delicious juice dot com: unapologetically inappropriate

I just built a bookshelf, which better count as my exercise for the day. I don’t think a personal trainer could make me hurt any more than I do right now, and besides which, I’m fairly certain the types of  injuries I’m currently sporting have been banned as motivational tools by the Geneva Conventions.

On the plus side, hey! New bookshelf! It wasn’t too difficult to put together, but the secondary person the instructions mentioned as a required tool was not included in the box so I did it all myself. It wasn’t the screwing that I really minded – it never is – but the hammering can suck it. I am really bad at hammering. Things that require hammering is why I tend to have men around.

There’s a really dirty remark to be made there, but I’m not your filthy monkey – use your own imagination and figure out the pounding joke on your own.

You know, I’ve  been on the internet since the Dawn of Time. I understand spam – I don’t like it, but I understand it. Sure, sometimes I get annoyed with the sheer amount of spam I get and the way my filters sometime decide not to work, flooding my inbox with pleas from horny Russians wanting to show me heaven via webcam. With a resigned sigh and a heaving bosom I wade through mortgage offers, Nigerian princes, accusations of being unable to satisfy my woman with my tiny rod, and easy ways to lose those unsightly pounds that never ever feature decapitation as a viable option and delete/flag/swear as needed – but this time, they’ve gone too far: an email from Restore Our Future, saying that Mitt Romney needs my help and a reminder to vote for him tomorrow.

Just for fun, let’s count all the things that are wrong with this situation:

• I’m not American
• If I were American, I wouldn’t be Republican
• The only possible way I would ever consider helping Mitt Romney would be if he needed someone to explain the merkin or the etiquettes of pegging, or to share my personal theories on the lack of facials in gay porn

I am seriously offended that someone sold one of my rarely used email addresses to a fucking political group; one for a country I’m not even in. Assholes! I am vibrating with righteous ire and the weight of Hobbes purring on my arm!

All rage aside, I do feel sorry for the US. They’re basically being asked to choose between the lesser of three evils (and a running joke) – it’s like asking if they would prefer their town to be destroyed by an enraged Godzilla hellbent on protecting her young, a kittenish Cthulhu who only wants to play, or a krakken-sized El Chupacabra foaming at the mouth and holding the half-open seventh seal (I’ll let you decide which candidate is which). Unfortunately, I think it’s unlikely that Obama will be reelected for a second term .. which means their future is in the hands of either the guy who hates women, the one who only likes them when their legs are spread, the one who wears magic underwear, or Ron Paul.

Then again, we’re stuck with Harper.

Who’s up for moving to Micronesia?

dot dot dot

I feel like a terrible, disloyal gamer: as part of our home organizations, our framed series of original MDK2 posters from Bioware (like, directly from Bioware – they said “hey, want these?” and I said “hell yes”) are coming down for the first time since 2000. I love the set and they’re certainly not going anywhere – they just won’t be on the wall for the time being. I’m sorry, MDK2 posters! I still love you!

Yeah, I’m that person – the one who feels guilty when she throws out a toothbrush for a new one. Years ago I had to make Sophie’s Choice and ultimately decided to retire my original Transformers: The Movie poster from 1986, which had been hanging in my various rooms since .. well, 1986. It was tattered and in rough shape (and for some reason has Rick Hansen on the other side) from repeated hangings and framed in 1997 to try to stem the tide of deterioration and is one of my very favourite things ever, but there was simply no place for it in this Brave New World of matching furniture and not wearing old McDonald’s uniform shirts instead of doing laundry.

Being an adult is such a drag.

rest in the closet, mdk2 posters.

I’m spending more time in the spare room these days, as I slowly move my life out of the living room. It’s a drastically different setup for me – in fact, I’m taking over Ed’s Jerker desk (we stupidly got rid of mine two desks ago because it didn’t fit in my corner of the North Van living room) and selling the enormous one I’ve been using for the last three years (does anyone want a huge desk? cheap!). The sheer volume of stuff I kept on my old desk has to change, as I’ve got a lot less surface area to work with. This isn’t a bad thing – I’ve purged a great deal of stuff, which makes room for other, better stuff – but it’s going to take a lot of work to make the house livable again, which is likely causing Ed nightly conniptions. He is not alone in his anxiety, because the move is going to make things different in more ways than one: I have to start wearing clothes at home.

One of the nice things about the space are the enormous windows that fill an entire corner; my computer is set up in such a way that I can look outside yet avoid most of the glare on my monitors. However, windows are two way – which means my habit of lounging around the house in the all together is going to have to change, and quickly. It’s like there’s a fucking force field around that corner of the room – if I’m not wearing clothes, I CANNOT go to my desk. Even if it’s just for a second. Even if the blinds are closed, or it’s dark outside, or it’s 3 in the morning and no one is around except the spine-snipping hobo. I’m going to love having my own room once everything is set up properly (and all these keyboards go away – why the fuck does Ed have so many keyboards), but I may have to go out and buy some house lounging stuff to hide my shame from Hastings Street because I love my vagina far too much to let just anyone see it from across the street.

The move is going a little too slowly for my liking, because I am impatient and have a messed up internal clock. Most of the purging is done, but I ran out of room to sort things so I forcefully declared last night as relocatey times. Today I’m shuffling things around to make room for others – it’s like one of those sliding block puzzles, where you have to move things over in the allotted space in order to extract one piece (in this case, Ed’s hideous green chair that makes me feel like I’m sitting in a highchair) – but I’ve hit another brick wall. I may be a Proud Independent Black Woman, but I officially need Ed’s help because others tell me it would be somewhat rude for me to throw his things around all willy nilly in my haste to set up my Lady Cave. I want to do it NOW, though. Furniture is ready to be moved, and I am simply not mighty enough to do it on my own (believe me, I’ve tried). This means waiting until Ed has time to help me, what with his being gainfully employed and unfairly demanding sleep and all. Complicating matters is my hopping social calendar, which has me out of the house all weekend volunteering at Indie I Do on Saturday and going to a meatball party on Sunday – so the house (and more importantly MY STUFF) won’t be less everywhere until sometime next week.

I left the blinds raised a little so the cats could look out the window, and I have a great view of the passenger seats of cars when they stop at the light – this is why I know there are a lot of very pregnant women riding shotgun in East Van this afternoon. How odd.

I have to go finish putting on clothes (this won’t be a cold turkey change; I need to ease slowly into being decent at all times) – it’s time for Indie I Setup and hopefully tacos.

this did not get purged. old timey porn is good times, hairy nipples and all.

Yesterday I stumbled across a perfect job posting for a tech writer. I updated my resume to match their requirements, wrote an elegant and concise cover letter, and hit “send”; confident that they would be delighted at my sheer awesomeness and want to offer me untold fortunes within minutes.

Instead, I was utterly rejected. Not just form rejected, but a personal rejection from the department head saying “It is well known that you are completely incompetent and also a fraud, so it will be a cold day in hell before we hire you and also you suck.”

I might be hyperbolizing there a little bit, but I did get an email saying “lol, sorry, no”. I had a bit of back and forth with the guy to address his reasons for my consummate and rapid rejection, but the end result remains that I don’t have the skills they’re looking for to such a degree that it warranted a personal email of “no thx”.

Logically, I know that rejection is 99% of the game. I know that I’m lucky that I not only got an immediate response from my application, but had someone willing to answer my questions about why I was turned down – it’s a far cry from the waiting game I’m playing with companies I applied to last month. I know that my not being what this company is looking for doesn’t mean that I don’t have skills, or that there isn’t another company out there that would be thrilled to have me. I KNOW all this.

.. but that didn’t stop me from spending most of yesterday afternoon in a serious funk, convinced that I will never be employed again. There is very little room for logic inside this glittery unicorn head of mine, least of all when I am busy wallowing in my own crapulence. I feel slightly better about things today, but I am still full of illogical woe when I think about it (like when I write updates all about how much I suck).

I HATE job hunting.

And relentless logic.

It’s been a struggle to keep away from all those drugs and alcohols I love so much, but so far I’ve managed to maintain my Mike-inspired vow of straightedginess. However, for all my valiant efforts of actively denying myself things that were never an issue to begin with in order to attain artistic inspiration through withdrawal and suffering (you can tell I’m not serious about it because if I really wanted to suffer for my art of sitting around the house naked there wouldn’t be 12 litres of Diet Coke in the truck of the car), I’m probably getting a goddamn contact high every single time I pee.

On the plus side, three ongoing mysteries have all been wrapped up in a neat little package:

The Smell: What I was afraid was the horrible stench of hobo poop is actually nothing of the sort – it’s pot. Really, really skunky pot. Our new downstairs neighbours like to hotbox their bathroom every single night without fail (the appearance of The Smell began shortly after someone moved in below us), and as our bathrooms are connected, it wafts in through the ventilation and makes our place reek. It’s probably coating everything in resin, which results in the contact high via my butt when I pee. I don’t really know what (if anything) I can do about it, since this isn’t an apartment building and I know they don’t have a balcony. I’m not so Evil Neighboury that I care one way or another if my neighbours smoke up, but it smells AWFUL and is incredibly strong, and it’s every. single. night. I have to keep my bathroom door closed to try to contain the stench, because I really don’t want it reaching my clothes (the closet is attached to the bathroom; it’s an ensuite). Even worse, my brain immediately associates the smell with hobo poop even though it knows better, and it makes bedtime kind of unpleasant. I don’t WANT to trip balls every time I pee. This is most worrisome.

Like I said, all the mysteries are falling into place – suddenly, the 1am baby in 217 makes sense. I don’t yet know (or care, really) if he (I’m assuming it’s the dad, because if it was a breastfeeding mom that baby would be a lot more mellow at 1am) is having a hard time coping with parenthood and smokes up to deal OR if he was a pothead all along and the baby screams at 1am because it doesn’t like the smell any more than I do, but all of these things started at the same time and are likely related.

The third mystery does not have to do with my neighbours or my THC-laden butt: for the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out why the hell I’ve suddenly acquired a gaggle of recovering alcoholics as Twitter followers. I’m wondering if someone (they’re all connected to each other, and all annoying) searched for “straightedge” “never again” “giant floppy dongs in my face”, found my stream, and assumed I was ONE OF THEM – and the rest did as Simon said. I’ve been blocking people who constantly tweet at me by mistake (they were filling my screen with retweeted hellos), so the Recovering Alcoholics of Twitter and the idiots who think I am their friend in Thailand despite my repeatedly telling them that they don’t need to see my identification and I am not the Kimli they are looking for (I can go about my business; move along) can all suck it – blocked blocked blocked. Their lack of exquisite, finely honed internet etiquette – such as the one I’ve acquired through being online for 20 years – is a distinct pain in my super high ass.

the fabulous lord of the sith

It was an emotionally exhausting weekend, but it’s a brand new year (I’m just possibly-Chinese-or-maybe-some-sort-of-Pacific-Islander-slash-Aboriginal-and-Vietnamese enough to declare tradition and demand red envelopes) so I’m officially announcing my intentions to start fresh this morning: the Year of the Dragon (aka Year of the Creeper) starts NOW and it will be excellent, or else.

Among the changes that will be happening over the next few months is the relocation of all my stuff into the office. The room was set aside for Ed when we moved into Sparta, but he is rarely in there these days and also frustrated with all my things (I do have a lot of things). His frustration, lack of desire to computer and my overall feeling of homebaselessness (that’s a word now) have led us to agree on the change and the office will be entirely mine as soon as I can make this happen. It’s a fairly significant undertaking, but it’s eased by the fact that I am a bum who would better spend her time organizing the house instead of playing games on her iPhone. Stage One begins today, in which I acquire storage boxes and begin to sift through all of my stuff and sort it into three piles: keep, toss/recycle, donate. I hope that by this weekend, I’ll be ready to start moving actual furniture (although that is so lofty a goal it would not be inappropriate to refer to it as Mega Lofty) and then be able to hole myself up in my very own room of crafting/computing goodness.

All of this has led me to mull over the unique thought patterns that emerge from being an only child. There are at least a half dozen only children in my circle of friends, and we all retained different quirks from spending our formative years alone. My big one is needing my own space; an unshared area I can call mine and do with as I please. Ed tends to retreat into his own head and get lost there, only coming out when he’s forcefully reminded that other people exist. Other friends say they find it difficult to share, or get stressed out by too much “other people” time; needing quiet to be alone with their own thoughts. I can relate to all of this, and I’m sure all of us only children experience all the same idiosyncrasies one way or another, in varying degrees. Our parents basically RUINED US FOR OTHERS with their lack of reproductive ways – THANKS A LOT, MOM AND DAD.

I’m kidding, but it’s interesting to wonder how much of my perceived (self or otherwise) selfishness has a direct correlation to my singular childhood.

And in the end, who really cares – I’m getting MY OWN ROOM and I may have to throw a party to celebrate it.

Rooms like cake, right?

daydreams for one

I’ve drained the battery on my phone numerous times over the past week, all because of these:

Puzzlejuice

Universal
Genre: Brain punching puzzle
Price: $0.99 (sale price)

The opening screen of this game says it is going to punch your brain in the face, and it does not lie. Puzzlejuice is a bizarre hybrid of Tetris and Boggle, and is COMPLETELY AWESOME. It will give your brain a shake and make you swear and laugh and possibly even wet yourself. It’s challenging, hilarious, and one of the most original games to come out of the App Store in forever. Get it now while it’s on sale, and strap yourself in.

Squids

Universal
Genre: Turn-based action RPG (with squids)
Price: $1.99

I am IN LOVE with this game. I wish I had posted this while it was still on sale, but even the regular price of $1.99 is completely worth it. The gameplay is great and the characters engaging, and I’ve been playing it pretty much non-stop since I got it on Tuesday. Can’t recommend this title enough if you like action games or tentacled marine life.

Hero Academy

Universal
Genre: Swords with Friends
Price: Free, with optional IAPs

Hero Academy is a turn-based multiplayer game like Words with Friends, but instead of tiles with letters you get dudes with swords and spells. It’s free to play (with ads), or you could purchase one of the optional team packs to remove the ads and give you a different set of warriors to play with. It’s fun if you’ve got people to play with – I have anywhere from 5 to 15 games going at any one time – and it’s really fun. Grab it and play me; I’m in as DeeAy (and I’m terrible at the game; you will probably win).

Triple Town

Universal
Genre: Match 3 Sim City
Price: Free (with optional IAPs)

I’m still getting into this, but it’s got rave reviews and an interesting premise: place grass and bushes on a grid (your town), and match three items to upgrade it into a building or tree. It’s a fun twist on the standard match 3 idea, and there are bears. It’s worth a look – I’ve only played it once because I can’t put Squids down, but I enjoyed what I’ve seen and will go back to it as soon when I am tired of sea creatures and want some bears instead.

I am SO EXCITED .. about the towels and bedsheets I just bought.

I’m not really sure what that says about me – that I enjoy the pillowy softness that bamboo provides, or I enjoy a good deal, or that I woke up this morning at age 85 and the thrill of new towels is about all the excitement I can handle. I’m sure if I thought about long and hard I’d be upset that something so ordinary – there’s not a sequin or corresponding iPhone app in sight – but honestly, NEW TOWELS! And satiny new bedsheets with no holes or mysterious stains! I am gonna bathe and sleep SO HARD.

For anyone who happens to be a) economical, b) wet, or c) easily excited about household goods, I suggest you get thee to a nood store as soon as you can. They’re sadly going out of business, but this translates into everything in the store being 50-70% off. I’ve often drooled over the furniture at nood, and it’s probably a good thing I technically can’t afford anything at all because I am a jobless drain on society, or I’d be coming home with a large number of things to assemble. Besides the furniture though, nood is chockfull of neat house items and their towels are fucking GLORIOUS. Shan, Miranda and I went on a towel spree years ago when nood first opened, and we’ve all taken advantage of the sale (um, and because they’ll be gone soon) to get some new ones. It’s really just a colour change for the thrill of drying ourselves off in different colours, because the towels we bought in the ago are still in perfect shape .. but there’s something just so sinfully fluffy about brand new towels that I for one can’t wait to drape myself in.

And if, while you’re buying yourself some delicious new towels, you wanted to pick me up the dresser of my dreams, I wouldn’t say no.

Last night I refused to cook dinner, so I dragged Ed Josh and Shan out to use some Social Shopper coupons we had picked up for Nando’s, which is quickly turning into one of our favourite places. Afterward, we went to Pinkberry (I still have mad ridiculous patriotic love for Qoola, but I would bathe in Pinkberry’s Blood Orange yogurt if I could), but for frozen yogurt and to use another coupon I had. Social Shopper is just like Groupon – emailed deals for local places – but they’re not fancy enough to have an iPhone app. I don’t have a printer, so I can’t print out my vouchers .. but it’s not really a big deal, because they just look you up by last name and cross out the voucher you’re using. Simple, right?

Except my Social Shopper account is tied to Facebook .. so every time I buy and use a coupon, I have to give them the last name of Wangzilla to look up.

It is surprisingly embarrassing to do. I don’t recommend it.

I do recommend a lot of other things like towels and chicken and frozen yogurt, so that’s fine – just don’t change your last name to something ridiculous in a misguided attempt at internet subterfuge, because it will come back to bite you in the ass in awkward yet comedic ways.

To hell with the internet! I’m going to go MAKE THE BED!

I HAVE PORTFOLIO’D!

I started a new site called Manual Labour (get it?????) (also, you Americans can go to Manual Labor if you prefer) to showcase my technical writing work. I wanted a respectable online presence that I can direct people to if they’re thinking about hiring me – not that I’m ashamed of Delicious Juice or anything, but I’ve noticed that I’ve been censoring myself SOPA style this past month for fear that the wrong people might see. Now that Manual Labour has launched (mostly – the Portfolio page is missing several documents I’m in the middle of preparing for your consumption), I can resume talking about my vagina for hours on end. Hooray! My vagina is back, and it has SO MUCH TO SAY!

Say, someone should hire me. Soon, because I can’t afford heat. It may be a matter of not knowing how to turn the heat on as opposed to paying for it, but the fact of the matter is I am COLD AS FROZEN BALLS and none too pleased about it.

Everyone occasionally wishes they were something they’re not. Even I, with my enviable lifestyle and oozing lesions of awesomeness, sometimes daydream of being even more ridiculous – having an even more inappropriate wardrobe – owning even more tubes of lipgloss – than I currently am or have at any given point in time. While I’ve long since trained myself to be more or less happy with my allotment in life, sometimes I can’t help but wish I a rock star, or a darling of the nerd brigade, or a famous author, or a social media guru. Daydreaming. We all do it.

There’s always been a common theme in my daydreaming – I want excitement and adventure and sequins and glitter. I want to go hot air ballooning over the English Channel; wear petticoats on a Tuesday; drive to Vermont for pie. At least, that’s what I normally want .. so imagine my shock when today, for the very first time in the history of my entire existence, I briefly wished I was the complete opposite of all things wrapped up and sold as Kimli.

I had a meeting today that wasn’t an interview, but a golden opportunity handed to me on a silver platter presented by a guy in a tuxedo wearing white gloves and a discreet smile.

I don’t want to share any of the details, because they’re not mine to share – all I can say is that the idea on the table was a really interesting opportunity for someone to become a vital piece of a specific industry, and likely make a heaping pile of money while they’re at it.

And as much as I love being vital, taking on challenges, and spending heaping piles of money, I know I’m not what they’re looking for.

I wish it were otherwise. I wish I had a little less love for the written word, so I could put my literary dreams (technical writing is still literary, isn’t it?) aside to focus on the big new. I wish I was disciplined enough to set my own price and product, and repress my native disposition to go above and beyond the call of duty, because that would just take away from my work. I wish I was capable of the kind of professionalism required to fit in with the image they’re looking for; a worthy ambassador for the brand and a shining example of old school establishment and decorum.

But I’m not.

I know myself well enough (and have been told I need to respect all that I am) to know that I’m none of those things – at least, not to the level they require. I’m professional, but in my own unique way. I have trouble charging people at craft shows, let alone asking them to pay hundreds of dollars for me to provide what comes naturally to me any way. I don’t want to give up my way with words and love of instructional materials to work entirely in video, and .. well, I don’t look good in a suit. I actually feel kind of bad about that last one, because Interview Kimli is NOT a true representation of 9-to-5 Kimli – I clean up well, but only under duress and never more than a day at a time.

I know what the company is looking for, and I understand the opportunity and potential – and I also understand that it’s not me. I hesitate to say that I’m not good enough, but that’s pretty much how I feel – and it’s like someone offering you  a wheelbarrow of gold bars if you can be Cinderella, but all you are is a magic mouse that makes her look good behind the scenes.

That’s me. I’m a magic mouse, not an indentured princess.

Most of the time, that’s fine – I don’t WANT to be the princess. Sure, most of that defiance comes from the sheer unlikelihood of my princess worth, but I’m okay with being a magical singing mouse. Most of the time. Today, I wanted to be the princess and take the wheelbarrow of gold .. but that wouldn’t be fair to me OR the company with the opportunity.

So I have to do what’s best for both of us, and keep looking for this mythical place that has wheelbarrows of gold for the crazy people who just want to make things a little more sparkly for everyone around them.

Sure would have been neat to be okay with being the princess, though.