Niff.Dot

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.

Obit photos are now done. boon had soup for lunch. i had tom ka. david keeps sending me odd little pictographs over the cubicle wall that i don’t think even make any sense to him. i over-steeped my tea (again). poor elise found out that her mother passed suddenly and left to go join her family. i was actually rather busy until just now; photos this morning needed quite a bit of tlc. most of the house is coughing up their lungs so i am desperately trying to take care of myself so i do not join their ranks. kim (who i worked with at LRS during bev’s psychadelic shows) is going to have me work with him on a more regular basis so i can perhaps fill in for him if he has a catering gig, and serve tables when the studio hosts the twice monthly dinners they will be having before the shows. which will be nice little amounts of pocket cash. and i like hanging out with the troupe. it is way too quiet in here. i require far more animation than is what’s currently being provided. i need stimuli. meh. too bored to write and i have no topic. so sad.

voulez voulez vous blog fail.

You leave the house with Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F major, BWV 1047 to accompany you. Leave at 7:45. It’s about a 40 minute walk to work, so you allow five minutes for…unexpected events. Like dogs. Which you find. Madison Market…Golden Retriever and Springer Spaniel, tied to the post while their parental unit shopped. Oh so cuddly. You scratch their ears, get some kisses, explain to them that you’d love to spend more time, but you must go to work. So, standing up, you replace your headphones, give them small scratches between their eyes, resume walk.
You make your way down Pine, exchange smiles with the local fireman as he raises the flag at the fire station. Hear the cacophony coming from the demolition team as they tear down what used to be the Foley Sign Company. They are fortunately leaving the facade intact. The facade of the building must be nearly 100 years old, and in Capitol Hill, with all of the new condos being built, historical preservation is becoming very important.
Crossing 11th and Pine, green light, you are nearly run down by a swarm of bicyclists running a red light. You will find this extremely hypocritical considering recent events. You consider yelling at them, but pause. What good would it do? It won’t change their behavior. Besides, they weren’t wearing helmets. They’re obviously careless. Karma and all…anyway…
Make your way to Broadway, wondering where Superman was. Maybe it was his day off…perhaps he was sleeping in. Just then a very, um…rotund…drag queen walks up…you think to yourself…my, she’s out early…she says to you, “well good mo’nin there baybaydawwl!” You say “good mawnin beautiful!” with a big smile and remember why you love living on the Hill. Walk by all the odd little store fronts looking in even though they have the same things every day. Weird furniture, acrylic moose heads, vintage shoes, pet supplies, an old-school Lite-Brite you’ve thought of buying more than once, pretty-boy designer clothes, a very pink store that is so pink it’s blinding and you don’t even bother to look in, a baguette shop with cute paintings of dogs, a shop with Indian teas and exotic spices and incense, a Yoga studio, and Bauhaus, a cafe you’ve frequented more than once, sketchbook in hand. You make your way through the crosswalk, passing the leash-free dog park, surveying the pups romping about this morning, always wondering if non-dog owners were allowed. Sometimes, after work, you’ll catch your friend Boon (Carrie) in there with her dog Fire, stoked because you now have an “in” which is nice…one day there were a couple of gorgeous Dobermans and an adorable Japanese Mastiff to play with. Much slobber.
Heading down to Boren, you see the Paramount sign, always meaning to look up the history of the building but forgetting by the time you get to work. Which isn’t unusual. You usually get wrapped up in Wikipedia about something else. Heading down Boren, you can see your building, you just have to make your way through the random, intermittent craziness first. One thing you will notice is the women who wear stiletto heels to work. They have to somewhat hobble down the hill on Boren trying to balance themselves, precariously minding the uneven concrete. You acknowledge that high-heeled shoes can be sexy, but for cocktail parties, not hobbling like drunken sailors down sidewalks in Capitol Hill. That’s better suited for the people who actually are drunk on Capitol Hill at 8:15 in the morning, who love to holler and dance about at the bus stop on the corner of Fairview and Denny. They’re there every morning. Sometimes you feel like you need to pay admission.
There’s always a lot of traffic on Denny. There’s always a lot of people honking at each other and cutting each other off and riding the ass of the person in front of them. People resting their temples on their fists as they scream at the person in the car in front of them as if they could hear them. As you think about your morning…as you stroll down the tree-laden streets, looking up at the reddening fall leaves and the people beginning their days, going to school, walking down sidewalks, girls looking in shop windows to put their eyeliner on, reading books at bus stops, sitting in front of cafes with their laptops, people walking their dogs, getting their morning coffee, skateboarders, coming, going, walking, running, doing, living…in a 40 minute walk to work you get to see it all. People. Life. You walk into work, sit down at your desk, face flushed from the walk, greet coworkers, feeling like a human being…a being full of life and energy, ready to start your day…as opposed to an automaton who mechanically makes their way through the office sitting down at their computer just going through the motions with a Starbucks cup in hand.

How was your commute?

*I realize most don’t have the luxury of living 1.8 miles from their job…so this post is inapplicable to you =)

I’m not ready to be at work right now. I think I need to go back to bed and try again.

My African violet is pissed at me. It requires water. It’s going to team up with the Asian pear I have hanging out on my desk and bludgeon me while I’m removing spots and scratches from soon-to-be obituary photos.

David Matayoshi just walked by cryptically smiling at me. WTF? Psycho.

I need some more water. Maybe I’ll share some with my plant.

Superman was hanging out on the corner of Broadway and Pine this morning. He had a sign asking for money. Why does Superman have to ask for money? He should deliver pizzas. That’d be a perfect job for a Superman. Then he wouldn’t have to panhandle anymore. He must get cold in those tights.

Phil told me that I am an abject fail. Whew. I was afraid he didn’t like me anymore.

Boon has a cold. Or allergies. She’s not sure which. I said ewwww. She said ya totally!

I’m trying to talk Phil into a hot dog and a Slurpee from 7-11 which is about 5 blocks down by Seattle Center. He says he won’t go unless I do. I do not want these things. For some reason I want him to get them. Wondering if the round trip 10-block trek is worth it. The weather is nice.

David says “you have to be in it to win it.” He never knows what “it” is.

Now David is rambling on about “ribbon candy”. For gawds sake. Ribbon candy? Yeah. My grandma had the stuff. She had the smaller versions that she would keep in crystal candy dishes with lids that had pointy crystal handles on top that would poke your hands when you went to lift it. Then of course the candy, which despite the array of colors all tasted like licorice, was so rigid that it would result in multicolored drool which traveled down the jawline, continuing down the neck and collecting in nice little pools of sugared saliva in the collar of your shirt to the utter joy of your mother. What the hell made him think of ribbon candy all of a sudden? Freak.

There’s stuff in my inbox. I suppose I should get to it. After I water my plant.

voulez-voulez-vous krebs cycle.