Niff.Dot

>Goddamn Safari. I was a quarter done with a slightly non-pathetic blog and it just decided to take a coffee break and bailed on me. Apparently it thought my blog was indeed pathetic, and was trying to save me the embarrassment. It can, in my opinion, go suck a mothball. I could give a shit what a poopin-out internet browser thinks of me. Or my blog.

What I was talking about at the time was how I was ten kinds of rockin’ out at the fact that today I learned that I will now officially be in attendance at the Seahawks/Redskins playoff game this Saturday. Thanks to my husband’s co-season-ticket-holder being away on assignment in Ireland I got his ticket by default. So since one of my kick-ass coworkers said she’d cover my shift this Saturday for me, I will thus be able to take my place amongst the most brash, drunken, old-school Seahawks fans at Qwest field. My husband has been at every home game all season, and has been witness to more drunken brawls than anywhere else in the stadium. I will, without a doubt, have a kick-ass time. Or maybe get my ass kicked. Heh. We’ll see…depends if someone tries to come between me and the pomegranate I plan on taking. But I don’t foresee beer-guzzling rabid sports fans getting all twitchy over a pomegranate.

Football is “the shit”. Granted, it is not quite “the shit” as basketball is considered “the shit”, but football is a smaller subset of the community pool of “the shit” from which different levels of coolness are measured and bestowed. However, there is an entire conglomerate of “the shit” of which basketball, and the Spurs in particular, are majority shareholders. But for now, football has its fair share of “the shit”, especially if the Seahawks hand the Redskins innards to them in a cappucino cup.

And oh hella-hollah HOOK ‘EM HORNS!!!! My husband and I were screamin’ so loud we pissed the neighbors off. USC can shove that up their Trojan boo-tays – beat ’em in their own backyard, even. How embarrassing. But hey, Vince young is “da man”. UT is “the shit”. But college sports pull from a separate “the shit” pool than pro sports, and as I don’t keep up with college basketball, UT has a monopoly on “the shit”. Damn I miss Texas.

And then my Spurs’ 5-game winning streak was trampled by those bastards Shawn Marion and Steve Nash. Damn the Suns. Steve Nash seems like the most unlikely basketball player. He looks like an auto mechanic. I wish he had been an auto mechanic. Then my Spurs would have won last night. Bollocks.

So, here you have the official Jen-blog sports report. If you want more details, go watch ESPN. I’m-a jus’ talkin’.

See. I go talkin’ ’bout Texas I start talkin’ like Texas.

Y’all come back now, y’hear?

Pomegranates and technology do not mix.

I now have a very pink keyboard.
And fingers.
And random splatters both on and around my desk.
Since pomegranates are seasonal I have to enjoy as many as possible before February.

Don’t judge me. I refuse to compromise on my keyboard nor my choice in produce.

voulez-voulez-vous nyah.

>Winters where I live can be pretty brutal. Living in the Cascade foothills makes us particularly susceptible to kick-ass windstorms. For the last several days, we’ve been at the mercy of 35-mph winds with gusts ranging from 45-60 mph. Saturday night we lost power for 5 hours. Garbage cans and recycle bins have been careening down the parking lot. Roofing tiles are being wrenched from houses. Walking the dogs is like trying to run underwater. Christmas lights are even being torn from eaves and windowpanes. In the past we have had trees crashing through rooftops and blocking roadways.

However.

Despite the disabling winds that send your car swerving on the road.

Despite the objects flying at random.

Despite the trees bending dangerously in half.

Despite the inability to breathe with 60mph gusts flooding your nostrils.

There is…one man. Who despite the odds, perseveres, with super-human determination, to do what needs to be done.

That’s right.

My pal.
My buddy.
The man who seems to be a beggar to his own demise as he is out to destroy me every Monday morning at 7 a.m.

Dear God.

You ever see something so completely stupid that your brain, at the mere glimpse of it, begins to fold in upon itself?

Happened to me.

Sitting in my poofy oversized recliner, cozy by the fireplace, the scent of peppermint candles floating in the air, content at being safe and snug in my apartment whilst the trees are whipping violently in the wind and freezing rain is crashing against my windows.

Then I hear something.
Faint at first, then gaining volume…not quite sure what…

No no no no….can’t possibly be…

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

The sheer incredulity of it sent my mind reeling. A leaf-blower. In a windstorm.

I think someone needs to re-evealuate his terms of employment. Who does that? Seriously? There have got to be some kind of labor laws against blowing leaves in a windstorm. I mean, at least consider the psychological impact. Doing a job that is so completely futile, trying to complete a task that can never be completed (at least for a few days)…I mean, that cannot possibly good for one’s mental well-being, can it? Do they offer psychological counseling for leaf-blowers in such a situation? This is just so impossibly ridiculous I can’t even function.

Leaf-blower in a windstorm. What the hell.

I think I have may created a new metaphor. “Screen door on a submarine” is SO 5 years ago.

Get with it people. Use it. Share it. Spread it like wildfire.

Meanwhile I will be questioning the future of the human race.

Leaf-blower in a windstorm.

Christ.

>In a very “nummy-toasty-post-hot-bath-cup-of-tea-listening-to-the-Dixie-Chicks-and-nibbling-on-a-pomegranate” spot at the moment.

Sooo…..

Colder than a witch’s titty out there. Windy, too. Lost the power a couple times at work today. I don’t know if you know this, but restaurant kitchens get very dark when the lights go out.

I have very frisky co-workers. It was good times.

Some drunk-ass shmoo from a wedding in the ballroom decided to wrastle with our Christmas tree in the dining room lobby.

The tree won, albeit a bit crooked now.

I am still not fond of cashews.

that is all.

>I like pistachios.

They rock.

I do not like cashews.

They indeed do not rock.

Buffalo Springfield is some good tune-age.

>got called off from work today, since it was slow. so, got a 3-day weekend of sorts. sweet.

the dogs are happy. no kennel-ing today. except for when i go to the gym. but they’ll survive.

27 degrees this morning, but only ice, no snow. that sucks bollocks.

well, that about sums it up. think i’ll have a kiwi.

>Mondays are my days off. I relish this fact. Sundays are my busiest and most trying days of the week for me at work, and I enjoy the repose that ensues on the first day of what is my weekend.

However.

the powers that be at my apartment complex decided that it would be a brilliant idea to have this fuckface leaf-blower tidy up the property on Monday mornings.

at 7:30 a.m.

I don’t fault the leaf-blower, even though I just called him a fuckface. He’s just doing his job.

I fault the bastard property manager Mr. “If you don’t keep your dog on a leash at all times I will make you get rid of it” fascist power-tripping piece of shit “you have too many flowerpots on your balcony” man.

Fortunately, the maintenance man, who is cool as shit, has his utility garage right below my balcony, and he likes my dog. When he found out other people were parking in my parking spot, he put a sign with my apartment number and a “others will be towed” sign. He is a man who gets things done, and is happy to do it. And my dog likes him, which is saying a lot, as Duke hates everyone. He is indeed cool as shit.

So I will ask him, not the rosy-faced humpty-dumpty lookalike property manager, what’s up with the gasoline-powered wake-up call. Even if he can’t do anything about it, he has the ear of the shithead who can.

There are quite a few people out there hard at work to get leaf-blowers banned. So I feel somewhat justified in my complaint.

For now I just want one banned. It’s 9:30 and the fucker is still out there. Wish I had a BB gun. I’d shoot out the damn gas tank. Although in doing so I might kill the operator, and then I’d be convicted of homicide, which is a high price to pay for sleep-deprivation-induced discontent.

>discombobulated.

enjoy.

Okay, I just found out from Paul D. that discombobulated is indeed a very uncool word. So I shall have to come up with another, less barbaric, word.

Here goes.

terpsichorean.

Much better.

>Ain’t a damn thing on TV, so I’m re-watching “Bad Santa” that I DVR-ed last night.

Hubby’s having a play-date with one of his buddies trying out the new XBox360. I wasn’t invited. Bastards. I’m stuck with GTA San Andreas over here, NOT in hi-def. They’ll rue the day.

Watched the Cavaliers/Nets game, followed by the Sonics whoopin up on the Jazz (which ain’t hard), and missing the Spurs/Celtics game because I live in friggin’ Seattle and for some reason they don’t think Spurs are all that important.

Poor Celtics. They’ve lost, like, 16 games in a row to the Spurs.

I only got to see the first quarter and a half of the Cavaliers game, since I was on the treadmill at the gym. Lebron was getting steamrolled by Vince for a while. Only scored 3 points in the first quarter, plus missing foul shots. Must be taking free throw lessons from Tim Duncan.

I will be the first to confess that Tim Duncan has probably the worst free-throw arm in the NBA.

Well, I have now proven that I am so bored I will use my blog to give NBA updates. Here ya go, poeples. Enjoy.

I’m out.

>
damn.

that is what I woke up to Friday morning. I was scheduled to be at work at 6, so I did my usual ‘alarm-goes-off-at-4:30-oh-god-damn-make-the-noise-stop-smack-the-snooze-for-10-minutes-roll-out-of-bed-hating-the-world-then-take-the-bloody-dogs-out’ routine. Only this time of the year its more like “put-on-jeans-boots-reasonable-sweater-heavy-ass-coat-knit-hat-gloves-scarf” then take the dogs out. Though I have to attach their leashes before I put my gloves on otherwise my poofy hands can’t get the damn things hooked.

My beagle waits at the door like a damn thoroughbred at the gates anticipating the gunshot. While I’m gathering my bearings (i.e. managing the door as well as my greyhound’s leash in the other hand) he’s doing his “imaginary treadmill” trick. I am used to this routine. I’ve got this shit down, man. I’m a pro.

This routine takes a slightly different turn when there is a foot of snow outside the door. Duke freaks out when there is snow. I mean freaks out. He responds with extreme hyperactivity to any sort of new stimuli in his environment (wind, new neighbors, groceries being brought in, my husband sneezing, barking at his own damn reflection in the fireplace…), so the whole snow thing was making my job very difficult.

My greyhound is another story. She was a racer in her early years, topping speeds of 40 mph. Now she is like a three-toed sloth on prozac. She lingers behind at a less-than-leisurely pace, just kinda lookin’ around, coming to a dead stop once in a while with this blank expression on her face. Meanwhile, her brother, despite the 15-foot limit on his retractable leash, is digging into the snow like it’s a bloody foxhole, with his big fat beagle-rump sticking up in the air. I’m just wishing they would piss and shit already so I can get my rump back in the house.

What normally takes about five minutes ended up taking twenty, so needless to say I was running a tad bit behind on my morning work-prep routine. Got the kids back in the house, put them back into bed with their father. (He gets to wake up an hour later then I, so the kids try to get a few more minutes of sleep. They have rough lives, you know…)

It was at this point that I realized I may have some vehicular issues once it was time to leave for work. I have a Jeep Cherokee, the old-school 1998 model, that is not a 4X4. It’s a wannabe Jeep Cherokee. So it’s not the prime choice when handling over a foot of snow. I also live deep within the bowels of my apartment complex, meaning that I must traverse several different driveway-style mini-roads to get to the parkway. These driveway-style mini-roads are neither shoveled not plowed. Nor will they be for some time, as our maintenance guy keeps as few hours as possible.

So I decided that before I waste any more time getting ready for work, gleeful at the possibility of having a ‘snow day’, I decide to make an attempt at getting my car out of it’s parking spot.

Problem.

The dude parked on the opposite side of my car, directly behind me, had the same idea as I. Only long before I did.

It hadn’t worked out.

Damn. Looked like I was stayin’ home.

I called work and informed them of the situation. Luckily, due to the weather, there were only four reservations that morning, thus staffing needs were minimal. The other server made it in, thanks to her living in the neighboring town, which, because of the elevation change, had virtually no snow. They’re pretty good about getting the roads cleared as soon as possible around here, so she had smooth sailing all the way in. I wasn’t too worried about it getting busy for her, since the likelihood of walk-ins was nonexistent as the latest crop of Washingtonians react to snow as if it were a nuclear apocalypse, thanks to the large amount of Californians moving up here all the damn time. (I will save the story behind Native Washingtonians’ (like myself) inherent hatred of Californians for another blog). I spent the day cozied up at home with intermittent snowball fights with the kids outside. It was good times.

Fortunately, enough of the snow had been cleared before I had to leave for the Sonics game that started at 7pm (I am a Sonics fan as long as they are not playing the Spurs), and my neighbor was able to relocate his vehicle so I could get out. Missing work: hell yeah. Missing the game: hell no.

I have my priorities.

Voulez-voulez-vous priorities.