Niff.Dot

Redirect!

2011-06-10T08:09:00.000-07:00

The blog you are looking for no longer exists or has moved. You will not be automatically redirected because I frankly don't know how to manage that kind of technology, since Blogger owns this site and not I. However, if you click here:

nifflankenau.net

You'll be taken to my new digs.

See ya there.

Voulez-voulez-vous movin' on up.

Remember: Tuesday is Soylent Green Day.

2011-05-11T07:16:00.001-07:00

Actually I lied. This past Tuesday was (allegedly) International Monty Python Day. Facebook status updates were abound with spam (the mishmashed pork product), Ni, father-hamsters, and Spanish Inquisitions. My page certainly wasn't immune. The "Castle Anthrax Spanking" quote was by far my favorite. In fact, as of 6:30 am this morning the comments are still going strong. Perhaps I'll post a screenshot later. On the bus at the moment.

Speaking of which, forgot my headphones on my desk at work yesterday. Which sucks because now I'm forced to listen to the sound of the wind and the chick behind me yelling at her boyfriend for thirty-five solid minutes. Time and place. Srsly.

For the longest time I would hear a dog crying in my building, or at least somewhere very near to it. The sort of tortured wails belonging to a creature bemoaning his abandonment while his parents left for work/friends/merriment/etc.
It was somewhat heartbreaking the pain expressed in the cries and yelps from this poor canine soul.

However...

As I leave my apartment this morning I hear these selfsame tortured sounds intensify in volume and think, "oh, good heavens, he's gotten outside...",

I walk down Cherry and I notice a rather animated fellow, in shabby attire, hair wild and unkempt, face tilted toward the heavens, howling and yelping to any and all within earshot. The realization of the whole mad scene and my misplaced worry and concern sets in.

Sigh. Seattle.

Voulez-voulez-vous it's people!!!

Location:Cherry St,Seattle,United States

My Head A-Splode

2011-05-09T07:11:00.001-07:00

I love how this iPhone blogging app has a built-in stalking feature that inserts my location after I've typed in the title, so people know where I am when I'm writing. Unbeknownst to the app, I'm usually composing these en route to work, so their intentions are alas thwarted. Muahaha. I pass through two entire counties while composing these, you nosy bastards.

Pleased though I may be at the sudden increase in temperature, particularly because I spend a good chunk of time outside as I make use of mass transit for my commute, I do not appreciate the havoc it is wreaking on my autoimmune system. (aaaand thank you autocomplete for keeping me from having to spell out autoimmune. See what I mean? Sheesh.). I haven't dealt with allergies in years, however for some reason beyond my comprehension, this season, whenever I step into the great outdoors, my face simultaneously closes up and begins to leak in strange places, and itch in highly inconvenient and inaccessible ones. And so unaccustomed to this phenomenon am I that I neglect to take antihistamines before leaving the house in the mornings. Fail.

I don't really feel like writing anymore. Just felt like whining.

Voulez-voulez-vous was it as good for you as it was for me?

Location:5th Ave,Seattle,United States

I meant to say that.

2011-05-06T12:12:00.001-07:00

I'm sure most everyone by now is familiar with the infamous iPhone Autocorrect Phenomenon. I'm relatively new to the iPhone, after waiting patiently for two years to escape Verizon Blackberry Storm2 Hell. I had disabled the spellcheck feature on my Blackberry because, as most people of my generation, I went to school before the digital age. So we were forced to learn proper grammar, punctuation and spelling.
Needless to say I found it frustrating that a small piece of metal and circuitry had the audacity to presume that it knew what I was going to say before I said it.
We considered couples counseling for a while.

However, when I finally acquired my iPhone, so fascinated was I by the autocorrect phenomenon I was determined to see what alternatives this sleek and sexy device came up with to words that fell victim to my fat and clumsy thumbs.

I must say, 60% of the time, it is more than mostly awesome.
I've included screenshots to better illustrate. I've been collecting them over time. (You can tell who I text the most). There are some particularly hilarious ones, but they tend to be somewhat racy, one even involving a gerbil, so alas they will have to remain in my photo album.

I have family that read this thing.

I have noticed the autocorrect feature does enjoy defaulting to "Hebrews" and "Jews" quite a bit. I'm not altogether certain what that's all about. I've never once seen "Jesus" or "Allah" or "The Flying Spaghetti Monster" being offered as an alternative. I'm hoping I'm not an anti-Semite at heart, or something, since I've never deliberately meant to type about God's chosen people.

And although profanity is not contained in it's vast lexicon ("shit" becomes "shot", "fuck" becomes "fick", even "hell" becomes "he'll"), I have noticed "Oobleck" and "Vulcan" pass it's filters. Which is quite sexy-cool, albeit illogical.
(*snicker*)

I have noticed the damnyouautocorrect.com site, however funny, has become somewhat of a staged endeavor. When male and female body parts are used in excess as well as profanity, I wave the bullshit flag on that one. You see more dad's bringing hookers home, moms and dildos, eating penises for lunch, grandmothers asking for condoms...I mean, honestly now. Don't be so obvious and it might actually pass for funny. I mean, Hehee to Hebrew? That's comedy, man! So yeah, maybe I'm biased, And yeah, maybe I *am* my own best form of entertainment. Which is why my blog has no subscribers. But I've been carrying on at this blog nonsense for six years, so I am obviously undaunted. But at least my texting flubs are authentic. I'm fucking hilarious, man.

I *have* been able to whip my phone into submission enough to where it no longer defaults to "Buff" instead of "Niff". "Niff" is definitely not "Buff". It's a nice thought, though. There's never been a problem with Doppler, for obvious reasons. Although it does like to convert pi to Pi, so perhaps I've been de-propering pi all this time and not giving it the mad pi-props it's deserved. Don't I just pi-suck.

The problem with all of this auto-correcting is, no one needs to spell anything anymore. Even the words that are intended, by the time I'm three or four letters in, iPhone says, "here, let me get that for you...", as if I can't be bothered with typing out the whole thing. We're all becoming verbally handicapped. People honestly don't see the issue with using "your" instead of "you're". They sound the same...why do we need to spell them differently? (PLEASE see The Oatmeal's Retarded Emails for documented evidence of this phenomenon; it's hilarious and worth the time.)

Most of my spelling errors are due to typos because I can't type for shit. I never took an official typing class. I've developed an accelerated and masterful "hunt and peck" method over the years. I should patent it. However, this does mean I still have to look at the keyboard when I type. Once in a while I get spunky and try to type while looking at the screen. Then all goes to hell. Like rtight now. This is goirnf to be gantastic. whaddia think? I mean, it's not roo bad. It;s vbetter than it used to be, bt I wouldn;t sent a peofessonal correspondenxw this way. I look like a reyarded fourth gheader. I look like a defectine autocorrect progra, hasd taken over my clog/ jow unfortunale for mu feet apparently.

Fuck that. I've got the best penmanship of anyone I know and do amazing calligraphy, and have perfect spelling when I write. So nyah.

Voulez-voulez-vous my gerbil gets in the wau.
(from one of the censored autocorrects.)

Boon has tolerated this for Five Years

2011-05-05T12:16:00.000-07:00

Me: Boss is taking us to see Thor on Tuesday! Sweeeeeet.

Booooon!: nice!! another work movie thing

Me: I know. My boss rocks the party.
Tim knows his shit around here, man

Booooon!: huh?

Me: At work. He's a smart cookie

Booooon!: Oh, Oh yeah he is

Me: He knows everything

Booooon!: WOW!!

Me: Yah! He knows how to de-ice fuel lines!
And sail pirate ships!

Booooon!: very useful stuff!

Me:I think he even knows how to do a full open-heart bypass!

Booooon!: well, who doesn't?

Me: I don't =(
I called in sick that day.

Booooon!: of course you know how

Me: No, no I don't.
Really.
I can make my dove look dead though.
And chew bubble gum.
Can you chew bubble gum?

Booooon!: I think I might be able to do that.
i've seen you do that thing with your dove

Me: I wonder if the dove can play dead and chew bubblegum at the same time.

Booooon!: Oooooo, NOW that would be a trick.

Me: Badger badger badger badger MUSHROOM MUSHROOM.
Have you ever put non-food in the microwave?
We should do that.
Does George have a nice microwave?

Booooon!: yeah, he has a microwave

Me: we should put not-food in it
My microwave sucks

Booooon!: why non food?

Me: Because food doesn't really do anything interesting, just predictable food-things.
Like soup does soup-asplosions.

Booooon!: true true

Me: But non-food stuff...man, you just dont.know

Booooon!: this is true

Me: Like Peeps. Peeps aren't food, and look what happens there. That's not natural.
I think I've missed 11:11 like, a gazillion times.
I've lost my cosmic connection with the universe.

Booooon!: OMG!!!! how?

Me: I don't know!!
Maybe if I learned how to do open heart surgery it would help.

Booooon!: it might

Me: Or got cooler socks. I have really boring socks.

Booooon!: i'm not sure that will help

Me: How about open heart surgery while wearing cooler socks and a colander on my head?
The socks being on my feet, not on my head.

Booooon!: that will do it.

Voulez-voulez-vous da Boon.

Facebook

2011-05-05T07:16:00.001-07:00

Having my blog so easily accessible is going to be potentially annoying. I can tell already.
I arrive at the bus stop at 6:45 am and my office 7:45 am, so as you can see I have some idle time. However, as my poor blog has suffered some neglect as of late (as evidenced by the numbers over there --> ) it could stand some rapid-fire attention.

Once upon a time, I used to blog daily, or near it. Granted I was married and living in Snoqualmie, so I didn't exactly have what you'd call a raging social life, but needless to say I had quite a bit more time for such things. The subject matter wasn't altogether as fascinating as it is now, where I have downtown Seattle and Cap Hill as fodder. Snoqualmie + married life + no friends to speak of = the following topics:

- I really hate leaf blowers
- it's really busy at work on thanksgiving
- I painted the livingroom walls
- my dogs and my husband are all sleeping at 3 in the afternoon
- hey! It's raining...

Now I get to write about Peep massacres and stalking panhandlers, so it all worked out.

This was also before the advent of Facebook.

Where once I would notice something quirky, noteworthy, amusing, or what I considered to be a blog-qualifier, became pathetically truncated into a "status update". What's worse, is once this nugget of (what I consider to be) cleverness is dumped into facebook's massive database of grammatically incorrect banality (yes, I am an elitist like that), it's pretty much lost, unless you have an hour or so to search back through all of your old posts.
I did once. I found that even though I opened my account in 2007, it only goes back to 2008. Thieving bastards, they are.
That'll teach me to take the easy way out, I suppose.

Perhaps now that I have more opportunity to write I should go back and use some of those updates as potential blog topics. Although I may find it disturbing how often I've quoted "Monty Python and The Holy Grail" and "The Big Lebowski".

Voulez-voulez-vous "Help! Help! I'm being repressed-"
- "Shutup, Donnie."

Location:Cherry St,Seattle,United States

Mobile Blogging.

2011-05-04T17:07:00.001-07:00

Well...finally found a decent blogging app for my pi-phone. Let's see how badly autocorrect can manage to fuck it up. Actually, I think I'm going to institute a new policy that for any blogs written via mobile, if mis-autocorrected, must remain in their horribly altered state. Reader beware.
On my way back from the drugstore during lunch today, while strolling jovially through the rare Seattle sunshine, it struck me that I shouldn't be required to work in such brilliant weather. Days such as today are so few and far between that we (can I just interject that I have an unusually *hot* bus driver? It's weird...) should be permitted the fair-weather equivalent of a Snow Day. Just sayin'.
I may even bring you a shrubbery on a day such as today if you ask nicely.
Made a painful discovery today, which I'm not going to whine about on my blog because, well, it's not Livejournal, but let's just say I had a mini-epiphany as a result where I realized that changing who I am to make others more comfortable not only gives them control over me, but causes irreparable damage. And no human being, *no one*, is worth that. Which is really challenging when you spend most of your life trying to live up to other people's expectations.
Why do people hang out in the shade when it's sunny? Odd.
Ah, there's another Mariner's game today. They (fans, not baseball players) like to crowd the bus to Seattle on game day. Better a lot of people on one bus than a lot of people in a lot of cars, I say.
Ooh...awesome. Man in a top hat. At the transit station. I gotta say, men look mighty fine in top hats. And those news boy hats too. Hats are highly underrated. I'd wear hats more often but I have a fat head. Most women's hats are too small for my huge noggin. And my Dumbo ears. I'm-a gonna go cry myself to sleep on my huge pillah.

Boulez-Boulez-voussoirs phone blogging...jury's out on that one.

(I was looking forward to seeing how autocorrect butchered "voulez-voulez-vous". Win.)

< rant >

2011-04-04T12:38:00.000-07:00

The following irritated the service industry employees I polled before writing this. It surprised me, actually.

Here goes.

I have a cynical view of tipping.
But before I launch into this full-force, you should know that I worked in the food service industry for quite some time. I worked my ass off. Sacrificing weekends, holidays, a social life (ok, maybe the now nonexistent marriage killed the social life, but I digress...), but before I launch into my diatribe here, you needed to know...I paid my dues.

Jump to present day...the catalyst for this whole affair.

A friend of mine and I had decided to stagger into Cupcake Royale after many rounds at the nearby dive bar. For some reason pastel-colored overly-decorated delicacies sounded like a fine idea. So, we went.

We made our selections (after a brief cringe at the "Bacon whiskey something-or-other" cupcake - I kid you not), the clerk places them gingerly in the box, then hands them to the girl at the register. To whom I hand my debit card, at which point I notice a tip jar. A tip jar. Curious. Now...just what was gratuity-worthy? Following me home and asking me how everything was?
She hands me the receipt to sign, and as I do, I notice the presumptuous little "Tip line" below the total.

Are you fucking kidding me?

What the hell am I supposed to be tipping them for? Putting them in the box? Ringing up my order? And it's not even like there was one person handling this laborious task, there were two of them. It was a bloody cupcake-packing assembly line.

I ignored the arrogance of the tip line and left, clutching my box (which I’m I’m assuming they printed by hand until their fingers bled, hence the tip jar…) and walked to the car in the rain. Maybe if they'd escorted me with an umbrella, I'd have slipped them a twenty.

This incident got me thinking. How many places now have these annoying little vessels of “alms” at the register? Aside from cafes, we have them at the deli, pizza shops, Dunkin Donuts, Ice Cream parlors. Now, these employees get an hourly wage. Usually higher than the national average. Which is another reason why this "tip jar" phenomenon confuses me. I remember a time when servers in restaurants made below minimum wage so the rest of their income was could be supplemented by the gratuities they received from their tables.

When I was a server, the sum of the tips I accrued at the end of the day I did not get to keep. I was required to tip out the bartender, my server assistant, the busboy, the hostess ($0.50 per person she sat; I'm still bitter about that; if she sat 300 people, I had to give her $150 of my tips.) I was left with about 40%. I did not completely resent this, they were providing continued service to guests in our restaurant and helped me make money. That's the magic word. Continued service. We just didn't drop food off and leave. We checked on the quality of the meal, refilled beverages, replaced napkins, cleared plates.

When you order a chicken sandwich at McDonald's, you don't tip the people who make them. You don’t tip the people at the drive-thru. What puzzles me is, what makes baristas so entitled? And now we have cupcakes and ice cream and Subway sandwiches? It’s getting out of hand. Are we going to be tipping bus drivers and teachers and the receptionist at the doctor’s office?

It could be entirely possible that it's not tipping per se that I have issue with; maybe I just don't appreciate how I am personally regarded when I don't tip. People think that I'm cheap, an asshole, insensitive, from France. I’m not cheap, nor an asshole. Maybe I could pull off being French. I tip, and I tip well. I just tip appropriately. I don’t tip people who put cupcakes in a box so that I have the cash to tip the server at 13 Coins 40%. And why? Because she went the extra mile, brought extra lemons when I didn't even ask because she remembered me from the last time, and has a genuine smile, a great laugh and loves showing pictures of her family.

There's also Duncan, at my favorite bar who usually gets 50%, but he gets his own blog entry. After I ask his permission first. =)

Voulez-voulez-vous < /rant >

Le Fin Du Monde.

2011-03-24T06:45:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: This was actually written some time ago. Forgot to hit the "Publish Post" button.

Eh, details.
Enjoy.

Oddity for the day:

Walking toward Broadway. Hear the unmistakable sounds of seagulls. Many seagulls.

I look up.

Many, many seagulls.

Um...this was downtown, not Elliott Bay.

Maybe one or two errant birds, okay. But these things had lined themselves up like a chorus line on the rooftops of several buildings for over a block.

Ever see that scene in "The Day After Tomorrow" where the birds, knowing what's up, flee en masse from the seas inland in order to avoid impending meteorological disaster? I did.

I wondered if the plague of locusts was far behind.

Pedestrians and bus stop denizens were just as rapt and puzzled as I. As we observed they would rapidly perch then flee in perfect sync. When nature behaves in such a bizarre way it tends to make me edgy.

Then I saw the massive horde congealing as a single avian unit in one very specific place.

Dick's Drive-In burger joint.

Venture to say tomorrow morning there is a 42-foot radius of seagull excrement icing the structures and pavement around and including the illustrious Dick's Drive-In. Hope that panhandling artist guy brought a sturdy umbrella.

Barman: Did you say the end of the world is coming? Shouldn't we all lay down on the floor or put paper bags over our heads?

Ford Prefect: If you wish.

Barman: Will it help?

Ford Prefect: Not at all.

Voulez-voulez-vous mieux vaut tard que jamais.

2011-02-02T16:23:00.000-08:00

I’m furrowing my brows at passers-by. Grrrrr.
I’m still at work so I know I won’t be provoking a knife-fight or anything.
My desk is in a main thoroughfare so I’m getting in a lot of good brow-furrowing traffic.

Grrrrr.

“Is your email working?”

I don’t get email often. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t notice.

“I dunno, let me check.” I have to pick someone to bother.

To: (Insert hapless victim here)
Subject: Test
Body: My email is not working. You didn’t get this. You were never here.
DON’T LOOK AT ME!
GAH!
(Insert read receipt in the event they’re too perplexed/annoyed to reply)

Jennifer Lankenau
Generic Office Title
Generic Office Phone Number
Generic Office Email Address

*click* Ctrl+enter

No response.
The recipient appears at my desk. Laffy Taffy in hand. Bewildered expression complete with contrapposto stance.

“????”

"hmmm?" Furrowed brow.

"I am not bringing you any candy!"

"Fine then! I am not ordering any more!"
(I am responsible for the sugar/fat/caffeine supply in the office).

This was considered heavily for a moment.

"Banana, strawberry, cherry or apple?"

"String cheese."

Sigh. Shifts weight to the other foot. Still looking puzzled.

"Um, was I supposed to reply to the email?"

"I think you did."

Satisfied, they trudge off to their desk with their Laffy Taffy in hand, safe in the knowledge that all is well in the world.

Type type type (coffee) *click* *click* type...

"Hey, do you have the label maker?"

Ok, here's the thing: we have, in our office, a section entirely devoted to the containment and storage of office supplies. This includes paper, pens, staples, scissors, ibuprofen, bubble wrap, even Velcro. The only problem is, it's completely inaccessible. Not via armed forces, or sentries, or even a curmudgeonly chihuahua...no. The reason people can't acquire the tools they need is because they can't find it. It's an epidemic. They open a cupboard, stare into it blankly, and then give up all hope. There's just no use. Reinforcements needed.

"Hey, Jennifer...do we have any thumbtacks?"

"Did you look for them?"

"Yeah, I don't think we have any..."

Gah.

"Far right, second drawer down."

"Oh."

Anyway, label maker.

"Yes, it's in the top middle drawer."

"Ok, thanks."

15 minutes later, he brings it to me. "Here you go."

"I don't want it, put it back in the drawer."

Confused look.

"Uh, ok..."
I hear several drawers being opened and closed.
Sigh.

Walk into the kitchen. Immediately understand the reason for the labeler request.

Refrigerator: "COLDNESS"
Freezer: "REALLY COLD"
Water faucet: "WATER"
Microwave: "HEAT"
Apple: "APPLE"
Coffee machine: "COFFEE"

Everybody's a comedian.

Voulez-voulez-vous "BLOG"

A bushel and a peck.

2011-01-11T12:49:00.000-08:00

1/11/11 has been seriously trying to steal my 11/11/11 thunder. People have been rather excited about this whole thing. I've been biting my tongue as I do not wish to squelch their enthusiasm.

I was shot several disapproving looks this morning when I relocated myself on the bus upon discovering the woman sitting behind me was on the verge of hacking up several layers of lung tissue. Apparently sparing her feelings was more important than preserving my health. I shot them a raised eyebrow sneer and went back to my Scrabble game on my phone. Triple word score. I will conquer this passive-aggressive Seattle bullshit if I have to start kicking them in the shins as they disembark from their morning commute one.by.one.

I noticed none of them volunteered to sit next to Typhoid Mary.

I recently signed up for Foursquare with the specific purpose of being able to appoint myself the Mayor of my favorite local hangout which, apparently, would only take me three visits to do so. At any rate, with the iPhone app, this basically allows you to stalk your friends (with their permission) so when they check into any given location it sends you an alert on your phone with the name and address of said establishment, in the event you wish to join them in their revelry or crash their get-together. The trend I have noticed is that my friends seem to have a copious amount of free time on their hands, checking into cafes, restaurants and bars at all hours, some at 11 am, 3 pm, 3 am...

You can learn a lot about a person by being privy to the establishments they frequent. You can even learn who they spend their free time with. For instance, two of my friends just checked into the same nail salon, concurrently. One could possibly assume they are getting manicures together. I don't think people keep this in mind as often as they should...

I really don't have much else to write about at the moment. Which is just fine, since my lunch break is wrapping up. I just noticed a time lapse between blogs that I felt I needed to remedy. I figured the interesting photo would compensate for the sub-par material.

Voulez-voulez-vous content fail.

"Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism."

2010-12-22T12:28:00.001-08:00

I'm treating insomnia with iPhone fed Wikipedia Loops. I only have a desktop computer so I'm forced to use my cellular device as a means of amassing ridiculous amounts of trivia. For instance, on this day in history, in 1808, "Ludwig van Beethoven premiered his Fifth Symphony, currently one of the most popular and well-known compositions in all of European classical music, at the Theater an der Wien in Vienna." and that "Aquila bullockensis, an extinct species of bird, is the oldest known true eagle from Australia."

I figure if nothing else, I could absorb random pieces of information completely inapplicable to my career path and general daily life. I theorize this will improve my "Jeopardy" skills, though I don't have television so I may have some difficulty testing this. I'm also filling up pages in my sketchbook with more (wait for it...) rose windows which, again, isn't altogether useful, since I have two commissions leaning against my apartment walls. But in my defense, they won't fit in my bed and there's no way I could handle a paintbrush with Doppler's opinion that both the bed and my torso make a suitable trampoline.

There are a combination of factors that have been contributing to my sleeplessness as of late:

1. I have annoyingly loud, boisterous, hyperactive neighbors above me that seem to enjoy engaging in Sumo-wrestling like activities beginning at 10:00pm and carrying on well past midnight. I have no evidence that they are engaging in Japanese full-contact sports in their living room, I'm just deducing by the amount of noise and thumping from overhead, though in their version there is much more laughter and shouting. There are often intermittent jogging noises up and down the hallway. (Pardon the pun, but it's similar to the Doppler effect of "thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka...") Very "Poltergeist". I'd actually feel better if it were a result of paranormal activity. The dead have a hard time controlling themselves. See zombies. Due to my growing irritation and distaste for these nameless, faceless entities above me, I have assigned the blame for the "Free Project" in my hallway to them solely, whether they be the responsible parties or not.

That'll learn 'em.

2. I am convinced I have some sort of naturally-occurring chemical in my body that causes my energy levels to spike beginning at 7:00 pm. This would be ideal were I a bartender. However, my waking hours range anywhere from 5:30 - 6:15 am, depending on how little sleep I've gotten. I also suspect nanotechnology, or genetic markers.

3. My intensely uncomfortable Winter Dry Skin Syndrome coupled with the inability of my feet to stop wiggling when I am attempting rest.

4. My dog, too, has become nocturnal. Which involves the following:

Jump on the bed
Jump off the bed
Pace the kitchen floor (clickety-click, clickety-click.)
Crawl under the bed, making sure to thump around a bit so I'm surrounded by "ka-thunks" on all sides.
Bring me toys
Bring me his empty food/water bowl.

I fear in my sleep-deprived madness I will end up duct-taping him to the wall.

So I end up saying "fuck it" and instead engage in mindless albeit restful activities. Watching The Big Lebowski has become a fast favorite. Coupling. X-Files episodes. Playing Scrabble on my phone. Debating whether or not Frosted Flakes really are "Grrrreat". Staring at the ceiling wondering if my glare and obvious rage is penetrating my ceiling and thus their floor manifesting in a swarm of bees or a case of leprosy in their apartment. Then I realize, no wonder I can't sleep. I'm a goddamn anger-ball.

Voulez-voulez-vous “Sleep is like the unicorn - it is rumored to exist, but I doubt I will see any” -Unknown

One man's trash is another man's...well, trash.

2010-12-21T09:19:00.000-08:00

So, yeah. I completely zonked and missed the lunar eclipse last night. Although, I’m not too broken up about it. I caught one in 2007 at Burning Man which, in all actuality, is much more impressive than watching one from the intersection of 8th and I-5 in downtown Seattle. Concurrently, it happened to be the same time the nutjob decided to set fire to the Man early causing all kinds of ruckus (at Burning Man, not last night). I suppose we were all distracted by the stellar event.

I’m having a battle with unknown persons in my apartment building. I’m getting to the point where I’m considering writing my memoirs of all the goings-on in my building. Aside from the cracked-out chick and the infamous bloody-doorknob break-in, and the vagrants that populate my front porch on food bank days, I feel as if I should get a hazard discount on my rent. As a bonus, there is a halfway house next door, whose residents somehow have a telepathic connection to my mini blinds, know when I’ve dared to open them, thus opening their own and blatantly staring in my windows. I’ve designed a pleasantly written sign that reads “piss off” which I adhere to the windows in such circumstances.

The most recent series of events involves a John Denver’s Greatest Hits album, a Neti pot, several pieces of clothing, dishes, "Class of 1993" champagne glasses, and a bright green file cabinet. Somehow, the mailboxes (which happen to occupy the wall just outside my door) have become the urban residential version of the “free” section of Craigslist. Granted, I *did* place a basket of unwanted DVD’s which disappeared within 30 minutes, but there seem to be new residents who, instead of depositing items at Goodwill or in some circumstances, the dumpster outside, have taken to disposing of unwanted items not only atop aforementioned mailboxes, but also on the floor surrounding them, sometimes even blocking my door. In a fit of frustration, I placed a sign on the corkboard above reading, “Two words for you, people: Good Will. Really.” (Yes, I know Goodwill is one word...it's been segmented for emphasis.) The sign had disappeared by the following morning and as if in a fit of vengeance, the number of rejected items increased twofold. The toddler in me got good and pissed.

In my own act of juvenile vengeance, I decided that since my apartment hallway had become a prime location for people’s unwanted shit, I was going to take it all the way. No foolin’ around man.

I took one of Doppler’s dog shit bags, which, luckily, happen to be labeled as such, complete with a cute cartoonish pooch on the front. As I lived in the vicinity I wasn’t going to permeate the locale with the scent of canine feces, but I still wanted a bit of realism. I had some pathetic–looking figs in the refrigerator, daintily plopped them in the bag, and proceeded to stealthily add them to the pile, specifically upon the bright green, two-drawer file cabinet.
Some hours later, when I took Doppler out so he could generate the real deal, the file cabinet had been claimed, the small green doggie bag lying on the floor. It had been removed by the next morning.

Then things got really irksome.

Suddenly there appeared a large kitchen bag full of trash and a paper bag full of PBR beer cans.

I’m SO moving when my lease is up.

I’m convinced the awesome maintenance man who helped me with my bathroom flooding debacle has been disposing of all the nonsense. I do hope he is informing management so they can distribute ineffective notices on everyone’s door.

In the meantime, the hallway is clear save for a ceramic pair of cowboy boots, with a large piece broken from them. The piece is included.

Voulez-voulez-vous adventures in urban living.

“Smile, say yes and do what you damn well please.”

2010-12-14T20:32:00.000-08:00

When I was editing obituary photos at the Seattle Times, the words written by families that came across my desk would always strike me - some sad, some touching, but out of the thousands I processed during my tenure there was one that I found incredibly inspiring, not just personally but also historically....so much so, in fact, that when it went to print I clipped it and kept it pinned in my cube up until I was laid off over a year later. I memorized her life's motto and still pass on to this day. Actually, noticing her quote on the FB page of a certain bartender friend of mine is what made me think to search for her obituary...I had a very surreal moment of, "I know that quote...I use that all the time-HEY!!"

So, thanks to The Ballard News Tribune from 2008 (she died only weeks before her 100th birthday) I can share her with all of you.

Mildred Rhind

Mildred Ahrenius Rhind

1909 - 2008

Mildred Ahrenius Rhind passed away peacefully at Vashon Community Care Center on June 25, 2008 after a very long, full life and a short final illness. Mildred was born in 1909 and lived most of her life in West Seattle. Her life reflects the changing role of women in the 20th century. In the 1920s she was a flapper; she danced the Charleston on roller skates for a Pathe newsreel and drank bathtub gin. Mildred attended West Seattle High School (Class of 1927) and shortly thereafter started her long career with the Union Pacific Railroad. She began as a switchboard operator and ended as a ticket agent at the downtown Seattle office when she retired in 1969. Following her retirement from the Union Pacific, Mildred had a second career working part-time for Washington Mutual Savings Bank in the school savings department. Throughout the Great Depression, she hid her first marriage to avoid a railroad policy of not hiring married women. After WWII, she refused to give up her job to accommodate veterans returning to the workforce.

In 1950 Mildred married the great love of her life, Orville Horace (Bill) Rhind. In the 1950s, she had her first and only child and continued her career so she and husband and son could have a duel income and enjoy boating. Mildred and Bill’s marriage lasted until his death in 1970. Over the years she was a member of Eastern Star, Peace Lutheran Church, Tyee Yacht Club, the Ladies Auxiliary of the Swedish Club and the West Seattle Garden Club. Mildred is survived by her son, William Rhind (partner, John Coleman) her brothers Oliver Ahrenius (Evelyn), Chuck Ahrenius (Joan) and many nieces and nephews. Her motto in life “Smile, say yes and do what you damn well please” served her well up until the very end. Mildred will be greatly missed. A private family memorial service will be held at a later date. Remembrances may be made to your favorite charity. Please sign the online guestbook at www.islandfuneral.com

Published July 2, 2008 in the West Seattle Herald.

Voulez-voulez-vous share and enjoy.

"I don't want to go among the mad people..."

2010-12-09T11:39:00.000-08:00

I have only had about eight hours of sleep since Sunday. Sunday? Yes. What is today? February? Who cares. All I know is that I am scheduled to see Picasso on Saturday. However, if this trend of sleeplessness continues I cannot fathom what the visual effect of cubism will have on my psyche. Mostly because I find myself staring at walls.
And the floor.
They are beginning to fascinate me.

I’m so sleep-deprived I became teary-eyed when I saw how long the line was at Starbucks when I went to order my triple-grande-five-pump-peppermint-latte.

Travesty.

Doppler has become nocturnal. In essence turning me nocturnal, though I am missing out on the whole “sleeping during the day” bit. Which is resulting in the “madness” bit. And the “staring at the walls and floor” bit.
They are still fascinating me. Though I am discovering that my madness is beginning to entertain others. Both sleep-deprived-induced madness and copious amounts of caffeine-induced madness.

I have a headache.

The Ukranians are having a lengthy conversation by my desk. Oddly, it is making perfect sense to me.

I need to remedy both mine and Doppler’s insomnia. I believe the latter would cure the former. Doping him with inappropriate amounts of Benadryl may be necessary.

I’m concerned about the bus ride home. I fear lapsing int a coma en route and ending up in Tacoma. I suppose there are worse things. Like Renton.

I still have a headache. I was hoping it would remedy itself in the last three minutes.

Thanks to the insomnia I have been at my desk since 6:30. I felt as if I should get out of the house this morning, and due to the torrential downpour and blistering wind, a walk was out of the question. Due to the lack of sleep and subsequent decreased brainpower, iPhone Scrabble was also out of the question. In all fairness it should currently be 2:00. I feel as if I'm in some sort of temporal wake.

I wonder if anyone really knows what the Ukranians are plotting. I’m thinking of joining their cause now that I’m aware of the situation. Although I’m afraid if I start getting more sleep I’ll be out of the loop.

There is bizarre poetry on my Facebook wall. There is bizarre stuff everywhere. I think I'm beginning to hallucinate. At the moment I’m having to consolidate tables in Access but the cells are beginning to undulate. Hence it’s taking longer than it ought. It’s a sad state of affairs when Ukranian is making more sense than databases.

Voulez-voulez-vous "Oh you can't help that...we're all mad here."

Snow = Gah!

2010-11-21T14:11:00.000-08:00

I'm in a Philip Glass loop. Violin Concerto #1, 2nd movement. I was introduced to this piece at the Seattle Symphony last night as a prelude to Ravel's "Bolero", which is what I was really there to see. And since I have a tendency to play something to death when I realize I like it, here I am. In a loop. Of course, when I Googled him upon my return home I was delighted when I saw his face, being a supreme fan of Chuck Close. It's amazing how things are linked.

I've been staring at this 5-foot canvas in my apartment for a week now. I've been waiting for it to tell me what to do, but so far communication has been nonexistent. I'm beginning to take it personally. I'm thinking it's resentful that I let Doppler lick it. Sorry, I didn't think it would be so offended. Although, in it's defense, I think anyone would feel this way. I do find myself discouraging this behavior when he engages in it with houseguests. Sorry, canvas.

I also think it's miffed that I've been spending more time with my new iPhone than I have with it. I think Doppler shares this sentiment as well. I get the impression he intends to destroy it while I'm sleeping. I've caught him eying it menacingly. He's even been head-butting it while I've been organizing my icons and browsing apps. Okay, so perhaps it's a problem. I admit it. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I can put it down any time I want to. For instance, I'm writing this on my desktop as opposed to my shiny new handheld device. Oooh, wait...lemme see if there are any app updates; one sec...

It better not snow. Everyone's squealing about the snow potential. But they don't have a car that protests frozen precipitation, a commute to Lynnwood, and a 4-week-young job in which they're still trying to impress their employers. Gah. ("Gah" has been my impulsive response every time the mention of "snow" has occurred today. It's all I've been able to muster.)

...and I'm still looping.

I would love to be able to play the violin. But I can't even figure out what the hell to do with this canvas and I've been painting for years, so who am I kidding?

Bloody hell. It's snowing.

Voulez-voulez-vous Gah!

A taco can only pull at four (4) knots per hour.

2010-11-14T19:44:00.000-08:00

Ok, so maybe he said 'tugboat'. I heard 'taco'. And it made me bust a gut laughing, so I'm staying with it.

The University Village shopping center is a terrifying prospect on a Sunday afternoon. But I needed a new keyboard. I suppose I could have gotten a non-Mac keyboard at Target or something, but after careful consideration, Target would have been just as crowded and the parking situation would have been far worse, and uh, hey. The Mac store is prettier. And more efficient. And so what if I wanted my keyboard to match my computer? I'm a Mac user. It's my thing. Let it go.

I'm working on a canvas right now. No, really. Ok, so maybe I've only gotten to the stretching phase and the only one who's worked on it is Doppler, which involves licking the lower-right quadrant for some reason beyond my understanding. He seems quite intense about the whole thing, and since it doesn't seem to be eroding the 7 oz medium-texture cotton duck canvas or anything, I see no reason to squelch his enthusiasm.

I thought I had the motivation to write but it seems as if I was mistaken. I need to get going on this canvas if I am going to avoid feeling like today is a Sunday-fail. And I need a shower. No, really.

Today was definitely a hat day.

I dig the new keyboard. To ensure its longevity I feel I should avoid the miso soup, water, charcoal, even pomegranates just to be safe. I even brought about the demise of a keyboard by overturning a pint of white latex primer on it.

At least the color matched.

Voulez-voulez-vous buy it, use it, break it, fix it, trash it, change it, mail - upgrade it...

Friday.

2010-11-12T12:43:00.000-08:00

So, yeah. drank too much. here's my surprised face:

You are permitted one (1) free alcoholic beverage on your date of birth (given that you are over the age of 21) according to the Washington State Liquor Control Board. At my favorite bar last night, there were two (2) bartenders on duty. This involved one (1) Manhattan Mule from my Favorite Bartender in the World, followed by a Friday Collins by the Second Favorite Bartender in the World, followed by a waitress, once we were moved to a table, who messed up my second (2nd) Friday Collins and brought me one (1) *not-what-I-ordered-so-I-got-it-for-free* Collins, followed by one (1) vodka and soda with lemon gifted by the delightful Matt and Molly, wrapped up with one (1) proper Friday Collins du Mark.

I *think* there was food involved in there somewhere, but I can't be certain.

We had to abandon the bar (sad) because eleven (11) people ended up being the grand total and I didn't want to monopolize the domain of the aforementioned "Favorite Bartender in the World". That aside, communication on all fronts would have been exceedingly challenging.

Bugger. I didn't get any photos. Given how much I consumed, perhaps it's for the best.

So, I rallied and determined NOT to have a birthday I would pout about in a goddamned blog entry next year. It went well. Guests both expected and unexpected made appearances making it delightful and memorable. I was pleased.

Until this morning.

I think the phrase, "Oh, fucking hell, what??" was uttered incoherently when my alarm went off.

And then I stood up.

Repeat above phrase. Increase volume and clarity by 200%.

The two (2) Friday Collins', one (1) *not-what-I-ordered-so-I-got-it-for-free* Collins, one (1) vodka and soda with lemon, and one (1) Manhattan Mule had sucked portions of my skull down into the pit of my stomach, resulting in swirls of pounding-ness every time I moved, and not just one (1) but two (2) nauseating trips to the bathroom before I had to haul my sorry, now thirty-five (35) year-old self, to work this morning and maintain some sense of full functionality.

I determined, after only five (5) minutes at my desk, that this was going to be the longest work day EVAR. Spirits were low.

Fortunately I work in the software development industry, and developers require a steady diet of sugar, salt, fat, and caffeine to survive. I found that one (1) can of flattened Coke and one (1) small bag of Lay's classic potato chips aided in the pissed-off-ness of my stomach, and the ginormous bottle of ibuprofen in the office supply cupboard became my salvation.

Lunch break is over. Gotta jet.

Voulez-voulez-vous "and this is called...having a good time." -Bill Cosby

Burn after reading.

2010-11-09T12:23:00.000-08:00

Jennifer is living on a steady stream of Starbuck’s French Roast and ibuprofen.
Jennifer is displeased at the constant 72 degree temperature in her office environment.
Jennifer’s excessive caffeine consumption is resulting in persistent leg-bouncing and frequent non-sequiturs.
Jennifer is having a pronoun crisis.
Jennifer needs to taper off of Facebook.

So, the 35th birthday is Thursday. Over the last few years I’ve come to dread the birthdays. When you’re single, no one really plans anything for your birthday. And unless I beg someone to hang out with me, or have a drink, I end up spending the evening alone. This is really pathetic, because I have a ton of friends (?) who, thanks to the marvel of Facebook, are aware it’s my birthday. Yet they're supposed to magically know that I don't have plans. Because I'm the center of the goddamn universe, dontcha know? Did I mention that I hate my birthday? (Insert pity party here ______). Jesus, I feel like I should be doing this on LiveJournal. Anyway. So yeah. I say friends (?) because it’s one of those situations where I’ve known these people for years, I’ve camped with them at Burning Man, I see them at parties, hug hug, kiss kiss, but I feel like I’m just not one of them, you know? Don’t get me wrong, they’re kind and wonderful and loving and amazing people and I adore them immensely. I just wish I could spend more time with them without feeling as if my requests to do so weren’t so bloody philanthropic for them. As in, “Oh, Niff’s feeling left out…” rather than, “You know, I think it’d be great to spend more time with Niff…” etc etc…
The funny thing is, in this massive community, there’s quite a few people who feel the same way I do, it’s just no one talks about it unless I bring it up, and then they’re so relieved that they’re not alone in how they feel. We’re the most popular lonely people in the world. It’s an amazing social paradox.

Of course, there is a high probability that I have created this entire situation by isolating myself, that my theories are flawed, that my lack of self confidence has led me to the conclusion that people do not prefer my company and this has infiltrated how I relate to others. I do tend to clam up in social situations in public when I want to impress people and oddly enough, for some reason as of late, I’ve been trying to improve my friends’ opinion of me (mostly due to past drama which I will not delve into here…). I do also tend to talk too much when I’m nervous, which turns people off. Perhaps I should send out a survey and see what people like about me, what they don’t like, and see if they are personality traits that I, too, believe need tweaking, and work on them for the next half-decade of my 30’s. I already know I talk about myself too much. Even I find it annoying…I see myself doing it, I see their faces when I’m doing it, and it’s something that needs to be addressed. I’m also very critical. I need to work on that as well, but I think I’ve been getting better as I have been making a conscious effort on that front. But I feel like when I'm at a party, and I try and enter a conversation, the participants look at me with that, "and just who do you think *you* are??" look. Sigh.

I think most of this self-realization (criticism) has spawned from the reflection that comes from the hours spent alone when one lives on their own for the first time, ever. I moved into my own apartment back in June after having never living alone. I went from my parents, to my ex-husband, to housemates, to an ex-boyfriend's, to housemates again. I knew the living alone would be beneficial. I knew I had some last bugs to work out and that this would be the good kick in the ass that I needed. It’s a good kick in the ass, to be sure. I’m finally getting used to it. The solitude is becoming a comfort rather than an inconvenience, even though I do still miss having default company around. I strategically opted for an apartment near my community so I’d have my friends nearby and also so I could still commute bipedally, (Microsoft is telling me that’s not a word but fuck ‘em) to Capitol Hill so the solitude wouldn’t be so devastating. I do entertain the idea that this new living arrangement contributes to my belief that I am less than included in my community. When I lived with my housemates, I felt included by default. I spent time with friends just by living there. Now I spend time with no one unless I’m part of a mass email invite. It requires adaptation on my part, which isn’t a large part of my particular skill set.

Fortunately I do have this amazing new job which has directs my focus elsewhere and energizes my self-esteem. I’m starting to feel truly independent, which is incredible for me because since my divorce almost five years ago I’ve felt as I’ve been floundering, not quite sure what the hell I’m supposed to be doing exactly. I do feel immensely fortunate, however, to have fallen into such a community of amazing people such as the one that I have. I have seen and contributed to amazing art projects being built, I have participated in shenanigans and tomfoolery of such hilarity that I’d never thought possible, I’ve been exposed to music and art and dance and love and beauty that makes me value being who I am and where I am. So I do appreciate that I have them in my life at all.

Ok. So, I’ve done a whine-post. Goddammit. My claim to fame is that I don’t do whine-posts. I hate that my birthdays affect me like this. Maybe I need more coffee. Maybe I need bourbon in my coffee. Anyone got some bourbon?

Voulez-voulez-vous 11-11.

Oh, baby it's cold outside...

2010-11-08T11:08:00.000-08:00

Trying to write a blog, sleep-deprived, on a Monday, during your lunch break, after a maniacal weekend, with the fluorescents buzzing overhead and a near-empty coffee cup staring at you ineffectually, is just an exercise in daftness.
So I shall refer to myself as a “daft git” and carry the fuck on.

I’ve been spending an increasing amount of time in downtown Seattle over the last few months. I had attempted (now unsuccessfully) to begin a “sketchbook project” whose subject was to be “Seattle Architecture”, and as such my research took me to the streets in search of interesting and unique elements for my undertaking. As a resident of the Capitol Hill region of Seattle, I seldom ventured east of I-5, as that side of the fence teems with tourists, retailers, vagrants, overpriced restaurants and shopping centers, thus holding no sincere appeal for someone like myself whose budget limits me to Fred Meyer and Value Village. It is a completely saccharin universe…I prefer my tattooed-pierced-patchouli-saturated-hippie-gay-tree-hugging-Burner-freaks on my side of the hill I can haz plz. I adore it’s *authenticity*.

So, architecture. Walks. People.

When I still worked at my old job up until two weeks ago, I walked to work the long way in order to take in as much of the local scenery as possible to accomplish my artistic goals. However, before I realized, “the long way” was resulting in a 6-mile round-trip on-foot daily commute. However...there was a certain amount of discovery involved on my urban walkabouts that I wasn’t prepared for.

Trekking around the city, the grand majesty of the buildings, the sounds of it, the busy-ness of it, the smell of the ocean, the breeze on my face, always puts me in a fantastic mood, clears my head...very "Ohmmmm". And I love talking to people, which is what makes walking through the city so ideal, because it's infested with the crazy bastards, sometimes with dogs in tow, which makes it double-plus good.
I just adore the movement and the sound and the art that is Seattle; every single sense you have is stimulated; bad mood vanquished, spirits lifted, I am alert and aware.

I learned very quickly that if I am going to talk to anyone, I need to wait until I get to Pike Place Market to do so. The vendors are always in the best mood and are great for a laugh first thing in the morning; they’ll sell you a mean pomegranate and let you sample anything. And the Market is deliciously quiet at 7am during the week; the booths are still being set up, the trucks are unloading, bread is being baked; crayfish are plotting escape, cheese is being made, it's incredible just to take it all in at once along with the sound of the gulls overhead and the sun rising over the mountains and the ferry boats on the water...

Then I started noticing something.

With Bach's Violin Concertos in my ears, walking down the sidewalk, I’d sidle up next to someone at a crosswalk and smile at them. (This is in the business district, mind you.) And these people I smile at?
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Huh. Ok, just cranky. No worries, moving on.

Couple streets down, take 2.

Stop, turn, smile.
Scowl.

Who are these people?
I’ve even tried talking to them. I swear to god they looked offended.

It started becoming more and more common. I was getting good and pissed. Then I learned it was a "thing". Seattle Freeze.

Terrific.
Guess I didn't get the memo.

So.
Is it arrogance? Shyness? Abject terror? Psychosis? Vitamin D deficiency? I’m going to start fucking asking them. To hell with them. I’m a native. I have the right to know why people in my state are representing us so poorly. Honestly, when it’s an actual condition it needs to be addressed. “Seattle Freeze”. Really?

Have we become so antisocial because of commuting and technology that we’ve forgotten how to relate to other human beings? Do we need people parks like they have dog parks? Or socialization classes? I don’t think it’s ubiquitous, I mean, that’s why I love going to the Market, despite the sheer madness of it; the tourists love to talk to you. Although in part I’m sure they’re just happy to have a Seattleite that’s not being a standoffish dick to them. But I’m just making an extreme theory based on my recent experience with the downtown locals. If these are the Seattleites that the tourists are being exposed to, no wonder we have a reputation. I mean, really.

I'm going to get to the bottom of this. Interviews, interrogations, I don't care what it takes.

Voulez-voulez-vous Miss Golightly, I protest!

Seattle Marilyn Monroe Moments.

2010-10-21T08:55:00.000-07:00

I will begin a new job on Monday that will (sadly) rob me of my pedestrian commutes to work, which I have enjoyed for the last five years. These daily walks have provided me not only with a sense of pre-work zen but also with a variety of insights into human nature as well as allowed me to perform my own amateur sociological experiments on the general public.

This week, however, I have noticed an increasing trend in impractical wardrobe choices in the female population. Now, females have never been known to sacrifice fashion for comfort. (Though I myself may be an exception; I've been wearing these goddamn shoes daily since 2005...very Ally Sheedy à la The Breakfast Club.)

You may have noticed the weather has turned a bit, dipping down into the 50's, a wee blistery, breezy, gusty at times...I tend to check the Weather Channel in the mornings before leaving the house to ensure I am dressed accordingly so there are no wardrobe failures on my 45+ minute commute to my place of employment.

Now, ladies and gentlemen. If you walk through the commercial district of Seattle, you will notice via the window displays of department stores what retailers are peddling to young women this season. And, like hordes of easily-led automatons, girls are flocking to the registers, treasures in tow, eager to stroll the streets of Seattle looking as adorable as possible. I admire their enthusiasm and never discourage people from being happy, no matter the source.

But when it's blistery cold and the wind is whipping through city streets, is this the best wardrobe choice? (This particular example comes from American Apparel, a store I usually stroll by and regard their merchandise with a cocked eyebrow and an internalized "really??")
These bloody things are everywhere, draped over shivering unsheathed legs terminating in four-inch heels, clomping along sidewalks, while well-manicured hands brace the sides of the fabric to prevent random breezes from baring their skivvies. I admire their self-confidence, I really do...heaven knows I wouldn't mind having legs like that. But that self confidence just goes the wayside when they're outside in the cold and the wind trying to manage the technicalities of their outfit and their oversized handbags and their mochas and they've forgotten how to walk in their heels with all the multitasking going on. I'm just so tempted to run over and HELP them...bloody hell they make being a girl so complicated. They need some Danskos and a hug.

Voulez-voulez-vous upskirt.

don't talk to strangers. or, maybe just strange people.

2010-10-12T14:07:00.000-07:00

"Do you live here??"

My apartment door is next to the mailboxes in my building. This upsets Doppler. Doppler is protective and likes to alert me to noises in the hallway. People sometimes like to retrieve their mail. I've explained this to Doppler numerous times. He forgets.

I come home late on a random Friday night and find a woman leaning (slouching, swaying, stumbling a bit.) against the end of the row of mailboxes, partially obstructing my front door. Upon approach, I realize I've met her before.

As I'd recalled, this creature is unstable under normal conditions. There was an incident a few months back which involved a break-in, bloody doorknobs, and general disarray. Events such as this tend to unite residents in such close quarters. She had come galloping up to me in a gossipy fury, ranting about the apartment manager, about his refusal to believe anything she said, and how I needed to report this, because he hated her, and threw her sister out, and it was one great big conspiracy. Nodding and smiling I cautiously tiptoed back behind my door, closing it quietly, still smiling as not to alarm her.

Thus I am justifiably alarmed yet curious as I arrive home exhausted at 2 a.m. to find this woman in a gelatinous (albeit vertical) heap against my apartment door.

"Do you live here?"

"...Yes. Yes. I live here."

Maniacal grin. And laugh. "You're in big trouble then!"

For an odd moment I thought she was flirting with me.

"Excuse me, I need to open my door."

Her eyes, which I now notice, are dilated to 200x that of what is considered typical for the normal human eye, dart furtively as she covers her mouth. "No! You can't go in there..."

"Um, yes. Yes, I believe I can."

"NO! There's someone in there...I heard them."

"One. There's a dog in there. Two. If there were someone in there, he would have taken their head off by now, and you would be hearing nothing. Excuse me...I need to take aforementioned dog out now..."

She sidles to the right to block my entrance. "Hey! Hey hey hey heeeeyyyyyy...um...you have to stay out here. The cops are coming."

Sigh. I hate people who are high in real life. Burning Man, parties, I can handle. In the hallway outside my apartment, I am not in the headspace to be a babysitter.

"Did you call them?"

"No."

"Who did?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know they're coming?"

"Someone told me."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

This is going fucking nowhere. I shove her out of the way. She grabs my hand. "WAIT! Why are you wearing gloves!?!?"

"It's cold out."

Her glazed eyes widen as she stares at my menacing hands.

"That's - really, wierd..."

"Is it."

She stares at me, as a look of realization comes over her face. "You're, like, a perpetrator, aren't you..."

Sigh. "Yes. I'm a perpetrator. We all wear black North Face glove liners. I'm wanted in twelve states."

"YOU broke into your apartment!" She points a chipped French-manicured finger at me.

I unlock my door and walk in. Doppler runs up, wagging his tail, grateful that I've finally opened the door, no doubt wondering what's taken me so long to do so. "Look," I say. "I need to walk my dog and go to bed."

"OOOOOH!" She begins clapping her hands and bouncing excitedly. Doppler reciprocates. "Can I come with you?"

This is where a critical decision must be made. Either I say yes, and tolerate her erratic behavior for five more minutes, or say no, and risk unpredictable behavior for an unknown number of minutes. I opt for the former.

I look down. "You have no shoes on." I am hoping this revelation will get me out of my forced dog-walking company.

"OH! My apartment's right down here! C'mere!!" Fail.

I follow her down the hall and debate whether entering her apartment is really the safest choice at this point. I opt for hanging cautiously in the hallway. I peer in.

There is virtually no furniture to speak of. There are, however, about fifteen pairs of shoes littering the floor (so we have that issue solved), a disassembled cell phone, various outfits strewn about, emptied bottles of alcohol, and Jimmy Hoffa's corpse.

(Ok, so I lied on the last bit.)

It ironically took her several minutes to find a goddamn pair of shoes.

"Ok!" She squealed, after finding a pair of red, patent-leather pumps. "I'm ready to walk the dog!"

Sigh. At least it matched her velour jogging outfit.

We retrieve the dog, at which point, she resumes her squealing and bouncing (in four-inch heels, I'm impressed), which gets Doppler all excited, and he starts barking and bouncing. I am neither barking nor squealing nor bouncing. Nor wearing heels. It is now 2:50 a.m.

"If you are going to join me, you need to keep him calm, please. Not only that, but people are sleeping..."

She raises her head to look at me, her dilated eyes ready to well up with tears.

Oh for fuck's sake. Really?? I turn to walk out the door. She follows.

I'm walking the dog.

She's going on again about the crime in the building and how the manager never tells anyone and the police are coming and there's (still) someone in my apartment and am I sure I'm not a perpetrator? And she can't believe he threw her sister out (boing boing squeal)and -

"Shh!"

Oh yeah sorry and I really like your dog we should be friends but they might arrest you because you have gloves and ew your dog is pooping -

Sigh.

Doppler mercifully finishes. We head back into the building. I inform her I am going to bed. There is no welling of tears this time. The crazy bitch starts full-on bawling at me. At my front door. It's 3:00 a.m.

And I wonder why I'm not the one calling the police.

I de-leash the dog and secure him inside. I turn back to her.

"Look. I'm sorry. But - "

"Do you have any drugs?" She's stopped crying now.

"No. I do not have any drugs."

"Because if the police come they're going to look for drugs you know."

"Right."

"If you have drugs they'll arrest you."

I peer into her silver dollar pupils and say, "Reeeeally?", grinning like an idiot.

Suddenly a door opens across the hall. A neighbor I've never met before, a young-ish guy, maybe late 20's, emerges. She turns and exclaims excitedly:

"SEE!!" and points to me again. "I told you she broke in!"

Now, I can tell from this poor guy's face that, a. he's never seen her before in his life and thus, b. has NO idea what she's talking about. He looks to me for help. I throw my hands up helplessly and shake my head. Cracked-Out Girl starts in again.

"She came home and was wearing gloves and I BUSTED her! And she has DRUGS!"

At this point I confess that I wish I did. Or at least a good Merlot.

As she was turned away, I mouthed "sorry..." at the guy and quietly snuck into my apartment, breathing a sigh of relief that she was now someone else's problem.

Changed into my sweats, prepared for bed. Knock at the door. Holy hell.

Peephole.

Seattle's finest. At my door. At 3:30 a.m.

Goddammit. I'm paying too much rent for this shit.

I open the door, bright smile on my face. "Well, good morning. And what can I do for you today?"

"Sorry to bother you, we were told someone broke in - "

"Oh yes. I did." (I thought, fuck it. I was done with this situation. What were they going to do, arrest me for having a sense of humor?)

"Ma'am?"

"Oh, yes. According to the girl on acid at the end of the hall, wearing black gloves makes me a perpetrator, and thus I broke into my own apartment. Luckily I had a key, so I didn't have to bust the lock or break the door down."

Officer #2 starts laughing hysterically. Apparently Cracked-Out Girl was quite enchanting on the phone so they were expecting something like this when they arrived.

After some more conversation, they apologized, said they needed my name and information for the report, asked for my account of the evening.

Thet tipped their hats and left.

Bed.

Crash

"I DONT NEED TO TAKE CARE OF ME!! YOU NEED TO TAKE CARE OF YOU!!!"

I run to the peephole to catch to officers walking past, shaking their heads and laughing at the words of advice being screamed at them down the hallway.

4:00 a.m.

Bed.

Voulez-voulez-vous drugs are bad, mmmkay?

Logan's Run and Heirloom Tomatoes

2010-09-24T14:17:00.000-07:00

For the last year and several months, my co-workers and I were in good with the parking lot attendant and his kindred before him, having the privilege of free parking. Ordinarily it would have set us back approximately $8.00/day to lug our vehicles to work, so we were tickled by the unexpected rapport with the Diamond Parking Company employees.

Until four days ago.

Fortunately, I had randomly decided to walk that day, spurred both by the poundage brought on by 1) my recent sedentary lifestyle and 2) by my desire to save cash on gas costs, so I was spared from the sudden reversal of fortune. For the last year of my employment, and even some time before it, the parking attendants had kept the license plate numbers of the select few who were in their favor programmed in their cell phones so they would remember who would remain unscathed in their daily ticket-writing routine. This was passed down from attendant to attendant as employee turnover changed, much to our relief. Often, they would even look up at the windows, wave at us, and point to strange vehicles in the lot in order to ascertain whether they belonged to members of our staff or not. So we rested assured that we remained safe driving to work, day in and day out, without fear of reprimand from the parking citation gods.

Until four days ago.

We're not sure what happened. Maybe his girlfriend dumped him. Maybe his boss found out what he was doing. Who knows. But suddenly he paused at my co-worker's truck, the selfsame truck he had passed by hundreds of times before with nary a glance...and began to enter its license plate into his little keypad...and the three of us in the office stared agog at the incredulity of what was transpiring and what it meant for us from that day forward. There would be no more free parking. My boss, of course, had his golden ticket parking permit that he expensed to the company so he had no worries. My co-worker lives in Tacoma so he has far worse problems than I. Granted, we have no cause for complaints over the loss of a privilege we have no rights to in the first place. You get used to a convenience, and when it is removed, some scrambling is necessary to compensate for it. My scrambling involves a lot more walking, not too much of an inconvenience. Unless it's raining or snowing. If it's exceptionally horrible I may just say screw it and hand over the eight bucks.

Right now it's all about heirloom tomatoes and Logan's Run during my lunch break, and I'm hoping it doesn't start raining. There's this business of walking home I have to deal with. I feel I should thank the parking attendant however...turns out I've lost five pounds since I've switched to a bipedal commute.

Voulez-voulez vouz feets don't fail me now.

Jennifer Lankenau: Confusing parents, one Facebook Status Update at a Time

2010-08-26T14:52:00.000-07:00

The topic of Facebook status updates recently came up between my mother and I.

I'll get to that in a moment. Because it's quite funny. Oh shit! And I need to blog about my communion rant also. I'll do that on Saturday. Remind me.

So. Facebook status updates. You know it's a sad, sad world when you are blogging about Facebook status updates. Which are something I postulated had, in some fashion, replaced blogging some time ago. They became the Cliff's Note's of blog entries.
Par exemple: There's a Darth Vader helmet embedded in a hedge. Normally, I'd start mentally constructing a several-paragraph long essay, conjuring up some narrative about how it got there, possible reactions from passers-by, how Darth felt about the whole thing, "the Imperials can't see me like this!!", et-cetera...but no. Instead I whipped out the Crackberry, snapped a photo, and typed a caption so mundane the memory of it eludes me now. The thought of blogging about it seemed too bothersome at the time. It was on my wall, Clever Moment Captured. I had taken care of my Social Networking responsibilities, what more do you want from me, I can't take this pressure, get off my back!!! (Inexplicable sobs, mumbling, hiccups, overtly dramatic pauses...)

Occasionally (and bear in mind this is when my Facebook account was in its fledgling stages...) I would heed the call of the blog and feel obligated to write about something amusing at work, or whatever bizarre thing was going awry with whatever pet I had at the time...once in a great while it would be something worth writing. But for the most part all of the interesting, creative, noteworthy things I encountered on a virtually daily basis were reserved for 420 characters or less on a scrolling news feed that wouldn't catch someone's attention for more than two minutes, depending on how vast their friend list was or how often they had something interesting, creative, or noteworthy to say. That's ephemera.

Just recently I decided to prioritize my blog again. That's when things got...odd. My status updates were deemed no longer worthy of the awesome and were now downgraded to rants, rages, the strange and bizarre. With some YouTube videos, Dr. Seuss quotes and inappropriate photos tossed in to break the monotony and add some flair.

That was when the following issue became ever more apparent to me:

On Facebook, you accrue so many "friends" (and I use that term very loosely), and you become so accustomed to a particular "audience", as it were, of regulars, that you forget that you are actually posting to 280, 290, 350, 1500,+ people. Assuming that half of them haven't blocked your crazy ass already. For instance, I'm used to a certain cluster of people posting/commenting/reading my updates. And I theirs. So despite myself, when I'm posting, I have them in mind. Rarely does it occur to me that my 16 year-old cousin might see that my friend Nina just made a comment about gagging me and handcuffing me up in my apartment. Because you tune out what you don't see on a regular basis. Which is why, somehow, I forgot that I had "friended" my 16 year-old cousin. We feel obligated to "friend" family members and and deli owners and exotic dancers and plumbers and childhood sweethearts and pro dommes and dentists. Well, maybe not dentists.

This is why I now have a CRAZY-MAD filtering system in place and no longer accept friend requests from people unless I have met them and they have had a full background check, labs run, and a psych evaluation. Which is why none of my family is in my friends list.

(Sorry mom, that was funny...)

And of course we all love having comments on our posts though we deny it. Well, I don't deny it. There's the emotional types who seek the sympathy, those who like the encouragement, the validation girls who like the, "oh, you're so hot!" and post the cleavage shots. My favorites: my friends who post the really good links to TED talks and such that start these amazing "comment discussions" and I get to witness what an amazing community of brilliant people I live in...

Me? I like the comments which make me feel clever and witty and funny and talented. Because I'm such a fucking egomaniac. So my posts usually consist of:

1) Inside jokes, math shit, movie quotes, and general geekdom
2) Photographs of my art.

I also post cool photos of stuff I see, my dog, interesting things I find online, my friends, shenanigans, tomfoolery, etc. But that's just because I love art and beauty and life and love and sharing things I discover, but then you'll think I'm a sentimental and loving human being and we can't have that because it'll ruin my street cred.

Anyway, I meant to discuss the 'conversation with my mother' last night but I'm running out of time so I'm going to have to give you the Reader's Digest Condensed Version:

My mother and I were having a conversation about how a lot of my posts just 'don't make a lot of sense'. I was trying to understand this. Of course, I know that some of the things on my page (chiefly things that other people post) she chooses to ignore, (due to their risqué nature...) but for the most part I think I try to post things that are clever or funny or profound or just completely moronic. So, we started analyzing.

"Niff Lankenau will use her powers for good, and for awesome."
Mom: Ok, I don't get that.
Me: Hey! Who wouldn't want to use their powers for awesome! Besides, it's from Strong Bad.
Mom: What the hell is Strong Bad?
Me: It's an online cartoon thing...

"Niff Lankenau ‎7:31, press return."
Mom: Ok, now what's that one?
Me: It's from the movie 'Pi', where -
Mom: Ok, just stop right there...

(From here I will paraphrase)

Niff Lankenau is not water soluble.

Niff Lankenau has decided that "lol" is her new "comic sans".

Niff Lankenau ‎1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233 377 610 987 1597...

Niff Lankenau was tagged in a refrigerator crisper drawer. And it hasn't been emptied in a very, very long time.

Niff Lankenau wishes Jack would figure out his internal organs and shutup already.

These are the types that my friends would find amusing and respond to, because we're part of a very odd and peculiar counterculture, but which causes my mother to look at me and think she has no idea who I am. It's ok. I'm a spy for Generation X. I'd tell you who I was, but then I'd have to kill you. By tying a plaid flannel shirt around your neck and strangling you to the tune of "Smells Like Teen Spirit".

;) <-- Official emoticon.

Voulez voulez vous what's on your mind?

No confusion about the irony here.

2010-08-11T17:24:00.000-07:00

I live across the street from a food bank.

Now, when say I live across the street from a food bank, I live across the street from the Cherry Street Food Bank. The Cherry Street Food Bank is the single largest and most popular food bank in all of Seattle. It also happens to be located near the Crazy Hospital. The one with metal detectors in the lobby and x-ray machines in the entrances. I live in Madness Central.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays are the party days. All the cool kids go on these days, because that's when they have sandwiches and pre-packaged meals and warm and toasty goodness, and you're not limited to Top Ramen and cans of string beans. It's like being in with the really awesome camps at Burning Man with kitchens that have microwaves and refrigerators instead of just Clif Bars and Tasty Bites. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays...Cherry Street becomes a very, very busy place pedestrian-wise.

I leave for work, on average, at about 8:00am. The favorite waiting spot for a particular gaggle of Chinese women is the front steps of my apartment building. Now, this is *my* building. I live here. I pay rent. Yet as I attempt to wade through their hunched over, impatient little bodies as they cackle to each other in Chinese, they glare up at me and hiss in their native tongue, as if I have the vaguest idea as to what insults and profanities they're hurling at me. They wiggle and grunt and shove their shoulders and elbows at me, pissed that I'm in their way. Seriously, ladies...I fucking LIVE here. I want to kick them. Badly. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. They're so old and small I could drop-kick them into Cherry Street. Just because they're less fortunate and hungry does not give them cause to hiss and spit at me for trying to leave my building. Sometimes I pretend I've forgotten something just so I have to go back into my apartment and wade through them again not just once, but twice. I've been tempted to trip and fall on them. Bloody hell.

Now today...

Walk up to my building. And I notice. Someone has set up residence.

He looks quite pleased with himself...a couple backpacks, some shoes, random bits of clothing. He'd obviously come from aforementioned food bank as strewn about him in a semicircle were various food wrappers, plastic utensils, a couple beer cans (I'm certain Northwest Harvest has not taken to dispensing alcohol as of yet...), and with what teeth he had left, was intermittently munching on what looked to be some sort of sandwich, though he had to sort of "gum"-it, as he had few teeth left, and gulping mouthfulls of "Icehouse" beer. Oh, and mumbling incoherently to himself.

Now, I'm not one to judge the plights of others. We all find ourselves in less than ideal circumstances, they suck, misfortune falls upon some and not others, etc etc. But when they dump their plight all over the front steps of my apartment building when there is plenty of room on the nearby lawn across the street, or even under the I-5 overpass across 7th Avenue...then we have a problem.

I realize soon enough that making my way past this gentleman to get into my building wasn't going to be the problem. Getting myself and my dog out of the building for Doppler's nightly constitutional was going to be the real challenge, due to two factors: Doppler's love of 1) food and 2) people.

As we left the double doors to the building, the gentleman shied away, assuming Doppler was going to engulf his cranium in one mouthful, which unfortunately I have been unable to train him to do as of yet. Instead, he wagged his tail like a drunken fool in an attempt to elicit a pet from our unpleasantly scented guest. This was a fail, all Doppler managed to accomplish was some twitching and mumbling from our uninvited stoop decoration. I led my dog down the steps to the shrub across the sidewalk which is the official first stop on the nightly tree-marking regimen and he elegantly hiked his leg and went about his business. On a tree. Which is where he is supposed to be going.

This is where the irony kicks in.

As Doppler is taking care of his business, this person, in clothing that hasn't seen soap in months, a beard filled with droplets of beer and mayonnaise, a mouth full of rotted teeth, a stench unlike anything I'd caught walking past the dumpsters alongside the building, looks at my dog, and mutters through his toothless gums,

"That's disgusting!"

This is where my brain began to fold in upon itself a bit, and as I slowly turned my head to glare at him, all I could manage was,

"You prefer your feet over the shrub, then?"

I can only assume his brain gave up because all he could manage was some twitching and a few savage grunts. Doppler and I haughtily took off down the sidewalk to continue around the block. When we made our way back to the steps, our dinner guest was frantically packing up his belongings, peering at us out of the corner of his eye. As we made our way back up the steps I permitted Doppler enough slack on his leash to make the fragrant vagrant just a bit uncomfortable. It amused me.

Now please don't get me wrong. Like I said, I do not judge the less fortunate. I do, however, get irritated at those who camp on my steps and act like I am the inconvenience, then insult my dog. Then the gloves are off.

The Chinese women are next. They go off on me one more time...I'm bringing Doppler out later than usual. Might even let him lick their faces.

Voulez-voulez-vous...um...shit. I have no voulez-voulez-vous today. Wow.

i like to think of jesus as a mischevious badger.

2010-08-04T13:16:00.000-07:00

The story so far:

There are algae in my Brita pitcher.

I inadvertently uploaded every song on my hard drive onto my iPod so at the moment it is spewing forth a great deal of rubbish.

The printer is on a hiatus while my co-worker is trying to print out payroll so he, too, is spewing forth a great deal of rubbish.

Laundry must be done today as I was reduced to wearing hiking clothes to work.

The phone is incessantly ringing with sales calls which I instantly put on hold and let sit unattended to, no doubt causing the sales reps to question their career choices.

In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move.

I keep sneezing. And it’s not even Thursday yet.

I may have to take Doppler to the dog park today. If I don’t, I fear his cabin fever might take hold to such an extreme he’ll go all Menendez-brothers on me and the landlord will find him feasting on my rotting flesh with Petri laughing maniacally in the background.

Ok. That was a bit messed up.

Sneezing again. Still not Thursday.

Continuing to overuse sentence fragments for effect.
(Oooh...perhaps some parenthetical statements for good measure…and some ellipsis for pizzazz…!)

We need to take the blog away from me now. I’m going so far as to abuse verb tenses.

Voulez-voulez-vous a vouler tu nous sommes moi vous? Merde.

This must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.

2010-07-22T11:57:00.000-07:00

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Voulez-voulez-vous Happy Pi Approximation Day

No more space.

2010-07-12T18:56:00.000-07:00

I am writing this on a new keyboard, since last night I clumsily overturned a bowl of miso broth on my original keyboard. (Dammit.) Surprisingly, the only thing that seemed (initially) affected was the space bar. SoIendeduptypinglikethis. Several expletives were uttered.

Thanks to many friends with many computers I was able to procure a replacement, albeit a Dell keyboard and not even close to coordinating with the pristine white of my Mac and it's accompanying mouse. There's no way I can invite people over now.

Doppler is staring out the window again. Looking for CAT. CAT has now become this annoyingly persistent saga. Spraying water in CAT's face no longer deflects CAT. Doppler barking: no effect. Must find CAT solution. Because as it stands, it's a 0-0 tie between Doppler and CAT, with 99% of altercations involving standoff in which Doppler has his paws on the windowsill, growling menacingly, and CAT on the landscaping logs, with a crazed, wild-eyed gaze, back arched in a manner not unlike a Slinky in the arc position. And then it's as if someone hits 'pause' on the DVD. Until I bang on the window to upset their strange domesticated-animal-seance or I close the blinds, which results in Doppler walking about in circles, whimpering...pining for his one and only love/hate relationship. He doesn't believe me when I tell him it would never work; the whole dog/cat dichotomy, CAT being from the wrong side of the tracks and seemingly harboring a deep hatred of his species. I can't be too harsh on the old boy. I've seen people fight tooth-and-nail for much more complicated relationships.

Admittedly, he's still easier than a kid. I can leave him alone in the apartment all day and not go to prison. Pure win.

Though we've got to work on the underwear-stealing issue.

VoulezvoulezvousIneedspace.

Somebody has a case of the Mondays.

2010-07-06T11:26:00.000-07:00

I'm not altogether sure why I (as well as several friends of mine) were given Monday, July 5th as a holiday from work. My assumption is that due to Independence day falling on a Sunday, the injustice of not getting an extra day work-free was just too overwhelming for our over-worked employers, thus a three-day weekend was in order. Had the 4th fallen on a Tuesday, the same considerations would not have been made. At least I don't remember that ever having been the case. At any rate, as a result I had all of yesterday to do with as I pleased.

Well, not necessarily as I pleased.

As most of my weekend had been spent with friends and just general running about I had failed to notice the disheveled state of my apartment. Having no such activities planned for Monday, and knowing I had to work on masks for the Steampunk Festival for the upcoming weekend, the idea of cloistering myself in my unkempt apartment for hours on end while sitting amidst the chaos was not ideal. So. Dishes, laundry, etc etc.

Then Doppler started barking incessantly at the window. What the hell. Investigate.

Ah.
Notice the complete look of not-terror on the cat's face. This is because, as I observed over the next several hours, this feline was completely unfazed by the obnoxiously loud beast menacingly barking at it through the glass. Not just from my windows, but also from the windows next door, where a rather large Burnese Mountain dog resided.

Cat bounces back and forth among the ivy.
Boingy boingy boingy.

The dogs react predictably. "ARGHARGHARGHARRRRHHHH!!!!"

Cat pauses, sits. I swear to god it fucking smiled at them.

This proved exceedingly annoying when I was trying to do fine detail work on the aforementioned masks, and in a moment of highly focused silence Doppler launches into his full-blown canine tirade, I jump, the paintbrush shoots off, and triage is required.

I began to look for heavy objects around the apartment to hurl at the cat.

Thankfully I did have dinner plans that evening with a friend of mine so I was able to escape the randomly noisy seclusion for at least a few hours. Dressed, put shoes on, grabbed sunglasses, bid farewell to the dog, flipped off and yelled obscenities at the cat, and headed for the wine bar.

Lovely evening ensued with good wine, good food, good conversation. At the end of the evening, we headed towards my apartment. As we drove past my building, we noticed a Seattle PD cruiser in front and the main door propped wide open.

Terrific.

Parked the car, cautiously strolled up to my building where, oddly, there was no one to be found.

Then I happened to notice the droplets of blood on the tile in front of the door to my building.

Terrific.

Maintaining caution, trepidatiously approaching my unit (which is midway down the first floor), I slowly unlocked and opened the door, ensuring that Doppler was still alive and breathing. Check. Ok. My place seemed to be in order, at least. As Seattle's finest was still on property, and nothing seemed amiss with my apartment, my guest bid farewell and I hurriedly locked the door behind him explaining to Doppler that his walk would have to wait until morning.

After some time had passed, I decided to check the hallway and see if the officer had returned to his vehicle. Indeed he had. And he had already left.

It was then I noticed some pieces of paper taped to the door. Despite my apprehension at leaving my apartment, my impulse control failed and I walked to the doors anyway. The small, robins-egg blue post-it caught my attention first:

"Do not touch door handle -

Blood!

I looked down at the door handle.

Terrific.

Then over at the yellow sheet of legal paper.

"Do not use door - handle has blood on it".

Yeah, I got that.

Thus my mind began conjuring up all of the endless possible scenarios of what occurred in my building that evening (murder, assault, rape, robbery, slaughter with an axe...). I checked the Seattle PD blotter online but alas no information was provided for my location for that evening.

Sleep was difficult. When I finally did nod off, I was awoken at 2:00 am by Doppler vomiting all over the carpet.

Terrific.

This morning, I was able to reach an officer at one of the precincts and was given a brief rundown of the previous evening's events.

"Robbery, 2nd floor, suspect cut open hands, fled scene bleeding (obviously). No arrests, still at large."

Voulez-voulez-vous...

Terrific.

Summary.

2010-06-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

It goes something like this.

Voulez-voulez-vous...

Some things never change.

2010-06-29T14:05:00.001-07:00

Perusing my old college's Visual Arts and Technology page, I noticed they had their 2010 Student Juried Exhibition online. This is often one of my favorite pastimes, since I am able to witness how little the curriculum has changed since my attendance. This is due to the same instructors teaching the same classes semester after semester, apparently never tiring of seeing the same output of product. Nowhere is this more evident than the following.

Observe:

This is a piece I did for my 1998 2-dimensional design class, called a "Shape to Form" problem. Media: acrylic. 12"X12". Instructor: Tom Willome. 1998 Juried Student Exhibition.

Twelve years later:
One Mr. Jesus Serratos. 2010 Juried Student Exhibition, 2-Dimensional Design. Shape to form Problem. Media: Digital Print. (Cheater). Dimensions: 10"X9". Instructor: Tom Willome.

I rest my case.

Though it probably took Mr. Jesus Serratos a total of 45 minutes to complete his assignment wheras mine, more like nine hours. Craftsmanship, people. Process. These are principles which rule my world.

Voulez-voulez-vous maximum technical effort results in maximum visual output. Niff's principle #1.

Massively eclectic Sunday.

2010-06-28T14:53:00.000-07:00

This is the interior of St. James Cathedral, just a stone's throw from my new place and the home of the Archdiocese of Seattle (the cathedral, not my new place). If I knew what an Archdiocese was, I could tell you. As it stands, you'll just have to Wikipedia it, or phone the Pope.

Each day as I walk past this architectural giant I crane my neck so as to take in the elements that make it so stunning, sometimes cutting through the courtyard in order to listen to the fountains and gaze at the marble sculptures.

Alas, I'd never seen the inside.
Ironically, on my way home from the Gay Pride Weekend festivities on Sunday, I am confronted by the peals of the bells of St. James as I pass by, and to my utter delight the doors happened to be open, the bells no doubt a "last call" to parishioners to get their asses inside.
I pass by churchgoers, making my way to the large, bronze-cast doors to get a peek into the nave of this oft-admired structure, alas it is obscured by the large, rose-marble columns flanking the interior. I try the opening on the other side. Damn. It occurs to me to take a few steps onto the threshold, but my fear of being struck down by fire and brimstone gives me pause. I climb down the portico steps in solemn defeat.

Then halt.
Then think.
Then about-face...
Think some more.
Then inwardly giggle.

As I ascend the steps back towards the entrance, the short, roundish, smiling usher who watched me peek in earlier gestures me inside, a knowing look of amusement on his face. Now, mind you, I hadn't been in a church since May of 1996, the day of my ill-fated nuptials. Mostly due to the fact that, despite my fixation with secular architecture, I do not identify myself as Christian, so attending church services seemed pointless and until now, didn't appeal to my wicked, hedonistic, foul-mouthed self. But I wanted to see the interior, dammit. And this seemed the most logical and efficient way of going about it.

Growing up, my family identified themselves as Baptist. Went to Sunday school some as a child, nothing exceptional. We stopped going because though my mother believed in God, she did not believe in religion. Which was just fine by me as I found church to be exceedingly boring and sometimes thought I was being dragged along as punishment for something.

Having infiltrated St. James as a non-Christian and thus a non-Catholic, I thought it best to hide in the back row of pews lest I be found out. I was completely unfamiliar with the ritual and protocol, my only urge being to bust out my sketchbook during the service. However, the Catholics make this impossible as every five minutes you are standing, sitting, kneeling, standing again...I felt as if I had signed up for an aerobics class. That and I wasn't sure how my doodling in church would be received, and I didn't want to be kicked out. Not that they would have, mind you, but like I said, unfamiliar with protocol. And though I'm not a bible-thumper I do know that doodling in church is not one of the seven deadly sins. Thanks to that Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt flick.

The interior was massively beautiful, screaming of a Romanesque Neo-Classical Renaissance hybrid that I admit choked me up for a moment. I spent most of the service looking up instead of at the preacher-guy, noticing details like the Corinthian capitals, instead of having rosettes between the scrolls, had cherub faces with wings, a detail I tried to capture with my camera phone later but failed miserably due to lingering battery power. The chanting and singing was beautiful, however...made the impact of the environment completely surreal. It amazes me what faith can inspire in art and architecture.

I passed on the stroll up to the altar for the wine and cookies bit, feeling like a complete poser and again fearing the fire and brimstone aspect. I did enjoy the shaking hands with my pew-mates and the exchanging of the "peace be with you"'s, even receiving a hug from an elderly woman who was suffering from a L'Air du Temps overdose.

I put a big, hefty fiver in the collection plate, showing my gratitude for being allowed in to admire the place and I figured it was cheaper than a movie, even if I did pass on the free wine. After the service was over (and the 50th "let the lord be with you" "and also with you") they let me hang out and take several photos with my rapidly-dying camera.

I must confess that I did pause in my gawking long enough to listen to the sermon, which, even though littered with scripture, was ironically applicable to this phase in my life and got me thinking about certain things a bit...which caught me completely by surprise. Who'd a thunk it. I go to church for the architecture and come away with a message.

Don't think I'm converting or anything. Hell no. I like sinning too much.

Voulez-voulez-vous forgive me father...

The Official Birthday Blog

2010-04-16T10:55:00.000-07:00

To commemorate Niff.Dot's 5th birthday, I give you: "The Best Of". Well, "The Best Of" in my biased opinion.

Here is a list of links with a brief description.
Clickety those that catch your fancy.

December 12, 2005
The Leaf Blower Series
My observations on the futility and inconveniences of the ubiquitous leaf blower.
Part I
Part II.

November 2005
My frined Naiah dubbed these "Surreal Poetry". I've linked them
Here
and
Here.

October 2007
Organs in a Bag
The tale of a woman on the bus transporting human innards. True story.

September 2007
Cigarette Stonehenge
Photo Entry. Self-explanatory.

February 2007
Capslock Wednesday
This upset a few people.

December 2008
Desktop Love
When pomegranates go wrong.

August 2008
The Penny Chronicles:
Part I
Part II
An examination of the value of U.S. currency.

And, last but not least:

July 2008
The Haiku Collective.
A demonstration of my mind-control abilities.

Voulez-voulez-vous share and enjoy.

Happy Birthday!

2010-04-16T06:43:00.000-07:00

Niff.Dot is a whole FIVE years old today! I'm so proud. I'll write more later, maybe even with some "best of" recaps because I'm just that kind of egomaniac. I just wanted to wish Niff.Dot a happy birthday straight away because it's sensitive and well, I'd never hear the end of it if I'd forgotten. The elaborate post comes later because if you'll notice the post time, it's 6:45 in the bloody morning and I'm trying to get ready for work.

Voulez-voulez-vous yes. This is unadulterated geekdom.

Bane of my existence, thy name be Rose Window.

2010-04-09T08:40:00.000-07:00

Yes. I have written about this before. Yes, I will write about this again. I think I began this monstrosity somewhere around 2007. With a giant "X" on the canvas and a dot in the center. It's disheartening, the lack of progress that has been made in such a lengthy span of time. I doubt I'll finish it before I meet my untimely end in a meteor shower, or a train wreck, or a swarm of diseased pelicans. Which is unfortunate, because it's challenging to sell an unfinished painting unless you were at your creative peak sometime around the 1400's and were funded by someone with the last name of Medici. I think I missed the window on that one.

So year after year I periodically pick and poke at this canvas, visiting it when I feel the need (usually times of stress or emotional strain) upon which I have to go rummaging around my supplies in search of my vast collection of black and white inks, wee brushes, and pen nibs. When you haven't touched such things in several months and have also moved house in such time, this can prove to be a daunting task. I have found myself wont to give up at times like these and simply purchase new supplies.

My timing...impeccable.

Blick Art Supplies finally opened a store right on Broadway and Pine.

This pleases me.

The type of work I do, both in paintings and in masks, requires an intense amount of detail, a very tiny brush, and a steady hand. Acrylic paint? Trying to get the desired effect with acrylic paint is akin to flossing with knitting yarn. And yes, just as painful. Acrylic paint tends to glob on the canvas, wrap around the brush as you're painting...flow release is no help.

Acrylic ink...ah, now that's the melody. Graceful, flowing, opaque...synchronizes harmoniously with my vast collection of size 00 sable brushes. Unfortunately, the only art supply store (until recently) in my city houses a paltry supply of virtually everything I need save for brushes. It has been a frustrating four years of being an architecturally-obsessed artist living on Capitol Hill.

But now, oh my...
My initial visit to Blick yesterday. Opening day. Made a bee-line for the drawing supplies aisle. And Oh...the beauty, the splendor...the choir of angels that poured down from the heavens...

I thought to myself, "They will do well here..."

To add to the bliss of the situation, I learned upon my arrival at the check-out counter that the prized inks I clutched so eagerly in my hands were buy two, get one free.

Shit.

So back I went. Which proved to be dangerous as I had to pass an extensive collection of graphic pens, of which I have more than is considered natural or healthy. I won't comment on whether I took any home or not that day. Irrelevant. I grabbed a few more bottles of ink, threw on my mental blinders, my resolve unfaltering, ignoring the beckoning canvases, the seductive shellacs, the ridiculously unnecessary sketchbooks, and resumed my place in line, willing it to move quickly to remove me from temptation.

And...despite my doubts, I survived. For less than $50.00.

And I am now equipped to pick and poke at the 4'75" X 5' bane of my existence for another fifteen minutes or so.

Voulez-voulez-vous bane of my existence, thy name now be Blick.

Don't try to one-up me on crazy Part II

2010-03-31T10:12:00.000-07:00

So.

The pizza-seeking panhandler and Boon and I parted ways, he (presumably) off to fetch some of Hot Mama’s goods and Boon and I to…to...well to be honest I don’t remember. Some bar somewhere. After strolling down Broadway for a bit Boon decided she needed some cigarettes. So we popped into Rite-Aid for this purpose and on the way to the cancer-stick section we were distracted by the Easter Aisle. (Heh. Easter Aisle.)

As we perused the blue glitter silly putty, the cracked-out looking chocolate bunnies…lamenting over merchandise which could have massively contributed to the epic Peep Massacre 2010…Boon momentarily excused herself to purchase her intended item. She returned abruptly.

“Niff…”

“Yeah?” I said, as I examined a pair of glittery pink bunny ears.

“I want you to stay right…here.”

I looked up.
“…what?”

“Just let it go. Just stay here…a minute.”

This is where suspicion set in.

"Boon.”

Boon was trying very, very hard not to laugh. Boon was trying very, very hard to get me to stay where I was.

“He’s out there, isn’t he.”

No reply.

“Niff – “

“Boon…I got this.”

I made my way out of the Easter Aisle and lo and behold. The Pizza Panhander was at the head of the line, sans pizza, causing a drugstore logjam as he scrounged around his knapsack for the last bit of change he needed to buy a pack of menthols.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I believe I’m going to mess with him. Again.”

Boon started laughing, shaking her head at me, wondering, I’m sure, how long this lunacy was going to continue.

I made my way to the head of the line and positioned myself behind him, far enough so he wouldn’t detect my presence, but close enough so when he about-faced a confrontation would definitely occur.

Which is exactly what happened.

He turned, startled that someone was standing there, looked up slowly, then recognition and simultaneous terror slowly crept across his face. All I said, in a low voice, was:

“BOO”.

And he scurried as fast as possible out of the store, to the confusion and curiosity of the other Rite-Aid patrons.

I thought Boon was going to piss herself. I thought I was going to piss myself.

And that’s it, that’s the end of the story. Well, except for our walking down Pine and some other guy asking me for a dollar and my poor impulse control kicking in:
“NO! Because you’re all LIARS!” and storming off.

There’s probably some secret panhandler APB alert with my picture on it circulating around the Hill with the express instructions to stay the hell away from me because I’m bat-shit insane.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it.

Voulez-voulez-vous the end.

Don't try to one-up me on crazy Part I

2010-03-30T09:56:00.000-07:00

It goes something like this:

Because of a small genetic mishap with my kidneys, animal proteins aren’t really a part of my dietary regimen any longer. Long story, not really very interesting, and the pertinent details have now been established.
As this medical snafu was revealed to me about three months ago, I am still coming to grips with having to let go of certain things. Rare steak, hamburgers, chocolate ice cream, pizza…

Pizza.

I am convinced Capitol Hill, Seattle has more pizza joints per capita than any other city area I can imagine, except maybe Chicago or New York. I am willing to admit that this is because I am denied the culinary delight they produce and the heavenly aroma wafting from their open doors creates small fissures of ache in my heart every time I walk down the sidewalk.
Case in point: Mama’s Pizza. 700 East Pine Street.

I pass this establishment almost daily on my walk home from work, around 4:45 – 5:00 pm. Prime pizza-noshing hour. The torment is this: the way the facility is set up, not only do you get to catch a whiff of their menu when you come around the corner, but you get to see them making it, selling it, and then the counters are attached to the windows where people can stand, eating their large, greasy, flopped-in-half slices of pepperoni and sausage supreme supported on weak paper plates. Sometimes you even have to weave around patrons on the sidewalk as they pack their faces…it’s like a war zone. So as you can imagine I have made a mental note of Mama’s Pizza, 700 East Pine Street. And I have, to the chagrin of some of my friends, made them aware of my making a mental note of Mama’s Pizza, 700 East Pine Street.

I told you that story to tell you this story.

Random Friday evening, Boon and I are on Broadway in the vicinity of Pine when we are approached by a shortish, roundish, African American man who immediately engages in the official Capitol Hill Panhandler’s Spiel.

Boon and I immediately engage in the Official Capitol Hill Denizen Panhandler's Spiel Shrug-Off Stroll.

“Hey, you got any change, just a couple quarters, so I can get a bite to-“

“No, sorry.” Walk, walk walk.

“Come on, anything will help, ya know, just anything, maybe I could get a bag of…”

Walk, walk, walk.

“Maybe even you got a dollar, I could get a piece of pizza, ya know, go around the corner, ya know, Hot Mama’s Pizza…get a-“

Niff.Stop.

This is where Boon steps up. Because she knows.

“Niff…Niff, let it go.”

No way.

“Boon…I got this.”
I turn to the panhandler.

“What?”

A glimmer of joy spreads across his face.

“I- I said I could maybe get a piece of pizza…at Hot Mama’s. You know where that is? It’s just down on-“

“Oh, I know where it is.”

I reach into my bag and grab a dollar. He looks hopeful. And slightly bewildered.
I hold the dollar up and prepare my tirade. A tirade fueled by anger at genetic destiny and two vodka sodas on an empty stomach.

“Now.” I said. “I am going to give you this dollar. But you have to listen to me before I give it to you.”

Boon sighs behind me and I'm quite certain she's rolling her eyes.

“Yes’m, ok, I’ll listen…”

“I can’t have pizza. I found out three months ago that my kidneys are shot and because of that I can’t have things like pizza anymore. And every day…

(Here I proceeded to go into the rant I entered into above. And as I did so I also happened to notice he was intermittently casting nervous glances at Boon…probably because as I was telling it I was doing so in a rather paternal-lecturing manner complete with hand gestures and squinty eyes…)

"…so, since you said you wanted money for pizza, you are going to take this dollar, and you are going to go get pizza since you can have it and I can’t. And you are going to enjoy it and you are going to be grateful. Are we agreed?”

“Yes ma’am! I promise!”

“Ok then.” I place the dollar into his gloved hand. Slowly. While staring at him out of the corners of my eyes.

“I’ll know if you don’t!” I figure honestly through paranoia is a good tactic.

“I promise! I’ll go get pizza!” He's backing away...slowly...like you do when you're not sure if a dog is going to bite your leg off or not.

As Boon and I walk off I turn around and point from my eyes to him in an “I’m watching you!!” gesture, to complete the monumental hilarity of the scene and the terrifying impact I wished to have upon this poor man.

Boon: “Niff. You scared the shit out of that guy.”

“I thought I was being funny…”

“I think he’s crying on his way to Hot Mama’s Pizza.”

“Yeah, but he’s getting pizza dammit.”

Part II comes later. Because as it turns out, he didn’t get pizza. And I busted his ass.

Two vodka sodas on an empty stomach folks.

Voulez-voulez-vous to be continued.

Peep Massacre 2010

2010-03-05T10:15:00.000-08:00

Voulez-voulez-vous happy Easter.

bedtime bad back BlackBerry blogging.

2010-01-25T21:33:00.000-08:00

This will be brief. And definitively uninteresting. I'm stuck in my bed with killer back pain and thought I'd try blogging from my phone. But as typing is somewhat challenging on this device this idea is rapidly losing its appeal. So much so that I'm bailing now. A bientot.

Voulez-voulez-vous sausage fingers.

A cup of tea would restore my normality. — Douglas Adams

2010-01-21T11:14:00.001-08:00

So long as it involves lemon.

With the weather being so agreeable for once I’ve been able to resume my “Walking to Work” regimen. I was getting a bit lazy and had begun driving to work every day. Drive to work, sit on my ass all day, drive home, sit on my ass all evening. Makes for a larger ass.

This needed to be fixed.

Getting back into it, however, has developed into some rather serious shin splints. They’ll dissipate with time. It’s a four-mile trek round-trip that, with headphones and appreciation for Capitol Hill, makes for a pleasant albeit lengthy stroll. Although somehow, in defiance of natural law, Denny seems to be uphill no matter what direction you’re traveling. East, west, it’s all uphill. It’s a freak of city planning.

The addiction to my cell phone continues unabated. But the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I can conquer this on my own, I don’t think self-help books or support groups will be necessary.

I need to learn code. I’m starting to study CSS basics. I need to increase my knowledge base. Perhaps now that I have this mask-making gig, I can afford some classes. This mask making gig has made me rather motivated in several facets of my life. I think it’s because for the first time, I feel validated and appreciated. For my art, of all things. Which is pretty goddamn significant.

Strange things are afoot in my work neighborhood. Strange things are always afoot in my work neighborhood. This time it happened to be a human being hauled out of the low-income housing apartment complex in a body bag yesterday morning. The city medical examiner and four police cars were attending to the situation. Animal control stopped by shortly thereafter to remove a couple of (what looked like) cats. I felt sad for the cats. I have this odd affliction where I tend to be more affected by animals experiencing misfortune than I do people. Most of the time it’s because people create their own misfortune, so it’s difficult for me to feel sorry for them. Animals are affected by circumstances beyond their control. My heartstrings are tugged when I see an emaciated kitty wandering around the neighborhood or an obviously neglected pooch on the loose. Which is how Doppler came to be the current love of my life. When asked if I have a boyfriend, I reply, “no, I feel one dog in my life is enough right now…”.

Hehee. Ouch.

Ah! It’s 11:11. I rule the universe for the next 60 seconds. Go fetch me a shrubbery.

Voulez-voulez-vous Ni!

I don't really come from outer space.

2010-01-19T08:32:00.000-08:00

I have successfully become one of those smart-phone junkies that I once mocked and somewhat despised.

I can't help it...it's so beautiful!

I, shamefully, was indeed chatting on my phone on my walk to work. I check my Facebook status updates...watch YouTube videos...I even took it with me to the bathroom once. I'm not sure what the long-term effects of this will be; it may lead to a complete and total removal from all non-digital human interaction. I'll be like Barkley in that one episode of Star Trek TNG where he integrated himself into the computer's mainframe and seized control of the Enterprise. I suspect I'll be controlling the Earth's satellites soon.

Doppler hates the new gadget. I'm playing Word Mole instead of playing with him. I expect him to try and devour it at some point. He's neither patient nor subtle..

The honeymoon period will soon wear off...at least I'm hoping. That's if it doesn't shoot a coaxial cable out of it's bowels and into my brain and use my body as an instrument of evil. I just had a flash of South Park where Cartman's body was overtaken by his Trapper Keeper and he morphed into a giant, all-consuming mound of lumpy flesh which slouched about devouring anything in his path. Bad pie...bad pie...

I've been annoying all of my friends I'm sure...I think I've been excessively texting in my desire to play with my new toy. "Hey, my shoes are muddy!", "I have an inflatable rubber cowboy...". "What's your favorite non-dairy product?".

I'm awaiting restraining orders.

I'm surprised I'm not writing this from the damn thing. Though I must confess the typing isn't as efficient and I feel like I have sausage fingers. Typos are abundant.

Gotta run...I just got an alert on my phone.

Voulez-voulez-vous TechnoJunkie

Karma finally kicks in.

2010-01-18T10:30:00.001-08:00

So, last Friday I took my masks to the costume shop (A Masquerade) as scheduled. After waiting for about 20 minutes for the manager to appear, I opened the plastic tub containing my wares. Unexpectedly, they were received with much squealing and and giddiness. She was so thrilled and amazed by the amount of work and detail I put into them. I was positively blown away; I had seen masks on their wall that I considered to be far more impressive than mine, however she regarded them as being “completely unique” and “stunning”, and exclaimed that she would be honored to have them in her shop. I was then giddy and squealing. After discussing how we would price them (she was FAR less conservative than I) she plugged them into an Excel spreadsheet to calculate what my cut would be.

She handed me a check for $1450.00.

$1450.00???. I had to steady myself on the counter.

So, it looks like I will be selling my masks in her shop and on the website as well. This is amazingly exciting.

I now have a cubic butt-ton of work to do.

Voulez-voulez-vous the sweet smell of success.

work work work.

2010-01-14T09:32:00.000-08:00

The cleaning staff here at work threw my not-yet-empty box of Special K away. Sad.
At least they left the blackberries.
They were probably disgruntled because yesterday, Casey, the valet manager, received these huge signs for posting outside of restaurants, bars, etc. These signs came in very large boxes. These very large boxes contained a very large amount of Styrofoam. Upon removal of aforementioned signs, the Styrofoam began to disintegrate, leaving tiny white beads of messy puffiness all over the office floor. All over the floor. I neglected to photograph the situation to my dismay. I didn’t think I’d be writing about it…
So, every square inch of office floor was littered with tiny little shreds of Styrofoam. Like snow. So, like I said, upon discovery of the task awaiting them, the cleaning staff probably threw out my cereal in a form of protest.

I completed another mask last night, which I’m pleased about, because it means that I can create a mask from start to finish in 3-5 hours. I’m pleased by this increase in efficiency. I was distracted, however, by the old home video I discovered while looking for art supplies. It was from 1985, and my grandmother had given it to me some time ago. I hadn’t yet watched it because, really, who owns a VCR anymore? Fortunately my housemate does, and since she is on vacation I thought she wouldn’t mind my borrowing it for my nostalgia binge. I had forgotten how buck-toothed I was (in 1990 I hit a dog on my bike, flew over the handlebars, and broke off said teeth. Blessing in disguise – I then had nicely shaped porcelain replacements.). My mother had the huge, perm white girl afro thing going on…my brother was 5 years old and sounded like a girl. Good stuff, that.

I think the next several days of “home by myself” time will be good for productivity. I’ve never been able to make a mask from start to finish in one night without any distractions, unless you count Doppler whacking me with his rope because I’m not paying him any attention. I have some more mask blanks arriving in the mail soon, but I would eventually like to get to the point where I’m making my own paper mache so that the mask is completely my creation. That will take some time and face donors for me to use as molds. What’s cool about that is I can custom-make masks modeled after the person it’s for. But, one step at a time. I have to see if these things will sell before I get too excited. I meet with the shop owner tomorrow so I’ll have a better sense of how successful this could be.

Back to stuffing envelopes for me.

Voulez-voulez-vous W-2’s.

The end is near.

2010-01-13T10:12:00.000-08:00

Fucking hell, how could they? I mean, that's a typographical sin! I feel nauseated. I'm not sure how I can recover from this one. I mean, I've seen some pretty disgusting things in my time, but this is the pinnacle. A "friend" of mine sent me the link to it. I say "friend" because their status as such is now questionable.
Anyone who knows me knows about my "Comic Sans" issues. You can read about them

here

to gain a bit of perspective. What perplexes me is the inappropriate use of this dastardly font.
Now, tell me this...how seriously can you take this? I mean, honestly. I think I’d almost prefer to die of coronary failure. It looks like a practical joke…you apply the paddles and a recorded voice laughs and says, “sucks to be you!”. Comic Sans = trust fail. It does seems to be prevalent in the medical realm, perhaps in order to help people feel less intimidated…I perceive it as an expression of irresponsibility. I would reject services from any facility who used this crime against nature in their signage. Or at an ATM, or a restaurant...or make me question my personal safety if someone broke into my home or had me at gunpoint.
It just screams "we do not take ourselves, or your safety, seriously". Or about whatever it is they're trying to communicate. It's like a plague...seeping into the cultural consciousness like a virus...

Papyrus is running an ever-increasingly close second in my font-hating inventory. I think they're both ganging up on us. I don't know what we need to do to defend ourselves against this typographical tyranny, but I feel it involves copious amounts of Helvetica, Arial, and maybe even a smidge of Times New Roman. Our very lives may depend upon it.

Voulez-voulez-vous

blah blah blah

2010-01-12T10:22:00.001-08:00

Abject fail. My lower back is killing me. I’m getting old. Youth and vitality fail.

My boss is going to give me a damn heart attack. He tends to randomly scream arbitrary phrases, yell at people on the phone…but this happens in the dead of quiet so when it happens, it causes my heart to jump into my throat and pee the floor. I’m going to have a goddamned coronary. He said he was going to sell my dog to the (insert racial slurs here) at the Teryaki restaurant down the street. I told him that wasn't cool and now I’ve been instructed shut up for the rest of the day. I think that will make answering the phone a problem. He then asked me if he had any appointments today. I just stared blankly at him. This was not well received.

Now he’s yelling at someone on the phone…it’s very entertaining. He insults people, instructs them to rot in hell, screams “WHAT??” when he answers the phone, I’m threatened on a regular basis, as well as my dog…I feel like I should wear a helmet to work. His favorite line is, “The end is near”. And everyone is crazy. Except for him. He’s somewhat biased.

Why so angry??

I noticed this morning that Doppler is terrified of my electric toothbrush. I think he’s under the impression it’s attacking my face. He ducks and runs away, whines, sometimes even barks at it. I didn’t realize a toothbrush could be so threatening. This information does come in handy, however…I could use it as a deterrent when he starts scratching up the carpet or jumping on people. That’s something they never suggested in Puppy Kindergarten.

Voulez-voulez-vous…uh, shit. I got nuthin’.

It LIVES!

2010-01-11T22:31:00.000-08:00

www.jenniferlankenau.com

And...a costume shop in Bellevue, A Masquerade, is going to start selling my masks. This is teh hawesome. I'd write more about it, but I've been working on the site and masks all bloody evening and I'm freakin' exhausted. My eyes are going to liquefy if I don't get away from this goddamned monitor. I need a bath. With bubbles.
Doppler's sitting on my bed staring at me. Apparently he's the only guy that wants in my bed.

No time for love, Dr. Jones. I have to get to work so I can be a bazillionaire.

Voulez-vulez-vous html, FTP, CSS, erngh...

2010-01-05T16:02:00.000-08:00

Arachibutyrophobia: Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth.

...

I’m not fond of peanut butter myself, so this is a phobia I’m not particularly concerned with. What I’m curious about is, how did “Arachibutyro” become the root word for peanut butter? I’m sure it has to do with the scientific nomenclature for peanut, or some sort of taxonomic classification. I suppose I can imagine the inconvenience of peanut butter sticking to the roof of one’s mouth, but not so that it causes a cold-sweat inducing panic attack. Skip the Skippy.

Omphalophobia- Fear of belly buttons.
Are you trying to tell me that there were enough people terrified of navels that they had to give it a name? I think it's a bullshit condition but it sounds fabulous.

Walloonphobia- Fear of the Walloons
What the bloody hell is a Walloon? Hold on…consulting…
Walloons (French: Wallons, Walloon: Walons) are a Romance-speaking people partly from Germanic origin and Celtic origin; in any case a melting-pot[1][2][3] speaking French, living in Belgium principally in Wallonia, more generally the inhabitants of Wallonia. They also speak regional languages like Walloon or Picard.

Ok.
Ack! I missed 11:11. Damn.

Ok, less than an hour left. I am quite ready to get out of here.
Think I’ll take the dog for a nice long walk, barring rain. It seems to have tapered off for the moment. But the weather is a lie, so it won’t last. Drizzle drizzle. It’s that somewhat annoying rain, kinda misty…not enough to warrant an umbrella (well, without looking like a pussy) but after being outside for a considerable amount of time, somehow you’ve become quite damp. I wish it would just rain like it meant it. Like, no holds barred torrential downpour...now with more thunder and lightning!

Never trust a driver that has stuffed animals perched in their rear window.
There's a car in the parking lot with fuzzy teddy bears and beanie babies in the rear window. Probably because their house overflowed. Beanie Baby blowout.

26 minutes.
Andrew is eating those small, chocolate covered donuts (it's not chocolate, it's actually a pseudo-chocolate wax-like substance that tastes somewhat foul.) I explained this to him. So he offered me one. I suppose my less-than appetizing description of aforementioned donuts was not clear enough as a donut-deterrent.

I’m really digging the unintentional alliteration happening here.

I have crumbs all over my desk from frosted mini-wheats. In my delusional mind, they're a healthier alternative to the snacking options provided at the nearby mini-mart.
Or chocolate-wax covered donuts.
They leave that waxy film on your teeth. I wonder if there's a phobia for that.

21 minutes.

Fuck all this isn't consuming as much of my remaining hour as I'd like. Maybe I should insert a random picture from the internet or something.

Yep, that's the one. Maybe a meme is necessary here but I have neither the time nor energy to pursue such a creative endeavor. Maybe you can create one. It resembles the "Blubber" woman from the "Bulbous Bouffant" vid on YouTube. Click on image to observe.

Macadamia.

I'm out.

Voulez-voulez-vous mukluks.

Resurrection.

2009-12-31T08:54:00.000-08:00

When I was in college, I worked as a tutor as well as provided a certain amount of tech support (how do I save my paper to my 3.25" floppy?) in the on-campus computer lab. This was some time ago (thinking of how long makes me a bit depressed so I'm not going there) but the two people I remember the most are Norma, the clipboard-wielding lab supervisor/dictator, and Ed. Ed was a fellow lab employee and a great source of entertainment and was just the comic relief I needed to counteract Norma's depressive personality and domineering attitude. Ed was in his mid-to-late 40's, single, lived alone, and only had a couple goldfish for company. I can't remember his last name but that's hardly necessary.

So, I began writing this long, narrative document, pouring onto its computerized pages my thoughts on the world, the annoying students in the lab, how Norma was a walking suicide on a stick...and, of course, Ed's stories about his friends and fish and backhoes. It became somewhat of a pre-blogging era blog. 57 pages of it. The best parts in my opinion were those that included Ed. So I've decided to share.

I give you: Ed.
(This is lengthy. Most of you will probably not read it in its entirety. Those who do will be rewarded with a rubber tree plant.)

Please keep in mind that as I was writing this I myself was not engaging in one non-sequitur after another, this was just how Ed's mind worked...that's just how Ed rolled.

Ed is now over here telling me where to go when I’m in Vegas. Can’t he see I’m busy? I’m surprised he isn’t carrying on about Great Bob of Cibolo Creek. He does this on occasion. There is a story, you know. About Great Bob. And of Cibolo Creek. Now, Great Bob here, Great Bob’s son had a tragic motorcycle accident. Some old woman hit him with a car, crushing the bones in his ankle and shin. (He tells it as if it's some form of folklore yet this happened only last night).

You see, Ed doesn’t want a pickle. He just wants to ride his motorcycle. Ed is a motorcycle cruising kind of guy. Great Bob owns Cibolo Creek. It belongs to him. And Great Bob is a rock artist. He has two houses, and lots of rocks. One house for rocks, one house for Bob. He uses his backhoe to move his rocks about. Great Bob will even rent his backhoe to you for $125/hour. But Ed is special; he can use it whenever he wishes, which is surprising because Great Bob is such a tightwad.

Ah…Mr. Ed is going on again. He wants to buy a submarine. He’s going to learn how to operate one on the internet. Meanwhile, his cats are looking for the Ghost of Woman Hollering Creek. These cats are specially trained to seek this woman out. The creek itself does not holler.

Ed has some more stories. He and his buddy, Carl, of Bile Bay. Now, Carl of Bile Bay is in Guam, between Umatac and Agat Bay. It was a fish. A Napoleon Hump Head Wrasse. Quite a fish indeed. Mr. Ed of Woman Hollering Creek and Carl of Bile Bay were spear fishing. That’s fishing for fish, not fishing for spears. Mr. Ed is quite fond of fishing and during his tour in Nam he had the opportunity to seek out some unusual fish indeed. I myself have never been fishing but this does not diminish from the quality of my life. I have fish in a tank at home, but I do not fish for the fish in it because then I would no longer have fish in my tank, and then just what would I do with all of the frozen brine shrimp in my freezer? Anyway, the Napoleon Hump Head Wrasse is the fish that took Mr. Ed and Carl of Bile bay for a ride. What happened is this: Mr. Ed and Carl of Bile Bay were spearfishin and Ed sees this huge fish…. with teeth! Yes, a fish with teeth. And his name was not Bingo, nor Nix Nein. He was served in the mess hall stuffed with shrimp and covered in coconut milk. The battle to catch the fish was worse than the battle of Iwo Jima.

You make me feel like dancing. Ooh. Ooh wah. Wah wah ooh. Mr. Ed seems to like singing that song quite a bit. I should just write a whole damn book about Mr. Ed. But then I would have to share the royalties with him, with which he would use to buy more cigarettes. Mr. Ed has an affinity for cigarettes and beer. In large quantities.

Okay, about Leo Sayer. Ed says Leo Sayer is out. The Beatles are in. We’re going worldwide with this thing. What’s wrong with Leo Sayer is this: he is an American thing. If you went to Bombay India and gathered together a large group of people and said, “What do you think of the great singing talents of Leo Sayer?” More than likely they would respond with “Leo who? Leo the Lion?” You make me feel like Danicn’…Ooh, ooh wah, wah ooh. I could write an ode to Leo Sayer:

Ode to Leo Sayer
Oh, Leo Sayer,
I do feel sad for you…
If I mentioned you to the Citizens of Bombay
They’d blankly respond, “Leo who?”
Oh, Leo Sayer
Your career is sadly done
The Beatles have ended your fame
With their White Album.
Oh, Leo Sayer
You still do have some fans.
Like Mr. Ed of Woman Hollerin’ Creek
Who when sings, sounds quite bland.
Oh, Leo Sayer
We do not miss you, dear.
For your short time is sadly done…
The Beatle’s time is here!
The End

So Ed says now it’s time for the Beatles, because the Beatles are pretty much known worldwide. If you went to Bombay I’m sure at least one or two people would know who the Beatles were. How bout that? The Beatles are in the spell checker on this computer. Weird.

We must pay our respects to Mr. Ed. Mr. Ed no longer exists. We now have Lari Croft. Lara Croft’s brother. For those who are unfamiliar with Lara Croft she is the star of a series of computer games under the title “Tomb Raider”. Okay, okay – I stand corrected. Mr. Ed is not gone – he has merely assumed a new identity as Lari Croft. Lari and Lara are brother and sister. I would indulge more into their upbringing and childhood however it is highly classified information. Okay, what is an OBE? Ah…Out of Body Experience. Do tell us, Lari, of your OBE’s. Last night, he was summoned by Lara to assist her. It appears that she had become the subject of an attack from banshee monkeys from hell. In lower Zimbabwe. That is not to say that Zimbabwe was hell…the monkeys were only from hell…to continue: Lara had opened a door to a secret crypt (of course) and when she did she was attacked by the BMH’s. (Banshee Monkeys from Hell). So now you must be asking yourself: how did Lari make it down to Zimbabwe, rescue Lara from the BMH’s, then was able to return on time in order to resume his duties as Team Member in the Business Building Computer Lab at UTSA? Back to the OBE thing: lucid dreaming is when you get the proper amount of REM sleep and then participate in lucid dreaming: i.e. your dreams. In OBE’s the spiritual part of your body separates from the physical body and you are attached by an umbilical cord called the astral link. (I must interject: I have NO idea what the hell Ed (a.k.a. Lari) is talking about…). OBE’s are more commonly known as “Astral Projections”. With astral projection you are able to leave your body and fly around the room like Superman. You can go to your neighbor’s house and watch the ole lady take a shower. It’s a new breed of peeping toms. So anyway, Ed – oops – Lari was able to leave his body and fly to Zimbabwe but not without first stopping to have a burger and beer at a roadside tavern. So Mr. Lari Ed flies across vast oceans and distant lands and at long last arrives just in time to save his beloved sister, Lara, from the Banshee Monkeys From Hell. He grabs each one and entraps them in a Mr. Ed Lari Napoleon Hump Head Wrasse headlock and gives them the worst noogie in all of creation, rubbing a long, bald line down the center of their heads. Lara is released, being sure to strike a pose that would make Rolling Stone proud, hops in her Hummer and zooms off into the sunset, leaving poor Mr. Lari Ed to contend with the remaining BMH’s. Personally I would have been rather pissed that the little hussy took off and left me since she’s supposed to be the great hero in this scenario. But alas this is reality in which Mr. Lari Ed must go through the BMH’s one by one leaving a hairless stripe atop their enormous noggins. Mr. Lari Ed then took off into the sky, soaring over hill and dale, returning to his body just as the alarm clock rang. And that is the story of Mr. Lari Ed and the Banshee Monkeys from Hell.
And apparently Mr. Ed had another story that he was holding out on me. About the Weed. The Weed is not a thing, he is a person. A cranky ole bastard for whom Mr. Ed worked when he was still in the military as a loader-planer. Now, whenever someone was looking for something, say, a stapler, when Weed was asked if he had seen it his reply would always be, “If it was up yer ass you’d know where it was!”. The stapler could be sitting right in front of his nose, and he would still reply, “If it was up yer ass you’d know where it was!”. After a time Mr. Ed and his ornery little shit co-workers caught on that Weed would never in his lifetime actually tell them where anything was. It was a hopeless cause. So they decided that instead of getting pissed at his behavior they would use it for their own amusement.
“Hey, Weed…ya seen the keys to the forklift?”
“If it was up yer ass you’d know where it was!”.
“Hey, Weed…ya seen my diaphragm?”
“If it was up yer ass you’d know where it was!”
“Hey, Weed, know where that plate of clams on the half shell are?”
“If it was up yer ass you’d know where it was!”

This one is important:

“Wiggy” is my new word. Spread it around. Use it in every sentence. “Man, that’s wiggy”. 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 crêpes and escargot. Sticking escargot n a Moulinex has to be pretty disgusting. Drinking an escargot milkshake is pretty disgusting. I suppose there are a great many things that would be quite revolting to stick in a food processor.

Voulez voulez voulez-vous escargot.

And there is the story of Voulez Voulez vous. For those who wondered why I ended every blog entry in this fashion.

Ed is going to rat on me. I neglected to clean the wayward staples off of the table. Says he’s going to send me to jail. Normally he merely threatens to call president Romo. President Romo is the president of the university. So I ask him: “why don’t you just call president Romo?”
“I can’t. He’s in jail”.
“Why is he in jail?”
“Drunken disorderly conduct”
“I see…”
“Yeah, he smashed up my rubber plant.”
“Your rubber plant…”
“Yeah, he was at my house, he got drunk, and he went and grabbed my ball peen hammer, and smashed the pot to bits! There was mulch, and dirt, and mud all over everywhere.”
“So now he’s in jail…?
“Yep. He ain’t gonna be smashin no more rubber plants.”

Voulez voulez voulez-vous rubber plant.

Mr. Ed has no more stories for us. No more shenanigans. Only serious business here. Nix Nein Frankenstein.
No more fictitious stories, he says. Not even any true ones. This makes me rather upset. I mean, just what am I supposed to write about if I have no Mr. Ed stories? And do you know why? Do you know why Mr. Ed won’t tell us any more stories? It’s because of Norma. The tyrannical bitch-beast from hell. All because of her. She has been terrorizing the staff any time they so much as even crack a smile, so now poor Mr. Ed feels like he must keep his mouth shut about things such as Napoleon Hump-Head wrasses and Creeks and Great Bobs. I would come up with my own however they wouldn’t have the Mr. Ed flair we have come to know and love.

Voulez voulez voulez voulez-vous tyrannical bitch-beast.

Voulez voulez voulez-vous shenanigans.

Congratulations! You made it. Here's your rubber tree plant.

Voulez voulez vous...voulez voulez vous.

Mostly...

2009-12-26T17:30:00.000-08:00

In the last couple of weeks, conversations, in one way or another, have somehow led me to ask a few people whether they were left or right-handed. However, in each instance, each person had to pause for a moment, think, and say, "I think I'm mostly _____-handed."

"Mostly?" I ask. "As in, you're ambidextrous?"

"Well, not completely, I can't write with my left hand..."

"So you're right-handed..."

"Yes, well...mostly..."

And then it occurred to me...in this technology-driven age, people don't use writing to determine left or right-handed dominance anymore. It seems people don't write all that often these days. Just look at penmanship as a whole...it seems to have deteriorated a bit, and I have friends who have admitted that it is due to lack of practice. I can hardly read a damn thing any of my coworkers write (granted they are men and I have NO problem stereotyping on this one...) and half the time I end up needing them to translate. These little crazy-ass phones are replacing the need for written correspondence, note-taking, journal-keeping (though I'm not one to criticize as I write in my blog but I'll elaborate on this in a moment); we send terms of endearment in Times New Roman and birthday greetings in Comic Sans (Comic Sans! F*cking hell.). We txt, Tweet, email, comment, reply, fwd, cc, bcc...people's lives have become so maddeningly busy, it's all we can muster to maintain our numerous relationships anymore. I'm honestly afraid to get one of these devices, a) because I have an addictive personality and I spend enough time online as it is, and b) the data plan would suck my bank account dry. Most of my friends have these little devices and will be at social events endlessly plugging away on them all night as if they were the Cultural Attaché for China. I confess to a few text volleyballs when I'm at a gathering...but checking email, social networking sites, the weather, their horoscope...honestly. My mom thinks it's just 'guys and their gadgets' but I have female friends that are just as if not more guilty of this. Just look at the number of Facebook status updates that are made via mobile. I think this digitized, hurried, busy universe is why the creators of Facebook hit such a bloody goldmine. It's brilliance is that just by clicking the "Like" button, you are able to say, "Hello! I exist!" to your friends, or "Facebook Friends", in a subtle, dare I say, almost passive-aggressive way...of course when you're one of their 376 "Friends" that may not always work, but for people like me (*ahem*) it's ingenious.

Holy hell I strayed from my topic.

But I'm tired of typing because I like writing and drawing better. Because I'm right-handed. I'll straggle back tomorrow. Maybe.

Voulez-voulez vous iPhone, Blackberry, Droid, AT&T, Verizon, T-Mobile?

Do It Yourself

2009-10-18T15:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-10-12T09:34:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-08T10:37:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-05-29T14:15:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-02-23T11:34:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-18T13:02:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-08T16:21:00.000-08:00

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

voulez-voulez-vous "meme"

moving day

2008-12-29T13:10:00.000-08:00

So, i got my new digs.

Um, ok, so maybe they look exactly like my old digs. They're just 3 cubes further down the row. And far less lonely. =( All my neighbors were casualties of the layoffs and I was the lone survivor for miles and being an extrovert I just couldn't take the solitude!!

The cube to the left is Ed's. Ed has two daughters (hence all of the photos on his file cabinet). Ed's daughters give him a lot of toys and knick-knacks etc. which litter the once-bare surfaces of his cube. Before my relocation, they littered the surface of his shared cubicle walls. I had issue with this. I am not a knick-knack person and I did not want stuffed bumblebees and McDonald's Happy Meal paraphernalia staring down at me while I worked on obituary photos all day. So we compromised. I was grateful.

I was however having a great deal of fun laughing at people who were having mild panic attacks when they reached my old desk. Given the layoffs, when you go to look for someone and find their desk completely bare, the usual assumptions take place and then you begin to wonder who is going to place your employment ad or edit your obituary photo now?? After a few minutes enough remorse had set in that I decided to let them know I had moved, especially since I was helping the new sales reps with employment ads and the brief, momentary panic on their faces was making me feel guilty. I'm wondering if I should send out change of address cards or something, or maybe a cubicle-warming party? Hey! That's ruddy brilliant! I just now came up with that even!
Of course there's always the one's you want to hide from...perhaps I should have sent out a very selective memo in order to exclude those who love to monopolize my time with their problems assuming I have no other responsibilities to attend to. Love that.

And I got my new monitor thanks to my optometrist. Spending hours a day photo editing on an old CRT monitor was making my eyeballs feel like they were being shoved through a Play-Doh extruder.

Math geek humor time.

voulez voulez vous phi

racing turtles, the grapefruit is winning.

2008-12-23T13:32:00.000-08:00

i seriously have to sit here until 4:30.
this is my inbox.

this has been my inbox since 11:17 am.

if there is nothing in my inbox, there is nothing for me to do. eh. i'll do this.

Ed's sitting 3 cubes behind me grumbling that they're not giving us early release. i said well, it's not snowing, it'll be just as dangerous as it was this morning only pitch black...oh wait...scratch that...it'll be more dangerous! oooo...what a way to avoid severance...

(i jest...)

i like candy canes. the peppermint kind.

Phil brought me a pomegranate today. he's always so sweet and thoughtful like that. He gets hugs.

Phil also brought me a small heater for under my desk since i'm always freezing. if he wasn't gay he'd get more than hugs.

i ate too many cinnamon nougats today. It's all Andrews fault.

Jason was my personal hero and gave me a ride into work this morning. now i just need another personal hero to drive me home. hate walking 1.7 miles to and from work in this:

so, that's all ice. nnd those are all stranded Metro buses. it was hilarious. there were more buses abandoned on Madison then at the Metro station. at any rate, slipping around for an hour to get home with a broken tailbone is becoming tiring. my bus route has been suspended so....yah.

it's now 1:55. progress has been made.

my chinchilla is under the assumption that my right hand makes an attractive mate. i must disagree with him on this point. i think family counseling may be necessary.

obstreperous boisterous (ub-STREP-ur-us): Emerson perhaps characterized it best when he said, "Obstreperous roarings of the throat," since the word means "loud and unruly" - and with a lustly, let-'er-rip sound to it.
they were obstreperous in the extreme, partying loudly into the night.

there's this narcissistic, chauvinistic unrelenting flirt in my office whose eyes i want to gouge out with my thumbs. instead i opted for publicly humiliating him when he used to pull his ladies' man bullshit on me. he's since stopped, which makes me sad in a way. men like that need to be knocked down a peg or two. they could use some perspective.

ah, 2:10.

i have way too much shredded coconut in my file cabinet.

ah, stuff in my inbox. bollocks. now i'm all into this and i don't want to do it.

i have to work the day after Christmas, which is a Friday. lame.

who uses the word "rad" anymore? i mean, honestly? (except the aforementioned narcissistic, chauvinistic unrelenting flirt who is concurrently in the throes of a midlife crisis)

i swear to god if Ed doesn't start cheering up and stop talking like he's waiting to die i'm going to knock him out with my big-ass CRT monitor. thanks to all the layoffs he's the only voice in my proximity and i can't keep listening to this Mr. Snuffleupagus voice day in and day out. even my African violet is looking depressed.

the power really needs to go out again so we can end all this nonsense and bugger out of here already. (it was out for almost 3 ours yesterday so they gave up and sent everyone home. of course i had taken the day off and did not get to enjoy such paid liberty; i had to use my vacation hours. grumble)

Toda is a Dravidian language well known for its many fricatives and trills. It is spoken by the Toda people, a population of about one thousand who live in the Nilgiri Hills of southern India.

oh my. the rubberband ball is eyeing the new pomegranate already. sigh. better to have loved and lost etc. etc. i suppose.

this will all end in tears, i just know it.

voulez voulez vous Ed, you'd better duck, man.

meeting Hedda.

2008-12-05T09:39:00.000-08:00

So. I was late to work. Got a wee bit busted for it too.

But the reason I was busted for it was because my excuse was "not valid". I was not late because I missed my bus, or overslept, or was pulled over for a speeding ticket. I was late because on my walk to work I stopped to meet Hedda.

Hedda is a 12-year old yellow labrador owned by a gentleman in his late 60's who is a retired professor of English literature at the University of Washington. I can't recall his name because I have an awful habit of recalling dog's names and not their owner's. I said good morning, asked if I might pet her, then asked her name.

Hedda.

"Do you know why she is named Hedda?" he asks me.
"I don't actually..."
"Hedda was a character in a play of the same name, Hedda Gabler, written in the late 1890's by a man by the name of Henrik Ibsen"
"I see..."
"Are you familiar with the writings of Henrik Ibsen?"
Having never been much of a student of literature, I reply sadly, that I am not.
"Well, allow me to quote: 'You should never put your best trousers on when you go out to fight for freedom and truth!''"
I giggle.
"Does that sound familiar?"
I regretfully shake my head.
He scoffs, "well, why not, young lady?"
At some lame attempt at justification I explain that I am an artist and a student of languages and writing systems and mathematical concepts and as such spend my time on little else...
"Ah..." he interjects..."a renaissance woman. Plenty of room left in that head of yours, and plenty of time left. You should get started."
"Might I start after work? I think I might have some Chaucer at home..." I reply feebly.
"Hmm..." he mused, stroking his beard. "I suppose that's acceptable. Hedda?"

Hedda has been spending the entire conversation with her attention vaguely fixated on the concrete at the base of a tree trunk. She had no opinion either way.

I look at my watch...he noticed.

"I imagine and hope that we will meet again on this sidewalk in the future. I expect you will have some Chaucer to add to that list of marvelous knowledge you have." he says, smiling bemusedly.

"Well, young lady," he says, extending his hand, "I should let you be on your way. It was a pleasure."
"Likewise," I reply, extending it, and he kisses the top of my gloved hand in quite the gentlemanly fashion. He comes from a different time, he does, where women didn't call the police or kick you in the testicles for such a thing.

"You know," he added, "Ibsen's 'Hedda' was known for her 'lust for life'" he said as I turned to leave. "it shows in you as well young lady. Hold onto that, understand?"
I was flattered...mostly because of how odd it was that I had heard just those words from another just the day before.

"Yes, sir!"

And that is why I was late to work.
Apparently experiencing life isn't a valid excuse.

Voulez voulez vous...

Desktop Love

2008-12-03T14:48:00.000-08:00

I left my desk for only a moment to make some tea...

it didn't work out.

Voulez-voulez-vous beware office romances.

Wikipedia Loop

2008-10-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

Beginning the Wikipedia Loop with the remnant of a conversation from potluck last evening:

Polydactyl Cat
A polydactyl cat is a cat with a congenital physical anomaly, with more than usual number of toes on one or all of its paws as a result of a cat body type genetic mutation. In animals including humans, polydactyly (or polydactylism, also known as hyperdactyly) is the anatomical abnormality of having more than the usual number of digits on the hands or feet.

Click “polydactyly”

Polydactyly or polydactylism (from Ancient Greek πολύς (polus) "many" + δάκτυλος (daktulos) "finger"), also known as hyperdactyly, is a congenital physical anomaly consisting of supernumerary fingers or toes. When each hand or foot has six digits, it is sometimes called sexdactyly, hexadactyly, or hexadactylism.
The extra digit is usually a small piece of soft tissue; occasionally it may contain bone without joints; rarely it may be a complete, functioning digit. The extra digit is most common on the ulnar (little finger) side of the hand, less common on the radial (thumb) side, and very rarely within the middle three digits. The extra digit is most commonly an abnormal fork in an existing digit, or it may rarely originate at the wrist as a normal digit does.
Polydactyly can occur by itself, or more commonly, as one feature of a syndrome of congenital anomalies. When it occurs by itself, it is associated with autosomal dominant mutations in single genes, i.e. it is not a multifactorial trait.[1] But mutation in a variety of genes can give rise to polydactyly. Typically the mutated gene is involved in developmental patterning, and a syndrome of congenital anomalies results, of which polydactyly is one feature.

Click “autosomal dominant”

Autosomal Dominance
In genetics, dominance describes the effects of the different versions of a particular gene on the phenotype of an organism. Many animals (including humans) and plants have two copies of each gene in their genome, one inherited from each parent. The different variants of a specific gene (such as that coding for earlobes) are known as alleles. If an organism inherits two alleles that are at odds with one another, and the phenotype of the organism is determined completely by one of the alleles, then that allele is said to be dominant. The other allele, which has no tangible effect on the organism's phenotype, is said to be recessive.
In most cases a dominance relationship is seen when the gene encodes an enzyme, and its recessive counterpart does not. In many cases, a normal function can be maintained with only half the amount of an enzyme. In these cases a single copy of the dominant allele produces enough of the gene’s product to give the same effect as two normal copies.
Dominance was discovered by Mendel, who introduced the use of uppercase letters to denote dominant alleles and lowercase to denote recessive alleles, as is still commonly used in introductory genetics courses (for example, E and e for alleles causing free and attached lobes). Although this usage is convenient it is misleading, because dominance is not a property of an allele considered in isolation, but a relationship between the effects of two alleles. When geneticists loosely refer to a dominant allele or a recessive allele, they mean that the allele is dominant or recessive to the standard allele.

Click “earlobe”

Earlobe
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
On the ear of humans and many other animals, the earlobe('lobulus auriculæ'), sometimes simply lobe or lobule) is the soft lower part of the external ear, similar in composition to the labia, or pinna. It is the lowermost portion of the human pinna, projecting below the antitragus. The earlobe is composed of tough areolar and adipose (fatty) connective tissues, lacking the firmness and elasticity of the rest of the pinna. Since the earlobe does not contain cartilage the earlobe has a large blood supply and may help to warm the ears and maintain balance but generally earlobes are not considered to have any major biological function.[1]
Earlobes average about 2 cm long, and elongate slightly with age.[2] Human earlobes may be free or detached (hanging free from the head) or attached (joined to the head). Whether the earlobe is free or attached is a classic example of a simple genetic dominance relationship; freely hanging earlobes are the dominant allele and attached earlobes are recessive. Therefore, a person whose genes contain one allele for free earlobes and one for attached lobes will display the freely hanging lobe trait. It is a common misconception that this implies a precise 3-to-1 ratio between free and attached lobes in the human population. Such a ratio would require that the allele frequency for free lobes were precisely 50%, which there is no reason to assume. One study [3] found that the frequency of attached earlobes among Japanese subjects was 67.1%, and in Chinese subjects it was 64.3%.
Earlobes are normally smooth, but occasionally exhibit creases. Creased earlobes are associated with genetic disorders, including Beckwith-Wiedemann syndrome. Earlobe creases are also associated with an increased risk of heart attack and coronary heart disease; however, since earlobes become more creased with age, and older people are more likely to experience heart disease than younger people, age may account for the findings linking heart attack to earlobe creases.[4]
The earlobe contains many nerve endings, and for some people is an erogenous zone.

Click “erogenous zone”

Erogenous zone (I think I elaborated on this one a little too much...)
An erogenous zone is an area of the human body that has heightened sensitivity and stimulation of which normally results in sexual response. There is individual variation in sensitive areas,[citation needed], but the majority of men and women have common erogenous zones, both areas of the skin, and the penis in men and clitoris in women.
There are two types of erogenous zone response in the skin: nonspecific and specific
Nonspecific
The skin is similar to normal haired skin and has the normal high density of nerves and hair follicles. These areas include the sides and back of the neck, the axillae (armpits) and sides of the thorax. An exaggerated tickle and anticipatory response are responsible for the heightened sensual response.
Specific
These areas produce stronger sensation and include the genitals, including prepuce, penis, clitoris, vulva and perianal skin, scrotum, lips and nipple. The rete ridges of the epithelium are well formed and more of the nerves are close to the external surface of the skin than in normal haired skin.
Female genitalia
The clitoris, a visible button-like structure located above the Labia, and is covered by a small fold of skin known as the clitoral hood. It has the most dense nerve supply of any part of the skin.
Located past the clitoris, just above and on either side of the urethral opening is sensitive erectile tissue known as the Skene's Gland, or U-Spot.
Within the vaginal canal there is a patch of ribbed rough tissue along the front of the canal. It has a texture similar to the Palate (the roof of a mouth). This is the Gräfenberg spot, or G-spot.
At the deepest point on the anterial (front) wall of the vagina located between the cervix and the bladder. This is the Anterior Fornix Erogenous Zone, or A Spot
Male genitalia
The penis is the most sensitive erogenous zone in the male body. In particular, the natural glans (head) and frenulum (foreskin) are highly sensitive and may elicit strong sensations from the slightest touch or movement. The ridged band, theorized by John R. Taylor, is believed to be a sensitive part of the penis as well.
The skin of the scrotum (testicles) is very sensitive to light touching and stroking, causing a pleasurable sensation; the scrotum may also be quite ticklish.
Males can also be aroused by light stroking and touching of the perineum (the area between the scrotum and the anus). Applying a firm pressure on it just before ejaculation can heighten the intensity of orgasm,[citation needed] although this causes retrograde ejaculation and the pressure is sometimes harmful to the pudendal nerve and other anatomical structures in the area.
The Foreskin, which carries the ridged band and lower frenular delta, has mucocutaneous end-organs extending from the distal margin to the point where hairy skin starts.[1] The thin dermis and minimal subcutaneous tissue results in closely set nerve networks. Vater-Pacini corpuscles are present. The mucocutaneous end-organs are formed after birth, with few in newborn infants and many well-organized endings in adults. Winkelmann suggests that the prepuce is a "specific erogenous zone."[2]
Anus
Moving from the hairy skin to the glabrous skin around the anus the nerve networks rise higher in the skin and the mucocutaneous end-organ becomes apparent at the vermilion border, occurring frequently in this transition zone. The Vater-Pacini corpuscle is deep in the subcutaneous tissues, and into the anal canal.

Click “thorax”

Thorax
The thorax is a division of an animal's body that lies between the head and the abdomen.
In mammals, the thorax is the region of the body formed by the sternum, the thoracic vertebrae and the ribs. It extends from the neck to the diaphragm, and does not include the upper limbs. The heart and the lungs reside in the thoracic cavity, as well as many blood vessels. The inner organs are protected by the rib cage and the sternum.
In insects and the extinct trilobites, the thorax is one of the three main divisions (or tagmata) of the creature's body, each of which is in turn composed of multiple segments. It is the area where the wings and legs attach in insects, or an area of multiple articulating plates in trilobites. In most insects, the thorax itself is composed of three segments; the prothorax, the mesothorax, and the metathorax. In extant insects, the prothorax never has wings, though legs are always present in adults; wings (when present) are restricted to at least the mesothorax, and typically also the metathorax, though the wings may be reduced or modified on either or both segments (as in the fly shown, where the metathoracic wings have been reduced to tiny balancing organs called halteres). In the Apocritan Hymenoptera, the first abdominal segment is fused to the metathorax, where it forms a structure known as the propodeum. Accordingly, in these insects, the functional thorax is composed of four segments, and is therefore typically called the mesosoma to distinguish it from the "thorax" of other insects.
Each thoracic segment in an insect is further subdivided into various parts, the most significant of which are the dorsal portion (the notum), the lateral portion (the pleuron; one on each side), and the ventral portion (the sternum). In some insects, each of these parts is composed of one to several independent exoskeletal plates with membrane between them (called sclerites), though in many cases the sclerites are fused to various degrees.

Click “trilobites”

Trilobite
Trilobites ("three-lobes") are extinct arthropods that form the class Trilobita. They appeared in the Early Cambrian period and flourished throughout the lower Paleozoic era before beginning a drawn-out decline to extinction when, during the Late Devonian extinction, all trilobite orders, with the sole exception of Proetida, died out. The last of the trilobites disappeared in the mass extinction at the end of the Permian about 250 million years ago (m.y.a.).
Trilobites are very well-known, and possibly the second-most famous fossil group, after the dinosaurs. When trilobites appear in the fossil record of the Lower Cambrian they are already highly diverse and geographically dispersed. Because of their diversity and an easily fossilized exoskeleton, they left an extensive fossil record with some 17,000 known species spanning Paleozoic time. Trilobites have been important in biostratigraphy, paleontology, and plate tectonics research. For example, trilobites have been important in estimating the rate of speciation during the period known as the Cambrian Explosion because they are the most diverse group of metazoans known from the fossil record of the early Cambrian,[1] and are readily distinguishable because of complex and well preserved morphologies. The trilobites are often placed within the arthropod subphylum Schizoramia within the superclass Arachnomorpha (equivalent to the Arachnata),[2] although several alternative taxonomies are found in the literature.
Different trilobites made their living in different ways. Some led a benthic life as predators, scavengers or filter feeders. Some swam (a pelagic lifestyle) and fed on plankton. Most life styles expected of modern marine arthropods are seen, except for parasitism.[3] Some trilobites (particularly the family Olenida) are even thought to have evolved a symbiotic relationship with sulfur-eating bacteria from which they derived food.

Click “plankton”

Plankton
Plankton consist of any drifting organisms (animals, plants, archaea, or bacteria) that inhabit the pelagic zone of oceans, seas, or bodies of fresh water. Plankton are defined by their ecological niche rather than their genetic classification. They provide a crucial source of food to aquatic life.

Click “bacteria”

Bacteria
The Bacteria [bækˈtɪr.i.ə] (help•info) (singular: bacterium) are a large group of unicellular microorganisms. Typically a few micrometres in length, bacteria have a wide range of shapes, ranging from spheres to rods and spirals. The name derives from the Greek βακτήριον, baktērion, meaning "small staff".) Bacteria are ubiquitous in every habitat on Earth, growing in soil, acidic hot springs, radioactive waste,[2] water, and deep in the Earth's crust, as well as in organic matter and the live bodies of plants and animals. There are typically 40 million bacterial cells in a gram of soil and a million bacterial cells in a millilitre of fresh water; in all, there are approximately five nonillion (5×1030) bacteria on Earth,[3] forming much of the world's biomass.[4] Bacteria are vital in recycling nutrients, with many important steps in nutrient cycles depending on these organisms, such as the fixation of nitrogen from the atmosphere and putrefaction. However, most bacteria have not been characterized, and only about half of the phyla of bacteria have species that can be cultured in the laboratory.[5] The study of bacteria is known as bacteriology, a branch of microbiology.
There are approximately ten times as many bacterial cells as human cells in the human body, with large numbers of bacteria on the skin and in the digestive tract.[6] Although the vast majority of these bacteria are rendered harmless by the protective effects of the immune system, and a few are beneficial, some are pathogenic bacteria and cause infectious diseases, including cholera, syphilis, anthrax, leprosy and bubonic plague. The most common fatal bacterial diseases are respiratory infections, with tuberculosis alone killing about 2 million people a year, mostly in sub-Saharan Africa.[7] In developed countries, antibiotics are used to treat bacterial infections and in various agricultural processes, so antibiotic resistance is becoming common. In industry, bacteria are important in processes such as sewage treatment, the production of cheese and yoghurt through fermentation, as well as biotechnology, and the manufacture of antibiotics and other chemicals.[8]
Once regarded as plants constituting the class Schizomycetes, bacteria are now classified as prokaryotes. Unlike cells of animals and other eukaryotes, bacterial cells do not contain a fully differentiated nucleus and rarely harbour membrane-bound organelles. Although the term bacteria traditionally included all prokaryotes, the scientific classification changed after the discovery in the 1990s that prokaryotic life consists of two very different groups of organisms that evolved independently from an ancient common ancestor. These evolutionary domains are called Bacteria and Archaea.

Click “bubonic plague”

Bubonic plague
Bubonic plague is the best-known manifestation of the bacterial disease plague, caused by the bacterium Yersinia pestis (formerly known as Pasteurella pestis). Bubonic plague is often used synonymously for plague, but it does in fact refer specifically to an infection that enters through the skin and travels through the lymphatics, as is often seen in flea-borne infections. Bubonic Plague kills about 50% of infected patients in 4-7 days. The Bubonic plague is believed by many to be the Black Death that was in Europe in the 1340s.
Pathology and transmission
The Bubonic plague is an infection of the lymphatic system, usually resulting from the bite of an infected flea. The fleas are often found on rodents, and seek out other prey when their rodent hosts die. Once established, bacteria rapidly spread to the lymph nodes and multiply. Yersinia pestis can resist phagocytosis and even reproduce inside phagocytes and kill them. As the disease progresses, the lymph nodes can hemorrhage and become necrotic. Bubonic plague can progress to lethal septicemic plague in some cases.

Click “flea”

Flea
Flea is the common name for any of the small wingless insects of the order Siphonaptera (some authorities use the name Aphaniptera because it is older, but names above family rank need not follow the ICZN rules of priority, so most taxonomists use the more familiar name). Fleas are external parasites, living by hematophagy off the blood of mammals and birds. Genetic and morphological evidence indicates that they are descendants of the Scorpionfly family Boreidae, which are also flightless; accordingly it is possible that they will eventually be reclassified as a suborder within the Mecoptera. In the past, however, it was most commonly supposed that fleas had evolved from the flies (Diptera), based on similarities of the larvae. In any case, all these groups seem to represent a clade of closely related insect lineages, for which the names Mecopteroidea and Antliophora have been proposed.

Click "voulez voulez vous "plydactyl cat-polydactyly-autosomal dominant-earlobe-erogenous zone-thorax-trilobites-plankton-bacteria-bubonic plague-flea."

fail

2008-10-14T13:59:00.001-07:00

monday blog fail.

2008-10-13T14:25:00.000-07:00

obit photos are now done. boon had soup for lunch. i had tom ka. david keeps sending me odd little pictographs over the cubicle wall that i don't think even make any sense to him. i over-steeped my tea (again). poor elise found out that her mother passed suddenly and left to go join her family. i was actually rather busy until just now; photos this morning needed quite a bit of tlc. most of the house is coughing up their lungs so i am desperately trying to take care of myself so i do not join their ranks. kim (who i worked with at LRS during bev's psychadelic shows) is going to have me work with him on a more regular basis so i can perhaps fill in for him if he has a catering gig, and serve tables when the studio hosts the twice monthly dinners they will be having before the shows. which will be nice little amounts of pocket cash. and i like hanging out with the troupe. it is way too quiet in here. i require far more animation than is what's currently being provided. i need stimuli. meh. too bored to write and i have no topic. so sad.

voulez voulez vous blog fail.

haahaahaahaahaa!!!!

2008-10-02T06:50:00.001-07:00

commuting.

2008-10-01T10:10:00.000-07:00

You leave the house with Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F major, BWV 1047 to accompany you. Leave at 7:45. It's about a 40 minute walk to work, so you allow five minutes for...unexpected events. Like dogs. Which you find. Madison Market...Golden Retriever and Springer Spaniel, tied to the post while their parental unit shopped. Oh so cuddly. You scratch their ears, get some kisses, explain to them that you'd love to spend more time, but you must go to work. So, standing up, you replace your headphones, give them small scratches between their eyes, resume walk.
You make your way down Pine, exchange smiles with the local fireman as he raises the flag at the fire station. Hear the cacophony coming from the demolition team as they tear down what used to be the Foley Sign Company. They are fortunately leaving the facade intact. The facade of the building must be nearly 100 years old, and in Capitol Hill, with all of the new condos being built, historical preservation is becoming very important.
Crossing 11th and Pine, green light, you are nearly run down by a swarm of bicyclists running a red light. You will find this extremely hypocritical considering recent events. You consider yelling at them, but pause. What good would it do? It won't change their behavior. Besides, they weren't wearing helmets. They're obviously careless. Karma and all...anyway...
Make your way to Broadway, wondering where Superman was. Maybe it was his day off...perhaps he was sleeping in. Just then a very, um...rotund...drag queen walks up...you think to yourself...my, she's out early...she says to you, "well good mo'nin there baybaydawwl!" You say "good mawnin beautiful!" with a big smile and remember why you love living on the Hill. Walk by all the odd little store fronts looking in even though they have the same things every day. Weird furniture, acrylic moose heads, vintage shoes, pet supplies, an old-school Lite-Brite you've thought of buying more than once, pretty-boy designer clothes, a very pink store that is so pink it's blinding and you don't even bother to look in, a baguette shop with cute paintings of dogs, a shop with Indian teas and exotic spices and incense, a Yoga studio, and Bauhaus, a cafe you've frequented more than once, sketchbook in hand. You make your way through the crosswalk, passing the leash-free dog park, surveying the pups romping about this morning, always wondering if non-dog owners were allowed. Sometimes, after work, you'll catch your friend Boon (Carrie) in there with her dog Fire, stoked because you now have an "in" which is nice...one day there were a couple of gorgeous Dobermans and an adorable Japanese Mastiff to play with. Much slobber.
Heading down to Boren, you see the Paramount sign, always meaning to look up the history of the building but forgetting by the time you get to work. Which isn't unusual. You usually get wrapped up in Wikipedia about something else. Heading down Boren, you can see your building, you just have to make your way through the random, intermittent craziness first. One thing you will notice is the women who wear stiletto heels to work. They have to somewhat hobble down the hill on Boren trying to balance themselves, precariously minding the uneven concrete. You acknowledge that high-heeled shoes can be sexy, but for cocktail parties, not hobbling like drunken sailors down sidewalks in Capitol Hill. That's better suited for the people who actually are drunk on Capitol Hill at 8:15 in the morning, who love to holler and dance about at the bus stop on the corner of Fairview and Denny. They're there every morning. Sometimes you feel like you need to pay admission.
There's always a lot of traffic on Denny. There's always a lot of people honking at each other and cutting each other off and riding the ass of the person in front of them. People resting their temples on their fists as they scream at the person in the car in front of them as if they could hear them. As you think about your morning...as you stroll down the tree-laden streets, looking up at the reddening fall leaves and the people beginning their days, going to school, walking down sidewalks, girls looking in shop windows to put their eyeliner on, reading books at bus stops, sitting in front of cafes with their laptops, people walking their dogs, getting their morning coffee, skateboarders, coming, going, walking, running, doing, living...in a 40 minute walk to work you get to see it all. People. Life. You walk into work, sit down at your desk, face flushed from the walk, greet coworkers, feeling like a human being...a being full of life and energy, ready to start your day...as opposed to an automaton who mechanically makes their way through the office sitting down at their computer just going through the motions with a Starbucks cup in hand.

How was your commute?

*I realize most don't have the luxury of living 1.8 miles from their job...so this post is inapplicable to you =)

2008-10-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

monday.

2008-09-29T09:34:00.000-07:00

I'm not ready to be at work right now. I think I need to go back to bed and try again.

My African violet is pissed at me. It requires water. It's going to team up with the Asian pear I have hanging out on my desk and bludgeon me while I'm removing spots and scratches from soon-to-be obituary photos.

David Matayoshi just walked by cryptically smiling at me. WTF? Psycho.

I need some more water. Maybe I'll share some with my plant.

Superman was hanging out on the corner of Broadway and Pine this morning. He had a sign asking for money. Why does Superman have to ask for money? He should deliver pizzas. That'd be a perfect job for a Superman. Then he wouldn't have to panhandle anymore. He must get cold in those tights.

Phil told me that I am an abject fail. Whew. I was afraid he didn't like me anymore.

Boon has a cold. Or allergies. She's not sure which. I said ewwww. She said ya totally!

I'm trying to talk Phil into a hot dog and a Slurpee from 7-11 which is about 5 blocks down by Seattle Center. He says he won't go unless I do. I do not want these things. For some reason I want him to get them. Wondering if the round trip 10-block trek is worth it. The weather is nice.

David says "you have to be in it to win it." He never knows what "it" is.

Now David is rambling on about "ribbon candy". For gawds sake. Ribbon candy? Yeah. My grandma had the stuff. She had the smaller versions that she would keep in crystal candy dishes with lids that had pointy crystal handles on top that would poke your hands when you went to lift it. Then of course the candy, which despite the array of colors all tasted like licorice, was so rigid that it would result in multicolored drool which traveled down the jawline, continuing down the neck and collecting in nice little pools of sugared saliva in the collar of your shirt to the utter joy of your mother. What the hell made him think of ribbon candy all of a sudden? Freak.

There's stuff in my inbox. I suppose I should get to it. After I water my plant.

voulez-voulez-vous krebs cycle.

I've finally had my portrait done.

2008-08-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

Phil S. (not the Phil of Haiku fame...this Phil is my Mad Libs buddy) sent me this image in an email. Knowing my love of art and of comic sans, he drew this picture of me and sent it post-haste in an email.

It's almost as if he looked directly into my soul!

Click

here
for more information.

voulez-voulez-vous all hail the Queen.

The Collective's ThinkGeek Haiku Submittal.

2008-08-14T20:23:00.000-07:00

So. My friend Dan sent me this link yesterday morning.

click here for teh hawesomeness...

This was, oh so good to be true...

So I am posting our submittal email. It is long. It may be boring. It may be disregarded by most of you because of these facts. I say...uh, so? My effing blog.

HA!

Here you are:

"Dearest ThinkGeek:

(This may need a little history first...so I am going to copy and paste from a blog entry I did):
"Last week I started this new thing where I demanded that everyone in my section of cubicles write me a daily haiku. By 10:00 am. After explaining what exactly a haiku was, I discovered that my otherwise preoccupied peers actually did it...some were so enthusiastic they would write several in a day. Some would even write one without being prompted in the morning with my direct albeit threatening reminder emails...I suppose it was our substitute for smoke breaks."

So, this began back on July 9th...my 6 coworkers and I. To my amazement this has reached astronomical proportions, completely by accident. To date there have been 427 haiku's composed. (I'm not sure of the apostrophe protocol of Haiku('s) but I'm winging it here...). So when a friend noticed your contest, and knowing my love of your catalog (most notably for your pi merchandise) and the Collective's Great Haiku Experiment...I did not see coincidence...I saw destiny!

Since as of yesterday we had no haiku's composed that could really be considered "techie" or "geeky", and since we have "haiku themes" on a regular basis, the theme was set, and haiku's were produced.

There are several authors here, but as we see ourselves as a Collective, we felt we had to send them en masse. That and some of the haiku's tended to become a back and forth conversation between us. So my deepest apologies if this is highly inconvenient, but I feel it would be a disservice to The Collective to not submit our work together.

So.

* Your First Name: Jennifer, David, Ed, Chris, Heather, Andrew, Phil
* Your location (City/State or City/Country) Seattle, WA
* Your Haiku(s)

Here you are, with the brief introduction provided in our 82-page (yes, 82) Word document of Haiku's:

Then we learned that ThinkGeek was having their own haiku contest
where the requirements were:
Your Haiku MUST be geeky and/or infused with a technological bent.
(and this part we thought was especially awesome):
"You can submit as many original Haikus as you like, please keep them within a single email to make it easier on us though."
(um, not sure if the "easier on us" statement, when applied to our submittal, is quite what you have in mind, but...this has great potential, we felt...)

Without further ado.

Doom 3 is my fave
Too bad that I have a Mac
my processor sucks.

Jennifer Lankenau

I can recite Pi
Up to 200 digits.
Thus have no boyfriend.

Jennifer Lankenau

Open tag close tag
I adore HTML
CSS hates me.

Jennifer Lankenau

Touchscreen interface
+ kids with snotty fingers
= viral bomb

Philip Kearney

Please don't overload
Flux Capacitor. Great Scott!
We'll never get home

Chris Senn

Robots we will be
A data input function
Slaves to computers

Chris Senn

Blank stare at the screen
Instant gratification
Beware tech zombies!

Chris Senn

Hail Jean-Luc Picard
Best, Starfleet Captain, Ever
Set Phasers to Stun

Chris Senn

Indiana Jones
Now enjoy it in 3D!!!!!
George Lucas, you whore.

Philip Kearney

Demolition Man--
When they plucked out that guy's eyes..
Let's stay analog.

Philip Kearney

Online gaming: lame.
Screw that World of Warcraft junk
Give me Minesweeper

Jennifer Lankenau

I'm out of practice
Haikus don't roll off the tongue
Jenn only skilled for PONG

Andrew Kane

Late night, eyes blurry,
Yelling out "More DOTS, More DOTS!!"
Gaming is stressful.

David Barrow

You'll get sweet lovin'
Sugar...Baby...just gotta
Finish this level...

Jennifer Lankenau

Dress up in costume
To role play in the forest
Just like Robin Hood

Heather Van Houten

Once an episode...
Computer - tea, earl grey - hot...
Damn, tea is sexy...

Jennifer Lankenau

Elf ears and cloak, check.
Perfect elvish dialect,
Here I am, ladies!

David Barrow

Or you could dress up
As a powerful Sith Lord
Stand in movie line

Chris Senn

We are SG-1
Oooh! Richard Dean Anderson!
Teal'c is hotter bald.

Jennifer Lankenau

Oh the poor Asgard
Beware the replicators!
Thor is worm-fodder

Jennifer Lankenau

Stargate: Atlantis
Is such a lame-ass ripoff!
Hammond is cooler!!

Jennifer Lankenau

It's the Chapa-ai!
Watch out for the goa'uld!
Wormholes are awesome

Jennifer Lankenau

Sadly, SG-1's
Richard Dean Anderson is
No Scott Bakula

Chris Senn

Enter my Tardis
Come along! Don't make a fuss!
Trapped with me in time...

Philip Kearney

Aw, no need to cry!
Care for a jelly baby?
Now, there's a good girl.

Philip Kearney

You'll never be free!
Now obey your new Time Lord--
Serve my robot dog!

Philip Kearney

I have to quote Phil...
"Ignorance is my weapon!"
That's funny right there...

Jennifer Lankenau

YES! Continuum!
The One I've Been Waiting For
Netflix Is My Friend

Ed Wenick

Oh we are the Borg
We will assimilate you
Our skin is nasty

Jennifer Lankenau

We are perfection!
And resistance is futile!
You organic slime!!!

Jennifer Lankenau

We are Locutus!
No tea earl grey hot for you!
Number one? Hello...?

Jennifer Lankenau

Rejected CC
Wrong number? Three digit code?
Insufficient Funds?

Chris Senn

Poor Lieutenant Yar.
Engulfed in a pool of goo.
So embarassing.

Jennifer Lankenau

Ugh...Deanna Troi...
"I sense pain...terrible pain!"
Yeah, here's a bitch-slap!

Jennifer Lankenau

Commander Data
"Oh no, my emotion chip!"
Such a whiner now.

Jennifer Lankenau

Q is Teh Hawesome!
He toys about with Picard.
Most enjoyable.

Jennifer Lankenau

Picard to Riker!
On screen! Engage! On my mark!
Warp 2! So bossy!

Jennifer Lankenau

You forgot Geordi
He works on the engines and
Hosts Reading Rainbow

Chris Senn

And what about Worf
Always struggles with temper
That silly Klingon

Chris Senn

These were pulled from the previous Collective's Collection:

evolutionist
psuedointellectual
congratulations

Andrew Kane

Dot, dot, dash, dash, dot
Dash,dot,dot, dash, dot, dash,dash.
Dot,dot, dot, dot, dash.

David Barrow

The Web under seige
Invading the blogosphere
Haiku's will conquer

Chris Senn

Plant energy source,
They cannot live without it.
Photosynthesis.

David Barrow

Photosynthesis
Lets just pick random words now
What a crock of poop

Philip Kearney

Photosynthesis
Makes plants Photosynthesize
As in the act of

Chris Senn

Oh the green green leaves
Photosynthesis takes place
Yummy food from sun!

Jennifer Lankenau

Photosynthesis?
Doesn't happen at my house
My plants are all dead

Heather Van Houten

Accursed sunlight!
Photosynthesis shall fall!
Methane sea Vents WIN!!!!!!!

Philip Kearney

Nothing grows in here
Darkness is all pervasive
No seeds will blossom

Andrew Kane

In the dark I take
Pictures of plants, so why no
Photosynthesis?

Chris Senn

I.T. just called me
seems that we crashed a server
Go team venture go!

Andrew Kane

3.141
5926535
8979

Jennifer Lankenau

Comic Sans, Woo-hoo!
I'm festive and appealing!
Use it everyday!

David Barrow

XBOX 360--
Finally it's worth owning...
Fable 2 is near!

Philip Kearney

Got My Brand New Wii
Won't Be Playing Much Else Now
Make Room And Fear Me

Ed Wenick

Forget Fable 2,
No other game but Lo tro,
Nothing else matters.

David Barrow

I'm still stuck playing
Guitar Hero III but can't
Wait for Fable 2

Chris Senn

Cry myself to sleep
Jacked up my home computer
No internet now

Cannot surf the web
World of Warcraft must now wait
Blankly stare at walls

Andrew Kane

OUCH! My Worst Nightmare
To Not Have World Of Warcraft
Should Just Kill Me Now

Ed Wenick

Wikipedia
Random Article Button
Brain degredation.

Jennifer Lankenau

finis

So, we might be disqualified by sheer overwhelming mass alone, but I'm just excited to send this out there somewhere. This is probably more haiku's (again the apostrophe protocol disclaimer) than you planned on receiving for the entire contest, but if nothing else it might provide some relaxing light reading...

My humblest regards,

Jennifer Lankenau and the Collective"

*fingers crossed*

voulez-voulez-vous...discarding humility for a moment...I can accomplish some damn cool things when I'm focused...long-live OCD!

*oh, my, there is the moststunning sunset right now...

jennifer lankenau - the penny chronicles

2008-08-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

i think that's going to be my gift to mankind. My legacy to leave behind when i die. Haiku's and penny-rants. I don't need a husband or children or grandchildren to be my "survived-by"-s*. i will have haikus and penny rants to live long after my passing and make my mark on history and go down into the annals of...hell, i dunno. Maybe I can save them on a 5 1/4 floppy and stick it in a vault somewhere...

This isn't getting any less depressing, is it?

Anyway.

i took these photos with my phone (hence the shitty res) some time ago as they pertained to "the penny chronicles" and i've just been too lazy to do anything with them.

Photo & accompanying narrative #1

So I climb aboard the #8 bus to Seattle Center via Cap Hill and as I sit down I notice those <- on the floor. Being hot on the heels of Phil's and mine penny experiment, this was just too good. I stifled a giggle so as to not arouse any suspicions that yet another mad vagrant made it onto the bus. I look at the floor. I look at the pennies. I must photograph this, I think to myself.
Only problem was, there was someone sitting next to me.
It then occurred to me that someone sitting next to you on the bus taking pictures of the ground might arouse even more suspicion than the aforementioned giggling, so I paused. My seat-mate didn't seem like the type to go postal if I tapped her on the arm, so I did so.
"excuse me..."
She removes her earphones.
"yeah?"
I was going to take a picture of the floor, and I noticed your foot was there, and wanted to see if you minded..."
She laughs.
"Oh, no i don''t mind..."
I smile.
"Awesome, thanks. I didn't want you to think I was some creepy bus-perv with a foot fetish..."
She laughs again. Asks:
"can I ask what you're taking pictures of?
"The pennies on the floor..."
She clasps her hands over her mouth and gasps...
"Oh, I'm sorry...I dropped those earlier..."
I say,
"Oh, no no no please, this is perfect; i just need to blog about this..."
"yeah..." she says. "I dropped them all when I sat down, and was going to pick them up, but thought 'fuck it'. "
"You have no idea how perfect that is..." i say.

So, there is photo #1. i hope you enjoyed it.

Photo #2 and accompanying (albeit less entertaining) narrative:

Phil and i had decided to take the Great Penny Experiment one step further. We scattered the pennies on the floor between our cubes as usual, but Phil had other plans. He kidnapped David's can of Mandarin oranges in light syrup (David had been trying to pawn them off on us for days; no one trusted them, so Phil thought he was justified in absconding with them) and strategically placed them alongside the discarded coinage to see if people would bend down to pick up the oranges, but not the pennies.
i must add that by now, most of the advertising floor is onto us with the whole penny business and as such they pretty much disregard any weirdness going on in our row of cubes. This proves challenging to our experimentation and we're considering relocation.
So, nothing spectacular to report on the oranges vs pennies front. i was keeping a tally at one point. i think at last count it was oranges: 3, pennies: 0, since those who opted for the oranges didn't actually get to keep them. (We told them it was for the good of science and mankind and if they really wanted oranges they needed to get their own).
Turns out we were doing them a favor.
As the day concluded we gave up and i opened the can to nosh on them a bit since i had forgotten my lunch. Shared with Phil. He got pissed. They tasted like ass.

Phil has now built up an arsenal of pennies in his desk and has resorted to using them as projectile weaponry (most notably at me) as the experiments seem to have become fruitless.

voulez-voulez vous find a penny pick it up, then all day you'll have...uh...a penny in your pocket, & stuff...

*note: i edit obit photos day after day and after reading all of the "so-and-so is survived by..."-s, i couldn't help but notice my lack of spouse or children or even a date once in a while and lapsed into this well of despair that my obituary would have no "survived by"-s. Unless my chinchilla outlives me. Fuck, that's depressing...

et tu, Brute?

2008-08-11T17:13:00.001-07:00

"Clocky" from ThinkGeek

2008-08-07T20:03:00.001-07:00

best.alarm.clock.ever.

the collective.

2008-08-07T12:04:00.000-07:00

here.

current project

2008-08-07T00:05:00.000-07:00

i'd love to sit and write something interesting (such as the "clock" phenomenon which i'll have to make a note to write about at a later time) but instead i'm going to post mask photos to help illustrate why i haven't had writing time and also post them while i'm thinking about it. masks i've already completed or sold can be seen here

So, these two are the result of combining Fimo and gold enamel paint. and a lot of patience (most notably rolling Fimo into long, noodle like strands and dozens of little tiny beads then adhering them one at a time, then baking, then painting, then sleeping...)

The following photos are severals shots of the two I am working on now.
My fingers hurt. Ow.

in case you are still interested in the haiku saga, i'm working on compiling all 349 of them into a single document for easier leisurely reading. a short haiku-collective publication is in process at the behest of some of my coworkers. they see real potential here. and possible royalties.

voulez-voulez-vous sleepy.

doodles make a mighty fine non-sequitur.

2008-07-29T14:16:00.000-07:00

I can’t get my chair to scoot in all the way because the mechanism which allows for the lowering of the armrests without also lowering said chair is malfunctioning. This results in my elbows being at a slightly higher elevation than they should be which also results in a sort of “shrugging” appearance, thus I have this perpetual “I dunno” presence. I don’t believe this is ergonomically sound. Perhaps I should sue. I could get a new chair from one of the many recently vacated cubicles (eek) but I refuse on sheer principle.

My latest obsessive focus has been on developing my website. I have spent far too many consecutive hours engrossed in Photoshop and Dreamweaver. Sunday morning I hopped on and began clicking away at approximately 10:00. After some time I decided I should probably get some food. I (achingly) stood up and glanced at the ginormous clock above my dresser.

5:30.

My housemates were as surprised as I; they had no idea I was even home.
Hey, I gotta cash in on my focus and motivation when I get it. Which is never entirely consistent. Opportunity knocked, I answered, closed the door, and hibernated.

I have decided to cease all posting of the "Cube Haiku's" as they have been dubbed by my co-worker Phil because, to my utter surprise, have gotten completely out.of.control.

I created them their own folder in Outlook. Called it "Haiku's". Even created an email group with the same title. I set up the group so that it automatically sends any pieces composed to the select individuals who contribute to this majesty of the written word. Because they have their own folder, Outlook provides a little tally at the bottom of the screen which tells you how many messages are in that particular folder. I happened to glance at it this morning. And nearly pissed myself in the chair with the non-working armrests.

(This is where I once again use an entire paragraph for one word or numerical value for emphasis and shock value. And italics for good measure.)

283.

(See? Aren't you shocked?)

There are only six of us in the Haiku Collective. That means, since July 9, we have written and selectively distributed 283 of these damn things.

We tried the "theme" thing. David gave me the responsibility of deciding on a theme, however, my authority was quickly revoked when I announced that the theme was "tuberculosis".

Although I did get a couple contributions:

Phil:
WTF!!?!?!??!
Have we really come to this?
Tuberculosis?

David:
I attack the lungs,
The name…tuberculosis.
Everyone fear me.

Somehow "tuberculosis" evolved into Sean Connery. Which received a more favorable response.

David
No one can compete,
The fact remains clear, he is
The only James Bond.

Chris
(Chris thoroughly impressed me with his SNL 'Celebrity Jeopardy' reference)

The name's Bond, James Bond
Martini shaken not stirred
You like that Trebek?

Heather:
Mmmmm…Sean Connery
Voice sexy as hairy arms
Too bad you're so old

You may be tired of haiku's but tough sh*t. My blog. And I want to show the PENNY haiku thread.. (To understand some of the following references I recommend this for relevant historical information.)

Phil:
Useless currency!
Not worth my time to pick up--
Littering the aisle.

Chris:
Pennies are worthless
Can't buy anything with them
So what is the point?

Heather:
Seventenn pennies
Is seventeen one hundreths
Of a dollar bill

David:
Pennies from heaven,
Not necessarily good,
If working near Phil.

David:
Plenty of pennies
Everyone is in his range,
Do not piss off the Phil

Heather:
Gasp! 6 Syllables?
Dave gets penny to the head
Count right Mr. B

David:
I can't believe it.
Didn't think it could happen,
I slight overlook.

Heather:
I can forgive you
Don't let it happen again
I will steal your pen

And then somehow the penny thread evolved into Pink Eye. Blame Andrew.

Andrew:
Conjunctivitis
Please be careful what you touch
Or you shall catch it

Phil:
So are you claiming
That "Charles in charge" Scott Baio
Just gave you pink eye?

It began innocently enough as a plot to take over the planet. Didn't think it would actually work.

voulez-voulez vous
You are my haiku lemmings!
Mwahaahaahaahaaaa!!!

Why go to therapy for OCD...

2008-07-21T21:46:00.000-07:00

When you can put it to good use?

I know I've posted pics of this damn thing before. And I know even though I've added quite a bit since I last posted update pics (in my eyes anyway)...I know to most everyone else it looks...well, the same.
Eh, it's MY doodle. So ha.

voulez-voulez-vous rose windows are very teh.

Last minute entry

2008-07-17T17:22:00.000-07:00

Only because I just now noticed this.

I edit and process all of the obituary photos. Photoshop has a script set up where when the editing and conversion is complete, it automatically sends it to the printer. With my foot being incapacitated, I try and limit the number of trips back to the printer, so I let them accumulate over a period of time, then go and collect them in one felled swoop. So basically it is a giant stack of photos of dead people.

Today I noticed the following on the printer tray:

I'm betting it was Andrew...he's the only one who calls me "Jenn". I will have to investigate.

voulez-voulez-vous I see dead people.

Thursday Haiku's

2008-07-17T15:24:00.000-07:00

Ed:
Thirty Miles To Bike
Seems Forever At The Time
Now Over Too Soon

Andrew:
No Jenn this morning
I will wonder around lost
Weeping with her loss

(awww. I was at my neurologist sppt...)

David:
Crocodile tears,
I'm just afraid of the whip,
Of Jennifer's rath.

David, correcting Himself:
Crocodile tears,
I'm just afraid of the whip,
Of Jennifer's wrath.

Phil:
If I were to skip
Writing a haiku today
~~I could pull it off~~.
I'd get away with it.

Andrew:
The finger of blame
Would point in your direction
Wrath of god to you

David:
Jen is still not here,
Her desk is collecting dust,
It's just not the same.

Chris:
Overcast, Cloudy
Seattle Summer Returns?
I truly hope not

Heather:
Here, do this spreadsheet
I know it’s a waste of time
Busy work is good

Andrew:
Flowers, chocolates
Hips and thighs will grow in size
Allergies not good

Andrew, after I told him his job posting was "carted":
you think me a horse?
you put the cart before me!
you are mistaken.

Me:
I do not do that!
You're not put in a job cart!
U cough phlegm on jobs.

Andrew:
i cough phlegm on all
not just jobs not just workflow
come closer pretty!

Me:
One moment please sir
I must get my umbrella...
Deflect to Heather!

Andrew:
you should want so much
my phlegm is magical indeed
but none shall you have

Me:
Ummm...you are a freak.
I am not into phlegm play.
You one sick monkey.

Andrew:
hear the trumpet sound?
mystical Kleenex now live!
find your way to Jenn!

Me:
Death to the Kleenex!
I will set you on fire!
Hear the "whooshing" sound???

Andrew:
Process my ad now
You must copy paste in haste
Most happy when done

Me:
I am not gonna!
So no sjp for you.
Come back one year!

Me:
Dude, you need to stop
With PDF's already!
They are annoying.

Andrew:
Do they bother you?
Should I do your work for you?
So sad too bad! HEH!

Me:
you carted carted
ew and you farted farted
Stop being stinky.

Andrew:
You take way to long
I do appreciate you
Thanks so much okay?

Me:
I have dead people
Being sent to me all day
They have no patience.

Heather (last minute haiku - Ode to her boss)
Do my work for me
Because I am too lazy
And I have no clue

Heather
I am very dumb
I give you that glossy stare
When you ask questions

Heather
My boss is my friend
That is how I got this job
Not by my past work

David: (In response to my whining about wanting eggs benedict)
Eggs benedict, yum!
The calories…not so yum.
Another plate, please!

Heather (regarding a coworker who squeals and talks annoyingly loud):
Drama Queen Puh-lease
Keep it down over there geez
We are not all deaf

David:
Talking long distance?
You don't need to use the phone
You speak loud enough.

Chris:
Poor inside voices
They've sadly lost their meaning
In this here office

The Web under siege
Invading the blogosphere
Haiku's will conquer

Andrew:
Don't these things ever end?
This really needs to stop now
Lets whip everyone - weeeeee

Heather for Andrew:
Oh no Mister Bill
You're too happy for this place
Bus is right on time!

voulez-voulez-vous

This is pathetic
I am a lazy blogger
I copy and paste.

Wednesday Haiku's

2008-07-16T15:11:00.001-07:00

David actually sent this one after I left for my doc appointment yesterday:

She's leaving early,
Didn't get her daily meal,
One will be waiting

(David gives me daily post-its with cute little food items that I am forbidden on this keto diet thing...I came in to 3, all of which, combined, make "ants on a log". Thank youuuuu David!!)

David re: his lack of sleep due to being a W.O.W. junkie:

Barely functional,
Working by instinct only,
Coffee I treasure.

Ed re: HIS lack of sleep due to being a W.O.W. junkie...:

Sleep I Do Not Need
Just Three Hours And All Is Good
Yes Worth It For Sure

Phil re: Ed:

"3 hours"-- Ed, you lie!!
"All is good"-- you don't fool me!
WOW has claimed your soul.

Andrew: Re: being the sick little monkey that he is:

Kittens Puppies Kids
Chainsaws Daggers Guns and Knives
Goals Money Oh My

David's ode to Phil:

Scuffy face smiling,
Belly full of Top Ramen,
Makes a happy Phil.

David's ode to Ed:

Online jedi-knight,
High level killing machine,
NPC's fear him.

Heather's ode to her new puppy:

Wimper Wimper Bark
Oliver had to potty
4 times in the night

Andrew's ode to himself:

Nyquil, Ibuprofen
Coughing resistant to cures
Headaches pain no sleep

Andrew's ode to me re: my doc appointment in the morning:

She tilts she wobbles
The floor avoids her poor gait
Must Do own work now

Awww...they'll miss me. =')

Voulez-voulez-vous Haikuz

Haiku-Blast Tuesday.

2008-07-15T12:22:00.000-07:00

And I didn't even have to send out reminder emails.

...No, it hasn't gotten old yet. So shaddap.

David 8:28 AM:

Dot, dot, dash, dash, dot
Dash,dot,dot, dash, dot, dash,dash.
Dot,dot, dot, dot, dash.
(morse code haiku? Teh hawesomest so far)

Phil 8:35 AM:

10 A M each day?
That's not enough time for me
Make it 3 instead.

Dan 8:36 AM:

Funny so I share

Daily haiku from David.

He writes in Morse code.

Me 8:37 AM:

Thanks for my haiku
It's very happy-making
My brain has done broke'd.

Ed 8:47 AM:

Weekend Gone Too Soon
But Happy The Sun Is Out
Summer Just Starting

Chris (Double Haiku!!) 8:51 AM:

Vivid Dreams I See
Fantastical Images
And then I wake up

Try Hard To Wake Up
Today Snooze is my best friend
Just Five Minutes More

David (TRIPLE Haiku!!) 9:13 AM

Not to be out done by Chris, I have 3 haikus.

Glow of monitor,
Flourescent lights from above,
Sun shining outside.

Drinking anything,
In hope of easing the pain,
Of working inside.

Internal SPAM,
Information overload,
Means nothing to me.

Chris 9:22 AM:

I answer David's 3 haikus by unleashing this Duran Duran haiku!

Hungry Like The Wolf
No No No Notorious
Her Name Is Rio

David 10:03 AM:

I see your Duran Duran, and raise you New kids on the block:

"You got the Flavor"
"Baby, I believe in you"
"I'll be missing you"

Ed 10:06 AM:

S...S...S...S...S...
A...A...A...A...F...F...F...
E...E...T...T...Y...

David 11:09
(In response to my verbal Red Bull crisis)

I'm out of Red Bull,
I Can't go on with my life,
I need a quick fix.

David 11:48:

Work for the paper!
Only one pre-requisite.
You must hate money.

Heather 12:00 PM:
(she was pissed at me because I informed her that if she wanted to reserve her domain (Shih-Talk.com) she'd have to pay for it. She was...disappointed...)

Thanks for making my
Shit-tastical day even worse
Gon' work for McD's

Phil 12:08 PM:

Even Micky D
Requires basic counting skills
I guess yer stuck here.

Phil 12:10 PM:

Being a Narc for
The Haiku Police is not
All that glamourous.

Heather 12:11 PM:

My response is not
Appropriate here at work
I'll curse way too much

Phil 12:16 PM

Sun Tzu said it best:
When you can no longer run,
You must choose to fight.

Voulez-voulez-vous to be continued...

next step: world domination.

2008-07-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

Last week I started this new thing where I demanded that everyone in my section of cubicles write me a daily haiku. By 10:00 am. After explaining what exactly a haiku was, I discovered that the mindless drones actually did it...some were so enthusiastic they would write several in a day. Some would even write one without being prompted in the morning with my direct albeit threatening reminder emails. Those, however, who did not respond on time, were rewarded with the ghastly star-nosed mole method of discipline:

This was not received with a great deal of enthusiasm.

So as a tribute to all of those who responded in a timely manner, along with their pizza trophies they shall hereby be honored in this July 15th 'made from 100% recycled drivel' blog. They will forever be remembered and their beautiful words will go down in the annals of history.

I shall post David's first, as he is the #1 winner for the most plentiful and creative of all haiku's:

David:

I think in haiku,
Please help, I cannot stop it.
You did this to me.

Stress over haiku
I don't think I can do it.
Make the lady stop!

Zealous Rejector,
Gleeful in responding with,
The red stamp of death.

(Tribute to the star-nosed mole)

Ugly star nose mole,
Why do you always haunt me?
Your nose freaks me out.

Phil is on the phone,
Listen to him while he speaks.
Phil speaks really fast.

(again with the star-nosed mole)

Do not torment me,
I have a real phobia.
It's the nose…the nose...

(...and again)
Sending me pictures
Of disgusting animals,
Make my stomach hurt.

Phil likes cereal.
Has a box on his desk.
Does he use milk?

Yummy, delicious.
Wonderfully Chocolately.
Makes the day okay.

Kellogg Cereal,
Is hiding a treat inside
I will not give in.

The weekend is here,
Sunshine is in the forecast,
No obits to do!

(This particular one was composed slightly after I noticed on his scone container that each scone contained 550 calories...)

Oh, delicious scone,
Welcoming me in your arms,
Regret is now here.

Ready with her whip,
Demanding Haikus daily,
She must be obeyed.

Residential cubicle,
Flourescent light beating down.
Weekend…Salvation.

Unbelievable,
Could not believe this is real,
My haiku is weak.

A little rusty,
Victim of Monday mornings,
A haiku for you.

Always a slacker,
Wanting an easy morning,
Jennifer's my name.

(This one we were discussing the perils of skydiving, and I told him I would write his obit complete with a close-up photo of his "plummeting to my death" face)

Rest in Peace, David.
Your death is devastating,
My life can't go on.

Phil K. came in second place...he only had to receive the "Star Nosed Mole" once and accumulated more than a couple Pizza Trophies...so, without further ado:

Phil:

Your words of terror
Have not stolen our freedom
Enjoy our smart bombs

Shiny toys on ground...
I reach to pick them up and…
My right hand explodes
(this was during the infamous penny experiment)

*sigh* poor ed wenick
He tries so hard to do right
His numbers are off

Triumphant he sits
David Barrow has written
Today's best haiku

Deaf chick on the phone…?
Nigerian government,
Why do you bother?

Been quiet all week
And NOW it's all rush rush rush…..
It must be Friday.

What was a blessing
Has turned into bitter curse
Time to go jogging

Lacking a haiku
Disappointed overtures
Shameful head hung low
*(tribute to Heather's lack of participation...)

You and your haikus--
Gimme a friggin break, Niff!
This will not end well.
*(heeheeheeee...)

No web postings, huh?
Trouble with Adicio…
io… io…. i….

Five syllable words
And seven syllable words
Are quite efficient.

Andrew certainly got points for creativity...especially today's.

Andrew:

Slave driver you are
daily haiku's are a chore
Desist with your words

The clock it ticks down
The weekend is awaiting
Must escape this place

No no no no no
No no no no no no no
No no no no no

evolutionist
psuedointellectual
congratulations
*(by far my favorite)

Chris S., Heather V. and Ed W. didn't blow me away, but they get points for their efforts:

Chris:

Sitting at my desk
A case of the Wednesdays
Fear the Star Nosed Mole

Dear Editor Please
Place Advert for Fourteen Days
And Kindly Get Back

Barely missed the bus
Thirty minutes until next
I got to work late

I need a haircut
Think I'm going to get one
After work today

Heather:
(note: Heather has been my #1 problem child, as evedenced by her single contribution below)

Woke up late again
I caught the bus at 8:10
Won't do that again

Ed:

Watching The Sun Rise
Looking For Light To Welcome
But Only Dullness Here

Trying To Count Toes
To Get The Numbers Right Now
Counts His Fingers Too

I Wanna iPhone
I Want One Really Badly
Enamored By Them

So...hope you like poetry. I figure if I can manipulate 6 people into writing poetry for god's sake, world domination should be a piece of cake.

voulez-voulez-vous:
Pinky: "What ah' we going to do today, Brain?"
Brain: "The same thing we do every night Pinky.
try to take over the world..."

Complaining. Watch out.

2008-07-10T11:22:00.000-07:00

You may want to bail now.
I try not to do those "oh poor me" blogs, but since I don't really write in my journal anymore I'm throwing it in here. Deal.

So, a week ago Monday I discoverd to my annoyance that the top of my foot had gone numb and I was also unable to lift my foot (as in a toe-tapping motion). As such, when I would walk, I was unable to control the movement of my foot in the "heel to toe" portion of the step and my foot was "kathunking" on the ground. Thought it was weird, told housemates, they ruled that I needed to go to the doctor NOW. Doctor closed. Kira ran me to the ER.

Now, the reason I wasn't as worried as those around me was that I was also going through an epilepsy med transition which left me with dizziness, unsteadiness, and slurred speech for a few days. Epilepsy meds always make you a bit quirky so I wrote it off as one of the "quirks". So, hung out at the Swedish ER for four hours with Kira at my side...which was really funny as she used to be a firefighter, trained in EMT-ish stuff, and as such she kept answering the doc's questions for me since I was poo-paw-ing the whole thing. So, they shone lights in my eyes and whacked my knees and poked me with needles and shot electromagnets in my brain tested my hearing and balance and took blood and called my neurologist at 1 a.m. (which I'm sure he loved) after all this really had no answer except that it was probably foot drop and that if there was no improvement in two days to come back to the ER. Ok, whatever, went home.

Two days later, no improvement, but I didn't want to go back, so, I didn't go back. By day 3.5 I was once again told (mostly by my overly-worried mother) to run back to Swedish (at another $100 copay)where I saw a different doctor, who had no more answers than the first, but at least she gave me a brace to keep my toes from dragging on the ground when I walked. Just wish I could get it to fit in my clogs; all I can really wear with it are open back shoes and sandals. Meh.

So, I have an appointment with my new neurologist on Tuesday, where I'm going to discuss increasing my med levels since I'm still having auras, as well as making a laundry list of what's been making me so pissy this week. (Here's where the extreme whining comes in).

So far I've got:

- Foot is numb from the base of my toes to about 6 inches up the front of my shin (only on the top and along the inside of the arch, which is why I can still "walk"

- Unable to lift foot (hence the toe-dragging)

- Feelings of heat shooting down my thigh (and not in that fun spanky way). It's more like dragging an uber-hot spoon down my leg.

- Hands, feet, parts of my face, top of my head "falling" asleep, tingling, pins & needles.

- Hands, feet, ALWAYS cold.

- Headaches

- Hands occasionally weak

- Knees hurt (but that's from walking all wonky)

- My spelling and typing is for SHIT (prolly the meds)

- Back pain along spine

- Blurry eyes that come and go

- Insomnia

- Occasional breathing issues...feels like a mild version of the asthma I had as a kid...

- Muscle tremors in legs and eyelids (yeah, I know...weird)...kinda twitches under the skin...a la "Aliens". Waiting for something to burst out. Hope it's cool.

Anyway, not being an attention whore. Mostly writing this down so I have a record (because they want to know EVERY TINY THING because it can mean SOME BIG THING). Neurologists are anal like that. (No, proctologists are anal!! HAHAHAAA!!!)

Yesterday I did have a small tantrum however. I was waiting for the #8 bus that goes to MLK because it drops me off only 5 blocks from my house unlike the OTHER #8 that only goes to 15th which drops me off 10 blocks from my house). It arrives, I'm waiting to get on, this asshole shoves his way in front of me, hops on, then the bus driver won't let me on because the bus was full. The next MLK #8 wasn't due for a half an hour. So, I was forced to take the 15th ave. #8 ten minutes later.

Walking the ten blocks home (SO wanted a cab...but broke because of goddman medical bills), tripped on uneven sidewalk twice because of my damn toes and almost fell on my face. Get home, found out the car I was going to use to go to my babysitting gig (8 blocks away) had been lent to my housemate's sister. And then...I just lost it. I didn't mean to, I felt like such a fucking baby, but I hate being so damn dependent on people. I hate not being able to walk everywhere. I mean, I usually walk everywhere. Now I have to ask for rides or borrow cars and I hate it. I feel so fucking crippled. It's been almost two weeks now. This has to go away. It absolutely has to.

So, Tuesday, neuro, tests (they mentioned possible spinal tap...I said aw hell no...)questions, questions...blah blah blah.

Ok, there's my whining blog. Share and enjoy.

"word cloud"

2008-07-07T13:25:00.000-07:00

it's like a profile gone awry. Look it up. Fun way to spend your lunch break.
Here is what mine looks like:

no cents atall.

2008-07-05T12:01:00.000-07:00

My co-worker and I conducted a bit of an experiment.

Jenni, who once occupied the cubicle across the way from me, moved to another section and as such her desk has been left vacant. She took everything with her save for a collection of business cards and a tray of pennies in her desk drawer. I'm guessing there was about $1.25 worth of them.

"hey, don't you want all of these pennies?" I ask.

"Uh, no, not really..."

"There's gotta be almost a dollar's worth in here..."

"Nah, nowhere to put 'em. They're a pain in the ass. You can have them.

I didn't want them. Phil didn't want them. Nor David. Completely viable currency and nobody wanted them.

It was a slow Monday and Phil and I had the brilliant idea of using the unwanted coin-age as projectile weaponry. (Boss is on vacation for two weeks...and it was more of a stealthy assault anyway...)

My aim was pathetic.

Post-slaughter there were pennies scattered along the 6-foot span of carpet between our cubes. (He and I are diagonally across from each other). We though about cleaning them up, but neither of us wanted them and we were lazy. So there they sat.

Now this is where the experiment comes in.

We wanted to see if anyone would pick them up. There were about fifteen of them, roughly a dime and a nickel's worth. Valuable enough to warrant collection.

During the next hour or so approximately 3 people passed by, and nary a one was interested. Later, a couple of people walked by and asked, "why are all these pennies on the floor?"

"Don't you want them?" We would ask.

"Uh, no, not really..."

"But there's at least fifteen cents down there..."

"I don't want all that crap jingling around in my pockets. What the hell am I going to do with fifteen pennies? You pick them up."

Phil and I would snicker at them whilst they looked concurrently befuddled and irritated that we were having a giggle at their expense. Fifteen cents worth.

Hours went by. The pennies remained.

Allow me to interrupt a moment with some tidbits on the penny:

- Because of the soaring price of zinc, it now costs nearly a penny-and-a-half to produce a penny.

- The Federal Reserve, banks, retailers and customers lose millions more because of the costs of toting around and handling these nearly worthless coins. Time is money, and conservative estimates of the value of our time lost using pennies exceed $300 million per year.

- Breaking stride to pick up a penny, if it takes more than 6.15 seconds, pays less than the federal minimum wage.

- Since the Mint currently manufactures more than seven billion pennies a year and “sells” them to the Federal Reserve at their face value, the Treasury incurs an annual penny deficit of about fifty million dollars.

The "time spent picking up the penny not being worth enough to equal minimum wage" was the main argument for Phil and I neglecting them. It just wasn't fiscally responsible.

Hours went by, the end of the day approached, everyone left for home...the pennies remained where they were. We were strong in our resolve.

The next morning the pennies were gone, more than likely due to the fact that they would choke up the vacuum cleaners when the housekeeping staff came through. We wondered if they kept them. Maybe they argued amongst themselves as to who was going to pick them up. Perhaps they flipped a coin.

We have been doing this daily for about a week. One day we decided to establish a control case and left a nickel on the floor. Gail walked by..."oh, hey, a nickel!"

The pennies remained untouched.

"Hey, you missed the pennies..."

"No I didn't. Don't want 'em."

"Why not?"

"What the hell am I going to do with a handful of pennies?"

You see, the vending machines in the break room will accept nickels. It will not, however, have any pennies. Pennies will not buy you M&M's.

Eventually the drawer will be empty, we will run out of pennies and the experiment will be over. But I mean seriously, how many of us have "change jars" at home full of these damn things? How many of us have actually thrown one away and thought nothing of it? You guve nothing but pennies to some panhandlers and they actually scowl at you. You pay for a loaf of bread at the grocery store, you are met with groaning and exasperated sighs from the patrons in line behind you.

I'm tempted to bring in my own change jar and pave the aisle with them. I know I'd have Phil's support. Maybe throw some quarters in there for good measure. HA! Maybe super-glue the quarters to the floor. Definitely. Super-gluing them to the floor would be brilliant. Very teh hawesome indeed. However, there may be repurcussions for damaging company property. It would definitely be more than fifteen cents worth.

voulez-voulez-vous "find a penny pick it up all day long you'll have good luck...?"

magenta comic sans

2008-06-03T15:01:00.000-07:00

So.

I have this thing with the Comic Sans font.
In certain, and I mean VERY specific circumstances it may be acceptable. But in professional corresponcene and inter-office communications it is positively abhorrent.

But the worst - and I mean worst - is the

Comic Sans Email Signature

Never, ever, send me anything in comic sans. Even sans magenta. because once you do, I have immediately generated this image of a 45-year old cat lady with poofy teased out hair who has little goofy plastic toy figures all over her cubicle walls which also reeks of potpourri. She will be a scrapbooker. She will have a pink cell phone with Fur Elise as it's ringtone. She will participate excessively in ALL departmental potlucks.

Worst-case scenario...her signature will also contain an animated gif. Emergency services may be contacted in these circumstances.

I learned through non-exhaustive research that I am not the only one who loathes this "spawned from the depths of hell" typographic nightmare. There is a group of those who fight the good fight for millions everywhere to bring justice to those who are oppressed by the bubbly font-ness that plagues their existence and haunts their dreams:

Ban Comic Sans

I regrettably have not found a local chapter...thinking of starting my own. I will march the streets day and night seeking supporters of my cause.

I will not look to my coworkers when forming my anti-comic sans cult. Why? Learning of my phobia they have now joined forces and are sending me ALL correspondances in

magenta comic sans...

There's just too many of them! ...can't...fight...them...all...fading...faaaaading....

voulez-voulez-vous magenta damages credibility. Comic Sans destroys it.

always choose rock.

2008-05-27T19:50:00.000-07:00

I can understand how Scissors can beat Paper.
I can also understand how Rock can beat scissors.
But there is no f*ing way that Paper can beat Rock. I mean, what, is Paper supposed to magically wrap itself around Rock rendering it immobile? Why the hell can't Paper do that to Scissors? Actually, screw Scissors...why can't Paper do this to people? Why aren't students being constantly suffocated by random sheets of 8.5X11" wide-ruled notebook paper while they're taking notes in class? I'll tell you why: because Paper can't beat anybody...a rock would tear that shit up in two seconds. When I play Rock/Paper/Scissors, I always choose Rock. Then when somebody claims to beat me with their Paper I can punch them in the face with my already clenched fist and say, "Oh shit, I'm sorry. I thought Paper would protect you, you asshole!"

voulez-voulez-vous i win.

seizure salad with grilled chicken please...

2008-05-24T22:09:00.000-07:00

Ok, bad joke. But I make it at my own expense so it's acceptable.

For those who know me best the following information is nothing new, and as much as I pride myself on not being the "today I woke up I had breakfast I went to work I came home..." type of blogger, I now find myself limited in both experiences and creativity over the last several days thanks to this topic of discussion which has given me no alternative but to do so.

I, my mother and my brother were all born with temporal lobe epilepsy. The peculiar thing about this is that for all three of us, our epilepsy manifests itself in very different ways and is also treated in very different ways. My mother's seizures are relatively simple, she merely passes out. My brother, however is afflicted by the stereotypical horror-story type seizures which involve quite a bit of contorting and convulsing which has resulted in physical injury on more than one occasion.

My seizures are the least physical of the three...mine are what's defined as "partial complex" seizures. Basically all this means is I don't flop like a fish or pass out.
And, oddly enough, out of the three of us, mine is the most difficult to control. At no point so far in my life has my epilepsy been under 100% control. My mom hasn't had a seizure since the 80's. My brother's docs are still figuring out his meds but he hasn't had a full-on seizure in quite a long time. I had one this morning. And the day before yesterday. And two more earlier in the week. Combine that with the dozen or so auras I experience daily...yeah, this week has sucked.

My seizures may not cause me to bang my head on the coffee table, but the problem is that they are completely cerebral. If you saw me having one you'd just notice that I'd stopped talking and was staring off into space, unresponsive, for several minutes, eyes closed, and now I've been told my hands have been twitching which I think is new but freaks my shit out. Externally this seems like it's not so bad. Unfortunately on the inside it's not that pleasant.

Mine pretty much start off with this intense feeling of dread, like the kind you feel in the pit of your stomach when you're boarding a roller coaster and you hate roller coasters. Then my brain engages in the act of creating false memories, which translates into the most intense and out of control deja-vu imaginable. No matter what I do, no matter how I try and change the events that my brain is going to tell me I've lived through before, nothing stops it...I mean, EVERY detail, every tiny thing, has happened before. I usually yell at people if they try to talk to me when it's setting in; when it hits, talking really can't happen anymore...talking just isn't an option so much at that point. This event results in a feeling of complete loss of control over anything and then the panic inevitably kicks in...heart rate jumps, I break out into a sweat, I forget how to breathe. My muscles warm, I usually have to clench something in my hands, my stomach churns, and my head throbs. I don't talk or try and move because that contributes to the deja-vu. Fortunately those closest to me know to just leave me alone when it happens, because I don't want anyone looking at me, talking to me, touching me until it's over. Eventually it passes, my muscles relax, my jaw unclenches, though the pounding in my head doesn't go away until hours afterwards. I become absolutely exhausted, and can fall asleep almost instantly. What sucks after that is, whatever I do, who I talk to, where I go...if it happens within the first half hour, sometimes even as long as an hour, after the actual seizure, I won't remember it. It's just completely gone. I could have burned someone's house down and wouldn't remember it, even though it could have been just 20 minutes prior. Then the grogginess hits, the surreal, ungrounded feeling sets in and lingers throughout the day...things just feel "off"...hard to describe. It sucks, that's it.

Ordinarily this happens only once or twice a month and is not a huge problem. I've had them at work without anyone really noticing, and have been able to function just fine despite this...since the actual "non functioning" bit is only 2-4 minutes, which is far shorter than my coworkers' smoke breaks. What's going on now is that my body is in the throes of purging the Depo-Provera injections I've been receiving for the last couple of years and, how lucky for women, seizures are also hormonally triggered. So this is going to continue for a bit, or at least until my health benefits become effective in 5 weeks and I can afford my neurologist again.

The auras are what piss me off. There's about 2 seconds of the deja-vu feeling but it's just enough to throw me off. Start to wonder what's really happening and what's a seizure. The lack of control over my brain pisses me off. Makes me unsteady, throws me off, drains my focus. Feel like hiding under my bed with a pillow on my head and wait for my body, my brain and my hormones to get their shit together.

The most amusing thing is that because of where my seizures are located, it severely inhibits my short-term memory. I will tell you the same story, literally, three or four times until you get fed up at nodding and smiling and just confess that you've heard it numerous times before. Appointments, people, names, faces, places, directions...unless I've been there/met someone/written it down, it's completely gone. One of the reasons I've been keeping a journal since I was 12. What's really interesting is that I'll go back and re-read things I've written and it's so completely unfamiliar, even monumental things, it's as if I'm reading someone else's story.

Oddly enough I have an insane long-term memory; from every address I've lived at (though I had to live there several years for this to be true) to foreign languages to 200 digits of pi; once it's in there, its in there. Kind of a consolation prize I suppose.

My doctor did recommend that I follow a ketogenic diet (somewhat like Atkins but I hate calling it that)...it's been shown to prevent seizures in approximately 60% of people who've tried it, and I'm desperate. I'm not functioning well like this and I have a job and social life that needs my attention. The social life is far more fun and therefore a much higher priority. I'm tired of having to leave events early because my brain won't behave and I can't stay awake.

Voulez-voulez-vous deja-vu.
Voulez-voulez-vous deja-vu.

Oh, now THAT'S funny...

inter-office relations

2008-05-22T13:13:00.001-07:00

One of the perks of sharing a cubicle wall with me:

Or disadvantages, depending on your point of view.

Phil welcomes me every morning with a resounding guttural "jinniphurrlurnkenoooo!!!" as I arrive at my desk. And when I get an email. Or when he sends me an email. Or when it's raining. Sometimes when I sneeze or shift in my chair. David has tried to duplicate this audible Phil-trademark with little success. Mostly because he foregoes the "jinniphurr" portion and goes straight for the "lurnkenoooo!!!" bit in a slightly higher pitch than Phil so it sounds completely not-like Phil. But we'll still give him a trophy.
Phil also loves to sing about pirates stealing his booty.

David occupies the cubicle next to mine. David drinks coffee and loves spam. And sounds remarkably like Mr. Hanky when he receives aforementioned spam.
"Oh, what's this? An email...ooh! What am I gonna do? Here ya go..."
And then forwards me the email. That I have already received myself as it is spam. Which I send back. Which causes the Mr. Hanky speech and I receive it yet again.
And then in the background one can hear "jinniphurrlurnkenoooo!!!" from the cubicle across the way since I just received an email.
David, because he has the cubicle next to mine, has the misfortune of sharing a wall with me. Which is where I perched my modified mannekin as seen above. The mannekin has yet to follow through with his threat but I told David to watch his six regardless.

I had to find new co-workers to torture since I don't work with DaBoon anymore.

Now I just torture her via Gmail, although it's not quite as effective.

I think DaBoon should get a trophy. Maybe even a pizza trophy

voulez-voulez-vous did ya get the memo?

sharing a giggle.

2008-05-21T12:49:00.000-07:00

i am the master of my domain.

2008-05-21T09:53:00.000-07:00

Now I just need to figure out what the hell to do with it.

I need a copy of Dreamweaver. For my Mac. I know and love Dreamweaver. Please dear god someone help me.

Right now I have my site (www.jenniferlankenau.com...because I'm SUCH a freaking egomaniac...) redirected to...well, here. I am desperate for content.

I had content...lots and lots of beautiful content on my previous site, but it was unexpectedly removed without anyone telling me they were deleting it. Nothing sinister, I assure you. No one hacked me or anything. Just an inconvenient failure to communicate.

Anyway.

So now I have to take hi-res photos of all my work to throw into the bloody thing. Then I will need to upload and edit and design and arrange and this will no doubt consume many long hours of my day in which I'm sure my social life and perhaps my hygiene will suffer.

My html skills suck ass thanks to lack of use for over a year.

I'm sure there will be much display-targeted profanity involved.

voulez-voulez-vous lol, omg, wtf, g2g

best.pacifier.ever.

2008-05-20T14:28:00.001-07:00

doodlephase.

2008-05-14T22:22:00.000-07:00

Ok, so people have wanted to know what I've been working on. Other than steampunk, that is.
Here ya go.
None of it is completed, because, well, I just don't do that.

voulez-voulez-vous OCD anyone?