Niff.Dot

>Me: “I have a tummyache”.
Carrie: “Have a bagel.”
Me: “A bagel for a tummyache, huh?”
Carrie: “Yup”.
Me: So the next time Aidan has a tummyache, I should tell him to …”
Carrie: “Have a bagel.”
Me: “Ah.”

Me: “Are you crying?”
Carrie: “Yes.”

Me: “Ew!”
Carrie: “Wanna see it?
Melissa: “Wow…”
Me: “Want some lemon juice for that?”
Melissa: “Folder files kill.”
Me: “are you gonna die?”
Carrie: “yes.”
Melissa: “We do have an orthopedic surgeon here today…”

Shannon:
Me: “Was that a cough?”
Shannon: “Yes.”
Me: “That was weak. Ya need some phlegm in there.”
Shannon: “I can’t do that.”
Me: (demonstrating)…”c’mon, it’s easy…”
Shannon: “Dude…hold on!” (hock-a-loogie noise)…”ew…”

Random voice from the IT office: “I’m oscillating…”

Me: “Badger, Pi, or Llama?”
Carrie: “Badger.”
Me: “You always pick badger…”
Carrie: “Okay, Llama.”

Connie(via fax): “Well, nuts! I’m dead in the water on that one!”

Carrie: “If Connie calls, tell her I’ll be right back…”
Me: “Connie can’t call…she’s dead in the water…”

Me: “Those are very turquoise pants…”
Carrie: “They’re my toothpaste pants…”
Melissa: “Like Aqua Fresh?”
Me: “What color socks?”
Carrie: “Purple…purple monkey socks.”
Me: “lemmee guess…they were the ones in the top of the drawer…”
Carrie: No, I was actually trying to find normal socks today.”
Me: “So that’s as normal as they get, huh?”
Carrie: “For today.”

Connie: “Can I talk to Carrie?”
Me: “Sure!”
Connie: “Who is this?”
Me: “Jennifer.”
Connie: “Oh, Jennifer! Hellooo! I thought Carrie was extension 200…”
Me: “Nope, she’s 201. Want me to transfer you?”
Connie: “Yea, please!”
Hit transfer, 201, transfer, Carries phone rings…
Carrie: “Did you transfer her?”
Me: “Yes, your phone rang, didn’t it?”
Carrie “Yes, but she wasn’t there…”
Me: “Crap. I lost Connie. Poor Connie…well, she knows your extension now.”
Carrie: “So she’s gone?”
Me: (looking at the blinking red light on the phone console…) “No! Wait! There she is! She’s blinking!! I’ve found Connie!”
Carrie & Me: “Yaaaaaaay!!!!”
Connie: “???”

>Cats have no love for me.

My housemates’ cat, Madison, swipes at my head from the upstairs banister as I begin my descent. I am not certain where this unbridled hostility stems from. My only consolation is that she attacks her own tail with the same fervor and enthusiasm. Madison does not play favorites.

My other housemates’ cat, Mariah, hates the planet. She is 19 years old and if there is such an ailment as feline senility, I guarantee you she is inflicted. At one point I went to intervene between yet another altercation between her and Madison (they have no love for each other, either…) and she turned on me. She twitched and hissed and, I swear, her eyes flamed red as she latched on with her brittle antiquated paws leaving two of them embedded in my flesh. The entire claw. Separated from her person. Cat-ness. Whatever. I had to rip them from the tops of my hands with abject curiosity and disgust.

I informed her father of what had transpired. He responded, “yeah…she’s starting to leave…things…around the house.”

Ew.

The day I trip over a kitty-limb, that’s it, man. I’m gettin’ a dog.

voulez-voulez-vous woof.

>Apparently this past Monday, Januarry 22, has been officially designated by a psychologist as the most depressing day of the year. It has been singled out by Dr Cliff Arnall, psychologist and former tutor at Cardiff University, who has used mathematical equations to reach his verdict. This event consistently occurs on the 3rd Monday in January. Bollocks. Wish I’d have known. I had a rather pleasant Monday and here I was, misled, and missed out on the opportunity to have a really shit day.

So this psychologist fellow, his equation takes into account six factors: weather, debt, time since Christmas, time since failing our New Year’s resolutions, low motivational levels and feeling a need to take action.

Taken together, they calculate to equal “Blue Monday.”

I find it amusing that the Monday following the week the Doomsday Clock shaved a couple minutes off of our mortality has been designated in such a way.

I, however, have suffered no ill-effects from this serotonin-affecting phenomenon. In fact, yesterday was quite pleasant as I got a copy of Office for Mac so I would have a decent word processor. I’m just one of those fortunate souls who are gifted with melancholy on several other days of the year.

I learned just recently, in light of my recent obsession with Pi, that March 14th is National Pi Day.

Preparations must be made.

voulez-voulez-vous 3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097...

>In the process of moving my belongings about I have come to realize that I am something of a pack-rat. This arose thanks to my recent post about nostalgia and I recalled that in my bedroom closet resides a Pound Puppy, a butt-nekkid Cabbage Patch Kid by the name of Marceline Eda, and a set of handmade Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. I have a pair of buckle-shoes that can now house my large toe, and principal awards from the first grade. I have random boxes in closets and cupboards containing report cards, homecoming ribbons, pressed flowers, photographs, birthday cards, school announcements, pictures, and various construction-paper cutouts. All four of my yearbooks and one of my husband’s rest on the bookcase.

I keep these things not to make moving difficult, but to remind myself that I am a being of substance, that I have a past that includes elementary school, art classes, playing the recorder, Commander Mark and the Secret City, my unhealthy obsession with Legos, dolling up my brother in my hyper-frilly pink easter dress (including patent-leather mary janes), my grandma’s dogs, being called ‘punkin’ by my dad, ‘Jenner’ by my brother, ‘Dimples’ and ‘Angel’ by my grandmother.

I have this unfortunate problem which prevents me from remembering events in my life. So many times my family and friends will ask me, “Remember when I introduced you to…?”

I do not.

I never remember. What I do know is that my first address, which I had until I was 10, was 16025 SE 134th St. Renton, Wa. 98056. I know that when I was 8 my phone number was (206) 255-7057. I do not know who has that number now. Perhaps I should call it and see.

I remember the four base pairs of DNA, I know the quadratic formula, Pythagorean theorem, Kingdom-phylum-class-order-family-genus-species, a cornucopia of architectural terms, French. I know the lyrics to hundreds of songs, the first 20 digits of Pi.

But I cannot recall the cafeteria of my old high school, visiting Mount Rushmore, what my first apartment looked like. Unless I have studied it, committed it to memory, or have a photograph of it, in my brain, it doesn’t exist.

A study concluded that most people with temporal lobe epilepsy (like myself) have memory problems. This fact has helped me in a small way, convincing me that I am not insane. When I was a teenager my parents used to get angry at me when I would forget things, saying that I just didn’t think they were important enough to remember.

They are important. I have boxes and boxes to prove it.

So though I may be the subject of mockery for my sentimental attachments to goofy pieces of my long-ago past, these relics help me to understand that I am not just now; this moment. There were events and happenings before now that were also “me”. I have a tendency to look at my past in the third-person, as if I’m remembering someone else. Despite the mementos, I still have this problem. This makes me feel damaged; I am missing out on my own life.

But through my photos and dozens of journals I have kept since I was 11, I can piece together a life past that helps me understand my life now. My journals help me realize that it is not lost; the words in my own writing help me understand that it is indeed me who is telling the story, and it feels safe. Another reason why family is so important. They are my connection to my past; witnesses to a life that I may need a refresher course in once in a while.

So now that I realize that I have strayed from the intended comical topic of my butt-nekkid Cabbage Patch Kid and into a reflective insight into my own mental infirmary, I think I shall get back to cleaning out my closet.
Am I not merciful?

Voulez-voulez-vouz merciful.

>Yesterday, at work, at approximately 9am, I came up with the brilliant plan to not only locate a live feed of the stage version of Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree”, but also to see how many times it could be played in a workday. My co-worker Carrie seemed to think this was a fine idea (at the time)so plans went underway to explore this theory of musical genius. It held promise, I felt, and wondered if such a task had been attempted before. I must look into this. But not now.

18 times.

From the hours of 9am to 4pm, we listened to Alice’s Restaurant 18 times.

There has to be some kind of health hazard involved in this.

Keeping in mind the song is 22 minutes long, you can somewhat grasp the enormity of this experiment. That is 396 minutes. People were fascinated. Coworkers would inevitably wander up to my desk at random parts of the day to see if my resolve was unscathed. It was like watching someone insert needles into their eyes…they couldn’t understand it, but were nonetheless morbidly fascinated.

My resolve has never before been so intact.

Of course this 70’s folk music-themed tirade was fueled by several cans of Red Bull which contributed greatly not only to the successful completion of said undertaking, but also to the growing intolerance that my coworkers were developing — not only of the redundance of Arlo droning on in the background but also of my ever-increasing hyper state. I have a feeling the packing tape was looking disturbingly appealing to them.

But in the end a good time was had by all and though we may not have had a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat and no one got arrested, we did have a rather amusing Thursday that seemed so uncannily like a Friday that we dubbed it as such. Though we immediately realized that work-week karma was sure to take effect which would inevitably result in a pretty shitty Friday, but we seem to have lucked out and have what would appear to be two Fridays in a row.

This is a good thing. You know you’re jealous. Foo’s.

>Such is the theme this Friday.

Preface:
The Doomsday Clock.

The doomsday clock is an imaginary clock created by the board of directors of the magazine Bulletin of the Atomic Scientiststo illustrate the threat of total destruction posed by nuclear weapons. On the clock, midnight is “doomsday,” the time of global destruction. When the clock first appeared on the cover of the magazine in 1947, scientists set it at seven minutes before midnight. In the decades since then the clock has been adjusted to reflect changes in global stability.

Prompted by the fact that said Doomsday Clock has in fact dropped a couple of minutes and thereby snatched yet more time away from our immensely profound yet relatively comical lives, I made it this Friday’s official theme. ‘Doomsday Friday’ seems to have a rather sinister undertone to it, no? Oh, what to do?

Run amok, you bastards! Run amok! Shennanigans and tomfoolery abound!!

My goal before the end of life as we know it in 2012 is to finish my rubberband ball. This is what I need to do to make me feel as if I have contributed to humanity. I’m not sure just yet at what stage I would consider it completed, ie, circumference, etc., but when it happens, I will just know. We shall jetascend a time capsule into the vastness of space which will contain, alongside such hits as the Virgin Mary French Toast and the World’s Largest Kidney Stone, the summation of my life that is The Rubberband Ball. It’ll be beautiful, I tell ya. The likes of which this doomed planet has never seen.

The contemplation of my own life’s work led me to ponder what others would consider meaningful and contributive as their final salute to humanity.

So, I have sent the question out into the void that is my email address book. Observe:

Dear Friends, Family, and Random Naked Mole Rats:

Here’s the thing.

Being that today is Doomsday Clock Friday and all, I am naturally inclined to make my friday blog about the aforementioned topic. In order to enhance my contribution to the blogsphere, I hereby pose this question to you as a sort of survey to see what people would like to accomplish before 5 minutes to midnight on December 22, 2012. Any replies will be graciously accepted and considered, and there is no wrong answer. Unless it involves midgets and donkeys, and in that case you can keep it to yourself, you sick freak.

Thanks
Niff

I am awaiting responses.

Thus Far:

Dawn: I hope to find the right guy to chain to my bedroom wall.

Carrie’s Sister: get a lion from the zoo. Put a remote control bomb up its butt. When the lion starts tearing you up, press the bomb button.
You and the lion die like as one.

Carrie: To be able to pat my head, rub my belly, and chew bubble gum all at the same time.

Peter, aka Rexorg, Destroyer of Worlds: I want to beat WoW, while landing on Mars. The second part isn’t strictly necessary.

Matt: I want to be finished having to use CSS and scripting hacks for IE 6.

Dan: I would like to reach the summit of Mt. Everest on a clear night…remove my pack…and watch the world end.

I will continue updating as the responses come in.
Although thus far I am somewhat disappointed by the lack of responses I have received…sheesh people…y’all are probably the type that don’t like sales calls, either.

>Damn the broccoli,
Damn you,
Damn the Wright brothers,
And double damn Thursdays.

Yep. Still here. I am in the Seventh Circle of Hell.
It is winter. It is beautiful out. And because it is winter, that ceaseless motherfucking thief of sunlight, I will spend every last second of potential exposure to unobscured solar radiation behind a desk.

Somehow the Wright Brothers must be at fault.

Sometime back my coworker and I had decided that since Thursdays were so bloody pointless we would obliterate them altogether and create “First Friday”. It was ruddy brilliant. Jumping from Wednesday to Friday? The sheer brilliance of it was blinding. “Second Fridays”, or what the rest of the sane world considers to be the only Friday, became somewhat of an event. We had themes.
– “Alice’s Restaurant” Friday. We had Arlo Guthrie looping nonstop for 9 hours solid. It was absolutely beautiful.

– “Dunce Cap” Friday : Self-explanitory.

– “In-a-godda-da-vida” Friday: Awesome in theory, but I must confess, this one was a bit trying.

– “Pi” Friday: A tribute to all things 3.141592653589793…

Unfortunately, the concept of “First Friday” was solely based in dellusions of grandeur. Once you lose the ability to delude yourself, you’re fucked, and once again left with Thursdays.

Double damn Thursdays.

I am supposed to be working. You can see how well that is going.

“This must be Thursday,” said Arthur musing to himself, sinking low over his beer, “I never could get the hang of Thursdays.” – The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

>Why are legal pads yellow?

Did someone just wake up one morning and say, “I know…yellow…”

This must be investigated. Let me call upon the “Series of Tubes”…

AH! Here we go.

Dear Yahoo!:

Why are legal pads yellow?

Chris Middletown, New York

Dear Chris:

A company called the American Pad and Paper Company, or Ampad, claims to have invented the legal pad in 1888. A young inventor named Thomas Holley made the tablets from cheap leftovers, or sortings, from paper mills. His low-cost lined pads were quickly adopted by the scribbling professions, and the legal pad was born. AMPAD made business headlines a few years ago when it filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. But fortunately, the Plano, Texas, based company was bought out of extinction, and now sells an array of office products, including EnviroTech Dual Purpose Legal Pads, made from 100% recycled materials.As for their distinctive hue, an article in IS Magazine claims that, “The yellow legal pad — a must among lawyers, executives, students, writers and thinkers of all sorts — was devised specifically because yellow was thought to be a color which stimulated the intellect.” The piece goes on to mention that F. Scott Fitzgerald was a big fan.Though we couldn’t verify the claim (considering AMPAD’s origins as a discount retailer, perhaps yellow dye was simply the cheapest?), in general dark text on a light background is considered optimal for reading. And yellow tends to be easier on the eyes than a harsh white background, a fact that 3M took to heart when they invented the Post-it note.

>There is a drawback, at least in my case, to overcoming a cold.

When I’ve recovered from an illness, so joyous am I at the reclaimation of health that in an expression of great joie de vivre and exhuberance I thusly become thoroughly annoying.

Especially when that joie de vivre is coupled with one or two cans of Red Bull.

Very few things on this planet are as destructive or perilous.

Well, perhaps with the exception of Old Navy ads.

So I have spent a majority of my workday alternating between playing “Lazy Sunday” on Google Video and the “Colonel Sanders/Orange on a Toothpick” scene from So I Married an Axe Murderer. You can only listen to these so many times before your brain folds in upon itsef. How many times has not yet been determined; further study is required.

You know that cat that was just in here? Just ran out the door? Well, he comes up to the counter, you know, and I say, “What’s the word, turd?” and he lays down this burrito, and he kinda looks at me, kinda stares at me, and says, “I have but recently returned from the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I am rapturously breathing in all the odors and essences of life. I’ve been to the brink of total oblivion. I remember and foment the desire to remember everything.”

Daft little pillock.

>So, this is yet another pathetic attempt of mine to resurrect my blog. I think two posts in a row is a good start, is it not? I’m on a roll, people!

One thing that caught my attention this afternoon in the context of blogism was when a friend of mine popped up on Google chat.

On a sidenote, I must say that Google chat is one of technology’s finest creations. Since I do not have admin privileges on my computer at work, I am restricted from installing any major chat programs upon it (MSN, Yahoo, etc.). But thanks be to the powers at Google who felt the pain of cubicle denizens nationwide and gave us a venue for which to communicate our collective boredom and discontent. I give you: web based chat. Brilliant. (Yes, I am aware that Google itself did not invent such a thing. But as it is the first of its kind that I have encountered, I thusly give them credit for it. So sue me.)

So, anyway, she mentioned that since I was ill that Pho (?) was the perfect thing to soothe my cold-laden self. I know not what Pho is, though she explained it, I de-prioritized it and have thusly forgotten what she said. What I do remember, however, is something she said immediately following the “Pho” discussion:

me: I was home yesterday too
I feel so laaaazy
Kristen: man, that is teh suck
watch any good movies?
me: teh??? You know teh????
dude
you rock
Kristen: blame Matt. He’s the cool one. I just copy his awesome geekitude.

Okay, now, I know that the types to hang out in the blogsphere will be nonplussed by this information. However, I am used to using the “teh hawesome” phrase so often (I’m such a pathetic follower, aren’t I?) and having it completely not-register on the faces of my friends. I was thoroughly convinced no one had any clue to what I was referencing.

Until today. In the most unlikely of places.

It was ruddy brilliant.

voulez-voulez-vous teh brilliant.