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...