Category: Uncategorized

The Niff Manual.

The saying: stupidity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results…

Yeah. Haven’t quite caught on to that one yet.

I know I don’t like blogging about “daily blah life stuff” buy hey, everyone needs a Live Journal moment now and again. And this is a blog to myself, so bite me.

So I know one of the things that will help me out of my abyss of self-imposed stupidity, and one is (gulp) a damned therapist. The “just let it go already!” thing? You know, the thing your friends yell at you while shaking you by the shoulders when they’re tired of you bitching about the same damn thing for the 47th time? Yeah, I lack that skill. I need a Rocky-style coach or something. Or electric shock therapy. Maybe a lobotomy if options A and B prove unsuccessful. Something to turn off the hamster wheel in my head because that little squeaky bastard is giving me a headache.

I need my yoga classes back! I feel like a bad-ass when I’m in yoga. And I take better care of myself. Which improves my self esteem. And my frame of mind. Which will help with my jaded, cynical attitude I’ve sunk my feet into the last week and started flinging the unpleasant muck at people who don’t deserve it. People don’t like that. Makes them not want to hang out with you. Go figure.

I need to be more responsible with my finances…money stress sends me into a shame spiral quicker than (almost) anything, and I start conjuring images of my being old and alone and living in a cardboard box eating two-day-old Spam sandwiches out of the trash because I have no retirement saved, etc etc…

I need to quit thinking I want a boyfriend. Right now men are kind of on my shit list anyway. I need to work on all of the above first and then deal with *that* train wreck. At least I don’t disappoint myself as often…(I warned you…cynical and jaded…). My working on my health, taking yoga, art, etc, makes me feel so much better about myself than a boy asking for my phone number anyway. Right…?

(Just say, “Right!!”)

I finally got a job, so that stress is out of the way…a job I LOVE, so, ‘check’!

I need to stop being so concerned about what people are doing/thinking/etc that has nothing to with me. Paranoia should only exist in the Witness Protection Program.

(Niff: People are not always thinking the worst about you. Stop that shit. Only a few are and you can’t do SHIT about it so let it go. For fuck’s sake. A lot more people are fond of you than you think there are.)

I need to establish and maintain my personal boundaries better. I need to quit being such a damn pushover and speak up for what I want.
(What do you think? Do you think that’s a good idea, because if you don’t I can leave this part out of here…)

I need to quit comparing myself to everyone and feeling like I come up short in some or every way possible. Because it makes me sad. And it’s absolutely a stupid behavior.

So, I think this pretty much sums up everything that makes me insecure, mildly unhappy, or everything I think I need to work on to make me a secure, grounded and pleasant human being. I mean, I’m mostly happy and pleasant, but far from grounded and secure. So this is my memo to myself. And, when I get to the therapist-peoples, I can just sit down, hand them this piece of paper, sit back in the comfy chair, and announce, “Here you are…now…fix me!”.

That is how it works, right…?

voulez-voulez-vous I’m not Bob Vila but I do play him on TV…

I just watched a woman lock her keys in her car from my office window. Now, my innate Clark Kent-instinct is telling me to help this woman, but I don’t own a Slim Jim nor a wire coat hanger, and short of slinging my red Swingline stapler through her driver’s side window there’s really nothing I could do for her. It is, however, interesting to watch the problem-solving process in action when the person engaged is not aware they are under observation. She walked around the car a few times, trying every door handle more than once…perhaps she was hoping some pan-dimensional beings had manifested inside her vehicle and miraculously unlocked her doors in the last several seconds in an act of interplanetary goodwill. Giving up on this possibility, she eventually produced a cell phone to (what I would assume) was to call AAA or some other rescue-me-door-unlocking agency and walked away.

I’ve had the privilege of seeing a handful of oddities from my office window so far…last Thursday there was a rather confused girl wearing a jogging suit several sizes too small over undergarments that were several sizes too large pacing back and forth for the better part of an hour in the parking lot. She seemed to be talking nonsensically to herself and would intermittently shake her head in what appeared to be either confusion or frustration (it’s hard to tell these things from afar) and would pause only to hoist her too-large underpants up when they would slip due to her rapid traversing across the lot. I don’t know where she is now. Maybe she figured out the underwear thing and took a bus to Target.

There’s a man who drives a gunmetal gray Volvo who, every day, parks his car, exits, locks it, then examines the entire exterior. Makes the full rounds. Hood, doors, tires, top, tail lights. He goes so far as to open the trunk and examine the interior. Which is always empty. Not even a pair of jumper cables. He must have a lot of confidence that he’ll never have automotive issues. I declare OCD. He works in my building somewhere…his office must be fantastic.

At the moment I’m looking forward to the snow season, when cars start sliding down Denny Street. Call me sick and twisted if you like, but you know you’d watch with morbid fascination if given the chance.

Voulez-voulez-vous ooo ooo ooo lookin’ out my back door…

So, I now have a dove in my room.

I don’t really have a name for the dove. I’ve just been calling it the “it-bird-thing”. I figured since Chilla doesn’t seem to mind being called “Chilla” so much, why the hell would a bird care what he’s called. I was calling him (it) “crazy eye” for a while, but that was far too many syllables and much more effort than I was willing to contribute to this particular avian enterprise. I don’t know what gender “it” is. I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see if it starts shooting some eggs out and make my determinations from there. I think I should put a box in there or something so the potential eggs aren’t lolling about on the wire mesh of the bottom of the cage. And then it steps on them. And then there’s crusty egg goo everywhere. Ew.

I decided to decorate the front of the it-bird-thing’s cage with some of the Pi magnets I made since I had discovered that there were virtually no ferrous materials used in the construction of my room. Not on the window frames, in the bathroom…nothing. So I thought it’d be very feng shui to slap some on the front of Casa de Crazy Eye. Problem is the little bastard has started pecking at the Pi. You DO NOT peck at the Pi. Absolutely not. The Pi is not for pecking. Bad math karma.
I should get a spray bottle and douse the it-bird-thing when it Pi-pecks. Although I think that could be counter-productive to my taming goals which is one of the reasons I was given the it-bird-thing in the first place.

The bird was formerly in the possession of a close friend of mine who also happens to be a magician. This magician had a dove population problem (amorous doves…no birth control) and would like the most recent additions tamed for use in the show. So I claimed one, agreeing to tame it.

So I handle the dove, it shits on me.
Let it hang out on my desk with me, it shits on my desk.
Talk to it, it shits on me again.

I’m noticing some real relationship issues here.

Perhaps I could start by not calling it the “it-bird-thing”. It’s probably not helping it’s self-esteem. The visions of releasing it into the ceiling fan when it rapid-fire shits on me might be causing it undue stress as well. Although it’s wings are clipped so it’d have to be be more of a “dropping” it into the ceiling fan.

Eh. Minutiae.

Voulez-volez-vouz it-bird-thing-pot-pi

Anyone got a Swiffer?

Ok, so I confess I’ve been a bit…neglectful of my blog. It’s a bit dusty.

But hey, I’ve been busy. I got laid off, I had a family tragedy to contend with, I spend hours a day opening emails that read, “We regret to inform you that we have filled this position. We appreciate your interest in this opportunity with us and we will retain your information for consideration in future openings.”, all the while sending out resumes that will result in more of aforementioned emails. I’m a busy girl.

I would however like to take a moment of silence for my (hand-me-down) XBox360. It died today. No more streaming Netflix for me. Which will make unemployment all the more unpleasant. Erngh.

I have been keeping busy. I decided to start a series of paintings in the hope of getting a “show” or something, ya know, make some money. They’re coming along well, I’ve busted out five so far. Fortunately Seattle isn’t a very artsy town so I see no competition whatsoever. I shall rule supreme. Oh yes. Something like that.

I have noticed, as I run errands and such during the day, the large number of people also running errands during the day. And I’m not talking during lunch hour. I’m talking 10am, 2pm…who are these people? Fellow unemployed? Is it that bad? Or what is it they do that they can just cruise around the Hill in the sunshine at a whim? I want to know…please? I want ice cream during work at 3:00 on a Tuesday! Molly Moo at Two on Tuesday.

I have invented a new word during my idle time. “Erngh”. The only problem is, it’s only meant for digital correspondence, it’s not meant to be verbal. I mean honestly, just try and say it aloud. It doesn’t work. You sound like a defective airhorn. I consider it to be the new “meh” just because I consider “meh” and perhaps “teh” to be old and played out now. Done. Although I have heard “sike” making a comeback and that shit needs to be nipped in the bud NOW. As in, when someone says it, men in black masks suddenly appear and cover the offender’s head in a burlap sack and bind their hands in twist-ties, throw them in the back of a van and drive screeching around the corner into an unmarked warehouse and engage in unspeakable acts of grammatical torture. Same with “rad”. Or any played-out 80’s phrase. The 80’s are a cultural FAIL.

I shall miss my streaming Netflix. Bummer.

Voulez-voulez-vous Microsoft FAIL. I am Jack’s total lack of surprise.

This is the Chilla. Yes, I realize he looks a little…annoyed. Trying to get a chinchilla to hold still for a photograph isn’t exactly a simple feat, folks. Imagine a toddler after a few Pixy Stix and a Red Bull then you have a slight idea of what I was trying to work with.

The Chilla does not like being restrained.

Unfortunately the only image capturing device I had at my disposal was my cell phone which doesn’t have the best resolution around, and that in tandem with wriggly subject matter = craptastic photo.

Damn he looks bitter. He’s normally very chipper, I assure you. Photo shoots just aren’t his…thing.

I learned a few things when I acquired the Chilla. He was my first Chilla. Now, I don’t know if this is universal with Chillas, but this one likes drywall. I mean, really likes drywall. And baseboards. Books. Toilet paper. Shampoo bottles with shampoo still in them. Electrical cords that are still plugged in.

Now this one requires some…explanation.

I have (had, rather) one of those Oral-B Sonicare what-have-you electric toothbrushes that have the rechargeable batteries in them and the accompanying docks. However, one morning to my dismay I discovered the battery had died. Which was odd, because it remained on it’s charger daily. During the investigation process, I picked up the cord, and in so doing damn near electrocuted myself. Now, at 5’10 and 140lbs picking up this cord with my fingers shot voltage through my arm and really fucking hurt. Now imagine, if you will, being a 0.5-lb ball of fluff roughly the size of a grapefruit with this exposed wire in between your teeth?? Jesus. I’m convinced he is not organic. Maybe I should name him Stitch, or, something. For Chrissake’s.

However…

On the other hand the way he hops around like a kangaroo carrying things in his wee gummy hands and ricochet-ing off of walls is endearing…he has this giant furry rump that you just wanna grab cuz it’s so cute. He doesn’t like the whole rump-grabbing thing, however, and he chirps his discontent and does a 5-inch vertical leap, which, in my opinion, is worth pissing him off.

Another thing I find peculiar about the Chilla is his output seems to far exceed his input. I know I don’t feed him enough to generate the mess I see in his cage on a daily basis…I mean, honestly…there has to be some kind of flaw in the metabolic processes of chinchillas that pulls matter into their intestinal tracts from other dimensions during digestion or something. Can Chilla crap bilocate? I mean, I let him bounce around the glass door-encased shower stall (no drywall to binge on) and within 2 minutes, it’s a literal shitstorm in there. I mean, seriously…I’m convinced if I put him on a fast for a week he would excrete just as much. That can’t possibly be healthy.

But he’s still cute and sweet and soft as hell and I love his little gummy feet and giant ears and the dopey look he gets on his face when I scratch between them. And I think he’s hella-cooler then my housemate’s cranky-ass cats. I think I’ll keep him.

It’s just the excess feces production and the whole living on drywall and electrical current that freaks me out.

Voulez-voulez-vous ch-ch-ch-Chilla…

when you have five housemates, it’s never just “pants”.

voulez-voulez-vous “meme”

So, i got my new digs.

Um, ok, so maybe they look exactly like my old digs. They’re just 3 cubes further down the row. And far less lonely. =( All my neighbors were casualties of the layoffs and I was the lone survivor for miles and being an extrovert I just couldn’t take the solitude!!

The cube to the left is Ed’s. Ed has two daughters (hence all of the photos on his file cabinet). Ed’s daughters give him a lot of toys and knick-knacks etc. which litter the once-bare surfaces of his cube. Before my relocation, they littered the surface of his shared cubicle walls. I had issue with this. I am not a knick-knack person and I did not want stuffed bumblebees and McDonald’s Happy Meal paraphernalia staring down at me while I worked on obituary photos all day. So we compromised. I was grateful.

I was however having a great deal of fun laughing at people who were having mild panic attacks when they reached my old desk. Given the layoffs, when you go to look for someone and find their desk completely bare, the usual assumptions take place and then you begin to wonder who is going to place your employment ad or edit your obituary photo now?? After a few minutes enough remorse had set in that I decided to let them know I had moved, especially since I was helping the new sales reps with employment ads and the brief, momentary panic on their faces was making me feel guilty. I’m wondering if I should send out change of address cards or something, or maybe a cubicle-warming party? Hey! That’s ruddy brilliant! I just now came up with that even!
Of course there’s always the one’s you want to hide from…perhaps I should have sent out a very selective memo in order to exclude those who love to monopolize my time with their problems assuming I have no other responsibilities to attend to. Love that.

And I got my new monitor thanks to my optometrist. Spending hours a day photo editing on an old CRT monitor was making my eyeballs feel like they were being shoved through a Play-Doh extruder.

Math geek humor time.

voulez voulez vous phi

i seriously have to sit here until 4:30.
this is my inbox.

this has been my inbox since 11:17 am.

if there is nothing in my inbox, there is nothing for me to do. eh. i’ll do this.

Ed’s sitting 3 cubes behind me grumbling that they’re not giving us early release. i said well, it’s not snowing, it’ll be just as dangerous as it was this morning only pitch black…oh wait…scratch that…it’ll be more dangerous! oooo…what a way to avoid severance…

(i jest…)

i like candy canes. the peppermint kind.

Phil brought me a pomegranate today. he’s always so sweet and thoughtful like that. He gets hugs.

Phil also brought me a small heater for under my desk since i’m always freezing. if he wasn’t gay he’d get more than hugs.

i ate too many cinnamon nougats today. It’s all Andrews fault.

Jason was my personal hero and gave me a ride into work this morning. now i just need another personal hero to drive me home. hate walking 1.7 miles to and from work in this:

so, that’s all ice. and those are all stranded Metro buses. it was hilarious. there were more buses abandoned on Madison then at the Metro station. at any rate, slipping around for an hour to get home with a broken tailbone is becoming tiring. my bus route has been suspended so….yah.

it’s now 1:55. progress has been made.

my chinchilla is under the assumption that my right hand makes an attractive mate. i must disagree with him on this point. i think family counseling may be necessary.

obstreperous boisterous (ub-STREP-ur-us): Emerson perhaps characterized it best when he said, “Obstreperous roarings of the throat,” since the word means “loud and unruly” – and with a lustly, let-‘er-rip sound to it.
they were obstreperous in the extreme, partying loudly into the night.

there’s this narcissistic, chauvinistic unrelenting flirt in my office whose eyes i want to gouge out with my thumbs. instead i opted for publicly humiliating him when he used to pull his ladies’ man bullshit on me. he’s since stopped, which makes me sad in a way. men like that need to be knocked down a peg or two. they could use some perspective.

ah, 2:10.

i have way too much shredded coconut in my file cabinet.

ah, stuff in my inbox. bollocks. now i’m all into this and i don’t want to do it.

i have to work the day after Christmas, which is a Friday. lame.

who uses the word “rad” anymore? i mean, honestly? (except the aforementioned narcissistic, chauvinistic unrelenting flirt who is concurrently in the throes of a midlife crisis)

i swear to god if Ed doesn’t start cheering up and stop talking like he’s waiting to die i’m going to knock him out with my big-ass CRT monitor. thanks to all the layoffs he’s the only voice in my proximity and i can’t keep listening to this Mr. Snuffleupagus voice day in and day out. even my African violet is looking depressed.

the power really needs to go out again so we can end all this nonsense and bugger out of here already. (it was out for almost 3 ours yesterday so they gave up and sent everyone home. of course i had taken the day off and did not get to enjoy such paid liberty; i had to use my vacation hours. grumble)

Toda is a Dravidian language well known for its many fricatives and trills. It is spoken by the Toda people, a population of about one thousand who live in the Nilgiri Hills of southern India.

oh my. the rubberband ball is eyeing the new pomegranate already. sigh. better to have loved and lost etc. etc. i suppose.

this will all end in tears, i just know it.

voulez voulez vous Ed, you’d better duck, man.

So. I was late to work. Got a wee bit busted for it too.

But the reason I was busted for it was because my excuse was “not valid”. I was not late because I missed my bus, or overslept, or was pulled over for a speeding ticket. I was late because on my walk to work I stopped to meet Hedda.

Hedda is a 12-year old yellow labrador owned by a gentleman in his late 60’s who is a retired professor of English literature at the University of Washington. I can’t recall his name because I have an awful habit of recalling dog’s names and not their owner’s. I said good morning, asked if I might pet her, then asked her name.

Hedda.

“Do you know why she is named Hedda?” he asks me.
“I don’t actually…”
“Hedda was a character in a play of the same name, Hedda Gabler, written in the late 1890’s by a man by the name of Henrik Ibsen”
“I see…”
“Are you familiar with the writings of Henrik Ibsen?”
Having never been much of a student of literature, I reply sadly, that I am not.
“Well, allow me to quote: ‘You should never put your best trousers on when you go out to fight for freedom and truth!””
I giggle.
“Does that sound familiar?”
I regretfully shake my head.
He scoffs, “well, why not, young lady?”
At some lame attempt at justification I explain that I am an artist and a student of languages and writing systems and mathematical concepts and as such spend my time on little else…
“Ah…” he interjects…”a renaissance woman. Plenty of room left in that head of yours, and plenty of time left. You should get started.”
“Might I start after work? I think I might have some Chaucer at home…” I reply feebly.
“Hmm…” he mused, stroking his beard. “I suppose that’s acceptable. Hedda?”

Hedda has been spending the entire conversation with her attention vaguely fixated on the concrete at the base of a tree trunk. She had no opinion either way.

I look at my watch…he noticed.

“I imagine and hope that we will meet again on this sidewalk in the future. I expect you will have some Chaucer to add to that list of marvelous knowledge you have.” he says, smiling bemusedly.

“Well, young lady,” he says, extending his hand, “I should let you be on your way. It was a pleasure.”
“Likewise,” I reply, extending it, and he kisses the top of my gloved hand in quite the gentlemanly fashion. He comes from a different time, he does, where women didn’t call the police or kick you in the testicles for such a thing.

“You know,” he added, “Ibsen’s ‘Hedda’ was known for her ‘lust for life'” he said as I turned to leave. “it shows in you as well young lady. Hold onto that, understand?”
I was flattered…mostly because of how odd it was that I had heard just those words from another just the day before.

“Yes, sir!”

And that is why I was late to work.
Apparently experiencing life isn’t a valid excuse.

Voulez voulez vous…

I left my desk for only a moment to make some tea…

it didn’t work out.

Voulez-voulez-vous beware office romances.