I ambushed a small child yesterday, and took her cookies (in exchange for money).

It’s Girl Guide cookie season, and they’re selling the GOOD cookies (not the chocolate mint horrors). In Canada we only get two kinds of cookies – the awesome sandwich ones, and the ones that suck (unlike you Americans who have untold numbers of fabled deliciousness that we can only imagine and get confused with savoury Indian pocket snacks every time) – so when the good cookies come around, it’s time to celebrate.

Unfortunately, those of us who are not “yummy mummies” (more on that later) do not have access to small children in Girl Guides who want to sell cookies to us. We dried-up barren skanks (who don’t deserve to be called women) aren’t blessed with the preciousness of fertility and sacred bonds; keeping us from fulfilling our purpose here on earth – and as punishment, no cookies. We have to go elsewhere for our fix (much like we do to scratch our slut itches): dark alleys and street corners (familiar grounds to us prostitutes on birth control); office buildings and supermarket parking lots.

I don’t know how this post about cookies turned into an angry feminist rant, but these things happen sometimes.

Back to the cookies. I’ve been trying to get my hands on some for weeks; ever since Heather and I saw them being sold on corner of Hastings and Nanaimo. We were driving past and didn’t think it a good idea to entice a small child to our car by holding money out of the window, so we drove off without cookies but with a powerful hunger for expensive treats that we could easily find on a supermarket shelf for half the price but without the Girl Guide logo stamped into them. I’ve kept an eye out, but haven’t seen anyone selling cookies .. until yesterday.

I was downtown for an appointment and on my way to meet Ed when a small girl joined me at the elevator. She was carrying two cases of Girl Guide cookies; the siren song of which is so powerful that it overthrew my natural tendency to avoid children at all costs. I asked if the cookies were all for her, or if she was selling them – and like magic, a parent appeared and said they were selling them. Hooray! I even had cash on me, so I happily forked over $10 for two boxes of deliciousness and went on my merry way. Success! And the small child was not at all traumatized by my obvious baby-eating ways! It’s a win for everyone involved.

So hey, what the fuck is up with referring to yourself or others as a “yummy mummy” ? I get that you may want to feel attractive after giving birth (see, I’m getting better – I didn’t say “pooping out a child” or “becoming a human feed bag”), but something about the phrase “yummy mummy” just squicks me out. I don’t like how the words sound together, and it’s just the whole damn thing – it’s .. like .. trying to be sexy by infantilizing it, which clashes with the very idea of being sexy in the first place. It’s icky. Unless, of course, by “yummy” you don’t mean “damn I am a hot piece of ass with this giant diaper bag and baby wipes tucked into my bra” but “I am a delicious meal”, which could be taken in several different ways (most of them hilarious).

Also – and here’s the big thing – the dictionary definition of “mummy” is:

1. the dead body of a human being or animal preserved by the ancient Egyptian process or some similar method of embalming
2. a dead body dried and preserved by nature
3. a withered or shrunken living being
4. a dry, shriveled fruit, tuber, or other plant organ, resulting from any of several fungous diseases

SO SEXY

couldn't you just eat her up?

Nothing makes a girl book a haircut faster than looking in the mirror and seeing Gowan staring back at you.

I made my hood exactly for situations like this – gross and rainy, no jacket, no umbrella. Was I smart enough to actually bring it with me today? Of course not – between my car and the front door of the space station, I got soaked and now my hair is fluffy. It looks about as awesome as you might expect (ie: not at all), which is getting in the way of my world domination. No one takes a leader with fluffy hair seriously.

I couldn’t decide which belt to wear this morning, so I wore three of them. I am not used to belts – they exist to hold up pants, and I do not wear pants. I added them to my dress to break up the never-ending sea of chambray, which worked quite well .. and if one belt was good, three belts could only be MORE GOOD. Look for me downtown this afternoon; I’ll be the one who looks more good (from the neck down).

In other news, why you have to go and make things so complicated? I see the way you’re acting like you’re somebody else; gets me frustrated.

Yeah, it’s THAT kind of Tuesday. Strap yourself in, kids.

Now that I’ve showered and successfully integrated myself into society, I can show off the hood I made:

from the side i am not at all a creepy goth elf

It’s reversible; the other side has the same mushrooms as the tote bag I made.

yes i am wearing my hood in space

Fun times. Fun, messy times. I may never get all the thread leavings out of my carpet, but I am okay with that.

After work today, I have to go pick up our Wedding Clothes. We’re both in the wedding party, and our clothes needed fixing: Ed’s pants had to be hemmed, and because I am always made of difficult, my dress both had to have the zipper replaced (it came broken) and to be let out in the hips a little (I am hippy). The alterations didn’t cost too much, but I’m sad I can’t just wear my dress straight out of the bag like Miranda and Kris can. Hell, even if I didn’t need additional hip room I’d require the alteration: broken zipper is not good times, and it gave me a mighty complex that we completely fucked up my nipple span measurement and the dress didn’t fit. Thankfully, the dress fits fine .. it could just be a little less tight in the hips, have a zipper that wasn’t fucked up, and maybe have less of a cummerbund; something specific to me because I am two feet tall with no torso. I mean, if we’re wishfully thinking, and all.

I have SO MANY THINGS going on that I can’t write about, and it’s giving me mega marbles.

Instead, here is the Glitter Crow:

caw.

I may have forgotten Earth Hour (sorry, planet – I’ll make it up to you tonight), but I have CONQUERED THE UNIVERSE (if by “universe” you mean “threading my sewing machine”, which I clearly do).

It was determined that yesterday was to be DDD-Day: Deacon’s Corner for brunch, Cartems for Donuts, and Dressew for supplies. Gillian couldn’t join Heather and I for the afternoon of sewing, but we had a good morning before parting ways – then Heather and I took over Sparta and crafted up the world. She made most of an awesome dress, and I made this hood and an awesome purse:

sewing !!

There’s even a goddamn pocket:

pocket will HOLD THINGS!

If that wasn’t enough, today I decided to do some BUNTING:

a-bunting we will go

YAY! SEWING!

I *think* I may have overcome my fear of threading, too – Heather showed me last night, and today I actually changed the thread out four times as I sewed up things requiring different colours. I’m dying to make some skirts already, but I’m not quite ready to tackle things that don’t go on my head or shoulder -sewing recipes scare me. They’re full of words and measurements and instructions that I don’t understand at all (which bothers me, because instructions are sort of my thing), so I need to have someone on hand to translate “pinch one bottom corner so that the side seam and bottom seam touch on the inside of the bag. The corner will form a triangle. Make sure the side and bottom seams line up on the inside. Mark 2 1⁄2” from the tip of the triangle to form the other two sides of the triangle” into regular words, because what the fuck.

I like making things!

Domesticity will continue well into the night: I’m making thai food. Hooray!

When I conquer skirts, my wardrobe is going to be SO MUCH MORE RIDICULOUS.

Yessssssssssssssssssss.

If my blog was a child, it would have some pretty serious resentment towards me and my blasé remembrance of significant dates. It would also likely be pestering me for a cell phone, want (or if it took after me, need) a training bra, and require a PG-13 version of “the talk” which I completely wouldn’t know how to deliver without using finger puppets and screaming “NEVER GO A2M” over and over again which would probably be incredibly traumatic. So, it’s good for everyone that my blog is NOT a child, but rather just a personal website that I’ve now been writing on for 11 years.

Honestly, this past year has been a big struggle and it often felt like I was limping towards some unknown finish line somewhere in front of me. I don’t know what the future holds for me or for Delicious Juice Dot Com, but I mightily appreciate every one of you who’ve taken the time to read my words over the past 11 years. You guys are awesome; I’m just some idiot with an internet connection and a whole lot of cleavage.

Thanks for being out there, y’all.

when my blog turns 15, i'm making it get a damn job

I skipped therapy in February, and had to move last Friday’s appointment to this week. I know I’m going to be annoyed to have to go to the mall on a Friday night after work, but I think I might need the session. I always feel better after therapy, and right now I could use some feeling better – nothing’s really wrong, but I’m out of sorts. Grumpy. Cranky. Scowling at everything. Panties in a bunch; woke up on the wrong side of the bed for two weeks running. I don’t like myself like this, so it’s time to fix it.

I almost broke my neck this morning by accidentally stepping on the cutting board in my shower. Don’t you hate it when that happens?!

I wonder if I just need some sunshine. And an all-new wardrobe. It took forever to get dressed this morning, because I suddenly hated everything in my closet.

Go away, crazy! I do not want to deal with you!

As I ease myself back into space, I’ve been working with the support team to learn their methods and absorb their life energies (becoming more powerful than you could possibly imagine). This is fine with me – what better way to learn about all the things I’m totally going to change than to do the job in the first place? – but I am being seriously restrained, and I’m not at all used to it. This is only my 8th day on the job, but I am used to working at lightning speeds and pulling miracles out of my ass on a regular basis – so to be told that I can’t answer tickets or help people yet until .. well, I’m not sure until what. Just “not now”. This stinks, and I am bristly with being held back – I LIKE helping people. I’m GOOD at solving problems, and I’m BORED otherwise. I’d much rather jump in with both feet and poke around, figuring out things and generally spreading my awesomeness around like a virulent strain of full contact herpes. I’m completely not used to being the new girl who doesn’t know anything; I always have all the answers – so let me learn by doing, instead of waiting for someone to have the time to hold my hand when I’m already operating at warp 6.

We’re short staffed today, so I’m forcing myself into the queue and answering tickets. TAKE THAT! I WILL HELP YOU WHETHER I’M SUPPOSED TO OR NOT! neener neener can’t stop me i’m the magic man

Baby steps are for losers.

I couldn’t find elastics this morning, so I attempted to make ponytails using craft wire. Apparently this is a strange thing to do (and it didn’t work very well), because Ed laughed at me. What does he know? His hair’s never been longer than 2″. He knows not of girlie hair issues, like dealing with accidental orange hair. It’s not as bright today, which is good – it’s less “traffic cone” and more “Japanese girl got into the bleach again”. I might buy some black and go over it again; I might not care enough either way. Oh, apathy! You are so responsible for most of my ridiculousness!

Well, let’s start with the positives:

• My white hairs are completely covered
• The pillowcases will probably be okay after they’ve been washed
• I really like the black parts that didn’t get covered
• No chemicals!
• I can do another coat in a darker colour immediately if I want
• Even though my pillows look like I murdered someone with a hammer, you can’t see the stains with new pillowcases on
• I like the earthy smell, so I can live with my tragic pillows
• It doesn’t look THAT bad

On the other hand ..

• I feel like I should be singing a duet with Ozzy
• SO. MUCH. ORANGE.
• Seriously, I bought “Caca Rouge” not “Caca ALL THE ORANGE”
• I kind of really did ruin my pillows, but I love them so I’ll ignore the stains
• I should have known that I can’t remain still while sleeping; the saran wrap night cap was a bad idea
• ORANGE

hello i'm ORANGE

huh.

Does it look as bad as I fear it does? :(

We bought the Mazdabator just before the mp3 craze truly took off, which means our car is pretty much the only one on the road that doesn’t have an auxiliary port to plug in an iPod. We’re limited to CDs and the radio, and that sucks – it’s what I imagine life was like before the Industrial Revolution, complete with cholera and Typhoid Mary’s deadly peach melba reducing life expectancies everywhere.

To get around only being able to listen to 20 songs at once instead of several thousand, we use an FM transmitter. It used to be an excellent workaround, until technology took another leap forward – now I’m experiencing a wide variety of increasingly ass-marbling problems that have me wanting to sell the car and get a new one, all because I hate the radio.

Yes, I’m aware of how utterly ridiculous and first world that sounds. I kind of hate myself for it, but only until I get into the car again and oh look it’s the 1700s and I need doctor orgasms to cure my hysterics. I’m tired of the static, clunkiness of the transmitter, and other people: if I drive by anyone using any kind of device on the same frequency, it bleeds over and plays through my radio instead of my own music. It happens way more often than it used to, and is getting worse – this morning I was stopped at a traffic light when someone in a car near me unintentionally forced their music on my ears. This would be annoying enough – I was really into whatever the hell I was listening t0 – but the final insult to injury was the song that bled in.

Mother FUCKER.

Ed, we need a new car.

what up, jerk cat