Whaaa...That's a THING?!

It's Wednesday, and I've been seriously neglecting this blog, so this really should be a Crock Pot Crosspost, but I have to go to the dentist in a few minutes, so I'm in no mood to think about crockery at this time.

Instead, this will just be a regular variety crosspost. Coming to you aaaall the way from beautiful downtown Persephone Magazine... 10 Things That I Can't Believe Are Actually "A Thing".
Please read moi.

Merci.

I don't know why I'm demi speaking en français. Nevertheless, bon Mercredi.

The Cone of Clusterfudge: A Loathe Letter

I didn’t post a Crock Pot Crosspost yesterday. I’m sore ashamed.

I don’t have a good reason, but I do have a reason. I was in a fight with parking enforcement at my place of work for the better part of the day. It was righteous anger I was unleashing, you understand, I couldn’t just turn my back on the noble fight!

So, a day later, the best I can do for you is to try to make up for my blogging malfeasance by posting some of the more salient excerpts from my parking citation email “appeal”(redacted of course). I hope my suffering can bring you some glimmer of entertainment.

The email…

Dear Parking Enforcement Functionary:

I hesitate to submit a written appeal regarding citation #_____ because an appeal suggests that the citation has legitimacy. That’s troubling because the citation referenced above is baseless. That said, if you'd like to consider this email my formal, written appeal, do so. If I’m later accused of not appealing the baseless ticket, I’ll reference this email as my “appeal”.

When I arrived at my car last night I found that two events had transpired: 1) an orange parking pylon (henceforth known as the “cone of clusterfudge”) had been placed behind my car; and 2) a parking ticket had been placed upon my windshield. A “what the fudge?!” moment, if ever there was one.

Inside the ticket envelope I found two things: 1) a parking citation stating I had parked in a “prohibited coned off area”; and 2) a note from a fellow employee who’d been given a similar ticket. I’ll paraphrase the colleague’s note, but it basically said, “WTF?! Are these bizzos crazy? You can’t put a cone behind someone’s car and then ticket that person for parking in a ‘coned off area’; call me to plan our counterstrike.”

My first attempt at a strike counter to your cone of clusterfudge strike was to try to speak to someone in person at the parking enforcement office during regular business hours. I went to the front counter and said to the person I found standing there, “Who do I talk to about this?” as I pointed at my parking citation.

He was immediately confused and said, “Uh….I don’t know what you mean, like, about the parking ticket?”

I explained that, yes, I meant about the parking ticket, which I was still pointing at, and not about some other thing that I was not pointing at.

Like a champ, the low level functionary at the service counter came back with the appropriate perfunctory response, “Um, on the back of the ticket it says how to do an appeal.” Mm. Yes, good then. This will, as I expected, involve a significant wasting of my, maybe not precious but certainly mediumly valuable time.

“I’m not going to do that,” I said.

“Well…but, uh, you should,” said the functionary at the counter.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to. I’m going to talk to someone in person. Who do I talk to?”

Front counter functionary’s backup steps in, “Hi, he can’t do anything about your ticket.”

“Okay,” says me, “Who can? I want to speak to that person.”

The backup functionary to the front counter functionary says to me, “Well, all the managers aren’t here during the day.”

“When are they here?” asks me.

“From, like 3pm to 1am,” says the backup functionary.

I look at my watch: 3:45pm, “Hm. Mm hmm. Good then, I’m here just in time for those totally reasonable hours of business. Who will I be meeting with?”

“He’s not here, um, they’re not here,” says backup functionary. I notice a man wandering around nervously in the background.

“Ok, so I’ll schedule an appointment with one of the managers, then?”

“Um, okay,” responds backup functionary.

“How shall I reach him or them?” I ask.

“Well, you probably can’t meet with him, um, them, but you can give him your written appeal,” she responds.

“Yeah, I’m not going to do that,” says me, “There will be no written appeal.”

“Well, here’s his email address…” backup functionary scribbles down a, let’s for the benefit of the doubt say unintentionally, illegible email address.

Which brings me to my second attempt at a strike counter to your cone of clusterfudge: tracking down your email. I was able to read your first name, success! But with your last name what I had to do was look at everyone in the employee directory with a last name that started with the first three letters of your last name (which I could just barely make out) until I was able to triangulate all candidates with a) your first name, b) a last name that starts with the three letters I was able to identify, and c) a job title that could potentially be relevant to parking. And so I found you!

Now, I was told I was unlikely to be able to get a meeting with you, top ranking parking functionary, but I have decided to put my main beef in this email, with the hopes that it will inspire you to meet with me in the future to discuss the stupidity of your department’s actions. This email is my third attempt at a strike counter to your cone of clusterfudge.

My main beef, for posterity:

I am disappointed, nay, I am profoundly irritated, that when one of your department’s parking enforcement minions came upon my car and saw the cone of clusterfudge that had been placed behind it, said minion came to the conclusion that: I, a person with a parking pass who works and parks here daily, came upon a coned off parking space, stopped my vehicle, got out of my vehicle, removed the cone (or cones) in the area, pulled into the space, got back out of the car, placed a cone directly behind my own car, and then went about my day. Actually, what the parking minion concluded was that, not only was it likely that I had done this, but that another person had taken this same bizarro course of action as well.

What creases me verily, is that the parking minion on duty yesterday failed to recognize that it is far, far, far, FAR more likely that I, and the other wrongly ticketed person, parked in two normal parking spaces where someone later came along to put cones. Why someone later came along to put cones of clusterfudge there? I have no idea. It seems almost as stupid to put cones behind parked cars as it does to ticket people who’ve been retroactively coned, but that’s what happened.

So, top parking enforcement functionary, what you need to do at this time (since you can’t give me back the time and energy I’ve wasted on this clusterfudge and restore me to the position I was in before the cone of clusterfudge ticketing incident), is to dismiss the ticket I have been given and never speak of it again. And, going forward, you should refrain from ticketing people for their inability to foresee the future. Think about it anyway, if employees here were able to go about correctly foreseeing where cones would be placed in the future, wouldn’t they be able to leverage that magical power into a job where parking is comped?

If you’re looking for some sort of remorse from me, here it is: I am very and truly sorry that I am not a clairvoyant. It would be awesome to be clairvoyant.

I expect this situation to be rectified posthaste. And by rectified, I mean your entire department should be terminated….not killed, just fired.

You’re welcome for my time,

Buster Blonde

No recipe today, I’m too annoyed to eat.

I'm In Luuuurv!

The Dizzy Dames Etsy shop is to die!

I'll admit it, when I've got that hankerin' for retail therapy but don't want to spend a buns ton of money on clothes for myself, I, from time to time, buy Barbie clothes. I'm ridiculous, I know.

Dizzy Dames' handmade Barbie clothes are EQUISITE. You would not believe the detailing and styling. And dresses generally cost $5.50, which is about what you'd pay for a store bought Barbie dress of far inferior quality.

This arrived in my mailbox this morning...

Are you kidding me?! Gorgeous. I can now pretend my Barbie is Betty Draper...'cause, that's a normal thing to do...

"I'm as corny as Kansas in August, high as a flag on the fourth of July! If you'll excuse an expression I use, I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love..." with a teeny tiny dress.

A Hastily Thrown Together Traffic Rant

Not a crock pot crosspost.

It’s Wednesday. I should be combing the webbernets for a salient post and a savory recipe to share for Hump Day’s CPCP. Instead, I’m too filled with road hatred to focus. Yes, yes, I’m being petty, trite, and tired, and the subject of schmawwwful drivers is nowhere near interesting, but it’s what’s on my mind.

These are the thoughts most rattling around my bean right now:

1.  Sure, it’s daytime, BUT, it’s also pouring down rain and the sun has scarcely peeked through the Seattle clouds in weeks, so you need to PUT YOUR LIGHTS ON, idiots. Your dingy gray car is not visible against the dingy gray asphalt and bummed out gray March sky.

2.  I’m not going to drive like a bat out of What the Heck Fest just because you’re up my car’s buns in a parking garage. It’s a PARKING GARAGE. There are people walking around, cars backing out, sharp turns, merging traffic, this is not the time to pretend you’re in Too Fast, Too Furious Tokyo Takeout Part IV, okay eager Escalade? BACK OFF.

3.  WHHY-YYY (bellowed in the style of Nancy Kerrigan) do people who do nothing but drive all day long (cabbies) have the lowest driving competency of anyone? Speaking of other vehicles being up my car’s buns, when I find myself on a very steep, wet hill, I will also invariably, find a cab up my car’s buns. Because, apparently, either a) they hate me and they want to make it very difficult for me to not bruise my ride; or b) they hate their employers and want to bruise their own rides.

4.  Cross the street already. Crosswalkers, I will stop for you, I always stop for you, I’m a polite Seattleite. But pay it back by walking at a decent clip. I’m not asking you to jog, or even hustle, just don’t drag ace across the street. Unless you’re walking with a cane, then, by all means, do not pull or snap anything. But young people, quit dinkin’ around while you’re in a crosswalk, just get across and move on. Make it a game, pretend the street is hot lava. Because, trust me, if I breath fiery dragon breath at it in a furious rage, it will turn to hot lava.

5.  Do not turn left at an intersection where it will prevent everyone in the left lane from getting anydangthing done, if you can just turn left at a left turn signal at the next intersection. A little advanced planning (like one whole block in advance) will save us all some time and trouble.

6.  Be aggressive, B-E aggressive, B-E-A-GG-R-E-SS-I-V-E! There is no perfect turning moment, it will not come, take advantage of the imperfect turning moments. You’re probably a control freak or something, and I’m sorry if making a move in downtown traffic causes you anxiety, but just toss back a lorazepam and get it done. Okay, maybe don’t do that, you’re probably not supposed to drive on that kind of medication, say an affirmation and get it done.

This hastily thrown together traffic rant brought to you by the people (who drive cars) of Seattle.

Crock Pot Crosspost: Leap Day Magic's All Around As Leap Day William Comes to Town

I'm a sucker for oddball holidays--oddballidays. Waitangi Day is marked on my calendar and I celebrate it by watching Flight of the Conchords (New Zealand's 4th most popular guitar-based digi-bongo acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo) videos on YouTube all day.

Given this love for lesser celebrated holidays, you can imagine my excitement when 30 Rock (a show that sometimes feels like a documentary about my life as a woman who speaks German poorly and wears huge cotton underpants) featured Leap Day as the central theme in last Thursday's episode.

Crosspost(s):

If you, like me, hope to celebrate Leap Day with gusto, you'll appreciate today's crossposts: A 30 Rock clip succinctly explaning the rich history of Leap Day through song, and a Huff Post nod to everyone's favorite fictional Leap Day comedy, Leap Dave Williams.

Crock Pot Recipe:

For your Leap Day feast, MomsWhoThink.com has a great crock pot shrimp marinara recipe. A marinara dish is appropriate to the day since marinara sauce means mariner's sauce, and Leap Day William (the patron saint of Leap Day) is a marine figure who resides in the Mariana Trench.

Ingredients:

1 (16 oz.) can of cut tomatoes
2 tablespoons minced parsley
1 clove of minced garlic
1/2 teaspoon dried basil
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 (6 oz.) can tomato paste
1/2 teaspoon seasoned salt
1 lb. cooked shelled shrimp
Grated parmesan cheese
Cooked spaghetti

Directions:
1. In a crock pot, combine tomatoes with parsley, garlic, basil, salt, pepper, oregano, tomato paste and seasoned salt
2. Cover and cook on low for 6 to 7 hours
3. Turn control to high, stir in shrimp, cover and cook on high for 10 to 15 minutes more
4. Serve over cooked spaghetti
5. Top with parmesan cheese

Happy reading and bon app!

Christmas in February - The 1st Annual Blonde Family Christmas Letter

MERRY CHRISTMAS

It’s been quite a year.

Gary Blonde and I kicked January off with matching pageboy haircuts. A great look for Gary but one that just made me appear shorter.  

February ushered in our all-blueberry diet, which brought with it some interesting side effects but nonetheless slimmed us down enough to fit into our series of human-sized hamster tubes. This made our “America’s Got Talent” audition possible, if not successful.

March was dodgy, weather-wise. It rained a lot, which wouldn’t have been bothersome, except that in March Gary and I were both roller skating as our primary mode of transportation in an effort to save on fossil fuels and to tone our calves, thighs, and buns. Fortunately, Gary finished school this same month (huzzah!), which meant no more cross-town commute to school.

In April we founded competing wizard rock (or wrock) bands. This was tense, to say the least. My band, Muggle Rock, received critical acclaim, but not the commercial success that Gary’s band, Gary & The Gryffindors enjoyed. In the end, we were both bested by Harry Potter & The Magical McGuffins, which triumphed over us at the Tri-Wizard Battle of the Bands. This tested our bonds, as you can imagine, but we persevered and have since formed a superband called Mrs. Norris & The Snape Decks. Gary’s rauschpfeife skills continue to improve, though I’ve yet to make much progress with the Scottish bladder pipe, a goal for 2012.

May marked our cat Frances Mittendorf’s 8th birthday. And since he’s currently living at home and is 40-something in cat years, we began encouraging him to look for a job. He says he’s contemplating a year abroad or graduate school in humanities. We just sigh, wondering which is less practical, a year of international loafing or continued classics studies.

We celebrated one year of living in our new home in June and have so far loved every moment of settling in and adapting the home to our tastes. Plus, amateur recreational plumbing is something we both enjoy.

With July came a number of great trips, including our annual Civil War reenactment, where we reprised our roles as Brigadier General Sherman Oakes and the stalwart Bonny Bean, Private, Union Army.

In August we made an attempt at borscht. Never again. The kitchen looked like an episode of Dexter.

September brought the harvest. We have no garden, mind you, but we made a big trip to Grocery Outlet Bargain Market where we purchased off-brand and slightly dented canned goods. Only one word can describe the cheap food harvest we reaped: bountiful.

In October I reached my one-year blogging anniversary. I’ve been writing about stuff and things and suchwhat for Persephone Magazine. One of my snarkier stories went viral, to my amazement, and scored me an interview with Corey Dade from NPR. It was all I could do to keep from shouting to Mr. Dade, “I’m a meme!” I imagine this would have been awkward, especially since I don’t actually know what a meme is. Gary continues to contribute fruitfully to the webbernets using his Zombie Squad moniker. And through ZS he’s also had the chance to participate in some reality TV shoots. These brushes with celebrity brought back memories of April’s wrock debacle (wrockbacle), but thankfully, we each enjoyed only 10-12 minutes of fame a piece, so disaster was skirted.

We celebrated three years of marriage in November and put the finishing touches on plans for our early December anniversary trip: a Caribbean cruise, with stops in Jamaica and Grand Cayman. In Jamaica we visited Ocho Rios, Prospect Plantation, and Dolphin Cove. We were bathed in rum and Red Stripe (not literally) and stuffed with jerk chicken (yes, literally). Then off to Grand Cayman where we spent some time in George Town and also soaked up some good, sweet UV rays on Seven Mile Beach.

We’re now enjoying December’s benefits as we begin celebrating the holidays with family and friends. We look forward to seeing many of you this month; hopefully some of you will entertain us (though preferably not with puppets, I don’t care how hot the Muppets movie is right now), feed us, and ply us with drink.

At that, I’d like to conclude this 1^st Annual Blonde Family Christmas Letter. As you may have guessed, some of the information contained herein is true, some of it is exaggerated, and the rest is entirely fabricated.

Much love as we head into a new year,

Gary + Buster & Frances Mittendorf (mew)