It’s been two days, and my legs still hurt from walking around in those heels and I don’t think this glitter is ever going to entirely wash out, but I Went Clubbing.

Sort of. I mean, I was in a club and clubbing was happening all around me, but I stayed in a corner and tried not to look as though I had been accidentally transported in from Puritan England circa 1575 and was truly wondering what sin I hath committed that would cause my God to cast me unto the fiery pits of this tiki-themed hell.

Shan did tell me I could leave if I was anywhere near as uncomfortable as I looked, but I managed to stick it out for almost an hour. I didn’t dance – I only dance when it is wholly inappropriate to do so – but I did WATCH, and also narrated what I was seeing on Twitter in the style of an old Wild Kingdom broadcast:

• The plumage on display pales in comparison to the intricacies of the mating dance – it is here, in this primitive den, where life begins.
• In the distance, a lone bird cries out and is immediately cross-faded into the throbbing beat of the night.
• A pair of creatures pair off and begin to mate, grinding their organs against the tiki-themed bamboo pillars that festoon the seething pit.
• They’ve multiplied! The cross-faded loon has lured more potential mates to the floor and the game begins anew; strobe lights marking faces and serving to both highlight and disguise the weaker specimens in amongst the prize females dripping with precious jelly.
• Young males, bedecked in traditional “bling”, dance in a circle with one another; perhaps attempting to entice the female with disinterest.

I was both frantic and somewhat saddened to make my escape – the study of humanity at its most hip and/or primitive was fascinating, and in all honesty if I had ear plugs (it was fucking loud) and had my laptop, I would have stayed. Seriously. I really, really wish I could have live blogged what was going on in front of me – there was SO MUCH HAPPENING:

• Couples with curfews pairing off well before midnight and engaging in enough public foreplay that poor Lani Two Skirts had to run away, embarrassed by the not-at-all-discreet groping going on behind her
• The young Jewish gentleman doing a dance I have named The Nixon all by himself in a circle, oblivious to anything or anyone around him
• All. The. Vaginas.
• The $10 drinks people looked honoured to buy
• How very, very, very OLD we all felt

I realized much too late that for all the effort put into looking our sluttiest for the evening, we completely missed the mark. I had tried on every dress in my closet before, with the help of Renee and Heather, deciding on the one that showed a truly obscene amount of cleavage; pairing it with some saucy high heels and ridiculous accessories – but it was all moot: Club Slut is absolutely nothing like Everyday Slut. I am fluent in Everyday Slut – it’s the kind that gets me dirty/shocked/occasionally admiring looks when I walk down the street because my boobs are buoyant and plentiful – but Club Slut requires you to be chastely covered up top, but paired with a skirt that barely skims the mons pubis. This is not something I would ever do – my breasts may be for everyone, but my pubic mound is NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

I do wish that I was able to relax and enjoy Shan’s stag with the rest, but I was so far out of my element. If I’m ever called upon to Do Clubbing again, I’ll be sure to bring my laptop so I can properly document all that happens around me – all I could think about (other than escaping) was how awesome a blog post it all would have made. Next time! Except I hope there isn’t a next time – I hate clubbing. Seriously.

You know, I never got a stag party. I wonder if I could have one ten years after the fact .. all my ladies like LAN parties, right?

When I explain just how hard it was for me to do the Right Thing for Myself at the cost of disappointing someone else, my therapist is likely going to a dance on her desk with dollar signs for eyeballs.

I ejected myself out of space today. It was really hard to do, because I really liked the people I worked with .. but it was also the right thing to do, both for me and for them. It was right for them because I am too senior for what they need, and the longer I had to deal with a scheduled lunch break and being in the support queue the more likely I was to become grumpy and petulant and not at all fun to be around. And it was right for ME, because I’d never be able to get to the salary I wanted while working there, I definitely did NOT sign on to spend 40% of my time answering the phone, and I want – need – to be challenged daily; not held back because I’m going faster than anyone thought possible (I did warn you about that).

I have been agonizing about this inevitability since the end of March, and I mean agonizing. I second-third-eightyseventh-guessed myself so many times my head spun, and I’m sure those close to me were sick of my moaning over what should have been an easy decision to make. I’ve got an almost pathological need to keep people happy, though, even at the cost of myself – I’d rather be sad and dignified in my martyrhood; nobly sacrificing my dreams so I don’t inconvenience others.

Isn’t that an enormous crock of crazy emo shit?

I’m all for needless melodrama, but sometimes the line must be drawn heeah.

I was offered my dream job (I have several dream jobs; this is the non-naked, non-video game one) this week, for an enormous increase in salary. I accepted it on Wednesday, and this morning I resigned from the place I was working in Burnaby. I’ll be back downtown, starting the Monday after Josh and Shan’s wedding. I am nervous, elated, excited, hopeful, and a little bit sad – I really liked working with the people in Burnaby, and would have taken several of them with me if I could.

I don’t know what the future holds for me, but for once in my life my title will have no slash. I don’t need to do two jobs just to do what I love; I just .. get to do it. And y’all have NO IDEA how much that means to me.

This is my science, but I’ve got everything to prove.

tryin'.

Him: Do you think I packed too much stuff for camping?

Me: It doesn’t look too bad .. you may not want to bring the cat toy, though. And the sewing machine. Leave the sewing machine.

Him: Then how am I supposed to sew? It’s a STAG party, damnit!

I fucking love my wall:

MY WALL IS SO AWESOME!

I am pleased.

There’s a lot to be said for a random day off in the middle of the week – by noon today, I had:

• Survived an invasive appointment that had me out the door at 7:30am
• Gotten gas mere inches before the Mazdabator tank ran dry to strand me in the ass end of South Burnaby
• Purchased a flotilla of Diet Coke and discount Easter candy
• Stocked up on 80lbs of cat litter
• Bought a goddamn cuckoo clock
• Refilled my prescription for crazy pills as written by the OLDEST MAN IN THE UNIVERSE
• Whipped up a fresh batch of henna
• Added way, way too much ground clove to the henna
• Vacuumed the living room
• Did a load of laundry
• Emptied the dishwasher and put in another load
• Burned my scalp when applying the clovey henna
• Ate leftovers

I’m now sitting at my desk wearing little more than a shower cap and a smile; writing words all over the internet and finishing up a flow chart for fun instead of profit. I have absolutely no plans for the remainder of the day (I should probably rinse this henna out at some point), a startling amount of Diet Coke within reach, and an itch to simultaneously sew something awesome and play video games at the same time. I have to assume that attempting to scratch both my itches at once would end in disaster and injury, so I’m going to pick one and go with it until I’m bored, then start the other. Random Thursday Off is for Good Times.

I have made an Important Decision, and I am at peace with it – details coming soon, I think.

Also, this is hilarious and you should watch it because it made me choke with the funny.

The thought has occurred to me that the excessive horrible pot smoke from next door might be medicinal in nature. I’m really only basing this theory off two things: a) I’ve never, ever smelled pot as awful as this before and I’ve heard – perhaps erroneously – that medical marijuana is gross, and b) once for half a second I got a glimpse of someone who smelled the same, and he didn’t look so good. Maybe he wasn’t just old and pasty. Maybe he has painful diseases, and smokes the nasty pot to cope with them. Maybe I should be more compassionate towards my fellow man, and care less about the fact that half my house reeks.

Maybe fuck that.

I kind of don’t care if the guy is wasting away in his living room – I AM REALLY TIRED OF EVERYTHING STINKING LIKE HOBO POOP. It got better for a few weeks, but now is back with a vengeance at all hours of the day; not just late at night. Plus, the weather is getting nicer – so if I try to open my bedroom window to get some fresh air in to counter the pot, they’re out there smoking cigarettes and even more pot. I can’t win, and I’m getting really angry and paranoid and hungry. I don’t much know what to do about it, either. We’ve tried talking to them, and they’ve made it clear that they don’t care if we can smell their smoke. I’ve emailed the strata, and didn’t get a response. I’m having visions of being swabbed at the airport and detained because all my belongings are coated three inches thick in THC leavings, and they’ll throw me in airport jail where there’s no Diet Coke and I’ll get yelled at. I do not want that. At ALL.

So frustrated. Also, freaking out. Today’s Special: I was very bad at math and somehow managed to COMPLETELY RUN OUT OF CRAZY PILLS and I can’t get through to my useless doctor to book an appointment for more. Because this is totally what I need right now: more crazy. BRING IT ON!*

(*: please don’t bring it on. I can’t handle much more stress right now.)

This should be a treat – on Friday night, I have to go clubbing.

“Treat” is sarcasm. “Have to” is because I really do have to – it’s for Shan’s stagette, which I wouldn’t miss even if it filled me with anxiety and dread .. which, coincidentally, it totally does.

Shan wants to go drinking and dancing for her stag, so that’s what we’re doing. We’re going to the Waldorf for hip hop night, which I assume will be filled with people in skinny jeans and fringed scarves shuffling ironically to Maestro Fresh Wes and Young MC. The Waldorf scares me as it is – we like to play at hipsterism, but these people are the Real Deal – and bars are my natural enemy. I am desperately uncomfortable in bars. I’ve overcome most of my social anxiety, but it ramps back up to Cold War levels when I’m around drunk people. And clubbing – I don’t even know where to begin with that; everything I know about clubbing I know from TV and it always looks terrifying and complicated. I’m already anxious about being in a dark, loud room full of drunk strangers – I’m expected to move in a rhythmic manner as well?! This entire plan torments me. I asked Twitter what I’m supposed to wear to a clubbing, and was told I need something called a “jet skirt” – I assumed this was a skirt with airplanes on it (which I don’t have, but could make!); but noooooooooo. According to Corinna, it’s “skirt so short you can see the landing strip” .. WHAT THE HELL! WHY IS THIS SO SCARY??!

You know, I am awfully bad at distracting myself – I started to write a blog post to get my mind off some TOP SECRET GOING-ONS that have me stressed out to the point of a stomach ache and no more finger nails, but then I go and write about how stressed out I am about this Friday night. This? Not soothing. I am MADE OF WORRY.

It’s a good thing I love Shan, or I would skip her stag on account of being terrified to the point of incontinence. In fact, would that help? I will totally pee myself if it will help.

What the hell am I going to wear?

Does anyone have an Ambien I can borrow? Oh wait, that’s for sleeping. How about Xanax? That’s for anxiety, right? I am about as good at drugs as I am at clubs.

Kif, I have made it with a woman another bag. Inform the men!

i did not make the robot.

It’s a slightly modified version of the Osoberry Bag, by Katie of Foxflat – I made the bag two inches less wide than the pattern calls for, made two pockets out of the one giant inner pocket, then added snaps to the outer pockets and a fabric-covered button with an elastic loop for closure.

i love pinstripes so hard.

I actually own the cookbook that inspired Katie’s hand-drawn recipe for the bag – I bought it at a used bookstore a million years ago because I liked the drawings. I’ve never made anything from it, because I am not one of those whale-kissing Dukakis-hugging moon maidens. Or, for that matter, a vegan – I just like neat books.

the bag folds over and inside is FANCY TIMES

The inside of the bag is lined with this ridiculously pretty satin stuff I found on Thursday night, and the outside is a grey pinstriped suit material. I wanted to make a bag similar to one I bought at the first Got Craft from Smeeta – I still use it from time to time, but I’m slightly paranoid when I do because it has no closure and my things have fallen out before. So, I made my own now that I am a MASTER SEWIST and all.

pretty!

In total, I think I spent around 6 hours on the bag. I started last night around 7 but had to stop just after ten due to the noise I was making, then finished up this morning. Not bad for a weekend project, and it makes me feel a lot better about my newfound sewing skills after the disastrous skirt on Thursday. I MIGHT start Skirt 2.0 tonight, if I’m feeling brave .. but right now, I am going to eat a food and admire my work.

On Thursday night I was feeling especially ambitious, so I tried to make a skirt. I failed rather spectacularly for a number of reasons; the biggest of them being math: I added extra numbers onto the end of a calculation, which made me a skirt that could have fit four of me. I tried to fix it by making an elastic waistband, but I a) bought the wrong kind and wrong width of elastic, b) went the opposite direction in terms of numbers and cut too many OFF, and c) hadn’t made the skirt long enough to accommodate a folded waistband. I got extremely creative at this point and MADE a casing by sewing a band of scrap all along the top – it would have worked and been wearable (as long as there was no wind and I wore a shirt long enough to hide my messy fixes), if not for problems A and B above. End result: I have a skirt, but it is both too short and too small and none too straight, either. Disappointing, but I will soldier onward – the material can be salvaged for POCKETS, and I’m trying to try the skirt again tonight but maybe this time pay more attention to my numbers.

I still have an issue with length due to the width of the fabric, so I’ve been rummaging through the clothes in the donation pile. I don’t have suitable fabric for a lining and the material is too sheer to wear on its own, so I think I’m going to attempt some sort of base layer out of an upcycled dress. It can’t hurt, right? I tend to look kind of weird most of the time anyway, so no one will bat an eye if I show up in public with wonky hems and scotch-taped seams. I WILL conquer the art of making clothing – I spent a zillion dollars on awesome fabric this week, and I want to make wondrous things out of it all (and I kind of have to, since I’m officially Not Allowed (self-imposed) to buy any more fabric until I use up what I have). CRAFTING! IT IS FUN even though it fucking kills my shoulder!

Sewing is for night times, though. This gorgeous sunny Saturday afternoon calls for a scooter ride!

Put on some tea and grease up the Queen; I’m coming back.

DONG DONG DONG

Vacation time has been approved, flights have been booked, and a VRBO rented for two weeks: we’re going to London. This September is our Ten Slash Fifteen (!?!?); married for 10 and together for 15. Those are nice round numbers, so we’re going to take the last of my severance and go on a crazy London adventure. I can’t wait – I loved London when I was there with Heather and Renee, but our trip was so short. Ed’s never been, and I’m hopping around with anticipation (and a full bladder) at the thought of exploring with him and having enough time to do things thoroughly. I was drooling at these awesome pictures of London at night when I realized that we were so busy trying to cram everything into four days that we wore ourselves out – we didn’t DO London at night, at all. This time? There will be SO MUCH NIGHT.

I am so, so excited. Is it September yet?

LONDON! And maybe Ireland this time!

YAY!