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