eight hours

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Attention all short, fat, half-Asian girls stomping around Vancouver in discount clothing, second-hand boots, and terrible hair; with a permanent scowl on your face as though your once-amazing job has turned into some kind of devastating Gift of the Magi/Monkey Paw nightmare and you are utterly depressed about your reality and don’t see a way out: there’s a guy named Steven somewhere downtown who would like to “do that” for eight hours straight because you are perfect and amazing and just what he wants in a woman.

Huh.

I was scowling my way to work when a guy stopped me at the corner of Dunsmuir and Hornby. He looked like any other guy you’d see downtown at 9:30 on a weekday morning – dressed on the casual side of business formal, carrying a leather portfolio, tidy haircut – a normal-looking dude. When he stopped me, I assumed he just wanted directions or to know the time .. but instead, he wanted to stop me to tell me that I was his perfect woman, and please say there’s no husband or boyfriend “doing that” *gestures to my body*. When I said I was indeed married, he was disappointed; saying he would “do me for 8 hours” because he loves everything I have going on and I am gorgeous and I should tell my husband to have sex with me for 8 hours because he would do me all day long and *aroused grunt* oh man, the things I would do to you. I laughed – what else do you do in that situation – and said thank you but I needed to get to work; all while he was insisting he would do me right and demanding my husband be told I deserve sex for 8 hours and also I am gorgeous and perfect and exactly his type mmMMmm.

So, that happened.

I know that as a feminist I should be terribly offended that a random man felt he needed to tell me I made his penis daydream about marathon sex, but I’m really not. I didn’t feel threatened or even creeped out .. it was just funny. And let’s face it – I never get hit on. I am no one’s (well, except for this guy) “type” even when I’m not a walking wall of doom, so it was kinda .. nice.

Okay, back to being depressed.

 

a series of open letters

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To the woman standing in the very long queue at Shoppers Drug Mart clearly waiting for someone to just dare to try and bypass the line so you could call him or her out indignantly in an attempt to publicly shame them but you got me instead and I was simply walking past everyone on my way out because I had just picked up a prescription: lol!

To fashion designers everywhere: please, please, PLEASE stop trimming everything in pleather. And decorating shirts with beans. And also learn to fucking spell oh my god you should be so ashamed of yourselves.

To Alexey, a guy I used to work with: Nice seeing you today!

To Domino’s Pizza: thank you very much for realizing that I probably didn’t intend to place two identical orders, and calling to confirm. Nicely done!

To anyone who wanted to buy any Diet Coke in Vancouver today: I bought it all. I’m not sorry.

To the Minibator: 48 bottles of Diet Coke is very heavy. I am sorry.

To Miley, Sinead, and Amanda: Hello. You are people I have heard of.

.. that is all.

 

making TMI seem quaint and docile

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Don’t get me wrong – I’m still angry and not planning on taking it for much longer. However, my unusually heightened emotional state of the past week may have had a little more to do with womanly hysteria than I was willing to admit: it seems I was full of the PMS. I never recognize the symptoms until I have visual confirmation, because I’ve basically forgotten how to period thanks to my superhuman delayed cycle. Instead of 5 days of fun every 4 weeks, I get one day every 18 months .. so I think I can be forgiven for not realizing when I’ve gone insane because of hormones instead of just regular insane because of stress.

To be fair, things are really lousy outside my uterus, too. The ongoing situation at work has given me stress cysts in awkward places, and one fucking ruptured today. There’s something wrong with my throat: it feels as though something’s stuck in my esophagus, and I’m constantly trying to force the nothing out which makes my gag reflex go into overdrive and then I panic a little because I can’t breathe. The stuck-in-throat feeling has been going on for about a week now, but over the last two days it’s been really problematic. If it keeps up for much longer, I’m going to have to go to the doctor. Trying to self-diagnose did no good at all, because the internet says I have several kinds of throat cancer and pregnancy, so I’m freaking out about that too. I need a haircut and a vacation. I’m worried/keyed up/excited/terrified about the future. I started biting my nails again. Work is .. complicated and disappointing. Those Prada Candy commercials are weird and dumb. My face hurts.

So there’s all that stuff, and I feel bad for complaining. Throw it all in a blender and shed a surprise uterine lining or two, and BAM: tears everywhere. Ain’t nobody got time for that!

If change is coming, I sure hope it gets here soon.

full circle

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When Ed and I first started dating, I cooked a lot for him. I like cooking, he likes eating, so it made sense. I was very poor then, so I cooked a lot of simple meals: eggs. A lot of eggs. Fancy eggs and breakfasts for dinner, but always eggs. Ed used to say my eggs tasted like love, and that was cute and sweet and d’awwww.

Years passed and I still cook a lot, but it’s less “trying to get him naked via food” and more “well, we gotta eat”. Lately though, Ed’s taken to making breakfast for both of us on weekends – fancy scrambles with eggs and tasty things and a heaping side of salsa and too much pepper, just the way I like it. It’s awesome and I feel very spoiled, and .. it tastes like love. I totally get it. Eggs = love.

:)

sexy blog post costume

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Megan posted this site on Twitter, and I’ve spent the better part of my morning in sheer awe of the number of things you can get “sexy” versions of for Halloween costumes. Seriously, I was full-on prepared to hate the idea that Halloween is simply a reason to dress in skin-tight, cleavage-baring outfits (when that shit should be done EVERYDAY), but then I started to really look at the options available beyond the traditional “sexy witch” “sexy cat” “sexy nurse” “sexy sex-haver” stuff and was amazed:

Board Games

  • Sexy Scrabble: This well read gal loves to play more than just word games. He’ll be dying to show off his large…vocabulary when he sees you in the Scrabble Sexy Deluxe Costume which includes: A glossy game board screen-printed dress featuring a fabric tile trim, matching tile bracelets and a petticoat for a little extra bounce.
  • Sexy Operation: Play Doctor in a whole new way! Get ready to play doctor in this Operation Sexy Adult Costume! Costume includes one yellow, red, and white dress printed with Operation symbols, matching fingerless gloves, and red character nose on a stick.
  • Sexy CandyLand

Movies that Don’t Really Lend Themselves to Costumes OR Sex

  • Silence of the Lambs: A sexy lady gone psycho! Clarice has nothing on this cannibalistic sexy psychopath! Transform into a riddle chanting killer babe this Halloween. The Silence of The Lambs Sexy Adult Costume includes a white fitted straight jacket style dress with attached arm ties.
  • Halloween: A truly sexy psychopath! You wont have to chase your next victim down they will be lined up waiting for you! Transform into a sexy version of a horrific killer this Halloween! The Halloween – Sexy Michael Myers Adult Costume includes a fitted blue zip front jumpsuit.
  • Friday the 13th: Not your average camp counselor. Camp Crystal Lake’s savage and scintillating co-ed heats up those Halloween nights in the Sexy Ms. Voorhees costume. Jason’s hockey jersey has been re-designed to hug your curves and seduce your victims into submission. Red stripe trim, classic “Jason” insignia, screen-printed “Voorhees – 13” on the back and a V-neckline are all features that put a sassy twist on this Friday the 13th costume favorite. A Jason Hockey Mask handbag* is also included to stash all of your slasher essentials.
  • Robocop: Peter Weller never looked so hot.

To Hell With Your Childhood

Victims are Hot

  • Mental Ward: Drive ’em crazy in this sexy style! You’ll look insanely alluring in the Goin’ Outta My Mind Adult Costume which includes: A blood splattered stretch Bengaline two way zip front dress with elongated straight jacket sleeves and adjustable buckles with uneven hemline. A matching hat with “Mental Ward” detail and faux blood.
  • Slaughter House Survivor: The gory days. Makes you think twice about hitting up that meat market this Halloween, huh? Either way, you’ll look bloody fabulous this Slaughter House Survivor Adult Costume! Includes a black and white bloodied dress, leg garter with detachable “bloody putty” prop, bloody knife headband, torn pantyhose and 3 band aids.
  • Slasher Star: You always did want to be on the silver screen. Make your horror flick debut this Halloween in this Slasher Star Adult Costume. It’ll be a real scream! Costume includes a bloodied black and white dress, wrist bandage, “HELP!” word bubble headband and bloody knife prop.

Sexy Cultural Stereotypes 

Just Plain Disturbing

  • Dying to Please You – sexy costume, or clever social commentary? Sadly, I think it’s the former.
  • Pocahottie – .. REALLY?
  • .. every fucking thing on the site, really

There’s so many more incredulous things on this one site alone that I can’t even. I’m amused and horrified. I’m annoyed that the Sexy Scrabble costume’s board doesn’t follow traditional Scrabble rules. I’m sad there’s no Sexy Optimus Prime (but I bet I could find one elsewhere). I’m horrified at the sheer number of offensive cultural stereotype costumes in the sexy category alone. I’m .. suddenly craving candy corn (but not Sexy Candy Corn).

My head hurts.

rage and capital letters

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I like to say I got into the business of process improvement and tech writing so I can writes the rules (and know which ones to break), but the truth is far more alarming than any kind of need to thumb my nose at The Man: apparently, I’m a textbook Type A control freak.

Right now, I’m struggling with an overwhelming desire to CONTROL ALL THE THINGS. Stuff at work is a cluster fuck of New Coke proportions, and I want to roar and flip tables and TAKE OVER so I can fucking FIX IT ALREADY. It’s driving me crazy. I never thought I’d say this, but I miss structure. I miss rules and processes. I miss checklists and milestones and deliverables and deadlines and actually fucking MEETING those deadlines instead of floating along all willy nilly with my head stuffed up my ass. I am so much happier when everyone knows what to do and how to do it and we can all count on one another to do our jobs and do them well, and right now I am NOT HAPPY. I’m generally a happy person, and right now I am FULL OF RAGE AND CAPITAL LETTERS. ARGH!

I need to step away from the internet so I don’t go into further detail. I really want to. So badly. I’ve already sent many sternly worded emails outlining all the things that are going wrong that I can easily fix if you’d just let me oh I don’t know DO MY JOB. We’ll see if those help.

Next step: distributing yellow flags to the team to be raised every time someone interrupts you mid-sentence; red flags for being steamrolled.

So frustrated. So unhappy. This is not what I was expecting with my promotion.

bite the wax tadpole

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It’s dark in the car, but I don’t want to turn on a light. I don’t want to be seen. I’m hunched over in the passenger seat, trying to be as still as possible while going 120km/h – I have to be careful, or I’ll spill. Precision is the name of the game, and while my tiny elf fingers aren’t exactly known for their grace and nimblility, I steady the plate as best I can in one hand while gently working the baggie open with the other. Carefully, carefully I pour the contents out onto the flat surface and it lazily twinkles back at me; shimmering softly under the streetlights and calling to me with a knowing wink. I feel momentarily guilty, but I shake it off – my need is greater than any regrets, and I’m not hurting anyone. It’s a free country, they say. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

I hold my breath for the next step. A deep breath could send everything flying, and that would be very, very bad. I bite my lip in anticipation as I line everything up in neat rows; not exhaling until I see stars and my heart is pounding. Do I need oxygen, or the rush? I can’t tell.

Last step. One final check. Everything is ready. There’s no turning back, even if I wanted to .. which I don’t. I’ll never want to turn back.

I pick up the tray and push it home with a satisfying click. My phone comes back to life; illuminating my face in the dark of the car. I drum my fingers impatiently on my thigh as I wait for it to kick in – there. A signal. Weak at first, but grows stronger as the triumph courses through my veins. Once again, I’ve successfully changed the nano SIM for my iPhone 5, switching from my Canadian carrier to an American one and vice versa. I was without data for less than 10 minutes in total, but it felt like a million years of isolation and despair. Now that I’m connected, the world is a better place. Shinier, more friendly. Things taste better. People are more attractive. And if they’re not, I can google up some people who are. I feel like myself again, but I know that it’s temporary – all too soon, I’ll have to do everything over again; a shameful secret that keeps me hidden in the shadows until the new carrier kicks in. Don’t look at me until I have the world at my fingertips. And for god’s sake, don’t fucking sneeze.

doesn’t belong in the ear

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As I tossed and turned my way through yet another sleepless night, worried that someone had replaced my ear drops with poison in an attempt to murder me Hamlet style, I realized that I may in fact be getting sick. That is unfortunate, even without the ear poison. I’ve managed to avoid the plagues and viruses that have ensnared most of my social circle for the past few months (the one good thing about most of our interactions taking place online), but I think this latest and greatest disease may have me in a clammy grip of distorted vision, non-stop headaches, and general aching. Normally I’d start whining that I really don’t have time for this, but let’s be honest: there isn’t a hell of a lot going on in my life right now other than catastrophic disappointment and failure, so a cold might be a welcome change.

How are things? Frankly, things have been much, much better. I’m trying to keep my chin up (mostly so I don’t walk into doors), but it’s difficult. There’s so much I want to scream and shout about, but I can’t probably shouldn’t, so instead I am vague and frustrating and frustrated and constipated from all this angst I have going on. I am trying very hard not to know that this Wednesday will mark 8 years since my dad’s mysterious death, that this time last year I was four days away from two weeks in London, that I am both yearning for and afraid of success, that I desperately want to bite off more than I can chew but no one will throw me a bone. I miss Sasha. I miss London. I miss video games. I miss sleep. I miss perks.

Things will get better one way or another, but when I’m already not feeling very well it’s so easy to wallow instead of being upbeat and chipper. So, I’m going to embrace it: today, I am sad and discouraged and hopeless. Tomorrow, I will be better. Things will change. Stuff will be good. We shall overcome.

Also, owning these would help me get over this little pity party I’m having today:

i likely won't be able to walk, but godDAMN i will look awesome

i likely won’t be able to walk, but godDAMN i will look awesome

You can tell I am super sad, because I am looking at shoes.

tick tick tick boom

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Five years ago today (and many more times since then but I’m only speaking to this particular instance), I was on my back with my legs in the air while a stranger fiddled around with my insides; preparing my womb for the installation of a time-sensitive Doomsday Device: the Mirena IUD. This Weapon of Sperm Destruction has been quietly working away all up in my business, blasting foolhardy sperm into oblivion and protecting my carefree, pointless existence from the ongoing threat of responsibility and purpose. Go ahead and splash my cervix with the most potent of your man juices: I laugh at your ejaculate! I sneer at your seminal fluid! Your mightiest warriors of procreation are no match for the chemical wasteland that is my uterus; all spermatozoa look on my works, be mighty, and despair!

Unfortunately, all wonderful things must come to an end: the Mirena has a 5-year lifecycle, and as of an hour or so ago, I am in immediate danger of pregnancy. Even as I type this, I am calmly dodging a steady stream of sperm coming from all directions, trying to take advantage of my vulnerable state. The joke’s on them, though: while the Mirena has a recommended lifespan of 5 years, it apparently will work just fine for up to seven years. I did a bunch of panicked research this morning when I realized my blinking red palm flower was about to go solid black; fully anticipating some sort of explosion followed by a swarm of babies, but .. nothing. I am safe.

You’ll never convince ME that having a foreign hostile object all up in my quivering velvet is a bad idea. IUD? More like IUDeeeeelightful!

Thanks, I’ll be here all week.