We survived the weekend with aplomb – actually, it was mostly enjoyable. We arrived around 4:30 on Friday afternoon, and surprised my mother as planned. We hit up Romeo’s for dinner – an old favourite – then drove around town a little, seeing what’s changed. Mom mentioned she needed a new phone, so we went to the terrifying new Uptown complex and found her a suitably fancy (but not too complicated) new phone with bells and whistles to replace her archaic devices:

i should donate this to the museum of natural history

I think this Caller ID box predates the Crusades. BC Tel hasn’t existed since 1999, and the phone it was attached to was the one I used circa 1991. Not shown is the equally crusty answering machine; one with an honest-to-god micro tape that recorded incoming  calls. This simply wouldn’t do, so I bought her a new phone that had an answering system built in – my mother is not yet ready for voice mail – with a big bright display that showed who was calling. I even programmed all her important numbers in for her, and helped her record her outgoing message (which is weird but not “ha ha” weird). I am an excellent daughter, and I am glad that people talked me out of getting her a computer – after all the trouble she had answering the new phone, I know there’s no way she’d be able to grasp the internet and the thought of being tech support for her until the end of time makes me weep with preemptive frustration.

Friday wasn’t all ancient telecom artifacts, though – my mother is newly addicted to frozen yogurt. She took us to Qoola and even bought me a gift card so I can visit the locations in Vancouver. I will do this soon, as the yogurt was delicious – I thought Pinkberry was the ultimate, but Qoola is Canadian and even more ultimate so they win all my love. Hooray!

Mom turns in early, so I stayed up to watch Grimm before I resigned myself to sleep on the fold out couch. I had forgotten that mom picked up a sofa bed from some random place, and I try not to think about who or what had slept on it before. The Mystery Couch isn’t big enough for two, so Ed braved the plywood mattress and we called it an evening because there was nothing else to do in a house with no internet.

Saturday was cold but spectacular, and as mom had things she needed to do, Ed and I were free to do some errands of our own. We parked downtown and walked all over the damn place: Johnson Street, Market Square, Chinatown, Government Street, Trounce Alley and everywhere in between. I got a hat, and some measuring cups for some reason (okay, the reason is that they’re awesome). We looked into Converse colour availability for Josh and Shan, went to Nando’s for lunch, and wandered through my favourite alley in all the land:

i want them all. i can't wear them, but i want them all.

i love fan tan alley

it's like coming home

We had enough of downtown, so we went to Beacon Hill Park:

sometimes i forget why i left

my army will destroy you all

hey look it is ed he is upside down

Mom was taking us out for Chinese food, so we headed back to the house to collect her. When we come to town, she always takes us to John’s Noodle Village – it’s a tiny place in a grubby strip mall, and it just happens to have some of the best Chinese food we’ve ever had. Mom can always take us to John’s; we won’t complain. We all stuffed ourselves silly, then sped home at dangerous speeds so Ed could watch hockey.

my fortune lied - watching someone watch hockey is far from "great excitement"

He did have to watch the game with my mother though, who likes to provide her own form of commentary as the game rolls on. I read a book and got cozy – too cozy, in fact, because I started to overheat around 9pm and had to go sit outside in the dark three times so I wouldn’t pass out from heat. Unpleasant, and more than a little worrisome.

chester made for good company, though

As pleasant as everything was, we didn’t escape completely trauma free. On Saturday evening, I told mom a bit about our London trip. As soon as I mentioned Marks and Spencer, she lit up and started rambling – she used to loooove M&S underwear and I needed to buy her some. Right now. Lacy stuff. Maybe even a g-string!

OH GOD. My mother went on for about half an hour about how I should buy her some g-string underwear, and went into TOO MUCH DETAIL about it all. You may think it strange that I, of all people, have areas of TMI – but this is my mother, damnit, and she wanted saucy underpants so she could .. do .. things .. oh god, I blocked it all out. We didn’t meet him, but my mother spent most of the weekend talking about Stanley – I get the impression that he is her “special friend”, and will likely be the end user of the lacy British underpants she asked me to buy. I sort of hoped the conversation would just peter out, but no such luck – the next morning, she called up a friend to ask her about underwear sizes. It was decided that I need to get her underwear in a UK10, and she repeated the g-string line another 12 or 15 times. Why? Why me? Why does my mother want me to buy her g-strings? Does she even know what a g-string IS? If so, how would she know this information? OH GOD.

Still, fulfilling her request (sort of – M&S doesn’t sell g-strings; hallelujah) meant I had to place an order online, which meant I might as well make it a BIG order to justify the shipping cost. I ordered her damn fancy pants in varying degrees of fully traumatic laciness, and some (many) pairs of tights for myself. I have half a mind to add a note to her box of underwear that says “please do not ever tell me what you do with these”, but she wouldn’t get it. Which means I’ll probably hear all about Stanley and what he thought of said lacy underpants. I hate my life.

i want a life like the one on tv

As payback for the underwear, we did Groceries at Mom’s. Mom hordes things – I counted 41 unopened boxes of Kleenex stashed around the house – so we helped ourselves to a year’s supply of Saran Wrap, tin foil, toilet paper and dish soap. She didn’t give us any frying pans or knives this time, but she did try to give us yet an other quilt (that we left behind – oops). My mother isn’t at reality TV hording levels yet, but it’s pretty bad and I’m not looking forward to the inevitable move – who needs that much laundry detergent?! No one, that’s who.

And finally, the bucket is still in full effect. I thought she had stopped peeing in the bucket, as Friday night was entirely bucket free – but Saturday night’s alright for peeing (in a bucket) and it made a glorious comeback several times, and all was right with the world.

Except for the g-strings.

*shudder*

When I finally told my mother I had gone to London, she gave me shit because I hadn’t been home to Victoria in a long, long time. I just checked my archives, and she has a point – our last trip over was in March of ’10. Oops. Victoria, try though it might, just can’t really compare to London – but I did tell my mom that I would come home soon. I’d like to think that it’s because she misses me, but I really know that it’s because she wants her wastebaskets she bought at Ikea when she was here in January and left for me to bring over. Baskets are in the car, I have enough electronics to drown out almost everything, and we’re off. The wi-fi on the ferry is a nice touch, but that won’t stop the towering resentment over paying $160 just to get us there and back for two nights. Up yours, BC Ferries! Your expense makes me seethe!

I should go outside while it’s still dry. There’s snow in the forecast, but we’ve had a lot (relatively speaking) of sun so far today. I’m naturally not dressed for any kind of weather, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to spend most of this trip in danger of getting blown off the deck as I shiver and swear. That, plus the Island Farms soft serve ice cream I’ve already devoured, is the only reason to take the ferry at all.

I wonder if my mother is going to tell me more about the men she’s seeing. I am afraid yet dreadfully anticipative.

One of the most heart-wrenching things I do all year is put together the gift list for the office’s “adopted family”. This year we got a 22-year-old single mother of three girls under 6, asking for new bedding and dishes. I tend to pad the gift lists a little – I’ll make sure you get the things you asked for, but there may be a few more tags requesting toys and clothes and gift cards than on the original list. Everyone deserves to have some festive joy, and if I can help make that happen .. well, maybe it’ll make up for the slow people I viciously mow down in the mall when they stop for no reason in my path.

The list is sobering as always, though. May I never forget that this woman’s life could have easily been mine – it could be any of us. All that separates any of us is our collection of experiences: go left instead of right at a crucial point in your life and suddenly you’re homeless, or choosing which child gets to eat today, or relying on the kindness of strangers to keep a roof over your head.

Now I am sad.

Although to be honest, that could also be due to the weather and my brain going south on me.

just for the taste of it

It’s been one week since you looked at me threw your arms in the air and said you’re crazy the Boob Ultimatum was handed down, and unsurprisingly, I hate it. Just because I understand the why doesn’t mean I have to agree with it, and every morning is an epic struggle between my closet and the Brave New World we’re drably descending into. I got dressed three times this morning before I was satisfied that I met all the wardrobe complexity requirements, and I still managed to fail rather spectacularly depending on your angle. This sucks. It’s also making me far crankier than I thought it would, which upsets me and makes me think Deep Thoughts like “am I really so shallow that I think people can’t see me unless I’m embarrassing” “I AM NOT DEFINED BY MY CLEAVAGE!” “I’m a strong proud brownish woman; I shouldn’t have to show my tits for attention” “what if the boobs were the only reason people liked me and now everyone will ignore me and I’ll be invisible” “that is stupid, stop thinking that” “FUCK I HATE UNIBOOB”, etc etc etc. It’s been a rough week, even with the Friday holiday (I let my freak flag fly that night, and it was so nice and breezy) – but there may be a solution in sight.

A lot of people at the housewarming party asked me how the deboobening was going, to which I replied honestly that it sucked a great deal of ass. People commiserated – and then they offered up EXCELLENT SOLUTIONS to my two rather buoyant problems. It led to animated discussions and even more awesome solutions, some of which I can’t wait to try:

• Scarves! Winter is coming, and if no one usurps my throne with an incestuous snot of a child, I can use scarves to cover up. I have a lot of them, and this really cute video shows 25 different ways I can tie the scarf when I get tired of the basic drape. Also, as an added bonus, a lot of my scarves are ridiculous so they’re fun to wear.
• Bring back the ascot! I’ll have to buy a cutaway morning coat and striped grey trousers to really pull this off, but the noble ascot has been fancying up the chest of men for centuries – I’m sure it would cover my shame most adequately.
• I’ve already made my thoughts on the Cami Secret known, but it’s a possibility I must consider as I am dead set on not layering (I am already bulky; why would I want to add to that?). I could get some of the dreaded boob aprons and maybe alter them just a little – add sequins or bedazzle the shit out of them. I might even be able to make my own, out of non-traditional materials like vinyl or latex or Hello Kitty flannel. There’s a lot I could do with the idea, even if the whole thing is offensive to me.
• A rainbow of feather boas; one for every day of the week. I was just told “cover up” .. not with WHAT.
• Really, really big necklaces. Huge ones. Think “toaster on a chain” big.
• Carry a textbook at all times, ala 14-year-old-with-a-boner-in-math-class
• Tie random things around my neck and call it fashion. Today, for example, I’m wearing a belt looped twice around my neck, tied with a half-Windsor and fastened with a big flower pin. Stylish!
• Fun with Cardboard: this could be my chance to make some political statements, or even better, get a long black rectangle and pin it to my chest as a life sized nudity censor
• I often save the day at work, so I should work the superhero angle and get myself a cape. Actually, a cape wouldn’t really work .. I’d need a cloak and then I wouldn’t really be a superhero anymore but a shadowy villain which is much more awesome
• A bib. There are some cute bibs out there, and it would totally be dual purpose because a bib would keep food out of my bra.
• You know those cones they put on dogs to keep them from scratching or licking? I could wear one of those in reverse so it covers my assets .. or even better, everyone ELSE can wear one normally so they wouldn’t be able to look me in the tits
• A dickey! So sexy, and I could cosplay as Wolowitz!
• Until a few minutes ago, I didn’t know what these were called – but now I totally want a JABOT! There’s even a lace and PVC one already on Etsy just waiting for me!

all set for a day of work

Apparently the Brave New World at work is going to be “still fun, but a more mature fun”.

Something tells me that my idea of “mature” is vastly different from theirs.

Don’t blame me; there’s a REASON “for mature audiences only” doesn’t mean it’s safe for people in suits only.

I was told I’ll likely have to rewrite the new employee manual again to reflect our new mature image. It’s not like I was specifically told to write it in my own style or anything, or that I worked on it for four months straight. Sure, I’d love to do it all over again, only this time with no fun whatsoever. I love not having fun! I am the office go-to person for buttoned down stoic maturity!

Boo-urns.

Those were the most expensive tacos ever.

Ed and I went to a lesbian-themed housewarming party on Friday night in Mount Pleasant, which was an official Good Time. My favourite people were there, and some shiny new people kept things interesting and hilarious. After we had thoroughly warmed the house, Ed and I decided to keep the party going with my favourite double entendre: tacos. We headed out into the brisk fall night, and made way for deliciousness.

One problem: our car was not where we had left it.

For a variety of very sketchy reasons, the Mazdabator had been unceremoniously towed from the neighbourhood and was locked up in car jail. Luckily, Renee was leaving the housewarming at the same time and was able to drop us off at the impound lot. It wasn’t far away, but I had dressed in the evening’s theme – the almighty vagina – which apparently meant fishnet stockings and very high heels (almost THREE INCHES). I was in no condition to hike down Main Street and along Scary Industrial Way until we found our car, so I very much appreciated Renee’s foresight in eschewing public transit for the night.

All things considered, rescuing the Mazdabator from car jail was a relatively painless process. It was only the second time I’d ever been towed, and it was a great deal less traumatic than my first experience many years ago in Victoria. We collected our car (along with a $50 parking violation just to make the night extra special), then continued on with Operation: Tacos. The night was still young, and I had a void deep within me that only tacos could fill! Onward to victory (and tacos)! I am easy to please.

We’re going to visit my mother this weekend. I haven’t been to Victoria yet this year, and I’m starting to feel a little guilty about it all. It’ll be an uncomfortable weekend – I hate that fucking plywood bench – but it’ll be nice to be home for a few days. Nice and potentially traumatic, if she decides to tell me about all the men she’s been dating.

On second thought, maybe I’ll just stay here.

hershel's head is in the box

Sometimes it’s just plain fun to be evil.

We live directly across the street from a Ramada. Last weekend when setting up the new router, I named our (secure) wi-fi networks “Ramada Wireless” and “Ramada Guest Wireless”.

It amuses me every single time I look at the available networks list.

‘Fess up: what little things make you do the finger pyramid of evil contemplation? I can’t be the only one.

Apologies for the radio silence – I’ve been in such a foul mood for the last couple of days that I’ve been actively trying to stay away from the internet. Given the number of fights I got into online yesterday, I probably could have tried a little harder – everything was just so enraging. Today I will try to behave. If I am tweeting less than usual, that’s me trying to behave. Also, please don’t be a jackass. That will help a LOT.

So, I need to go shopping.

Today at work I was officially told I need to cover up. My boss seems to really want me to succeed with the company and believes I have a lot more to offer outside my sweater meat, so she’s working on making me a more respectable version me. We’re heading towards a Brave New World, and it’s gonna have a lot less cleavage in it.

I know I ought to be utterly humiliated that I had to be told to hide my shame, but I’m not wired that way. Actually, I find it hilarious. I even apologized, because she was so uncomfortable having to tell me that I am inappropriate. She didn’t even really need to get all the words out – I clued in at the vague chest gesturing, and knew the road we were about to head down. I may have even been a little giddy, but that was likely due to the relief of our conversation having nothing to do with my job and it’s continued existence in my life. I promised that I will behave (it seems I make that promise on a weekly basis), and things were fine.

She did explain that no one’s said anything to her about my out-of-control boobs, but she was bringing it up with me now before it got to an uncomfortable point of no return. None of the discomfort is on my side, but I SUPPOSE I could see how my unique style of not dressing from the nipples up might be uncomfortable to some. Maybe I should be offended and upset that I need to cover up my boobins so that people will take me seriously (not that there’s any danger in that whatsoever), but .. I didn’t make the world; I just try to live in it. Basically, I was told that people need to see my brain first and then whatever else I may be hiding up in here .. and I’m okay with that. I get away with a LOT at work, and I don’t call myself inappropriate for mere giggles – most people wouldn’t wear the things I wear to the sleaziest bar on Free Shots for Boobs night let alone to work on a daily basis. On one hand, it makes getting dressed for very easy (the same outfits do double duty as party time concert wear AND office clothing), but .. yeah. I need to buy some sweaters, and some cardigans that actually do up all the way. This’ll be interesting. Who wants to go shopping with me, with a strict guideline of not letting me be myself?

In the meantime, I have many scarves and even a couple dresses in the back of my closet I never wear because they don’t show enough cleavage.

Plus, I’ll have so much pent up boob during the week that I’ll need to spend my Saturday and Sundays topless to make up for it.

This is all very, very funny to me. Sometimes it’s great that I don’t have enough sense to take things seriously; it makes life so much more fun.

bad kimli. no biscuit.

It’s all my fault. I didn’t eat enough eggs.

The buffet/deli place next door was closed this morning for the first time since it opened. There was no signage, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they may be closed for good – business boomed for the first few months, but dropped off pretty severely as the months went on. I used to like the variety of food they offered, and most of the time I could find something relatively tasty to have for lunch, but the quality took a major header some time back and it was less and less busy in there. I only ever went in the morning, because it’s very hard to screw up scrambled eggs – I liked having a real breakfast several times as week. I rarely get out of here for lunch, so sometimes those eggs and potatoes were the only thing between me and 6pm.

I woke up really hungry this morning, and wanted some eggs. The deli was dark, and several people looking for coffee (and unwilling to stand in the Starbucks/Caffe Artigiano lines across the street) were wondering what the fuck. Me, I just wanted my eggs. And I can’t help but feel it’s entirely my fault that there aren’t any eggs, by virtue of not eating enough of them while I could.

It is a good thing that I brought cereal into the office today. That and the last container of Nutter Butters will be all that sustain me as I figure out how to link my three least favourite things – InfoPath, an Access database and Sharepoint – into one hideous monstrosity of resounding laziness and petulance. Good sense may be on my side though, as the two people I’ve asked for advice on this project both responded with “good god, WHY would you want to do that? Who asked you to do this? Show me where they touched you” – so I may weasel out of this with my underwear intact.

Speaking of underwear, here is the underwear Amanda Palmer wore on stage last night:

it's hard to see, but it's the australian flag

Last night was the Amanda Palmer/Neil Gaiman show in Vancouver. It was a lovely – if long – evening, and I am glad I stuck around even though I wanted to bail. I did have to leave the show early, as I expected it to be over by 11pm and had arranged to be picked up, but I was exhausted and sore in my bones due to standing outside for hours then sitting in the ice cold theatre with interactive fan girls screaming in my ear.

the place what we wuz

It was a successful Sunday – before the show I bought boots and unicorns, and I got to see Gill for the first time in a month. I ate a burger served on a cutting board, and got hollered at on Granville while making my way to the car. All in all, a good evening.

I am glad the Amanda/Neil show was not all ukulele all the time, but I really, really miss the Dresden Dolls. The show we saw in Seattle a few years back is in my top three favourite live shows ever, and I hope they do another album/tour some day.

neil gaiman is pretty awesome, but brian viglione is usually half naked

I think I will go to the Museum of Vancouver this week. They’re running an exhibit on Vancouver’s old neon signs, and I love neon almost as much as I love everything.

more things need to be in neon

I have not forgotten the CYOA story – Page 36 is coming soon!

I’m more or less a good, law-abiding person – but I really, really want to kick up my heels and do some good old fashioned political vandalism up in here.

There’s a store at the corner of Pender and Granville in downtown Vancouver that was very lazily hit with graffiti. Someone had walked by the store’s two sides – it’s on the corner – while holding down the nozzle of a spray paint can. It’s annoying, but it’s not like someone tagged the store or broke windows or even did anything other than the young punk version of walking along a wall with a crayon.

The store, however, decided that instead of cleaning it up, they’d take a stand and put up a “poor me” display in the window. They added large letters that say something like:

This isn’t a statement
This isn’t political
This is just vandalism

Okay, we get it. Graffiti is annoying and costs everyone money, and this time maybe the graffiti wasn’t really bad enough to warrant the cost of a cleaning. Still, the “waaaaaaaah” tone of the message pisses me off – because the store in question is one of the only places left in Vancouver that still proudly sells fur.

I really, really want to print out a whole bunch of huge stickers that say:

This isn’t glamorous
This isn’t fashion
This is just murder

.. and stick ’em all over the store front on both sides. Fur sucks. It’s pointless and cruel. You want a statement? I’ll give you one: selling fur in the name of fashion in 2011 is disgusting; as is your “wah, everyone hates us for NO REASON” sniffling.

I’m not a vegetarian – you can’t imagine the number of meats I’m planning on eating today – or a fan of PETA, but I do think that fur is stupid unless a) it’s been in your family for generations (ie was made before knew any better) or b) you live in the friggin’ Arctic Tundra. Hell, even if you killed the animal yourself to provide food for your family and decided to make yourself a snappy coat out of the leftovers is acceptable. But buying it in a store for the sheer purpose of showing others how much money you have is tasteless beyond belief, and it makes me feel all kinds of righteous ire and fury. It makes me want to break things. Hell, it makes me want to throw paint cans. That’ll give them something to complain about.

I’ve never really protested or activismed before. Maybe it’s a good time to start. I have sharpies and cardboard – who’s up for sign-making and chants?

booooo stuff