If I were the weather person for Seattle, here is what I'd say: It's fucking snowing. Snow. Outside. Get back in your house and turn on the heater. Fucking snow. Mother fucking cold.

The child inside says, whee!

The cow says moo.

The duck says quack.

On Tuesday morning my bus never came. I stood outside for 25 minutes. It was probably 20 degrees and windy. I was not happy.

On Sunday night Jer and I drove north an hour for a concert and hit the storm full force. We drove into it, snow flakes smashing against the windshield, like driving into stars or some other trite illusion. Disorienting. We stayed in a hotel to keep from driving back at midnight, and it was worth it. I woke up and snow was everywhere. It was my first real snow experience. White and wet and cold.

And look. It's snowing again. The ground is pretty and white. The heater is on and my workout clothes are on spin. Enjoy it while it lasts since it don't last long.

November 27, 2006. Snow on a bush outside my apartment. Seattle, WA

November 27, 2006. Snow outside my apartment. Seattle, WA

It was a productive day. I bought groceries, walked to Alki and back, and made dinner twice. Tomorrow we go see Mike Doughty and Barenaked Ladies and my iPod is ready to party.

After all the walking and the stairs and the moving around, I'm tuckered out. Hate to waste my last night of vacation watching Spongebob and sitting on the floor like I am... maybe it's time for coffee.

Speaking of places that sell coffee (pardon my segue), on my walk I stopped at Tully's and bought a hot apple cider. The barista filled the cup to the top, which normally I would applaud, but when I popped off the top, boiling appley liquid spilled all over my knee. Then I had to walk back to my apartment in the bitter cold with a wet apple-flavored knee. I'm guessing that won't get me a whole lot of sympathy.

I wrote five pages yesterday for the play about a shoe. Still digging the vacation life. Mmm, I think it's time for rum. Or coffee. Or coffee with rum.

this the life is

i have been having a nice, laid-back couple of days, where I feel the need to punctuate all willy-nilly and erroneously! It is almost 6pm and I have been wearing pajamas for 48 hours (roughly), with one shower interlude and some sleeping. i watched the television and baked taquitos, worked on a short play, and did a few sit-ups... washed some dishes, wandered aimlessly, acquired some more mike doughty in preparation for sunday's upcoming concert and eschewed capitalization. this is the life. i tell ya, here it is and i am living it.

cats still have not taken to the litter robot. we bribe them with treats but stop short before throwing treat into litter sand and forcing them to fetch. so nice we are

my hands are cold. i need cut off gloves

i am writing a play about a shoe

i am wearing my cthulu slippers

i spilled chili on my sweatshirt five hours ago and i don't care. maybe i will take a nap before bedtime or maybe i will do a load of laundry. look at how wild i am when i have a day off!

happy thanksgiving

If you scorch the bottom of a stockpot, say while making chili, you can clean it by pouring some boiling water and baking soda in the bottom and letting it sit for awhile. After two applications I was able to chisel the nasty black crud off the bottom and save the pot.

Also, oregano is my favorite spice. Unless you count garlic as a spice, which I don't think you do. But if you do, then my heart belongs to garlic first, oregano second.

Lastly, we bought a Litter Robot for the cats. Because changing the litter box every single day is not my idea of fun. It's big and out of place and makes me laugh every time I see it in the bathroom. My new favorite thing to do and say is to pick a cat, look at it sternly and say, "Go poop in the robot."

Hello and welcome, robot overlords. Let me introduce you to my cat's behind.

That is all.

Hello and attention. Today I learned: the number of drinks it takes before Scrubs is funny equals four strong whiskey sours and one weak jack and coke.

After that it's a laugh riot!

I like me better when I'm not sober. Sure, I'm not as quick with the wit and I tend to slobber, but I'm much more easy going and more attentive as a listener. These things count. Instead of drinking, I've been going to the stupid gym and drinking a ton of water. In case you were wondering, NOT suitable replacements. The only good thing about not drinking, I guess, is cutting out the empty calories. Because now that I can concentrate on my reflection for more than ten seconds, I realize I prefer my chins in the singular.

If I were still drinking these body concepts wouldn't bother me in the least, but now that I've got the mental energy to think on it, I'm irritable. How do people do this all the time? Plus, I'm impatient... and mean. Hell, I've been going for almost two weeks. When do I see results?

Stupid body. Stupid gym.

Tonight I think I'll take a break and have a whiskey sour. Or three.

Sobriety sucks ass.

After two days in training, I needed a night on the town. And so I found myself at Dragonfish, enjoying little plates of chicken potstickers, caramel ginger chicken, chinese bbq pork, and beef satay. And maybe a Lemongrass Lime Rickey.

Joining me in my adventure was my friend with the new blog. Then we went to Nordstrom to try on pants (okay, only me) and look at shoes, on our way to see the Decemberists.

The concert was fun, except the Decemberists have really tall fans and maybe, just maybe the floor was sloped up instead of down so that I couldn't see a whole heckuva lot. We made it home at a decent time and I promptly fell asleep. Because I was made for night-time, yo.

I realize I have a problem. The moment I start thinking I should exercise and get healthy, I become obsessed with food. Granted, we had an early Thanksgiving and there were copious leftovers, but damn. Just damn.

I spent all day in training, in a conference room, with the blinds closed, and a half dozen or so warm bodies rising the temperature to unholy levels. Or maybe I exaggerate.

We celebrated Thanksgiving at work with an exciting potluck, which allowed us to leave the sweltering room for a brief respite. I contributed gooey butter pumpkin cake and lite cool whip. (Because if you're going to eat a crapload of butter and cream cheese, you may as well add a dollop of lite cool whip.) Everything was tasty and I ate entirely too much. But I forgive myself. I know not what I do. Unless I'm lying.

And then I went to the stupid gym again.

Ta da. No deep thoughts. Just watching tv. Doing some laundry. Staring at the city lights.

Today was my one year anniversary at my current job. The last time I had a one-year anniversary anywhere, I knew I was about to be laid off and so it was bittersweet. Today was only a little bittersweet because instead of properly celebrating, I went to the stupid gym and jog/walked on the stupid treadmill.

I steamed asparagus tonight. I've never steamed anything before but it turned out pretty well. I minced some garlic and threw it on top and after it was finished, drizzled some olive oil over the whole thing. Not too shabby.

Nothing much else to report. My heartbeat caps out at 185 beats per minute on the treadmill, but if I do that too long I'll die, so I slow it down for science. I've discovered fitday.com, which I'm too lazy to link, for free tracking of my food intake and exercise. And I get paid tomorrow.

time to find some stainless steel to rub my hands with; or i'll smell like garlic forever...

Jer and I ate a tasty meal last night at a friends' Mocksgiving celebration. Good times. I stuffed some cremini mushrooms, roasted garlic, and wrapped a round of brie in puffed pastry.

In related news: I don't think I like washing mushrooms.

The dishwasher is making mewling noises, as if there's a sack of kittens inside on spin.

There's not.

The city is obscured by clouds. No scuba divers out today. My feet are so icy my toes are blue. But the socks are far away. I might be missing a deeper purpose. Or I might not. Maybe once you scratch away the eggshell, it's just a bunch of meaningless goo and ascribing meaning to goo qualifies as insanity. Straitjackets are uncomfortable i bet. Record flooding outside. I am not setting any records myself.

I donated blood today. You could say I gave at the office.

Mostly I handled it like a trooper. I squeezed my blue star every five seconds and looked for patterns in the ceiling tiles. I stole glances at the first-timer by the window who was almost hyperventilating, and I admit, I felt a little smug because I was saving lives and filling my blood bag like nobody's business. Not even a whimper.

And then it was over, and that's when the dizzy kicked in. Got a wee bit light headed, sweat poured down my face as I leaned back in my chair with an ice pack under my neck and sucked down a couple juice boxs. So there you go. Smugness leads to suffering.

Moon over Seattle, November 2006.

For most of the day, it didn't rain. And then it rained. You should know that my jacket is fairly waterproof, so frankly, I wasn't inconvenienced. And I ate cajun tater tots, which are both crunchy and spicy. So, yes, be jealous.

Poor Britney.

hey, look, celebrity jeopardy is on. everyone is smiling awkwardly. and they're wearing a lot of makeup. i would like to punch them all in the throat. because i am misguided.

"my charity is near and dear to my heart..."

PUNCH

jer is somewhere that isn't here. i got home late but he is later. the cats are hungry, so i'm soaking the bowls. the answer to the question is BEAVIS. oh look, he's home.

blargh.

It rained all day long. Pretty pretty rain. In honor of it, I made hard-boiled eggs. And then I set candles by the matches and the flashlight, in case we lose power.

Did you not know hard-boiled eggs are the official food of rain?

Then, bam! Consider yourself educated.

don't push me cuz i'm close to the edge

You know how sometimes you meet somebody who just pisses you right the hell off? And there's not much you can do about it because of the social situation, so you just kind of grin and make the best of it, silently vowing never to put yourself in that situation again?

Well, yes, as a matter fact, just the other day somebody rubbed me the wrong way. So what did I do with all that pent up rage and unused snappy comebacks? What, indeed! I started to write a play about them. And as we speak, bad things are happening to that character, inciting incidents are spinning events into motion that will give that character a very hard time. And as a result, I feel ever so much better.

Mwahahahaha. Victory is mine!

I'm watching the pilot episode of "Heroes." You've probably already seen it; I'm late to the party.

I want to tell you so many things. I want to tell you about the rain and the wind and the sound of the cars outside, leap-frogging over one another to get to another dull place. I want to tell you how it feels to run my fingers through the cat's fur. I want to take you to the food court and eat cheese on a stick. With mustard. Or maybe chicken vindaloo.

We don't need to talk about anything hard. You can tell me about your apartment and your cat, and what it's like to live somewhere that prides itself on its insomnia. We can dress up and see a show. Or go for a walk. I bet you go for lots of walks. Do you still wear your hair long? Listen to Bob Dylan? Act?

I'm pretty much the same.

Still here.

There's nothing quite so therapeutic as a good cry. Unless it's a drunken good cry.

I should not have gone outside yesterday.