This will be brief. And definitively uninteresting. I’m stuck in my bed with killer back pain and thought I’d try blogging from my phone. But as typing is somewhat challenging on this device this idea is rapidly losing its appeal. So much so that I’m bailing now. A bientot.
Voulez-voulez-vous sausage fingers.
So long as it involves lemon.
With the weather being so agreeable for once I’ve been able to resume my “Walking to Work” regimen. I was getting a bit lazy and had begun driving to work every day. Drive to work, sit on my ass all day, drive home, sit on my ass all evening. Makes for a larger ass.
This needed to be fixed.
Getting back into it, however, has developed into some rather serious shin splints. They’ll dissipate with time. It’s a four-mile trek round-trip that, with headphones and appreciation for Capitol Hill, makes for a pleasant albeit lengthy stroll. Although somehow, in defiance of natural law, Denny seems to be uphill no matter what direction you’re traveling. East, west, it’s all uphill. It’s a freak of city planning.
The addiction to my cell phone continues unabated. But the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I can conquer this on my own, I don’t think self-help books or support groups will be necessary.
I need to learn code. I’m starting to study CSS basics. I need to increase my knowledge base. Perhaps now that I have this mask-making gig, I can afford some classes. This mask making gig has made me rather motivated in several facets of my life. I think it’s because for the first time, I feel validated and appreciated. For my art, of all things. Which is pretty goddamn significant.
Strange things are afoot in my work neighborhood. Strange things are always afoot in my work neighborhood. This time it happened to be a human being hauled out of the low-income housing apartment complex in a body bag yesterday morning. The city medical examiner and four police cars were attending to the situation. Animal control stopped by shortly thereafter to remove a couple of (what looked like) cats. I felt sad for the cats. I have this odd affliction where I tend to be more affected by animals experiencing misfortune than I do people. Most of the time it’s because people create their own misfortune, so it’s difficult for me to feel sorry for them. Animals are affected by circumstances beyond their control. My heartstrings are tugged when I see an emaciated kitty wandering around the neighborhood or an obviously neglected pooch on the loose. Which is how Doppler came to be the current love of my life. When asked if I have a boyfriend, I reply, “no, I feel one dog in my life is enough right now…”.
Hehee. Ouch.
Ah! It’s 11:11. I rule the universe for the next 60 seconds. Go fetch me a shrubbery.
Voulez-voulez-vous Ni!
I have successfully become one of those smart-phone junkies that I once mocked and somewhat despised.
I can’t help it…it’s so beautiful!
I, shamefully, was indeed chatting on my phone on my walk to work. I check my Facebook status updates…watch YouTube videos…I even took it with me to the bathroom once. I’m not sure what the long-term effects of this will be; it may lead to a complete and total removal from all non-digital human interaction. I’ll be like Barkley in that one episode of Star Trek TNG where he integrated himself into the computer’s mainframe and seized control of the Enterprise. I suspect I’ll be controlling the Earth’s satellites soon.
Doppler hates the new gadget. I’m playing Word Mole instead of playing with him. I expect him to try and devour it at some point. He’s neither patient nor subtle..
The honeymoon period will soon wear off…at least I’m hoping. That’s if it doesn’t shoot a coaxial cable out of it’s bowels and into my brain and use my body as an instrument of evil. I just had a flash of South Park where Cartman’s body was overtaken by his Trapper Keeper and he morphed into a giant, all-consuming mound of lumpy flesh which slouched about devouring anything in his path. Bad pie…bad pie…
I’ve been annoying all of my friends I’m sure…I think I’ve been excessively texting in my desire to play with my new toy. “Hey, my shoes are muddy!”, “I have an inflatable rubber cowboy…”. “What’s your favorite non-dairy product?”.
I’m awaiting restraining orders.
I’m surprised I’m not writing this from the damn thing. Though I must confess the typing isn’t as efficient and I feel like I have sausage fingers. Typos are abundant.
Gotta run…I just got an alert on my phone.
Voulez-voulez-vous TechnoJunkie
So, last Friday I took my masks to the costume shop (A Masquerade) as scheduled. After waiting for about 20 minutes for the manager to appear, I opened the plastic tub containing my wares. Unexpectedly, they were received with much squealing and and giddiness. She was so thrilled and amazed by the amount of work and detail I put into them. I was positively blown away; I had seen masks on their wall that I considered to be far more impressive than mine, however she regarded them as being “completely unique” and “stunning”, and exclaimed that she would be honored to have them in her shop. I was then giddy and squealing. After discussing how we would price them (she was FAR less conservative than I) she plugged them into an Excel spreadsheet to calculate what my cut would be.
She handed me a check for $1450.00.
$1450.00???. I had to steady myself on the counter.
So, it looks like I will be selling my masks in her shop and on the website as well. This is amazingly exciting.
I now have a cubic butt-ton of work to do.
Voulez-voulez-vous the sweet smell of success.
The cleaning staff here at work threw my not-yet-empty box of Special K away. Sad.
At least they left the blackberries.
They were probably disgruntled because yesterday, Casey, the valet manager, received these huge signs for posting outside of restaurants, bars, etc. These signs came in very large boxes. These very large boxes contained a very large amount of Styrofoam. Upon removal of aforementioned signs, the Styrofoam began to disintegrate, leaving tiny white beads of messy puffiness all over the office floor. All over the floor. I neglected to photograph the situation to my dismay. I didn’t think I’d be writing about it…
So, every square inch of office floor was littered with tiny little shreds of Styrofoam. Like snow. So, like I said, upon discovery of the task awaiting them, the cleaning staff probably threw out my cereal in a form of protest.
I completed another mask last night, which I’m pleased about, because it means that I can create a mask from start to finish in 3-5 hours. I’m pleased by this increase in efficiency. I was distracted, however, by the old home video I discovered while looking for art supplies. It was from 1985, and my grandmother had given it to me some time ago. I hadn’t yet watched it because, really, who owns a VCR anymore? Fortunately my housemate does, and since she is on vacation I thought she wouldn’t mind my borrowing it for my nostalgia binge. I had forgotten how buck-toothed I was (in 1990 I hit a dog on my bike, flew over the handlebars, and broke off said teeth. Blessing in disguise – I then had nicely shaped porcelain replacements.). My mother had the huge, perm white girl afro thing going on…my brother was 5 years old and sounded like a girl. Good stuff, that.
I think the next several days of “home by myself” time will be good for productivity. I’ve never been able to make a mask from start to finish in one night without any distractions, unless you count Doppler whacking me with his rope because I’m not paying him any attention. I have some more mask blanks arriving in the mail soon, but I would eventually like to get to the point where I’m making my own paper mache so that the mask is completely my creation. That will take some time and face donors for me to use as molds. What’s cool about that is I can custom-make masks modeled after the person it’s for. But, one step at a time. I have to see if these things will sell before I get too excited. I meet with the shop owner tomorrow so I’ll have a better sense of how successful this could be.
Back to stuffing envelopes for me.
Voulez-voulez-vous W-2’s.
Oh, honestly. I mean, that’s a typographical sin! I feel nauseated. I’m not sure how I can recover from this one. I mean, I’ve seen some pretty disgusting things in my time, but this is the pinnacle. A “friend” of mine sent me the link to it. I say “friend” because their status as such is now questionable.
Anyone who knows me knows about my “Comic Sans” issues. You can read about them
to gain a bit of perspective. What perplexes me is the inappropriate use of this dastardly font.
Now, tell me this…how seriously can you take this? I mean, honestly. I think I’d almost prefer to die of coronary failure. It looks like a practical joke…you apply the paddles and a recorded voice laughs and says, “sucks to be you!”. Comic Sans = trust fail. It does seems to be prevalent in the medical realm, perhaps in order to help people feel less intimidated…I perceive it as an expression of irresponsibility. I would reject services from any facility who used this crime against nature in their signage. Or at an ATM, or a restaurant…or make me question my personal safety if someone broke into my home or had me at gunpoint.
It just screams “we do not take ourselves, or your safety, seriously”. Or about whatever it is they’re trying to communicate. It’s like a plague…seeping into the cultural consciousness like a virus…
Papyrusis running an ever-increasingly close second in my font-hating inventory. I think they’re both ganging up on us. I don’t know what we need to do to defend ourselves against this typographical tyranny, but I feel it involves copious amounts of Helvetica, Arial, and maybe even a smidge of Times New Roman. Our very lives may depend upon it.
Voulez-voulez-vous
Abject fail. My lower back is killing me. I’m getting old. Youth and vitality fail.
My boss is going to give me a damn heart attack. He tends to randomly scream arbitrary phrases, yell at people on the phone…but this happens in the dead of quiet so when it happens, it causes my heart to jump into my throat and pee the floor. I’m going to have a goddamned coronary. He said he was going to sell my dog to the (insert racial slurs here) at the Teryaki restaurant down the street. I told him that wasn’t cool and now I’ve been instructed shut up for the rest of the day. I think that will make answering the phone a problem. He then asked me if he had any appointments today. I just stared blankly at him. This was not well received.
Now he’s yelling at someone on the phone…it’s very entertaining. He insults people, instructs them to rot in hell, screams “WHAT??” when he answers the phone, I’m threatened on a regular basis, as well as my dog…I feel like I should wear a helmet to work. His favorite line is, “The end is near”. And everyone is crazy. Except for him. He’s somewhat biased.
Why so angry??
I noticed this morning that Doppler is terrified of my electric toothbrush. I think he’s under the impression it’s attacking my face. He ducks and runs away, whines, sometimes even barks at it. I didn’t realize a toothbrush could be so threatening. This information does come in handy, however…I could use it as a deterrent when he starts scratching up the carpet or jumping on people. That’s something they never suggested in Puppy Kindergarten.
Voulez-voulez-vous…uh, shit. I got nuthin’.
And…a costume shop in Bellevue, A Masquerade, is going to start selling my masks. This is teh hawesome. I’d write more about it, but I’ve been working on the site and masks all bloody evening and I’m freakin’ exhausted. My eyes are going to liquefy if I don’t get away from this goddamned monitor. I need a bath. With bubbles.
Doppler’s sitting on my bed staring at me. Apparently he’s the only guy that wants in my bed.
No time for love, Dr. Jones. I have to get to work so I can be a bazillionaire.
Voulez-vulez-vous html, FTP, CSS, erngh…
Arachibutyrophobia: Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth.
…
I’m not fond of peanut butter myself, so this is a phobia I’m not particularly concerned with. What I’m curious about is, how did “Arachibutyro” become the root word for peanut butter? I’m sure it has to do with the scientific nomenclature for peanut, or some sort of taxonomic classification. I suppose I can imagine the inconvenience of peanut butter sticking to the roof of one’s mouth, but not so that it causes a cold-sweat inducing panic attack. Skip the Skippy.
Omphalophobia- Fear of belly buttons.
Are you trying to tell me that there were enough people terrified of navels that they had to give it a name? I think it’s a fictitious condition but it sounds fabulous.
Walloonphobia- Fear of the Walloons
What the bloody hell is a Walloon? Hold on…consulting…
Walloons (French: Wallons, Walloon: Walons) are a Romance-speaking people partly from Germanic origin and Celtic origin; in any case a melting-pot[1][2][3] speaking French, living in Belgium principally in Wallonia, more generally the inhabitants of Wallonia. They also speak regional languages like Walloon or Picard.
Ok.
Ack! I missed 11:11. Damn.
Think I’ll take the dog for a nice long walk, barring rain. It seems to have tapered off for the moment. But the weather is a lie, so it won’t last. Drizzle drizzle. It’s that somewhat annoying rain, kinda misty…not enough to warrant an umbrella (well, without looking like a tourist) but after being outside for a considerable amount of time, somehow you’ve become quite damp. I wish it would just rain like it meant it. Like, no holds barred torrential downpour…now with more thunder and lightning!
Never trust a driver that has stuffed animals perched in their rear window.
There’s a car in the parking lot with fuzzy teddy bears and beanie babies in the rear window. Probably because their house overflowed. Beanie Baby blowout.
Andrew is eating those small, chocolate covered donuts (it’s not chocolate, it’s actually a pseudo-chocolate wax-like substance that masquerades as food.) I explained this to him. So he offered me one. I suppose my less-than appetizing description of aforementioned donuts was not a clear enough donut-deterrent.
I’m really digging the unintentional alliteration happening here.
I have crumbs all over my desk from frosted mini-wheats. In my delusional mind, they’re a healthier alternative to the snacking options provided at the nearby mini-mart.
Or chocolate-wax covered donuts.
They leave that waxy film on your teeth. I wonder if there’s a phobia for that.
Macadamia.
I’m out.
Voulez-voulez-vous mukluks.
In the last couple of weeks, conversations, in one way or another, have somehow led me to ask a few people whether they were left or right-handed. However, in each instance, each person had to pause for a moment, think, and say, “I think I’m mostly _____-handed.”
“Mostly?” I ask. “As in, you’re ambidextrous?”
“Well, not completely, I can’t write with my left hand…”
“So you’re right-handed…”
“Yes, well…mostly…”
And then it occurred to me…in this technology-driven age, people don’t use writing to determine left or right-handed dominance anymore. It seems people don’t write all that often these days. Just look at penmanship as a whole…it seems to have deteriorated a bit, and I have friends who have admitted that it is due to lack of practice. I can hardly read a damn thing any of my coworkers write (granted they are men and I have NO problem stereotyping on this one…) and half the time I end up needing them to translate. These little crazy-ass phones are replacing the need for written correspondence, note-taking, journal-keeping (though I’m not one to criticize as I write in my blog but I’ll elaborate on this in a moment); we send terms of endearment in Times New Roman and birthday greetings in Comic Sans (Comic Sans! F*cking hell.). We txt, Tweet, email, comment, reply, fwd, cc, bcc…people’s lives have become so maddeningly busy, it’s all we can muster to maintain our numerous relationships anymore. I’m honestly afraid to get one of these devices, a) because I have an addictive personality and I spend enough time online as it is, and b) the data plan would suck my bank account dry. Most of my friends have these little devices and will be at social events endlessly plugging away on them all night as if they were the Cultural Attaché for China. I confess to a few text volleyballs when I’m at a gathering…but checking email, social networking sites, the weather, their horoscope…honestly. My mom thinks it’s just ‘guys and their gadgets’ but I have female friends that are just as if not more guilty of this. Just look at the number of Facebook status updates that are made via mobile. I think this digitized, hurried, busy universe is why the creators of Facebook hit such a bloody goldmine. It’s brilliance is that just by clicking the “Like” button, you are able to say, “Hello! I exist!” to your friends, or “Facebook Friends”, in a subtle, dare I say, almost passive-aggressive way…of course when you’re one of their 376 “Friends” that may not always work, but for people like me (*ahem*) it’s ingenious.
Holy hell I strayed from my topic.
But I’m tired of typing because I like writing and drawing better. Because I’m right-handed. I’ll straggle back tomorrow. Maybe.
Voulez-voulez vous iPhone, Blackberry, Droid, AT&T, Verizon, T-Mobile?
Niff.Dot 