sunday science

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I’m feeling lousy about things: my roots are showing (by less than 0.5mm and only visible if you’re standing on top of me, but still) and I have a zit (now no one will ever ask me to prom) and blah blah tiresome personal drama at work (never, ever trust anyone). To make myself feel better while doing nothing whatsoever to solve any of my many ongoing problems, I am doing some science – with plants!

I received a large shipment of henna from Henna Sooq, and am forcing myself to use it before I get more of the amazing IBHB stuff I tried last month. Everything in the HS shipment is new to me, as they were out of my usual henna – so I have no idea what to expect 10 hours from now when I remove my Saran Wrap Hat and rinse all the mud out of my hair.

The henna I used throughout 2012/13 was Jamila Henna Powder. When I ran out, I desperately ordered anything Henna Sooq had in stock in the hopes it might maintain my accidental ombre hair (it’s so on trend!). Last night I couldn’t decide on just one kind of plant powder to marinate in because none of them were quite right: they all have properties I like, but none are the simple “damn hell ass red” I’m used to. The only logical thing left to do, then, was to obviously use them all at once like some kind of henna dirty bomb.

I use tea in place of water in my henna, so I brewed up a batch of Lipton’s Spiced Cinnamon Chai. It smells great, and helps mask some of the earth stink. While the tea was steeping, I started mixing powders:

.. all mooshed together in the tea. It’s currently sitting on the counter for three hours to release the dye, and then it goes on my head. What will happen? I don’t know! That’s most of the fun of using henna; I never know what weird shade of orange-red-black my hair will be next. It does mean that the rest of my Sunday will be spent in jammies on the couch, but I’m quite alright with that: it’s been a fucking brutal two weeks, and I could use the quiet time. And a vacation. And some tequila.

To the science dome!

the reason i smell like pot

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For the last two days, I’ve reeked of pot. It’s not because I’ve suddenly taken up recreational marijuana smoking or am self-medicating for a glaucoma or two – truth be told, I’m far too lazy to keep up with the 420 lifestyle – but nonetheless, I am carrying a distinct cloud of Vancouver Green around my person. I’m like PigPen, if he were ten years older and firmly entrenched in his stoner years. Weed: I stink of it.

And it’s NOT MY FAULT! If I had been smoking pot, I’d be the first to own up to it because I am a fan of the over share – but I haven’t been! Your (completely imagined) disappointed head shaking and finger wagging is highly misplaced! I did nothing to earn your scorn!

Seriously, though: I wasn’t smoking pot.

On my way to work yesterday, I spied a small plastic baggie on the ground. I ignored it, but then my eagle eye spotted something IN the baggie: a wad of green the size of a dime. Interesting! I scooped it up and continued to the bus stop. While I was waiting the 20 minutes for my “Express” bus to roll around, I cautiously sniffed at the sticky organic contents of the bag I found, and my initial suspicion was verified: weed. Fresh weed, even. I immediately told my friends, because finding weed on the ground is hilarious to me and then I stuffed it in my pocket, because I had numbers to learn and stupid changes to struggle through.

When I picked up my jacket to head home at the end of the day, I was greeted with an overwhelming stench of pot: it seems the little blue baggie in my pocket was not at all smell-proof, and my coat had been marinating in weed all day. I tripled-bagged it before heading home, but it was too late. I told my coworkers, because a) hilarious, and b) there are certain people who would tattle on me to HR if they just assumed I spent my evenings high as fuck. I took my found weed home, and tossed it in the freezer because that seems like a good place to keep mystery drugs. My jacket still smells a little, but no more than any other resident of Vancouver.

That was yesterday. I didn’t wear the same coat today, but I still reek of someone else’s pot:

I rode Lola to work for the first time this season, parking in the sketchy lot across the street. I came into the office just before noon after working from home for most of the morning, and it was then I learned that many of downtown Vancouver’s chefs get crazy high before they start the lunch rush .. and their smoke pit of choice is behind the motorcycle parking in the sketchy lot across the street. It REEKS of pot in there. It smells like a DRUG DEN. I am SHOCKED! Except not really, it’s kind of funny and now I smell like pot all over again for reasons utterly beyond my control. Okay, maybe I didn’t HAVE to pick up the weed I found on the ground, but how was I supposed to know it was going to be crazy stinky all day long? I am not an expert on these things.

So, if any potential employers happen upon this page while Googling my name to make sure I’m not a serial killer, please note I am not addicted to weedahol and if I ever smell like drugs, there is very likely a hilarious story behind it that I will be glad to share with you.

Thank you for your time.

thirteen

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On a cold, snowy night in lousy Smarch weather a lifetime ago, I hit “publish” my very first blog post on my very own internet. Thirteen years, 3 million words, hundreds of adventures, a half dozen jobs, a chick flick worth of tears, and four homes across two provinces later, it’s all come down to this:

apparently we had candles! i was just going to light toothpicks on fire and hope for the best!

apparently we had candles! i was just going to light toothpicks on fire and hope for the best!

.. a candle in a mango pancake, a strange mixture of pride and bemusement, and a glass of celebratory Diet Coke. Cheers to you, Delicious Juice Dot Com – it’s been a long, weird ride. Here’s to another 13 inappropriate years of random adventures, awesome friends, and dong-longing. May your content always be blocked by IT as pornography!

peer pressure

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Today I ate bugs.

One of my co-workers backed a Kickstarter for Exo bars, a protein bar made with cricket flour. He brought some into the office, and a bunch of us tried a piece of the bug bar full of crickety goodness.

It was .. not bad.

I mean, I wouldn’t eat it regularly or anything, and if I was not as susceptible to insect-related peer pressure, I would have passed on the sample. I was already feeling kind of nauseous thanks to my lunch, and the small bit of bug bar I had almost pushed me over the edge. It didn’t taste BAD, but I really wish I hadn’t tried the cacao nut variety – it crunched. My imagination tends to run away with me at the most inopportune times, and all I could think of while chewing was “bugs bugs bugs I’m totally eating bugs”. Throw in some mystery bits that crackled in my mouth, and .. *erk*. Bugs. Not good on an already weak stomach, but quite palatable otherwise. Plus, protein! Cricket flour technology will come in handy after the apocalypse. In the meantime, there is leftover pizza in my fridge.

Sadly, I am not presently in Seattle showing too much cleavage at an all-ages show. I did some math, and realized that I likely wouldn’t get home until 3am .. and I need to be at my conference tomorrow at 9am, awake and functional. When I previously did the one-day-concert-trip-thing, the band was the opening act. Tonight they’re the headliner and not going on stage until much later. I really wanted to make my ridiculous idea work work, but in the end I just didn’t think it would be a good idea .. and so here I am: sitting at home watching a Futurama rerun, still queasy from eating bugs, and not at all inappropriately dressed. It is sad. I am full of self pity (and crickets).

things are going to get a lot worse or perhaps a lot better.

the grownup thing

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I am totally okay with my decision, but I’m still going to whine about scheduling conflicts and the sensible but less fun things we do:

Astronautalis and his band of merry men (aka my three favourite musical boys in tight pants) are on tour and playing a show in Seattle next Tuesday. Being the fan girl that I am, I immediately booked time off work and arranged for a mini Mini road trip to see them play. I didn’t want to drive back to Seattle on Tuesday night for work the next day, so I thought to make An Event out of it: I booked a night in a Fancy Hotel, and made plans to have an excellent day and a half all by my lonesome (because no one else is hardcore enough to use vacation time to enable man crush swooning).

Then today happened: my favourite Marketing Manager asked if I was available next Wednesday to attend a conference with her on stuff that directly applies to what I do (neuroscience, rocket biosynthesis, that sort of thing). It’s a one-day conference only in Vancouver on the exact day I planned to be out of town to wander around Seattle in a delicious carefree daze. The company would send someone else, but I’d been specifically called out by the Uber Boss as someone they want there .. what’s a girl to do?

The only logical thing, really: I cancelled my hotel stay and unbooked the days off so I could attend the conference instead. I was worried about the hotel booking because it was a Groupon and the fine print specifically says NO RESCHEDULING NO TRANSFERRING NO ANYTHING AT ALL, but I was able to cancel the thing and get a refund. I’m sad about missing the Astronautalis show, but I have faith that they’ll play in an accessible area again soon and I’ll go to more shows (aka the opposite of what history has shown me to be true). I’m looking forward to the conference. It looks interesting, I get to spend a (paid) day off site hanging out with my favourite Marketing Manager and favourite Sam, and the brownie points earned for cancelling my plans for the sake of my job couldn’t hurt. It’s the Grown Up Thing to do. I am rocking this “adult” thing.

I still have my ticket to the show, though .. and I’ve done the drive down and back in the same day before. Perhaps being an adult doesn’t mean having less fun, it just means less sleep: I could still go to the show. Yes. This can happen. This WILL happen. I need a good dose of loud much more than I need a couple extra hours of sleep. Compromise! It keeps you fun!

wet cold canadian winter

henna times

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Long ago in the dying moments of 2013, we had Friendmas and merrily exchanged gifts over the traditional holiday Boston Pizza table. Renee was declared the winner of Friendmas, as she had gifted we ladies with a brow and henna session at Indian Brow and Henna Boutique – and last Friday, we descended on the shop to have our brows tamed and our skin made for fancy times.

I was the last to arrive (it’s fashionable to be stuck in traffic), so I missed the hand massages. I’m okay with that as I am Weird About Massages, and it gave me a great chance to take some pictures while the girls were getting their henna on:

gill getting henna’d

shan’s shoulder henna

renee put a bird on it

heather’s ridiculously gorgeous henna work

my boobs, because boobs

All the henna is done freehand , which is baffling given the intricacy of the designs. While we were there, we relaxed with some delicious tea and great music while the IBHB ladies worked on our skin and brows, staying open a little later than usual so we could all get our fill of art and grooming. I had my brows threaded and shaped, and since I couldn’t decide which arm to get done, I had them henna my chest (which was a better plan in theory as opposed to practice; more on that in a bit). The staff were amazing and more than accommodating of our silliness, and we had a great time – so much so that I’m thinking of going again next month to have more henna applied, because it’s so gorgeous.

Getting my boobs henna’d was fun, but I really wish I had opted for an arm instead. For whatever reason (my own molecular defects or the difference in skin type), the dye didn’t take to my chest very well and is barely visible, even after settling for a day. In comparison, the henna applied to Heather’s hand and arm is crazy dark and awesome so next time I will go traditional and see if my skins reacts better.

My brows look awesome, though. I bought some brow makeup to try and duplicate their work at home, and also a packet of henna powder for hair. I normally get my hair henna from Henna Sooq, but they’ve been out of stock for AGES and my roots were really awful, so when I found out IBHB sells henna I jumped on it. I applied it to my hair yesterday, not really knowing what to expect – the prep time was only 30 minutes (compared to the 12-24 hours my usual stuff requires), and the recommended head time was an hour (as opposed to my normal 4-8). I figured I might end up with green roots, but at least they wouldn’t be white so I was okay with it. I mixed up the henna, let it sit, and donned the traditional Sunday Saran Wrap Hat .. and two hours later, I had some crazy bright bombastic red hair. I LOVE IT! It’s SO RED! I will definitely be getting more head henna from IBHB. It is my new favourite ever.

We really did have a great time at IBHB, and I would recommend it in a heartbeat to anyone looking for something fun, relaxing, and a little outside of the norm. They have man services, too! Super fun.

Unnecessary disclaimer: This was not a sponsored post. IBHB did not give me free services in exchange for my words; I went with friends and had a great time so I wrote about it. Not all bloggers are shills – some of us still have integrity. Integrity, and pretty pretty eyebrows.

whee!

random sunday

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  • Ed and I are the Kings of Errands. Yesterday we crossed 9 things off our list, and now we have groceries and cat litter and scooter insurance and a myriad of other things that were desperately needed. It was exhausting and expensive, but we are feeling pretty pleased with ourselves.
  • In two weeks, I am getting my very own storage unit and I am excited as hell. I can’t decide if that makes me weird or old. One of the errands we ran yesterday was to pick up boxes so I can pack up some of my stuff!
  • You wouldn’t think that something called “Cinnamon Cream Cheese Coffee Cake” would be horrible, but that is the sad, disappointing reality. It sounds amazing, doesn’t it? I assumed it would be life-changingly delicious. It wasn’t. It actually made me throw up. I will be burning the remains, and suspicious of any alliterated food for years to come.
  • I would dearly love to peek at the analytics behind this banner ad that popped up in a game I was playing last night:
i can't stop staring at her lip liner

i can’t stop staring at her lip liner

Does this actually WORK? Do people say “damn, a woman in matching underwear and a sword hot shit this is a game for me!” and immediately download it? I am so curious. And baffled. And need to stop thinking about work.

  • On Friday, a group of us went and got our brows tamed and our bodies henna’d! It was awesome, and deserves a post to itself so pictures will be coming soon.
  • I am glad it is raining, because I feel less guilty about staying inside and packing boxes to put into storage.

he woke up screaming for 40 years

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The committee unanimously agreed: Gornak had the best costume at this year’s convention.

congratulations! what a costume!

congratulations! what an outfit!

What the other convention-goers didn’t know, and what Detective Briggs would only acknowledge on his death bed some 40 years later, is that Gornak wasn’t wearing a costume that evening. He was simply hungry.

oh the legomanity!

oh the legomanity!

Some say Briggs never recovered from that case. They were right. Briggs was a changed man from that day on – wouldn’t you be, when faced with that much carnage? When none of the clues make sense? When the only possible explanation will get you laughed out of town?

no amount of lego therapy will fix this.

no amount of lego therapy will fix this.

The other convention-goers did not die well.

appeasing the rain gods

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The rain finally stopped, because yesterday I drove to Seattle and spent $200+ on rain gear. You are welcome for the no rain – I hope you used the dryness well.

The recalling of the rain was for mostly selfish reasons though, because today was the reboot of my motorcycle class. We had to postpone two weeks ago because of the snow, and I was NOT looking forward to mastering two non-scooter wheels in a fucking monsoon. The purchasing of rain gear was to appease the weather gods, and they were evidently satisfied by my foray into a terrifying store for hunters (it was FULL OF GUNS and there was a huge display at the back of the store featuring THINGS YOU CAN KILL WITH THE GUNS seriously what the fuck. It was like being in an enormous MEC or REI, but replace all the cyclist gear with camouflage and everything else with guns and crossbows and ammo and Ted Nugent) – it was an expensive gesture, but it worked so I guess it was worth it (and now I have my first raincoat ever and rain pants I’ll never remember to wear).

Riding a motorcycle on a lovely day is SO MUCH BETTER than riding in snow! Who knew? We got a lot of practice in, and ended the day doing our motorcycle skills test – the very test that I’ve been having nightmares about, and have failed once already. The orange cones were a enormous obstacle for me to overcome, thanks to some awesome mental blocks I put in place. Every pass we made at the cones resulted in my running them over with extreme prejudice – hell, even as I was walking into class today, I tripped over an orange cone. I hate them. They’re trying to kill me.

.. but that’s all in the past now, because I passed my skills test! I am now one step closer to being truly legal! Tomorrow I’m going to upgrade my yellow paper license to a slightly better yellow paper license, and then we practice actual road riding for two nights. I’m much, much less concerned about the road test than I was that stupid skills test, so I’m really looking forward to tomorrow. I’m still not sold on motorcycles versus scooters, but that isn’t what this is about – I just want my full class 6 license, and then I can do whatever I want. After today, I am more than halfway there. I’m sore and bruised (I dumped the bike on a really bad turn attempt) and achy and exhausted in six new exciting ways, but I’m also pretty pleased with myself. I did it! Go Team Venture!

let’s go rent some guns! except no, because that is terrifying.

awww look at all the examples of wildlife .. that you can kill with our many, many guns. want to know how to kill the noble moose or elk? we have specific ammo for that!

I LOVE GUNS YEAH WOOOOOOOO and it comes in pink, for the ladies!

I LOVE GUNS YEAH WOOOOOOOO and it comes in pink, for the ladies!

this is a throw down a hoedown

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Timehop has reminded me that I utterly failed the prime directive: I was never supposed to replace my hardware; I was supposed to demand a traditional tying of the tubes. When I first got the WSD in 2008, I was evidently still way too young and immature to say I didn’t want children, and clearly couldn’t be trusted to make such a monumental decision on own. I reluctantly agreed to having a tiny sperm warrior shoved all up into my nethers, and hoped that by the time five years in the future rolled around, I’d be able to find a doctor who would take me at face value.

Then I forgot all about it, and I completely forgot to bring it up at any of the four appointments with three providers I had leading up to last Thursday’s cervixical (a word now) hoedown.

I thought about this a bit yesterday morning, and I think I know the problem (beyond my not bringing it up; that one is entirely on me): all the doctors I’ve seen ARE taking me at face value, and that face is not of a woman dangerously close to 40.

Science <tm>has irrevocably proven that three things are true:

  • Fat don’t crack
  • Black don’t crack
  • Asian women look 30 until they’re 60

Any one of these traits is powerful enough by itself, but I’ve got two of them working in my favour: I’m fat AND Asian, and also don’t look or act my age. This is less a humblebrag than it is fact sharing, but it’s not just my glowing youthfulness throwing a wrench into my uterus: I have the wardrobe and makeup counter of a spoiled tween. Every once in a while (but not often enough), I get kind of embarrassed for myself and think that maybe I should trade my awesome, ridiculous, rainbow-filled and nerd-happy wardrobe in for some twinsets and pearls, but that makes me sad. Same for replacing my glittery neon makeup with matte neutrals and mini-dresses with pantsuits and mom jeans: probably should; don’t wanna.

I need to start prefacing all my Important Decision doctor appointments with my age: don’t let the glitter and Dalek dress fool you; I’m almost 40 and therefore hopefully running out of time to “change my mind someday” about wanting children. I will not change my mind when I am older: I AM older. I don’t know if science has pushed back menopause while they expanded the baby window, but if I’m still in danger of getting knocked up by the time this hardware expires/I decide I want it out, I am going to be really pissed.

I do enjoy that my age is somewhat of a mystery, though. Earlier this week I made a Cheers reference at work (because what else can you do when presented with a guy named Norm), to which my boss replied he didn’t think I was old enough to know of the show. Cheers ran from 1982 to 1993, and while it’s flattering to imagine otherwise, there’s no way I look that young. I’m an ambiguous 30 at best. Also, I’m very likely older than my boss (which actually makes me look REALLY bad, given the tumulticity (also a word now) of the last 8 months).  Oops.

I do wish this headache would go away, though.