Do It Yourself

The Niff Manual.

The saying: stupidity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results...

Yeah. Haven't quite caught on to that one yet.

I know I don't like blogging about "daily blah life stuff" buy hey, everyone needs a Live Journal moment now and again. And this is a blog to myself, so bite me.

So I know one of the things that will help me out of my abyss of self-imposed stupidity, and one is (gulp) a damned therapist. The "just let it go already!" thing? You know, the thing your friends yell at you while shaking you by the shoulders when they're tired of you bitching about the same damn thing for the 47th time? Yeah, I lack that skill. I need a Rocky-style coach or something. Or electric shock therapy. Maybe a lobotomy if options A and B prove unsuccessful. Something to turn off the hamster wheel in my head because that little squeaky bastard is giving me a headache.

I need my yoga classes back! I feel like a bad-ass when I'm in yoga. And I take better care of myself. Which improves my self esteem. And my frame of mind. Which will help with my jaded, cynical attitude I've sunk my feet into the last week and started flinging the unpleasant muck at people who don't deserve it. People don't like that. Makes them not want to hang out with you. Go figure.

I need to be more responsible with my finances...money stress sends me into a shame spiral quicker than (almost) anything, and I start conjuring images of my being old and alone and living in a cardboard box eating two-day-old Spam sandwiches out of the trash because I have no retirement saved, etc etc...

I need to quit thinking I want a boyfriend. Right now men are kind of on my shit list anyway. I need to work on all of the above first and then deal with *that* train wreck. At least I don't disappoint myself as often...(I warned you...cynical and jaded...). My working on my health, taking yoga, art, etc, makes me feel so much better about myself than a boy asking for my phone number anyway. Right...?

(Just say, "Right!!")

I finally got a job, so that stress is out of the way...a job I LOVE, so, 'check'!

I need to stop being so concerned about what people are doing/thinking/etc that has nothing to with me. Paranoia should only exist in the Witness Protection Program.

(Niff: People are not always thinking the worst about you. Stop that shit. Only a few are and you can't do SHIT about it so let it go. For fuck's sake. A lot more people are fond of you than you think there are.)

I need to establish and maintain my personal boundaries better. I need to quit being such a damn pushover and speak up for what I want.
(What do you think? Do you think that's a good idea, because if you don't I can leave this part out of here...)

I need to quit comparing myself to everyone and feeling like I come up short in some or every way possible. Because it makes me sad. And it's absolutely a stupid behavior.

So, I think this pretty much sums up everything that makes me insecure, mildly unhappy, or everything I think I need to work on to make me a secure, grounded and pleasant human being. I mean, I'm mostly happy and pleasant, but far from grounded and secure. So this is my memo to myself. And, when I get to the therapist-peoples, I can just sit down, hand them this piece of paper, sit back in the comfy chair, and announce, "Here you are...now...fix me!".

That is how it works, right...?



voulez-voulez-vous I'm not Bob Vila but I do play him on TV...

title? we don't need no stinking title.

I just watched a woman lock her keys in her car from my office window. Now, my innate Clark Kent-instinct is telling me to help this woman, but I don't own a Slim Jim nor a wire coat hanger, and short of slinging my red Swingline stapler through her driver's side window there's really nothing I could do for her. It is, however, interesting to watch the problem-solving process in action when the person engaged is not aware they are under observation. She walked around the car a few times, trying every door handle more than once...perhaps she was hoping some pan-dimensional beings had manifested inside her vehicle and miraculously unlocked her doors in the last several seconds in an act of interplanetary goodwill. Giving up on this possibility, she eventually produced a cell phone to (what I would assume) was to call AAA or some other rescue-me-door-unlocking agency and walked away.

I've had the privilege of seeing a handful of oddities from my office window so far...last Thursday there was a rather confused girl wearing a jogging suit several sizes too small over undergarments that were several sizes too large pacing back and forth for the better part of an hour in the parking lot. She seemed to be talking nonsensically to herself and would intermittently shake her head in what appeared to be either confusion or frustration (it's hard to tell these things from afar) and would pause only to hoist her too-large underpants up when they would slip due to her rapid traversing across the lot. I don't know where she is now. Maybe she figured out the underwear thing and took a bus to Target.

There's a man who drives a gunmetal gray Volvo who, every day, parks his car, exits, locks it, then examines the entire exterior. Makes the full rounds. Hood, doors, tires, top, tail lights. He goes so far as to open the trunk and examine the interior. Which is always empty. Not even a pair of jumper cables. He must have a lot of confidence that he'll never have automotive issues. I declare OCD. He works in my building somewhere...his office must be fantastic.

At the moment I'm looking forward to the snow season, when cars start sliding down Denny Street. Call me sick and twisted if you like, but you know you'd watch with morbid fascination if given the chance.


Voulez-voulez-vous ooo ooo ooo lookin' out my back door...

Dove Pi

So, I now have a dove in my room.

I don't really have a name for the dove. I've just been calling it the "it-bird-thing". I figured since Chilla doesn't seem to mind being called "Chilla" so much, why the hell would a bird care what he's called. I was calling him (it) "crazy eye" for a while, but that was far too many syllables and much more effort than I was willing to contribute to this particular avian enterprise. I don't know what gender "it" is. I suppose I'll just have to wait and see if it starts shooting some eggs out and make my determinations from there. I think I should put a box in there or something so the potential eggs aren't lolling about on the wire mesh of the bottom of the cage. And then it steps on them. And then there's crusty egg goo everywhere. Ew.

I decided to decorate the front of the it-bird-thing's cage with some of the Pi magnets I made since I had discovered that there were virtually no ferrous materials used in the construction of my room. Not on the window frames, in the bathroom...nothing. So I thought it'd be very feng shui to slap some on the front of Casa de Crazy Eye. Problem is the little bastard has started pecking at the Pi. You DO NOT peck at the Pi. Absolutely not. The Pi is not for pecking. Bad math karma.
I should get a spray bottle and douse the it-bird-thing when it Pi-pecks. Although I think that could be counter-productive to my taming goals which is one of the reasons I was given the it-bird-thing in the first place.

The bird was formerly in the possession of a close friend of mine who also happens to be a magician. This magician had a dove population problem (amorous doves...no birth control) and would like the most recent additions tamed for use in the show. So I claimed one, agreeing to tame it.

So I handle the dove, it shits on me.
Let it hang out on my desk with me, it shits on my desk.
Talk to it, it shits on me again.

I'm noticing some real relationship issues here.

Perhaps I could start by not calling it the "it-bird-thing". It's probably not helping it's self-esteem. The visions of releasing it into the ceiling fan when it rapid-fire shits on me might be causing it undue stress as well. Although it's wings are clipped so it'd have to be be more of a "dropping" it into the ceiling fan.

Eh. Minutiae.


Voulez-volez-vouz it-bird-thing-pot-pi

atchooooo!

Anyone got a Swiffer?

Ok, so I confess I've been a bit...neglectful of my blog. It's a bit dusty.

But hey, I've been busy. I got laid off, I had a family tragedy to contend with, I spend hours a day opening emails that read, "We regret to inform you that we have filled this position. We appreciate your interest in this opportunity with us and we will retain your information for consideration in future openings.", all the while sending out resumes that will result in more of aforementioned emails. I'm a busy girl.

I would however like to take a moment of silence for my (hand-me-down) XBox360. It died today. No more streaming Netflix for me. Which will make unemployment all the more unpleasant. Erngh.

I have been keeping busy. I decided to start a series of paintings in the hope of getting a "show" or something, ya know, make some money. They're coming along well, I've busted out five so far. Fortunately Seattle isn't a very artsy town so I see no competition whatsoever. I shall rule supreme. Oh yes. Something like that.

I have noticed, as I run errands and such during the day, the large number of people also running errands during the day. And I'm not talking during lunch hour. I'm talking 10am, 2pm...who are these people? Fellow unemployed? Is it that bad? Or what is it they do that they can just cruise around the Hill in the sunshine at a whim? I want to know...please? I want ice cream during work at 3:00 on a Tuesday! Molly Moo at Two on Tuesday.

I have invented a new word during my idle time. "Erngh". The only problem is, it's only meant for digital correspondence, it's not meant to be verbal. I mean honestly, just try and say it aloud. It doesn't work. You sound like a defective airhorn. I consider it to be the new "meh" just because I consider "meh" and perhaps "teh" to be old and played out now. Done. Although I have heard "sike" making a comeback and that shit needs to be nipped in the bud NOW. As in, when someone says it, men in black masks suddenly appear and cover the offender's head in a burlap sack and bind their hands in twist-ties, throw them in the back of a van and drive screeching around the corner into an unmarked warehouse and engage in unspeakable acts of grammatical torture. Same with "rad". Or any played-out 80's phrase. The 80's are a cultural FAIL.

I shall miss my streaming Netflix. Bummer.




Voulez-voulez-vous Microsoft FAIL. I am Jack's total lack of surprise.

Chilla.

This is the Chilla. Yes, I realize he looks a little...annoyed. Trying to get a chinchilla to hold still for a photograph isn't exactly a simple feat, folks. Imagine a toddler after a few Pixy Stix and a Red Bull then you have a slight idea of what I was trying to work with.

The Chilla does not like being restrained.

Unfortunately the only image capturing device I had at my disposal was my cell phone which doesn't have the best resolution around, and that in tandem with wriggly subject matter = craptastic photo.

Damn he looks bitter. He's normally very chipper, I assure you. Photo shoots just aren't his...thing.

I learned a few things when I acquired the Chilla. He was my first Chilla. Now, I don't know if this is universal with Chillas, but this one likes drywall. I mean, really likes drywall. And baseboards. Books. Toilet paper. Shampoo bottles with shampoo still in them. Electrical cords that are still plugged in.

Now this one requires some...explanation.

I have (had, rather) one of those Oral-B Sonicare what-have-you electric toothbrushes that have the rechargeable batteries in them and the accompanying docks. However, one morning to my dismay I discovered the battery had died. Which was odd, because it remained on it's charger daily. During the investigation process, I picked up the cord, and in so doing damn near electrocuted myself. Now, at 5'10 and 140lbs picking up this cord with my fingers shot voltage through my arm and really fucking hurt. Now imagine, if you will, being a 0.5-lb ball of fluff roughly the size of a grapefruit with this exposed wire in between your teeth?? Jesus. I'm convinced he is not organic. Maybe I should name him Stitch, or, something. For Chrissake's.

However...

On the other hand the way he hops around like a kangaroo carrying things in his wee gummy hands and ricochet-ing off of walls is endearing...he has this giant furry rump that you just wanna grab cuz it's so cute. He doesn't like the whole rump-grabbing thing, however, and he chirps his discontent and does a 5-inch vertical leap, which, in my opinion, is worth pissing him off.

Another thing I find peculiar about the Chilla is his output seems to far exceed his input. I know I don't feed him enough to generate the mess I see in his cage on a daily basis...I mean, honestly...there has to be some kind of flaw in the metabolic processes of chinchillas that pulls matter into their intestinal tracts from other dimensions during digestion or something. Can Chilla crap bilocate? I mean, I let him bounce around the glass door-encased shower stall (no drywall to binge on) and within 2 minutes, it's a literal shitstorm in there. I mean, seriously...I'm convinced if I put him on a fast for a week he would excrete just as much. That can't possibly be healthy.

But he's still cute and sweet and soft as hell and I love his little gummy feet and giant ears and the dopey look he gets on his face when I scratch between them. And I think he's hella-cooler then my housemate's cranky-ass cats. I think I'll keep him.

It's just the excess feces production and the whole living on drywall and electrical current that freaks me out.






Voulez-voulez-vous ch-ch-ch-Chilla...

no bird massacree's.

This is the rook.

He's currently on my desk at work because I've been carrying him around in my backpack since I found him lying in the middle of my bedroom floor.

What's odd about this is that my chess table was sequestered in the corner of my bedroom, obscured by my coffee table which was supporting a rather large TV at the time and the possibility of a chess piece not only escaping the confines of the table but also traversing halfway across my bedroom was pretty far fetched. I mean, granted the rook hangs out at the edge of the board so he does have the greatest chances for escape, but managing the rocky terrain of the coffee table and the stacks of books and DVD's I had surrounding the area? At his size? Unlikely.

I picked him up, set him on my desk, and considered him for a moment.

One of my housemates came up just then and with a puzzled look on their face asked what I was doing. Apparently having someone living in your house who sits in the solitude of their room in the dark and the silence staring at chess pieces is cause for concern.

I explained the situation.

Their puzzled expression remained unchanged. No one understands me.

I decided the rook was just looking for someone to hang out with, so I set him on my keyboard, went about my business.

I put him in my backpack, took him to work the next morning. I thought the whole affair was rather amusing.
Made a Facebook post about it to see if anyone thought it was as amusing as I. Theories were posed as to the cause of the ostracization of the wayward chess piece but nothing conclusive was reached.

Now, the reason I had to specify "a la chess" is because a friend of mine said:

"May I have its head and wings? Yes, I'm serious. This is assuming the little guy is already dead..."

This caused a great deal more confusion in me which the original situation that began this entire narrative failed to achieve. When I read this, I picked up the small, wooden castle-shaped item and after close scrutiny failed to see what this woman was talking about. I had no choice but to Google "rook" and see if there was some other definition of the term to which I was previously unaware of.

There was.

"The Rook (Corvus frugilegus) is a member of the Corvidae family in the passerine order of birds. Named by Linnaeus in 1758,[1] the species name frugilegus is Latin for "food-gathering"."

I was simultaneously relieved and grossed out. I tried to imagine what her mind conjured up when she read my Facebook post: my bedroom floor, a medium-sized black bird, writhing and twitching in the throes of death in the middle of the carpet, perhaps flown in through some random window. me, butcher knife in hand, sawing off the poor thing's head, eyes bulging wildly, wrenching the wings from it's poor lifeless body, tossing its useless torso aside, head and wings held up in victory as I scream, "yes! Yes you may have it's head and wings! I have gathered them for you to...to...to do whatever it is you do with dead bird's heads and wings!".

Ew...

So. Hence the "A la chess. 'Cuz, dude. I don't do bird massacree's.

While I was at work I was determined to try and get my rubberband ball to balance on his head. I was repeatedly unsuccessful. Abject fail. Rook fail. Rubberband ball fail. I found flipping him upside down seem to resolve the problem. Thought he looked a bit Atlas-ish. Peers had great fun strolling by and knocking his multicolored orb from his slightly unbalanced pedestal. Which bounces. Well. And for some distance.

So this stupid little thing has been hanging out in my backpack ever since. Keep mistaking it for my lipstick. I recently rearranged my room and relocated the chess table. I asked some of the pawns if they knew anything about the rook's exodus but they were less than forthcoming. They know something. Wee daft little bastards. I think more aggressive interrogation techniques may be required.



voulez-voulez-vouz checkmate.

the house's white board

when you have five housemates, it's never just "pants".

voulez-voulez-vous "meme"