Phil Connors says, "Don't drive angry."


I took the image from cutoverload.com. Because the kitty told me to.

Beeitch gonna call you out!

Funniest damned thing happened on the elevator on my way out of the building.

I got on the elevator to go to the parking garage with a group of 5 guys who work on my floor. Included is the sartorial splendor- the guy with the "outfits" that are color coordinated. Yesterday was the green track suit/shoes combo. Today was yellow and black. Anyway, they get on, all yammering away in some slavic sounding language. Not Russian. Possibly Polish.

There is a woman already aboard, in the back.

She says, "are you speaking Romanian?"

They all start- one of them turns bright red and says, "yes, you understand?"

"Yes. I understand. I speak English better than Romanian, but I understand." Said with a knowing look.

They sputter amongst themselves awkwardly for a couple moments more until they get to their floor, and rush off.

She starts laughing as the doors closed. She said, "guess they didn't expect that!"

Now my guess is that they were talking shit about the rest of us on the elevator- but I didn't get a chance to ask- my floor came up.

And there you have it. I work on a floor with a passel of Romanians. In funny clothes.

Buried alive

I drive every morning. All is ok until I reach the tunnels. Ah, the tunnels. One longer than the other. But I am finding it harder to cope with getting stalled by traffic in the tunnels.

Back story. A few years ago, we went on a camping trip with friends. There was a bike ride through a mile-long railroad tunnel. I had a complete vertigo moment in the cold, damp dark. My light wasn't sufficient to see the sides and roof of the tunnel, and I couldn't tell where I was. Only could see the little speck of light at the end. I almost walked the whole thing. Wouldn't be the first person, I am told. But Kenga found a better light in his pack, and saved the day. I was able to continue.

Now I am getting that walls-closing-in-holy-crap feeling when I'm in these tunnels too. It's not pretty, people. I just keep remembering to breathe. Then I remember the fire in the Swiss tunnel a couple of years ago, and the tension ratchets up a notch or two. Then I think about the crap that I'm breathing in the tunnel. Then I think about the Boston tunnel- where the ceiling crushed people. And it isn't a good way to start- or finish- the day.

Otherwise everything is fine. We're trying to rent the apartment downstairs and having a really tough go of it this time- for some reason. And it's taking up far too much time. Crappity crap crap.

But otherwise everything is fine.

Ennui

One of my favorite words. Ennui. Along with Ouvre. Ouvre. They roll out of the mouth, and make me seem all erudite. Then I speak a little more, and disabuse the world of that particular notion.

I am filled with ennui today. I need to stretch langorously on a chaise longue and drink coffee out of exquisite porcelain, and eat small delicate buttery pastries. All while wearing the finest cashmere. In shades of delicate eggshell and grey. All seen through a sepia filter.

Instead, I drink coffee from a paper cup. I listen to Kenga revving his Muzzy motorcycle in the garage. I wear a somewhat itchy warm green sweater. And there is no romance of sepia on display.

It's just a grey day, and I'm sleepy. Already slept in and took a nap. Not much else to recommend it. It is probably about time to dive into the dvd collection and find something with Will Farrell. Or John Cleese. But no Bergeman. Even though that's where I really, really feel like wandering. I've had that discussion here before. The pitfalls are out in the open, obvious, and avoidable. But I still stumble towards them.

There are quite a few backfirey noises coming from the garage. I suspect that the dialing in of the carbs is being difficult. I would go help, but I really hate that kind of thing. Makes me grumpy. Which on top of having a Bergeman day, wouldn't be good.

Pirates. That's what I need - Pirates. Is there such a thing as Jamaican coffee- coffee with rum in it? Maybe it's time to start. Jamaican Blue coffee, with rum. Captain Morgan's if available. And a piece of pineapple on top. Wait- hold the pineapple- that sounds nasty.

Fiercely brutal day

but now it's not. Technical difficulties spoiled the buzz that I had over being so vastly productive yesterday. Fucking computers.

It got sorted out, but not without drama. I cried. I shut the fucking door and cried. Like a baby. Because that is what I was reduced to. By sheer frustration.

And then it got better. Technology corrected itself, no one remained angry, and new battles were won. And I stopped crying. Like a baby, remember.

I hate that kind of day. Too much roller coaster drama hell ride. And then I need to call Kenga and get some loving grounding- reassurance that I'm not always a fuckup. Only sometimes. And then a fuckup with good intentions. Heading straight to hell, because I provide the pavement. But nevertheless, good intentions.

So tonight it was a lovely Rogue Chocolate Stout. And Formula 1 practice from Japan. And an escape from the whole bloody thing. Who could ask for more, really? Except for people fleeing toxic clouds of chlorine gas- they could ask for one hell of a lot more. So could shooting victims. And ... puppies. Puppies could ask for more. MORE LOVING.
(I have NO idea where I'm going here- kind of a free association vibe- time to cut myself off of the keyboard before it gets more stoopid)

It has begun

The Fall rain, that is. Which means that I'll be late for work. I could leave at 6 and still be late for work. Because people hereabouts conveniently forget how to drive in the rain. Every fucking time. I just don't get it. Because it rains here a lot. And they forget every fucking time.

We'll just call it one of life's mysteries, won't we? Like the mystery hut in Kentucky- or where ever it is- I read about it once when I was little. Or like the insistence on calling Racquel Welch a sex symbol. The woman is a grandmother! NOT sexy. Lovely, yes. But definately NOT sexy. (I'm pretty sure I'm going to catch crap for that one, but so be it) Or the insistence on worshipping Elvis. He's dead, people, and isn't coming back. No resurrection. None. And his music is static. No new stuff. Thus it might be time to move on. Find another CD to intersperse in the player. Something new. Just try it. It might be a good thing.

Crap. No putting it off. Gotta go face the idiots.

Ah I say.

Things are finally feeling like control is being marginally established. By that I mean, I've gotten some more sleep, gotten on top of at least 75% of things at work, done the laundry, and am currently drinking a Night Owl Pumpkin Ale from Elysium Brewery. Oh, and we bought the cat food.

The trip was tremendous. I came back with a sore back, really sore knee, and no regrets. I really don't feel like penning a travelogue- and besides, it wouldn't necessarily be entertaining to anyone but me. But it was good. No trauma. Besides my sinuses in the bar in Gallatin Gateway (only one in the region that still allows smoking).

One of my favorite little girls on the entire planet- make that galaxy status- gave us pictures that she drew. If I could figure out how to make them page sized, I would scan. And explain what she drew. They were the dreams she plans on having. One involves a spaceship. Another a frog and a snail. Another a milkshake fountain- chocolate and vanilla combined, and the fourth is an elephant giving her a shower. She even signed them. She is 5. We love her beyond reason. Ditto her sisters. And her parents. It's all smooshy with love.

Or else it's the beer. But I suspect that it's the love talking.

Other than that- not much to report. Been following the scandal du jour on Capital Hill- nothing to add. Ditto HP.

Now I will go ice my knee and watch something stupid on the tv. Over and out.

I'm not feeling up to writing much yet- slept in and gotta go do work stuff. But I'll steal from Drew at toothpastefordinner.com again. Because I don't think he'd mind. And even if he did, there ain't shit he can do about it. Unless he ponys up for a lawyer. And he seems like too nice a guy for that kinda crap.

All is well on the Western Front.

I say Good day to you, sir.

We're back

But I have no time to elaborate. Suffice it to say- the weekend was epic. Lovely.

More to follow...

Gonna go play in a different sandbox

Well, my lovelies, I am preparing for a roadtrip. One of our friends is getting married in Bozeman, and we will be attending. Then on Sunday, we watch a race with our old F1 crew (Viva Minardi- always 1st in Last Place!) and then a reunion of my darling former co-workers. Ah. Can you feel the love? It's like being dipped in a chocolate fountain and then licked off by Johnny Depp. As a pirate. Arg. Because he was one hellofa sexy ass pirate. Not an "ass pirate". But a sexy ass pirate. Ass as in adjectival usage. Getting hung up on grammar- not a good sign- must let it go...

So, won't be adding my voice that is the cacophony of Blogger until Monday or Tuesday. So sorry. Miss Otis regrets, etc. (and if you don't get the last one, sit your ass down immediately and listen to some Cole Porter. It's that important.)

Loves and kisses!

Well, shiver me timbers

Just read that Olbermann got a death threat with white powder attached. And that it was covered in scurrolous depth by a Murdoch publication. Sounds like shake down-silencer time to me.

Hope they used softish bristles in the decontamination shower- because the ones that I inventoried last summer weren't looking too attractive. Like it would leave a mark. I'm just sayin.

Oh- and two very foolish men are arguing over the patrimony of Anna Nicole Smith's baby. Like that's not a train wreck in the making...

Crackofy me up

I got to attend a trade show for people in my particular bidness. All revolving around planning events. And such.

Plenty of free food. Some swag. I got a pen with the space needle in it- and a moving elevator. From the space needle people. Imagine that. I ate a date that was stuffed with marzipan. It was almost a religious experience. Then I had another.

The funny part.

There were several "high end" businesses there. Namely a florist and a caterer and a locale. Funny thing about it. Rather than be the good sales crew, and look at my nametag, not my shoes, they totally chilled me. Totally. Must be the converses. It was funny. Because plenty of others saw the nametag and the dollar signs and were just wonderful. I like to think that some of them are just plain nice people, to boot.

Gee- guess who I won't be calling- ever- to host or participate in events in my group? I dunno- the fuckers who live in snobsville.

Seriously- don't they clue in that where I work doesn't have a dress code, per se? Seriously. How would they treat the Dev guys? Some of whom don't exactly "dress" in a fashion that is recognizably dressing. (today I rode in the elevator with a guy in his GREEN outfit- Green Nikes, Green sweat pants, Green sweat shirt. GREEN, I tell you.)

Kenga works across the street from the florist. I should have him leave a bag of burning cat crap on their doorstep. That would be funny. And would no doubt wreak havoc on their Gucci loafers.

The saddest lady was the baloon lady. At the booth with all of the scary baloon sculptures. She was in costume. She was a lady pirate. She was having one of the worst days of her life. No one stopped. She made me sad. But I hated her baloon sculptures. They freaked me the fuck out.

Online interests

Yesterday I was reading Keith Olbermann's online meltdown about the Bush Administration. It's pretty good, I guess, for what it is.

Then on the ride home from work, I was listening to an NPR piece about a NY Times journalist who was vocally critical of the government (with specifics) at a Harvard event.

And I wondered about all of this. The voices are growing in volume and prominence. So what gives? I thought that journalists were supposed to be behind the smoke and mirrors of their words. I thought that there were ethical issues associated with voicing opinions anywhere but the Oped page. I never went to journalism school, but these are the assumptions that I am working with.

Not that I don't agree with both of these people. But it makes me a little uncomfortable. Because if they agree with me this week, when will they lockstep with another group? Is this kind of like when Cronkite turned against the war in Vietnam? Will it have even close to the same effect? Or is it just a couple of lone voices in the wilderness- about to be slammed to the pavement by corporate interests beyond their ken?

I hesitate to call their openly expressed stances brave. Because it's kind of johnny-come-lately in Olbermann's case, and the other lady just seems like she's been mouthy all along. One hell of a journalist by all accounts- but not the most wallflowery of the bunch. Is this the beginning of a backlash against the corporate hacks at Fox, et al?

Dunno. It'll be interesting to watch. I just wonder when they'll get fired. Because I'm paranoid that way.

Crank up the paranoia

There was an article on the Wall Street Journal web site last week that gave me pause. I get a subscription via work, and exercise my right to read it. Several times per day if it's a tad slow.

They were discussing the lack of privacy in the workplace. That it's an illusion. Something like over half of all employers are keeping track of emails and web usage. What they're doing with that information wasn't specified. Just that there is no privacy.

This is why I don't visit blogs or any of my favorite sites (with a couple of singular exceptions) while I'm at work. And I never use my corporate email account for personal things if I can avoid it. Too scaredy pants. I really don't think that I would get fired for buying say, an orchid, online. But for blogging? Depends. I just don't want to lead a trail back home. Not of breadcrumbs or nanowhatevers. When rabbit goes to ground, rabbit wants to stay grounded.

I know for a fact that there was an IT person at the bank I worked at who monitored online usage. My boss heard about my eBay use. She didn't have a problem, though. Reportedly saying, "if she gets her work done, I don't give a damn." And that's why I loved her. Well, that and she was one of the last of a breed of banker that has pretty much died out. The handshake, and your word is good, kind of banker. The kind who used to be a fixture of smaller towns everywhere. The kind who made the Merican dream something accessable to more people than the kind who depend on paper and numbers to make the call. She had the most refined bullshit meter that I have EVER seen. And given a couple of amazing practitioners in my family, that is really saying something.

Anyway, remember. Someone is likely watching. It's just the way it is. And I guarantee it where I work. Because if it weren't the case, I would be absolutely boondoggled.

Confidential to P3

Save yourself some sanity and please, learn how to stop asking "why" when it comes to other people. It'll just fuck you up. There is no answer. Because other people are stupid. And asking that kind of question just leaves you open to their bullshit.

Just working this out

Crisp outside, but sunny-

Like eating a particularly crunchy apple.

The skin gives sharply against your teeth-

and the bite of the tart juice hits your tongue

and it's just a little bit sweet.

Because I cannot leave well enough alone

And because I figured out the scanner, you get to see my sixth birthday. And my little sister. And the Oly beer in the background. Because nothing accentuates a sixth birthday party like Oly.

And in this picture I AM wearing pants. You just can't see them.

No fish were harmed in the making of this image.

The end.

These are my first two fish. That I caught all myself. And yes, I'm not wearing pants. That's now how I caught the fish. I was wearing pants then. But they got very wet, because when I tagged the fish, I ran backwards in the water rather than reeling it in. And somehow I still caught the fish. And then I ate them.

The end.

Snapshot- Detailed edition

My mother and I spent a couple of hours going through old photo albums. I was looking for one particular picture.

And found another.

It is of me in another lifetime. When I was skeletal skinny. No- no health problems, the old metabolism hadn't hit the rock wall of age yet. And I ate like...well...like the metabolism would never hit the rock wall. (that did bite me in the expanding ass a few years later when I discovered Ben and Jerry's.)

It was all there. In the picture. In my mind, the thinness was hot. And the, shall we put it, more rounded curves acquired later are not. But I'll look again.

The thinness was brittle. The eye makeup- a mask. The smile- not shared by the eyes. The hair, very, very Princess Di. Not a bad picture, really- but I've never enjoyed having my picture taken. That hasn't changed a bit.

It was Christmas. Probably around 1986. And no doubt I was waiting for some kind of grandfatherly explosion. Because he always came through with one of those on holidays. Like snow in the winter. Predictable, and a force of nature. Dangerous too.

It's very funny though- looking at the picture- knowing that since then I've gained so much...not just pounds, but also experience. And happiness. And sadness. None of it to be recycled. Nor to be rejected.

Sitting on the table next to me was a Coke, and a very large Toblerone candy bar. And on the floor is a sweater that I have happily forgotten. We'll call those ghosts of Christmas past, and move on from there.

And the photo I was searching for? I'll scan and post later. Because I think it's pretty damned funny.

quote du jour

"You felt they had experienced everything. Their eyes were shocked and dead and alive and glowing like coals at the same time. And I think that was through experience, using your life as a tool. That's the way I wanted to conduct myself."

Surprisingly- Rupert Everett said that. About Brando, et. al. But I think it's interesting. And Everett comes across as a bit of a pratt. But that's enough, I suppose- he is famous, after all.

And doesn't fame conquer all?