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. 

You have failed me for the last first time, Admiral bias tape.

I have made a shirt! I am wearing it out in public! I was going to show you what it looks like, but I’m exceptionally unphotogenic today so none for you. Still, this is the first time I’ve made something that goes over my head (and has a torso) and I am super pleased with it!

Last Sunday a group of girls went to Bonnie and Catherine’s place for a craft day. While Heather and I were the only ones who really did any crafting, Bonnie and Alice both helped me figure out how to copy a pattern (tracing is hard) and alter it enough to fit my preferences. Bonnie had made herself this dress that I really liked because of the wicked neckline, but I am not one to wear anything tube-related. Still I thought it might make a really cute shirt so I copied the pattern, cut it off at hip level, and even got so far as to cut all my fabric. All I needed to do was sew it all together, and last night I did just that.

I have a really hard time deciphering sewing recipes, but I made a pretty good go at it. I pinned all the pieces, double-stitched the seams, and even HEMMED the neckline and arm holes. Attaching the cowl was a little tricky because it’s easily three times the weight of the rest of the shirt, but I managed to get it on (and tripled-sewed it to a) cover my mistakes and b) make sure it stays put). I did goof, though: the fabric I used is dark blue with black stripes. The shirt has horizontal stripes, but the cowl’s stripes are vertical – I miscalculated when folding. The thing is, it kind of looks like it was on purpose, so if anyone asks .. yeah, I was going for this look.

The reason I liked the pattern so much is because of that cowl – it’s big enough that you can pull it over your head as a hood. I am super into hiding behind hoods right now, in a style I have dubbed “Assassin’s Creed” – when I am hidden by a hood, it is because I am an assassin with an agenda so watch out. The name of the shirt is also a verb, as in “I am totally Assassin’s Creeding it up in here today because I do not want to talk to anyone”. This is a thing now. Just go with it.

So, the bias tape. I didn’t want to push my luck by hemming the bottom of the shirt, so I decided to go with my favourite complicated alternative (because it takes two rounds of sewing plus a Google to remember how to align the tape properly) and just use black bias tape. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until I was done and trimming thread ends that I realized my mistake: the shirt is made out of jersey, which is stretchy. Bias tape is not stretchy. The shirt still fits fine, but it stretches nicely everywhere except along the bottom. This is the first time bias tape has backfired on me, so I won’t forget it anytime soon – I’m onto you, bias tape. I will likely be fooled again, but I am onto you.

YAY I MADE A SHIRT!

Today I am petulant. It’s kind of like being grumpy, but not as serious – I’m in full-on pout mode (which is not all that attractive on a gentlewoman of my advanced age) and stomping around on my stylish yet affordable boots, singing songs to myself about all the things that are annoying me. Some of the things I have broken out in song about this morning include:

• A misplaced umbrella
• A dumb husband who needs to learn that the proper response to “hey, wanna go on a date with me next week?” is not to make a face and act as though I asked him to accompany me to his own discount vasectomy but instead to maybe be interested in a night out with his wife who is not at all an annoying burden to tolerate when the time is right but rather a totally fun person who most people with enjoy going places with especially if I let them get all up in my boobs
• The failover umbrella which is a giant rainbow of ridiculous but also unwieldy and pinched my fingers
• The most excellent handlebar moustache someone affixed to the guy on the Canadian Springs water delivery truck made me smile, but why do we even need bottled water jeez
• JET! SET! RADIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO is awesome but now I want Jet Set Radio Future on iOS now now now now now now now now
• I am craving Pinkberry, but I only want Blood Orange and it is not a current flavour
• My Big Important Project at work is giving me stress twitches in my left eye because I am not in possession of a time machine
• I am unsure as to whether I should take Monday off
• My iMac is out of commission at the Apple Store as they await my replacement Bluetooth chip that they are replacing for free coz they smushed it when installing my new HD
• Does anyone want to be my stunt cock next Thursday because Ed sucks

Some serious pouting going on over here.

The packaging promises this:

watch them coyly hide within their shells!

The horrible, creepy reality:

My coworker Nick has Sea Monkeys, and I am perversely fascinated by them. They are disgusting little things that look nothing like the packaging, and I think they’re also cannibals: two of them grew alarmingly over the weekend (Nick calls the big one “Bitey”), and I’m pretty sure there were more smaller ones swimming around on Friday. I’ve been referring to them as sea lice (yes I know they’re actually brine shrimp) and I’m creeped out by them as much as I keep running back to look for new developments. I know the above pictures aren’t great, but they’re really hard to photograph on account of being creepy as fuck and relatively fast for something you grow in a swamp of yeast and salt. If they ever start line dancing or holding little Sea Monkey Time Share seminars, I’ll be sure to try and get more pictures .. but in the meantime, enjoy this slightly blurry exposé into the many-tentacled world of Nick’s horrible little sea bugs.

The day started out with so much promise: I awoke before my alarm, my legs weren’t on fire, and Ed brought me a bagel. Big plans were afoot for the day, so I hopped out of bed to shower and start the first item on my to-do list: dollar store henna. The beginning of the experiment was kind of scary, as the prepared henna was a brilliant shade of green (a green I would naturally gravitate to if it had been on an inappropriately cut shirt or a pot of sparkly eyeshadow, but was wholly unprepared to slather on my head) and smelled .. strange. Henna doesn’t smell that great to begin with (although I kind of like it), and this smelled like flowers planted in soy sauce – still, I had roots to cover so I slopped on the goo and fashioned a turban out of Saran Wrap to await my fate.

Things started to go wrong the instant I sat at my computer. The night before I swept everything off my desk in a dramatic gesture to make room for my recently repaired iMac, then started the restore process from an external drive. I went to bed before the restore had finished, so I assumed it would be done when I sat down .. and technically, it was. Unfortunately, I had restored from the wrong drive, so none of my content was back. Okay, no biggie – I could start the restore from the correct drive while I tackled the next several chores on my list. It was then I discovered that the Apple store had given me a hard drive with Snow Leopard on it instead of Lion, so I had to upgrade before my backups could be read – another couple of hours. Upgraded to Lion, restored my files – more waiting. Finally, I had everything where I wanted it so I could stop messing with files and user accounts and look into the next problem: my wireless mouse wasn’t working. After a lot of swearing and troubleshooting, I narrowed the problem down to the machine itself – yay! I can’t see any devices or machines with Bluetooth, even though it was working fine before I took my computer in to the Genius Bar. More troubleshooting, an attempt to update the firmware, an upgrade to Mountain Lion, far too long spent wading through Apple support forums, and nothing: my Bluetooth is dead.

It was right around this time that I also discovered my brand new 1TB hard drive somehow had a mere 490GB free. Digging through the machine I found that almost 250GB were taken up as “other”, and that there were some locked directories on a machine I’m the only user on. Okay, time to unlock those – can’t; no permission to. I’m the sole administrator, but who cares about logic – I’ll just .. do nothing, because there’s suddenly a master password on the machine that I don’t know. I never SET a master password on the machine, but there’s one there now. Hooray! What a great day this is turning out to be!

I worked in Desktop Support for years, and I’m pretty good at it. There’s nothing I like better than finding a way around a stubborn computer mystery .. unless the computer I’m working on is my main machine. If I’m dealing with my own broken computer, I become useless and frustrated and incompetent and likely to burst into tears for no reason – and while I didn’t get to that point today, I am so fucking annoyed at my iMac that I’m starting to wonder what it would look like if I threw it out the window.

I did manage to unlock those folders, but the master password is still eluding me. Also, the locked folders don’t fully account for the missing HD space. Also, none of this may matter: I have to take the fucking machine back to the Apple store and have them figure out why Bluetooth is dead. I may have to do every single part of this over again: upgrading from SL to L, restoring from a backup, then upgrading to ML – and I kind of want to scream.

It’s not just computers I want to punch right now, though. After a long cold achy day of Doing Things, I thought to order in some food for dinner .. except what I want isn’t available because they’re not delivering right now (and Ed is out so I can’t go pick it up). I needed to eat, so I did up a crappy substitute in the form of a frozen pizza that I both managed to burn AND drop face down on the kitchen floor. Yay!

Ed ended up doing one of the tasks on my list today, which was to destroy my favourite chair and take it to the dumpster. Yay? I know the chair had to go – the cats had ruined it and it couldn’t be reupholstered – but it was the very first piece of non-essential grown up furniture I had purchased, was comfortable as all hell, and isn’t made anymore. I am sad that it is gone, and I am going to miss it.

The day wasn’t a total wash, I guess: the dollar store henna experiment turned out quite well, I managed to find a place to contain my fabric stash, and you can almost see the floor of my office. Also, I did four loads of laundry and cleaned several sinks. I got a lot done, but I am very hungry and grumpy and cold and I hate my fucking computer.

I need a do-over for this Saturday.

My Saturday isn’t going to be anywhere near as exciting as it was last week, but I think I’m okay with that. For starters, there will be no America – I can be called many things, but crazy a sucker for punishment ridiculous silly enough to attempt crossing the border during the multi-day orgy of consumerism known as Black Friday is not one of them. Also, there will probably not be a repeat of last week’s Lemon Party, which was extremely contrary to what the internet had taught me (there were no old naked men having old naked gay sex anywhere in sight) and besides, Steve has thus far successfully rebuffed my candy corn bribery to throw weekly parties for my fickle amusement.

With no lemons to be group pruned, my Saturday is going to be spent catching up on all the things I should have been doing throughout the week – random laundry (I’m down to only four black dresses to choose from; the horror), taking a crowbar to some furniture, and seeing what happens when I apply a $2 box of Korean “natural orange” henna to my head. What’s the worst that could happen?

You probably shouldn’t answer that.

I sort of hope my hair comes out green. It would actually clash a little bit less with the outfit I’m planning on wearing to the One Fancy Party I’m attending this holiday season – Korean Natural Orange and purple don’t even go together in my head, but I’m bravely forging ahead anyway. I expect my medal will be arriving any day now.

Stuff is good. On an unrelated note, I need to start nicknaming my co-workers – I know I’m a “writer” in the most sardonic possible sense, but this isn’t the Game of Thrones: I can’t just drop random characters into my tale and expect people to care when I lop their heads off in an unexpected and heart-rendering side story. Also, sometimes incest. Everyone is filthy behind castle doors.

Spectacularly lousy news out of Vancouver this week: Urban Wasp is closing down. Formerly known as Vespa Vancouver, UW has been the best place for all things Vespa/Piaggio/SYM/Aprilia for the past 6 years – they’re the only shop I’d trust to touch Lola (this is important; more on it later), they’re passionate about what they do, and everyone in the shop is awesome. I am beyond bummed out to hear they’re closing; even more so because it’s not entirely by choice: Piaggio has chosen to a) not enforce the “no dealer can be within 30 km of another dealer” agreement clause (Vancouver’s other Vespa shop is only 6km away from Urban Wasp), b) not care that they are losing an extremely popular and reliable dealer, and c) not act upon the numerous serious complaints about Vespa Metro by revoking their license (or at the very least, not renewing their contract when it comes up in March 2013). These factors, coupled with a representative who simply doesn’t care, have led Urban Wasp to close their doors for good at the end of this year.

Once Urban Wasp is gone, the only place to get certified Vespa service in Vancouver will be Vespa Metro, which is akin to a death sentence for your scooter. Metro’s mechanic is a man named Lorenzo, who has absolutely no business touching scooters: he is a disaster. Urban Wasp regularly has to fix problems caused by Lorenzo’s repair work, such as incorrectly done repairs, broken parts, enormous mistakes, accidental “fixes” with a lie to the customer that they caused it. This isn’t just hearsay; Shan’s Scarabeo 200 suffered at Lorenzo’s incompetent hands (his routine service led to a catastrophic oil leak, which caused her engine to sieze and require complete replacement .. which took them 5 months to do) – but there are countless horror stories about the shoddy work done at Vespa Metro, to the point where Piaggio has been asked to revoke their license (both for the irresponsible service levels and VM’s shady business dealings). Perhaps most damning of all, Lorenzo’s sister rides a Vespa LX50 .. and she takes it to Urban Wasp for service, because she doesn’t trust her brother to do a simple oil change and checkup on her ride.

If you’ve ever had any dealings with Urban Wasp – if you’ve been burned by Vespa Metro – if you want a reliable, responsible dealer who won’t cheat you and stands by their service department – then I beg you to email customercare@piaggiogroupamericas.com and let them know your dissatisfaction with this situation. It will royally suck for Vespa owners if we have to rely upon Vespa Metro as our sole source of scooters/parts/service/advice – and I guarantee you I would rather sell my beloved Lola than risk having her destroyed by baffling incompetence.

In order to prepare for the end of Urban Wasp, they’re having a 50% off sale – all parts, accessories, helmets, gear, clothing, security items, etc are on sale. As well, all the remaining scooters have been discounted by insane amounts – if you were ever thinking about getting yourself a new Vespa, now would be the time to do it. Urban Wasp will be open until December 31st, and they’ve still got a good selection of beautiful scooters in stock. Lie to Santa and say you’ve been a very good boy/girl, and ask for a scooter for Christmas! Buy yourself or a loved one a new helmet, or get yourself some awesome gear! If you have girl parts and have been thinking about checking out the amazing GoGo Gear jackets, Urban Wasp has some in stock (as well as Corazzo gear), all for 50% off. I picked up a whole bunch of stuff for myself last night including a new helmet with saucy ladies and some official Vespa gear to show off my classy Italian side. We can all hope that the situation will change for the better very soon, but in the meantime, help Urban Wasp move some inventory by swinging by their shop on West 4th before the end of the year.

:(

I am a total jerk, and I hate that.

Okay, “am” might be a bit of an overstatement. “Momentarily was” is more correct, but that doesn’t make it any better – I was a huge jerk and I feel really bad about it, even if I didn’t mean to be a big stupid jerky jerk pants.

I guess it’s a good thing that I’m so very comfortable with my finger words that I assume everyone can read the tone that I put into each and every sentence I write, but sometimes that can backfire – like when I’m being my usual impudent self about something, and someone misunderstands. Basically, I opened my finger-mouth a little too wide last week, and I really upset someone. I’ve since apologized profusely, but I feel utterly rotten that I hurt someone’s feelings. I try really hard to live my life by one firm rule – don’t be a dick – and last week, I failed miserably.

You can tell I’m really distressed about this, because I didn’t even mention A2M when talking about my “firm rule”.

Last time I ran my mouth off like this, I offended an entire department and was literally exiled from the cubicle farm and shunted away into a dark dusty corner where I could offend no more. This time I only offended one person (that means I’m getting better, right?) so hopefully I won’t be made to move my desk to the bathroom – but if it’s all the same to you, I will beat myself up for a little while and be sad that I am such a jerk. I suck.

unrelated: creepy murder twins.