I woke up this morning (without a hangover – thanks, Asian Super Genes) to an email from my former employer, asking for my help with a locked file they want to make changes to. The email is from someone I do not know; it’s the new HR manager they brought in after decimating the ranks. He was given my name by my former boss.

How I’d like to respond:

• “lol”
• “I’d be happy to help; my rates start at $125/h with a 3-hour minimum”
• “gee, when I worked there and I couldn’t get into a locked file, I’d simply recreate it. Can’t anyone there now do that? If not, I’d be happy to help – my rates start at $125/h”
• “I know of what you seek, but I dare not divulge the information. You must climb high into the mountains beyond Mistshire and locate the Lair of the Ancients. If you are able to survive their arduous tests, they will tell you how to find Grim Sal’dornos – he is the only one who can tell you how to unlock the secrets of the Quarterly_Performance_Evaluation.doc”

How I will respond, because as much as I sometimes wish otherwise I do not go out of my way to be an asshole:

• “Try the following: <possible passwords>”

I’m a pussy, but I’m not a jerk.

Meet Dorothy P.

She’s a nice Asian lady quietly approaching middle age. She lives an uneventful life with her husband in East Vancouver. She is pleasant enough, but there isn’t very much to her – she doesn’t really have any hobbies or passions. She’s not very smart, so she fills her time with things like sitting quietly and watching TV. She’s very, very good at sitting quietly. She doesn’t have any opinions. She’s always willing to go along with the majority, because she doesn’t have any wants or needs of her own. Dorothy doesn’t care much for going outside; she’s perfectly content to sit in her living room and pet her cat while looking at the fireplace. She wears slippers, because her feet are often cold. Mild romance novels are the best kind.

It’s not that Dorothy is a wallflower – she’s more like a cardboard cutout; a 2-dimensional shell of a person. The term “wallflower” usually denotes a shy person who has a lot to offer if you can open them up, whereas Dorothy has nothing to open. She likes to smile pleasantly, not make a fuss, and above all else, not rock the boat. Dorothy is not deep, but she is content. Dorothy is happy.

Meet Kimli W.

Kimli is passionate about a thousand things. She does nothing quietly; she’s unpredictable and prone to dramatic outbursts. She feels deeply about everything, and is always ready to charge head first into anything at all. Kimli lives for Adventure and strives to fill her days with laughter and fun; new experiences and wild stories she’ll look back on fondly when she’s old. She will not go gentle into that good night; she will rage against the dying of the light with every ounce of her being (and have a good time doing it). Kimli wants to see the world; to live abroad and enrich her life with experiences. Kimli wants everything in abundance: love, sex, fun, tattoos, good times, pets, banana chips, glitter eyeliner, sketchy situations that turn out hilarious. Kimli doesn’t want to be tied down by anyone or anything – she values having a home base and comfort when she needs them, but really wants to be free to follow her heart. Kimli lives in the wrong city in the wrong decade, but makes the most of what she has. She knows the next Adventure is right around the corner. She too is approaching middle age, but unlike Dorothy, doesn’t look it – she acts and feels decades younger, which sometimes backfires. Kimli doesn’t care, though – she’s having too much fun to worry about hemlines or necklines or wrinkles or consequences. Above all else, Kimli wants to have fun. On the surface, it’s not the noblest of goals – selfish and self-serving – but fun comes in a million different forms (at least half of which are beneficial to society; the other half involve balloons and confetti).

Kimli wants nothing more than to have fun with like-minded people.

Dorothy wants a cup of tea.

Kimli is done wasting her time on boring people who think life is a chore.

Dorothy is thinking about scrapbooking.

Kimli would like to share adventures with people she loves, but is fine going off on her own.

Dorothy wears sweaters with quilted cat appliqués.

Kimli is single.

Dorothy is happily married.

You don’t get to have both.

My entire weekend was one big loud blur of awesome mixed with equal parts angst, blushing, superheroism, indecent exposure, and baffled amazement – all in all, a smashing success.

On Friday night, I dragged Ed and Shan out to see Astronautalis play at the Fortune Sound Club. The show was great, and the two opening acts (Busdriver and Jel) were really cool. I stood right at the stage for most of the night which was awesome because I was front and center for the show, but also awkward because I was precisely at dick height and the stage was really small. I spent a lot of the evening very conspicuously straining my neck upward to as to not be really obvious that I was checking out packages (and to avoid getting a faceful of rapper junk – we were one emphatic thrust/head bounce away from a Serious Situation). It wasn’t a super late show because apparently the venue turns into a stereotype at 11pm: we turned around when the lights came up and were amazed to see the place filled to the brim not with nerdsters (nerds trying to be hipsters but not quite hitting the mark) but with completely non-ironic club girls dressed in very little clothing. We fled the place after that because nightclubs are my kryptonite, so we drove Shan home and returned to Sparta to pack – we were heading to Seattle in the morning.

Also, I totally rescued the tour van at the club. While we were waiting for the doors to open, I noticed a black van with Texas plates being towed away. Figuring there was a very good chance the van belonged to the people we were there to see, I reached out on Twitter with the info and the towing company name. Long story short, I was totally right and the venue was able to get the band’s van back before they packed up for the night – hooray! I am Nancy Drew and junk!

I didn’t get nearly enough sleep on Saturday night, so we made our way south at a fairly leisurely pace. The border wait wasn’t outrageous, and although the crossing guard was suspicious at our claims that we were going to see a rap show (apparently we do not look like hardcore rap fans), he let us through with no further hassle. We stopped at Target for essentials (iTunes credits, gum, and socks), then onward. We were less than an hour away from Doug and Ali’s place when an SOS came out: Ali had misplaced her car dealie and couldn’t leave her destination. We set out for another rescue; driving to the house to look for her car fob (it’s keyless and she had misplaced the wireless starter thing by leaving it on top of the car and driving away), then taking it to her in Seattle. Doug managed to find the fob before we arrived, so we collected it and said a fast hello before driving out to save Ali and the girls from the elements. It was here that the collective decided that Ed would accompany me to that evening’s show instead of Ali (there was simply Too Much Going On), so we went our separate ways: Ed and I to shop for some presents and get some dinner, and Ali and the girls to a birthday party.

We thought we had a lot of time to kill, but it took us a really long time to get to our destination: every single person in Seattle was at Key Arena that evening, and traffic was brutal. All the one way streets made life very complicated, but we lucked out and found a spot a block from the venue plus there were ample things to do in the vicinity, such as:

looking at fountains!

running across different fountains!

thinking about science!

being a star!

After the awesome Bollywood music that was coming from nowhere ended and was replaced by boring Christmas stuff, we went to line up at the doors to the Vera Project where Astronautalis and company were playing that night. This was the second time I had followed an act from Vancouver to Seattle to catch back-to-back shows (the first was for Amanda Palmer’s solo show in 2008), and I was excited: I’ve been utterly infatuated with Astronautalis since we first saw him open for Tegan and Sara several years ago at the Orpheum. His voice makes my insides go all squishy, and he is very, very, very nice to look at. I don’t swoon over people often – I’ve never been any sort of fan girl over anything except Optimus Prime – but daaaaaaaang.

Anyway, we were in line when it suddenly got really, really busy: the event going on at Key Arena had just let out. Not a big deal, until we noticed that every person that passed our line was cast from the same mold: short hair, a lot of testosterone, tribal tattoos, and unintelligible grunting. A quick Google confirmed the formal gym wear: we were crotch-deep in a seething, hollering throng of UFC fans, fresh from a live bout in the arena. It made for really interesting people-watching (and listening; there was a woman screaming like a chicken somewhere off in the distance), and I learned that UFC fans look an awful lot like what you would expect UFC fans to look like (often accessorized with a taller, high-maintenance trophy girlfriend on one arm). It was all very surreal and hilarious, but I was glad when the doors finally opened and we were able to go inside because it was colder than balls and my boobs were very exposed (even more so than the previous evening; I was a bounce away from a catastrophic wardrobe failure and that’s kind of how I roll).

The Vera Project is a very cool all-ages venue, and was even more intimate than the previous evening (in more ways than one). Before the show started, I headed off to the washroom to pee. The washrooms in the VP are gender neutral, so I turned left at the entrance and thought nothing of the urinals I passed on the way in. I did my business, adjusted my boobs for maximum inappropriateness, then exited the stall to wash my hands and primp. It was then that I noticed that two people had entered the bathroom while I was busy with pee: Jel (whom Ed and I had said hello to an hour earlier), and Astronautalis, who was at a urinal.

Apparently, accidentally interrupting famous people’s pee makes me blush like a motherfucker. I felt my face burning and I immediately became really interested in the floor tiles as I sauntered out of what had once been the men’s washroom. I was fairly proud that I didn’t flee in haste but rather made my way out nonchalantly as though I wasn’t mortified and feeling like a creepy stalker for not only leaving the country to follow my mega-crush to Seattle but also show up in his goddamn bathroom (although to be perfectly fair I was in there first). When I got back to my seat I told Ed what happened, and he (and Shan) proceded to make fun of me all night. I got over my embarrassment in time to thoroughly rock out and enjoy the show though, so at least there’s that.

We hung out for a bit afterwards and I got to say hello to Astronautalis, who thanked me for the van thing (yay!) and didn’t file a restraining order against me (yay! – I live in fear that people find me creepy, because I do not mean to be creepy). We conversed a bit, he posed for a picture with me, and then Ed and I took off for the night. Two amazing shows in two nights, and I get to do it all over again in March – hooray! Maybe there’s something to being a giddy fangirl after all.

Sunday was much more low-key: Ali made us yummy breakfast and we all sat around chatting (Hazel screamed instead) before it was time to go. A quick stop at Trader Joe’s for All the Snacks, an uneventful border crossing, and we were home by 6:15 after an eventful couple of days of much-needed adventure.

The week ahead may have a lot less rap in it, but it’s going to be a busy one: multiple birthday events, two work-related parties, and I must find things that are not porn to wrap presents in (only because I can’t haul porn-covered presents in to work), plus all the projects ever at work. I am busy, which is good – it gives me a lot less time to think about the trouble I’d like to get myself into.

unintentionally watched this guy pee.

Never say I don’t provide for you.

I think I might be a stereotype. Even worse, I might be a stereotype having a mid-life crisis. All I need is a wacky job, a crazy mother, and a coffeeshop to hang out in, and my life is an NBC sitcom.

For the last really long time – maybe not as long as I’ve known about sex, as my pre-school thesis was entitled “Dirty Knees, Look at These” – I’ve identified as bisexual. I never really thought of boys and girls differently in the circus of my mind; I just concentrated on what I was attracted to (everything). I’ve loved boys, I’ve loved girls, and I never could figure out why people couldn’t have several of each and be one big happy family. The idea of running away to start a hippie nerd commune of free love and low packet loss has been Plan B amongst my people since our first computer conversations with someone other than Dr. Sbaitso, and it’s still something we bring up on a regular basis: wouldn’t it be awesome, if only?

I digress, though: this isn’t about my recurring daydream of opening a pantless oasis where the ping never goes above 10, it’s about my sexual identity and that I think .. well, I think I might be straight.

Really, really straight. Like, the Superman of straight. A great big old flag-waving Straighty McStraighterson, with the white picket fence and 2.4 kids and a sensible minivan parked in the driveway. Bring on the Grey’s Anatomy and weekend antiquing; apparently that is what I am into now, along with gardening. I love me some mulch.

It’s not that I’m not attracted to women or that I can’t see myself in a relationship with one (although being married is really putting a damper on my plans to date other people), but .. well, that whole dong thing? About how I want 17 of them? Yeah, that’s a predominate thought around these (and other) parts. Can you really claim to still be into girls if all you can think of is cock? It seems as though there might be a rule about that, or perhaps a line in the project charter – Paragraph 19 Item C Line 6 clearly states that you must think about vaginas and penises in equal amount in order to remain a member in good standing of Kappa Beta Bi.

This is a very strange headspace to be in, as I find myself confused about sexuality at my advanced age as opposed to having gotten it out of the way when I was younger. I never gave any thought to this before; stuff just fell into place and now I totally don’t know what the hell (except that more boners please).

There is a whole lot of debate surrounding the idea of a sexual prime and the old theory that men peak at 18 whereas women don’t get going until their mid-30s. I don’t know if there’s any validity to it or if it’s just a convenient way to explain away rampant masturbation and 50 Shades of Crap, but it does seem to mesh well with the filthy things going on in my head. Also, if there IS any truth to it, it’s a terrible joke and totally not fair. I’d really like to avoid being a cougar – I don’t prowl well, and no one takes me seriously. YOU try being sexy when everything is hilarious, and see how far you get. Here’s a hint: not very. I’m far better in words than I am in real life, but I still couldn’t pull sexy off even if I had an entire thesaurus filled with synonyms for “throbbing”.

I suppose I don’t need to figure all this out tonight, or at all. I’ve alway insisted that everyone else accept me exactly as I am, so maybe it would be an interesting science experiment to foist my own expectations on myself: there’s really nothing wrong with any of it, no matter what side of the rainbow I fall on. Maybe next week I’ll be back to all seven colours. Maybe things will continue to bob about comically for the next few years. Maybe when Ed finally snaps and leaves me for Barry, I’ll buy the Indigo Girls discography and a VW van. In the meantime, if I absolutely have to label myself, I could try “heteroflexible” on for size – it’s kind of fun and makes me think of sex gymnastics, which is totally hilarious. I’m not going to rule out women entirely – boobs are fucking awesome – but I could happily lose myself in a sea of wang for a little while or three, and that’s nobody’s business but mine (um and the entire internet that I just told).

Anyone want to make out?

The preceding blog post dealt with mature subject matter and contained sexually explicit material, way too much information, and course language. Viewer discretion was advised.