Category Archives: i’m an astronaut

smug but mobile

Posted in i'm an astronaut, vroom vroom by

I am broke.

But I have Sally back!

My scooter has been running really sluggish for a while, so I figured it was time for her annual check-up. I took her to the shop on Tuesday and picked her up this morning, all shiny and clean (on the inside only, since they didn’t have time to wash her) and running like an expensive kitten. The bill was $192+change, but she’s running a lot better and once I get her washed, everything will be just lovely. It has to be, because my birthday is in four days and I demand loveliness.

I may not get it, though. For my birthday weekend, the North Shore Hipster Squad is planning to rent scooters and ride around downtown and Stanley Park all day so Josh, Shan and Ed can have just a small taste of how awesome it is to be me. The weather doesn’t seem to want to cooperate, though – I’ve been keeping a sparkly eye on the forecast all week and it’s just getting more gloomy and wet as the week goes on. We have a backup plan, and I suppose we can rent scooters at any point during the summer, but STILL. It’s my BIRTHDAY (weekend). I want outdoor fun at low speeds! I want everyone to experience the joy of helmet head! I want to terrify the elderly and freak out the squares! I want to experience Japanese Quadrophenia! Oh please won’t you let me LIVE!

Ahem.

There is minor drama at the Space Station. I know, I’m shocked too – it’s usually so stable and logical here. This time though, the drama doesn’t really involve me. It seems that the VP of Space came in this morning at 9, and no one was here. He put little notes on everyone’s keyboards that said “9am” – a small reminder that we open at 9 so you should probably be here at 9 and not 9:15, or 9:50, or 10:20. I am not too concerned about it, since I told everyone yesterday that I was going to be a little late this morning after picking Sally up from the shop. I talked to the VP about it, and all is good. However, two other people who got the note walked in this morning at 9:40 and are now throwing princess fits – I stay LATE and work WEEKENDS and take the BUS and do MORE than anyone ELSE and MOAN and GROAN and oh shut the hell up. I am damn pleased that the “be here at 9am or I will kill you” brush is being applied to EVERYONE and not just me – remember, it was a big part of the Unpleasantness of April and one of the reasons they were going to send me out the airlock – that, plus the whole “unreliable” “naïve” “pushy” “hard to get along with” “too much green eye shadow” “constantly swearing” “dirty aura” “smells funny” crap. So, hah. I feel excellent about it all and not a little smug.

I also finally got a response to my outrageous vacation demands – and they were approved! I can take 5 days off in July, and I’ll be getting paid for them. Whee! Now I can visit the in-laws and help my mom move, without having to choose between paying rent and being a dutiful daughter/in law. I am pleased. Hooray for my pushiness!

busy as an angry bee

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I almost got sideswiped by a Mercedes SUV on my way to work today. I could go on and on about how I hate SUVs and needlessly expensive cars and idiots who don’t watch the road, thinking nothing of coming within a bumper’s width of taking someone else out – but I think I’ve said it all before. I hope he enjoyed my horn. I certainly enjoyed my near-SUV experience.

I’m endlessly busy – I owe you one real update that does not involve me hurting myself in any way, okay?

I fucking hate office politics.

1) rat out bosses to government; 2) ???; 3) profit!

Posted in angst, i'm an astronaut by

There’s a guy in the Space Station who has well-documented “inside voice” issues. When we were planning the office move, every single person brought up his voice as a potential problem – not only does he talk ALL. THE. TIME., he has a very loud voice. Not one person wanted to sit near him because it’s very difficult to get any work done when he is rambling at you about various things. We came up with a floor plan that placed his department in an area away from those who are on the phone a lot, and outside the offices of people who work outside the Space Station more often than they do inside.

Naturally, the Space Board decided to fuck all the plans that had been made, and put him right next to my department and handily away from their offices. This has made things difficult, to say the least. For starters, he sits right next to me, and he is loud. He talks NON-STOP. And best of all? The absolutely bestest thing ever?

He reads out loud.

So, when he’s not talking to me – or someone, anyone made eye contact – or on the phone – he is reading the internet, and WHISPERING WHAT HE IS READING. It is INFURIATING. When I first heard it, I thought he was whispering to someone – then I came to realize that no one is there, and he is whispering to himself. Sometimes it’s just low enough to hear that someone is talking but not what is said; other times I get to loudly and clearly hear what he is reading on the internet. My favourite is when something is not working on his computer, and he starts to whisper-swear. I love it, so hard. The other day I wore a pair of headphones over top of my noise-canceling earphones to try and block him out, and guess what – I could still hear him. I absolutely adore how the needs of the Space Board who are not here all the time outweigh the needs of the people who work here every single day.

Everything is making me cranky today – people’s voices, our lack of money, my raging uteral cramps, the whole non-real job thing. I want to take a few days off next month to help my mom and maybe go on a short road trip – but every day I take off equals no money. I am so fucking sick of not having vacation time.

I want a puppy.

I just emailed the Space Board asking if I can have some days off with pay, as I’ve been here for over 15 months. I also dropped the “according to the government, we should be receiving a minimum two weeks of vacation per year, or 4% vacation pay in lieu of time off” bomb, so we’ll see how this goes over. Put on your life jackets, people – Kimli is once again rocking the boat!

Where’s my puppy?

My birthday is in ten days. A puppy would be an excellent gift.

calling all couples

Posted in i'm an astronaut, relationship drama by

My ice stinks. It must be time to change the Arm and Hammer, because that unpleasant smell coming from my Diet Coke is definitely not adding to the overall experience. Can you tell I’m extra hormonal this week? Two updates in a row about things that smell bad is not normal.

There is nothing new at the Space Station. We have several new people, not enough chairs, and most of the Space Board – in fact, all but one person – are spread out around the world, on business trips. I was right in being skeptical (naïve) about the June 1st Real Boy date, since it has come and gone with nary a word from anyone in the know. I rocked the boat again, vocally refusing to sign papers until I had been told anything about the change. We were actually told that we weren’t SUPPOSED to sign anything; the paperwork had been given out prematurely and we would have a meeting “soon” to talk about what the status change means for us.

Well, Space President is gone for at least two weeks and Space Lawyer is gone for a month. Perhaps they meant the Real Boy date was June 1st of 2008? Either way, there’s no update and no chance for vacation for me. I have to take some time off to help my mom move, which means I won’t get paid. It is awesome. Hooray!

Speaking of vacation, I have a question to ask the internet: for those of you in relationships, how do you handle vacations?

I ask because Ed and I are butting heads over this very issue. Here is the background, because I so sorely love to tell stories:

Ed gets two weeks of vacation every year. He uses one day for his birthday, one for mine, and 2-3 for our anniversary. That leaves 5 days, which he takes in July – and this is where the problem comes in.

Ed plans a solo vacation. Every year in July, he goes to Edmonton and Calgary for a total of 10 days – leaves on a Saturday morning, returns two Mondays later. He drives, meaning I am without a car. I also cannot go with him, because I don’t have vacation time of my own. Every year this comes up, and every year we fight about it and we are at an impasse.

My theory: it is unfair of Ed to plan a solo vacation every year, given that we’ve been together for ten years and married for 5. It is not fair to leave me without the car for ten days, because there are some places I cannot scoot to. To me, it seems that I get the “leftovers” of his vacation time; a day here and there that we can occasionally do a long weekend road trip, but no real trip away to anywhere because his solo road trip takes priority. While I don’t have real, paid vacation time, I can arrange my workload to go away for a few days for a trip of our own. I do like Edmonton, but as I have to choose my time away very carefully, I am less than enthused to use my only “vacation” to hang out at his parent’s house for a week doing what we did almost every weekend while dating.

Ed’s theory: It’s his vacation time, and he should be able to use it how he likes. I don’t get vacation of my own, so why should he not go away for 10 days just because I can’t? As for the car, well, I have a scooter so it’s not that big a deal. His Edmonton “vacation” isn’t really a vacation; he’s going home to see his parents. He planned out his vacation at the beginning of the year, and it was okay then so why not now.

What I want:

  • to plan a trip for the two of us to take
  • his parents to visit us for a change
  • Ed to stop using half (or more) of his paid vacation time on a solo road trip, instead perhaps planning a flight back home for an extended weekend once or twice a year
  • Ed to get his goddamn passport so we could plan a trip somewhere outside of Canada

What Ed wants:

  • me to come to Edmonton
  • me to stop complaining about his solo trip to Edmonton, seeing as how I’m invited
  • me to stop nagging him about his goddamn passport
  • a nap

There’s more to it, of course. This year, my mom is moving and needs our help. I have to take some time off to do this, so I have to choose between not getting paid so I can go to Edmonton and hang out, or not getting paid so I can go to Victoria and help my mother move. There is also the underlying anger I have over Ed’s inability to get his passport – I’ve been trying to plan an anniversary vacation for us for a year now, since this September is our Five Slash Ten – fifth wedding anniversary, and tenth anniversary as a couple. It’s a big deal, and I wanted us to go somewhere epic to celebrate – Mexico, or New York, or .. anywhere, as long as it’s new and adventurous. Ed, however, still does not have his passport. I found a backup celebration plan that I am admittedly looking forward to, but it doesn’t negate my overwhelming disappointment in Ed for ruining this for me.

Overall though, it’s Ed’s solo vacation and my struggling with understanding his need to use his vacation time to go home for ten days that is the issue here. I always thought vacation was something couples do together, and instead I feel like an afterthought to Ed’s own plans – he’s going, and I’m welcome to tag along if I wish and can figure out how to make it happen.

So, internet, this is OUR question to you: who is being more unreasonable? Ed, for planning and taking a solo vacation, or me for not being more understanding about it?

not at all suspicious

Posted in i'm an astronaut, relationship drama by

It must be a slow news day, because the internet is full of places eager to tell me who is threatening my relationship. Unfortunately, the internet does not think that Ed will fall in lust with some sweaty half-naked boys who like it when girls watch them making out – it’s telling me that he’s probably going to end up cheating with either an opposite-sex friend or a co-worker.

Truthfully though, I don’t have anything to worry about. I know all of Ed’s opposite-sex friends, and if he wants to get all kissy-faced with them, sure. Doesn’t bother me, as long as I get a head’s up and creative license to make fun of him.

The internet tells me that Ed’s coworkers are 4 out of 5 on the POTENTIAL THREAT SCALE. I could fly into a panic and insist that he find a job as the Head Rodeo Clown of a steel mill, but I don’t think there’s any reason to panic. It’s not like I don’t really know Ed’s coworkers, or that he constantly talks about one of them in particular, or that he has taken her on solo hikes in the forest, or that he turned off his cell phone so they could be alone in her hotel room without being disturbed, or that he stopped wearing his wedding ring for a few months .. I mean, all that would make me suspicious with worry. Yep. It sure would suck if Ed did all that! Boy, would I be upset!

We’ve been at the new Space Station for just over three weeks now. I really like the location and my most excellent parking spot, and there are enough interesting things around that lunch is no longer an exercise in rage. Still, not everything is perfect – namely, I friggin’ hate the bathrooms in this place.

We’re on the third floor, and the only bathrooms are on the second floor. This is inconvenient enough, but then there’s the smell. The second floor is occupied by a consulting firm; nothing too innocuous about that. However, the smell: it smells like the second floor used to be a doctor’s office; an old school one in which everybody smoked 24/7. It has the horrible stench of old sterility plus an underlying waft of archaic stale cigarette smoke. It is nasty. You can literally taste the stink – it catches on your teeth and smears itself on your taste buds, choking you with a thousand polio vaccinations and cod liver enemas. I avoid going to the bathroom when I’m at work, even though I am absolutely for peeing on the company dime. The smell, though – it’s so bad! There are some smells that just turn my stomach – burnt coffee, for one, and the smell of cheap tennis ball rubber – and now, the entire second floor of this building.

Given the unmanageable stench, the prison grade toilet paper the building custodians leave for us to use is just an insult added to injury. We pay a ridiculous amount of rent for our office space; why can’t we have toilet paper that was not made from tree bark? I’m thinking about bringing my own supply in from home. My life is difficult enough; I do not need hemorrhoids to go with my viral herpe strains.

that looks uncomfortable

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Outside smells like bacon, and I am ravenous. Our office is right across the street from a White Spot, and I guess they are having a bacon party to which we are not invited. I am sad. Sad and hungry. Surely somewhere out there, there is bacon for me.

If I were to have one complaint about my otherwise incredible, awesome, appreciated, excellent, marvelous scooter parking spot at the new Space Station, it would be this: it is awkward to retrieve my scooter at the end of the day. See, the bottom floor of our building is owned by a yoga studio. Every day at 5 when I stroll out to fetch Sally, there is a class deep in the middle of their daily yoga workout. Since the wall that I walk past and park Sally in front of is in fact a window, I have to try very hard to avoid looking the 30 or so sweaty crotches square in the eye as I do my thing. It is awkward. The yoga studio practices “hot yoga” meaning the heat is cranked and people are wearing very little. Far be it from me to ever complain about sweaty crotches, but there are so very many of them – YOU try not feeling funny when there are two dozen half fishes staring into your soul. Go on, try it. I’ll wait.

Yesterday I saw a car with “District Attorney” emblazoned across the side, and I laughed to myself – seriously, who drives a car with their job title splashed across it? Then it dawned on me that my business card does in fact say “Internet Superstar” on it, and so does my messenger bag – while it’s not on my car, it’s still a form of advertising. I officially take back my laugh, since I’m guilty of exactly the same thing. Still, I’d much rather advertise myself or some excellent form of irony instead of a brand name. I can’t remember the last time I wore an obvious brand name. I am not a human billboard, no matter how big my ass is.

I got a new messenger bag this week, but I can’t show it yet because it is not ready. Soon, though – perhaps tonight. It is truly excellent, and the hilarity will stretch long and wide – pretty much exactly like this.

I was trying to find a title for this post when I stumbled upon the Naked Yoga wiki entry. Normally I would suggest that you not try it at home, but if the option is trying it in public, then PLEASE try it in the privacy of your own home and not in my general area because wow.

now with extra drama

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Last week in a fit of doldrums, I decided to dye my hair a normal colour. I am having some pretty serious second thoughts about my half-hearted attempt to conform, but there’s nothing I can do about it for at least a month. It amuses me to know that even though my hair isn’t blood red or dark purple, it’s still nothing ever found in nature except perhaps on dogs – the top layer is black, and everything underneath is varying shades of brown. I suck at fitting in.

Yesterday was a good day, until around 5pm or so. Work went well. I am cautiously and probably foolishly optimistic about the Space Station; there’s a potential project coming up that plays directly to all my strengths and I am jumping for a chance to do it. Good, too, was the word from the owners of our new location – I am officially allowed to park my scooter at the bike rack, which is situated far from the street and hidden from everyone except the people doing yoga downstairs. There is absolutely no danger of Sally being run over, unless someone chooses to drive a car up the concrete stairs and onto a patio. Hell, a car probably won’t fit up there at all. I am safe! No more parking tickets! No more mystery scratches! I’m right up against a wall in a cozy corner; no one can even try to sit on her! It is as glorious and protected! Hooray for Sally!

So yeah, the day started out good. I really, really wish that it had stayed that way – between dealing with my insane mother and my bafflingly inconsiderate husband, I am tired and sad and hurt all over from the inside. Right now I’m sitting at my desk hoping that Ali gets to her computer soon, because I need someone to divulge my woes to. I am a sad monkey – a sad, disappointed, disgusted, tired monkey.

lowering the pole

Posted in fuuuuuuuu, i'm an astronaut by

I hate limbo. It is the least excellent place-that-is-also-a-dance to be.

We don’t know anything about the Real Boy Status Change except that we probably want to wear pants to hide our shame on June 1st. I am rocking the boat as hard as ever; naively and unreliably demanding to know things that directly affect my personal well-being before I sign anything that might be coming my way. I hate being taken advantage of; almost as much as I hate it when things disappear from my desk.

As some of you might have gleaned from our trip to the island, my mother has sold the house. She got a pretty good price for it, given that the house is a piece of crap. She has to be out by July 31st, so we’re looking for an apartment for her for July 1st to give a month to move things back and forth. She’s leaving the majority of the (old and hideous) furniture behind; a trip to the Brick introduced her to the joys of a new bed and furniture that was created after WWII. Once she finds a place I’ll probably be taking a week off (with pay? who knows!) to help her pack, move, unpack and get settled. As long as I can keep up the dutiful daughter act, perhaps she’ll be more inclined to give me some of the house money – that would be just lovely, given my soul-crushing debt and continual need for both ale and whores.

I hope everything changes for the better, but right now I simply do not know. The unknown is making my life very stressful and cranky, and you would not believe the size of the ass marbles.

turnicus real boyicus

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Long weekends are my favourite kind of weekends ever.

Actually, wait – long weekends that I get PAID for are my favourite kind of weekends ever. Oh, the downside of not being a real boy – sure it’s nice to have an extra day off, but when it comes at the expense of say a full cart of groceries or perhaps a ticket for excessive speeding, it’s kind of hard to sit back and truly relax. As much as I enjoy sitting at my desk all naked and glistening, I’d much rather be getting paid.

This will soon be changing, apparently.

That’s right – wheels are in motion at my Space Station to finally – one year and three months after they should have – turn us into real boys. The Blue Fairy has a wand at the ready, and the paperwork is starting to flow our way. I should be happy about this, shouldn’t I? Except it tastes an AWFUL lot like “too little too late”, not to mention the excessive lack of details we’ve been given. All we have are provincial and federal tax forms to fill out, and a looming date of June 1st.

I am uneasy about this. This is just par for the course with me, given my boat-rocking skills – I pretty much refuse to sign diddly squat until I find out such petty details as:

  • Is our pay rate going to change?
  • Will we be paid salary or hourly?
  • Will we be paid overtime?
  • What are you offering in terms of vacation time?
  • How retroactive is the vacation time?
  • Benefits – are we getting them? How much? Are you flexible?
  • How much are you planning on deducting for taxes?
  • What of the previous 15 months in which you declared us non-employees even though we so obviously were?
  • Discretionary days? Personal days? Sick days?

I know – I am so terribly uncooperative. It feels like I should be jumping with unbridled joy at our impending Real Boy status, but it doesn’t feel right. The “30 day probation” I was supposedly under came and went with nary a word, but the eternal fatalist in me still thinks that every whisper, every glance, every less than delighted hello means the Board is plotting against me. I’d love to be able to say that it’s all in my head, except the shit I went through in April plainly told me that it is not. So what next? Do I sign my life away and be delighted in whatever crumbs they throw my way until the next time someone has a cranky day and decides I am unfit for consumption? Do I try to find any kind of government agency to listen to my tale of woe and mismanagement and find out my options, if any? Do I wait, knowing there’s only a fine line between biding one’s time and wasting one’s time do you know what I mean?

When I explained the situation to the various people in my croo, their expressions mirrored exactly how I feel about this all – a furrowed brow and a “hmmmm”. I don’t know what to do, y’all. I don’t have the slightest clue where to begin. In fact, this whole thing is a lot like the sewing machine – it both confuses and scares me.