we, heartbroken, decided to start over in the morning.

This is where Duke’s cleptomania came in rather handy.

I receive a call at work the next day from Bryan, who informs me that he had gotten a call from a neighbor a couple of doors down who knew of our plight and as such called us immediately when he spotted our vagabond dog. Although it wasn’t so much of a spot as it was a…blur. You see, this neighbor of ours was playing with his children in their front yard. With…give ya three guesses…

Bright yellow tennis balls.

In the midst of a lofty toss to his daughter, our neighbor sees a smallish, black, brown, and white mass dart out of the woods, abscond with the ball mid-throw, do a pretty impressive U-turn, and stand staring at them, tail wagging furiously, with a “what?” expression on his face.

So needless to say we now have Duke back. I did miss the little bastard.

So I will try and write more. I’ve noted that though I may not have many comments posted on my blog, I sure do get a lot of people bitching at me that I don’t blog enough. Oh, the pressure!!!

My life is settling a bit so I promise I will work on it. I have pieces due for a cafe show for my paintings that I’m working on, a job interview on Friday, and a huge life altering situation that I am not going to go into on my blog, because, again, it’s none of your business. Ha.

Voulez-voulez-vous _______.

>

I just watered my bamboo. It seems grateful.

I like my bamboo. It and I have been in a relationship for over a year. We don’t communicate too well verbally; I consider it more of a mental and emotional co-existence.

It is also grateful that I haven’t killed it off yet. I think it may have witnessed the African Violet’s demise. I’ve tried to reassure it that due to it’s low maintenance requirements it was in no real danger, but I am afraid my assurances of health and longevity are unconvincing.

So I shall tend it and care for it and ensure it’s survival, for I am fond of my bamboo as I feel it adds a certain aesthetic to my desktop environment.

In the meantime I will consider the possibility that my emotional well-being may in fact hinge on the availability of popsicles and as such, due to a lack of supply, I teeter on the edge of insanity.

I fear the worst.

If anyone has any words of advice or consolation I welcome them in abundance.

So now I shall spend the evening with my mournful bamboo suffering through the predictable DT’s of withdrawal. The tremors have ensued and I eagerly await the hallucinations associated with the discontinuation of frozen concoctions.

Voulez-voulez-vous frozen concoctions.

>Into the pool that is the blogsphere.

Still a little cold, but yet…not…unbearable.

Perhaps I’ll just wade for a bit.

All of my belongings are now in my new home. It’s fabulous, though in various stages of disarray. I would like to consider myself content. I would like to say I have closure. However….

Deep in the foothills of the Snoqualmie valley…

A sinister evil lies, waiting…

For my return.

The evil known as…

“The pathetic-looking disaster you left in your old apartment that you now have to clean up, you slovenly unkempt folk!”

Bollocks. Wish I could just sweet-talk someone into cleaning it for me. Thanks to my moving expenses, I can’t afford to pay someone. If only I could coast through life on nothing more than my wit and charm. Alas, what a fickle world.

There is, however, another issue at hand. An issue that reaches far beyond just soap scum and toilet rings. An issue that I myself was afflicted with some time ago that now, thanks to my recent home purchase, has the potential to resurface. An issue that makes the cleaning segment of our transition seem like getting a manicure.

Yes, I am speaking of…

(dramatic pause…)

The Paint Creep.

Dum dum DUMMMMMM!!!!

There is a bit of history here. So pull up a chair, grab some cocoa and a spatula, and prepare to be completely underwhelmed.

Bryan used to travel for his job. A lot. Which was fine, except…I should not be left unattended for too long. Not because I am clingy and emotionally needy, but because I tend to engage in activities that, though not considered unacceptable or taboo, I would not normally undertake in completely supervised situations.

Thus I speak of the Paint Creep.

Dum dum DUMMMMMM!!!!

The Paint Creep, ladies and gentlemen, starts out innocently enough. An accent wall, nothing more, nothing less. Your stark, sterile, operating-room white walls are suddenly transformed into a warm, cozy environment by one unassuming red wall. Accent wall. Lovely. You are at peace. Life is good.

But no one tells you…oh, no…they don’t dare. They want you to have this life experience all on your own. What they don’t tell you, is accent walls can be like…well, crack. You paint one, it looks nice. Well, if one looks nice, then what about two? Ah, yes. Hunter green. On the opposing wall in the dining room. Splendid. Damn, that felt great. Green. I have accomplished something. I am Martha-fucking-Stewart. I am a god of interior decor. My work is now…complete.

Until your husband is sent to Spokane for 3 weeks on business and you are left sitting alone in your apartment with oodles of time on your hands doing what…?

staring at the walls.

The Paint Creep saga continues.

The green accent wall in the dining room begins to ooze around the corner into the hallway. But oh, it is the loveliest shade of green. Who doesn’t like green? Indeed. What harm can it do? It just compliments my paintings so well. Besides, I’ve still got an entire gallon of this stuff, why let it go to waste?

Ah, yes. Green hallway. Splendid.

I feel I have led into this in such a way as to eliminate the need for elaboration.

As with most experiences in life, the joy is fleeting. Because for some strange reason, the management of my apartment complex is of the opinion that since I felt it was necessary to paint so many damn colored walls in my apartment, that they felt the need to inform me that I’d damned well better paint them back.

Bastards.

So thus I go. The fireplace wall, the dining room wall, the landing and even the damned stairwell. This weekend. This is indeed going to suck. I just want to live in my new studio for a couple days. I’ve been on an artistic hiatus ever since house-hunting began, I am beginning to experience withdrawal. I am in a creative drought. Good thing I can quench my thirst in the blogsphere wading pool.

So now I shall put my water wings away and dive into the kiddy end of the blogsphere until I have finally rid myself of this apartment once and for all. Oh, what a happy day that will be.

Voulez-voulez-vous water-based primer.

Oh, and don’t let me forget to blog next about my new studio. It’s…stellar…