Category: Uncategorized

I have only had about eight hours of sleep since Sunday. Sunday? Yes. What is today? February? Who cares. All I know is that I am scheduled to see Picasso on Saturday. However, if this trend of sleeplessness continues I cannot fathom what the visual effect of cubism will have on my psyche. Mostly because I find myself staring at walls.
And the floor.
They are beginning to fascinate me.

I’m so sleep-deprived I became teary-eyed when I saw how long the line was at Starbucks when I went to order my triple-grande-five-pump-peppermint-latte.

Travesty.

Doppler has become nocturnal. In essence turning me nocturnal, though I am missing out on the whole “sleeping during the day” bit. Which is resulting in the “madness” bit. And the “staring at the walls and floor” bit.
They are still fascinating me. Though I am discovering that my madness is beginning to entertain others. Both sleep-deprived-induced madness and copious amounts of caffeine-induced madness.

I have a headache.

The Ukranians are having a lengthy conversation by my desk. Oddly, it is making perfect sense to me.

I need to remedy both mine and Doppler’s insomnia. I believe the latter would cure the former. Doping him with inappropriate amounts of Benadryl may be necessary.

I’m concerned about the bus ride home. I fear lapsing int a coma en route and ending up in Tacoma. I suppose there are worse things. Like Renton.

I still have a headache. I was hoping it would remedy itself in the last three minutes.

Thanks to the insomnia I have been at my desk since 6:30. I felt as if I should get out of the house this morning, and due to the torrential downpour and blistering wind, a walk was out of the question. Due to the lack of sleep and subsequent decreased brainpower, iPhone Scrabble was also out of the question. In all fairness it should currently be 2:00. I feel as if I’m in some sort of temporal wake.

I wonder if anyone really knows what the Ukranians are plotting. I’m thinking of joining their cause now that I’m aware of the situation. Although I’m afraid if I start getting more sleep I’ll be out of the loop.

There is bizarre poetry on my Facebook wall. There is bizarre stuff everywhere. I think I’m beginning to hallucinate. At the moment I’m having to consolidate tables in Access but the cells are beginning to undulate. Hence it’s taking longer than it ought. It’s a sad state of affairs when Ukranian is making more sense than databases.

Voulez-voulez-vous “Oh you can’t help that…we’re all mad here.”

I’m in a Philip Glass loop. Violin Concerto #1, 2nd movement. I was introduced to this piece at the Seattle Symphony last night as a prelude to Ravel’s “Bolero”, which is what I was really there to see. And since I have a tendency to play something to death when I realize I like it, here I am. In a loop. Of course, when I Googled him upon my return home I was delighted when I saw his face, being a supreme fan of Chuck Close. It’s amazing how things are linked.

I’ve been staring at this 5-foot canvas in my apartment for a week now. I’ve been waiting for it to tell me what to do, but so far communication has been nonexistent. I’m beginning to take it personally. I’m thinking it’s resentful that I let Doppler lick it. Sorry, I didn’t think it would be so offended. Although, in it’s defense, I think anyone would feel this way. I do find myself discouraging this behavior when he engages in it with houseguests. Sorry, canvas.

I also think it’s miffed that I’ve been spending more time with my new iPhone than I have with it. I think Doppler shares this sentiment as well. I get the impression he intends to destroy it while I’m sleeping. I’ve caught him eying it menacingly. He’s even been head-butting it while I’ve been organizing my icons and browsing apps. Okay, so perhaps it’s a problem. I admit it. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I can put it down any time I want to. For instance, I’m writing this on my desktop as opposed to my shiny new handheld device. Oooh, wait…lemme see if there are any app updates; one sec…

It better not snow. Everyone’s squealing about the snow potential. But they don’t have a car that protests frozen precipitation, a commute to Lynnwood, and a 4-week-young job in which they’re still trying to impress their employers. Gah. (“Gah” has been my impulsive response every time the mention of “snow” has occurred today. It’s all I’ve been able to muster.)

…and I’m still looping.

I would love to be able to play the violin. But I can’t even figure out what the hell to do with this canvas and I’ve been painting for years, so who am I kidding?

Bloody hell. It’s snowing.

Voulez-voulez-vous Gah!

So, yeah. drank too much. here’s my surprised face:

You are permitted one (1) free alcoholic beverage on your date of birth (given that you are over the age of 21) according to the Washington State Liquor Control Board. At my favorite bar last night, there were two (2) bartenders on duty. This involved one (1) Manhattan Mule from my Favorite Bartender in the World, followed by a Friday Collins by the Second Favorite Bartender in the World, followed by a waitress, once we were moved to a table, who messed up my second (2nd) Friday Collins and brought me one (1) *not-what-I-ordered-so-I-got-it-for-free* Collins, followed by one (1) vodka and soda with lemon gifted by the delightful Matt and Molly, wrapped up with one (1) proper Friday Collins du Mark.

I *think* there was food involved in there somewhere, but I can’t be certain.

We had to abandon the bar (sad) because eleven (11) people ended up being the grand total and I didn’t want to monopolize the domain of the aforementioned “Favorite Bartender in the World”. That aside, communication on all fronts would have been exceedingly challenging.

Bugger. I didn’t get any photos. Given how much I consumed, perhaps it’s for the best.

So, I rallied and determined NOT to have a birthday I would pout about in a goddamned blog entry next year. It went well. Guests both expected and unexpected made appearances making it delightful and memorable. I was pleased.

Until this morning.

I think the phrase, “Oh, fucking hell, what??” was uttered incoherently when my alarm went off.

And then I stood up.

Repeat above phrase. Increase volume and clarity by 200%.

The two (2) Friday Collins’, one (1) *not-what-I-ordered-so-I-got-it-for-free* Collins, one (1) vodka and soda with lemon, and one (1) Manhattan Mule had sucked portions of my skull down into the pit of my stomach, resulting in swirls of pounding-ness every time I moved, and not just one (1) but two (2) nauseating trips to the bathroom before I had to haul my sorry, now thirty-five (35) year-old self, to work this morning and maintain some sense of full functionality.

I determined, after only five (5) minutes at my desk, that this was going to be the longest work day EVAR. Spirits were low.

Fortunately I work in the software development industry, and developers require a steady diet of sugar, salt, fat, and caffeine to survive. I found that one (1) can of flattened Coke and one (1) small bag of Lay’s classic potato chips aided in the pissed-off-ness of my stomach, and the ginormous bottle of ibuprofen in the office supply cupboard became my salvation.

Lunch break is over. Gotta jet.

Voulez-voulez-vous “and this is called…having a good time.” -Bill Cosby

Jennifer is living on a steady stream of Starbuck’s French Roast and ibuprofen.
Jennifer is displeased at the constant 72 degree temperature in her office environment.
Jennifer’s excessive caffeine consumption is resulting in persistent leg-bouncing and frequent non-sequiturs.
Jennifer is having a pronoun crisis.
Jennifer needs to taper off of Facebook.

So, the 35th birthday is Thursday. Over the last few years I’ve come to dread the birthdays. When you’re single, no one really plans anything for your birthday. And unless I beg someone to hang out with me, or have a drink, I end up spending the evening alone. This is really pathetic, because I have a ton of friends (?) who, thanks to the marvel of Facebook, are aware it’s my birthday. Yet they’re supposed to magically know that I don’t have plans. Because I’m the center of the goddamn universe, dontcha know? Did I mention that I hate my birthday? (Insert pity party here ______). Jesus, I feel like I should be doing this on LiveJournal. Anyway. So yeah. I say friends (?) because it’s one of those situations where I’ve known these people for years, I’ve camped with them at Burning Man, I see them at parties, hug hug, kiss kiss, but I feel like I’m just not one of them, you know? Don’t get me wrong, they’re kind and wonderful and loving and amazing people and I adore them immensely. I just wish I could spend more time with them without feeling as if my requests to do so weren’t so bloody philanthropic for them. As in, “Oh, Niff’s feeling left out…” rather than, “You know, I think it’d be great to spend more time with Niff…” etc etc…
The funny thing is, in this massive community, there’s quite a few people who feel the same way I do, it’s just no one talks about it unless I bring it up, and then they’re so relieved that they’re not alone in how they feel. We’re the most popular lonely people in the world. It’s an amazing social paradox.

Of course, there is a high probability that I have created this entire situation by isolating myself, that my theories are flawed, that my lack of self confidence has led me to the conclusion that people do not prefer my company and this has infiltrated how I relate to others. I do tend to clam up in social situations in public when I want to impress people and oddly enough, for some reason as of late, I’ve been trying to improve my friends’ opinion of me (mostly due to past drama which I will not delve into here…). I do also tend to talk too much when I’m nervous, which turns people off. Perhaps I should send out a survey and see what people like about me, what they don’t like, and see if they are personality traits that I, too, believe need tweaking, and work on them for the next half-decade of my 30’s. I already know I talk about myself too much. Even I find it annoying…I see myself doing it, I see their faces when I’m doing it, and it’s something that needs to be addressed. I’m also very critical. I need to work on that as well, but I think I’ve been getting better as I have been making a conscious effort on that front. But I feel like when I’m at a party, and I try and enter a conversation, the participants look at me with that, “and just who do you think *you* are??” look. Sigh.

I think most of this self-realization (criticism) has spawned from the reflection that comes from the hours spent alone when one lives on their own for the first time, ever. I moved into my own apartment back in June after having never living alone. I went from my parents, to my ex-husband, to housemates, to an ex-boyfriend’s, to housemates again. I knew the living alone would be beneficial. I knew I had some last bugs to work out and that this would be the good kick in the ass that I needed. It’s a good kick in the ass, to be sure. I’m finally getting used to it. The solitude is becoming a comfort rather than an inconvenience, even though I do still miss having default company around. I strategically opted for an apartment near my community so I’d have my friends nearby and also so I could still commute bipedally, (Microsoft is telling me that’s not a word but fuck ‘em) to Capitol Hill so the solitude wouldn’t be so devastating. I do entertain the idea that this new living arrangement contributes to my belief that I am less than included in my community. When I lived with my housemates, I felt included by default. I spent time with friends just by living there. Now I spend time with no one unless I’m part of a mass email invite. It requires adaptation on my part, which isn’t a large part of my particular skill set.

Fortunately I do have this amazing new job which has directs my focus elsewhere and energizes my self-esteem. I’m starting to feel truly independent, which is incredible for me because since my divorce almost five years ago I’ve felt as I’ve been floundering, not quite sure what the hell I’m supposed to be doing exactly. I do feel immensely fortunate, however, to have fallen into such a community of amazing people such as the one that I have. I have seen and contributed to amazing art projects being built, I have participated in shenanigans and tomfoolery of such hilarity that I’d never thought possible, I’ve been exposed to music and art and dance and love and beauty that makes me value being who I am and where I am. So I do appreciate that I have them in my life at all.

Ok. So, I’ve done a whine-post. Goddammit. My claim to fame is that I don’t do whine-posts. I hate that my birthdays affect me like this. Maybe I need more coffee. Maybe I need bourbon in my coffee. Anyone got some bourbon?

Voulez-voulez-vous 11-11.

Trying to write a blog, sleep-deprived, on a Monday, during your lunch break, after a maniacal weekend, with the fluorescents buzzing overhead and a near-empty coffee cup staring at you ineffectually, is just an exercise in daftness.
So I shall refer to myself as a “daft git” and carry the fuck on.

I’ve been spending an increasing amount of time in downtown Seattle over the last few months. I had attempted (now unsuccessfully) to begin a “sketchbook project” whose subject was to be “Seattle Architecture”, and as such my research took me to the streets in search of interesting and unique elements for my undertaking. As a resident of the Capitol Hill region of Seattle, I seldom ventured east of I-5, as that side of the fence teems with tourists, retailers, vagrants, overpriced restaurants and shopping centers, thus holding no sincere appeal for someone like myself whose budget limits me to Fred Meyer and Value Village. It is a completely saccharin universe…I prefer my tattooed-pierced-patchouli-saturated-hippie-gay-tree-hugging-Burner-freaks on my side of the hill I can haz plz. I adore it’s *authenticity*.

So, architecture. Walks. People.

When I still worked at my old job up until two weeks ago, I walked to work the long way in order to take in as much of the local scenery as possible to accomplish my artistic goals. However, before I realized, “the long way” was resulting in a 6-mile round-trip on-foot daily commute. However…there was a certain amount of discovery involved on my urban walkabouts that I wasn’t prepared for.

Trekking around the city, the grand majesty of the buildings, the sounds of it, the busy-ness of it, the smell of the ocean, the breeze on my face, always puts me in a fantastic mood, clears my head…very “Ohmmmm”. And I love talking to people, which is what makes walking through the city so ideal, because it’s infested with the crazy bastards, sometimes with dogs in tow, which makes it double-plus good.
I just adore the movement and the sound and the art that is Seattle; every single sense you have is stimulated; bad mood vanquished, spirits lifted, I am alert and aware.

I learned very quickly that if I am going to talk to anyone, I need to wait until I get to Pike Place Market to do so. The vendors are always in the best mood and are great for a laugh first thing in the morning; they’ll sell you a mean pomegranate and let you sample anything. And the Market is deliciously quiet at 7am during the week; the booths are still being set up, the trucks are unloading, bread is being baked; crayfish are plotting escape, cheese is being made, it’s incredible just to take it all in at once along with the sound of the gulls overhead and the sun rising over the mountains and the ferry boats on the water…

Then I started noticing something.

With Bach’s Violin Concertos in my ears, walking down the sidewalk, I’d sidle up next to someone at a crosswalk and smile at them. (This is in the business district, mind you.) And these people I smile at?
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Huh. Ok, just cranky. No worries, moving on.

Couple streets down, take 2.

Stop, turn, smile.
Scowl.

Who are these people?
I’ve even tried talking to them. I swear to god they looked offended.

It started becoming more and more common. I was getting good and pissed. Then I learned it was a “thing”. Seattle Freeze.

Terrific.
Guess I didn’t get the memo.

So.
Is it arrogance? Shyness? Abject terror? Psychosis? Vitamin D deficiency? I’m going to start fucking asking them. To hell with them. I’m a native. I have the right to know why people in my state are representing us so poorly. Honestly, when it’s an actual condition it needs to be addressed. “Seattle Freeze”. Really?

Have we become so antisocial because of commuting and technology that we’ve forgotten how to relate to other human beings? Do we need people parks like they have dog parks? Or socialization classes? I don’t think it’s ubiquitous, I mean, that’s why I love going to the Market, despite the sheer madness of it; the tourists love to talk to you. Although in part I’m sure they’re just happy to have a Seattleite that’s not being a standoffish dick to them. But I’m just making an extreme theory based on my recent experience with the downtown locals. If these are the Seattleites that the tourists are being exposed to, no wonder we have a reputation. I mean, really.

I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Interviews, interrogations, I don’t care what it takes.

Voulez-voulez-vous Miss Golightly, I protest!

I will begin a new job on Monday that will (sadly) rob me of my pedestrian commutes to work, which I have enjoyed for the last five years. These daily walks have provided me not only with a sense of pre-work zen but also with a variety of insights into human nature as well as allowed me to perform my own amateur sociological experiments on the general public.

This week, however, I have noticed an increasing trend in impractical wardrobe choices in the female population. Now, females have never been known to sacrifice fashion for comfort. (Though I myself may be an exception; I’ve been wearing these goddamn shoes daily since 2005…very Ally Sheedy à la The Breakfast Club.)

You may have noticed the weather has turned a bit, dipping down into the 50’s, a wee blistery, breezy, gusty at times…I tend to check the Weather Channel in the mornings before leaving the house to ensure I am dressed accordingly so there are no wardrobe failures on my 45+ minute commute to my place of employment.

Now, ladies and gentlemen. If you walk through the commercial district of Seattle, you will notice via the window displays of department stores what retailers are peddling to young women this season. And, like hordes of easily-led automatons, girls are flocking to the registers, treasures in tow, eager to stroll the streets of Seattle looking as adorable as possible. I admire their enthusiasm and never discourage people from being happy, no matter the source.

But when it’s blistery cold and the wind is whipping through city streets, is this the best wardrobe choice? (This particular example comes from American Apparel, a store I usually stroll by and regard their merchandise with a cocked eyebrow and an internalized “really??”)
These bloody things are everywhere, draped over shivering unsheathed legs terminating in four-inch heels, clomping along sidewalks, while well-manicured hands brace the sides of the fabric to prevent random breezes from baring their skivvies. I admire their self-confidence, I really do…heaven knows I wouldn’t mind having legs like that. But that self confidence just goes the wayside when they’re outside in the cold and the wind trying to manage the technicalities of their outfit and their oversized handbags and their mochas and they’ve forgotten how to walk in their heels with all the multitasking going on. I’m just so tempted to run over and HELP them…bloody hell they make being a girl so complicated. They need some Danskos and a hug.

Voulez-voulez-vous upskirt.

“Do you live here??”

My apartment door is next to the mailboxes in my building. This upsets Doppler. Doppler is protective and likes to alert me to noises in the hallway. People sometimes like to retrieve their mail. I’ve explained this to Doppler numerous times. He forgets.

I come home late on a random Friday night and find a woman leaning (slouching, swaying, stumbling a bit.) against the end of the row of mailboxes, partially obstructing my front door. Upon approach, I realize I’ve met her before.

As I’d recalled, this creature is unstable under normal conditions. There was an incident a few months back which involved a break-in, bloody doorknobs, and general disarray. Events such as this tend to unite residents in such close quarters. She had come galloping up to me in a gossipy fury, ranting about the apartment manager, about his refusal to believe anything she said, and how I needed to report this, because he hated her, and threw her sister out, and it was one great big conspiracy. Nodding and smiling I cautiously tiptoed back behind my door, closing it quietly, still smiling as not to alarm her.

Thus I am justifiably alarmed yet curious as I arrive home exhausted at 2 a.m. to find this woman in a gelatinous (albeit vertical) heap against my apartment door.

“Do you live here?”

“…Yes. Yes. I live here.”

Maniacal grin. And laugh. “You’re in big trouble then!”

For an odd moment I thought she was flirting with me.

“Excuse me, I need to open my door.”

Her eyes, which I now notice, are dilated to 200x that of what is considered typical for the normal human eye, dart furtively as she covers her mouth. “No! You can’t go in there…”

“Um, yes. Yes, I believe I can.”

“NO! There’s someone in there…I heard them.”

“One. There’s a dog in there. Two. If there were someone in there, he would have taken their head off by now, and you would be hearing nothing. Excuse me…I need to take aforementioned dog out now…”

She sidles to the right to block my entrance. “Hey! Hey hey hey heeeeyyyyyy…um…you have to stay out here. The cops are coming.”

Sigh. I hate people who are high in real life. Burning Man, parties, I can handle. In the hallway outside my apartment, I am not in the headspace to be a babysitter.

“Did you call them?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know they’re coming?”

“Someone told me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

This is going fucking nowhere. I shove her out of the way. She grabs my hand. “WAIT! Why are you wearing gloves!?!?”

“It’s cold out.”

Her glazed eyes widen as she stares at my menacing hands.

“That’s – really, wierd…”

“Is it.”

She stares at me, as a look of realization comes over her face. “You’re, like, a perpetrator, aren’t you…”

Sigh. “Yes. I’m a perpetrator. We all wear black North Face glove liners. I’m wanted in twelve states.”

“YOU broke into your apartment!” She points a chipped French-manicured finger at me.

I unlock my door and walk in. Doppler runs up, wagging his tail, grateful that I’ve finally opened the door, no doubt wondering what’s taken me so long to do so. “Look,” I say. “I need to walk my dog and go to bed.”

“OOOOOH!” She begins clapping her hands and bouncing excitedly. Doppler reciprocates. “Can I come with you?”

This is where a critical decision must be made. Either I say yes, and tolerate her erratic behavior for five more minutes, or say no, and risk unpredictable behavior for an unknown number of minutes. I opt for the former.

I look down. “You have no shoes on.” I am hoping this revelation will get me out of my forced dog-walking company.

“OH! My apartment’s right down here! C’mere!!” Fail.

I follow her down the hall and debate whether entering her apartment is really the safest choice at this point. I opt for hanging cautiously in the hallway. I peer in.

There is virtually no furniture to speak of. There are, however, about fifteen pairs of shoes littering the floor (so we have that issue solved), a disassembled cell phone, various outfits strewn about, emptied bottles of alcohol, and Jimmy Hoffa’s corpse.

(Ok, so I lied on the last bit.)

It ironically took her several minutes to find a goddamn pair of shoes.

“Ok!” She squealed, after finding a pair of red, patent-leather pumps. “I’m ready to walk the dog!”

Sigh. At least it matched her velour jogging outfit.

We retrieve the dog, at which point, she resumes her squealing and bouncing (in four-inch heels, I’m impressed), which gets Doppler all excited, and he starts barking and bouncing. I am neither barking nor squealing nor bouncing. Nor wearing heels. It is now 2:50 a.m.

“If you are going to join me, you need to keep him calm, please. Not only that, but people are sleeping…”

She raises her head to look at me, her dilated eyes ready to well up with tears.

Oh for fuck’s sake. Really?? I turn to walk out the door. She follows.

I’m walking the dog.

She’s going on again about the crime in the building and how the manager never tells anyone and the police are coming and there’s (still) someone in my apartment and am I sure I’m not a perpetrator? And she can’t believe he threw her sister out (boing boing squeal)and –

“Shh!”

Oh yeah sorry and I really like your dog we should be friends but they might arrest you because you have gloves and ew your dog is pooping –

Sigh.

Doppler mercifully finishes. We head back into the building. I inform her I am going to bed. There is no welling of tears this time. The crazy bitch starts full-on bawling at me. At my front door. It’s 3:00 a.m.

And I wonder why I’m not the one calling the police.

I de-leash the dog and secure him inside. I turn back to her.

“Look. I’m sorry. But – ”

“Do you have any drugs?” She’s stopped crying now.

“No. I do not have any drugs.”

“Because if the police come they’re going to look for drugs you know.”

“Right.”

“If you have drugs they’ll arrest you.”

I peer into her silver dollar pupils and say, “Reeeeally?”, grinning like an idiot.

Suddenly a door opens across the hall. A neighbor I’ve never met before, a young-ish guy, maybe late 20’s, emerges. She turns and exclaims excitedly:

“SEE!!” and points to me again. “I told you she broke in!”

Now, I can tell from this poor guy’s face that, a. he’s never seen her before in his life and thus, b. has NO idea what she’s talking about. He looks to me for help. I throw my hands up helplessly and shake my head. Cracked-Out Girl starts in again.

“She came home and was wearing gloves and I BUSTED her! And she has DRUGS!”

At this point I confess that I wish I did. Or at least a good Merlot.

As she was turned away, I mouthed “sorry…” at the guy and quietly snuck into my apartment, breathing a sigh of relief that she was now someone else’s problem.

Changed into my sweats, prepared for bed. Knock at the door. Holy hell.

Peephole.

Seattle’s finest. At my door. At 3:30 a.m.

Goddammit. I’m paying too much rent for this shit.

I open the door, bright smile on my face. “Well, good morning. And what can I do for you today?”

“Sorry to bother you, we were told someone broke in – ”

“Oh yes. I did.” (I thought, fuck it. I was done with this situation. What were they going to do, arrest me for having a sense of humor?)

“Ma’am?”

“Oh, yes. According to the girl on acid at the end of the hall, wearing black gloves makes me a perpetrator, and thus I broke into my own apartment. Luckily I had a key, so I didn’t have to bust the lock or break the door down.”

Officer #2 starts laughing hysterically. Apparently Cracked-Out Girl was quite enchanting on the phone so they were expecting something like this when they arrived.

After some more conversation, they apologized, said they needed my name and information for the report, asked for my account of the evening.

Thet tipped their hats and left.

Bed.

Crash

“I DONT NEED TO TAKE CARE OF ME!! YOU NEED TO TAKE CARE OF YOU!!!”

I run to the peephole to catch to officers walking past, shaking their heads and laughing at the words of advice being screamed at them down the hallway.

4:00 a.m.

Bed.

Voulez-voulez-vous drugs are bad, mmmkay?

For the last year and several months, my co-workers and I were in good with the parking lot attendant and his kindred before him, having the privilege of free parking. Ordinarily it would have set us back approximately $8.00/day to lug our vehicles to work, so we were tickled by the unexpected rapport with the Diamond Parking Company employees.

Until four days ago.

Fortunately, I had randomly decided to walk that day, spurred both by the poundage brought on by 1) my recent sedentary lifestyle and 2) by my desire to save cash on gas costs, so I was spared from the sudden reversal of fortune. For the last year of my employment, and even some time before it, the parking attendants had kept the license plate numbers of the select few who were in their favor programmed in their cell phones so they would remember who would remain unscathed in their daily ticket-writing routine. This was passed down from attendant to attendant as employee turnover changed, much to our relief. Often, they would even look up at the windows, wave at us, and point to strange vehicles in the lot in order to ascertain whether they belonged to members of our staff or not. So we rested assured that we remained safe driving to work, day in and day out, without fear of reprimand from the parking citation gods.

Until four days ago.

We’re not sure what happened. Maybe his girlfriend dumped him. Maybe his boss found out what he was doing. Who knows. But suddenly he paused at my co-worker’s truck, the selfsame truck he had passed by hundreds of times before with nary a glance…and began to enter its license plate into his little keypad…and the three of us in the office stared agog at the incredulity of what was transpiring and what it meant for us from that day forward. There would be no more free parking. My boss, of course, had his golden ticket parking permit that he expensed to the company so he had no worries. My co-worker lives in Tacoma so he has far worse problems than I. Granted, we have no cause for complaints over the loss of a privilege we have no rights to in the first place. You get used to a convenience, and when it is removed, some scrambling is necessary to compensate for it. My scrambling involves a lot more walking, not too much of an inconvenience. Unless it’s raining or snowing. If it’s exceptionally horrible I may just say screw it and hand over the eight bucks.

Right now it’s all about heirloom tomatoes and Logan’s Run during my lunch break, and I’m hoping it doesn’t start raining. There’s this business of walking home I have to deal with. I feel I should thank the parking attendant however…turns out I’ve lost five pounds since I’ve switched to a bipedal commute.

Voulez-voulez vouz feets don’t fail me now.

I live across the street from a food bank.

Now, when say I live across the street from a food bank, I live across the street from the Cherry Street Food Bank. The Cherry Street Food Bank is the single largest and most popular food bank in all of Seattle. It also happens to be located near the Crazy Hospital. The one with metal detectors in the lobby and x-ray machines in the entrances. I live in Madness Central.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays are the party days. All the cool kids go on these days, because that’s when they have sandwiches and pre-packaged meals and warm and toasty goodness, and you’re not limited to Top Ramen and cans of string beans. It’s like being in with the really awesome camps at Burning Man with kitchens that have microwaves and refrigerators instead of just Clif Bars and Tasty Bites. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays…Cherry Street becomes a very, very busy place pedestrian-wise.

I leave for work, on average, at about 8:00am. The favorite waiting spot for a particular gaggle of Chinese women is the front steps of my apartment building. Now, this is *my* building. I live here. I pay rent. Yet as I attempt to wade through their hunched over, impatient little bodies as they cackle to each other in Chinese, they glare up at me and hiss in their native tongue, as if I have the vaguest idea as to what insults and profanities they’re hurling at me. They wiggle and grunt and shove their shoulders and elbows at me, pissed that I’m in their way. Seriously, ladies…I fucking LIVE here. I want to kick them. Badly. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. They’re so old and small I could drop-kick them into Cherry Street. Just because they’re less fortunate and hungry does not give them cause to hiss and spit at me for trying to leave my building. Sometimes I pretend I’ve forgotten something just so I have to go back into my apartment and wade through them again not just once, but twice. I’ve been tempted to trip and fall on them. Bloody hell.

Now today…

Walk up to my building. And I notice. Someone has set up residence.

He looks quite pleased with himself…a couple backpacks, some shoes, random bits of clothing. He’d obviously come from aforementioned food bank as strewn about him in a semicircle were various food wrappers, plastic utensils, a couple beer cans (I’m certain Northwest Harvest has not taken to dispensing alcohol as of yet…), and with what teeth he had left, was intermittently munching on what looked to be some sort of sandwich, though he had to sort of “gum”-it, as he had few teeth left, and gulping mouthfulls of “Icehouse” beer. Oh, and mumbling incoherently to himself.

Now, I’m not one to judge the plights of others. We all find ourselves in less than ideal circumstances, they suck, misfortune falls upon some and not others, etc etc. But when they dump their plight all over the front steps of my apartment building when there is plenty of room on the nearby lawn across the street, or even under the I-5 overpass across 7th Avenue…then we have a problem.

I realize soon enough that making my way past this gentleman to get into my building wasn’t going to be the problem. Getting myself and my dog out of the building for Doppler’s nightly constitutional was going to be the real challenge, due to two factors: Doppler’s love of 1) food and 2) people.

As we left the double doors to the building, the gentleman shied away, assuming Doppler was going to engulf his cranium in one mouthful, which unfortunately I have been unable to train him to do as of yet. Instead, he wagged his tail like a drunken fool in an attempt to elicit a pet from our unpleasantly scented guest. This was a fail, all Doppler managed to accomplish was some twitching and mumbling from our uninvited stoop decoration. I led my dog down the steps to the shrub across the sidewalk which is the official first stop on the nightly tree-marking regimen and he elegantly hiked his leg and went about his business. On a tree. Which is where he is supposed to be going.

This is where the irony kicks in.

As Doppler is taking care of his business, this person, in clothing that hasn’t seen soap in months, a beard filled with droplets of beer and mayonnaise, a mouth full of rotted teeth, a stench unlike anything I’d caught walking past the dumpsters alongside the building, looks at my dog, and mutters through his toothless gums,

“That’s disgusting!”

This is where my brain began to fold in upon itself a bit, and as I slowly turned my head to glare at him, all I could manage was,

“You prefer your feet over the shrub, then?”

I can only assume his brain gave up because all he could manage was some twitching and a few savage grunts. Doppler and I haughtily took off down the sidewalk to continue around the block. When we made our way back to the steps, our dinner guest was frantically packing up his belongings, peering at us out of the corner of his eye. As we made our way back up the steps I permitted Doppler enough slack on his leash to make the fragrant vagrant just a bit uncomfortable. It amused me.

Now please don’t get me wrong. Like I said, I do not judge the less fortunate. I do, however, get irritated at those who camp on my steps and act like I am the inconvenience, then insult my dog. Then the gloves are off.

The Chinese women are next. They go off on me one more time…I’m bringing Doppler out later than usual. Might even let him lick their faces.

Voulez-voulez-vous…um…shit. I have no voulez-voulez-vous today. Wow.

The story so far:

There are algae in my Brita pitcher.

I inadvertently uploaded every song on my hard drive onto my iPod so at the moment it is spewing forth a great deal of rubbish.

The printer is on a hiatus while my co-worker is trying to print out payroll so he, too, is spewing forth a great deal of rubbish.

Laundry must be done today as I was reduced to wearing hiking clothes to work.

The phone is incessantly ringing with sales calls which I instantly put on hold and let sit unattended to, no doubt causing the sales reps to question their career choices.

In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move.

I keep sneezing. And it’s not even Thursday yet.

I may have to take Doppler to the dog park today. If I don’t, I fear his cabin fever might take hold to such an extreme he’ll go all Menendez-brothers on me and the landlord will find him feasting on my rotting flesh with Petri laughing maniacally in the background.

Ok. That was a bit messed up.

Sneezing again. Still not Thursday.

Continuing to overuse sentence fragments for effect.
(Oooh…perhaps some parenthetical statements for good measure…and some ellipsis for pizzazz…!)

We need to take the blog away from me now. I’m going so far as to abuse verb tenses.

Voulez-voulez-vous a vouler tu nous sommes moi vous? Merde.