What’s that? Science says I’m in danger of evolving into a short fat woman? OH GOD NO! Whatever will I do? All those days I enjoy as a slender willowy specimen of womanhood, GONE! I .. I can’t deal with this. I’m going to go have a rice cake and some crystal meth light to try and keep the ravages of evolution at bay. Maybe there’s something to all this creationism bullshit after all – if it’ll keep me from the horrors of being SHORT and FAT, I’ll believe in anything. Save me, Jebus!

It has come to pass that I am laughably, traumatically bad at drugs. After asking Ed for YEARS (and for once I am not exaggerating for effect; I’ve really been asking him for years) to use some of those connections he claims to have and get me some pot, I finally took matters into my own hands and asked around. TV always makes it seem so easy to get drugs, but if you are kind of dumb like me, it’s surprisingly hard. Short of going to a high school party or talking to random strangers looking suspicious on street corners, I really had no idea where to turn – so I decided to ask on Twitter.

Turns out this was actually a viable way to score some pot. Within seconds, I was followed by an enterprising individual who runs a delivery service in the downtown area or anywhere along a skytrain route. His prices seem rather reasonable – for all that I know, anyway – so I mentally filed him away for later, in case I feel the need to get some weed from a stranger. This won’t happen any time soon though, because of the next reason I am bad at drugs:

I decided to buy off someone I know professionally rather than a stranger, because I am not allowed to talk to strangers let alone buy drugs off them. I messaged my dentist* who had mentioned in passing that he could get me some weed if I ever wanted some. He agreed, and asked how much I wanted. I have no idea how pot is measured – I usually speak of it in terms of a singularity, as in “I would like a pot please” – so I said “I dunno, the usual?”. He said he would get me a quarter, which sounded reasonable to me – a quarter is one fourth of a whole, so that should do nicely.

When I shared this new development in my exciting world of criminal activity with my friends, they laughed at me. Apparently, “a quarter” is a LOT of weed. Ed says it’s enough for 200 pot weed drug times, or enough to keep a hardcore chronic busy for a week. Given the amount of smoking I actually do (remember the last time I bought drugs? Yeah, I still have some of it), this “quarter” will last me 50 years or so.

At least it would, if pot didn’t eventually dry out and get yucky. To get around this, I am going to experiment with some baking (no pun intended) – I haven’t made cookies in a very long time, so I think I’ll be getting all Betty Crocker this long weekend and enjoying Easter in style.

An excess of pot isn’t the only reason I am bad at drugs, though. I am completely unable to do much more with my “stash” than sniff at it – I am a banana from the suburbs; I haven’t got the first idea on how to “roll” a “joint”. We used to have some pipes around for this very reason – Ed never learned how to roll either – but could we find them last night? Of course not. So, I have all this lovely dentist-approved pot, and no way to enjoy it. The fates are mocking me! This is cruel. Are drugs normally this complicated? I am a terrible bad ass.

*: not actually a dentist, but I am Showing Restraint by not “outing” my “dealer”

It has been decided that I either need to a) go back in time and create a prenuptial agreement, b) bring the concept of a postnuptial agreement into vogue, or c) convince Ed to renew our vows and introduce some sort of neonuptial agreement to the mix.

It’s not that I’m trying to protect my assets, seeing as I don’t have any. The things that are important to me are not financially significant in any way, and we don’t really argue over anything except the Xbox. No, my pre/post/neo-nuptial agreement really has nothing whatsoever to do with money – it’s more about the things I feel are missing from our marriage.

I’m not unhappy in any way – if anything, I’m a little bit TOO giddy most of the time – but there are some things I wish I had demanded in writing before I agreed to get married:

• Mandatory moon roof in any vehicle we might purchase (does not apply to convertibles)
• Video Games:
  • Should we both be playing the same game independently of each other, custody of the console should be divided equally
  • Should we be playing different games on the same console, an agreement must be reached that the console will be swapped on alternate days of the week OR that Party A will be allowed to play the game through in a timely fashion so that Party B can start their game
• Spoilers: I will not share things I know unless asked, but you MUST share things you know if I ask
• I get a pug
• Minimum of one MMF threesome per year – the swords do not necessarily need to touch (although it would be super if they did), but there must be at least two of them

The entire list basically boils down to just the last two: I want a pug, and I want more dongs. It’s really not a lot to ask, but these are both things that are unlikely to happen any time soon and that makes me very sad and frustrated. There’s no clause for FFM events – those can happen any time – but Ed’s extreme heterosexuality is getting in the way of my own Penthouse Forum stories, and that just isn’t fair.

I spent most of yesterday talking about wangs on MSN with various people. I really, really hope IT doesn’t go through our chat logs.

Vancouver Twestival! I was apprehensive about going, but I am SO GLAD I did! I had a fantastic time, heat and noise issues aside – I met some fabulous people, ate some ridiculously amazing sushi, declared myself a volunteer and manned the registration desk to give Kim a break, and just had a bundle of fun in general. I even won a door prize! It was a certified Good Time. Thanks to the #YVRTwestival committee for a great evening!

victoria wins the prize for "stockings most likely to cause awkward situations outside of twitter events"

john biehler'd my boob!

Where is my hair? My hair is not there! Oh please do not stare at my missing hair; try not to care that my hair was once there but now is nowhere and certainly not there. I sat in a chair, cut it off on a dare – I did not prepare to feel so bare without all that hair .. oh, Molière!

And yet, here we are.

I’ve had layers in my hair since I chopped it all off in 2001. I’ve tried to grow them out, but have always gotten tired of desperately wispy ends long before my goal of one length could come to fruition.  Actually, “one length” is a bit of a misnomer – I’ve got some sort of weird angle thing going on that is definitely not the same all around, but I’m kind of okay with that.

Yesterday I visited Michelle at East Vanity Parlour, and she obliged my disgust at my head by cutting off most of my hair. It’s very short everywhere except the front, which I like long so’s I can hide:

so short

I’m going to grow it out a little and see what happens. Worst case scenario, I hate it and get some layers cut back into it. It’s a little short for my liking right now, but nothing I can’t adapt to with the help of some feathers and flowers.

Twestival – a global Twitter Festival for charity – is tonight, and even though my usual suspects opted out of the Social Media Circle Jerk, I decided I would attend. I missed out last year due to illness, but tonight my boobs and I will make an appearance. I’m apprehensive about it only because my safety net won’t be there, but I am sure I will find someone else to cling to in terror.

This is the last official plan I have for this week. That is weird.

OH! I bought two magazines last night from a used bookstore for my Smuttons. I was getting annoyed because I had visited three places – two used book stores and one comic store – but none of them had any magazines. At the last second, the guy at the third store remembered a couple of magazines he had in the back and sold them to me for a few bucks each. I wasn’t sure they would work for button making until I got home and flipped through them . They’re the July and September issues of Chic from 1977 – never heard of it, but when I got to the hilarious spreads of naked women sporting a great deal of labia, I checked the cover again – Chic was a Larry Flint production meant to compete with Playboy; a magazine aimed at a more “upscale clientele” than Hustler or Penthouse. Yes, I think I can make this work. I’ll be spending my rainy weekend cutting out genitals from an old skin rag – how about you?

I waffled a little on where to go on vacation this year, but thankfully Condomania came through with a survey that helped me decide:

new orleans, here i come

Penises are great. Almost as good as boobs!

Who’s up for a road trip?

Of all the things I am sad to see go after the Olympics – the good cheer, the street parties, the random festivals, the sea of Canadian pride – and the things I am not – the lineups, the stupid Olympic Lane, the roaming drunks, the non-stop complaining – I am surprised at the depth of my sadness over one more thing to disappear: the giant Coca-Cola billboard on Hastings Street.

The billboard wasn’t so much a Coke ad as it was an ongoing medal count for Canada – a huge maple leaf from which hung a giant medal for every one we got during the games. I passed the billboard on my way to work every morning, and would watch as the medals increased daily. By the end of the games, our 26 medals – 14 of those gold – hung from every prong of the maple leaf. Workers on a cherry picker would add the latest medals every morning, and until yesterday, the billboard stood as a giant reminder that Canada was awesome at sports for 17 days in February. It’s a silly thing, but one I grew fond of during the Olympics and I am sad to see it go.

I am not, however, amused that the coffee shop was playing “I Believe” this morning. I had FINALLY gotten that damn song out of my head, and now it’s back. Thanks a lot – it’s going to take a lot of work and iPhone shuffling to make it go away again.

Last night was the second Forensic Workshop at the Vancouver Police Museum. The topic was Blood Splatter, and it was COMPLETELY AWESOME:

so, so gross

the murder hammer was recovered at the scene

because the empty head just NEEDED to be creepier ..

Chris (seen here being completely respectable) put on a great workshop that was a lot of fun. I only wish we had more time to play with the blood and weapons – as it was I was too busy taking pictures to do much destruction myself, but I had a fabulous time. Yay for crime! The Vancouver Police Museum is full of awesome! Click the (disturbing) picture below for more images:

*shudder*

Call me old fashioned, but there’s something about near-dismemberment by Chevy Cobalt that really sticks in my craw.

My mother’s early life was very different from mine. She grew up in Kuala Lumpur as part of a large family, something that remains completely alien to my small-city, only-child self. Before she went off the deep end, she tried to do her motherly duties by way of sharing some folksy wisdom with me; things that are usually passed down through the generations and recited with some air of mysticism. These little life tips rarely make any sense, even if they were once boiled in fact or strong superstition – it’s just How Things Are, and it will do you no good to question them.

I always assumed my mother was crazy, but it seems there may actually be something to some of her helpful tips. The “something” ranges from other people hearing the same thing from their mothers, like the “never give knives as a gift; always exchange a quarter instead or it’ll bring bad luck” that a few of you have also been told, to correlation-not-causation “proof”.

I wish I could remember all the things she told me instead of just the few that stand out. There are the completely nonsensical (and sadly untrue) – “eating your bread crusts will give you curly hair!”; the delightfully racist (and also untrue) – “if you sing at the dinner table, you’ll end up marrying a Chinaman!” , and those I still believe to this day, true or not – “an itchy ear means someone is talking about you!”.

Not all of the old wives’ tales were stories, though – some were just things she DID. A penny in every new purse or wallet, because giving an empty wallet meant you’d be broke all your life. Still setting out a full plate for my dad at every meal, including making him tea, in case he comes back and is hungry. Then there’s my personal favourite: putting walnuts in every corner of the house will keep the spiders away.

Logically, I know the walnuts are little more than Lisa’s Tiger-Repelling Rock. That being said, after the first month or so of mom being in that house which was virtually infested by man-eating spiders and their horrible horrible kin, I haven’t seen a single one. I asked why, and mom pointed to the walnuts – “spiders don’t like walnuts, so they don’t come in here anymore”. That doesn’t make *sense*. It’s just a nut in a shell! It has no special powers or anti-spider properties – and yet, mom’s house is spider-free. Who’s the crazy one here?

The answer is still her – okay, maybe she’s onto something re: walnuts, but she still pees in buckets – but it makes me wonder about the other tall tales she’s told me. Can I really prevent bad luck by knocking on wood? Will my sight become better if I eat carrots? Will it really fall off if I play with it too much? When I drop a fork or spoon, will a mysterious visitor appear within the hour?

I have a lot of research to do.

After a thoroughly scandalous end to my incredibly busy and diverse week, I am exhausted and looking forward to this week’s relatively low-key social calendar (in that I am currently only booked for 3 days of activity; not 5).

I spent Friday evening at the Museum of Vancouver, selling Smuttons. They were a surprise hit, and I sold several sets – but the best part of all was people’s reactions when they opened the lid of the Smutton Vault. Hilarity! The Vault will be back on display at the MOV on April 9th for DIY Night, and it’ll be restocked with so much more smut. Get your tickets for DIY night NOW, as it’ll likely sell out quickly – last time was a blast!

Doug, Ali and River were in town this weekend! They spent Friday night visiting with Ed at Sparta, and on Saturday afternoon we went for lunch and wandered around downtown. River was fascinated by the Robson Square ice rink, and not at all scared of the furries on the ice (two adults dressed as a wolf and a fox, skating around and posing for pictures – don’t know what they represented, but they were creepy). After some fun (including watching River play Toddler Hockey), Doug took her back to the hotel for a nap while Ed, Ali and I roamed Pacific Center for new shoes and glitter. We parted ways after coffee and chat at Caffe Artigiano to allow Ali some rest and dinner with her family, and Ed and I went to collect our Party Gear and head to Railtown.

Miranda’s 30th birthday party was a smashing success. People took the fancy dress theme to heart, and there were some incredible outfits and fanciness galore. River charmed the room in her Tinkerbell costume, and my boobs were eyed with amusement and disdain by many. Mission accomplished – I got away without wearing a shirt in public; Miranda knows she is loved, and we rang her 30th year on this earth in with many bangs by way of a unicorn piñata filled with party poppers and candy. I don’t envy the job her cleaners have ahead of them this morning, but it was a spectacular party (the photographic evidence of which can be seen here).

We enjoyed brunch on Sunday at the Alibi Room with our Seattle friends before they were to head back to the US, then came home – my sole goal for Sunday was to sleep, and I did exactly that. Also, laundry. But mostly sleep. I had a lot of catching up to do.

If I keep throwing myself chest-first into terrifying, hilarious situations, no one is going to believe that I truly do have a social anxiety disorder.

In other news, I may be on CBC later today. Stay tuned!

ey oh ey oh ey oh what's going on here

saucy maidens

river, derek, airdrie and catherine - my favourite pic of the night

i love these guys. yunn and barry are my favourite!

The following things fell out of my cleavage when I took off my corset last night:

• Feathers
• Eyelashes
• Lip gloss
• Fortunes
• An iPhone
• Glitter
• Streamers
• Candy
• A bottle cap
• Glue

It was a good night.

bash him good, admiral

*sigh* and I really wanted that career in politics, too

How many operas do you have to see before you can no longer claim to be an opera neophyte? Last night I saw my 4th opera – am I an expert yet? People advertise themselves as experts in other fields for far fewer accomplishments; I’d say I’m almost ready to call myself a friggin’ opera guru at this point.

Nixon in China was .. different. I arrived at the theatre early and got to hear the presentation by Assistant Stage Director Stephen Drover, which was really cool – he gave us the low down on the staging of the opera and shared valuable information that really made a difference in how I saw the performance. I attended the presentation with Kelsey of The Anthology, and we both agreed that had we not known some of what Stephen shared, we’d have been a little lost.

Nixon in China was vastly different from the other three operas I’ve seen (Carmen, Rigoletto and Salome), and not just because it had more than one word in the title. For starters, the opera is sung in English (the others were in French, Italian and German, respectively). While it’s not the only opera (that I’ve seen) that debuted in the 20th century (1987; Salome was first performed in 1905), it’s the only one that requires amplification of the singer’s voices (something that is usually taboo in the opera world). Nixon in China also uses a lot of “visual trickery” to achieve effects, and relies on a surprising amount of projected action to convey the message. It’s not a BAD thing, but it definitely isn’t the norm and as such was unusual to see.

Also, this was the first opera I’ve attended in which I did not have my laptop. That was weird.

I’m actually a little unsure of how I feel about Nixon in China. When you break the production down into basic elements, each piece was fantastic – the performances were great; I adored Thomas Hammons’ portrayal of Henry Kissinger (which SHOULD be good; he originated the role) and Robert Orth made a convincing and at times hilarious Nixon. The set was fantastic – once I got over the weirdness of seeing special effects in an opera, I really enjoyed it and loved looking for things Stephen pointed out in his presentation. The ballet within the opera – a neat twist on Shakespeare’s favourite plot device – was beautiful; the dancers were graceful and lithe and utterly despicable because of it. The pieces that make up the whole were great.

And yet, my waffling persists. If I liked the performances and the sets and the theme, why can’t I commit to liking the opera as a whole? I’m just not sure how I feel about it. For starters, it was really, really long. Three acts, seven scenes, two full intermissions – we got out of the theatre just a hair past 11pm after a 7:30 start. I found the singing in English much more distracting than I would have thought – with surtitles and another language, I can quickly read the line then lose myself in the singing. In English, I found myself paying much more attention to WHAT was being sung/said instead of HOW. Because I did know what they were singing, it felt very “sing-talking” to me; something that usually bugs me about musicals. I was physically uncomfortable for most of the performance – while I know this has nothing whatsoever to do with the opera itself, it DID affect my enjoyment: one or more women around me were DRENCHED in strong perfume and I could smell it all night long, giving me a terrible headache; the woman seated directly in front of me fidgeted in her seat for the whole thing, blocking my view of the stage every few seconds. These things are unfortunate, and even my louder-than-necessary and extremely pointed remarks during the intermission (which probably mortified my poor seatmate – I’m sure Kelsey thinks I’m an utter lunatic who does nothing but talk about how smelly people are, and I’m afraid she might be right) did little to make me feel better. It just wasn’t my night, it seems, and the end result is almost 800 words to describe how I’m not sure if I could truly say that I liked Nixon in China or not.

Which, true to my nature, makes me feel terrible for saying. I am a horrible person!

If nothing else though, Nixon in China made me learn. I went home and instead of going to bed to prepare for my equally-busy Friday, I stayed up until after midnight reading the Wiki entries on the opera, Nixon’s visit to China, Chairman Mao, the Revolution, Kissinger, and Madame Mao and her contributions to/destruction of Chinese arts. I like learning. Learning is good.

This may be the first post I’ve written that does not include pop culture references or genitalia.