It’s dead, Jim.

On Sunday night, I turned off my iMac because things were dangerously hot to the touch. Unfortunately, the next morning it wouldn’t boot. I started by unplugging peripherals, and eventually narrowed down the problem to my 500GB LaCie external HD – it was dead. Before panicking, I did a little research online and found that the most likely culprit was the power supply, so  I ransacked the house but was unable to find a similar power cable due to the weird-ass configuration of the connector. Refusing to cave in to reality, I set the drive aside to bring into the office hoping that Desktop Support would be able to help me.

This morning I told my sob story to IT Keith, who forced open the casing and connected the SATA drive to his PC. Windows happily read the data, and I was elated – all my music files, pictures, articles, resumes, websites and more for the past 10 years could be rescued! He started transferring the information to my network drive, and I’d be able to transfer it back over to my computer later. Hooray!

Unfortunately, the transfer was taking too long and IT Keith needed his computer back to do actual work. He gave me the drive back and said he’d rig me up a system so I could transfer the info over later. This was cool; I’d still get my stuff back including our wedding pictures and tax returns. I could be patient.

Then the other IT guy arrived, and he brought with him two power supplies that fit my drive. Hooray! We plugged in the first one, but it wasn’t watty enough and it didn’t work. The second was 62w (I needed 57w), so it should be cool.

*pop*

*sizzle*

*smoke and burning*

Um, shit. We quickly unplugged everything before fire could happen, and set about to finding another solution. He took the drive back to his desk to try a hard drive reading toaster and/or his own PC, where he could copy the files and I could retrieve them later.

.. except that pop and sizzle kind of killed the drive for real this time, and it will. not. be. read. by anything we’ve tried. It’s completely, utterly, horribly dead and my data long gone unless I want to pay $600-$1500 to use a data recovery service (which I clearly cannot do). Instead of grabbing the data when I could, or asking if I could just transfer over the truly important stuff, or waiting until I had a PC available to use, we actually killed the drive dead when it was working just fine only minutes before.

I’m trying hard not to think about it, because I have a minor panic attack when I think about what I just lost. Losing all my music is annoying, but I can probably recover most of it. Losing all my written work, IRC logs, websites, pictures – that’s the heartbreaking part. Pictures of Sasha, of my dad, of friends long since grown apart. Images from our wedding and honeymoon, from Ed’s grandparents 50th anniversary, of my snails. My first website, written entirely in humiliating Comic Sans and HTML’d by hand in Notepad. All gone.

It’s beyond heartbreaking to lose all those memories – it’s actually going to cost me my livelihood. You see, I basically grew up online in the infancy of the internet – in 1997, we were doing things so sordid and naked that if they took place today, the devastation caused by moral panic, Fox News and Nancy Grace would spell the end of online life as we know it. Since my very first step online with a 1200bps modem, I’d been storing chat logs, screenshots and pictures away in a secret folder for blackmail purposes. The logs aren’t all that useful anymore; it’s too easy to fake them and a lot is lost in the translation – but the pictures! I have – had – naked pictures of dozens of people, some of whom have gone on to become responsible members of society with jobs and mortgages and cell phones of their own. I had always assumed – counted on, really – that one day I’d shake this annoying tendency to not be an enormous asshole and start threatening to release the information I’d saved unless they funded my cushy lifestyle of no pants and Diet Coke. All my retirement plans just went up in a puff of smoke, and I am utterly desolate and wrought with despair at the loss.

This sucks.

To make me feel better, please email pictures of your genitals to kimli at delicious juice dot com.

OH FUCK – I just realized that I’ve also lost the ICQ log of the conversation Ed and I had the very first time we chatted online, in which he asked me if I’d ever have sex with five guys at once. I’d been planning on suing him for breach of contract, with that as Exhibit A. SHIT! This is SO MANY KIND OF SUCK! I am a sad.

:(

I got a locket today. I asked Twitter what I should put inside the locket, and these were the suggestions I received:

don't look at me, the innernet made the suggestions

@ginallama and @peechie wanted guinea pigs and Justin Bieber; @stepc suggested DNA and drugs (it’s a DNA helix and chemical composition of cocaine); @hessiebell asked for a glitter pug and @sattlerkm wanted a picture of Ed’s wang, and @chrisbrett had the best idea: peanut butter on one side and jelly on the other.

You people are WEIRD. :)

It’s customer appreciation day in my office building, so we get ice cream. I was on my way downstairs with my ice cream ticket clutched in my sweaty elf hands when a gentleman holding a box of ice cream bars got onto the elevator. In the interest of practicing my small talk and to show off my amazing power of observation, I made a witty quip about his having a lot of ice cream. He proceeded to offer it to me, which confused me a little as I was already on my way to get free ice cream; why did I need it from this strange man? When I told him I was good in the ice cream department, he explained that he was going around offering ice cream to people who didn’t get any, and in exchange, he would ask them to come to church. Oh. Okay, then.

I didn’t want to point out the fact that the ENTIRE BUILDING got free ice cream today, that they could get it downstairs from far less creepy people AND that the ice cream downstairs didn’t come with a side of church, but thankfully he got off the elevator on the 6th floor. I turned to the other lady in the elevator who had also made witty small talk about the man’s ice cream and told her what he said before she got on. I don’t think she was amused at the glee I showed at being able to get ice cream without having to go to church, but agreed that it was really fucking weird (maybe not in those words) and she’d have likely turned down strange man cream (again, not her words) as well.

I got my free ice cream without the side of church, and it was delicious. A bright spot in an otherwise terrible day, even if I had to listen to people complain about it on the way back up to the office.

“I can’t believe they only had TWO KINDS of ice cream! This sucks!”, whined the lady holding three ice cream bars. Her friends nodded in agreement, shifting their own ill-gotten treats awkwardly in their arms. The free ice cream was one bar per person, but the ladies cackled at their system-gaming skills and planned to enjoy ice cream for many days to come. Annoyed and unable to keep my mouth shut, I blurted out “but you’ve got FREE ICE CREAM; ice cream you didn’t have two minutes ago. Even if there are only two kinds, how can FREE ICE CREAM be a bad thing?!” Ironically, I knew the answer to my question – when it comes with church, that’s how – but I have very little patience for people who complain just for the sake of not being happy. You got FREE FUCKING ICE CREAM – more than you’re supposed to have, as it was one per person not lie and take four – and you still found something to bitch about? Seriously, how do you get up in the morning? Your life must be terrible.

Lastly, here is a man dressed as a Tetris piece:

this has been the weirdest fucking tuesday

Maxi dresses. I love them, and each summer I spend hours looking at them longingly. I’m not so fashion stupid (shut up) that I don’t know that maxi-length things and my body type go together like Jägerbombs and Tuesday night – it may SEEM like an excellent idea, but the harsh reality in the light of the day is a cruel slap in the face of otherwise. Don’t get me wrong; maxi dresses look amazing on the right body type: tall, slender, willowy bitches look great in that shit. However, I’m the anthropomorphic embodiment of an upside down pear – nothing looks good on me, let alone long clingy elegant dresses.

Of course, knowing that I look like a little kid playing dress up in mommy’s closet doesn’t stop me from wearing things that I really should have left on the rack. I want to wear a maxi dress, and no force in the universe can stop me! Unfortunately, as my entire person is infused with an aura of ridiculous, I’ve got additional problems besides looking like a festive holiday sausage. For one, I’m short. I’m barely over three apples high. I don’t believe in hemming, so anything meant to be ankle length on me is actually beyond perilous – it hits the floor and puddles around my feet. I’ve got dresses so long that I have to hike them up in my fists to walk, a move so sexy I’m surprised people don’t fling themselves at my hidden feet and compare my glory to the sun and stars above. This is problematic for multiple reasons, but none more so than when I forget to lift up my skirts to expose my ankles like the sinful whore I am: I trip on my own skirts. I’ve fallen up stairs, down stairs, off curbs, out of chairs (don’t ask), all because my dresses are way, way too long. Embarrassing, yes, but that’s not even the worst part.

All my maxi dresses are strapless.

When you pull down on a strapless top, boobs will appear.

While Newton’s Law of Gravity has never been so sexy, it’s incredibly awkward to unintentionally flash all of downtown Vancouver. Ironically, I don’t wear maxi dresses often – not because of the inherent danger of tripping over myself with every step I take, but because the shirred style of the dress gives very little opportunity for cleavage. Shirred fabric is the crinkly elastic stuff that stays up by itself, but can’t really be cut into a V or U or be anything but a straight band stretched across your tracts of land (great or otherwise). Unless I yank the whole thing down to just over nipple height (which makes the dress even longer), I’m all covered up and positively oozing with demure respectability. I have no need for this (except for maybe when we go to Harrods in London), but sometimes I want to mix things up a little, and that’s when my less obscene clothing comes out of the closet. These dresses are tucked way in the back, and every once in a while I pull them out and think “man, why don’t I wear this more often”? .. and it isn’t until I’ve tripped over my hem in public and had the entire dress pull down below my breasts, exposing my naked (well, bra’d) rack to the world that I remember why I don’t dress like this.

Sorry, Dunsmuir Street. If I had known you were about to become intimately familiar with my wares, I’d have worn a nicer bra.

with the premiere of "Dancing with the Squirrels", many wondered if reality TV had finally come to an end

I’m out of Diet Coke. I could go get more – if I threw my empty cup out my bedroom window, I would hit the gas station across the street – but then I would have to put on pants.

Do I stay thirsty and pantless, or give in to my unholy desires and get dressed?

WHAT DO I DO??!

(as a matter of fact, this is EXACTLY like having to choose who lives and who dies. shut up.)

I’ve been without my scooter for ten days now, and have no idea when I’ll get her back. I am annoyed and sad and irritated and not used to being without transportation, and my patience is wearing thin. There’s been a distinct lack of communication from the shop – when I finally called last week for an update, I was told they had to order my parts after all and they MIGHT get here next week. This makes me extra super mad, because I could have been (cautiously) riding this whole time and just brought Lola back when they were finally able to make the repairs. Instead, she’s been sitting in a shop or even outside for 9 days doing NOTHING, and I’ve been stuck at home. This fucking sucks. And they can’t give me an estimate on the final damage, OR when I’ll have her back. I am impotent with rage and frustration, and there’s nothing I can do but pout and whine – ineffective and highly annoying. I WANT MY SCOOTER BACK. It’s gorgeous outside, and I should be having adventures. The initial thrill of public transportation has worn off and had a sweaty, hairy man gut stationed in the face, and I loathe needing to take the car everywhere and/or be at the mercy of others for a ride. ANGER! IMPOTENCE! FRUSTRATED FOOT STOMPING! :(

Fury and snarling aside, I’ve had a very productive and varied weekend. Friday night was the Great Trip Planning Session, during which Heather, Renee and I abused our credit cards and ended the night with firm plans and ways to get to, from, and around London and Paris. We worked out the details and prices within pennies, and each purchased an assortment of passes and tickets for the group. $400 each later, it was an expensive but highly satisfying evening – we’re going to PARIS, bitches! I am so excited for our trip I could (and undoubtedly will) squeal!

Yesterday I had the honour of seeing one of my oldest friends get married on False Creek. It was a beautiful wedding with awesome people, and I got a little teary more than once. The weather could not have been any more perfect, the bride was luminous, and the groom is one of my favourite people on this planet: all ingredients for a glorious day. Watching the bride with her father made me realize how lucky I was to get married while my own dad was still healthy and able to travel – having him walk me down the aisle is something I’ll never forget, and while I’m still pissed that he died, I’m glad I had that moment.

There is nothing on my plate today. Tomorrow, though: playing hooky! I took the day off,, and I’m going to the PNE. Corn Dogs and Tilt-a-Whirl, here I come!

pink!

i love this city.

For the last couple days I’ve had a routine – wake up, pee, restock my Tiny Tower, say hello to the three cats, then check on my pigeons. Coco and Dirk were wide awake this morning, and much more active than the last few days. I watched as Coco hopped all over the tiny balcony surface, looking all around her and even tapping on the glass – when I had a sudden flash of insight: my pigeons weren’t just friendly birds living on our balcony to make friends, they were STUCK. I watched the smaller of the two birds stretch out her wings and try vainly to get some lift, but the depth of the balcony is less than a foot – there simply wasn’t enough room for a full wing span and/or flight. I took my new theory to Ed, who immediately saw the logic in it. He got out of bed and donned some armour (a hoodie and a pair of gardening gloves) and went to work.

Thing is, the balcony is called a Juliet balcony for a reason – there isn’t enough room to even stand out there, let alone rescue some birds. He tried several times to (gently) grab one of the birds, but they just hopped to the other side and far away from Ed. This was frustrating, but it proved my theory – if the birds could get out, they’d definitely fly away from the giant wingless bird flapping senselessly at their bodies. Manually grabbing the birds was an epic failure, so Ed and I bandied about some other ideas for bird rescue, each more outlandish than the last. Then, just as suddenly as my flash of insight about being stuck came, Ed had a BRILLIANT IDEA: hockey stick.

He grabbed his hockey stick from the office and gently put it on the balcony. He tried to scoop up the birds like a spatula, but this just scared them. Finally, he moved the stick under the pigeon’s feet, and when the bird stepped onto the blade, he sloooowly raised the stick up to the top of the balcony. As soon as it was flush with the top, Coco hopped onto the railing and took off into the morning sun. Success! Ed repeated his Pigeon Elevator Service for Dirk, and he too flew off as soon as he could. Ed was very rightfully pleased with himself, as was I for realizing the predicament in the first place. We are Pigeon Saviours! I am proud of our Pigeon Wrangling ways! I will miss Coco and Dirk for the mild amusement they brought me, but I certainly wouldn’t have wanted them to starve to death on my balcony so this is for the best. Hooray! Good luck to you, Coco and Dirk!

Last Tuesday night, Heather and I went to glass fusing class. It wasn’t so much “glass fusing” as it was “glass gluing” – you arrange your pieces, then they take it away for firing and you can pick it up in a week. Still, we had a lot of fun and are making plans to do it again.

I didn’t have any ideas going into the class, but eventually decided on a theme of “drunken Tetris”:

so bad at tetris

See, you’re not only really drunk and therefore bad at Tetris, you’re SO drunk that Space Invaders are showing up on your screen for NO REASON.

Making the Space Invader was a pain in the ass, as I had to cut all the “pixel” chips individually:

boop boop beep i am a space invader

Still, I was kind of happy with how he turned out given my utter lack of artistic ability.

Also, I made a thing:

seen here: one thing

I picked up our pieces last night, and they turned out kind of neat:

omg i'm like sooo drunk

Everything is all blobby, including my space intruder:

*bubble noises*

Nothing melted quite flat, but it looks pretty cool and the fancy glass I used for the long Tetris piece is awesome:

it doesn't actually show up here so you'll have to take my word of awesome

Super fun crafty goodness. As much as trying to do pixel stuff in glass was time consuming and difficult, I’m kind of in love – it would be fun to do a whole series of video game themed things. The plate I made is 8×8, but I could get behind doing a set of coasters or something with a single image on it (I added the space invader because there was too much white space on my ‘screen’). Hmm. Must plan additional crafts. Fun, and it keeps me out of trouble. It’s win win!

Heather went for pretty, and made a flowery plate:

less drunken, more pretty!

Her pendant turned out really nice as well:

pretty!

My smaller piece turned out .. okay. I made the mistake of using glass that was too dark for the surface, and they melted down into blobs. When held up to the light it looks pretty awesome, but it wouldn’t make a particularly attractive necklace so I’ll likely use it as a sun catcher in a window for full non-blobbiness.

Coco and Dirk update: they’re still there. No nest, but they’re not leaving. Wonder if they’ve decided to move in?

We have new friends:

cooooo? coo. coo coo coo.

Our condo building has a problem with pigeons living in our parkade. They’d nested above the 2nd gate, and pooped everywhere. At one point I think there were several pigeon couples living in there; at least one nestful of babies had been laid, hatched, and grew up all underground. The gate was wide enough to allow the pigeons to hop through, so they added wire screens between the bars. This meant the birds couldn’t come and go at will, but that didn’t really faze them – they simply waited until cars came or went, and flew out to get food. Pigeons are creepy smart, and they managed to circumvent or just plain ignore every anti-pigeon measure that went up in our building. They’re the avian equivalent of the honey badger – they just do not care.

I never had a problem with the pigeons. I talked to them when I passed, and in my head we had excellent conversations about seeds and feathers. Yes, the disturbing amounts of bird poop they left in our parkade was kind of gross, but they never pooped on me or Lola and we have a maintenance man equipped with a hose, so .. no biggie. The building people didn’t share my nonchalance though, and eventually installed bird spikes on every possible surface which drove the birds out once and for all. I kind of missed them, but I am not right in the head sometimes.

Yes, the pigeons were driven out of our parkade .. only to relocate to a new, even better home: the Juliet balcony of Sparta.

Lemon was the first one to discover the birds – he spent hours perched in front of the sliding door, swishing his tail impotently. Yesterday I decided to find out exactly what he was doing, and I found the pigeons hanging out in the sun without a care in the world:

i eat them now, yes?

When Ed came home, I showed him our new friends and we named them: Coco and Dirk. Ed isn’t too thrilled with our new additions, but I like the pigeons. We sat watching them for a long time, and Ed took some video. There’s a screen door on our balcony (as with all our windows), so I opened the sliding door to see if my new friends would bolt: they didn’t. All that separated their fat little bodies from the certain doom at the teeth of an inbred cat was 16 inches and a piece of mesh, but they were unconcerned about any of it. When the noise from traffic became too loud and obnoxious to bear, I closed the sliding door and went inside to restock my damn tower again, thinking the birds would likely fly away to greener pastures.

That didn’t happen, even though I hung out with them several more times during the evening. Before I turned in for the night I checked once again, and the birds were fast asleep – fluffy feathers and heads under wings and all. They were also there when I woke up this morning; one still asleep and the other looking around for new, exciting places to poop. I don’t want to get too attached to the pigeons – Lucy and Hunky Pete will be the only bird couple for me – but I can’t help but squee a little bit at my new friends, dumb though they may be (I tried feeding them some bread, but they just looked at it and hopped away from me when I tried to get it closer to them). Will they still be there when I get home tonight? Who knows. Ed hopes not, but I kind of like them. They’re no pug, but .. y’know. Animals. I like ’em.

.. is not nearly as exciting or existent as it is in my head.

We’re doing criminal record checks at work, and I am perversely excited about it. This is sad on a number of levels: that I have little to no problem with an invasive look at my past misdeeds; that I have a thousand and one inappropriate jokes to make about the whole situation at work but I really can’t shouldn’t; that my own background check will come back cleaner than fresh snow falling softly on a newborn babe (who should really be inside, you monster). I have nothing to disclose (that wouldn’t be already on my blog anyway) to anyone that would shock or titillate; no double-life as a criminal mastermind that I’m desperate to hide from prying eyes. Yes, there was that time I was in an Asian Youth Gang, but I used to be an Asian Youth – anything I ever did was my “being in a gang”. Also, never been convicted of anything. So there’s that.

I have to admit my nose is a little out of joint, though – I just got an email from my boss asking me to not be involved at all with the background check process. I’d been going around with the HR guy to hand out forms and act as comic relief (as well as provide any missed information/accuse random people of having mafia ties), which makes perfect sense to me – nothing can be all bad if it’s all hilarious. From an HR standpoint though, this isn’t the best way to deal with the situation because it is Serious Times. Serious Times are as alien to me as family is; everything is funny. When things stop being funny, it’s time to be cremated. In the Game of Kimli, you laugh or you die.

My boss did reassure lil’ ol’ hypersensitive me that I didn’t do anything wrong, so I suppose I will stop pouting. Just in time, too – a large shipment of new minifigures just arrived for me so I am far too busy opening new Legomans to be petulant. Especially since the first figure I opened is in the middle of suicide. Oh, Lego! You joker you!

pre-release legomans, bitches.