It is hard to enjoy your staycation when...

you realize you will never retire. 777 point drop in the DOW? There will be day traders turning tricks by Thursday.

Did anyone see this graph? Oh NYT, why do you make sad graphs? Graphs should only be used for good, not depressing.
















Looking back on my choice to enter into a career in a non-profit field where I myself net almost no profit I am now feeling somewhat reassured that no matter what, come this year, I would be absolutely fucked.

Job #1: Pay off student loans by December 2009.

Job #2: Pray.

Job #3: Start saving money for my retirement under my mattress or in my flour jar; somewhere it is safe from molestation.

Postzilla- I just write it, you sort it out.

1. Ok, Fringe, I grudgingly like you. But I will drop you the second I am slightly less interested. Joshua Jackson, you are not a very good actor; and testing my endurance greatly (and yet, you are mysteriously kind of sexy- how do you do this, are you magic?). IQ of 190 (oft repeated), I’m thinking those numbers are in the wrong order.

I’ve heard a lot of people complain that it is going to be freak of the week X-Files sans David Duchovny; I ask, what about that doesn't sound good. Monsters without Duchovny's sucking petulance, the abortive non-romance, and the overarching conspiracy theories poorly connected to culminate in 'yes, what you thought about your sister for the entire series was right [and boring].'

In related news, I think I have to learn how to use the time tape feature on my VCR. Yes, I own a VCR still. Now that we are watching Fringe we are Tivo-ing two things Monday at 9 and that bumps Big Bang Theory right off the Tivo. (Hey, TV stations, try showing all the good shows spread out rather than between 8 and 10 on Mondays. KTHX)

2. The number of threats of burning down my office have significantly dropped off, which I think signals that my staycation is working nicely. I have made serious headway in all of my projects and that is very exciting.

3. Yesterday I went to the DOL to get my enhanced driver’s license (which will allow me to cross the Canadian border without additional paperwork) and it was quite the riggamaroll. The guy who interviewed me had the strongest (just guessing Turkish?) accent and I think he was hitting on me. It is hard to say because I only caught 50% of his heavily accented mumblings.

Ex:

Maybe Turkish Homeland Security Clearance Guy: Blardy Blardy Blar Canada often?

Q: pause… Yes, between 4 and 7 times a year for the last 6 years.

MTHSCG: Blardy Blar visiting your boyfriend?

Q: pause… My mother.

Yea, because I’ve been dating some joker for 6 years and I see him quarterly. Hmmmmm… actually that seems somewhat appealing and realistic to situations in my life. Perhaps this is more troubling than I had initially thought.

Also, he asked me questions I did not know the answers to such as:

Where was your father born?

How do you spell Fort Ord?

He seemed kind of appalled that I knew so little about my father; for example when I had to look up his birthday in my Palm. I think that Mumbles von Accent needs to lay of the judging.

4. I am super broke right now due to my own over-eagerness to pay off my credit card completely next month and I am resentful that I am so obsessed with paying off my debts. (Although I did shop more than I ought to have this month according to my crazy budget, and it was a really heavy gift month with numerous birthdays, babies, and weddings.)

5. (This is much longer than I expected, maybe I missed blogging.) Is anyone else excited about ABC’s Castle (to come out midseason 2009)? It stars Nathan Fillion as a mystery writer who helps the police solve crimes. You guys, it is like Murder She Wrote, but with Nathan Fillion. Now all this show needs is Tom Selleck and I would join the fan club.

Where is my delicious Tom Selleck [cake]?

Has everyone seen this yet? If not, feast your eyes upon the delight which is Tom Selleck in cake form:



















Very nice, Alicia of alicia policia.

In addition to making me aware that all of my previous cake eating experiences have been sub-par, Alicia also pointed out that Tom Selleck is no stranger to life in cake form. Unfortunately the Tom Selleck cakes linked previously sound... revolting.

In other cake news: where is my Han Solo encased in carbonite cake?
























And do not even get me started on Dalek cakes.

Is anyone else here feeling a little hungry?

It's ok, you see, I've come up with a new new plan.

This is how everything will be alright. Things have not been alright lately. I am drowning in bad feelings, work, inexplicable loneliness, exhaustion, frustration, and a disorganized life that I feel like I do not own.

Hence the blog-hiatus. I don't want to have a blog where I write beautiful entries about my difficult and beautiful life, and my sad but hopeful feelings. That is not who I am. I make plans. And watch movies about aliens where things blow up. And worry about high fructose corn syrup. And floss EVERY DAY.

I do not worry about my relationship with my father. I do not worry about my map in life. There is a stranger attempting to helm my blog (and maybe my life) and I do not like them or their feelings oriented ways.

Last week I came up with an ingenious plan to spend 3 nights a week at home every week till Christmas.

This week I realize that this is not a strong enough measure. I am in a funk bog thick as jell-o jigglers. Having time to paint my toenails and do my laundry (but not at the same time) is not going to solve this problem.

I need a vacation. So I will be taking one. Here, at home. Through October 15, you may consider me on vacation on the tropical island of Mountlake Terrace.

I plan to mostly stay home. Mostly nap and read. Mostly tend to my garden. I want to use my kitchen aid to make delicious food. Clean the garage. Get some order and discipline. Finish up the work project with a looming October 15 due date. Smell the daisies. Have my cake and eat it too.

Then, butterfly-like, I shall emerge on the 16th, tidied and relaxed. And I will not have to kill anyone.

Maybe.

So, my blog may or may not be somewhat sparse for the next month. I will update when I feel like it. And not update when I don't. I will probably not make a lot of plans to go out. But if you want to come visit me on my island, let me know.

It is always sunny in Mountlake Terrace. Where the women make cookies, the men kill spiders, and the children play in the M'n F'n street even when you yell at them. Every day.

Reach out and punch someone...

in the face. Then duck and run away, because that person could surely take you out of the world as quickly as you were brought in.

Trying to make plans with Dad is like making peace in the Middle East. All I want to know is when and where to meet on the pre-established day. And what was his response.

"Why don't I just call you when I get settled in?"

Why don't you just call? Empirical evidence suggests that is a long shot.

I swear in front of God and the entire internet, that if I drive down to Portland and he does not call me, I will really really really never ever give him a bazillionth chance. Because I have been fooled so many times that I don't know which of us should be more ashamed.

That is all.

I think it is time for ice cream and This Old House. Norm would never leave me hanging.

Unrelated (mostly) sidenote: does anyone else find Kevin O'Connor ridiculously adorable? I need to stop watching TOH. (#1 sign you watch too much, you use the abbreviation 'TOH'.)

I am Batman

She sat at a stop light, a mild mannered math-er headed out after a hard day of adding and subtracting. The rain slid down the blue hood of her old car like cold tears. On the radio the tinny voice of some dame bemoaned the state of the world. Just another gray day in a gray city. A familiar crunch distracted the math-er from her musings. A car had turned straight into the car behind her. She stared into her rear view mirror and sighed, weighing her options and wondering if everything was alright. Something told her it wasn't.

The light turned green. Following her intuition, she pulled through the intersection and into the lot across the street. She watched the offending vehicle, a luxury model, pull into a joint next to the accident. The driver got out of the car and slid her hands along her vehicle. She was young. Too young to know any better.

She looked both ways and legged it back to her car and took off.

Something in the math-er snapped. Her manner became decidedly un-mild and she gave chase, her large blue vehicle gliding along behind the speeding sports car. The math-er had had enough. Enough of people acting like assholes. Enough of assholes getting away with it. Enough of nice people sitting on the side of the road in their shitty smashed up domestic cars wondering why these things happen. And why they always happen to them.

The math-er knew why. Because some people think that they are above the law. Some people think that they are better than other people. They are wrong, thought the math-er, her jaw clenched with gritty determination.

The young woman was driving pretty fast, and the math-er almost lost sight of her. She saw a glint take a speedy right and followed it on a hunch. She thought of the battered old American car sitting in the road back at the intersection and gunned it. Ahead of her she saw the car. And ahead of it a 4-way stop. The math-er knew she had the young woman cornered. As she pulled up behind the car, the math-er wrote the license number on her hand. She watched as the young woman turned down a dead end. But the math-er had all she needed.

She hurried back to the scene of the crime and flagged down a police officer. The police praised her and took down her detailed statement. They called her a hero. The math-er was flattered, she preened but demurred, Aw shucks, just doing the right thing.

As the math-er walked back to her American relic the driver of the mutilated old car pressed her hands together in a gesture of thanks. The math-er turned and smiled. She gave the driver thumbs up.

Not just another day. A new day.

A new day in the gray city.

---------------------------------------

And that is why I didn't make it to your Pseudo-Bachelorette Party, Mon. My secret life as a crime fighter got in the way (again).

Seriously.

PS- This is my 1,000th post. Good job on not quitting, self. You should eat a cupcake tonight in celebration.

I was going to eat one anyway, but now I have an excuse!

Recipe for a Good Life

I know I am a whiner. I’m so busy. Wah wah wah. I have too many friends. Wah wah wah.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the amount of things I schedule for myself. I always get burnt out and threaten big changes, but in the end it comes down to one thing: I have the greatest friends ever. (In the entire history of friends. Pretty sure.) How can I complain that I am too busy when there is so much awesome to be had?

This weekend I had the final installment of birthday shenanigans and I was utterly touched by the thoughtfulness of my friends. Every gift was clearly chosen with care. Every person sacrificed a Sunday evening, traveling though torrential rain just to eat delicious cake with me.

Even after I threw a bitch-fit about only wanting one little party.

I am doubly blessed to have a caring family and friends who are there not just for cocktails and cake, but stick around even when I move or paint my home. I don't even need to ask.

I may not have all the things in life that people grasp at, but I am lucky to have the most elusive and valuable thing of all, fantastic friends.

For my birthday I received a host of amazing gifts including a Kitchen Aid stand mixer. My Kitchen Aid is just waiting on the counter. Shiny and new, like the new car I've never owned. It even has new mixer scent. Every year I've requested a Kitchen Aid, and my family has refused. Kitchen Aid stand mixers are for married women. Get married and we'll buy you one. The only thing better than being an independent woman and buying a Kitchen Aid is being given one by your friends. Confirmation that I am good the way I am.

I show my love for people in sacrifices of my most precious commodity: time. Standing in my kitchen kneading dough, cutting cookies, or frying up some bacon, while bopping along to music is the perfect way to 'talk' about my 'feelings'. Daydreaming of happy friends with full stomaches as I stir. The warmth of the oven, the clean white counters, and the safety of an apron are like a crackling fire, warm blanket, and a good book. I'm never more at peace than when I'm whipping something up for a loved one.

I've got all these images in my head. I see good friends at the table. Herbs from my garden. And in the kitchen things are stirring. Clippings from Gourmet and Cook's Illustrating are queuing up and I am ready. I am mixing dreams in that shiny metal bowl.

Passive Aggressive Notes to My Roommate: Spider Edition

Dear Roommate,

I am not sure how you persuaded me to come into the bathroom with you to “check out this HUGE spider in the garbage can” (I assume voodoo), but I would like to ask you to STOP IT, because I am permanently traumatized.

That spider was so huge that in spite of the fact that I knew it would be there, I screamed anyway. You pulled like 4 Kleenex out of the box to kill that spider. I would have tried the elephant gun first. Ok, that is not true because I would have just screamed and ran away. Also I don’t have an elephant gun.

Every morning I make my bed even though I am blind, deaf, and dumb until after I’ve showered and eaten. And do you know why, dear roommate? It is not because I’m OCD and must control my environment; no, it is because then spiders cannot get into my bed and lie in wait for me.

That spider was so huge that it crawls into my bed, reads my comics, and watches HGTV in my bath robe, then makes the bed again and leaves. So huge that it probably squeezes into the sexiest of my unmentionables and prances around like a pony, taking sassy pictures of itself then posts them on craigslist, because spiders are filthy kinky bastards like that.

So, in conclusion, the next time you see a spider the size of a heifer, just kill it and don’t even tell me it was ever there.

Definitely do not follow me into the living room and tell me that you killed another one upstairs already.

XOXO,
q.

Fred Meyer is zoned “twilight”.

Fred Meyer is actually built on an Indian burial ground or a space time rift or the Hellmouth or something. In fact, I am reminded of the show Reaper, wherein Sam (the Devil’s bounty hunter) can deposit captured souls bound for Hell at the DMV or any other hellish place. I’m pretty sure Sam could deposit souls at Fred Meyer (I will start looking for covert horns on the employees).

It is not actually scientifically possible to just go to Fred Meyer and buy toothpaste. You always look for toothpaste, but then can’t find it, but ‘oh look there are party hats with raccoons on them on sale’ and then you are accosted by ancient semi-nude Russian women spouting profanities, Mexican gang-bangers, or drug dealers and then you stand in line for half an hour and then they have to do a price check on your toothpaste and then the toothpaste turns into a snake and devours your face.

Example: Not too long ago Jim purchased an entertainment tower and we got trapped in line behind someone buying a full cart of groceries from a checker on their first day (on this side of the space time rift?) and a guy who grabbed and squeezed Jim’s shoulder like he was checking a melon for ripeness. The entire furniture choosing process took literally 5 minutes, but before leaving Fred Meyer we stood in line 20 minutes, I almost bought a hummingbird feeder, and a man came-on to Jim. This is how Fred Meyer is.

So given that I’ve been shopping at Fred Meyer since I was 14 years old, I should have known that going to Fred Meyer with Czabrina last night was a ridiculously huge lapse in judgment.

Naturally, they did not have legal sized color copying paper (the only objective of the trip), but plastic bins were on sale, so I had to buy them.

Whilst waiting in line to buy the bins, we were trapped behind what I can only assume were Mormons preparing for the end of days OR John and Kate (of Plus 8 fame). But we were patient. We were having a nice time chatting. It should come as no surprise that this is exactly when the Fred Meyer Rule of Ricockulosity (the Third Law of Crazydynamics) came into play.

A clean-cut, petite, black woman came up the aisle and as she passed took notice of the under-the-bed bin I was holding and asked about it. Czabrina directed her to the correct aisle. But of course, as this is Fred Meyer, the conversation does not end with her thanking us and walking to the aisle, but instead took a sinister course as she declared that you could fit a person, or most of a person, in that bin and store them under your bed or tie them to the top of your car- but they’d have to be small, like my girl. This statement is chased by the phrase “you know what I mean”. Uhm. Do you mean you plan to cram the partially desiccated corpse of your next victim, probably “your girl”, in a Rubbermaid bin that you plan to buy here at Freddy’s today?

She immediately retrieved a screw driver from her person and went on at length about their usefulness, for fixing cars (?? Baroo??). I then decided that perhaps I should continue friendly conversation thus putting off the inevitable stabbing that was certain to come. (Could it be crazy lady, with a screw driver, in the garden department?)

She inquired as to what I would put in the bins, I said CD’s. She is shocked that I have that many CD’s. I explained that I used to work at a music store and got a great discount. Stabby (we are now on a made-up first name basis) announced (loudly) the many ways to steal CD’s when you work at a CD store. “You can get your buddy to come and buy one CD, but take the tags off of like 20 CD’s and then put them in the bag. You know what I mean? Or you can throw a box out the back door. You know what I mean? Or you can open them in the back, take the CD and throw the case in the garbage....” I said, “You could.”

Then she asked us to hold her spot in line and ran over and grabbed one bottled water and 8 candy bars. When she returned (drat!) she asked if she could put them on the conveyer and we agreed. She held them back as the conveyor rolled forward. Finally it was our turn, and as the checker rang up my bins, the Mormons/John & Kate left setting off the door alarm. The checker waved them through, which upset Stabby who yelled at the checker, “You can’t just let them steal like that! You are not good at your job, Michael!” A moment later she mumbled something and, stealing the screw driver, stalked out.

Initially we were all relieved. This care free attitude immediately evaporated as Czabrina and I peered anxiously out the doors towards my distant car. Somewhere out in the darkness was Stabby McGee, replete with stabbing instrument. We ran to the car and sped out of the parking lot, eager to arrive at Staples, where you can walk in, buy paper and leave, and almost nobody advises you on how to hide dead bodies.

You can look forward to a new installment of Department Store or Portal to Alternate Reality soon as the under-the-bed bin I bought does not fit under my bed.

This just in! Whales are dumb.

In other news, whales and I now have more in common than blubber; as I am also a moron and pulled a muscle in my ass this morning at work. Said I, "Ouch! I think I just pulled my ass!"

Said coworkers, "Teehee."

Our Impending Doom

I thought I would mention that I am a contributing blogger at therobotapocalypse.blogspot.com. My first entry, Colbert on the impending Robot Apocalypse.

Teaser:

The groundwork for our demise has been laid; and you can blame Steve Jobs.

Look at that face, if that doesn't say "Bwahahaha", I'll eat my hat*.
























* [made of delicious cake.]

Nerdy Links!

For those who have ever wondered, in a battle between a shark and a polar bear, who would win? Don't get to excited, there is no video. Just some forensic evidence and a bit of scientific speculation.

Will we try to clone mammoths? You bet we will. I think we owe to Michael Crichton to at least try. If that doesn't work, we should fall back onto plan b, VR gloves for gorillas.

If you are not reading Kick-Ass, you should be. I'm really enjoying this book. Kick-Ass has been optioned and Christopher Mintz-Plasse (McLovin) is apparently in negotiations to play the villain. I wonder if he will be scary as a villain. Via io9.

Fantastic Friday Super Post

1. If you know me, you know of my many obsessions. Two of my particular favorites: Sesame Street and Neil Patrick Harris, are combined in the coming season 39 of Sesame Street. There is a sneak preview of of NPH as Sesame Street's Shoe Fairy up on Youtube. There is singing. You must watch. Via The Park Bench.

2. In the grossest news ever, I am a slug mass murderer. Yesterday I set slug traps (aka plastic cups of beer) out in my garden and 2 of the three had one slug each, but one trap had countless (meaning too gross to count) slugs of all colors and sizes. It was disgusting. There was about an inch of slug corpse detritus in the bottom of my slug cup. Tonight I must buy more beer. Bwahahahahahahahaha!

3. This whole bigfoot uproar has spawned something most diverting: Graham Roumieu's Bigfoot Press Release on Boing Boing. If you have not read Graham Romieu's Bigfoot books, you should as they are awesome.

4. In fantastic news, it is Friday and I have a spectacular weekend of awesomeness planned: pj and movie night with Melody, Farmers Market with Kim, hanging pictures, picking paint colors, high energy tidying, followed by first class ass-sitting. I'm going to read some books and watch a lot (A LOT) of TV. Perhaps I'll buy the next book in Fables or Y:The Last Man as a special treat. It is Friday and things are good.

There is no dignity on Wednesday, the 13th!

Yesterday, after I posted the morning's tale of Garbage Nudity Crisis I found that yesterday was actually cursed.

Later that day...

1. Wallgreen's did not have the toilet paper I wanted. How do you run out of the good toilet paper Wallgreen's?! I am very fussy about what is rubbed on my butt.

2. While purchasing TP and shaving gel at Safeway, I decided to impulse buy strawberry Crush in glass bottles. Apparently when people take a few bottles out of a 6-pack carrier, they become unstable and when innocent Quianas come by to take the carrier propping up the partially empty carrier, the partially empty carrier falls onto the floor and 50% of the bottles explode everywhere. This makes me a sad panda.

3. Got in line at Joann's with one spool of heavy duty thread and a set of upholstery needles. I was the only one in line and there are two check stands open. One of the checkers summonsed the manager, and I was not paying much attention. A moment later the manager was at my elbow asking if she can help me. I found this confusing because usually at Joann's the check stand is a complete clusterfuck with 10 people in line and 1 or 2 check stands open, so thinking that she thought I need manager-level assistance, I merely gestured to my basket and said, "I just want to buy these." She looked into my basket and says, "That's not for sale." I looked down at the thread and needles and asked, "Why not?" She replied, "They're not for sale." I pick up the items and say, "But they were on the shelf." I am now convinced I am in the Twilight Zone. Then the woman said, "Ohhhhhhhh, I thought you wanted to buy the basket. Those are not for sale."

No really, I insist.

I insist that you read this BWE blog entry and but really most specifically the comments. It pertains to...

The Beef.

Said one commenter about this post:

I just took a giant piss on the copies of Where The Red Fern Grows, Goodnight Moon, and Where The Wild Things Are that I was saving for my unborn children. This story should suffice for their entire childhood.

I mean, I don't want to over sell. I'm just saying, this story: pretty ok. Especially if you've been following Beef-Mania on BWE at all.

Interesting.

So a while ago I mentioned that I was concerned about the alleged suicide of Pfc. LaVena Johnson. That day I wrote my congressman, Jay Inslee a brief email to make him aware that this is a concern for his constituents. A few weeks later I received a lengthy letter and a copy of a related Congressional Report. The letter not only addressed Pfc. Johnson but also got into the root of the problem, a lack of transparency in the military. The report was lengthy and primarily addressed the US military's use of the media to influence the public in situations that the public would find untenable.

I don't know much about Jay Inslee, but it was somewhat comforting to know that my letter was viewed with enough interest to merit a response.

Unfortunately, real comfort comes from a military that treats its soldiers (of both genders) with the respect that they deserve. People should not fear their military.

Dignity, always dignity.

This morning I lay in bed at 7 am willing myself back into a deep slumber, when over my window fan I heard a beeping.

Every Wednesday since we’ve moved in the garbage truck has arrived at noon at the earliest. Till today. From my bed I realized that Jim had not put out the cans yet.

I leapt from the bed and ran towards the door. Oh! Pants! Grabbed pants and hopping on one foot jammed myself in them and raced down the stairs. Into the garage and out with the can in the nick of time.

Looking down I realize:

1. My pants are on backwards.
2. I’m braless.
3. I’m wearing a shirt that has a Mario Bros mystery block and says “I’d hit that.”

I deeply desire fat baby platypuses!

Ohhhhhhh pudgy platypuses!














Via Cute Overload.

Space Links!

Via io9 & MSNBC.

Lovely, Pristine Beaches off the Shores of Titan's Great Methane Lake

Branson's New Virgin Mothership Sneak Peek

RAWR! Shake it Sir Richard Branson!

Things I Don't Understand: Bumper Stickers

Hey guess what ass-nuggets: I do not believe that your other ride is my mom. And I simply do not care if it is a Harley, but thanks for that superfluous factoid about your interest in having sex with my 50 year old mother and/or your possession of other cooler vehicles.

I do not understand bumper stickers. What am I supposed to say?
Oh I get it, there is a seal and a fetus on that sticker and it says, "One of these is protected. " Now I see! Killing unborn babies is just as bad as killing seals. I will change my ways and vote "pro-life". Thank you for showing me the error of my ways. Perhaps there are other opinions of mine that you can adjust with a 2 dollar sticker. Please help me. You are so smart. And also kind of sexy RAAAAAAAAWR.

Furthermore, I do not care how carpenters do it, where you take yoga, or if your kid is an honor student. And hey, could you tell me more personal information about your children, such as their names and where they sleep? Just, you know, curious.

Oh and thanks for telling me who to vote for. If I hadn't seen that sticker on your Honda I would not have known who is running for president. That sure is a pretty sticker. I think I will change my vote.

PS- Jesus also thanks you for adhering a fish to the back of your vehicle so that every time you drive like the ass-clown you are, He gets blamed.

If you can read this get off my ass. SO CLASSY. If you have one of these stickers and also a penis, call me!! RAWR!!