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>I have limited myself to a 2-line vocabulary in an attempt to annoy the hell out of my husband. The two lines being:

“Nuh-uh”
“Kiss my ass!”

We have a new bed. Well, frame, anyway. It’s in pieces in my husband’s office because I haven’t had the motivation to make the necessary preparations to the bedroom to make the transition possible. We have a California-king-size bed, which means it is one big-ass square. Our current foot & headboard are solid cherry. Heavy as hell. The new head & footboard is iron and brass. Very “Basic-Instinct-tie-someone-to-the-bed”. So you can kind of understand my reluctance to assist in the procedure, being crippled and all. (Sinister Laugh)

So when my husband suggested “We could do the bed today”, I replied,

“nuh-uh”.

Perturbed, he responded, “fine! I’ll just move it into your studio!”

“kiss my ass!!”

My two-line vocabulary doesn’t seem very effective. I think it will be the catalyst for marital problems. We’ll need to seek counseling.

“Now, Jennifer, Bryan tells me you two aren’t communicating…”

“nuh-uh”

“So why don’t we try an exercise I developed –“

“Kiss my ass!!”

Hmm. Maybe I should just integrate fully-composed sentences into my conversational skills. For the mental and spiritual well-being of all. I don’t want it to affect my children. Okay, dogs.

So, I shall wrap this up in order to get lunch out of the way so I can help with the bed and save my marriage. Then we can have sex on it.

Voulez-voulez-vous sex.

>Don’t stop, git it git it.

My name is ZaDough. That’s what my husband calls me. Or “za”, or “dough”. I’ve come to respond to any and all. Below I shall attempt to illustrate the evolutionary process of my ‘name’:

1. Babydoll
2. The Babydoll
3. Za Babydoll
4. Za Babydough
5. ZaDough
6. “Za” or “Dough”.

I like things simple. He’s “Schweets” or “hun”.

To see what we did with our children’s (dogs) names, see blog entry “Wednesday, August 17, 2005”.

After 9.3 years of marriage and 9.3 years of never being called by my proper name, on the random, odd occasions when he does use my proper name, it sounds off; rude, even. We have forgotten what each others’ names really are. Although, thanks to being a Navy wife for the first few months of our marriage, I could rattle off his social security number if you asked. But I won’t.

Oh, my..there do be de pettyest pettyest rose-colored sunset ever. I love being able to see Mt. Si from our back balcony. It is stellar.

I love jumping out of an extra-hot bathtub…you get all noodle-y.

You empty-headed animal-food-trough-water-er; go and boil your bottoms, sons of a silly person! Your mother was a hamster, and you father smelt of elderberries!!!!

Voulez-voulez-vous elderberries.

>I hereby bequeath unto you my theory that with the exception of wood and leather surfaces, and entire home can be cleaned with Windex.

Windex is my cleaning solution of choice, although I do clean my toilet bowl with Scrubbing Bubbles. Though my Scrubbing bubbles don’t have googly-eyes and zoom around like the ones in the commercials do.

Lying bastards.

But yes, sinks, windows, faucets, baseboards, refrigerators, stovetops, toilet seats, sinks, nick-knacks, vases, clocks, picture frames, tea kettles (the exterior, of course), window panes, televisions, electronics, fireplace mantles, BBQ grills, patio furniture, lightswitch panels, basebard heaters, computer hardware, tlephones, lamps, miniblinds, microwaves, baby gates, doorknobs, cabinet handles, those glass bottles containing oil and vinegars, the outsides of dishwashers, stoves, washers, dryers…

I think I’ve run out of things that can be cleaned with Windex. I’ll more than likely come up with more later.

I do go through a shitload of paper towels though. I buy mine from Costco. As well as the Windex.

Swiffer dusters are the bomb too. Good for my bookcases, since I have a shitload of books. I wonder how many I have? Hell, I’m gonna go count them. BRB.

I have 374 books. Not counting magazines. My hasband has 56 in his office.

430 total. No wonder moving into this apartment was such a bitch. A lot of my books are theose enourmous art and history books. Damn. I have a lot of books.

Oops; just found another one. 431.

I think I should seek some counseling. I have a literary addiction. I am rapidly running out of room. I have stacks of books on top of the books on my bookcases. No wonder I’m sneezing all the time.

So, in the proceess of counting all of my books I realized how utterly dusty they are. I’m going to use up my remaining Swiffers.

Voulez-voulez-vous Swiffers.

>17 days. That’s how many days I have been stuck in my apartment. 17 bloody days. Can’t walk anywhere, can’t drive anywhere; I am imprisoned by a broken foot. I am on the brink of madness. Perhaps if I had children, or friends who weren’t my co-workers and AT work, my days wouldn’t be as mundane. I’m stuck in this giant temporal jellyfish with no structure or purpose. I am not structured enough to assign myself tasks to do. I tend to be insubordinate to myself. Although I do know that tomorrow I have to call and make yet another student loan payment. And yes, I have paintings to work on, but that’s not the type of work that rotates on a schedule. And daytime TV is the same fucking series of shows day after bloody day. If I didn’t have my entire collection of Monty Python on DVD I might be in some serious trouble with the law. My mother is more than likely sick of hearing from me. My dogs don’t do a whole lot; they have more fun outside, and I can’t handle them both on leashes by myself. We need dog food. I asked Bryan if we could go get dog food. I need out of this house. He’s working late today. Damn Microsoft. I need to go get dog food. I need to be away from this place for an extended period of time. I think we need to go get dog food in Vancouver. Yes, Vancouver sounds lovely. Ah, the sun is peeking through again.

Voulez-voulez-vous Vancouver.

I just want to sleep. Can’t do it. Not sleeping at night, can’t sleep during the day…that’ll really mess up my sleep schedule.

BLOODY HELL!!! Stop with the damn WHINING! Bee-yatch.

I suck. I suck I suck my brain is stuck down on my luck feel lie a shmuck my mood’s in muck oh what the fuck???

Hmm.

Bryan is home, I believe. Yes! Someone to entertain me. Still maintains Vancouver for dog food is not a good idea.

He sucks.

Ugh…someone got stabbed by a screwdriver. Oh! Here’s my consumers of said dog food:

Greyhound’s official name: Gee
Unofficial name: Bee

Beagle’s official name: Duke
Unofficial name: Koo.

There will be a quiz later.
That is all.

Voulez-voulez-vous quiz.

>Strange things are afoot.

http://www.snarg.net

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.”

Tis but a pity the imperceptible flan has yet to create the eddy jetty.

Voulez-voulez-vous eddy-jetty

Damn it all I can’t sleep. Again. Trying to withstand the urge to down my usual tylenol PM/Benadryl cocktail. Not exactly a good habit to have. There are several constructive things I could be doing in my newfound time, but I don’t trust myself to do them with any sense of efficiency nor accuracy. Maybe I should have a beer. Got 4 bottles of Fat Tire in there. Hmm. Definitely worth thinking about. Though drinking beer, by yourself, at 1:30 in the morning, is rather pathetic. I feel I should shy away from the pathetic.

Voulez-voulez-vous pathetic.

I should spend my time searching for every question I’ve had in my lifetime. Or at lest every question I can come up with in the next 15 minutes.

1. Why do dogs walk in circles before laying down?
2. Why are toilet handles on the left side?
3. Why is the letter “E” on the top of the eye chart?
4. Why are racquetballs blue?
5. Where do all my missing socks go?
6. Why do all dentists’ offices smell the same?
7. Why does my greyhound like to eat dog shit?
8. Why do women get engagement rings? And why do THEY get to pick them out? Kinda takes the romance out of it if you ask me.

But, there are some things I can say definitively (in my opinion) are for certain:

You can NOT (Legally) earn $50,000 a month while working from home.
Happiness is not found in a box from Tiffany’s
popsicles are quite possibly the perfect food.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail is the best movie ever in the whole wide world.
aunt Flo sucks ass.
Almost anything can be eaten with chopsticks.
You can never have too many books.
(Except when you move; when you’re moving, books can be a royal pain in the ass)
And last but not least, I believe I am finally getting sleepy. Think I’ll crawl into bed, read a little bit more of The Lost World that I’ve resurrected from the downstairs closet, and see if that won’t knock me on my ass. Sitting at the computer sure ain’t gonna do it. I’m gonna go crawl in with my hubby and my puppies.

Voulez-voulez-vous puppies.

>Damn. After spending my first day of house arrest cleaning each individual key on my keyboard (I have one of those clear-and-white mac keyboards) it has now since been littered with flecks of charcoal and specks of paint. Flecks and specks. Flecks and specks and pre-flight checks and wringing necks and virus-detects and pyro-techs and pile-up wrecks.

Uh…yeah.

Dum diddy dum dum dum diddy dum.

Hello Mr. Zebra. Can I have your sweater?

Getting a tied-up hair headache. Untie hair…still wet from shower this MORNING! Oooh…still smalls like lavender and rosemary. I guess that’s okay.

I need to start keeping more regular sleep hours or i’m going to run into some serious jet-laggish problems when I go back to work next week. That’ll be a pisser. Ah!! Bryan finally went to his room. Sometimes I hate that damn TV. It’s this 60-inch monstrosity that encompasses virtually an entire wall in what would otherwise be an idyllic room. He has to have the TV on for the sake of having it on. Loud. I swear the man’s going deaf. Oh, damn…he told me today he’s reading these. I’d better shut the hell up now…love you, schweets!

Ohkay. Popcicles are indeed the coolest thing ever.

voulez-voulez-vous popcicles.

Peut-etre j’ecrit en francais aujourd’hui. Mon grammaire est mal, depuis je n’ai pas ecrire en francais deupuis j’ai aller a l’universite. Ah, c’es bon. Quand…

Shit on that.

This technology-based journaling thing is a hard transition to make. I have been keeping a journal sporadically since I was 12. I still have all my journals. It’s interesting to look back at all my mistakes and how I learned from them. Or didn’t learn from them and kept making the same mistakes over again.

At least I’m consistent.

Over the past year I taught myself the Futhark alphabet (commonly known as the runic alphabet) just for the hell of it and began writing in my journals with it. Only problem is I can write in it fluidly, reading what I wrote becomes a problem. Funny how the mind works that way; of course I could just be a dumbass in denial. If only I had the learning capacity of a 5 year old again. Damn sponges, they are.

I still write in my journals. I love the art of the written word. I love studying ancient alphabets, long since weeded out. Tibetan is the most fascinating. See for yourself:

http://www.omniglot.com/writing/tibetan.htm

I love that site. The only alphabets I haven’t studied are the middle eastern ones; they are absolutely confusing. It seems like every letter is a lowercase cursive w. I don’t know how they distinguish from one word to another. Observe:

The Asian ones (with the exception of Tibetan) are proving difficult as well, because their alphabet is symbolic, much like the Aztecs, Mayans, Egyptians, etc.

My favorite as of late is writing backwards. In cursive. I can now write backwards with the same speed and accuracy that I have writing left-to-right. Check this shit out:

 

Futhark:

So there’s my show-off for the day. Don’t do it very often, so my time has come ’round. Now my next task is to teach myself how to write Futhark backwards.

Voulez-voulez-vous Futhark.

My foot and I are having a falling out. I’m thinking about couples therapy.

The good news is I resolved the compositional issues I was having with my recent painting which, if you’re un artist, you can understand what a great deal of relief that can be. Not dissimilar to actually sneezing after 2 or 3 “teaser sneezes”.

So now I shall retreat to the bliss of my excessively giant bed with my excessively numerous pillows. Although, considering that the bed shall contain two rather tall adults, a 20-lb beagle and a 70-lb greyhound, an excessively giant bed can be a necessity.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous giant bed.

Happy on the cookie train to all the little pixie fuckers WAHOOOOO I like to dye my purple FUZZIES on the apex of an elliptical BARGE!!!!

Check YO self on the alphabetized version of TOLSTOY whilst you pirouette on your peanut butter pastry site!

Rearrange the april batter sprinkler on the garbage totter you himpy jousting canine flapjack!!!

Well you can take your monkey to the rifling hoops contest on the grippling havana beachboys dock to sweep the loathsome vile stoop mongrels who cower in the gyrating pencil cavern!

You can take your million dollar idea and fold it up into several millionths of an inch sideways looking very much like an orangutan who warps himself into cupcake tins to speak with the unintelligible ant farm detainees who wish to be tree flips and carreen deep into the darke recesses of my granola water slide munchies.

I shall materialize into such so that when you next see me I will be unrecognizeable as something completely unlike myself and more like a…Grapefruit.

Yes, but does that cake spring from batter mixed with the tibetan monks’ work weary hands of which a noodly curmudgeonly flouster would most certainly say, “Oh How hast thou yodeled my lovelorn Lulu’s red curly cricket fodder?” then thumping a disquieted tortoise on high whose rippling monkeyloose quail was flung into the deepest reaches of space.

Yet you are a himpy jousting canine flapjack, who most certainly needs some kind of modifications you your wizardly posterior tuddle by those which have no ocular cavities and hence have a rather well developed sense of what looks good with a burberry handbag at the seahorse water polo match at the Florida ring toss booth.

Rings on the fingers rings on the toes or rings on the bell towers or rings made of rose…a puddle of moose witling daisies at best, pompous old earwigs and aboriginies’ breast; yet these are the things to which I’m unclear; perhaps I’ll like parsnips better next year. Alas tis the time for grasping a flute, or sending the faries into your kipchoot…yet I digress, tis none of these so…little hipgongthorns are sweet, dont you know?

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous hipgongthorns