“It’s wildly irritating to have invented something as revolutionary as sarcasm, only to have it abused by amateurs.” – Christopher Moore

uterusI now have a plush uterus. My magnificent coworkers felt that a plush uterus would make a fantastic placeholder for the real thing. I find it makes a fantastic pillow. I have been given a wide variety of plush gifts during my convalescence. I have now amassed a teddy bear, an otter, a Curious George, a flying screaming monkey, and now, a uterus. Complete with bendable Fallopian tubes. The manufacturer of said uterus has an entire amalgamation of organs for you to select from. Even glands. Thyroid, pituitary, hypothalamus, take your pick. Not to scale, mind you. I cringe at the thought of the size of the being constructed of these organs. The intestines alone would be enough to warrant an abdominal cavity the size of a Buick.

In related news: today I receive a link from the givers of aforementioned uterus. The saga continues:

Awesomesauce link.

I am now plagued by the desire to pack my uterus with me when I leave the house and take advantage of photo-bombing opportunities. Group of duck-face blondes on a Friday night? BAM! Uterus. Group of Japanese tourists in front of Pike Place Market? UTERUS. Oh yeah. I’ll be more notorious than the Travelocity gnome. Or possibly have a warrant for my (or the uterus’) arrest.

All of this “missing uterus” business, coupled with my plethora of free (recovery) time, has unfortunately also given me time to contemplate…whatever has become of my sad, abandoned-in-the-night ovaries?

Yes. That’s right. They left my ovaries behind. Lost in a sea of intestines and bladder and kidneys and whatever the hell else happens to reside in there. The Beatles’ White Album could be shoved in between my liver and spleen for all I know. They meant well; in an attempt to prevent the horrors of premature menopause and the ensuing emotional fits and hot flashes and hormone ugliness which I do, in fact, appreciate. But I digress.

So, you’ve got these ovaries right? And for decades they’re attached to these Fallopian tubes and separated by space and time and this seemingly infinite and vast expanse of land beyond their comprehension. They would see each other, smile, wave a friendly “hello”. Perhaps once in a while, holler across the void:

– “Hey man! How’d your egg go?!”
– “Pretty good! You?”
– “Eh. I’ve had better.”
– “Sorry to hear, man. Hey, wanna grab a drink?”
– “Dude, can’t! I’ve got this Fallopian guy all over my ass!”
– “Oh, right. Well, maybe someday…”
– “Yeah. Well, talk later!”

And on it goes.

Until one day…

A deep rumble…
A piercing ray of light…
A screeching noise…

And before they can comprehend the situation, they are ripped from the only home they have ever known…they only anchor, their safe harbor…and left adrift…to flounder in an uncertain future, their only purpose in life stolen from them.

What now? What was to become of them? DEAR GOD WHERE DO THE EGGS GO?!

It was at this point I began to conjure up images of my wayward ovaries, succumbing to their search for their own kind, becoming lodged in front of my carotid artery, forcing me to squeegee them back down my neck…or one of them inadvertently getting lost in my digestive tract…ye gods. Self-cannibalism! The horror. I do hope they manage to stay put. I never thought to ask my doctor if she thumb-tacked them down or anything. Maybe gave them life preservers or, at the very least, water wings for their entrails. I now have these unfortunate images of them as star-crossed lovers, no longer separated by anatomy, ever searching for one another. Just trying to find the one being in the world who truly knows them. I have my very own anatomical soap opera. I kinda wish they’d sewn them together so I could feel more cozy about the whole thing. Ok, now I just imagined my ovaries as testicles. Ew. Nevermind.

Voulez-voulez-vous it ain’t ova til it’s ova… (I know. So bad. My apologies.)

“Hey! How come Andrew gets to get up? If he gets up, we’ll all get up, it’ll be anarchy!!”

Warning: This post composed while under the influence of physician-prescribed narcotoc painkillers. Continue at your own risk.

Be advised that this may be a bit graphic, but since this is my blog and my domain that I pay for, if you don’t like it, don’t read it. Might I suggest www.cuteoverload.com for your oh-so-fragile psyche? Lots of cute and fuzzy things.

Ten days ago, I had surgery. A hysterectomy, to be exact. My cervix/uterus has been trying to kill me for the last couple of years, so the bastard had to go. My doctor and I tried compromising with the thing, but it would not be reasoned with. Now it’s in a medical waste dump facility somewhere since they wouldn’t let me take it home, which I consider to be violently unfair. I have the opinion I should be able to leave the hospital with all of the parts I had going into it, even if they are in a different container. They disagreed.

At any rate, the recovery process is annoying and ongoing and now I have an infection in my stitches and blood in my urine which is being investigated so I get to wait (granted on painkillers but still). One thing I have learned throughout this ordeal is, when you spend ALL of your time at home, making sure to take note of every odd-ball thing your body is doing, since it’s been violated, trying to distract yourself with Netflix and work and the terrifying content of YouTube…and people ask you how you’re doing?

They really don’t want to know.

They want to hear “OH! I’m doing great! Much better than I expected! Things are MARVELOUS!” They don’t want to hear about the “stuff”. They don’t want to hear about the fact that your body protests every time you shift in your bed and you have crusty blood and surgical glue anchored in your navel and your body protests at functions it used to take for granted. They don’t want to know that things ooze ALL.DAY.LONG. And WHY is everything I want on the wrong floor of the house? Snarf.

Because for some reason, people find the human body and all of it’s goings-on “TMI”. TMI? Pppbblltthhhh. Ok, so yes, maybe a dinner party or a business meeting is not the most appropriate locale to discuss such things. But when people genuinely ask me how I’m doing and I even hint at anything biological? Ye gods. Pregnant women of the world, you have my sympathies. From here on out, every friend I have who conceives a child, feel free to rant and rave to me to your heart’s content; I will be a sounding board for you. Now I know why the elderly tend to express themselves so passionately about the inner workings of their anatomy; they’ve stopped caring and are making up for lost time.

I honestly have NO idea why we, as humans, find ourselves so revolting. It’s a wonder people even manage to have sex. Seriously. We gross ourselves out; how did this happen? Did modern medicine keep us from having to suck it up and set our own broken legs while traveling cross-country so now we grow faint at the sight of a hangnail? Good lord people. Grow a pair and deal. Yeah, I have blood in my urine. OH MY GOD! People will watch a video of two girls eating each others feces out of a cup but I mention my internal stitches being infected and all of a sudden I’m the one crossing the line? The mind reels.

Voulez-voulez-vous peritoneal drainage!!

Is this not a reasonable place to park??

Michelle Leland…this narrative is for you.

So I’m doing my “night before surgery” shower thing, where they make you wash with the medical equivalent to battery acid, see, making it clear to not get it in any orifices lest you go blind or deaf or sterile; you are also not to use conditioner (criminal!), and during this debacle I’m wondering what the Purpose of It All is, when I just have to do it *again* in the morning. (sigh.) yes, that’s right.  They make you do it twice.  Which is altogether pointless when all I’m going to do is crawl into my bed littered with dead skin cells and the cracker crumbs and pieces of seaweed from last night and other evidence of humanity you *really* don’t want to know about, thus negating all of this “disinfecting”.

At any rate, mid-scrub, I look up, and there’s a spider on the ceiling. Not a “bite-your-face-off” sized one mind you, but modest, reddish, just hanging out, trying to build a web, I think, flush with the ceiling. Considering I’ve never seen a flying insect in the bathroom to date, I feel this is a bad plan. I find it best to advise him:

“Hey.  Dude-man.  That’s a bad spot for your real estate.  Seriously. Keep it movin’.”

The spider does not respond.

“Ok, now, I’m no expert, but seriously.”


And then…it warbles. Legs dangling, et cetera.

“Oh, HELL no…ok, pal, you fall on me, that’s it. No sympathy. None. I was willing to let you build your digs over a swirling vortex of death all you wanted but you fall on me? You’re fucked.”

It is at this point I begin to realize the surgical disinfectant I have lathered onto my porcelain flesh has exceeded the 15-20 second expiration date and is now searing my epidermis.



I then decide a pre-emptive strike is in order and go after the unsteady arachnid with my sadly unused bottle of conditioner.

I miss.
It falls. Onto my disinfected shoulder.

There’s a certain clarity of thought, a particular calmness that claims your mind, when you realize that in less than 24 hours a surgeon is going to be reaching into your opened abdomen and removing all of your reproductive organs. This tends to keep you from the predictable human response of:


And instead, you shoot it a sarcastic look which reads, “Sumbitch pleeeeease…” and with a nonchalant “flick” send him flying into the drain, Honey Badger-style. Sorry dude-man.

He hits the bottom of the tub unimpressively, legs flailing, and spirals down into the aforementioned Vortex of Death. He died so that others may shower.

crabNow, if tomorrow morning during pre-op disinfectant shower round two there’s a damn coconut crab in there, you’ll bet your ass there will be the vocal equivalent of a four-alarm fire emanating from the bathroom. There’s a time and a place and there’s just no amount of disinfecting cleanser that can help me recover from that nightmare.


Captain Jack and the Shrimp Shack Shooters

Upon beginning this blog I realized that my bloody Yahoo hosting interface hates Chrome, and Safari, and basically any browser but Firefox.  As a Mac user, I am a devoted Chrome fanatic.  But when I try and post a blog entry using this particular application in my browser of choice, it chokes and gurgles upon itself and no progress is made.  So I have sadly discovered that if I am to have a happy pretty blog, I must also have a douchebag browser.  Technology fail.

But I digress.

Riding the bus affords me certain unique opportunities that regular automobile (AUTOMOBIIIILE???)  commuters just do not experience.  Of course, these selfsame commuters do not realize that they have become one of my favorite forms of entertainment as we go careening down 520 during the wee hours of the weekday morn.  You people manage the most amazing feats of multitasking while driving.  Sure, most of you manage to manipulate your mobile devices with a fair amount of manual dexterity while operating a motor vehicle with relative (?) success.  But I’ve seen iPads, laptops, I’ve seen entire breakfasts being consumed, outfits changed, hairdos coiffed, makeup applied (one woman meticulously applied mascara in her rearview mirror while maintaining a healthy 55 MPH down I-5).  If I weren’t in a large, reinforced steel tube that could crush anything in its path should shit really go down, I’d never leave the house.  You people are bloody insane.  Legislators think cell phones are all they have to worry about?  Holy hell man, in my estimation Sephora is FAR more deadly than texting my “ETA” to my “BFF”.  People drive with their dogs on their laps – and I’m not talking Pomeranians…I’ve seen full-size Labradors and Cocker Spaniels cruising along with their heads hanging out the driver’s side window with shit-eating grins on their faces.

Of course, the inner sanctum of public transit is not the idyllic 45-minute cruise that one would hope. You have the stereotypical anti-deodorant folks, the creepy lech guy who sits next to you even though the bus is TOTALLY EMPTY, the screaming kid downing an entire bag of Skittles and his ironically bewildered mother, the people who don’t realize the volume at which they’re holding embarrassing phone conversations…or, like yesterday, dancing pirates.  True story.  No, he did not have earphones.  Whatever he was listening to, dude had it goin’ on in his head.  Oddly, it matched perfectly with the tempo of what I was listening to at the time…got my toes a-tappin’…I’ll admit it.  Must be brilliant to have that kind of soundtrack in your own head.  He even had a feather in his hat.  And some pretty sick moves for a pirate. I don’t think I’ll be underestimating pirates for a while.  What was brilliant was the effect he was having on those around him.  I find it hilarious how when amazing and odd things happen in this city, people do the “OHMIGOSH LOOK AT THIS INTERESTING AND FASCINATING ALBEIT ATTENTION-CONSUMING THING ON MY PHONE!” bit.  They were doing anything to avoid looking at this guy busting a move on the bus.  Me? I think it would be far more interesting to join in, or at least give him a soundtrack, or maybe throw confetti at him.  Or throw confetti at the OHMIGOSH, PHONE!! people.  It’s amazing the effort we put into ignoring one another.

Voulez-voulez-vous savvy?

“System.NullReferenceException”. What the eff does THAT mean?!

I’ve come to the realization that Facebook is trying to take control of humanity.

There’s a scene in “The Truman Show” – the end, actually – where after decades of mindless viewers following Truman from conception to adulthood through the medium of television the protagonist finally becomes aware that he has been the the sole source of entertainment for millions of people and, in a grand gesture, he ‘pulls the plug’, as it were.  And these millions of viewers who have been living vicariously through his eyes and neglecting their own existence for more days than they can count, for several pauses, are aghast, disoriented, and bewildered.  And you find yourself hoping that maybe, just maybe, they will hoist themselves off of the sofa and do something meaningful and profound; buy a unicycle. Learn Latin. Get a llama. Something.

But no.  They just change the channel.  Erngh.

My point is this:  whenever there’s what I call “a glitch in the Matrix”, or, to be more concise, whenever the chat list disappears from Facebook, or the masthead goes astray, or people’s oh-so-meaningful posts get sucked into the void, there is widespread panic.  The Facebook wall becomes aflood with posts from people looking for some kind of confirmation, some comfort, that someone else *out there* is also suffering. Please, please tell me your feed isn’t refreshing! Please tell me I’m not alone!!

And if Facebook were to disappear, out of desperation, would we all migrate back to the steely 140-character limit confines of Twitter?  Or even (gasp) Google+?

Ye gods. What has happened?

Facebook has made us addicted, made us twitchy, made us dependent on knowing what each of us is doing every second…and ohmigosh, please let someone have commented on that oh-so-amazing witticism I posted earlier, and did I get invited to that thing? I didn’t? But so-and-so did…does that mean they don’t like me anymore? Why did she/he/they RSVP and not tell me about it? UGH I feel like total CRAP about myself right now! No one LOVES ME! *hiccup* *muffled sob*

Facebook has made us all high schoolers again…and we’re letting it! Sad wankers we are.

I wonder how it would be possible to organize a 24 hour worldwide Facebook boycott.  No posts, no shares, no bloody ‘likes’.  Nothing.  Everyone even goes so far as to sign out of their accounts. No social media at all. Instead, we meet in person. Talk on the phone to hear each other’s voices. Read books made of paper.  Disconnect and reconnect.  Become human again.

Just a thought.

Voulez-voulez-vous Niff likes this.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Johnny Cash.

I’ve noticed two things as of late.

1.  Dog people tend to speak TO their dogs.

2.  Cat people tend to speak FOR their cats.  Narrative-style.


The dog person:

“OH!  Who’s a good dog!  Oh yes, he’s just da best dog EVER oh yes he IS!  Who want to go for a WALK oh YES he DOES!  OH he’s just da handsomest boy ever!  Oh you like that scratch da butt ohhh yeeeeaaahhhhh that feels good huh you like dat dontcha!!”

(ok, fine.  Maybe that’s how I talk to dogs.  Whatever.  Moving on.)

And the latter school:

“Yes.  I’m a cat.  No, you may not pet me now.  In fact, you may not even gaze upon my magnificence just yet.  I shall let you know when it is time.  In fact, I would like to be fed.  That’s right.  And don’t you dare give me that noxious dry mess either – oh good god, is that beastly mongrel in my litter box again?  What a lemming.  I’m surrounded by imbeciles.  Things will be so much more tolerable when the sixth extinction hits and your apelike masses of flesh are disintegrated and we inherit the earth…”

I think the dog in the (Pixar?  Disney?  Fuck if I know) movie “Up!” eloquently sums up my preference for dogs: “I just met you.  But I love you!”  I realize there’s a kind of sick desperation there.  It’s ok, I own it.

What I love about cats, if I could love anything about cats, is how their owners make excuses for their ass-hat behavior as if it were a personality trait.  Like it’s endearing somehow.

“Oh, Seviche does this thing where when I’m needing snuggles after a rough day I call her name and she glares at me, ya know, like she wishes the Korean mafia were slitting my jugular at that precise moment?  Yeah.  So then she turns on her heel and fluffs her tail in the air with a metaphorical, “Harrumph!” and struts off…Ohmigosh!  SOOO cute!  Sigh.  Cats are the best…”

It would be at this juncture where I would be duct-taping this useless, fluff-covered sack of innards to the carpet to give it ample time to ponder the err of its foul, smug, and curmudgeonly ways and to become accustomed to its station in life as a domestic servant and provider of love and affection, NOT as an object of idolatry and worship.  Really, the perpetuation of *that* particular nonsense must cease and desist.  I think even the Egyptians came to their senses on that one.

Voulez-voulez-vous j’ai rien.


So, I’ve come to the realization, after having my blog since 2005 and Facebook since 2008, that the benefit of the blog environment is that you own your content and the domain in which it resides; there’s somewhat of a “this is MY backyard…” mentality, and people are less likely to start a foul-mouthed debate with you regarding your opinions, whereas Facebook is somewhat tantamount to staring into the refrigerator for hours on end, not knowing what you want, then ranting about it’s contents as if it’s somehow the household appliance’s fault. Then, ultimately deciding to engage in an argument with your housemate over the lonely jar of mayonnaise. Meanwhile the mayo is thinking to itself, “Begging your pardon? *I* didn’t put this dollop of mustard in here, I fail to see how I’m involved in this debate…”. Alas, the internet has become an unruly daycare center filled with faceless, gramatically-incorrect diatribes. I blame social media. And texting.

Wackos everywhere, plague and madness…

And while in this Pensive Facebook Pondering Period, I shamefully engaged in this narcissistic activity whereby an application evaluates your online activity and sums you up in a report not entirely unworthy of a PowerPoint presentation with pie charts and diagrams and maybe even a pivot table thrown in here and there for added flair. And then of course posts it on Facebook for all to see.

Apparently I post 136 statuses a month. The average user posts 12. I have typed 144,004 words. The Hobbit has 95,022.

I could have written a bloody book? Ye gods. Now Zuckerberg owns it? *hangs head*.

So now that Facebook has this feature whereby you can archive every status, photo, link, etc cetera you have ever posted, I am in the process of reclaiming my thoughts, queries, memes, rants (mostly rants but it is what it is…) But, since there are over five thousand of them, it seems to be taking a bit of time. And me, being the impatient twit that I am, have begun the arduous task of sifting through them piecemeal, which is proving to be somewhat of an insurmountable task.

So, what you are about to experience (and my apologies in advance) is an amalgamation of random Facebook posts over the years that *should* have turned into blog entries, or at least provided amusing anecdotal introductions thereof, but failed. Because Facebook, that pus-spewing, blood-gutted leech of creativity, has made me incomprehensibly lazy. Tragically, I post small snippets of witticism THERE, on a FREE service (on which I am subjected to endless advertising, no less), yet my blog, in which I pour my hard-earned dollars into on a monthly basis, goes completely neglected.

So I am making a concentrated effort here to import, as you will, the long-lost wasted blog-children of Facebook.

These tend to span from 2008 – present, about the time my blog started to suck. (And can I just add, as a segue, this dude at the next table needs to *seriously* cut back on the Old Spice. What IS that??)

So these are just a few, since I began to get seasick from scrolling through endless Facebook posts. Hopefully I’ll get my archived file soon…

My new favoritest thing in the whole world: playing “Red Light, Green Light” when my coworker walks out of the office. Cuz, he like, totally does it. Awesomesauce.
I am finding your sentence bewildering. Almost like looking at a Salvador Dali picture. I like it.
I’d like to modify my Foursquare app so instead of reporting, “Niff has just checked into ___”, it states instead, “Niff is Occupying Elliott Bay Book Co”, or, “Niff is Occupying Bellevue Transit Center.”
For example, Niff is Occupying her desk. Concurrently, Niff is Occupied.
With every passing hour our solar system comes forty-three thousand miles closer to globular cluster 13 in the constellation Hercules, and still there are some misfits who continue to insist that there is no such thing as progress.
Happy Birthday, Mom! Thanks for contributing half of the genetic material to create me & stuff…
“The possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real. No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride.”
My boss just threatened to stab me in the throat with his pen if I said the number “eleven” again. Think maybe I won’t do that anymore.
So…death metal lip-syncing satanic burlesque. Down to the freakish zombie face paint and the guzzling down the goblet of blood. I’m afraid to go to sleep…
I’m having one of those mornings where I feel the need to audibly narrate everything I’m doing, sing-song style, and follow it up with, “like a boss”.
Jesus christ, I need coffee.
♪ ♫ …like a boss… ♫ ♪
I can’t help but observe the bizarre situational irony that is downing my variety of nutritional supplements with Diet Coke. O_o
Three things I heard tonight that I wish I could un-hear:
– “We’re the blonde-tourage! You know, cuz we’re both blonde!” (Trust me…they weren’t really.)
– “Can we get six MGD’s in champagne glasses?”
– “Sike!”
If you have trouble with simple counting, use the following mnemonic device: one comes before two comes before 60 comes after 12 comes before six trillion comes after 504. This will make your earlier counting difficulties seem like no big deal.
[Niff] is fortified with 9 essential vitamins and minerals and is now available at 0.4% APR financing. Act now and get two free DVD’s with purchase. All a nutritious part of a complete breakfast. Rated M for Mature.
The most interesting passenger on the 249 by far: the dude in the camouflage jacket who, daily, reads an obviously outdated Scholastic “Encyclopedia of the Presidents”.
Niff hereby dubs this Third-Person Wednesday. Niff thinks this won’t be too confusing since there aren’t altogether too many Niff’s running about. The *other* Jennifer’s, and Michael’s, and Chris’, however, might experience and/or cause confusion with this, however. Feel free to promote or denounce at will.
I think the key to happiness is finding one thing every day to be thankful for.
My token of gratitude this fine Wednesday?
That I’m not water-soluble.
Ok. Confession time.
Les Misérables was epic and beautiful and grand and all that. But I shed not a single tear. And he reason is this:
It is virtually impossible to become emotionally attached to a scene of someone clinging to life, taking their last, gasping breaths, because I’m like, “Ok, so…lemme get this straight…you’re dying… hemorrhaging internally, even, and and you still have the wherewithal to bust into a showtune about the ‘rain making the flowers grow, laa dee daa dee daa?’ Suspension of disbelief = SHATTERED!” Ok. That is all.
(I actually have an entire blog entry about this planned; much to what I’m sure will be the chagrin of certain people…)

So, We’ll see if Facebook folows through with their promise to send me my stuff. I may have to go to their offices and bang on their doors or something. Bloger rage. I haz it.

Voulez-voulez-vous “What’s going on, Niff?”


I’m glad I located my noise-canceling headphones. Because some days you simply feel like ignoring the world, ya know?

Notice: reading xkcd on your phone while walking home from the drugstore may result in a sudden and unexpected encounter with gravity/sidewalk, thus resulting in a backtrack to aforementioned drugstore for Band-Aids because you inadvertently knocked your last box into the toilet when looking for safety pins while getting ready for that thing last week.
…of course posting this while walking home from getting the Band-Aids isn’t altogether too bright, either.

Yes, I have a celebrity crush on Tom Brokaw.  So?

Tip: be good to your kidneys. They’re vengeful little bastards. They hold grudges.  Oftentimes in unison.

Photos aren’t loading on my news feed. On my desktop or my phone. I must have missed the memo where they informed us that Facebook was infallible.

Here is your Today’s Scorpio Horoscope:
It may be hard to believe something impossible, but try to do so — especially if it’s right in front of your eyes. The phrase ‘too good to be true’ was invented by killjoys, anyway.

I have a feeling why Arthur Dent could never get the hang of Thursdays. Thursday just f*cks with you. It’s like it’s saying, “Hey bitches. I’m THURSDAY. You know what that means? It’s SOOO not Friday. And you just gotta sit there and deal with me. You just gotta bend over and take it. HA! How ya like that? That’s right! Say my name! THURSDAY! MUAHAHAHA!!!”
Yeah.  I get ya, Arthur.

God really needs to stop hogging all the Zone 7 parking in my neighborhood. #stjamescathedral

“Mr. Beeblebrox, sir,” said the insect in awed wonder, “you’re so weird you should be in movies.”
“Yeah,” said Zaphod patting the thing on a glittering pink wing, “and you, baby, should be in real life.”

Aio, quantitas magna frumentorum est.

‎…wondering if good things really *do* come in threes.

“The fact that we live at the bottom of a deep gravity well, on the surface of a gas covered planet going around a nuclear fireball 90 million miles away and think this to be normal is obviously some indication of how skewed our perspective tends to be.”
— Douglas Adams

Niff’s Law #3: Yelling at your art accomplishes *nothing*.
(aside from making you look completely *mad* in a bar).

*Only uses *yellow* Post-its. Neon just doesn’t fly.

Great things are afoot. Both of them. (Meaning great things *and* feet.)

*is a two-cube kind of gal.

You can never be too rich, too thin, or have too many Sharpies.

111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = 12,345,678,987,654,321

Satsumas make sunny days double-plus sunny. -ish. (Forgot about my -ish Manifesto).

Just to be obnoxious and vague, I’m going to add “-ish” to as many words as possible today.
As in, “this woman on the bus is being loud-ish while on her cell phone”.
Actually, screw that. She IS bloody loud. I’m-a smack her in the head kinda hard-ish. Bawwww.

“Bawwww” is a cuteness descriptor, as in, “That’s so BAWWWWWW! Like, Choco-Cat BAWWWWW!!!!”
Ok, now anyone wanna tell me what the HELL that means??

Ok, so BAWWWWW + Choco-Cat = BAWWWWWW, therefore BAWWWWW + Choco-Cat = BAWWWWW? Is this the reflexive property of wtf?

OR, BAWWWW = π(Choco-Cat)^2

Or, Choco-Cat Cream π


If you have trouble with simple counting, use the following mnemonic device: one comes before two comes before 60 comes after 12 comes before six trillion comes after 504. This will make your earlier counting difficulties seem like no big deal.


Voulez-voulez-vous sometimes you must go a long distance out of the way in order to return a short distance correctly.

Smiles are free.

Every morning as I walk down Cherry under the I-5 overpass, there is a rather cheerful, 40-something African American man wearing a knit cap and standing on the side of the road with a ragged-looking cardboard sign, asking for spare change from the cars waiting at the stoplight. And every morning he does nothing more than wave, send me a large, beaming smile and shout “Good morning!” across the busy street.  He’s never once asked me for money.  
I never realized how I appreciated his greetings until he was gone for a few days and replaced by a curmudgeonly, withered old man who said nothing, just held his sign with a glowering look on his face.  It’s funny how we don’t notice things until they’re absent.  But then lo, this morning there he was, as usual, making sure I could hear him over my headphones.

And I thought…if he can have the sort of life that calls for spending his mornings under an overpass asking for money and still manages to give large beaming smile every day…why do we let ourselves get so upset and frustrated over trivialities?  Traffic, the internet being slow, lines taking too long at the grocery store…Facebook not loading properly.  Everything has become so automated and instantaneous that the slightest inconvenience sends us ranting.  Perhaps it’s the people who are disconnected and unplugged from all the gadgets and the internets that know simple happiness.

I appreciate this daily reminder to slow down, enjoy my walk and prioritize. 

It’s just unfortunate I forget it by the time my inbox at work starts overflowing.  😉



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

Categories: old blogs I forgot to post.

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…