How embarrassing for me: I was trying for Cleopatra as played by Elizabeth Taylor, but ended up with Cleopatra as historically accurate. Sexy time fail!

At 2am, our neighbourhood was apparently swarmed by small children from the Dominican Republic. They were having a rambunctious Stick and Tire Race, with the finish line being our driver side car door. The game came to an abrupt end when our alarm went off, and the children – undoubtedly led by Aquaman – scattered into the dark night; their playthings cast aside in their haste to escape.

In normal words, someone was bored last night and rolled a tire into our car door. It didn’t dent, but it left a nasty mark and that was able to mostly scrub out, but it’ll take some work to get out the remainder. Yes, it could be a lot worse – but it really fucking sucks that it happened at all. Ed woke up in a bad mood as it is, and this just made things a whole lot crappier. He’s making noise about wanting to give up on the neighbourhood and just move, which fills me with a bit of dread – I *like* our apartment. I *like* living with Josh and Shan so close by. I don’t really want to move; I have a lot of stuff. Hopefully things will be better this evening – it’s Fake Friday, and it’s too nice outside to be angry at Aquaman (even if he IS a fucking dick).

Today is the day my iPhone issues are supposed to be resolved. Rogers is currently calling around to find me a phone, which is nice – but the bigger issue is the whole “you can switch for free, honest!” thing. I’ll let you know how it all goes down. I’m still hoping for a peaceful and inexpensive resolution, but just in case, I have a switchblade that turns into a comb stuffed into my boot.

My super fancy robot license came today, and it is pretty hilarious:

enhanced!

Bland, but hilarious. I hate the black n’ white photo – if this was in colour, you would see my sparkly green eye shadow and instinctively know how fabulous I am. I got away with the flower in my hair, so score one for me – but they cut off my neck, so you don’t see the Kimli necklace. Curses!

The picture is bad enough, but check out my enhanced chin – the necklace didn’t show up, but the reflection did and it gave me a double chin. BOO! I think I look simultaneously asleep and skeptical – there’s an eyebrow threatening to raise in there somewhere. They also made me take off my glasses, even though I almost always wear them. I look weird. It’s not the worst picture, but .. it’ll do. After all, it’s enhanced.

One of the problems with the new license is the fancy chip – apparently, it’s not protected meaning that anyone with fancy chip technology will be able to read it and find out my name and government issued ID number. So, to combat the extreme security risk, they included a special envelope designed to block fancy chip readers:

don't read my thoughts

It’s a friggin’ tin foil hat for my license.

Awesome.

We’re going to the US tomorrow for tacos, but I can’t use the license yet – it takes 72 hours after activation before the US government can read my criminal records and decide whether I’m worthy of spending money in their country. I’ll have to bring my passport, but after this weekend, I should be good.

Sorry about the incredibly late update – I went home early from work today because I felt like crap. I’m still feeling a little strange – my mouth is doing that weird watery thing that happens right before you barf – but I think I’ll live. After all, there are tacos to look forward to.

The cop did show up in full uniform, gun and handcuffs and all. His shiny business card says he’s a Corporal – I don’t know what that is, but it sure sounds fancy.

We walked through the office to a boardroom so I could give my statement. I had to write it out with a PEN – how delightfully 1883 – and we talked while I diligently tried to fit my enormous handwriting on an 8×14 piece of official police paper.

Turns out the bad man confessed to stealing my plate because he had just purchased a stolen motorcycle from “some guy” and wanted to go for a ride. He was pulled over for speeding – not the smartest thing to do when riding an illegal bike with a stolen plate – and when the cop got out of his car, the perp drove into him and dragged him out onto the highway. He pulled the guy off the bike and they both rolled around on the pavement for a bit, luckily not getting hit by cars.

Even though the arresting officer is also the victim and he has a recorded confession plus the bike, the plate AND my original police report, he STILL needed to get my solemnly sworn statement that I had reported my plate stolen at least 4 days before he guy was caught by his own incredible stupidity. So, I gave it. I am noble.

Unfortunately, I probably won’t have to go to court and testify (although I’m totally willing to, because that would be awesome). The bad guy confessed and won’t fight the charges of Grand Theft License Plate or Driving Into an Officer Seriously Are You Stupid or Something, so they’ll just throw him in jail or fine him or something. I am not clear what exactly they do to criminals; by this point the sunglasses are usually off and The Who is screaming over the credits.

While I AM sorry that the cop got hurt (minorly; he said it wasn’t too bad), I am strangely proud of my missing license plate for having such an adventure without me.

And it totally worked; my office was scandalized. It was especially awesome that as I saw the cop out, my BossBoss was walking in. I hope he thinks the worst. That can only be truly hilarious.

OH I almost forgot the best part – the cop said that normally he would just ask me to write up a statement and email it to him, but he usually doesn’t get enough information that way and has to go back and forth with the witness. Of all the things I could have POSSIBLY done wrong in this scenario, being guilty of not providing enough information is probably the least likely thing EVER. If anything, he would have gotten a booklet of prose and haiku based on what I did over the 12 hours my scooter was tampered with. Not enough information, my ASS!

I don’t truly know what a Tumblr is, but I have one:

http://kimli.tumblr.com

I was told that Tumblr is “blogging for hipsters”. Okay, I can do that – I blog and identify as some sort of hipster (which, to be honest, is an incorrect categorization – I am not a “true” hipster, just a hipster offshoot) so clearly it would behoove me to claim my Tumblr space before someone (say, a snippy night elf priestess ranger goblin mage) decides to take my name and do unspeakable things with it. I am quite capable of doing unspeakable things on my own, thank you very much. I don’t need any help from a usurper.

I’ve been nosing around some Tumblr sites, and from what I’ve seen, it would appear that hipsters enjoy pretty pictures with no big stupid words being all uppity. So, I’m trying to follow suit: my Tumblr blog will feature pictures with short sentences. Basically, things that are too short to warrant a post here will go there (until I get bored of it all). I’ve got some posts up. Go look at them. They are very short and mostly pictures and will not tax the brain because hipsters totally hate that.

This morning in the shower I had an idea for a *book*. Like, not just a rambling blog post but a true story that has a beginning, middle and end. I’m thinking about giving it a try – people have told me in the past that “omg you should totally, like, write a book!” and I snorted and laughed because honestly I a) don’t think I could do that and b) doubt anyone would read my words outside the safe confines of this e-space, but .. well, I have an idea. One of my goals in life is to be published somehow, and if other people who are far more boring than I can write books, maybe I can too.

Would you read my book if I wrote one?

There’s a raspberry seed stuck in my tooth. Perhaps this is a sign.

I’m not big on brand names. Never have been. Until such a day when I get paid to be a walking billboard, I will actively avoid wearing things with a discernable logo on it. Every single thing in my closet is logo-free and more or less brand anonymous, and that’s just how I like it.

I’d like to think my subversive shunning of popular brands in favour of the no-name is apparent throughout my life, but I’m finding that this isn’t true. I made a distinct choice when selecting my cell phone and outside laptop – I could have kept my random Samsung phone and grabbed the first Acer piece of shit that I came across, but I didn’t. I made a conscious effort to go with Apple, and while the hipness factor wasn’t the first or 10th reason for buying Mac on my list, it is on there. The marketing worked on me – I wanted both an iPhone and a Macbook, so I cheerfully took my seat on the bandwagon and never really looked back.

It’s different, though. It’s not like I carry a Coach bag and use Prada dental dams, right? I’ve still got indie cred! Just look at my old sneakers and patch-covered messenger bag and scooter!

Wait, don’t look at my scooter.

Okay, fine. I own a Vespa.

I love my shiny little (huge) scooter, but I can’t help but feel a twinge of shame when I think about it. I’ve been an advocate of anything-but-Vespa for such a long time that now I actually own one and love it, I kind of feel like a hypocrite*.

And worst of all, I feel like a big dumb stupid bitch.

When Ali got her Lexus, I snarked at her. I snarked a *lot*. To me, a Lexus is the ultimate indulgence in car form – what, a Honda isn’t good enough for you? You have to go big and fancy just because of the Lexus name? I hope you enjoyed paying that extra $30k for a glorified station wagon! Way to be a yuppie, you yuppie!

Ali is clearly some sort of saint for not telling me to go fuck myself every time I opened my mouth (fingers).

I’m getting the exact same wash of negativity because of my Vespa, and I’m finding out firsthand how much it sucks to have people roll their eyes and dismiss you because you went with the expensive flashy version, regardless of why.

Yes, the Vespa was expensive. Yes, I could have gotten a similar machine for nearly half the price if I was willing to sacrifice quality. Yes, it was pure indulgence on my part – Oscar is fantastic and a great ride and I love him and I totally did not need to buy another scooter.

There are dozens of arguments against Darth Lola, but they can all be countered with one simple point: she makes me happy.

My Vespa makes me happy. How can anybody argue against that? You can’t; not without being a total dick. Who the hell was I to make fun of Ali’s Lexus if it makes her happy? As beautiful (and extremely inconvenient) as it would be to live a care-free life in the forest with no possessions, we all have lives and families and jobs and commitments. I need to be able to get around. Why can’t I do it in style?

Just as I’ll never understand the appeal of a Porsche Cayenne Turbo or Manolo Blahnik shoes or Birkin bags or anything in the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog, there are those who don’t get the whole Vespa thing. And that’s okay. It’s not their thing. I would never want any of the aforementioned items, but that’s okay too – they’re not *for* me. Somewhere out there those brands make someone very happy, and good on them. Yes, I think it’s silly – but what exactly did I think the average person thinks of the things that are important to me? What do you MEAN you don’t understand why I would pay $100 for a video game I already own just because it comes with a lunch box? Can’t you see how AWESOME it is?!

Ali, I am very sorry for being such a horrible friend with regards to your choice in vehicles. Why you still talk to me is something I’ll never understand, but I’m very glad you do.

Hey everyone, look at my shiny awesome Vespa!

*: coming soon; the requested “what makes your scooter so great and how does it compare to others and why do you still not recommend Vespa as a first scooter” post.

she walked like a woman but she talked like a man

They changed my bra.

While this doesn’t mean anything to most of my male readers (I still have hope that there’s a drag queen or two out there), I’m fairly certain most of the women will understand my pain.

In all the bras in all the world, I’ve managed to find exactly one style that does the job properly: lift, separate, display. I own somewhere in the neighbourhood of 20 of these bras in various colours, because you never know when you will need support in royal purple with rhinestone flowers. I stock up almost religiously during sales. I’ve encroached upon Ed’s drawer space, storing my backup supply (you can never, ever have too many perfect black bras). I ignore the outrageous shipping costs associated with my breasts (my bras are only sold in the US), justifying the expense with a perky and inappropriate bosom. We have a good relationship, these bras and I.

Of course, few things are ever *truly* perfect. I had to make some concessions – I wish the underwire was stronger, for one. And I wish the truly fancy ones didn’t have a 4-hook strap because they’re uncomfortable and huge and I can’t wear them. Then there’s the issue with padding – you’ll never catch me with my headlights on, because my default bra comes padded.

I’ve never understood this. Sure, pad the bras of the smaller cup sizes. I get it. But if you’re buying a bra larger than a C cup, chances are that you don’t NEED the extra padding. My boobs are, quite frankly, huge. Add a padded cup, and I’m inadvertently nearing the range of indecent exposure.

For the longest time, my bras came with a little air pocket insert in addition to the padding, to give you some extra “oomph”. I need additional oomph like I need another laptop or cat, but these air pockets were removable so I didn’t really mind. I’ve even used them on occasion, because sometimes I just want to be a spectacle. It’s rare, but I appreciate the option of it all.

I just received my latest shipment of bras. I had some fun with colours this time – pink and white flowers, purple and black lace, bright coral, some sort of boobie Rorschach test – in addition to the utility bras; one black and one beige. I opened all the packages with glee, making sure everything was in order. The black one was on the bottom of the pile, and even through the plastic bag I could see that something was wrong.

The removable air pockets are no longer removable.

I frantically checked the rest of the bras – they were all fine. My order was placed during a clearance sale, so the festive bras are old stock. The black bra, however, is from the shiny new section of “updated” classics. They’ve changed my bra. I can’t remove the oomph. THE OOMPH IS FOR ALWAYS.

This is not a good thing. I don’t NEED more cleavage. Have you MET me?

I’ve earmarked the bra to be worn only when I want to frighten people.

If this is a permanent style change, I am going to be very busty and very cranky.

look at these stupid things

I was so caught up in playing Nancy Drew yesterday in the Case of the iPhone Price Discrepancy that I completely forgot to squee about my birthday.

The 169th day of the year was a good one. I got a surprise cake at work, and then the best present ever – Renee was in town for a conference, and came to the North Shore for some birthday Thai and toilet paper. I haven’t seen ‘nee in a couple years, so she was an extra special birthday treat! Now, if she would just move back here from Ontario ..

It was a good birthday. After having all the fun in the universe on Sunday, the actual day of getting older was pretty low key. That was fine though, as I hadn’t slept the night before and zombied my way through the day. I fought the urge to nap when I got home (people already make fun of me for my nappish tendencies, and the last thing I needed on the day I got older was to do something that old people enjoy) and instead decorated Darth Lola with some stickers until Renee came over.  Dinner was awesome and delicious, and good times were had all over the place.

My birthday extended through to yesterday – after I spent much of my day fighting with The Man to get myself a new phone for a fair price, I went out with some co-workers for beer and melted cheeses. There was inappropriateness and cake, both of which provided a much-needed lift for the end of the longest week in history, even with all the birthday fun.

This morning was not as good, though. I woke up with the worst headache I think I’ve ever had – it felt like I was dying, passing out, throwing up, eating a hot lettuce and processed cheese sandwich and bleeding out my eye holes, all at the same time. It took a great deal of Extreme Strength Advil before I was able to sit upright without swooning, and I’m still not feeling 100%. This doesn’t bode well for today’s activity – clean the house – but I *might* be feeling well enough after a shower to go outside and scoot around our newly-dry day.

Actually, what I should do is clean myself up then go birthday shopping. Miranda and Reilly gave me a gift certificate for Planet Claire, and I can’t *wait* to check the place out and get myself something fabulous. That’s more important than house cleaning, I think – who cares about dirty dishes when there’s fabulous on the line?