I got a locket today. I asked Twitter what I should put inside the locket, and these were the suggestions I received:

don't look at me, the innernet made the suggestions

@ginallama and @peechie wanted guinea pigs and Justin Bieber; @stepc suggested DNA and drugs (it’s a DNA helix and chemical composition of cocaine); @hessiebell asked for a glitter pug and @sattlerkm wanted a picture of Ed’s wang, and @chrisbrett had the best idea: peanut butter on one side and jelly on the other.

You people are WEIRD. :)

It’s customer appreciation day in my office building, so we get ice cream. I was on my way downstairs with my ice cream ticket clutched in my sweaty elf hands when a gentleman holding a box of ice cream bars got onto the elevator. In the interest of practicing my small talk and to show off my amazing power of observation, I made a witty quip about his having a lot of ice cream. He proceeded to offer it to me, which confused me a little as I was already on my way to get free ice cream; why did I need it from this strange man? When I told him I was good in the ice cream department, he explained that he was going around offering ice cream to people who didn’t get any, and in exchange, he would ask them to come to church. Oh. Okay, then.

I didn’t want to point out the fact that the ENTIRE BUILDING got free ice cream today, that they could get it downstairs from far less creepy people AND that the ice cream downstairs didn’t come with a side of church, but thankfully he got off the elevator on the 6th floor. I turned to the other lady in the elevator who had also made witty small talk about the man’s ice cream and told her what he said before she got on. I don’t think she was amused at the glee I showed at being able to get ice cream without having to go to church, but agreed that it was really fucking weird (maybe not in those words) and she’d have likely turned down strange man cream (again, not her words) as well.

I got my free ice cream without the side of church, and it was delicious. A bright spot in an otherwise terrible day, even if I had to listen to people complain about it on the way back up to the office.

“I can’t believe they only had TWO KINDS of ice cream! This sucks!”, whined the lady holding three ice cream bars. Her friends nodded in agreement, shifting their own ill-gotten treats awkwardly in their arms. The free ice cream was one bar per person, but the ladies cackled at their system-gaming skills and planned to enjoy ice cream for many days to come. Annoyed and unable to keep my mouth shut, I blurted out “but you’ve got FREE ICE CREAM; ice cream you didn’t have two minutes ago. Even if there are only two kinds, how can FREE ICE CREAM be a bad thing?!” Ironically, I knew the answer to my question – when it comes with church, that’s how – but I have very little patience for people who complain just for the sake of not being happy. You got FREE FUCKING ICE CREAM – more than you’re supposed to have, as it was one per person not lie and take four – and you still found something to bitch about? Seriously, how do you get up in the morning? Your life must be terrible.

Lastly, here is a man dressed as a Tetris piece:

this has been the weirdest fucking tuesday

Maxi dresses. I love them, and each summer I spend hours looking at them longingly. I’m not so fashion stupid (shut up) that I don’t know that maxi-length things and my body type go together like Jägerbombs and Tuesday night – it may SEEM like an excellent idea, but the harsh reality in the light of the day is a cruel slap in the face of otherwise. Don’t get me wrong; maxi dresses look amazing on the right body type: tall, slender, willowy bitches look great in that shit. However, I’m the anthropomorphic embodiment of an upside down pear – nothing looks good on me, let alone long clingy elegant dresses.

Of course, knowing that I look like a little kid playing dress up in mommy’s closet doesn’t stop me from wearing things that I really should have left on the rack. I want to wear a maxi dress, and no force in the universe can stop me! Unfortunately, as my entire person is infused with an aura of ridiculous, I’ve got additional problems besides looking like a festive holiday sausage. For one, I’m short. I’m barely over three apples high. I don’t believe in hemming, so anything meant to be ankle length on me is actually beyond perilous – it hits the floor and puddles around my feet. I’ve got dresses so long that I have to hike them up in my fists to walk, a move so sexy I’m surprised people don’t fling themselves at my hidden feet and compare my glory to the sun and stars above. This is problematic for multiple reasons, but none more so than when I forget to lift up my skirts to expose my ankles like the sinful whore I am: I trip on my own skirts. I’ve fallen up stairs, down stairs, off curbs, out of chairs (don’t ask), all because my dresses are way, way too long. Embarrassing, yes, but that’s not even the worst part.

All my maxi dresses are strapless.

When you pull down on a strapless top, boobs will appear.

While Newton’s Law of Gravity has never been so sexy, it’s incredibly awkward to unintentionally flash all of downtown Vancouver. Ironically, I don’t wear maxi dresses often – not because of the inherent danger of tripping over myself with every step I take, but because the shirred style of the dress gives very little opportunity for cleavage. Shirred fabric is the crinkly elastic stuff that stays up by itself, but can’t really be cut into a V or U or be anything but a straight band stretched across your tracts of land (great or otherwise). Unless I yank the whole thing down to just over nipple height (which makes the dress even longer), I’m all covered up and positively oozing with demure respectability. I have no need for this (except for maybe when we go to Harrods in London), but sometimes I want to mix things up a little, and that’s when my less obscene clothing comes out of the closet. These dresses are tucked way in the back, and every once in a while I pull them out and think “man, why don’t I wear this more often”? .. and it isn’t until I’ve tripped over my hem in public and had the entire dress pull down below my breasts, exposing my naked (well, bra’d) rack to the world that I remember why I don’t dress like this.

Sorry, Dunsmuir Street. If I had known you were about to become intimately familiar with my wares, I’d have worn a nicer bra.

with the premiere of "Dancing with the Squirrels", many wondered if reality TV had finally come to an end