>got called off from work today, since it was slow. so, got a 3-day weekend of sorts. sweet.
the dogs are happy. no kennel-ing today. except for when i go to the gym. but they’ll survive.
27 degrees this morning, but only ice, no snow. that sucks bollocks.
well, that about sums it up. think i’ll have a kiwi.
>Mondays are my days off. I relish this fact. Sundays are my busiest and most trying days of the week for me at work, and I enjoy the repose that ensues on the first day of what is my weekend.
However.
the powers that be at my apartment complex decided that it would be a brilliant idea to have this fuckface leaf-blower tidy up the property on Monday mornings.
at 7:30 a.m.
I don’t fault the leaf-blower, even though I just called him a fuckface. He’s just doing his job.
I fault the bastard property manager Mr. “If you don’t keep your dog on a leash at all times I will make you get rid of it” fascist power-tripping piece of shit “you have too many flowerpots on your balcony” man.
Fortunately, the maintenance man, who is cool as shit, has his utility garage right below my balcony, and he likes my dog. When he found out other people were parking in my parking spot, he put a sign with my apartment number and a “others will be towed” sign. He is a man who gets things done, and is happy to do it. And my dog likes him, which is saying a lot, as Duke hates everyone. He is indeed cool as shit.
So I will ask him, not the rosy-faced humpty-dumpty lookalike property manager, what’s up with the gasoline-powered wake-up call. Even if he can’t do anything about it, he has the ear of the shithead who can.
There are quite a few people out there hard at work to get leaf-blowers banned. So I feel somewhat justified in my complaint.
For now I just want one banned. It’s 9:30 and the fucker is still out there. Wish I had a BB gun. I’d shoot out the damn gas tank. Although in doing so I might kill the operator, and then I’d be convicted of homicide, which is a high price to pay for sleep-deprivation-induced discontent.
>discombobulated.
enjoy.
Okay, I just found out from Paul D. that discombobulated is indeed a very uncool word. So I shall have to come up with another, less barbaric, word.
Here goes.
terpsichorean.
Much better.
>Ain’t a damn thing on TV, so I’m re-watching “Bad Santa” that I DVR-ed last night.
Hubby’s having a play-date with one of his buddies trying out the new XBox360. I wasn’t invited. Bastards. I’m stuck with GTA San Andreas over here, NOT in hi-def. They’ll rue the day.
Watched the Cavaliers/Nets game, followed by the Sonics whoopin up on the Jazz (which ain’t hard), and missing the Spurs/Celtics game because I live in friggin’ Seattle and for some reason they don’t think Spurs are all that important.
Poor Celtics. They’ve lost, like, 16 games in a row to the Spurs.
I only got to see the first quarter and a half of the Cavaliers game, since I was on the treadmill at the gym. Lebron was getting steamrolled by Vince for a while. Only scored 3 points in the first quarter, plus missing foul shots. Must be taking free throw lessons from Tim Duncan.
I will be the first to confess that Tim Duncan has probably the worst free-throw arm in the NBA.
Well, I have now proven that I am so bored I will use my blog to give NBA updates. Here ya go, poeples. Enjoy.
I’m out.
>
damn.
that is what I woke up to Friday morning. I was scheduled to be at work at 6, so I did my usual ‘alarm-goes-off-at-4:30-oh-god-damn-make-the-noise-stop-smack-the-snooze-for-10-minutes-roll-out-of-bed-hating-the-world-then-take-the-bloody-dogs-out’ routine. 
Only this time of the year its more like “put-on-jeans-boots-reasonable-sweater-heavy-ass-coat-knit-hat-gloves-scarf” then take the dogs out. Though I have to attach their leashes before I put my gloves on otherwise my poofy hands can’t get the damn things hooked.
My beagle waits at the door like a damn thoroughbred at the gates anticipating the gunshot. While I’m gathering my bearings (i.e. managing the door as well as my greyhound’s leash in the other hand) he’s doing his “imaginary treadmill” trick. I am used to this routine. I’ve got this shit down, man. I’m a pro.
This routine takes a slightly different turn when there is a foot of snow outside the door. Duke freaks out when there is snow. I mean freaks out. He responds with extreme hyperactivity to any sort of new stimuli in his environment (wind, new neighbors, groceries being brought in, my husband sneezing, barking at his own damn reflection in the fireplace…), so the whole snow thing was making my job very difficult.
My greyhound is another story. She was a racer in her early years, topping speeds of 40 mph. Now she is like a three-toed sloth on prozac. She lingers behind at a less-than-leisurely pace, just kinda lookin’ around, coming to a dead stop once in a while with this blank expression on her face. Meanwhile, her brother, despite the 15-foot limit on his retractable leash, is digging into the snow like it’s a bloody foxhole, with his big fat beagle-rump sticking up in the air. I’m just wishing they would piss and shit already so I can get my rump back in the house.
What normally takes about five minutes ended up taking twenty, so needless to say I was running a tad bit behind on my morning work-prep routine. Got the kids back in the house, put them back into bed with their father. (He gets to wake up an hour later then I, so the kids try to get a few more minutes of sleep. They have rough lives, you know…)
It was at this point that I realized I may have some vehicular issues once it was time to leave for work. I have a Jeep Cherokee, the old-school 1998 model, that is not a 4X4. It’s a wannabe Jeep Cherokee. So it’s not the prime choice when handling over a foot of snow. I also live deep within the bowels of my apartment complex, meaning that I must traverse several different driveway-style mini-roads to get to the parkway. These driveway-style mini-roads are neither shoveled not plowed. Nor will they be for some time, as our maintenance guy keeps as few hours as possible.
So I decided that before I waste any more time getting ready for work, gleeful at the possibility of having a ‘snow day’, I decide to make an attempt at getting my car out of it’s parking spot.
Problem.
The dude parked on the opposite side of my car, directly behind me, had the same idea as I. Only long before I did.
It hadn’t worked out.
Damn. Looked like I was stayin’ home.
I called work and informed them of the situation. Luckily, due to the weather, there were only four reservations that morning, thus staffing needs were minimal. The other server made it in, thanks to her living in the neighboring town, which, because of the elevation change, had virtually no snow. They’re pretty good about getting the roads cleared as soon as possible around here, so she had smooth sailing all the way in. I wasn’t too worried about it getting busy for her, since the likelihood of walk-ins was nonexistent as the latest crop of Washingtonians react to snow as if it were a nuclear apocalypse, thanks to the large amount of Californians moving up here all the damn time. (I will save the story behind Native Washingtonians’ (like myself) inherent hatred of Californians for another blog). I spent the day cozied up at home with intermittent snowball fights with the kids outside. It was good times.
Fortunately, enough of the snow had been cleared before I had to leave for the Sonics game that started at 7pm (I am a Sonics fan as long as they are not playing the Spurs), and my neighbor was able to relocate his vehicle so I could get out. Missing work: hell yeah. Missing the game: hell no.
I have my priorities.
Voulez-voulez-vous priorities.
>
ARTHUR: Old woman!
DENNIS: Man!
ARTHUR: Man, sorry. What knight lives in that castle over there?
DENNIS: I’m thirty seven.
ARTHUR: What?
DENNIS: I’m thirty seven — I’m not old!
ARTHUR: Well, I can’t just call you `Man’.
DENNIS: Well, you could say `Dennis’.
ARTHUR: Well, I didn’t know you were called `Dennis.’
DENNIS: Well, you didn’t bother to find out, did you?
ARTHUR: I did say sorry about the `old woman,’ but from the
behind you looked–
DENNIS: What I object to is you automatically treat me like an
inferior!
ARTHUR: Well, I AM king…
DENNIS: Oh king, eh, very nice. An’ how’d you get that, eh? By
exploitin’ the workers — by ‘angin’ on to our outdated imperialist
dogma which perpetuates the economic an’ social differences in our
society! If there’s ever going to be any progress–
WOMAN: Dennis, there’s some lovely filth down here. Oh — how
d’you do?
ARTHUR: How do you do, good lady. I am Arthur, King of the
Britons. Who’s castle is that?
WOMAN: King of the who?
ARTHUR: The Britons.
WOMAN: Who are the Britons?
ARTHUR: Well, we all are. we’re all Britons and I am your king.
WOMAN: I didn’t know we had a king. I thought we were an
autonomous collective.
DENNIS: You’re fooling yourself. We’re living in a dictatorship.
A self-perpetuating autocracy in which the working classes–
WOMAN: Oh there you go, bringing class into it again.
DENNIS: That’s what it’s all about if only people would–
ARTHUR: Please, please good people. I am in haste. Who lives
in that castle?
WOMAN: No one live there.
ARTHUR: Then who is your lord?
WOMAN: We don’t have a lord.
ARTHUR: What?
DENNIS: I told you. We’re an anarcho-syndicalist commune. We
take it in turns to act as a sort of executive officer for the
week.
ARTHUR: Yes.
DENNIS: But all the decisions of that officer have to be ratified
at a special biweekly meeting.
ARTHUR: Yes, I see.
DENNIS: By a simple majority in the case of purely internal
affairs,–
ARTHUR: Be quiet!
DENNIS: –but by a two-thirds majority in the case of more–
ARTHUR: Be quiet! I order you to be quiet!
WOMAN: Order, eh — who does he think he is?
ARTHUR: I am your king!
WOMAN: Well, I didn’t vote for you.
ARTHUR: You don’t vote for kings.
WOMAN: Well, ‘ow did you become king then?
ARTHUR: The Lady of the Lake, [angels sing] her arm clad in the
purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of
the water signifying by Divine Providence that I, Arthur, was to
carry Excalibur. [singing stops] That is why I am your king!
DENNIS: Listen — strange women lying in ponds distributing
swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive
power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some
farcical aquatic ceremony.
ARTHUR: Be quiet!
DENNIS: Well you can’t expect to wield supreme executive power
just ’cause some watery tart threw a sword at you!
ARTHUR: Shut up!
DENNIS: I mean, if I went around sayin’ I was an emperor just
because some moistened bint had lobbed a scimitar at me they’d
put me away!
ARTHUR: Shut up! Will you shut up!
DENNIS: Ah, now we see the violence inherent in the system.
ARTHUR: Shut up!
DENNIS: Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system!
HELP! HELP! I’m being repressed!
ARTHUR: Bloody peasant!
DENNIS: Oh, what a give away. Did you hear that, did you hear
that, eh? That’s what I’m on about — did you see him repressing
me, you saw it didn’t you?
>
Thanksgiving is now over. Thank God.
My Thanksgiving went something like this:
Despite the fact that we were serving Thanksgiving dinner at 1 pm, we still had to serve breakfast from 7 – 11 am anyway. So I opened that morning, arriving to work at 6 am to serve oversized breakfasts to people that were going to be having Thanksgiving dinner in a matter of hours. And we were hella-busy, even. (Yes, I used hella.)
Thanksgiving is the only time of year in which I work the evening shift, as each and every table gets their very own turkey carved tableside, and with over 400 people coming in between the hours of 1 and 8 pm, it required quite a bit of manpower.
Service for Thanksgiving went something like this:
– My assistant would greet the guest, offer water and baguettes, etc.
– I approach the table, with holiday greetings and offer wine pairings.
– First course is served, with champagne: Butternut bisque with candied chestnuts, caramelized apples and nutmeg creme.
– Second course, with Chardonnay, is served: harvest greens with vanilla poached pears, toasted almonds, citrus goat cheese and huckleberry vinaigrette.
– Main course is served with Syrah: Yukon gold potato puree, winter vegetables, cranberry, currant and vanilla relish, herbed sausage and sage stuffing, old fashion turkey gravy, and turkey carved tableside.
– Dessert, served with port: Chocolate Creme Brulee Cake, white chocolate ice cream, candied cranberries.
(Selling a couple bottles of a $400 wine was a bit of a bonus…)
I did this about 21 times during service. After a seventeen hour day, I got to go home. Granted, with a quite a bit of cash, as the average bill for a table of two went for $250.00 before gratuity…)
The really exciting part? After not getting home until about 11:30 pm, I had to be back at 6 in the morning for breakfast service. We were unendingly busy until the end of service yesterday.
This morning is the first time I’ve been able to breathe in four days. Ahhhhhh.
fortunately, Thanksgiving is the only holiday where it is impossible to have any family time. Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day…since I only work breakfast the other 364 days of the year I still have evenings for family things.
So no more turkey for another 361 days. Bonus.
Voulez-voulez-vous gobble gobble.
>Dammitall.
I was going to contribute something clever and witty, but I made a mistake of reading AJ’s blog beforeheand, and now all I keep thinking is, “ding fries are done ding fries are done”.
This sucks. So does AJ.
I have to get beyond this. I have to figure out what the hell I was going to blog about.
“ding fries are done ding fries are done.”
Oh! I know. I can now leg press 280 lbs. I rock.
I build muscle like a fiend. I’m gonna get all cut and go around kicking people’s asses. Mostly AJ’s.
“Ding fries are done ding fries are done.”
I wanna learn how to fight. I wanna do the “Trinity” in “The Matrix” style of ass-kicking. Wonder if my gym has a “street fighting” class. Fuck pilates and yoga. The waifs in the pilates studio can kiss my ass.
“ding fries are done ding fries are done.”
Waiting on my spousal unit to get his ass home so we can go to the gym. I’m feeling hostile.
“Ding fries are done ding fries are –”
I think it’s best that I go.
Voulez-voulez-vous hostile.
>
voulez-voulez-vous joyeux noel.
>I’ve decided that if the menfolk in the blogsphere can blog about poker all the damn time, I can blog about hiking more than a couple times a week. Stick that in your smoke and pipe it.
So yesterday I decided to go with the Little Si trail since it’s only 5 miles instead of 8 and took about 2 1/2 hours to finish instead of 4. Since the sun sets about 4:30 pm these days, and hiking in the dark by myself isn’t the best idea, I feel I made the right choice. Little Si is not quite as intense as Big Si, but it still has a 1,250-foot elevation gain. Not so little in my humble opinion. Today my calves would agree with that assessment.
One of my favorite things to do when hiking is to torture my husband. He is not fond of heights. Flying, he’s okay. Standing on the precipice of a mountain 1300 feet from the ground, not so much. So, since I am such a sick and twisted cookie, my torment of choice is to dangle my feet off the edge of said precipice then email the picture to him. Here is the picture I sent him yesterday. Observe:
Heh.
I was informed in a cell call not five minutes later that it was indeed not funny.
Voulez-voulez-vous acrophobia
Niff.Dot 