Niff.Dot

Damn it all I can’t sleep. Again. Trying to withstand the urge to down my usual tylenol PM/Benadryl cocktail. Not exactly a good habit to have. There are several constructive things I could be doing in my newfound time, but I don’t trust myself to do them with any sense of efficiency nor accuracy. Maybe I should have a beer. Got 4 bottles of Fat Tire in there. Hmm. Definitely worth thinking about. Though drinking beer, by yourself, at 1:30 in the morning, is rather pathetic. I feel I should shy away from the pathetic.

Voulez-voulez-vous pathetic.

I should spend my time searching for every question I’ve had in my lifetime. Or at lest every question I can come up with in the next 15 minutes.

1. Why do dogs walk in circles before laying down?
2. Why are toilet handles on the left side?
3. Why is the letter “E” on the top of the eye chart?
4. Why are racquetballs blue?
5. Where do all my missing socks go?
6. Why do all dentists’ offices smell the same?
7. Why does my greyhound like to eat dog shit?
8. Why do women get engagement rings? And why do THEY get to pick them out? Kinda takes the romance out of it if you ask me.

But, there are some things I can say definitively (in my opinion) are for certain:

You can NOT (Legally) earn $50,000 a month while working from home.
Happiness is not found in a box from Tiffany’s
popsicles are quite possibly the perfect food.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail is the best movie ever in the whole wide world.
aunt Flo sucks ass.
Almost anything can be eaten with chopsticks.
You can never have too many books.
(Except when you move; when you’re moving, books can be a royal pain in the ass)
And last but not least, I believe I am finally getting sleepy. Think I’ll crawl into bed, read a little bit more of The Lost World that I’ve resurrected from the downstairs closet, and see if that won’t knock me on my ass. Sitting at the computer sure ain’t gonna do it. I’m gonna go crawl in with my hubby and my puppies.

Voulez-voulez-vous puppies.

>Damn. After spending my first day of house arrest cleaning each individual key on my keyboard (I have one of those clear-and-white mac keyboards) it has now since been littered with flecks of charcoal and specks of paint. Flecks and specks. Flecks and specks and pre-flight checks and wringing necks and virus-detects and pyro-techs and pile-up wrecks.

Uh…yeah.

Dum diddy dum dum dum diddy dum.

Hello Mr. Zebra. Can I have your sweater?

Getting a tied-up hair headache. Untie hair…still wet from shower this MORNING! Oooh…still smalls like lavender and rosemary. I guess that’s okay.

I need to start keeping more regular sleep hours or i’m going to run into some serious jet-laggish problems when I go back to work next week. That’ll be a pisser. Ah!! Bryan finally went to his room. Sometimes I hate that damn TV. It’s this 60-inch monstrosity that encompasses virtually an entire wall in what would otherwise be an idyllic room. He has to have the TV on for the sake of having it on. Loud. I swear the man’s going deaf. Oh, damn…he told me today he’s reading these. I’d better shut the hell up now…love you, schweets!

Ohkay. Popcicles are indeed the coolest thing ever.

voulez-voulez-vous popcicles.

Peut-etre j’ecrit en francais aujourd’hui. Mon grammaire est mal, depuis je n’ai pas ecrire en francais deupuis j’ai aller a l’universite. Ah, c’es bon. Quand…

Shit on that.

This technology-based journaling thing is a hard transition to make. I have been keeping a journal sporadically since I was 12. I still have all my journals. It’s interesting to look back at all my mistakes and how I learned from them. Or didn’t learn from them and kept making the same mistakes over again.

At least I’m consistent.

Over the past year I taught myself the Futhark alphabet (commonly known as the runic alphabet) just for the hell of it and began writing in my journals with it. Only problem is I can write in it fluidly, reading what I wrote becomes a problem. Funny how the mind works that way; of course I could just be a dumbass in denial. If only I had the learning capacity of a 5 year old again. Damn sponges, they are.

I still write in my journals. I love the art of the written word. I love studying ancient alphabets, long since weeded out. Tibetan is the most fascinating. See for yourself:

http://www.omniglot.com/writing/tibetan.htm

I love that site. The only alphabets I haven’t studied are the middle eastern ones; they are absolutely confusing. It seems like every letter is a lowercase cursive w. I don’t know how they distinguish from one word to another. Observe:

The Asian ones (with the exception of Tibetan) are proving difficult as well, because their alphabet is symbolic, much like the Aztecs, Mayans, Egyptians, etc.

My favorite as of late is writing backwards. In cursive. I can now write backwards with the same speed and accuracy that I have writing left-to-right. Check this shit out:

 

Futhark:

So there’s my show-off for the day. Don’t do it very often, so my time has come ’round. Now my next task is to teach myself how to write Futhark backwards.

Voulez-voulez-vous Futhark.

My foot and I are having a falling out. I’m thinking about couples therapy.

The good news is I resolved the compositional issues I was having with my recent painting which, if you’re un artist, you can understand what a great deal of relief that can be. Not dissimilar to actually sneezing after 2 or 3 “teaser sneezes”.

So now I shall retreat to the bliss of my excessively giant bed with my excessively numerous pillows. Although, considering that the bed shall contain two rather tall adults, a 20-lb beagle and a 70-lb greyhound, an excessively giant bed can be a necessity.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous giant bed.

Happy on the cookie train to all the little pixie fuckers WAHOOOOO I like to dye my purple FUZZIES on the apex of an elliptical BARGE!!!!

Check YO self on the alphabetized version of TOLSTOY whilst you pirouette on your peanut butter pastry site!

Rearrange the april batter sprinkler on the garbage totter you himpy jousting canine flapjack!!!

Well you can take your monkey to the rifling hoops contest on the grippling havana beachboys dock to sweep the loathsome vile stoop mongrels who cower in the gyrating pencil cavern!

You can take your million dollar idea and fold it up into several millionths of an inch sideways looking very much like an orangutan who warps himself into cupcake tins to speak with the unintelligible ant farm detainees who wish to be tree flips and carreen deep into the darke recesses of my granola water slide munchies.

I shall materialize into such so that when you next see me I will be unrecognizeable as something completely unlike myself and more like a…Grapefruit.

Yes, but does that cake spring from batter mixed with the tibetan monks’ work weary hands of which a noodly curmudgeonly flouster would most certainly say, “Oh How hast thou yodeled my lovelorn Lulu’s red curly cricket fodder?” then thumping a disquieted tortoise on high whose rippling monkeyloose quail was flung into the deepest reaches of space.

Yet you are a himpy jousting canine flapjack, who most certainly needs some kind of modifications you your wizardly posterior tuddle by those which have no ocular cavities and hence have a rather well developed sense of what looks good with a burberry handbag at the seahorse water polo match at the Florida ring toss booth.

Rings on the fingers rings on the toes or rings on the bell towers or rings made of rose…a puddle of moose witling daisies at best, pompous old earwigs and aboriginies’ breast; yet these are the things to which I’m unclear; perhaps I’ll like parsnips better next year. Alas tis the time for grasping a flute, or sending the faries into your kipchoot…yet I digress, tis none of these so…little hipgongthorns are sweet, dont you know?

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous hipgongthorns

Continuing on my narrative involving chatroom torture, allow me to recount an incident in which I entered the room with the intent of speaking in very broken English to even further the supposition that I was not of sound mind. It begins with a goat.

A goat, you say?

A goat.

It goes a little something like this:

“I have goat. Is good goat. Can have goat. Eat goat.”

Usually this is looked upon with some skepticism. People are unsure as to what I mean. When carnivores speak of dining, as say, on steak perhaps, they state that they are going to have steak, not cow. In retrospect, I do not know if in our culture if goat is even consumed as a meat product. But I digress.

“No, you eat goat. Cook goat then eat goat. Is good”.

This is the point when people really start to get upset. I have discovered that most individuals have a problem with repetition. Either engaging in or being subjected to. My husband hates having to repeat himself. The people in the chat rooms hate hearing me repeat the same phrase repeatedly. We can then safely say that I do not have a problem with repetition. Perhaps their problem was not with the repetition, but with the content. Goats. Why should people have any problem with goats? They are a rather reclusive species. They don’t go tromping through your living room, they aren’t exactly what I would call mainstream in the food preparation industry, and whereas there is such a thing as goat’s milk it is not very common. So the whole goat-phobia I do not yet understand. Perhaps I should conduct a survey on goats and see what turns up from it. I could discover that the whole of the United States is completely terrified of hooved animals.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous goat.

Well, I got my wish. Absolutely dreadful weather today. Now that I’ve got it, not so sure I want it.

Typical.

Spurred by my confinement I have been immersed in those sites that have crossword puzzles, word finds, amongst other miscellaneous web-based games. Help to pass the time. However, for some reason they felt it necessary to integrate chatrooms into the gaming screen. Some people that are home during the day have a very limited vocabulary, and are extraordinarily gullible. For my own amusement, I forayed into one of these chatrooms for the sole purpose of disturbing it’s occupants. The reason it was upsetting to my roommates is because I held a conversation with myself. Observe:

“you want some lunch?”

“Sure…you buying?”

“Nope. I’m gonna cook for you.”

“Bonus. So what’s for lunch?”

“Mouse.”

“Uh…right…umm…so what’s really for lunch?”

“What do you mean, really? I just said, we’re having mouse.”

“I’m not fond of mouse…”

“Come on…You’ll love it. Trust me.”

“Whoah whoah whoah…this, uh, mouse, is not dead…”

“Don’t worry about it. You just have to gnaw through the fur for a while first. It’ll die of blood loss eventually.”

At this point in the conversation some random, rather disturbing, seemingly teenage male interjects, “I want to sex the mouse on the floor!”

Ahem.

So I reply:

“No. No sexing the mouse.”
“There will be no mouse sexing here.”

Exactly how the word “sex” came to be a verb escapes me. I think perhaps the young man was confused. Nonetheless he persisted on continuing the conversation. He was contributing nothing; as a matter of fact I was quite displeased with the interruption of my monologue. It’s a shame. You just can’t meet quality people in chatrooms anymore.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous chatrooms.

We seem to be having meteorological difficulties.

Me and summer seem to be at odds lately. Perhaps I wouldn’t have such an attitude if the weather wasn’t so damn…summery. This is Seattle. This is not what I read in the brochure. I want my money back.

I can only take so much of the sun, pink sequined tank tops, flip-flops and French-manicured toenails. I am a native Washingtonian. I am most psychologically suited to a more somber climate. This Malibu-Barbie-Convertible-Corvette environment gives pause to the idea that alcoholism may not be such bad idea.

Of course, I jest.

About the alcoholism, naturally.

Of course my reluctant imprisionment forced upon me by both my physician and my spouse does little to cast a more pleasant light on my attitude about this particular season. Thanks to a hairline fracure in my 5th metatarsal I am confined within my apartment for an as of yet undisclosed period of time.

Damn biology.

Never thought I’d actually miss work. I’m bored to tears over here.
Okay, I am not going to further document my attitude problem today. I’m going to go watch some Whose Line is it Anyway? at 10:00 pm, if I make it. I’m fi’n ta crash here.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous Whose Line?

That’s it. I’m done. Bloody FTP, SMTP, .com, .html, ,jpg, link, edit, copy, paste, back, forward, server, host, remote, directory, pop3, CSS, coding, format, tables, bloody index.html NO MORE! I don’t know how people do this for a living. Damn if I don’t wish I got paid for the last 3 days of agonizing torture that was creating this infernal site. This is why artists hire other people to make their sites. I am not a technological marvel. I am, however, out of fuzzy water.

Of course now I’m going to embark on the endless nitpicking that will ensue in order to find some imperfection that I overlooked initially. Istanbul is Constantinople, after all.

Bugger.

So, now the question arises: how soon will I completely neglect this blog thing so that future visitors can look upon it and say, “Oh, look at that. Another casualty of the Website Neglection Phenomenon. ‘Tis a pity. The woman was BRILLIANT!”
Okay, so maybe the brilliant thing was going a bit overboard, but the rest warrants merit, as I have uttered the same exclamation visiting the websites of families and friends that have accumulated dust and moss over the years. Judge lest ye be judged.

Quagmire is just disturbing.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous Quagmire.

“Wiggy” is my new word. Spread it around. Use it in every sentence. “Man, that’s wiggy”. A buddy of mine, Ed, likes to combine it with his magnificent French skills. “Voulez voulez voulez-vous wiggy”. Ed asked me to stick my fingers in a Moulinex food processor. I’ve never heard of Moulinex.

Voulez voulez voulez-vous Moulinex.

Apparently, it is a French appliance company. They use them to make crepes and escargot. Crepes. Damn. This limited format prevents me from inserting the proper “circonflex” accent over the ‘e’. The circonflex is the little upside-down ‘v’ doohickee that is commonly referred to as a “carrot top”. Yet I digress.

Sticking escargot in a food processor does not sound all that appealing. Escargot smoothie is not necessarily something that I would consider. Food processors were not intended for everything.

Voulez-voulez-voulez-vous escargot.