Category: Uncategorized

>
is asleep

but me.

bunch o’ do-nothings, they are.

voulez-voulez-vous airhorn.

>My personal trainer is a demon from hell sent to destroy me.

I no longer have full use of my arms. I hope she’s happy.

Sadistic she-beast.

Despite how I may feel about her now, I know in a few months she will be my god-dess, my muse, my salvation.

Little does she know that I’m using her to become a kick-ass buff chick who will whomp up on all o’ y’alls ugly mugs.
Heh.

I so wanna beat somebody up, just to see if I can. I’ve never been in a fight. Except with Duke, and he usually trudges off in defeat when I put his fuzzy-duck toy away. He prefers to battle with Gee for dominance over the fluffy-duck-toy. Gee usually wins the fluffy-duck-toy, so my boy Duke is just a two-time loser. Poor Duke.

If I were to ever get into a fight, I would, statistically speaking, get into a fight with another chick. Being a chick myself. You don’t see a lot of chicks startin’ sumpin’ with a guy in the parking lot. Bar fights involving two people of the opposite gender don’t seem to be all too common. I’m assuming “chivalry” and “weaker sex” have something to do with this phenomenon.
(I gotta say though…that scene in GI Jane where she bus’ up what’s-his-face was right-on.)

Chick fights don’t seem to involve too much. From what I’ve seen, they usually involve a great deal of hair pulling and jumping about. Fingernails seem to be a popular weapon of choice, though I would be grossly unarmed as I trim my nails if they grow past my fingertips. I would ultimately be forced to bore my knuckles into their eye sockets, or maybe grab their 4-inch spiked-heel off their foot and…I dunno…jam it in their ear or something.
For the most part, chick fights seem to be exercises in futility. A knock-down-panty-brawl is not going to permit a woman to forgive her sister for sleeping with her husband and stealing her ThighMaster. However, what they do have is the entertainment factor. Men seem to like them. I think there’s some chick-on-chick potential at play in their interest in female combat. Whatever floats yer boat, boys.

Now, when I beat someone up, I wanna be all, like, left hooks and clotheslines…no, wait…fuckin’…piledrivers! Choke slams!

Boot to the head.

I am now feeling oddly aggressive.

Would anyone care to come over for tea?

Voulez-voulez-vous 6 days 4 hours 45 minutes

>🙂

?

>To establish the setting:
Where I work there is an employee parking lot approximately 200 feet from the employee entrance, affectionately known as “the pit”. It is a gravelly, pothole-laden patch of land which is not adequately sized to accommodate the whole of the staff. Hence, there is another parking lot across the street which is a kind of “overflow” lot for when valet is full but employees are able to park there as well.

So.

I’m driving to work and on my way I happen to notice that there is snow atop the mountains that punctuate the skyline where I live. I was tickled. I love winter, and this was the first time I saw any indication that winter was well on its way.

As I crossed the bridge and prepared to enter “the pit”, I was prevented from pulling into the narrow inlet by a police car with lights ablaze. Knowing my co-workers the way I do, I suspected one of them had foolishly sped down the 30-mph zone in an effort to be on time.

However, upon closer inspection, I noticed that not only was the officer out of the car, but he was also standing with hands outstretched in front of him, gun in hand.

Shit.

In front of him knelt a young man in a plaid shirt and jeans with his hands on his head.

Keep in mind I work and live out in “the sticks”, where people get pulled over for going 2 mph over the speed limit because the local cops are so bored.

Criminal activity is not necessarily our thing.

So, I was forced to park in the valet overflow lot. As I made my way to the employee entrance, I noticed a second car pull up. Backup.

I got to work, giddy with the news that “somebody is gettin’ busted in the pit!”, blah blah blah.

It was at this point that one of the chefs flicked the switch to turn on the warmers on the hot line.

Oops.

An explosion to rival the 4th of July ensued, complete with blue flames and firecracker pops.

Lights flickered for a moment, a body part inventory was taken, and all but the hot line seemed to be functioning within normal parameters.

*whew*

Not just yet.

About 20 minutes after the “flaming hot line” incident, a resounding crash echoed throughout the kitchen. Only the noise wasn’t coming from the kitchen. It came from the dining room.

Trepidatiously, we tiptoed around the corner, peeking around the wall like heads on a totem pole.

One of the shades on the hanging ceiling lamps had somehow wrenched itself free from the fixture and came crashing down on the table. Casualties included 2 crystal water glasses, 2 champagne flutes, 2 Rosenthall coffee cups, saucers and bread plates, and a lead-crystal vase containing rocks and rosemary stems.

The cherry on this metaphoric triple-poofy-parfait of a day was a near-accident in the roundabout-style valet parking area involving a Lincoln Town Car and a runaway daushund whose owners were either ignorant of or ignoring the rule regarding dogs on the property.

I’m going to go watch Rome now.
Today is fini.

Voulez-voulez-vous fini.

>ARTHUR: Halt!

FRENCH GUARD: Allo! Who is eet?

ARTHUR: It is King Arthur, and these are my Knights of the Round Table. Whose castle is this?

FRENCH GUARD: This is the castle of my master, Guy de Loimbard.

ARTHUR: Go and tell your master that we have been charged by God with a sacred quest. If he will give us food and
shelter for the night, he can join us in our quest for the Holy Grail.

FRENCH GUARD: Well, I’ll ask him, but I don’t think he’ll be very keen. Uh, he’s already got one, you see.

ARTHUR: What?

GALAHAD: He says they’ve already got one!

ARTHUR: Are you sure he’s got one?

FRENCH GUARD: Oh, yes. It’s very nice-a. (I told him we already got one.)

FRENCH GUARDS: [chuckling]

ARTHUR: Well, u– um, can we come up and have a look?

FRENCH GUARD: Of course not! You are English types-a!

ARTHUR: Well, what are you, then?

FRENCH GUARD: I’m French! Why do think I have this outrageous accent, you silly king-a?!

GALAHAD: What are you doing in England?

FRENCH GUARD: Mind your own business!

ARTHUR: If you will not show us the Grail, we shall take your castle by force!

FRENCH GUARD: You don’t frighten us, English pig-dogs! Go and boil your bottom, sons of a silly person. I blow my nose at you, so-called Arthur King, you and all your silly English k-nnnnniggets. Thpppppt! Thppt! Thppt!

GALAHAD: What a strange person.

ARTHUR: Now look here, my good man–

FRENCH GUARD: I don’t wanna talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!

GALAHAD: Is there someone else up there we could talk to?

FRENCH GUARD: No. Now, go away, or I shall taunt you a second time-a!

[sniff]
ARTHUR: Now, this is your last chance. I’ve been more than reasonable.

FRENCH GUARD: (Fetchez la vache.)

OTHER FRENCH GUARD: Quoi?

FRENCH GUARD: (Fetchez la vache!)

COW MOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Voulez-voulez-vouz moo

>
I am going to write an ode. To me.

Here goes.

Almost 30 years ago,
(in about 13 more days),
A child was born with big-ass feet
in a Washington military base.

Her father was an army man,
Clad in camouflage,
Her mother cared for house and home
All through this montage.

She was the first child of just two,
The first grandchild to boot.
So spoiled was she by her grandmother
Her mother it did not suit.

Her kidnergarten year went by,
With nary an incident.
Till a little brother came to be
Her life now had a dent

For he was an annoying thing
Always making a mess.
Till one day she had had enough
Clad him in her Easter dress.

The childhood years went swiftly by,
Junior high as well.
Then 1990 marked the year
Of high school freshman hell.

Her life took a pathetic turn
Her priorities lost formation.
Her social life was more important
Than her education.

She fell in love, or so she thought,
When she was just 16.
Her high school sweetheart was a boy who
With envy was quite green.

He was quite the possessive sort,
With an eagle eye.
If she so much as talked to a boy,
He would yell and make her cry.

Her senior year, her parents did
(I now know, the right thing…)
Her father took a job in Hawaii
His daughter he would bring.

She was distressed, she was distraught,
“Oh how can they do this to me??
My life is gone, my love, my friends…
No prom, no homecoming??”

Her life went on, good times and bad
Till one day, it would be
She was to meet a dashing young man
Her high school sweetheart, a memory.

‘Twas love at first sight, she cried and she sang
His love for me, too shows…
So much that, amazingly, two months later
He got on one knee to propose.

“Oh yes!” she cried, young and naive
Not thinking what lie ahead.
Her parents were stunned, yet understood
this young man their daughter would wed.

Things got a bit hairy, family and all
Her parents lost some of their hope.
She got a bit nutty, emotional and rash
So she and the young man eloped.

They were rather poor for quite some time
Moved out to Texas that year…
Lived with his mother so that they could
Attend college and find a career.

The years they galloped swiftly by,
First one, two, three then four…
Then at the end, when all was done,
Opportunity knocked on the door.

A job for her husband, his BA degree
With a big 5 accounting firm.
They would need to move, puppy and all
To Seattle, they were happy to learn.

Four years later, and yes, here we are
9 1/2 years after “I do”
Successful and settled with dogs and a home
Our marriage, ever stronger and true.

So yes, this is me, my life in a page
Thank you for struggling through.
Damn long-ass blog entry, if you ask me…

um…er…

Damn!

I cant think of a clever last line that fucking rhymes!!

Aw, to hell with it.

voulez-voulez-vous egomaniac.

>Okay, the whole shoe-breakin’-in thing…not cool.

It will get better, I know it will.

Every relationship has it’s rough spots. But you make it through, usually wiser and stronger than going in.

My shoes and I will make it through this.

I need to remember that my old shoes and I had our rough beginnings also: the aching arches, the raw toes. But once the worst was over we developed this harmonius synchronicity that exceeded all expectations. We flowed, we waltzed. Things were blissfully perfect.

For a while.

Then the relationship started to show its age. The permanent creases under the laces, the worn soles. I ignored the signs, not wanting to acknowledge the truth. We would not last forever, my shoes and I. The painful reality of this reverberated through my soul, an aching that seemed would never end.

The day the upper sprang loose from the sole I knew the inevitable had come. I examined the gash, looking for any chance of mending the evidence of time passed, but it was not to be. The gaping wound in my shoe matched the gaping wound in my heart.

For a couple minutes I agonized over the loss, wondering if I could ever share with a new pair of shoes the magic I felt with my old ones. At that moment, it seemed impossible.

Once some time had passed and the air of heart-wrenching emotion ebbed away, I realized, at long last:

Damn, these shoes look like shit.

It was time. I was ready.

So, it is because of that experience I now know that my new shoes and I will also survive, we will overcome. And when we do it will be spectacular. Patience is key. Love is enduring, as I know these new shoes will be.

I see long-term relationship potential here.

At least from what the Dansko people told me anyway.

voulez-voulez-vous Dansko’s

>I got new work shoes today. Oh, tis a happy day.

My old shoes were a sad sight indeed. We had been through a lot together.

From 14-hour shifts on Mother’s day to 60-hour work-weeks, my shoes carried me through them all.

The conflict of needing to wear dressy-type black leather shoes as part of my uniform in a job that has me walking 12 miles a weekend is a fact that has sent me on a quest for the most comfortable and well-wearing work shoe ever.

I think I have found it.

Through word-of-mouth from others in the fine dining industry, I have discovered the loveliest shoe of them all.
This is the Dansko professional, and it “provides shock absorption and flexibility, withstands surfaces of extreme heat and cold, rocker-bottom sole propels the foot forward when walking, protects feet, legs, and back during long hours of standing or walking, and provides stability, reduces torque and pronation”.

This shoe makes NurseMates weep.

Tomorrow is my official test-drive. I shall return promptly with results.

If Koo is any indication, I will like them very much. He gives them his Stinky-Rope-Toy seal of approval. The reason Koo likes my work shoes has nothing to do with functionality or comfort. Koo likes my shoes because when I come home from work, there is usually some food-type residue on them. Which he is more than eager to remedy. Though with these new beauties, I’m going to be obsessive about anything getting on them. But if anything does, I can rest assured that Koo will help me out in that area. He’s got my back. Or, my feet. Whatever.

It is a sad day indeed when all I have to blog about is my damn shoes.

*sigh*

voulez-voulez-vous lame.

>damn the broccoli
damn the Wright brothers
and damn the White Sox.

It’s my friiii-day my fruh-fruh-fruh-friiiii-day.

Not for you, suckas.

I want a good kick-ass thunderstorm right about now. One of the things I miss about living in Texas. The kind of thunder that rattles the windowpanes and makes your dog piss the floor. That’s good stuff.

Washington does not have thunderstorms. We just have ceaseless prissy rain. Sissy pissy wussy rain. Tinkle tinkle.

I’m going to go to bed now. It is late. I have no potential for making sense at the moment. My feet and I must retire.

voulez-voulez-vous 18 days 14 hours 18 minutes.

>get my hair trimmed. I decided some time ago to pursue a non-interference policy with my hair. I decided it was best to leave it be and not put it through all the chemical processes women seem to be so fond of these days. My hair is brown, and I’m cool with that. I’m actually more than cool with that, if for no other reason than to avoid the blonde’brunette stereotypes. Actually, it is my theory that only 10% of blondes are actually blonde anyway. And I’ve noticed the other 90% have very unhappy-looking hair. I would prefer to have happy hair, as the happier it is the less I have to deal with it. I just wash it with normal shampoo (spending $20.00 on shampoo? Nuh-uh), comb it out, and tie it up. Then I can spend my time watching TV. Working on my doodle painting. Playing with the dogs. Spending time outside the bathroom.
When I go get my hair trimmed, I will see women with more foil on their head than a Thanksgiving turkey. They sit there for an hour whilst their hair is being stripped of all pigment. They do this so they can dump another color on after they’ve bleached it. Which probably takes another hour. The problem with this is you just can’t color your hair once and then never again. Your hair grows out. You see this. The inch of dark hair at the base of the scalp. So to avoid the embarrassment of exposure as a great big hair-lie, you go in every six weeks, dropping $100 a pop to maintain your non-natural hair color. My hair is bargain-basement hair. I spend $15.00 for a trim every few months or so and end up having to use aerosol hair spray in the eyes of the stylists trying to push $200.00 worth of hair products I neither need nor want. I’ll spend the money on art supplies.
My hair usually spends its time in a knot on my head. Hair in my face drives me nuts. Which is why I keep it long. If it were shorter, it wouldn’t fit into a hair tie, and I would be in a perpetual state of irritation. The problem I’m having now is that I’m coming up on 30 and my hair is more than halfway down my back. I think that’s far too long for someone over 25. Just my opinion. My husband disagrees. Men seem to have this archaic prehistorical male-dominated attitude about women’s hair. Every guy I know cringes when I mention cutting my hair, my husband most of all. The funny thing is that when we’re in bed watching TV and my hair happens to inch onto his pillow, he responds with, “hun…can you get your hair out of my face?” Shit-head. I shoud get it cut then leave the disembodied hair on his pillow. Then it would be his problem. Heh. I got a chuckle outta that one.

I am just now realizing I am using way too much brain power on my hair. I think it’s more out of lack of a decent topic than a genuine concern for the growth of dead cells sprouting from my head. Which is all the more reason to not spend hundreds of dollars of shampoo and conditioner; your hair is dead. It’s long beyond caring what the living think of it. Or do to it. But I know if I were fried every six weeks I’d be pretty pissed. But then again, there was that one year in college…

nevermind.

voulez-voulez-vous fried.