Don’t Read the Comments

ImageI can’t tell if I have a problem with follow-up or with commitment.  From the looks of my Gmail account, I’m willing to wager that it’s a little bit of both.

Despite the massive inventory of my inbox, I was more fascinated by the population of my “drafts” folder.  Upon closer inspection, a vast majority of these emails were intended responses to pre-existing threads, incomplete compositions to ex-boyfriends (almost all of which, unfinished, and rightly so) and quite a few addressee “draft” and the subject line left unforgivingly blank.

I confess an urge to simultaneously hit “send all” on the long-forgotten compositions, if only to confuse/astound would-be recipients.  The “draft/blank” entries would sadly be omitted, unless I just type in random letters and let autocomplete populate the email addresses as they will.  I could just attribute the en masse mailing to the recent Gmail glitch and thereby avoid any and all accountability.

The “inbox” situation I have no decent excuse for.  It’s merely a testament to my email laziness.  I was one of the rare few who was pleased that Gmail opted to segregate incoming messages into perceived “legitimate” emails versus “promotional”, “updates”, “social” and “forums”.  The downside to this high-level of Gmail organization is that I now realize how very few emails I receive that are genuinely intended for my eyes only.  They’re either bulk mailings, special offers or mass invites to an event.  To the point where I will oftentimes email myself with a reminder, or a URL, and then I see the (1) next to my inbox I think, “Oh!  I got a messa – oh, wait.”  =/

 

Voulez-voulez-vous you’ve not got mail.

Hello. My name is Niff. And I hate Firefly.

When I used to work with DaBoon we would often have conversations that could not be summarized into a narrative, so I ended up just copying and pasting the entire conversation verbatim into my blog, or whatever.
So, after just having a conversation with another friend of mine about being judged by people for not liking certain elements of pop culture and televised media that seem to be ubiquitous amongst my like-minded friends, Rochelle and I re-enacted what is the usual response from people I know when I admit that yes, I in fact, do *not* like Firefly.
Niff: LAZY SUNDAY!  Yeeah
Rochelle: watched some firefly with the roommates
Niff: Ugh – firefly
Rochelle: had delicious thai food
Rochelle: and some pie
Rochelle: WHAT!
Niff: PIE
Rochelle: you don’t like firefly? ;)
Niff: Yes.  It’s true.  I don’t like firefly
Rochelle: OOOOO them’s fightin words
Niff: Dude, don’ gimme any of yer shit, man
Niff: I got plenty of other geek creds
Niff: DON’T PUSH YOUR BELIEF SYSTEMS ON ME!  *sob*
Rochelle: HA!
Rochelle: do you like other Whedon shows?
Niff: I think you may need to brace yourself for this one
Niff: I HATE Joss Whedon
Rochelle: you hate joss?
Rochelle: JOSS?
Niff: dude
Rochelle: WHY!!!1
Niff: I don’t need to explain myself to you, you freakin’ Whedon Fangirl!
Niff: I learn nothing watching his version of “sci fi”!
Niff: Besides, you don’t watch Stargate!
Rochelle: hahahahaha
Rochelle: I’m not certain how I should be feeling right now.
Rochelle: Guilty
Rochelle: Sad?
Rochelle: Anxious that you’ll stop being friends with me now?
Niff: Judgmental?  You can throw that in there
Niff: MEANIE!
Rochelle: HAHAHA
Rochelle: Wait…-I’m- being judgemental?
Niff: Dude, yeah!  I only threw out Stargate to defend myself!
Niff: See what you made me do??
Niff: You’re not supposed to be mean to me on my birthday!
Niff: *sob*
Rochelle: OMG girl
Rochelle: check yerself before you wreck yerself
Niff: Between my hatred of firefly and dislike for chocolate I was almost thrown out of the house. :D
Niff: I’mma blog this conversation
Rochelle: sweet
Rochelle: Imma gonna be famous!
Niff: I think you overestimate the readership of my blog…
Niff: It’s not like I’m freakin’ Joss Whedon or anything.
Rochelle: hahahaha
Rochelle: Or Nathan Fillion
Rochelle: Mmmm….
Niff: Who the hell is Nathan Fillion?
Rochelle: Firefly – Captain of the ship…also star of Castle
Rochelle: Love him.  Would have his babies fer sure.
Niff: I want Captain Jack Harkness’ babies.  But, I’m barren and he’s gay, so I don’t really see that working out.
And that’s it.  That’s all I’ve got.  Go ‘way.

What this blog needs is more brain eating zombies.

Last weekend I learned the mechanics of creating a typeface.  In case you didn’t know – making a font is mind-bendingly complicated.  It’s like photo editing gone mad.

Screen Shot 2013-09-21 at 5.57.10 PMThis was my result after three days of bad posture and squinting at my 15-inch laptop screen.  I was trying to find a word that featured the best fruits of my labor.  Apparently a wizened wizard from Middle Earth was the only thing that would suffice.

Oh, and then there’s pi:

Screen Shot 2013-09-27 at 10.05.16 PM

I named my font “pomme”.  It started out as “pomplemousse” but I got bloody fucking tired of typing out “pomplemousse” every thirty minutes and abandoned the idea of naming my font after French citrus.  Great workshop though; three days, 10 hours each day.  The instructors were funny.  They wore t-shirts with typography jokes on them.  We went to happy hour.  We had painfully long critiques.  People opined.  And now I can’t stop working in Font Lab.  My Doctor Who scarf, as a result, is being largely ignored.

I’m currently watching a documentary called “Room 237″.  Well, ok not really.  It’s on in the background while I’m in the midst of this feeble attempt to crank out a blog entry.  Facebooking is killing my blog.  The irony?  I pay for the blog.

I am Jack’s epic facepalm.

I actually find myself scrolling through old Facebook posts looking for ideas to blog about.

Ok, so I’m ‘sort-of’ watching this Shining documentary.  On that note, careening head-first down a large flight of stairs looks painful.  I wonder if that was really Jack Nicholson or a stunt-double. My vote is for stunt-double.  Also, whatever happened to the Big Wheel?  I had one as a kid; I remember that the front wheel, over time, developed a flat edge on a ten-inch section of the arc of the wheel as a result from braking at what would appear to be the same spot repeatedly.  The result was an audible “thunk-a thunk-a thunk-a” during normal operation.  I suppose that’s motivation to learn to ride a bike.

Something occurred to me yesterday while I was sitting at my desk snacking on  gluten-free granola from Pike Place Market and becoming increasingly focused on extracting the raisins from aforementioned bag:  just why do raisins plucked from a cacophony of other ingredients taste so much better than raisins à la carte?  Rochelle claims that Jesus would know.  I can’t say I agree with that assessment…I mean, how popular could  gluten-free granola be in Galilee or Judea in 36 AD?  Perhaps if I’m ever witnessed to I will ask them.

- “Excuse me, but have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”
- “Uh, no…but I have a question.  Does Jesus know why raisins extracted from a bag of gluten-free granola are so much tastier than raisins on their own?”
- “So you haven’t opened your heart up to Jesus?”
- “Not unless he can answer intelligently about my raisin question.”

 

Voulez-voulez-vous pomplemousse.

Number One, Go and Fetch me a Shrubbery. While Wearing a Fez. Fezzes are Cool.

My office, despite everyone being in very close proximity, uses Skype as a main form of communication. Mostly because all of us are so constantly entrenched in designing, coding, developing, fixing, QA’ing and emailing that it’s just easier to send someone a quick IM as opposed to walking across the office.

Last week there was some question as to the identity of one of the members of the “off-topic” chat room, which inevitably led to everyone changing their names and avatars in an attempt to create a hilarious mass confusion. Somehow Doctor Who got mixed in with TNG and then Monty Python and the Holy Grail came out of left field…

So, here’s the geekery potpourri that ensued.

Skype1 Skype2 Skype3 Skype4 Skype5 Skype6 Skype7

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This is what happens when I’m up at 4 am.

Two Starbucks, two cities, two approaches.

The U District Starbucks, when you make a purchase in the wee hours as I just did, the cashier asks,
“Would you like a treat receipt?”

Now, for those that are unfamiliar, a Treat Receipt is a voucher that entitles the bearer to a complimentary caffeinated beverage at a time of day that is, on the whole, inconvenient on two counts:
1. It is at 4pm, when I am hauling ass to wrap up my workday, and
2. If I hope to have any amount of decent sleep, I cannot consume caffeine after 1pm.

I don’t often patronize the U District Starbucks, as I usually carpool with my coworker and we stop at the Starbucks inside the Safeway in North Bellevue. More often than not, this proves to be a frustrating enterprise. We’ve noticed the grocery store franchises are the places where they send the most inept and uncommunicative of all baristas. My most recent grudge is the Treat Receipt.

“Here’s your treat receipt!!!!” (In a very nasally, high-pitched squeaky voice, delivered with a nightmarish Pennywise-like smile complete with cocked head.)
“Uh, no, that’s ok.”
“No, here, you get a free coffee!!”
“No, that’s ok, I don’t want it. Really.”
“Are you sure? If you come in at 4pm you get a free beverage!!!”
“No, because I’m working at 4 pm and I can’t have caffeine at 4 pm or I won’t sleep.”
“But we have decaf!!!”

At this point, mostly because I was pre-caffeinated, it was taking every ounce of impulse control I had not to jump up onto the counter in my 3-inch Danskos, grab the receipt and shove it into her idiotic, vapid, grinning face. I mean honestly!! This is like, Treat Receipt harassment. Who DOES that? I mean, I can’t imagine the twit gets any incentive for giving away free coffee. Bloody hell.

Compared to the adorable boy at the U District Starbucks:

“Would you like your treat receipt?”
“No thanks.”
“Ok! Have a great day!”

Egads! After days of Treat Receipt harassment I wanted to snuggle-tackle this young man. Who looked 12. Which now sounds really gross. Ew.

Anyway. That’s it. I’m at the bus stop at 6:30 am. So, uh. Yeah.

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Typography + advice.

Ladies and Gentlemen…wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future – sunscreen would be it.

The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists.
Whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.
I will dispense this advice…now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth -
Oh, nevermind.

You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded.
But trust me…in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now…how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.

You’re NOT as fat as you imagine.

Don’t worry about the future.
Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum.

The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind.
The kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing everyday that *scares* you.

Sing.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts.
Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy.

Sometimes you’re ahead,
Sometimes you’re behind…
the race is long.
And in the end, it’s only with yourself.

Remember the compliments you receive. Forget the insults.
If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life  The most interesting people I know didn’t know at twenty-two what they wanted to do with their lives.
Some of the most interesting forty year olds I know still don’t.

Get plenty of calcium.
Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t.  Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t.
Maybe you’ll divorce at 40…maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary.

Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much.
Or berate yourself either.
Your choices are half chance.
So are everybody else’s.

Enjoy your body.  Use it every way you can.  Don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it – it’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.

Dance.

Even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room. Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.

DO NOT READ BEAUTY MAGAZINES THEY WILL ONLY MAKE YOU FEEL UGLY.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good.
Be nice to your siblings; they are the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on.
Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.

Live in New York City once – but leave before it makes you hard
Live in Northern California once – but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths:
Prices will rise;
Politicians will philander;
You too will get old. And when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.

Don’t expect anyone else to support you.
Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out.

Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you’re 40, it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who supply it.

Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the  ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.

But trust me…on the sunscreen.

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Goo.

Hello.  My name is Niff.  And I am a Goo Hoarder.

The below media is intended for educational purposes only:

Fortunately my Goo seems to be restricted to lip adornment and has not yet evolved into hair care or nail polish.  Which is probably best, because as I have four housemates, space is limited.

Allow me to demonstrate:

Goo

So. This was the mass of products just in my backpack. This doesn’t count the ridiculous cacophony of pink tubes stashed away in the wicker baskets under my bed. Sephora LOVES me.  The number of points I’ve burned through is completely mad.  I acknowledge this isn’t healthy.  I realize that there isn’t a single person who needs all of this crap for their face.  I suppose I could find some comfort in knowing that I am not alone in my addiction…but not really.

I seriously don’t think I’ve finished a tube in my life.  I go to the drugstore for ibuprofen and walk out with Goo.  I go to Nordstrom for shoes…walk out with Goo.  Groceries?  Yeah.  Goo.  You will notice that all of the colors above are basically the same bloody color.  But I keep accumulating more, as if they will suddenly halt all Goo production and I will be left with Goo-less lips.  People have Zombie Plans but what about a Goo-Drought contingency?  Yeah.

Oddly enough, Goo is ridiculously cumbersome, despite what would, in all appearances, seem like an obsessive love affair: it attracts hair like freaking velcro and then you get to pull your Goo-covered hair off of your face.  It’s like face mortar.  And for some inexplicable reason, during my morning prep routine, in what I’m sure is a misplaced sense of efficiency, I plop this slimy mess on before I engage in my dental hygiene regimen.  Which means that not only have I successfully removed all of the afore-applied Goo, but now the crap is all over my hands and toothbrush and, somehow, my face.  I acknowledge this may be user error.  I think my body is absorbing all of this Goo, the lipids are being transported into my blood stream where they are carried to my brain and thusly clog all the areas of my brain responsible for rational decision-making skills.  Seriously.  Like some kind of Goo-induced aneurism.  Gooneurism.  Jesus, see?  No sane person comes up with that shit.

Voulez-voulez-vous I NEED THAT SCIENCE.

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