Sup-er-femme(?)

So call me redundant, but I must call attention to today's 'word of the day' as displayed by dictionary.com.
"Trencherman= a hearty eater". For some reason this word gives me the utmost delight. Yes, let's celebrate those with a healthy penchant to provide the body with sustenance. Not gorging. Not gluttony. But eating with heart. Enjoying your individual feeding frenzy. I do admit this particular word is too masculine. Let's have a happy word for the female love of food. One that doesn't connote a girl with a problem. Suggestions?

Event horizons

So I decided to make myself a little timeline today — of all the things I need to accomplish in the next six months. I spread out all my goals along the calendar line, leaving a little breathing room between the marks. Because breathing is one thing I often forget to do.

Then I checked my horror-scope. Just because. And dang if my numbers and the astrologer's didn't match up. Sometimes it's so hard not to believe.

"You may have given up on a special deal, or believed that you'd never get a certain promotion or offer that you dearly wanted, but hang on! The days near November 20 may prove that you should still believe in miracles."

[Maybe I will meet that deadline.]

"If you aim for a bigger job and a better title, the eclipse on March 3, 2007, will probably change your career life anyway in a big dramatic way, so wait until then before making any decisions."

[Maybe I will change jobs. But why worry. It'll work itself out.]

"Romantically, December will be your big month, but you will see things start to sparkle now, the moment the Sun moves into Sagittarius on November 23."

[Maybe I will find love... Okay—I added this to my calendar after I read the 'scope. It was lacking spice.]

True Inspiration

We started out slow and now we are going steady. I'm at his place everyday, and you will be too in no time. Guaranteed. I'm still waiting for wikipedia to formally define "Sartorialist". It seems in the realm of dandy, fop or popinjay. The man speaks of pocket squares daily! Sigh. I've fallen for him.

NEED ADVICE? WANT TO TALK?

Need an idiosyncratic, playful, repetitive and oft humorous answer to your burning daily uncertainties? Check out this site for Stein-inspired responses:

http://www.askgertrude.net/



"Either the one or the other is useful and both are so pleasing to the ear and eye.
I have the eye but not the hand of an artist."
G

We are so Sex in the City...on paper.

Chapter 27: Violet and her Foray into Online Dating

"No. You're the wrong kind of weird."

Cashmere Gathering

When I was seven, it was Cinderella...

Nowadays, it's more Lady Windermere's Fan...

Getting crafty

Find your inner craft.
www.etsy.com

Drunken museum, smart Russian

Russia has opened a vodka museum.

I think Russia just discovered the best and cheapest way to draw a hip, young crowd to museums: drinking. If you promise them vodka, I'm pretty sure they will come to your exhibition.

Shelfari, the virtual bookshelf

Wow. Shelfari is a rather wikked online organizing tool that let's you show off your shelf, connect with your bookish friends, and talk about what your are passionate about: books.

And yet, I'm worried. All this organizing and sharing cuts in to my precious and scant reading time. As always, online life is ironical.

I love fall

It is fall; my favorite time of year.

It is cold and wet and when I get home from work I say...

Hello fireplace.
Hello sweatpants.
Hello glass of wine.
Hello couch.
Hello BBC Canada.

and all with out a smidgen of guilt.


I love Fall.

French finance minister got game

The French government has taken a gaming approach to try and find a solution to the country's financial challenges. Budget Minister Jean-Francois Cope has launched an online Cyberbudget game that allows people to balance the books. The challenge is to ensure the €300 billion budget is spent wisely and that if tax cuts are made then services do not fall into deficit. There are a range of tests to face, including having to present the budget to a virtual parliament. [via Social Impact Games]

I envy the "so fucking French" French. They're hip, cool and vanguard, right down to their finance minister who commissioned a video game that allows chaque personne française simple à posit ones own solutions to common budget problems.

See the pictures below?
Can you guess which one is the French finance minister?
And which one is the Canadian finance minister?

I thought so.

Second Life is the new D+D

Have you heard of Second Life? It's a 3-D virtual world entirely built and owned by its residents. (Since opening to the public in 2003, it has grown explosively and today is inhabited by a total of 1,049,837 people from around the globe.)

Strange times.

Apparently you can actually buy, sell and set up real estate in this cyberworld, which you exchange via Second Life dollars, AKA "Linden Dollars".

I've signed on as Violet Cydrome (you have to select from a range of last names). My avatar is some cyberpunk babe – shock and awe.

I'm excited about the concept, but a tad suspicious of the economic mandate (you have to pay to play). I'm worried it's a place without the political mores and balance of a "Buy Nothing Day" movement. But I haven't investigated this world. If it hasn't already, I'm looking forward to a time when the political urest rears its monstrous and beautiful head (a predictable future predicated on the past). Avatar heads will roll.

Like I have enough time in the day to frequent another world. This world is really too much with us...cyberoaches.

Reflecting birthday wishes

You know what I really hate? Sentimental birthday cards with blurry photos of flowers, kitties and/or puppies on the cover, ones that sheath an epic poem of saccharine proporations celebrating all things mushy — like the one pictured above.

You know what I really love? This particular card's inherent irony. Read the text.

The well-wisher might as well have said: "Hey, friend, even though it's your special day, you should thank me for being me — because I'm such a wicked-awesome and unique person... You know what? Screw wishing you a happy birthday. I'm going to celebrate me with this card. And remind you of the fact that you're really lucky that someone as great as me is your friend."

It's Mata Hari's birthday on Friday and Figure8's on Saturday...I'm pretty sure they know how lucky they are to know me, so I'm not going to send them a card reminding them.

Random

The word random is used to express lack of purpose, cause, order, or predictability in non-scientific parlance.

I wonder if online linking will re-define the term?

Random links, and their transmittal, seem to be predictable these days. You definitely know when some link you received in a random email is going to be a big hit.

Why do you know this?

How do you know that a video of a man bashing a disco record over his head will tickle a global funnybone?

And chaos ?— the primal emptiness of space? Well, the Greeks hadn't encountered our space or myspace when they coined the term chaos.

Certainly there are other words to describe our space. Certainly their are patterns and organization here, in this empty space.

But our interaction with it?

Isn't it rather random and chaotic?

We're viral. And viral always signifies, but does not necessarily mean, social chaos, something we can't control.

I seek random and chaos, but my room is rather clean; my flight or fight of fancy is too highly attuned to negotiate this here rote world.

I really do think I was born a warrior princess who is bored with a world stacked up with too many matresses — too numbed to the peas of life.

Meh. A glass of wine and my world unravels.

p.s. Click on the random link a few times. This wikipedia link will shunt you to random pages. Gawd I love Wikipedia. It's the best random around. So full of it.

Original borat

My tall 1.84 cm (6.2 feet) My weight 78 kg.

My eyes green .. I live alone !!!!!!!!!

I have home - car ...

Hey, look everybody. It's your boyfriend.

As well as the inspiration for Sasha Baron Cohen's character Borat... I wonder who inspired Bruno?

Family bonding

My parents visit Vancouver once a year. Or less if they can help it. They don't like 'the city'. My Dad occasionally refers to people here as P.R.C.Ks (yep, sans "i")and gets flustered if there is more than 12 people on the sidewalk. Regardless, I'd say this was certainly our most successful visit. I can't take credit for the lovely time they had, however. To that I must credit the Vancouver Police Department.

The first time they visited I put a lot of time and energy into planning our outings. A trip to the museum of Anthropology, a historical tour of Chinatown, a play. Dad fell asleep in the play and started snoring. I mentioned the walking tour of historic Chinatown and he let out a dark & heavy sigh, "Awwh, do we have to...?"

This trip, however, I let nature have 'er way with us. Screw the road trips up to Shannon falls and the Lynn Canyon. Screw Fisherman's wharf and Go Fish's seething line up. All they really wanted was blood.

Thanksgiving Sunday morning. I've just come back from a run (read slow painful jog). Dad and Mom are at the window exclaiming with glee that there is a policeman with a dog on the street below our apartment. Ha! Yokles, Ha! Ultramaroons. Ha! Hayseeds.

I go to the window and see a policeman and his dog sniffing our street like a pig scenting truffles. The dog forcefully jumps into some low lying bush on the street, squats and begins to back out with all its might. He has a guy by the ankle. An actual guy! By the ankle! The dog-police-trainer-guy starts screaming at the top of his lungs to cease and desist (and the last thing that dog wants to do is let go of the guy) but he finally does. The cops jump on the guy and with a knee between the shoulder blades they cuff him and the coppers begin to compare notes in a jocular way. At this point Mom and Dad are having the time of their lives. It's the best of all possible realities. It's like we are watching TV, but we're not. It's like we're interacting with each other, but we're not. It's like something happen to bring us together, but it didn't. Cool.

Anyway. The result is there is still blood on the sidewalk from where the guy bled all over the place. Who knew dog-teeth wounds bled so much? Why don't they clean that up? Maybe I should call the cop-shop and inquire. I just might do that.

A successful trip all around. I bet my Dad has told this story to his dentist by now.

Me and you and you and me

So, Heidi Lament can send out group emails, but she can't post on GBS. Shame on her. In extreme retaliation I'm going to post her latest group email game...

Here's what she sent, responses redacted. It's up to you to respond, and/or lie, in the comments section kids... and make up some weird pseudonym that hints at who you are, what you're like, and how I may or may not know you.

Why would you bother doing this? Just to take the piss out of me. By posting one simple little nickname, you will set me ruminating on your being for days — fun for you, hell for me.

A: FOUR JOBS I HAVE HAD IN MY LIFE
B: FOUR MOVIES I WOULD WATCH OVER AND OVER
C: FOUR PLACES I HAVE LIVED
D: FOUR TV SHOWS I LOVE TO WATCH
F. FOUR PLACES I HAVE BEEN ON HOLIDAY (vacation)

Woolf-child Howls

"Those elderly ladies, who sit on the edge of ballrooms sampling the stuff of humanity between finger and thumb and breathing so evenly that the necklaces, which rise and fall upon their breast, seem to represent some elemental force, concluded, a little smilingly, that she would do."

- Night and Day (1919)

*sigh*
That is why I love Virginia Woolf.

Sucky connections

Cable Internet connections suck. Just thought I'd take the time (out) to let you know.

Do the capgras for Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving means surviving family gatherings... with only a few minor bruises.

Oh, I know you love each and every one of your family members. I do too... really. I also happen to know that alcohol helps keep these situations loving -- and television too.

But for those of you out there whose gala keg of familial love has run dry and whose sanity is reaching the breaking point, I recommend the following diversionary tactic:

1. Pick a family member, any family member will do.
2. Start quietly insisting that the chosen member has been replaced by an identical looking imposter.
3. At dinner, say things like, "you've never said anything like that before" and "Oh really... how would YOU know that?"
4. When you talk to your chosen member, really look at them -- hard. Squint your eyes, raise one eyebrow.
5. Continue alternating steps 3 and 4 until the tryptophan sends the whole lot of them them into coma-land.
   

The Capgras delusion or Capgras' syndrome is a rare disorder in which a person holds a delusional belief that an acquaintance, usually a close family member or spouse, has been replaced by an identical looking imposter.

Egg full of cartons

I'm currently sussing out the "center of the world". That's right: I'm currently hanging out in Toronto. And let me tell you, this impromptu trip, which I accidently started a day early, is already shaping up to be just the thing for my "all work and no play" head ache. A little scrambling of the egg carton gets the brain sparking again, I now realize. A rather gemini strategy, I know, but then I am one. So there you have it. I'm at the center of the world.

Delicious nothing sandwich

What did I do last weekend? So kind of you to ask.

I did nothing. Glorious nothing.

My weekend was one tasty "nothing sandwich".

Let me give you the recipe:

Bread: On Friday I got myself a cheap bottle of wine and a slice of pizza and dragged my processed food items and computer into my room, shut the door and proceeded to watch three hours of MI5. It's just good and bad enough to watch when you are dead beat tired.

Meat: Saturday night I checked out the Junior Boys' early show. (You can listen to some of their songs here.) They're smart, gang-of-four boys who play solid electronic beats for flocks of seagulls. What a trip hearing a contemporary band mashing and recombing sounds from your youth. A heady brew indeed.

Mayo: After the show and some greasy food and strong martinis, Heidi Lament and I trucked off to Commercial drive to demolish a house with the lord of the dance. Thanks Golden Ears for helping me cut a good rug.

Bread: Um. I watched the remaining MI5 episode and finished reading Guy Gavriel Kay's recent historical fantasy, The Last Light of the Sun. Screw being a warrior princess. I want to be Cyngael warrior who calls vikings and wolf dogs friends.

I know it sounds lame, but I feel totally refreshed for having savoured my nothing sandwich all weekend long. Now that I've got the recipe down, I'm thinking about adding veggies... nah.

The scale's fuct in this town

Vegas.

Big hotels. Bigger city blocks. Even bigger tourists.

Not that I can complain, I looked fucking good down there. Especially according to the the scales in my hotel room, set a judicious 10 lbs lighter.

*Well, maybe I will partake of that international buffet*.

Does anyone really fall for that maybe-you're-not-such-a-fat-bastard-after-all ploy?

Mind you...how often can you get pork dumplings, quesadillas, fish sticks, dry ribs, shrimp cocktail, teryaki and potatoes au gratin all in the same sitting?



oh yeah... and don't forget the PR.

About us, the bitches

We cherish our style guides
like most treasure chocolate.
And savor bad puns,
etymology and
good, strong coffee
a little more often
than we care to admit.

My hero

I could talk on and on about
all the amazing spandex costumes
on spandexman.com.

Underroos, fetishes, man-boys,
Plato's notion of true love,
packages, the beauty of
skin-colour fabric.

Or I could just freak out about the "Click to change" view buttons on the site. That, in my humble opinion, really sells these unitards.

So much expression.
They're jaunty and casual and you can tell
these men just love wearing them.
Mega panache.

So je ne sais quois...

Who's dreams? Your dreams? My dreams.

I met an amazing woman this summer, who, for the most part (if you glanced over the tragic relationship with the man who she was with for 20 years, whom she still co-owned her home with, but did not live with since he had decided to have an affair with the renter of their previous home on the same property about five years ago, but whose son and his girlfriend she still entertains as if it were her own son and guest in the home that his father is not allowed to live in since he still has 'relations' with the new woman), has had a good life. She has a lovely little house with a beautiful garden, pictures of her travels all over the world, and a smile that beckons even the most shy out of the shadows.

I want those things (save the tragic relationship, which, hopefully, is behind me) now. I want to have the intensely satisfying career and the cozy home on the beautiful property and wisdom etched into the backs of my hands from the sands of Morocco and from washing potatoes to store for the winter. I want free time to figure out the best recipe for using up the last of the huckleberries and accolades from my peers all over the world. And I have to wait. I have to wait probably as long as she did, and considering she is 40 years older than me, that might be quite some time.

But, in the age of immediate gratification and lack of patience for developing self, that sounds like a lifetime. Strange thing is, it is. And it probably felt like it then.

No syns for synonym

So you you intend to type "bacteria" into an online dictionary search field, but key in synonym by mistake. Curious, you think to yourself — is there a synonym for synonym? Guess what.

There is no synonym for synonym.

Paglia snacks on Antoinette

Heck. I've always gotten a kick out of rubble rousing Camille Paglia. She certainly knows how to get the media's attention — at least she did back in the days of Madonna-styled feminism (which by the way I prefer to the current Britney-styled mommyism).

Speaking of bitches... I have to give her some sort of nod for dishing about our queen bitch "Marie Antoinette and why she is back in vogue..."

Personally, I would have liked to see her take on gen y in this view, but alas, she went the way of post 9/11 times. Everybody's doing it. And Paglia has never really been a vanguard when it comes to theory.

Invisible cake is so much easier to digest. Though not half as fulfilling.

Shadowing art works

Feed the right side of your brain writing from Vancouver's left side: Doppelganger magazine. They are devoted to publishing lively, intelligent, and critical writing on visual art and literature.

They are interested in boundaries.
Boundaries, they are interested in.
Interested in boundaries, they are.
In boundaries, they are interested.
Are they interested in boundaries?

Love affairs are like words. If you stare at them too long they deconstruct before your eyes and lose their meaning. It is better to scan them briefly to get the sentence of your heart.

Technological Smackdown

So the boy has been in Vegas for T=longtime.

Since he's been gone I've learned a lot.

a) I touch my face too much
b) If I let my hair air dry, I really do look like Lou Ferrigno
c) I have WAY over plucked my right eyebrow
d) bathrobe...mmm, hot

Thank you iChat, for crushing my burgeoning self image.

Reptilian hot buttons

Coco Chanel, the awesome bitch that she is, just sent me this passage...
because it made her think of me:

Rapaille subscribes to the triune brain theory, which describes three
distinct brains: the cortex, limbic, and reptilian. Beneath the
cortex, the seat of logic and reason, is the limbic, which houses
emotions. Camouflaged underneath those is Rapaille's baby--the
reptilian--the layer wired by our biological primal needs like sex,
reproduction, and survival.

"The reptilian always wins"--that's Rapaille's mantra. "So you have to
discover the reptilian hot button, whatever you want to do--design an
airplane, sell diamonds--what is the reptilian brain?" Whereas bad
advertising only taps into the cortex ("Buy this paper towel to clean
up a spill!"), mediocre ads appeal to the cortex and the limbic ("Buy
this paper towel to clean up a spill and reduce stress!"). But truly
effective campaigns nail all three ("Buy this paper towel to clean up
a spill, reduce stress, and satisfy your maternal reptilian desire to
relieve your son's shame at making the spill in the first place!").

I can't wait to locate my reptilian hot buttons. Hisss.

Freshtastic fall

Something monumental has happened to me this summer — what with a broke-down computer, a move and a wedding to end all weddings — but I haven't had time to think about what all of it means, in the grand scheme of things. I think it's time to pool my thoughts for a spell and just soak in it. Then I will towel myself off, wipe the rot off and move on and on and on and on.

I think last weekend was the final polish on my summer monument, a greasy reality shot if you will. After spending a lovely, trying and reflective weekend with a gang of old friends, I know it's time to wipe the slate — 'cause the slate is chalk full of kack. I think the only way I can shuck the husk is to walk away. Shuck anything that caters to my old self (this is sounding like the premise for a self-help book).

But the job is a sticking point. As is my location in this wide world. I am unsure of how to unseat myself. I guess I just need to dive into the pool and portage myself to Toronto. Voyeur-geur. So if anyone is driving that way in the next couple of months, let me know. I make an excellent co-pilot.

Why cremation is the way to go

Sex with dead bodies is like so totally taboo. But three Wisconsin Men don't think so. Their theory? If you don condoms, "sex with dead bodies" is the new black... Tres macabre.

And yet, tres blase. These guys are totally "normal" dudes who decided this would make for an interesting way to pass time. How do three people all agree they have a desire to hae sex with dead bodies? Just how do you bring that up as a topic of conversation? The mundanity of it all is what creeps me out the most.

Thanks Drudge for reminding me why cremation is the way to go, when you decide to go.

Nature Podcasts

When I was growing up, I was only allowed to watch a half hour of television programming per day. But I could extend that limit if I was watching a movie like the Wizard of Oz or The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers — stuff my parents like to watch.

Then one evening, my parents decided to amend the half hour rule by adding that I was only able to watch an hour of nature shows or public programming per day. (Even though it seemed out of the blue, I'm guessing my dear mom had tea with the other mothers that morning where they had all agreed that our social health and welfare depended on us viewing killer whales slaughtering baby seals.) Trust me, slow shots of a lion sleeping, voice professional with coma-inducing narrative, and no muppets can kill an ADD child. And make one even more unpopular on the playground.

But now that I am old like my parents I am absolutely into coma-inducing programming that investigates meaningful things — like male infertility, how the brain categorises visual information and and the death of a star.

If you want to get all Nature with me, have a listen to Nature's Podcasts. Learning is cool kids.

In Which, I Show You My Drawers

I have a drawer.

I have always had it.

Even as a kid, when my dresser was 12 centimeters taller than I was and had 4 big drawers and 2 little ones, I had this drawer. I have this drawer now; even though my dresser is 2 feet shorter than I am and only has 3 drawers that pull out only half way.

My drawer is a rainy day repository.

It has all this crazy, precious stuff in it that I rarely wear...and yet...that stuff has it's very own drawer.

Every once in a while I dip into it...like when I'm feelin' a little sassy or a little sad. Some days you need finger symbols and other days you need mohair socks your mom knit for you. My drawer has it all.

It not just a diva drawer though.

It contains utilitarian pieces as well...like my single pair of add-a-cup foamies (I mean, honestly, who cares if your foamies don't match your bra?) and that extra long, single strap that turns your plain ol' strapless bra into a versatile piece of fashion machinery.

It's a good drawer.

When I was kid it had even better stuff in it. It held silky, polyester scarves and hand-med-down Estee Lauder cosmetic bags with Barbie brushes and Lemon/Lime lip gloss stashed them.

It was great drawer.

That drawer is everything that is great about being a girl...even if you don't pull it out all that often.

Combat karaoke bullies now

Picture this: you're in a karaoke bar when some random karaoke king approaches you, gin and tonic sloshing all over his hands.

He's in your face, shoving the greasy plasticized playlist up your nostrils while his teeth-nipped fingers pummel the listing for a captain and tennielle song. He's screaming "duet", while he spittles on your decollete. He's using his other hand to madly wipe the steaming sweat off his brow. He's plunging your puny little chest with the golden microphone. He's clawing at your wrists, trying to drag you on stage.

Better think sharp, girl. You've got a karaoke bully on your hands.

There's only one solution to such a common problem: The Zuiikin Gals. They're here to help you fight karaoke bullies. Not only will they whip you into shape, they'll also teach you key phrases that will help you rid yourself of karoake kings, forever.

Watch this video to learn how.

SINKing into consciousness

If "double income no kids" are DINKS then I guess "single income no kids" are SINKS.

I'm sinking into that state — and sinking from it. Me and my SINK cannot afford to live on our own. We can't really afford to own a car. We routinely let food go rotten.

Being a one, we think, is really expensive, especially in Vancouver – the land of extreme wealth and poverty. I sojourn in the void between the two indefinitely.

Kind of makes you wonder about twos —we're really set up for them, aren't we? The nation is willing to risk anything for babies (products of twos), I guess, if they're willing to foster an army of DINKS.

Clusty the Clustering Engine — Better than a boyfriend

This search engine is way better than Google: Clusty.

So start using it. Not only does it group your search items into like category folders (tears of joy people, tears of joy). it also has a wikipedia tab and a blogging tab. No joke: Clusty is where it's at. So come be early adopters with me and make it your default home page. Google suddenly feels, oh, outdated and uncool.

So, my computer blew up a second time which is why I've been super incommunicado. And I've been overworked. I tried to quit my part time gig with vitamin v, but they sent me the most beautiful bunch of flowers to my main work place (one day I'll actually get flowers from a boyfriend).

But for now, I have to tell you my bosses are better than a boyfriend: they buy me little black femme dresses, flowers, they forgive me when I'm stressed out, they don't hold my quirks over my head. And they love me.

Yeah, they suckered me back with the flowers and attention.

But I did go on a boat cruise on Shushwap Lakes last weekend. It's like Burning Man on water. I've got to break it down later — when my brain comes back...

The smell of success?

I saved the soap from the hotel in Freeport so that every time I wash my hands for the next three weeks I will remember the Bahamas...

...but...now I'm not sure why I wanted to remember.

Humidity, 25 cent slots, fried food and big, busted bottles of perfume. Yippee! Sign me up for next year!

I know, I know. Boo-hoo.
I had to go to the Bahamas. Poor me.

But it was very disillusioning. I didn't see tropical splendor; I saw poverty, gluttony, ignorance and feral cats. I am too far left for my own good. Everything, from the welcome-drink vouchers, down to the sycophantic hotel staff, it all weirded me out. Everything was commodified. Call me a socialist but it was fucked.

Part of me longed to stroll along in ignorance...but I was reminded of my privilege (again) and felt too guilty to really enjoy myself down there.

There are times when I feel like I chose the purple pill; I see the world as it truly is only half of the time, but keep changing my mind about which is which.



*Everywhere there's lots of piggies
Living piggy lives.
You can see them out for dinner
With their piggy wives
Clutching forks and knives to eat their bacon*.

It is absolutely official!

I am now legally Ms. Mata.

Not in the radical-feminist-overalls-and-moon-cup sense but in the I-was-married-but-now-I'm-not sense.

Hoorah!

I must say, I make a much better divorcee than I do a wife. Being a wife totally sapped my libido and my personality.

Now I feel the pull of leopard print mules and tender young man flesh. Prrrrr. *stretch*

I am resisting...but just barely.

So far I have managed to avoid the frightful footwear, but I can't say the same for Prince William television specials or the new Timbaland video.

meow.

Your gal in Freeport

I apologize for my extended absence from the ghetto (and such bad timing, to coincide with V's CPUke) however this little bitch has been busy.

As much as I have enjoyed my employment hiatus, my cute shoe fund was suffering so I figured I'd better get back to work. I have been doing the resume/interview Cha-Cha. *sigh* There is no quicker way to sap a girl's energy and creativity than to stuff her into "appropriate" clothing and jewelry and force her to be fabulous and charming on demand. *BIGSIGH* However, mission accomplished. I have landed the job and am now free to resume my slovenly and debaucherous lifestyle. Let the chardonnay-and-shake fueled posts begin!

I also had three aunties from TO visiting for a week. "...on your left you will see what is charmingly referred to as Pigeon Park, which you can see is not so much a park as a breeding ground for hepatitis, HIV and bad skin care habits...".

My final and least sympathy-provoking excuse is that I was also in negotiations for a business trip to the Bahamas...which is where I am now.

Cue the Freeport Report:

I have worked three out of my five days here. Oh woe is me! However, you don't really need more than two days here unless you are overly fond of the beach. The beaches here ARE fabulous, but I am of Scottish descent and fry like bacon after approximately 12 minutes in the sun.

The best part of my trip was last night. The Bahamians were celebrating their emancipation day with an activity called Junkanoo.



It was a trip. I recommend Junkanoo as the best thing to see in the Bahamas if you ever go. It was like carnival meets street rave but with an old skool twist. Groups from different towns and neighborhoods compete against each other.



The more elaborate and dynamic the costumes; the funkier the horn playing; the louder the drums and cowbells, the better. It happens 1-3 times a year depending on the island. Seek it out! I recommend taking a chair and several... ehm... Redbulls though 'cause it starts at dark and goes until 3am or well into the next day depending on the island.

Well, the pool beckons, so this girl is signin' off.



Ciao bitches!

Blazer Williams — Console Cowboy

Well, the shadowy figure named Blazer Williams is no longer blinded by the light, it seems. He's finally got his own blog up and running: Redrooffs.

It's all about a number of my favourite things: "Interaction design, wine, Cocoa, Vancouver, and other observations".

Damn — I hope he talks about chocolate real soon.

Now that I think about it, code probably is chocolate for programmers: they're always thinking about it, they wish they weren't always thinking about it, they can't get enough of it, they're always panning for the bite-size pieces of it, wrapped in gold.

I say, bring back the term "console cowboys". Not only is it a hot term, it's also retro cool — it's the Betty Page look for web nerds.

(Your site looks pretty fine indeed. The leading is fabulous.)

All work and no play...

yah, you know — makes Violet a dull girl.

I'm dancing on work coals and navigating boxes – the kind you have to think outside. 'Cause that's the funny thing about thinking outside the box: the box is always there, in your mind's eye. The trick is to just think, methinks. Fuck the damn box. If a great idea is inside it, crawl into it and stew.

I'm going to be hauling long hours at work and work this month, so I am going to take a faux haitus from my beloved blog. So sad. For the month of August, I will be posting on Mondays. Hopefully the other bitches will pick up the slack.

12 days without a home computer and counting...

GBS roster doubles

Look to your right and scroll down. You see? There are three new additions to the GBS posse of... ahem. Please let me introduce you to Dark Whimsey, Heidi Lament and Figure8.

These three GBs are currently ghosts in the machine — silent partners if you will. But they shall be silent no more, dammit. Come on ladies, get thee to thy posting stations. And post. It only costs pennies a day. For serious.

Prodigal dream

No word yet about my prodigal computer.

But I'm sure she's going to come back to me wearing an amazing technicolour dreamsuit*. It's going to be a teary-eyed reunion that's for sure. We will run toward each other (yes, appendages akimbo) — her dreamsuit flapping in the wind with little musical notes trailing off it like audible bubbles; my Frye boots sprinting the ground like a new-born colt, or fillie, or whatever little baby horses are called.

When we embrace like long lost sisters, it's going to be beautiful.

And then I'll frickin' slap her. And tell her to never ever do that to me again.

I'll cry how could you do this to me? Me — the person who clothed you, fed you, sang you sleep every night and occasionally jacked up your RAM.

*I have no idea what Joseph's suit looked like or why he was wearing one, but I do know that my computer's technical-colour wardrobe will be magical! No more keyboard for entering text — what I think will simply appear... perfectly edited. No more tiny grains of sand in hourglasses reminding me that time is slipping away. No more burning plastic. She will trail the faint scent of lavender or violet, cook me dinners and make my bed.

Mac meltdown

So, I finally got my G5 imac hooked up to the Interweb and what happens? It has a full-on, stinkin' meldown.

My beloved computer is now officially the wicked witch of the world wide web. Boo.

I don't mind a bloated body, but I do mind a bloated computer chip. I can't afford Jenny Craig for my computer. And it's not like you can take it out and exercise the sucker so it remains a lean, mean blogging machine.

If you google "20" G5 imac burning smell," you get this thread of pissed-off mac users (scroll down to the comments). I guess this burning sensation is a common "issue" with the first-gen imacs. Recall is not an option, as my year warranty expired 4 months ago. (Thank goodness for London Drugs insurance — for once my decision to purchase extra insurance has come in handy.)

I'm so sad right now. So sad. I feel so disillusioned... and out of touch.

Siblings

Funny that Mata should post about siblings (and dishwashers--god, I want one again so badly). Is it that time of year? I got to be with my two (siblings, not dishwashers) a few weekends ago, for the first time since my brother got married in October. Although Jen isn't my blood sister she might as well be. We met at age three when I walked onto the sidewalk in front of my Kerrisdale house and saw a little girl of my own height. "Want to play?" we asked one another. We've been sisters ever since. My brother I just love. Jen and I used to hold him down (one on each arm) and spit in his mouth. Totally gross, but he seems to have forgiven us and turned out OK in spite of it.

I miss them a lot when I don't see them.

*my childhood...7:12pm most every night*

"Girrrrrllls! " *my mother* "Diiishhesss!"

and the negotiations would begin.

My sister hates doing the dishes.

My sister is the only unmarried woman I know who's mates have willingly bought her appliances.
Twice!
Two different boys have purchased dishwashers for my sister. And I understand why.

Nothing can turn that little-ray-of-sunshine (poetic license) into the coldest, darkest day of nuclear winter faster than the prospect of a full sink of dishes. Both those boys knew that a couple of hundred bucks for a dishwasher was a freakin' bargain.

*my sister* "I'm not doing the pots!"

*me* "Why do I always have to do the pots?!"

*my sister* "Well, I'm not doing them!"

*my mother* "Girls!"

*me* "Fine!" *whispered* "but you're doing all the plates, all the glasses and the utensils."

*my sister* "Na-Uh! No way am I doing the utensils too!"

*me* "That's not fair! Why do I always have to utensils?!"

"GIRLS!" *guess who*

This is the point where my sister washes the glasses and the plates, making gross-out faces and gagging whenever her hands come in contact with anything that is not either water, porcelain or glass. Then I follow-up by doing all other dishes in the house.

I'm not bitter. *that's a lie*

I just wish that as an eleven year old I had been bright enough to spend my allowance on a Whirlpool instead of on all those Tigerbeats.

Bob Ross of grammar

Meet Mary Rackham, retired school teacher and Cosy English Courses founder. She truly is the Bob Ross of grammar.

"Why Grammar?" (.mov).
Orcas for interjection! (.mov)
Her giggles kill me. (.mov)
I can't get enough of her Cosy English Courses video clips.

"It is difficult to be creative at an-knee-thing if you do not have the technique first."

Solar chimney

It's like all the hot air has been sapped out of me with no cool breeze to replace it.

• Still no home Internt machine.
• The boy roomate doesn't understand why I requested that he lock the doors when he's the last to leave. (He'll be even more confused when I ask NOT to put his front-door key in the mail box, which is half-a-foot away from the lock.)
• The girl roomate and I are having a kitchen party on Friday. Yes it includes drinking. No you're not invited. We're re-arranging the cupboards. I am a wild party.
• I got my eyebrows threaded and it now looks like I have had a good cry.
• I go to Vegas next Tuesday for a bid-ness meeting. I've heard they sell champagne from Slurpee machines. How GBS is that? I'll toast you all when I'm there.
  
• Men from Chicago think I'm smashing. But those men in Vancouver are seriously lacking. I have learned to love the warm embrace of my pillow.
  

Posting and Interneting on Monday. Now baby's got to book a co-op car to get the last household dregs from there to here.

Museum of Food Anomalies

Now playing in the SCI-FI Theater: "IT CAME FROM THE FARMER'S MARKET!"

This sour sucker reminds me of that part in Aliens 3 when cloned Ripley sees the failed versions of herself.

Weird food anomolies at the MoFA... Evil pancakes, ghostly cereal, egg bunnies, placenta sack bacon — I'm never eating breakfast again!

Is your cat a Cylon?

I have recently begun to suspect that one or both of my cats may be a Cylon agent. The one cat in particular is exhibiting distinctly Cylon-esque behavior.

The cat in question actually belongs to my BF and she hates women. We have always been more than a little dubious of each other, but we have an understanding...I don't look at her or touch her and she doesn't strike at my face. Simple enough, non?

But then recently she has begun to warm up to me. She has even actually approached me for pets on occasion. However, just when she has me lulled into a false sense of fuzzy affection...WHAM! She nails me, sharp-side up!

Ergo, she's a frackin' Cylon.



Do you suspect that your cat is secretly attempting to bring down the human race, starting with you?
Here are some telling signs to watch for:

1. Toys with prey, torturing it slowly before delightedly killing without mercy.
2. Attempts to convince you of it's love and devotion only to wake you up in the night by pouncing on your head and biting your hair.
3. Purrs while kneading your bare flesh with it's claws.
4. Stands on your keyboard, which results in inappropriate email sendage.
5. Shreds new items of clothing or furniture purchased solely to impress prospective employers or mates.
6. Vomits hairballs onto bathroom mat in the night, guaranteeing you step in said hairball in the morning.
7. Refuses attempts to reduce further hairball incidents by clawing, biting and hissing during brushing.
8. Covers all surfaces in clingy, allergen-ridden hair causing friends and family to avoid your home like Wednesdays at the downtown eastside Army and Navy.

Open call for Little Singapore

May I have your attention please.



STOP SPITTING!!

I have very few civic pet peeves but public spitting is one of them. (The other one is people who ride their bike on the sidewalk but I have occasionally been guilty of this one myself so I will stifle that particular rant.)

I would rather see an increase in public urinating or see people who don't clean up after their shitzus given Caban giftcards rather than see one more public spitter go unpunished. I know all of the justification for laws against spitting; it's unsanitary, it spreads disease, and the like. But I actually don't care about all the SARS and tuberculosis being absent-mindedly horcked onto our streets...I just find the practice itself repugnant and I want it to stop.

Even after the dirty little spitter has consummated his (and yes it is usually boys whom I see phlegm-tagging my streets) act of public defiance, I still have to deal with the remnant spatter. If these little piss-ants want to defile their country why don't they just quietly continue not to vote. Speaking of which, if we must have this painfully conservative government in office, why don't we put their foibles to use for us??

I call for the reinstitution of corporal punishment for all public spitters! Let's take a page from Singapore's book and flay the little expectorators! (Actually spitters in Singapore just get a fine or at worst a couple of hours of community service, but I DON'T CARE! I'm on a roll!) I realize that there is no evidence that corporal punishment has any deterrent effect but I do not care. I just want to smack these little shits...HARD!

I wouldn't want to see our court system bogged down with countless numbers of public loogie-launchers so I propose no legal trappings associated with my plan. Think of it more as a system of negative reinforcement. Citizens now have carte-blanche. If you see someone horck on the street, you will be fully within your legal rights to flick them in the nutsack and scream "Why don't you just go home and watch Miami Ink, ya little malcontent!". In fact it will be your civic duty.


*deepsigh* That feels better.

Alright...as you were.

Off the grid

No Internet
No TV
No social life...
No GBS service

LiveNudeGirls

This show featuring Audrey Kawasaki at Seattle's Roq la Rue gallery looks interesting. The opening party is July 7. For some reason I bet there will be hot girls there.

I want to say I'm over the "melancholy/sexy/disturbing/infanta-woman" thing in painting, started, I suppose by John Currin, or Balthus. No, wait, that's not true, as this slightly-strange blog of nude women in art (photos of Keira Knightley and Audrey Hepburn making the only discordant appearances) reminds me. Duh. Talk about a scrolling feast of nipples and curves and pubic hair. I thought the Rodin nude was going to lift her head, toss her hair and look me in the eye.

As for Kawasaki's stuff, it took me a minute before I figured out what this painting:



reminded me of:



I wonder if Egon got them to pose for this, or whether it was uh, more journalistic. Anyway. Enough nipples and curves--it's after 4 on a Friday long weekend and this particular set of nipples and curves are out of here.

It's a cruel (cruel), cruel summah...

It's that time again. Time to pack more clothes than I am ever going to wear into my backpack, along with too little sunscreen and barely enough music; pile into a friend's over-hot car and drive over the horizon.

ROAD TRIP!

No, it is not going to be some testoerone-fueled-Tom-Greenesque fiasco. This weekend is girls-only and these bitches is classy. (props to KLJ for organizing our asses). Think wine soaked, sun drenched, and estrogen sopped.

I see dancing, gossiping, sun-bathing, croquet-whacking, wine-touring and talking 'til we are so parched that we simply have to crack another bottle of that darling Char.

*soexcitedmustrunaroundincirclesflappingarms*

Reality...I will deal with you in four days time.

Moving on

Kitchen =
4 boxes, 1 table, 3 chairs, 1 microwave
Bathroom =
1 box
Books =
8 boxes
Clothes =
4 garbage bags
Bedroom =
1 box-spring mattress, 1 small dresser, 1 lamp, 1 table
Study =
2 boxes, 1 computer, 1 lamp, 1 chair, 1 file cabinet
Living room =
zero, zip, zilch
...And there you have it, my life summary.

One day I may live like an adult — one day.

Heavy metal dream

Ugh. I had the most unusually mundane wake-up mare:

I was at work, slaving at my desk. I went to get a file, found a trap door in the floor leading into a cavernous medieval "basement" (think the movie Labrynth). I accidentally dropped a light torch down the 113,582 steps. After a minute, the sound of the light smacking the ground echoed back to me, carrying with it a human-sounding scuttle. I got scared and scurried back to my desk.

My light drop woke an anglo-saxon ogre demon who ripped open the trap door and tore through my workplace like a hot knife slicing butter. His metal interior ripped through his bloodied flesh, tip-of-the-iceburg-style, and flayed a good portion of the nameless co-workers.

So, once he re-staked his territory, a.k.a my transifgured workplace, in blood, the remaining crew sat around a mead hall table and shot the shit with heavy metal ogre in all their pre-Medieval finery.

I started to realize that all of his joints were turning green and spent the last part of my dream trying to figure out why that was happening... How come I find this the most disturbing part?

Kingpin crow punch

Sometimes I feel totally aligned with the cosmo. I feel so tapped in to "the force" that I lose my body to the greater world; I become one with it.

That's how I was feeling when I punched a crow.

I love crows. I love their scruffy colour, their too smart urban ways, and their brooding and witchy demeanors. They can live for a hundred years, which is why, I suppose, they are so wily. My roomate calls crows the mafia of the bird world. I think this is a very apt description. So if you want to outwit a crow and gain their respect, you've got to act like a crow. Capiche?

In my "at one with the world" state I espied a crow about three meters away, perched on a low slung evergreen branch. Its body was rhythmically bobbing up and down on its eely stick legs. I calmly thought to myself: this crow is going to swoop me.

Have you ever been swooped by a crow? At certain times in the year, crows swoop humans. Nobody knows why they swoop. Some conjecture that it's a mating season thang, other's surmise it's a nest building season thang, but I believe it's part of their "pestering humans" festivities. It's like running with the bull — just as inane and dangerous and equally as fun... for the crows that is.

So sure enough that beady-eyed crow, sitting antsy on its natural perch, started to lackadaisically swoop me. But the distance between us was so short that it was still in take-off mode as it neared my naked head. Without realizing quite what I was doing (but with complete intention) I punched that wily crow.

And for a split second after I punched the crow (lightly), it just hovered vertically in the air, wings flapping with this shocked expression on its face — not wounded, but shocked. I just looked back at it with the best crow eyes I could muster, deep, wise and unphased.

I punched a crow and looked dead straight into his all-knowing eyes. Now, how many people get to do that in one lifetime?

I see it as a sign.

Day tripper

Let me tell you now: women walk in matching pairs.

Mata and I were tromping along the seawall last night and all we saw was a sea of conjoined semi-athletic outfits. If it was the eighties, they'd be wearing braided headbands, Reebok aerobic hightops and wrist weights. But alas, gone are those spandexy days... mostly. This new breed of ladies is all about the Lululemon booty boosting pants and straight, flowing hair. It's an addiction, I tell you, a fashion addiction. I kept thinking to myself, Valley of the Lululemon Pants.

Of course, if you're a man who likes women with a bit of booty, I'd recommend getting out into urban nature and trolling the sea wall with free Lululemon schwag ... and puppies.

Idol Chat

"Billy Idol used to rock the house, man!

Not just Mony Mony either. I mean, Mony Mony must be Billy Idol's nemesis. It's so not his best tune.

Think of Flesh For Fantasy. Now that's a fucking good tune."

Date-star galactica

So, at my life coach's urging (read: a really good friend who is better at dating than I am), I have signed up on a couple of online dating sites. And I find it a very humbling, and fascinating, process.

Being online all the time, I've been loath to take my one fleshy connection online. But, well, I'm getting older, and all my friends are hitched so I figured I'd give it a whirl (after a really challenging mental battle, calling myself a geek, then realizing that I'm okay with being one).

Here are the things I discovered about the whole registration process:

1. It takes forever.
2. Wine helps you write your personal bio — wit and humor increases making you seem much more charming and effervescent.
3. If you say that you like discovering Jungian archetypes in Battlestar Galactica, you get tons, and I mean tons, of emails from a certain segment of the population who just want to talk plot and motive with you. Except for one guy who put: "I like Battlestar Galactica too. Clearly, we should fuck."
4. You get these wink things, but have no idea what to do with them.
5. Based on the pictures of men you age, you realize that you're an adult now.

Now, I've realized that there is some fascinating things to day about pictures, but I'll leave that for the next post. This one may take more than my 10 min max writing time.

To My Ken Dolls:

To my Injection-molded Hair and Underpants Ken:
I got you when I was too young to know the potential play you held for me. Let me say that when I think of you now, it is with humour and horror. My only regret is not going to the Prom with you. You came with that hot tux that matched my favorite dress and everything.

To my Country and Western Ken:
How I loved to hear you sing. If only you would have kept singing...and kept your mouth shut at all other times. You would have never missed a note. And if only I'd gotten you while you still had the damn cowboy boots.

To my Rock n Roll Ken:
I tired of you so quickly when I realized you were just like all my other Ken dolls, except you came with a guitar and a tattoo.

To my Math Is Hard Ken:
You made me do my homework. I was the perfect Barbie for you. But then I realized Jem always had more fun than Barbie. Sorry. One day your Babs will come.

Colour me bad

In my never ending quest to find the perfect identity signifier — one that will tell me what the hell to do with my life (because, you know, sometimes you just get bored of looking out for your own best interest), I have uncovered this hip, new thing called color astrology.

I am peridot green.

Unless found on a tree, fern, or mossy underlay, I've never really been fond of the colour green, but I am digging the peridot. Peridot. It feels nice on the tongue. Peridot.

I suddenly feel like I should be a part of the sequence that introduces the film Amelie: Violet loves cracking ice between her teeth and echoing the word peridot off lonely precipices. She finds pillows on her belly soothing. Likes the smell of asphalt after the first summer rain. But abhors white tube socks with teevas. She puts in ear plugs whenever the nasty brutes upstairs are embroiled in one of their hideous and unsexy fuck fests. Wildebeasts sound sweeter.

Based on my peridot, I'm supposed to move physically toward my dreams and not get stuck in fear or confusion. Peridot is supposed to ease any worry that I might be carrying. It eases my financial pressures and connects me to the spiritual side of my nature and true calling.

(As I was typing I realized that my peridot is my ideal boyfriend. Now, where to find my Peridot. Peridot: where are youuuu?)

Car slut: Are you tired of feeling tired?

Who is this guy? Well, he could be my ex... a couple of years from now. Or, he could be Terry Daun, the hip new rock 'n' rave star moving up the charts like a bat out of inspirational house music.

Ah yeah. Just Get Up!

Terry has a message in his music; it's rather subtle so listen close kids: When you're feeling down, and you want to Get Up! Just Get Up! Take some weight off your shoulder... only you can make the mo-ove, so make it now.. and get on with your groove. Shake of the old self and put on the new-ew self. Pick your self up off the floor. Comon' everyone. Are you ready to make that choice? Let's do it!

This man is motivating me as I type.

Actually, I am feeling rather inspired these days. It's been a slow, up-the-mental-hill battle to do things. A few month ago, I started out adding one difficult and one fun task per week; last month I got it to one difficult and one fun task per day; now I can do a couple of difficult and fun things all in one day. It's a miracle of miracles. Gheesh. Who knew that a multi-task breakdown could take so long to repair. Should've changed my work oil years ago. It really gummed up the system.

Feeling motivated yesterday, I not only finished reading Madam Bovary for book club, I also got my ass off the Internet and joined the Co-operative Auto Network. (Oksana: you have a $20 dollar "friend recommend" credit coming to you.)

What does this mean for me? Well, to cite my new friend Terry, it means I can now "shake off the old self, and put on the ne-ew-ew self". I can drive to Ikea and buy 1,000 candles or, Costco to download 10,000 raw almonds. I can Get Up! off this faux peninsula thing called "Downtown Vancouver" and head into the mountains. Och! the possibilities are endless. I can also rent a van to move my life-in-boxes next month.

Fish out of water, cat in the sink

It's just been one of those weeks...and for no good reason.

Cool: the anagram of violet chrome is motor vehicle.

Making copy dull

Ugh. Making new copy for work. The original batch was deemed "too weird". I have to go in an write straight today. Dull. Dull. Dull.

I will do this: I will be dull.

Oh and have you checked out today's date? 06-06-06. It's devils day —the National Day of Slayer.

Since I'm at work, I'm clearly committing a cardinal Slayer sin today: Stage a "Slay-out." Don't go to work. Listen to Slayer.

Batwoman is here, she's queer

BBC News reports that Batwoman is returning from a 27-year hiatus in the erebuian netherworld (which is why, I assume, she is able to return from the dead).

Maybe she's like the hero in the Princess Bride who returned from his "partially dead" state to win the women... just like Batwoman will do in this, her new life.

Now. I'm on the fence about her coming out. Obviously, I am excited that our world is becoming more tolerant and accepting (excluding the whole Iraq and south-of-the-US-border thing). And I really do think it's healthy for younger readers to have access to such a progressive character.

But her obvious outness is just not as curious for adult readers, especially ones who are in the metrosexual know — folk who laugh at the signs and metaphors hidden like gemstones in the granite-rock dialogue.

Personally, I like word play and playing on words. I hope that doesn't disappear because she's officially out. It's so much more cheezier when a pun is written for the obvious.

Plus, if Batwoman's out, you can't play the "she's totally gay" or "she totally is" game.

Here's my story of playing the "she totally is" game with eight lesbians:

When I was visiting San Francisco, I shacked up with five lesbians in a lovely Victorian home just off Haight and Ashbury. They were a fantastic and generous crew who welcomed me into their home when my other accommodation fell through.

One night, they invited me to watch Melrose Place with them and a few friends. I wondered why five intelligent women who had very little in common with the Melrose Place characters would watch such pulp fiction but I accepted the invitation, curious to see what would transpire.

Seated inbetween a woman who was chewing tobacco and whose biceps were as large as my head and her totally fabulous girlfriend (she was a supermodel mixed with a bit of K.D. Lang... serious, I'm not making this shit up), I was ready to watch Lesbians on Melrose.

They all leaned forward, a hush fell over the room when the blonde Melrose character came on and started crying into her friend's ample bosom. They looked like an image on '50s pulp fiction jacket.

-One girl piped up, "Oh, she totally is".

-"Comon', she's not, you just wish she was... now she, she totally is — she's riding a hog," another girl retorted.

-"You're all totally gay," muffled one girl through a mouthfull of burrito.

Throughout the whole evening I was introduced to the world of secret and hidden gay entendres... and I never went back. The world is so much more fun when language takes on two levels of meaning. I guess that's why I'm on the fence about Batwoman coming fully out.

But then, how often do I read comics? Like never. This is the first graphic novel that has caught my fancy. Hmm. I may just pick it up.