>Almost every year my mother, for Christmas, sends me a new book by Richard Paul Evans, who you may know as the author of The Christmas Box. I am not a Christian in any sense of the definition, but even though Evans weaves faith into his books quite obviously I can appreciate it for what it meant to the author and what it means to my mother. The Christmas Box is a story of a parents’ love for their children and the meaning of Christmas and of family. Christmas has always been an important time for my family, especially my mother and I, which is why this year was so ruddy difficult.
My mother gave me The Christmas Box for Christmas in 1995. And every year since, when Evans has written a new book, it has always been one of my Christmas gifts, as he almost always includes Christmas in his novels. So it became somewhat of a special tradition for my mother and I.
Somehow in the mayhem and chaos of this last year and culminating with my solitude and lack of anything holiday-related on Christmas, I had forgotten. I had so given up on Christmas meaning anything to me this year that experiencing anything touching in that way completely eluded me.
My gift(s) from my parents finally arrived today (my dad works for FedEx…go figure), but there was one that I knew, before even opening the box, was specifically from my mother. It was exactly what I needed and curled up with it on my bed and was so touched I cried.

Sometimes it so wonderful to remember when someone just inherently knows you.

Merry Christmas everyone.

>…sucks major ass.
I think that 60% of the most unpleasant weather elements are converging outside my window. Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind so much. But considering that:
a) Due to aforementioned weather I was not able to have my usual 1.5 mile stroll home;
and
b) that even though I did get to take the bus I still had to walk 5 blocks home from 19th and Thomas in which my umbrella flipped inside-out twice due to to one of the 60% of undesirable weather elements. I could never live in Chicago.

Glad I wore my waterproof hiking boots today…cuz…damn. I think even the puddles are pissed off.

Because I am trying to channel some negative energy I’ve been dealing with into positive efforts, I will now resurrect some creativity in an attempt to achieve this goal. I invite all the criticism you can muster.

Thus I bring you the:

Ode…to the Shit-Nasty Weather
By Jennifer Lankenau

>So, Christmas, I was sure, was going to suck this year.
I wasn’t going to see my parents because of finances and logistics…
I wasn’t going to be spending it with what once was my “family”…
My housemates would all be out of town seeing their families…
I had no Christmas tree whatsoever.

And none of my friends in my community were big fans of Christmas. A large portion of them, I recently discovered, were Jewish.

So, Christmas, I was certain, was going to suck this year.

Didn’t think I was going to feel as badly as I did this morning. I mean, I knew I was going to feel a bit melancholy this morning…especially after dropping my housemates and the Bug off at the airport. But as I drove home and Christmas music took over the radio and I drove past various shops and buildings and homes clad in holiday decor, it started to sink in. This was going to be my first Christmas without….well, Christmas.

I got home…wanted to go to my room…couldn’t. It had been scheduled ahead of time that the stairs were to be painted on Christmas day, as most people wouldn’t be home. I apparently am not most people. I had already taken all of my work-prep things downstairs to stay in the first floor guestroom, so I was prepared…but going up to see Prof. Pi would have been nice.

I entered the house, dumped off my backpack and the keys, went into the spare room, buried my face into the pillows and began to sob. It was horrible. All I wanted was to share Christmas with people I loved. It wasn’t going to happen this year. I wanted to sit by the tree and give gifts and laugh and smile and enjoy everyone’s happiness, to go and look at Christmas lights in the car…but it wasn’t going to happen. This year really, really hurt. I decided that next year I am definitely going home for Christmas. Home is wherever the people you love are.

I knew I had planned on going to the aquarium for the day since I discovered to my joy and delight that they were open from 12 to 5 on Christmas…then I had planned to go by Sev and Ethan’s afterward as I had been invited for Chinese food and movie marathons. But I allowed my negative feedback loop to engage (again…) and I felt so wretched and sad and alone that I didn’t feel anything could cheer me up. But then again, the alternative was to stay in the house while Andre, the short, chubby Russian painter worked on our stairs and intermittently tried to engage me in conversation. I opted for captive sea life on exhibit.

The aquarium was a bit more busy than I expected…and I don’t mean to sound racist when I say this, but most of the aquarium’s clientele today consisted of Asians and Jewish folks (I deduced this by several of the gentlemen wearing their kippahs…)
I took quite a few amazing photos which I will have to post later as the adapter to my camera is attached to my computer which is located on a desk that is in my room which is at the top of a flight of stairs which is atop yet another flight of stairs which is currently being painted and is thus inaccessible. So, the photos will have to wait. Which in unfortunate, because I do have a picture on there of me getting a special Christmas hug from a sea urchin…but, again, it will have to wait.
But I did take a pic of this guy on my phone:

>I am not an architect. (alas). There is good reason for this. I suck at math. Other than a rather unhealthy fascination with Pi, my ability to apply mathematics in any real practical sense is severely lacking.
And because life is not without a certain sense of irony, I also have an unhealthy fascination with architecture. So much that my entire senior portfolio in college revolved around it.

Now, when I say architecture, I do not mean that freakish nuclear reactor meltdown carcass found within the confines of Seattle Center. The Experience Music Project is a bigger eyesore then the decrepit skeeball booths across from the tilt-a-whirl. I mean, who does that? Honestly? Did the visionaries of said structure down some LSD prior to their meeting with the city council? Frank Gehry is like the 3-D version of Salvador Dali gone awry. This man should have never been set loose. Honestly.

Now, true architecture, in my opinion (so back of you critic hacks…I ain’t in critique in my painting classes in college anymore so you can kiss my ass…) is pretty much anything constructed before the 1900’s. The type of architecture I am infatuated with usually focuses on Gothic, Romanesque, Greek, baroque, neoclassical, et cetera et cetera. I adore symmetry. (which is why I think that the EMP as displayed above looks like a steel refinery puked all over downtown…). Rose windows are enough to make me giddy and swoon. (I am convinced that if I ever do see Notre Dame in person the experience will render me unconscious for several hours).
I am not a religious person by any means, but you have to respect a people whose faith is so powerful and motivating that they envision and bring to life the most breathtaking and awe-inspiring of structures as a testament of their faith. Gothic cathedrals are, to me, the epitome of architectural perfection and beauty. (Well, the arch deserves some mad props also…I feel the arch is one of the most significant innovations of mankind…the Romans kick ass…)
So given my love and appreciation for antiquated man-made structures I have integrated them into my work as an artist for as long as I can remember. I love the meticulousness of it, the precision, the symmetry…I can’t explain why or where this passion came from…it’s just always there.
I explain this because I, Niff, have created, by far, the most fantastic and majestic structures of all time. Yes, the girl who barely passed college algebra has surmounted a feat only attempted by the bravest and succeeded only by the most brilliant. Using the most technical of plans, the most precise of materials, laborious toil, blood, sweat and tears, I have created what I feel will ultimately become a true icon of our century. I give you: Pont du Niff:
Made with only the finest materials spawning from the deepest quarries on the farthest corners of the earth…commissioned by the Great Zoe “The Bug” (who will most likely demolish it when she wakes up in the morning), and brought to life by the hands of yours truly, it is undoubtedly one of the world’s greatest architectural feats. It will be a major icon of humanity’s history. It will be a legend in my own mind.

Yes, yes…you may kneel before me if you wish. Just don’t embarrass me…or I will hurl a voussoir at you.

voulez-voulez-vous flying buttresses.

>

sometimes you just see some things that create in you such a sense of awe that it overwhelms any sense of woe.

Merry Christmas all.

Voulez-voulez-vous Santa’ll have no trouble seeing tonight…

>It’s the “bizarre” I find comforting.
Gives me hope that no matter how odd my current situation may be, there will soon be something even more incomprehensible to replace it. Much like the universe.

I quote the late, great Douglas Adams:

“There is a theory which states that if ever for any reason anyone discovers what exactly the Universe is for and why it is here it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.

There is another that states that this has already happened.”

Douglas Adams is my own personal superhero.

“Ford, you’re turning into a penguin. Stop it.”

Voulez-voulez-vous “I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I needed to be.” -Douglas Adams

>My dear friend N. and I are going to this as-advertised “off the hook” shindig hosted by and attended by all the kinky little burner freaks we all know and love and held at this warehouse-esque structure formally known as the “Transcendent Church of Bass”.

Preparations are in order.

So far I’ve managed to take a bath. Interrupted twice by the ringing of my phone.

Sigh.

Ignored the first ring…I was in the tub.
It rang again, with the same 206 number, so I thought it might be important.
I answered it.
This resulted in a several-minute-long discussion with some whackjob chick on the phone over the fact that I was not Debbie.
No, I am not Debbie.
No, Debbie is not here.
No, I do not know any Debbies.

Actually, ma’am, now that I think about it, I have her tied up in a burlap sack filled with Scarab Beetles.

I’m sure she, even now, remains skeptical.

Gave a Satsuma to The Bug. The Bug is not a citrus fan. Yet The Bug inhaled 3 Satsumas within a space of ten minutes. Baby crack.

Wish I had some sort of “party prep chamber” which would get me lookin’ like I wanna look like for this shindig without all the work.
I don’t remember who sang the ditty “I enjoy being a girl” but she deserves to be backhanded into her vanity table.

Voulez-voulez-vous is this Debbie?

>Need to sweep the dust off this damn thing.

Notice it’s feast or famine with my blog and I.
Perhaps we should go to couple’s counseling.

Blog: “I just feel like you never pay me any attention anymore. I feel so taken for granted. Oh, sure, you post a cute picture once in a while, but fancy photos are not the basis of a healthy relationship!”

Me: “You know how hard I work. You know how much my job and activities take up my time. Why do I do it? I do it for us! I don’t take you for granted, but you sure don’t appreciate all I do for us!”

Blog: “You insensitive bitch!”

Me: “Now why ya gotta go there? I didn’t insult you. This relationship is going nowhere. When I have time for you, I’ll post more. I care about you…we have three years together…I’m not ready for it to be over. Please, please give me another chance!“

(dabs at eyes with tissue)

Blogs are so high maintenance.

Voulez–voulez–vous insensitive bitch.

>I am not fond of the professor liking my book collection. He is of the opinion that they are hors d’ourves. I, however, am not. I caught him this morning chewing the hell out of Guy de Maupassant. Poor poor Guy (pronounced g(as in girl) eeee. Geeeee).

>
The Dr. likes my book collection.