It’s nearing the end of the month, so we’re starting to run out of groceries. In my head I’m worried about money so I refuse to buy more food, but honestly, it’s just been really gross outside and leaving the house seems like a terrible idea what with the requiring underwear and a bra and such. Since we’re out of  lot of fresh ingredients and most of the staples, I’ve had to get creative while making dinner – and for some reason, Ed doesn’t appreciate my frugal culinary efforts as much as he could.

Take tonight, for example. I marinated some salmon steaks in a garlic lime sauce, and planned to serve them with baked potatoes and corn. We’re out of potatoes, though, and as I’m still coming down from the weekend’s hot pot high (that is not a euphemism; we had traditional Chinese hot pot and ALL THE RICE at M&R’s over the weekend), I did not feel like rice. Time to rummage around in the freezer to see what I can find: a package of badly freezer-burnt scallops that expired last spring? Check! An improperly stored loaf of insta-bread? Sure! A sad, wilted box of spring mix with a best before date of January 30? Why the heck not! I pulled everything out of the freezer and got to work.

The salmon and sauce were purchased two weeks ago, so they were safe to eat. The scallops, though .. I didn’t know frozen food had an expiry date, but what doesn’t kill me can only make me stronger, right? Applying that particular homily to seafood might be a recipe (snerk) for disaster, but on the other hand, I might get super powers from my experiment. After all, where would Peter Parker be if he hadn’t decided he needed masturbation material a picture of Mary Jane at that exact moment in the low security wing of the Radioactive Spiders with a Taste for Human Flesh Lab? Certainly not fighting crime armed with spandex and hilarious puns, that’s for sure. With visions of a no-limit American Apparel credit card dancing in my head, I began to prepare the Danger Scallops in butter (not expired), garlic (safe to eat), and lemon juice (may have expired in 2009). As the salmon and sad, zombie-coloured bread baked in the oven, I plated the scallops artfully (covering the more dead-looking spots with garlicky expired lemon butter goo) and surveyed the result. They smelled pretty good, and looked fine if you assumed the grey parts were grill leavings. After they cooled a little, I took the leap: mmm, rubbery!

The first one didn’t taste too bad, so I ate another. The third one might have screamed in mindless terror as it moved toward my gaping maw, but it and the rest of the of the plate did not need to worry – by then, the aftermath of the first scallop hit me and I dropped the fork. No. This was no good. Man is not meant to play god in our freezer, and there would be no latex-flavoured justice in my future. As my stomach made some rude noises, I began to seriously think about a career in super-villainy. No time for that now – the oven dinged, and it was time to dish up course number two: garlic lime salmon on a bed of depressing wilted greens with a side of suspiciously doughy/sentient bread.

Ed asked if I was trying to kill him, which I laughed at – he knows all about the Murder Ham in the freezer; I don’t have to resort to poisonous seafood. Besides, I didn’t think he’d really eat the scallops. If they were horrible, neither of us would eat them. If they were delicious, they were all mine in accordance to the Kimli Loves Scallops Treaty of 2007. He was totally safe at all times – how dreadfully pedestrian.

Afterward, he made me promise I’d do groceries tomorrow.

Just wait til he sees what I’ve got planned for the Midnight Paneer that’s been lurking in the back of the freezer!

.. and significantly less butter chicken than anticipated, thanks to Ed’s heartless betrayal.

We ordered Indian food in on Friday night, and I didn’t eat very much – less than half of my order of butter chicken. I put it away in the fridge and planned to savour it later. Later turned out to be Monday, thanks to a whirlwind weekend of eating everywhere but at home – I was at my desk and hungry, debating ramen or crackers when I remembered my leftovers. HOORAY! I trundled off to the fridge with visions of naan dancing in my head, and grabbed my leftovers and a plate for some reheating goodness. I opened the container, and ..

Almost all my sauce was gone; scooped out by an unseen hand. I unwrapped my naan, and a big chunk of it was missing.

SOMEONE, not satisfied with HIS OWN leftovers, saw it fit to EAT SOME OF MINE.

I texted Ed my outrage (I may have divorced him via SMS), to which he feigned ignorance. He eventually confessed to taking “only a little” sauce (ie: all of it), but leaving lots of chicken and most of the naan. This is true – technically, there was lots of food left. I ate my fill, and had plenty of leftovers. That isn’t the POINT, though – as much as “Never go A2M” is rule number 1, “Don’t steal butter chicken leftovers” is rule 1.2. It’s .. RUDE. I would NEVER steal Ed’s leftovers or help myself uninvited, ESPECIALLY if the only reason I was at home to eat them in the first place was because I sucked a whole lot and refused to go outside to hang out or be social. It’s a Triple Betrayal, and I DO NOT CARE FOR IT.

Look, I know it’s not really that big a deal – but when you’re stuck at home with absolutely nothing going on, the little things are all you have to look forward to. I LIKE having lots of sauce in my butter chicken. I actually prefer it to having seventeen chickens. I am bored and lonely and more than a little sick of my own company. I’m on the verge of panic at all times about my employment situation, and I’m edging closer and closer to a swirling whirlpool of hopelessness and dispair. Is it too much to expect that my leftovers survive two days intact, especially considering we each had our own leftovers? *sniffle*

Yeah, I don’t have a lot going on right now.

Judging by the smell wafting in from the hallway, someone on my floor is cooking their famous Extravagant Blossoming Onion Surprise for the AGM tonight. I can’t wait! Hopefully the smell will stick around all day, so I can wallow in anticipation for the meeting. I mean, I already have the non-stop munchies from my awesome THC toilet – the people in this building really know how to take care of one another. From the mysterious tenant (or former tenant) who keeps breaking into the storage room to the person who keeps removing all resident notices from the elevator (I’m sorry we used colour; it must have really hurt your eyes/sensibilities), I really feel secure in my home. Hooray!

Tonight I am sure to be the most interesting person on Twitter, as I plan to live tweet our AGM in the lobby. I didn’t attend last year – I looked through my archives to see if I wrote about why I didn’t attend but there was nothing; I vaguely remember being too sad to go – so this time I have to. It’s going to be really, really boring .. so I’ll bring along the internet, and instead of keeping my snark to myself I will share it with my captive followers. YEAH! EXCITING STUFF! Truly, this was what Twitter was MADE for!

I’ve been so anxious for the last two nights that I’ve been utterly unable to sleep. I hope this changes soon – I’m wearing out the refresh button on my keyboard.

I was planning on melodramatically threatening self-harm via the expired can of whipped cream in the fridge, but I may have vastly underestimated the shelf life of things containing “real dairy”. The can has been in the fridge since before Thanksgiving and was largely forgotten, since we don’t usually eat things that require additional flavouring from a nozzle. I figured it HAD to be expired, and was theatrically exploring my food-related options for dramatic seppuku when I seized it (and the Diet Coke; I was thirsty) in glee. Unfortunately, even though the whipped cream was purchased last October and is 100% all natural whipped creamy goodness, it has some sort of pact with the food devil and won’t actually go bad until MAY. And that’s not even guaranteed – May 26th is still the “best before” date, meaning it’s likely to be edible and distressingly non-lethal for YEARS. This simply will not do. It’s time to break out Plan B (as in the second plan, not “oh shit potentially fertilized eggs”): sausages.

I am vibrating with stress and actual vibrators. Today is the receiving end of “we’ll let you know by X”, so I’m sitting by the phone/email with a heart full of anxiety and woe. I hate this part of the job hunt more than anything – waiting patiently has never been my strong point, and when it’s something that means the difference between a life of adventure and tacos or non-stop worry and government cheese, I’m even more unbearably gut-knotted than usual. I may have to resign myself to not hearing anything today and making the call myself tomorrow, which means I’ll be spending the night in a tense unhappy mess covered in creamed corn and tears.

At least my fingernails are growing out nicely – they’re actually clacking on keys! Maybe I can get a job as a hand model. Anyone need a specimen with freakishly small pinkies?

they're SO SMALL

I rarely bandwagon – you’ll never see me do a “shit xyz says” post (even though I had a really good idea for one) – but this time I couldn’t resist:

i should do one for tech writing, too - you'd be surprised at what people think i do

Click to big. My life, it kind of sucks right now .. but see my chin? It is up. My  mad skills will prevail!

Someone is doing a paper on sexism in gaming, and interviewed me for my own experiences. I love talking about gaming and my “career” in shoutcasting, and I loved giving my two cents on the whole scene. I shared my Big Sad Story (below) with him, and that – coupled with famed zombie fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld‘s comments about the glorious Adele being “a little too fat” – has brewed up a whole storm of Unexpected Saturday Morning Emotion: I am sad.

Originally posted on January 10, 2006 (half a post; the first half was unrelated):

On the last day of the event, I received some really lovely feedback from almost everyone I talked to. The companies I was working with are very excited about the gaming world, and want to see gaming take a huge step into the mainstream — sports channel coverage, TV shows, gaming channels, the whole nine yards. I did a great job over the weekend — my knowledge of the game is wonderful, I was able to really bring it home for the audience, I had them rolling in the aisles with my humour, my entire presentation and ability to think on the fly are simply incredible — if I keep up this kind of work, I could become the Face of Gaming!

But ..

Well ..

You can’t market Mama Cass.

I’m beautiful, I really am. The voice, the knowledge, the presentation, the face, the personality — it’s all perfect and great and just what they’re looking for. But you can’t market Mama Cass, you know. You’re a big girl, beautiful, but just too big. They want to put me on TV, make me the Face and Voice of Gaming, but you can’t market Mama Cass. Gaming is going to take off and be huge, so my goal should be to lose weight and work on the “total package” — I’d be perfect for the job, if only I were half the size. The little blond girl gamer that was on MTV, now SHE’S beautiful and has a great look and is traditionally pretty, but she’s terrible — tried to be funny and came across lame. Me, I’m a natural. And the size of Mama Cass, but a natural. I could be on TV and be like the TRL host, I could take video games to the next level, I could be a professional broadcaster, I’m almost there already — just get to that goal, and the world will be mine.

California dreaming, indeed.

I’m glad they liked me. I’m glad my personality sparkled the way I know it can, and I’m glad my commentary was well received. I would love to do this for a living — even more so, now that I no longer have a job — and have always been dedicated to the gaming communities and to providing coverage. It’s just a shame about my size, is all. I’d be so great, if only. You just can’t market Mama Cass.

Ouch.

I had fun, though.

My follow up was posted later that same day:

I’ve had a couple days now to process the whole “you can’t market Mama Cass” thing, and I’m trying to pinpoint what, exactly, is so upsetting about it.

It was a rude and somewhat baffling thing to say, but let’s be honest here. I’m never going to be anyone’s idea of willowy and slender. I’ll never be featured in the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, no one is going to start an online petition begging me to eat, and those size 0 pants will forever remain a tiny, tiny mystery. I’ve always been bigger than “normal”. My clothing is purchased from dimly lit back corners, from departments shamefully marked “Women Plus”, “Above Average”, “Bonus Sizes” and “Big Old Fatty Fat Fatcakes”. I’m zaftig. Voluptuous. Plump, robust, full-figured, meaty, oversized, well padded. Fat. I’m a big girl. Am I as big as Mama Cass was? No, I’m not. Was it a fair comparison? I don’t really think so. Am I going to spend the next month torturing myself over how ugly I am because one LA CEO doesn’t think I’m marketable? Probably. Some things will never change.

I’d love to do game casting professionally, even be on TV providing commentary for tournaments. It would be a great opportunity. Fame and fortune is the great North American dream, right? It’d be awesome. This could be my chance to make it big. I could have an entourage! I’d dress them in costumes and call them all Stan!

So why do I see it all as a bad thing? I’ve been called fat before, and although the “Mama Cass” touch was new, I can’t have honestly expected someone to say “You are incredible, let’s make a deal”. I know I don’t look like everyone else, and I kind of like it that way. The ultimate golden carrot is being dangled in my face. Why aren’t I reaching for it?

For starters, it’s not like I have a contract or really, anything other than a bizarre conversation at the end of a long week. There are no promises of anything concrete, just a large pile of conditional praise and fanciful plans that MIGHT work, maybe. Do I want to be a part of the scene when it goes mainstream? Definitely. Am I willing to change for that to happen? I could be. Do I think I’ll ever get my shot? Yeah, I do. Is this going to be it? I really doubt it.

Say I lose 100lbs and become incredibly unhealthy, lose all my curves, stop menstruating, and suddenly be a marketable superstar. That’s all it’ll take, right? Except what do I do when they say “gosh, you’re perfect, you’re talented, you’re built like an 8 year old boy .. if only you weren’t so short!”. Okay, I could wear heels. What next? Too old? Too Asian? Not Asian enough? Too Canadian? I’ve seen the kind of person that passes for marketable and appealing on TV. Nothing anyone could do to me could turn me into another OC Laguna Beach clone, and I’m actually okay with that.

Everyone wants to be loved and accepted for who they are, not told “you’re awesome, amazing, wonderful, beautiful, BUT ..”. If I change my body, I’ll do it for myself — not for some company that wants to base my worthiness on my dress size. I live in a fantasy world, and in that world my rather specialized talents are enough to open all those fancy doors that people like me don’t normally get into. I’m willing to wait for someone who thinks I’m great as I am and not for what I might be as long as I compromise on my principles. I *AM* beautiful and talented and have a sparkling personality. I also have a giant fat ass and a sudden dislike for golden carrots. Maybe my break into superstardom will take longer than a year, but when it comes, it’ll be because I’m awesome and not because I’m invisible when I turn sideways.

An excerpt from the Mama Cass Wikipedia entry:

“Elliot was widely considered the most charismatic member of the Mamas & the Papas due to her sense of humor and optimism, in part because of her large size and weight. She was one of the most beloved members of the group and, because of her warm, distinctive voice, was a large factor in their success.”

Wham, bam, shazam.

game over

I don’t care what any of you think – there is a PERFECTLY VALID REASON for me to be sitting at my desk completely naked but for my mom’s hippie sunglasses and a Mario hat.

happy friday, everyone!

I hate ironing. I hate it even when I’m ironing some of my most ridiculous and favourite dresses. I hate it even while doing it naked. I hate it when I’m ironing down hems and lace bibs, because my “Militant Lolita” movement will never take off with wrinkles. I hate ironing on full-sized boards; I hate ironing on this tiny little apartment-sized board. I hate ironing when Ed does it (I smooth out no man’s pleats). I hate it when I fuck up and melt a hole in the aforementioned lace bib, requiring me to add “Shabby Chic” to my Militant Lolita description. I hate it when my delightfully full skirts and dresses need ironing, because a full skirt is double the material as if fat girls didn’t already have more surface area to cover. I hate ironing. I hate it when it twists ankles. I hate sneaky clothing that wrinkles easily and just doesn’t look right until you take an iron to it. I hate unfriendly fabric. I hate wrinkles. I HATE IRONING.

Of all the womanly duties our mothers were supposed to teach us in order to be good wives, ironing has to be my least favourite after dry. foreplay-less missionary sex in the dark. We live in the future. We have fabrics that remove odour, charge your electronics, glow in the dark, gives you hugs from the internet and MORE – yet fabric that smooths itself is out of reach. Yeah, there’s “permanent press” stuff for business wear, but MY business wear happens to include an olive green dress with lace and ruffles – where are MY permanent press options? Not everyone drapes themselves in polyester pantsuits every damn day. STOP REPRESSING ME!

damnit!

Shocking news out of East Vancouver this evening as a local woman discovered that dropping a camera on your toes hurts like a motherfucker. The victim (who has asked not to be named) dropped the camera this evening around 9:45pm, and immediately after was heard to yell “FUCK FUCK FUCK THAT HURTS JESUS CHRIST IN A PICKLE SUIT”, which we understand did little to relieve the pain. At press time, the East Vancouver psudeo-hipster was limping around her office pitifully, thinking about having another Diet Coke to soothe her wounded ego and toes.

because THIS obviously needs more goddamn damage

Truth be told, I’m a pretty lousy hipster. I don’t drink, so you’ll never catch me drinking an ironic PBR. All pants are stupid, let alone skinny jeans – the few times I was tempted to try on a pair I wanted to punch myself – and my glasses are much more sassy 1950’s librarian than detached aloof rectangle. I’ve never worn a pork pie hat, I really hate scarves with fringes on them, and my nerd style isn’t a style at all – I really am a nerd. I have an assortment of Lomo cameras but I never use them because I don’t have the patience for film (technology is AWESOME), and right now the biggest pain in my ass (other than my perpetual unemployment) is that I can’t play an old video game because the backwards compatibility needed to play it on my Xbox 360 is broken. I jokingly refer to myself and my friends as hipsters, but the fact is I’m about as much a hipster as I am a yuppie or SAHM or African-American haberdasher.

Since I’ve accepted that I’m not a true hipster, I decided I wanted to do something fun with my Lomo camera gear. At first I thought I would hang them from a mobile in my Lady Cave, but I realized that a) they’re too heavy for the mobile I have and b) I don’t have enough of them to make a decent display. I do have a lot of stuff thought, so I rummaged around in my many Boxes of Fun then spent the evening madly crafting on my floor. The end result was this:

it's art, damnit

dirty diana(s)

crazy compact chrome camera is cool; confusing

It’s a mobile made out of 20% Lomo keychains, my unused set of Holga filters, and embroidery thread.

I may not USE Lomo cameras, but I love how they look. When we were in London, we visited the Lomo shop just off Carnaby Street and drooled appropriately. Part of the reason I don’t Lomo is because I really can’t afford it – so instead of buying a camera or twelve I opted to buy a set of charms. I didn’t really know what I was going to do with them (if I carried every single awesome charm/keychain I own, I’d have to tote a suitcase around), but I love tiny things AND souvenirs so they came home with me and now they’re dangling from my ceiling. Hooray!

Making art is fun (and, according to my therapist, a very good idea so I don’t go crazier).

it was either this or gluing my cameras to the ceiling