This is my first day of school. I arrived with plenty of time, but couldn’t figure out how to pay for parking. I managed to solve it, and even snag spot 169 at the same time. I am awesome at school.

I got lost, though. There’s no campus map online, so I didn’t know there were multiple buildings. I’m so scattered that I feel lucky that I showed up to the right campus at all.

Everyone else in my class is either a nurse, an ESL teacher, or some sort of tradesman – I think there are 17 welders in here.

OVERHEAD MATERIALS IN COMIC SANS AHHHHHHH

We are throwing around a koosh ball. I thought that only happened on the Rosie O’Donnell show.

The course I’m taking is the equivilent of 3rd year university – O_o. We’re getting a handout that outlines what’s expected of us in terms of handing in university-level work and how to format our papers. I’m thinking 24pt Comic Sans on neon pink scented paper with bunnies on the background will get me far.

Okay, a class full of welders might be a problem – teacher just gave out the program URL, to which I piped up “it crashes Firefox!” .. because it does; you have to use IE or it will fuck your shit up. This is useful info, I thought – until the welders started asking “what’s a Firefox?”. Oi.

Maybe I don’t need to live blog this whole thing – I actually need to pay attention, and I can feel this becoming pretty annoying very quickly. I don’t really feel like a student yet though, mostly because I don’t have a student ID – clearly, that is the most important part. Getting discounts on things. I have my priorities in order.

Parking is $4/day, which is good – I was worried it was going to be outrageous and I would have to make a heartbreaking decision about car vs. public transit. At $4/day, driving is not out of the question. It didn’t take too long to get here this morning, and now that I know where I’m going, I could make this work. Also, it’s only for a week. I will live.

We’re on lunch break. I ate a college hamburger. It was not tasty. Tomorrow I will bring a lunch, and also some chocolate.

You know, this post kind of sucks. You should read yesterday’s post for a story, or Friday’s post for a fight.

As inappropriate as my boobs usually are in social settings, I honestly do try to cover up while at work. The word “try” is the key here, as I often fail miserably in my attempts to appear professional and appropriate – it does not help at all that we have a casual dress code, and I buy all my clothing based on a sliding scale of sluttiness.

Still, I do own a few pieces of clothing that, at first glance, might be able to withstand the corporate world. One such shirt was something I had purchased at Old Navy – a short sleeve purple and white checkered pullover with a collar and 4 buttons. I figured I could just do the buttons up to hide my magnificent valley, and all would be good.

As usual, I underestimated the power of my mighty bosom. I could do up the last button, but the third and second buttons gaped and pulled as they strained to contain the uncontainable. Worse, by doing up the last button, I created a push-up effect and made the inappropriate nearly obscene. It was bad. It was one of those moments when I looked in the mirror and was embarrassed for myself. And naturally, it was a day that I didn’t get a chance to inspect my appearance until almost noon.

I sit in a low-traffic corner at work, and normally could just bury myself in documentation until it was time to go home – but not today. I had an afternoon full of meetings with people ranging from fellow managers to my succession of bosses and even a few external vendors – I HAD to cover up, and do it quickly. Luckily, I had worn a cardigan over my shirt. Problem solved! Except .. well, I buy my cardigans with the same rule as the rest of my clothes. It had a deep v-neck, and did little to cover up anything. I was screwed – short of running out and buying an ascot, there was no discernable way for me to cover my shame before my next meeting started.

Or WAS there? The problem was that the shirt simply did not have enough give in the chestal area to cover my boobs. The material wasn’t stretchy in any way, so there was no way to me to manipulate it into behaving. I knew this was going to take some drastic MacGyvering, so I thought quickly – I COULD stuff some Kleenex down the front of my shirt and claim it was a bib, but that might have the opposite affect (as well as make me look somewhat silly). Safety pins (or the office equivalent, a stapler) would only draw attention to the area I was trying to hide. There was no time to go out and buy a new shirt, and I didn’t have a coat. There was only one thing left to do.

I grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced the shirt up the back. The cut was hidden by my cardigan, and now the shirt had enough give to cover my buoyant assets. In fact, the outfit was downright adorable now – after I checked out my handiwork in the bathroom, our extremely fashion-conscious receptionist remarked on how cute my shirt was. Success! I was decent AND cute, and all it took was destroying my clothing with a pair of scissors!

I actually kept the shirt like that, thinking I would wear it again but sadly, it got tossed in the move.

I wish I could say I had learned my lesson, but this is me and I do not learn: I had an identical shirt in solid black, and not two months later I had to do the exact same thing because of the exact same scenario: too much boob at work, and the shirt was sacrificed in the name of decency.

I really, really need handlers when I go shopping.

This post was originally attached to the entry below, but I separated them because it is worthy of a discussion.

This was said by a local fashion blogger on Twitter this morning:

@demiCouture: fat is never going to be fabulous, so stop pretending and get over it

Fat Hate makes as much sense to me as being anti-gay – my body is of no concern to you, so why does it make you so angry? There are enough things on this planet that make me feel less than human; why do you have to add to it? I already know you can’t market Mama Cass – what could possibly be the point of bringing me down further?

Doesn’t everyone deserve to feel good about themselves? Or is self-confidence solely the domain of the 2 dimensional?

I’m a BC girl – I grew up in Victoria and have lived in Vancouver for 5 years. Southern BC is a wet place (although not nearly as wet as people would have you believe – we lie so others don’t crash our party), but I am against Dressing for the Weather – I rarely wear a coat or jacket, would go barefoot year ’round if I could, and carry an umbrella? Don’t make me laugh.

However, with age came a glimmer of common sense so I figured it was time to Do Something to protect myself against the elements. As my plot to take over the world thickens, my standard MO of “don’t go outside” is getting harder to stick with – so I better cover up, and I might as well be fabulous while doing it.

To that end, I purchased an umbrella and a pair of rain boots off the internet. Sure, I could just go to Canadian Tire and buy some over the counter gear that would do the trick – but I wouldn’t be fabulous*, and that’s the whole point.

I bought these boots and this umbrella because they are fantastic. The boots should be here today and I have convinced myself that I am totally capable of walking in them, my issues with gravity be damned. The umbrella arrived yesterday, and with it, the uncovering of a plot most foul:

UPS does not want me to be warm and dry.

The umbrella was shipped in a separate box. The box was a little beat up, but nothing out of the ordinary – I’ve seen worse. Unfortunately, when I opened it, I discovered that the handle of the umbrella was broken. I promptly emailed the company, who apologized and promised a replacement ASAP – cool! They said I could keep or throw away the original, so I thought I would try to fix it – after all, it was just a snapped handle. No biggie. I took the umbrella home with me, and set about to try and fix it last night.

When I unwrapped it and tried to open it, I discovered just how badly broken it was – UPS had somehow FOLDED the umbrella, then straightened it out to hide the damage. The handle wasn’t just broken at the end, it was in three pieces. The metal frame of the umbrella was warped from being bent – I couldn’t open it all the way, and couldn’t close it down for the same reason. The entire thing looked as though it had been run over  by a truck – I’ve seen discarded umbrellas tossed on the sidewalk in better shape than this thing was, even if it looked fine from the outside.

It’s raining today, and I don’t have an umbrella. I am going to catch diseases and DIE. Thanks a lot, UPS. You suck.

The boots, though, are amazing:

:D

burrard and dunsmuir

the orpheum is classier than i

i had never heard of astronautalis before last night but after his set i'm a fan

even the bathroom lights are pretty

tegan and sara are made of awesome

he suffers from a very sexy learning disability: sexlexia

All photos taken with Hipstamatic!

Last night I was as close to functional illiteracy as I’ve been since I was in diapers.

I ran a bunch of errands after work, and decided to go to T&T Supermarket to try and find the Mystery Coconut Candy I usually buy around this time of year. I was tired and a little out of it, but that’s never stopped me before. It wasn’t until I was in the store and blinking owlishly at everything in sight that I realized I couldn’t read a damn thing – I had forgotten my glasses at home. Add in the tired and all the signage being in Chinese, and I was completely lost. It didn’t help that I was weary enough to have balance issues, so I spent much of last night being a squinty, stumbling mess. I couldn’t find a damn thing I was looking for, and basically had to rely on pictures of things to figure out what they were. I shouldn’t have been driving with my vision that messed up, and I definitely shouldn’t have been out without my glasses – I clearly need a seeing-eye pug.

It was actually a pretty scary feeling, though. I don’t much care for being unable to figure out my surroundings, and I enjoy being able to read. I had a slightly better time in Safeway – at least, I came home with milk and bread as intended instead of accidental cabbage and shoe rice – but next time I think I’ll wait until I’m feeling up for being battered by tiny Chinese ladies who shouldn’t be able to move as fast as they do.

Tonight we see Tegan and Sara! Hooray!

I’m not really one for making New Year’s Resolutions. When asked last week what my resolutions were for the upcoming year, my answer was fairly typical: “less murder”. It’s a noble goal, to be sure – I don’t have access to a crawl space anymore – but certainly not along the lines of expected answers like “lose weight” “save orphans” “eat broccoli”. Making New Year’s Resolutions just seems like you’re setting yourself up for failure, and I fail at enough things on a daily basis that asking for MORE just seems stupid.

That being said, I have decided on something that could definitely be mistaken for a resolution instead of what it really is: a pact. Or a goal. Or something that I will do with steadfast determination; a promise. Maybe a declaration of intent, but NOT a resolution. That’s totally different, see?

Okay, enough preamble – here is my non-resolution:

Every day will be fancy bra day.

That’s it.

When I was putting away my new bras – each fancier than the last – I realized that I have a disproportionate number of fabulous intimates that never see the light of day because I save them for “special occasions”. If I had as many special occasions as I do fancy bras, I would never have time to sleep. Why should my spectacular rack be swathed in boring just because it’s Tuesday? Enough hording – it’s time to bring out the lacy, the ribboned, the peek-a-boo and the complicated. Every day can and should be a Special Occasion; not just those times when my schedule deviates from the norm. Breakfast with the gang? Wearing sweatpants and a hat? Underneath it all will be something elaborate and gorgeous, I promise.

This plan would be better if only I had matching underpants to go with my all my lovely brassieres – as it stands, I am wearing a fancy blue lacy thing with a pair of men’s Spider Man underwear. That being said, if I had known how comfortable men’s underwear was, I would have bought the Superman and Batman ones too. These are awesome!

Life is too short to wear boring underthings.

Once upon a time, I was having a very, very bad day. Because I remember everything, I even know the when and the why – it was the Thursday before we left for Tofino for the weekend, and I had just learned that our financing for the penthouse had fallen through. It was a terrible day, and having to go to Costco – normally an awesome time because I am slightly touched in the head – just made things that much worse.

In a fit of sardonic whimsy, I purchased a calendar of “3650 Things to Be Happy About”. It’s a page-a-day calendar (I hate these things) featuring a list of ten things per day meant to cheer you up. Even if I wasn’t in a terrible, horrible, no good mood I knew that I would likely have an issue with 90% of the items listed in this tacky bit of forced cheer – and today, when I got into the office and opened the calendar up, I was pleased to note that I was right: this thing is ridiculous, and is likely meant for stupid people.

Here are some of my favourites, 4 days into the year:

• A Louis Vuitton travel case
• Pizza-of-the-Month clubs
• Unlocking a combination padlock
• A useful basket
• A newspaper delivered to your door
• Picnics around the fireplace
• Using chopsticks
• Indian pennies
• An afternoon at the races
• Roomy pants
• Washing dishes by hand
• “Mom” food

.. these are all terrible things to be happy about. These things make me grumpy. I actively dislike Louis Vuitton bags. What the hell is an Indian penny? Washing dishes by hand infuriates me. “Using chopsticks” seems racist – is there an entry for “using a fork”? My mother eats nothing but KFC and ramen drenched in Sriracha sauce. These are horrible and do not make me happy at all. THIS CALENDAR IS A GIANT FAIL.

I think I’m going to have to give this thing away, preferably to a person who wears cat sweaters and has folksy wisdom cross-stitched onto things.

my version would sell more copies

Yesterday I bought thirty (30) bottles of Diet Coke.

To my credit, I have 28.5 bottles left.

There was a sale, okay? And they’re not 2L bottles, they’re only 710ml. I don’t have a problem. I’m not hurting anyone! Leave me alone!

My mother would be really proud of me – I read a flyer, bought something on sale, and am hording product in case the apocalypse comes and is thirsty. When the rest of the city shuts down completely due to the Olympics, I can sit in my condo and drink Diet Coke, pausing only to throw eggs and holey socks at people from my patio. What? It’s how I show spirit. Shut up.

Yesterday was a long but productive day. Early in the morning Ed and I picked up our fancy new bar stools for our kitchen counter, then fetched Miranda and the above-mentioned 30 bottles of Diet Coke. Shan and Heather came by Sparta soon after, and together we solved the Mystery of the Tiny Screw – the stools were surprisingly difficult to put together, mostly because we were missing the necessary shirtless priest in suspenders as shown in the manual. We ultimately triumphed over Scandinavian adversity, and now we can sit in style and hydraulics:

good for sittin'

After the stools, the ladies and I headed south to Bellingham. We all had various agendii to take care of, and I believe we were all successful: new bras, dresses of surprising cuteness, and a full stock-up on goodies from Trader Joe’s. We are ready for almost anything, and we will look fabulous at it. Also, Mi Mexico. It was a tiring and expensive Saturday, but good times abound and my new bras are fantastic – even the one Shan picked out for me.

Oh, and I got a SEX APRON.

It will provide comfort when the harshness of real life crashes in on me tomorrow at 7am.

My head is throbbing, my mouth tastes like Pine Sol, and I can’t find my pants – as far as New Years go, I think we did this one properly.

We’re all starting to show signs of wear and tear though, and the party was one of the more low key ones we’ve had. This is okay – I don’t think I’ve ever been to as many events in a single month as the past December had lined up. I’m all for debauchery and rafter-swinging, but since we’ve literally partied hearty 10 times in the last 30 days by my Google Calendar watch, quiet is good. Quiet is needed.

That’s not to say we didn’t have an awesome time, though. Many people showed up; the usual suspects and even some new faces. My Friend Lisa played their first gig, which was awesome. There was a keg, and so much food, and a kitten. Gillian was there! She flew in from Kelowna for kisses! At one point in the evening, I laughed so hard I literally cried. It was a good, solid NYE.

Idiosyncratic tendencies, I haz them: I started the night wearing a cute dress I had bought off eBay, with fishnets and boots. It was cute enough, but I was highly uncomfortable – the dress was far shorter than anything I’ve worn, and an hour or so in I was feeling so awkward that it was affecting my ability to have fun. Luckily, I had anticipated this happening so I packed a change of clothes just in case. I peeled off the dress and fishnet tights, and gleefully pulled on a pair of jeans and a tank top. When primping in the mirror, I was faced with a near-obscene reminder of my own duplicistic nature – heavens no, I could never wear a short dress! That would be tacky! A shirt cut down to my sternum, however – clearly this is both appropriate and suitable to wear in mixed company! Yeah, I changed out of a perfectly decent dress because I was showing too much skin – only to change into something much, much worse. Knees are slutty. Boobs are fantastic.

I plan to do absolutely nothing today, as to properly enjoy this first day of 2010. Tomorrow I’m making a run for the border with the girls, and then I have to figure out how to get back to my usual routine of awkward and inappropriate.

Happy New Year, everyone!

reilly, shan and darren rock out

happy new year!