Category Archives: everyday kimli

guilty pleasure

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I’ve been vastly preoccupied over the last three weeks, for what could be the worst reason ever: when I’m not at work or sleeping, I’ve been playing Guild Wars 2.

I have never been a huge fan of MMOs. I tried playing Everquest and World of Warcraft, but it didn’t hold my interest at all. I did, however, get into the original Guild Wars in a pretty big way: not because it was an MMO, but because I could play it by myself. I started playing GW when I was neck-deep in casting and IRC, and I spent every waking moment online talking to or at other people – so I started playing Guild Wars to get away from it all. It was touted as an MMO you could play alone, which truly appealed to me: I had no interest in playing with others since I did that all the time, and I had no interest in meeting people through the game because I already knew too many people. GW1 allowed you to “hire” NPCs to form a party, so you could complete group quests and goals without ever needing to communicate with another person. It was awesome.

In the time between GW1 and 2, I had switched from PC gaming to console and Mac computers. Seriously bored one Saturday night, I decided to see if GW2 (which launched last September) was going to be available for Mac anytime soon. To my surprise, it already was – so I handed over my credit card, made an account, and (some two hours and 18GB later) started playing. I haven’t stopped. GW2 doesn’t have the “talk to no one” aspect I loved about the first game; I run into other people all the time. I still don’t have to talk to them, but eventually I’ll need to start finding people to team up with for the group quests and I don’t wanna. Other people are scary. I can kill all those things myself. I’m enjoying it, though. I’ve only got one character, a level 72 Sylvari Elementalist – basically, I’m a plant who likes to play with fire.

 

i'm a plant, wearing plants as clothes. it's basically a vegan meat dress.

i’m a plant, wearing plants as clothes. it’s basically a vegan meat dress.

Every once in a while someone says something ominous to me about dragons, but as near as I can tell the goal of the game is Centaur Genocide. No matter what map I’m on, Centaurs are coming at me and making fun of my two legs, which in turn makes me set them on fire. Not personally having anything against Centaurs (or lizards), I feel kind of bad about killing them all. I also feel kind of bad about the amount of time I’ve played – I’ve been playing for three weeks, and I’ve sunk 108 hours into it. That being said, I’m kind of glad I had the game this weekend – it gave me something to do other than lay around pathetically and moan about my death cold. I killed things instead! A much better use of my time, even if it’s training me to be some sort of killing machine who throws fire balls at people in real life.

I’m somewhat ashamed, but not really. This can’t go on forever – I basically plan to finish the map to 100% and be done with it. I’ve got no desire to PvP or start a new character or find out why people hate Centaurs so much – I just want to clear that damn Fog of War off my screen.

Goals! I have them!

Oh, that made me sad. It’s okay though! I’m sick!

bad timing

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Most of the time I’m able to escape whatever horrible ailments befall Ed, but not this time – I’m sick. He had a terrible cold that kicked his ass all last week, and yesterday, I caught it. My throat is on fire, my head is swimming, I’m sore all over, and there is congestion where there ought not to be congestion – I’m sick and I’m miserable about it: not so much because I have a cold, but because this is likely the SINGLE WORST DAY IN THE HISTORY OF DAYS to be unable to leave the house. By being Patient Zero, I am missing out on the following things going on in Vancouver today:

  • Record Store Day – all of these local stores are participating, and I wanted to check it out
  • Vancouver FanExpo is happening downtown at the Convention Centre, and as a well-rounded nerd into all things nerdy, I should be with my people (except without being all awkward)
  • Make It Vancouver is at the Croatian Cultural Centre – it’s one of two major local handmade craft shows (Got Craft? being the other), and I wanted to go play
  • It’s gorgeous outside – perfect for wandering around through various festivals and events
  • It’s April 20th – the annual 420 celebration is at the VAG this afternoon, and it’s always an amusing contact high/picture taking time
  • I have a Groupon for my favourite boat rental place in West Vancouver that expires in two days, and this weekend was my last chance to use it
  • Lori is leaving Vancouver and having a goodbye/buy our crap drop-in today, and I want to say bye :(
  • It’s the last two days of a big sale at Sephora, and I wanted to stock up on a few things
  • Re-Fashion Vancouver is today only in Yaletown

There are other things I’m probably forgetting, but I wanted to do so many things this weekend .. and instead, I’m a mess. A sad, unwashed, highly contagious, cranky mess.

Dislike.

dove and the art of manipulation

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This morning’s unscheduled transit scrimmage derailed me from posting about the other topics I had saved up for wording: my guilty secret, and the main reason I started this morning out wearing my (purely metaphysical) ranty pants. Since I’m already made of outrage, I’ll just carry on:

The internet was abuzz yesterday with the release of Dove’s new “Everyone is Beautiful” campaign, featuring a sketch artist tasked with drawing unseen (to him) women as they describe themselves, and again as described by other people. The women then got to see the two images, and realized they are far more critical of their appearance than others are – people see you differently than you see yourself and we should all celebrate our uniqueness and beauty and butterfly rainbow kittens for us all.

Nice sentiment. Too bad it’s a calculated load of shit.

When I watched the ad – with an admittedly already-critical eye – I couldn’t help but notice several things:

  • Hey, look at all those conventionally attractive people!
  • Hey, look at all those conventionally attractive white people!
  • “I have a round face” was stated as a negative
  • “She had a nice thin <whatever>” was a compliment .. twice
  • That sad, plinky music and grey lighting is doing a lot to set the mood – I can’t help but wonder how this would feel with a polka or 70’s porn music

Turns out I’m far from the only one having these thoughts: something fishy is afoot in their pretty, pretty paradise. It’s a nice idea, I guess, and sketch artists are crazy awesome, but the execution is pretty damn shallow. Also, everything else that’s wrong with the situation.

I posted this on Facebook this morning, and I’m just copying it here because I’m lazy and also angry about PAX tickets (I can’t get any):

As noble as the “we’re all beautiful!” campaign is, we have to keep several things in mind:

  1. We’re being purposefully manipulated by a marketing team to sell PRODUCTS. Tell me, do you really spend a lot of time worrying how your armpit skin looks? Dove sells a product that’ll “fix” it, along with a series of commercials designed to make you think people are judging you on the appearance of your pits.
  2. In eastern countries, where brown skin is the norm, Dove sells “Whitening Cream” because “white skin is beautiful”. There is so much fucking wrong with this that I can’t even.
  3. The parent company that sells Dove also sells Axe. That’s right: one team makes millions telling you you’re all beautiful; another makes millions selling you as objects who exist solely to arouse odiferous men.

So yeah, as much as I too could use the occasional reminder that I’m not as ugly as I think I am, I don’t buy it when it comes from Dove.

Even if Dove is trying to uplift everyone’s self-esteem, even if it works and no one ever feels bad about themselves again, even if just one girl realizes she is beautiful no matter what they say (words can’t bring her down), you HAVE to remember that Dove is a manufacturer of products, owned by a company that exists to SELL THINGS. At the end of the day, their one job isn’t to make us feel good – it’s to profit. Profit off your fears and insecurities. Profit off telling us we’re all beautiful with one hand, while telling women with dark skin to lighten it in another, and using women as sex dolls to sell toxic sprays in a third (they have many arms).

Do you really want your feels to be manipulated by a company that thinks your armpit skin could use some work?

I don’t.

Get bent, Unilever.

bus rage

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I am one of the politest motherfuckers you will ever meet: I’m the stereotypical Canadian who will go out of her way to say “please” and “thank you”, will bend over backwards to be accommodating, and is absolutely mortified at the thought of being rude. So you can bet your fucking ass that I said “excuse me” while trying to squeeze past someone on the bus this morning to make room for an elderly lady to exit the packed row, because it’s ingrained in every fibre of my being. To not have said “excuse me” in that moment would be like forgetting to breathe. I don’t need to think about it, because I just do it. I say “excuse me” so often and for things that no one can hear or see that many times I’ve had to explain why I just said “excuse me” over nothing at all.

So when someone who is easily twice my height and width decides I DIDN’T say “excuse me” while trying to get past his massive frame and BODY CHECKS ME so hard I almost fall over, I tend to get a little upset.

As in “yelling argument on the bus” upset.

As in audibly calling someone a “deaf fucking asshole” upset.

At first I was (rightfully) bothered that someone had assaulted me, but now I’m equally if not more upset that someone thought I was rude.

FUCK YOU BUDDY, I AM NOT FUCKING RUDE

So, now I’m upset all over the place and I don’t much care for it. Turns out I dislike being body checked! Who knew?

 

wanderlust

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With three of my close friends currently wandering around Europe (along with millions of others), I find myself in a desperate state of “I wanna go to the UK”. I don’t have any trips planned, but I’m getting kind of pathetic in my antsiness – it’s almost as bad as my need to be in Vancouver, when I was stuck in Calgary. I wonder if I’m destined to roam the earth like some sort of shiftless vagabond, unable to stay in one place for longer than a decade. I lived in Calgary for 7 years, and have been in Vancouver for 8.5 .. is it time for another change?

That’s scary talk, right there. At the moment, I’d settle for a three-month work trial in London (and even then I’m getting way ahead of myself: this is all just wishful thinking, remember).

It doesn’t help that I’m ALSO feeling a strong need to do Paris again, but properly this time. Why hasn’t instant travel been invented yet? And why am I not free to follow my ever whim and fancy, no matter how ridiculous? Stupid responsibilities and limited resources, you’re harshing my buzz.

I have a team of wonderful elves doing extensive family research for me, and some new details have come to light:

  • My mother doesn’t remember being British (but to be fair, my mother doesn’t remember a lot of things), but this is still a conversation I really ought to have with some sort of consulate. No matter what my mom remembers or not, the fact remains that she was born in Malaysia under British rule .. that’s gotta count for like, two points.
  • Edith Jane Cornes born of Franklin Cornes the Coal Miner and Jane Scott the wife of a Coal Miner is definitely the wrong woman, so now I have the birth certificate of a total stranger which is kind of weird
  • It’s looking more and more likely that the right woman was Edith Jane Corns born of Samuel Corns and Harriet Gough in Kidderminster, Worcestershire, England which is so British I could just drink tea
  • The Corns line can be traced immigrating to Canada as a family in 1893 and landing in Montreal, Quebec
  • The only reason I was looking up “Cornes” in the first place was because of my dad – he had typed out part of his life story, and that’s how he spelled it. THANKS DAD
  • The Corns had a huge family who all went on to create their own huge families – I probably have cousins and second cousins I don’t know about
  • Now I can’t have sex with anyone in Malaysia OR Quebec for fear of accidental incest
  • .. damnit
  • Finding my grandparent’s marriage certificate is proving to be enormously troublesome, and unfortunately it’s the one piece of vital information I neeeeeed if I want to – wishful thinking – apply for a UK visa
  • It’s not London, but yesterday I wandered to Point Roberts with some gnomes:
gnerms!

gnerms!

We also made a new friend:

this is trapper

this is trapper

As soon as he was on the beach, he came running up to us with a stick in his mouth. He dropped the stick, laid down, and waited: he was the politest damn dog I’ve ever seen, and super cute. We took turns throwing the stick for him before he got tired of us and went to play with some kids further down on the beach. There were many (okay, three) large friendly dogs there, and I got to pet them all.

So, now I want to go to London AND have dogs.

Sometimes it feels as though it would be easier to be happy if I didn’t have such dreams.

gnoooomes.

gnoooomes.

mad hax

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Does it count as an Ikea Hack if all you do is repurpose something?

I’m going to count it. Look, I hacked the gibson:

 

my krokig is huuuuuge

my krokig is huuuuuge

That’s kind of a terrible picture, but it shows you the whole thing (and my dirty carpet). Here are some better pictures:

Krokig4

shinies: i have them

whee!

whee!

It’s a kid’s clothing rack that I’m using to hang necklaces off of. It’s bright and colourful and keeps all my necklaces from tangling while languishing in a drawer somewhere. When I strip after work, it’s easy to hang things up again on one of the eight hooks. It’s a fun solution, and it would work well for belts or bags or scarves – plus, it’s a comfortable height and helps me build self-confidence by learning to hang up things by myself. Also, at $30 it was way cheaper than the size of a jewellery box I’d need to store all those necklaces properly AND I got to have meatballs. A Saturday well spent!

(DNF)

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I had completely forgotten about this, but apparently school records are forever: In 1993, I attended Oak Bay High School in Victoria. For like, a week.

After Not Graduating from Spectrum, I was somewhat adrift in the world. I feared the stigma of being a high school dropout – even though I didn’t – so I thought that I needed to get my diploma, no matter what. I was still mad at Spectrum for the whole “you’re not graduating” bullshit, so I chose to go to a different school: the one my favourite band teacher had left us for.

Um, also I was once a third degree Band Geek. I haven’t mentioned it a lot – most of my high school life was dull and not worth rehashing – but there it is. I played the Bass Clarinet and Tenor Sax, and sang in several choirs, and was devastated when Mr. Campbell left us to teach snobby rich kids music.

Anyway, back to school. I enrolled myself at Oak Bay as an upgrade student, and planned to take mostly “fun” classes in addition to the Consumer Education course I was missing. I lasted less than a week before I realized that I hated being in school and didn’t want any part of this – I never even made it to a band class; I just .. stopped going. I don’t think I ever officially withdrew, either. So yeah, I guess I AM a high school dropout. Oops.

All of this has come up because at some point over the weekend, someone – someone who is staggeringly bad at Google – emailed info@mywork.com, looking for me. I have no idea how they managed to figure out where I work but not that I am on every corner of the internet and reachable through almost every communication method possible, but they did. Individual people at work have forwarded the message to me six times now, so I have definitely received it. Yes. Thank you.

The message contains an invitation to Oak Bay High’s 20th reunion, to be held some time later this year. I do not know a single person at Oak Bay High; I didn’t attend class long enough to make any friends (or meet any people whatsoever) .. but apparently, I’m still on the school’s list of alumni and that is hilarious. I hadn’t thought about my week spent as a student of Oak Bay High since 1993, but they managed to track me down. That is some weird shit! I didn’t attend my actual reunion last year, so I do not think I will be attending this one. Still, I’m amused to learn I’m still on the list. It’s nice to be remembered by a computer.

who are you

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Shit

Unless this woman got married in the UK to some guy named Herbert Hawthorne and stayed in England long enough to be counted in the 1911 census, then somehow got to Canada and met my grandfather and got married and had babies in 1913 and 1914 .. I’ve been tracing the wrong line in the UK.

There’s another woman with the same name from the UK who, in 1901, was counted in the Canadian census and listed as having immigrated to the correct part of Canada in 1893. This could be the right line, but every time I try to search for her, the records are crossed between these two women. For all I know, the information I have is partially correct (the birth certificate I received for the woman in the image above has a birth year of 1883, not 1884). Most of the information I DO have was researched for me by the amazing Ken in Calgary, and I am forever grateful because he was able to provide a ton of stuff – now I just need to put the pieces together.

What I DO know:

  • All the information I’ve found about my grandfather is correct
  • Every piece of war correspondence I’ve been able to find lists him as “Husband of Edith J. Welsh of 2883 St. Andre St. Montreal”
  • I confirmed my grandmother’s maiden name when I stole my dad’s birth certificate after he died (which I then had to return) and also in a story my dad had written about his early life
  • I really should be working and not looking into all of this right now

I absolutely hate it when I have a mystery on my hands that I cannot solve. It’s rare that my Google-Fu fails me (or I only search for really simple things), and it’s infuriating when it does. At this point, it’s not even about wanting to immigrate to the UK – it’s about getting to the bottom of this once and for all, because it’s pissing me off and few things motivate me more than being pissed off.

I WILL DECIPHER YOU, EDITH CORNES!

 

one step closer

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Dear England,

When can I move in? Can I just put my stuff anywhere? I’m gonna need a shelf in the bathroom; I have a lot of girl potions.

I received my grandmother’s birth certificate in the mail this week. It’s a little sobering to look at – as someone who often feels adrift and without family ties, it’s probably always going to trip me out to encounter my history. I learned that my great-grandfather was a coal miner! That is neat.

Getting the birth certificate was just one small step in this whole “get to the UK” process: I still need to find a way to tie my grandmother to my family. Unfortunately, it’s proving to be ridiculously difficult to get any information out of Quebec and Nova Scotia – my grandfather’s birth certificate would be nice to have, but I NEED my grandparent’s marriage certificate. Seeing as I have no idea when or where they got married (I’m assuming they didn’t have grandparent sex until they were married, so I can safely guess it happened sometime between 1910 and 1912), this is proving difficult. Complicating matters are the other women who share my grandmother’s name – it seems that a lot of babies were named Edith Jane in England in the late 1800s, and several of them had some variation of the name “Cornes” (if not the name itself). Most of the information I can easily access online refers to an Edith Jane Cornes born in the right location, but the year is off by one. If that’s not the right woman, then everything I have is wrong and I don’t actually know where my grandmother was born. It’s all very confusing.

If I want to get to the UK legally and not just as a tourist, I need to prove that:

  • you are a Commonwealth citizen – check!
  • you are aged 17 or over – check!
  • you are able to work and you plan to work in the UK – checkity check check!
  • you can adequately support and accommodate yourself and your dependants without help from public funds – I don’t want your public funds! Let me work!

I have those, so what next? Well, I must show that at least 1 of my grandparents was born:

  • in the UK (including the Channel Islands and the Isle of Man) – yes, as far as I can tell
  • before 31 March 1922 in what is now the Republic of Ireland – my great grandfather appears to have been born in Ireland, but I think that’s a generation too far removed to qualify
  • on a British-registered ship or aircraft – that would be super cool, but doesn’t apply here

Apparently, I can claim ancestry if my relationship to the relevant grandparent is legitimate OR illegitimate. That makes things easier!

Unfortunately, this is where things get difficult. When I apply for UK entry, I need to include:

  • your full birth certificate – I have this!
  • your parents’ and grandparents’ marriage certificates – um. I don’t know how to get this. My mother MIGHT have her marriage certificate, but I won’t know until I can get my hands on her papers and go through them myself.
  • the full birth certificates of the parent and grandparent through whose ancestry you are applying – I have A birth certificate for a woman I THINK might be my grandmother, but I’m not sure and I don’t know how to verify :(
  • your marriage certificate or civil partnership registration document, if your husband, wife or civil partner intends to join you in the UK – I have this! The real question isn’t “do you have paperwork”, it’s more “will Ed join you” .. that, I don’t know. So far, all of this has been idle wishing. But what if I could do it? What if everything fell into place and I got the papers I need and had a way to get there and a plan and could work and and and? What then? Would Ed come with me? Would I go my own way? Should I stay or should I go? Why DO fools fall in love? Did you let the dogs out?

So many questions.

I wish my dad was around to provide some answers.

And a cream egg. I wish I had a cream egg.

LET ME LIVE IN YOU