Mine do!

While hanging out with Mike at the international house of submarine sandwiches, he asked me if people ever came up to me to discuss tattoos. And they do. All the time. I don’t mind at all as long as they don’t show me their tattoos, because then I feel obligated to say something nice even if it really sucks, which is usually the case.

Anyway, shortly after we had this discussion he got up to go to the restroom. I was sitting sideways on the seat and there was a sketchy looking guy leaning against one of the tables a few feet away from me (we were at a really ghetto Subway). He waved his hand for my attention and pointed to my leg and told me he liked my tattoo. I just gave him a quick thanks.

This is where the story is supposed to end.

Except he turned around, lifted his t-shirt high up to show me his really shitty, GIANT eagle tattoo.

“It’s… big.”

Then as soon as Mike returned from the little boys room we got the hell out of there.

So my tattoos get me friends AND freaks. Also, that Subway is even more ghetto than I originally thought.

I have no idea whether I’m a people person or not. I’m outgoing enough, I love meeting new people, and I like being with people. But the problem is, I find most people boring, or stupid, or both. Borpid.

I’m nice to strangers when I’m in a certain setting such as a party, or a BBQ (like I will be in an hour from now) but random people at random times in random places? I pretty much ignore them… but not always.

On Tuesday, I boarded the bus in Tsawwassen and headed to Vancouver. And so did a guy who joined me at the very back of the bus, except that he wasn’t sure where he was going. For my assistance, he wiggled the toe of my shoe to get my attention and then proceed to ask me: “Does this bus go to Vancouver?”

I said, “yes.” But what I really wanted to say was, “duh.”

Aside from the dinky community buses that have short routes all over Tsawwassen, there’s only one real bus route, and that’s the route that goes to Vancouver. Also, if you’re not sure where the bus is going, then perhaps ask the bus driver as soon as you get on rather than taking a seat all the way in the back and asking the girl who quite obviously chose to sit there because it was more private. But above all, I think the fact that the bus was called the #601 Vancouver was a fairly good indication that, yes, it was headed for Vancouver.

It was possible he was just finding an excuse to talk to me but… how embarrassing. You want to talk to me? Come up with a more stimulating conversation, such as how the Dutch had a monopoly on nutmeg in the 17th century. Or about why Donald Duck doesn’t wear pants while Mickey opts to go shirtless. Even discussing the weather would’ve been less retarded.

I was on the bus because I wanted to go somewhere (Vancouver!), and not because I was looking to make a new friend. That’s what recreational leagues are for. Dude needs to sign up for Slo-Pitch.

What’s the appeal of electric bicycles? They’re basically marketed towards people who are kind of–but not entirely–lazy. Or those who just can’t decide between a scooter or a bicycle. Those same folks probably ride around on their electric bicycles wearing sleeveless sweaters and open toed boots.

There’s now a french twist to my trip: I’m flying in and out of Paris. Once I’m done my Swiss adventure, I’ll be spending 8 days traveling around France solo. This was actually $500 cheaper than a direct flight to Zurich! So, for 20 days I’ll be living off wine and Ricola. I’m going to have to find some sort of “Canadian” gift to give to my Swiss host, but I can’t think of much that’s truly Canadian. A vacuum sealed Tim Hortons donut?

Moving on… My fingernails are currently the shortest they’ve ever been. In high school, my nails were coke chic; Mom even dubbed them “weapons”. I knew they looked rather unattractive when they got super long, but I reveled in the attention they got me. My friends would grab my hand, hold my talons up and tell other people, “CHECK THIS OUT!” The crowd would response with a “whoa!” or “eww!” I was also known for having big feet, although nobody ever grabbed my foot and held them up for show n’ tell. But now my claws are no more, and I’m going to smash my size 9 feet into size 7 and half shoes. All in the name of rock climbing.

I’m also a rising squash star. Just kidding, I still suck. My friend Leah and I are now trying to be an embarrassment to the sport at least once a week. Last week, when she came by, I noticed the bags she had in the back of her pickup truck.
“Are those bags of poop?” I asked her.
“No, it’s soil. It’s to weight down the truck so that it has more traction when the roads are wet.”
*I take a closer look at the bags, which had ’steer manure’ listed as one of the contents*
“That IS shit. So, you basically put shit in your truck for safety reasons?”
“I guess so!”

Apparently there’s been a recent boom of girls who look like me. At the party I threw a few weeks ago, one of the guys living in my building dropped by and wouldn’t shut up about how much I looked like his friend from Comox. The other night at work, a co-worker was telling me about how he just met a girl who looked like me. Even Arvand, my own boyfriend, almost mistook a girl he saw on the streets for me. I hope they were all the same lkvy Doppelganger from Comox; I’d hate to think I’ve become THAT generic looking.

Here’s a horrible yet true fact about me: I own nearly half a grand worth of stretchy pants. But that doesn’t mean my dresser is overflowing with lycra, I’m talking about just four pairs! Those extravagant pants are marketed under the brand Lululemon. And what is it about them that warrants the huge price tag? NOTHING! I obtained them for free through a former Lululemon employee who recently revealed that they had been sitting on a goldmine of untouched Lululemon clothes for months.

Recognizing that this city is full of rabid Lulu junkies, I suggested unloading the stuff on usedvictoria.com. Within two days, we made $125 off a jacket and a bra which retailed for $154 and $38 respectively. But of course the item that garnered the most interest were a pair of $69 pants. The sales post stayed up for a week before the very first person who asked for them finally claimed them. In that time, I had one girl not only ask me if she could have them for $30, but also asked me why they were wrinkly in the picture.

My asking price was $45. I was tempted to email her back with, “You’re asking me to knock off another $15 off pants that would cost you over $77 after taxes if you were to buy them from the store? I have about 10 other people who are willing to pay the asking price, who also know how to use an iron.” But instead I settled for a less cunty but still mildly cunty response: “no.”

As the Lulu Dealer, I received a small cut of the profit. This meant more money to use towards other overpriced shit, like $100 sunglasses!

And that concludes this week’s update! Come back in two weeks for more random drivel. At least it’s free!

It’s a few minutes past 4am, and I just got home from work. True, it only takes me 15 minutes to get home from work by foot, and just five with Jamal’s assistance. But tonight (er… really fucking early this morning) my co-workers and I gathered at a place with a few benches and had a beer each. I initially thought the idea of having a drink at this hour was absurd, but quickly changed my mind when a co-worker pointed out, “Well, when do you drink?”

Good point.

When you work the worst hours imaginable, you just have to do things differently. Case in point: I work from 7pm-3am. Can you honestly think of a worse 8 hour shift? Even a 10pm-6am shift would be more desirable because I’d at least get to have dinner with a few friends and hang out for a bit before heading to work. And to make my hours even more annoying, my guaranteed days off are Tuesdays and Wednesdays aka the days people do fuck-all. Bonus annoyance: when I tell people I got up at 11am, they always make a comment like “Wow, you sure slept in!”

No, I didn’t fuckin’ sleep in. I don’t usually get into bed until 3:30am. That’s seven and half hours of sleep. And my job is physically demanding to boot. Because of this, I also have to make sure I don’t over-exert myself during the day because unlike doing something AFTER work, I can’t choose when to call it quits. Instead of going, “Okay, that was a long, good bike ride but now I’m tired and ready to sleep” it’s like, “Okay, that was a long, good bike ride… now I have to work for 8 hours. Moving heavy-ass boxes and shit around.”

Things are actually fairly good on the job front right now (I’m just a professional complainer. I could probably still complain about world peace). I’m back to working full-time, which would explain how I was able to afford a hundred dollar pair of shades that, yes, a homeless guy convinced me to buy. Not only did I let the homeless guy convince me to spend five times the amount I’ve EVER spent on sunglasses, but I’ve also let him sleep in my bed nearly every night… with me in it.

Gosh…I’m even in love with him.

Alright, the homeless guy in question is my boyfriend, Arvand. He does have a home lined up; he just can’t move in until May 1st. He keeps me warm during chilly nights, and cooks me the most amazing breakfasts… at noon, and he isn’t lame enough to chide me for “sleeping in”. Even my roommate is pretty much in love with him.

I’m scoring well in the relationship department (I like how this has more than one meaning), and I’m also doing fairly well in the job department. So, let’s review the other departments-

Social Life: 7/10. I basically see at least one friend outside of work every day. Unfortunately, my schedule conflicts with many of my friends’ schedules so I’m not getting to see some of them as often as I’d like.

Living Quarters: 7/10. Love the addition of Clint Moffat. Roommate’s fun and not a total shut-in like the last two were. Bubbles the Landlord seems to like me now. The jerks who have wall-shaking parties that go on until noon the next day still live downstairs though.

Family Life: 6/10. Brother still hates me because of the Tuna Helper feud from 6 years ago (I’ll have to write about that some other time). The sister and I are on friendly terms but I have doubts we’ll ever become close; we’re just too different. MOM AND DAD LOVE ME THOUGH. And the grandparents sent me a postcard from California the other day. HA.

Future Plans: 10/10. I’m motherfucking going to Switzerland in August. The only thing that would make it better would be if… I was getting paid to go.

Health: 7/10. The body has halted the excessive production of mucus, but for the past 3 weeks my throat has been vaguely sore. I say “vaguely” because it’s not exactly soreness I’ve been experiencing, and it seems to only be present when I wake up. I was going to bother the doctor about it but the two times I checked out the walk-in clinic, it was packed. The tendonitis has yet to make a comeback, even after a short game of Squash (the original culprit). Thank God.

Relationship with God: 0/10. I’m not really giving God props for keeping my Tendonitis at bay. That was just blasphemy.

Diet: 10/10. I don’t need to be on one, therefore it’s good.

Blog: 1/10. I suck!

Around this time tomorrow, I’m supposed to be doing a series of face plants down a mountain on my new snowboard. Also, in about 30 minutes, I’m supposed to be sorting hats at work. Neither of those things are happening because like nearly everybody in Victoria, I am sick.

A snowboard wasn’t the only thing I bought last week. My place is now pimped out with a hundred dollars worth of Swedish crap including a 99 cent doormat and the $1.49 shower curtain photographed below:

Those Swedes must think we’re retarded because…

Is it really necessary to warn against ironing a plastic shower curtain? Additionally, we’re not supposed to let the shower curtain interact with a triangle or a circle… or a circle in a square. Or a bucket of water. Maybe I really am retarded because I can’t remember what those symbols stand for.

Sure, I could Google for the information but I think I can handle the upkeep of a $1.49 sheet of plastic.

Today was yet another 3 hour commune back home from Vancouver. I much prefer the ferry part to the bus part. Why? If I have a problem with the person who’s sitting by me, there’s over a thousand other seats to choose from. On Friday, some old lady’s perfume was bugging me so I moved all the way to the opposite side and took a seat right behind a pair of senior citizens who didn’t believe in perfume… or deodorant… or even taking a shower. My third attempt placed me in the proximity of the smell of greasy french fries which may or may not have been the meal of someone over the age of 55, so I took my hypersensitive nose to an entirely different section of the ferry and happily settled there.

Today on the bus, odour wasn’t an issue. I sat all the way in the left corner at the back of the bus where I was able to put my stuff on the strip behind me. At the time of the bus’ departure from the ferry terminal, the person sitting the closest to me was on the opposite side, two rows ahead: a somewhat cute odour-free guy who was around my age. As I was shifting around in my seat uncomfortably and shuffling through my purse, I got the feeling he was going to talk to me.

*eye contact*

Oh, yay, I was right.

I told him I was deaf and started probing my bag hard for a paper and pen; a search that ended quickly when he gestured that he wanted to use my cell phone. I explained to him, in a text message that would have been delivered to Heidi had I hit “send”, that I had no voice minutes and only had it to send text messages. And that was the end of our interaction.

Fifteen minutes later, I found myself watching the guy as he took out his camera and started taking vanity shots of himself. On the bus.

Ok, fine, I take vanity shots of myself too but I’m alone when I do them. That way, nobody else can ruin my little photoshoot by making faces in the background.

Dear guy on the bus,
I’m sorry I couldn’t loan you my phone, but I hope you enjoy my grimacing face when you upload those pictures to your computer.
Love, the girl who needs one of those purse organizers you see on tv.

Halfway through the trip, a pair of teenager girls joined me and Vain Guy in the back. I took note of the purse belonging to the girl who took the pair of seats on the right: Coach. Or at least a Coach knockoff. It went really nicely with her hoodie and ratty skate shoes. She probably also wears gym shorts with pumps, or opera gloves with a football jersey. Then again, when I was her age I wore 3 inch foam platform sandals with board shorts.

And at least it didn’t take her forever to find paper and writing implements when she opened up her backpack. She handed her friend who was sitting in front of me one of her felt pens, and the friend created a tic-tac-toe grid on the back of the seat in front of her. She marked an “X” in the top left corner and then immediately forfeited the game she was playing with herself. What the fuck? If you’re going to commit vandalism–especially with a felt tip marker–at least make a statement.

4:20? MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR? ALLISON IS A SLUT?

Before she was able to doodle more, I tapped her on the shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I whispered. (I never use my voice with strangers. I just knew she’d understand me.)
“…I’m bored.”
“Use paper?!” I pointed to her friend’s binder full of paper.

She and her friend exchanged a few words before she went back to work with her marker…this time on a different medium: HER FUCKING JEANS.

I may not smell like I qualify for the Senior Menu at Denny’s but excuse me while I act like I do… BAH! KIDS! WHERE THE HELL ARE MY SLIPPERS?!

Moments later, Coach Purse Girl takes her camera out of her bag (nylon backpack or the over-mentioned purse, I can’t remember) and starts taking pictures of Solitaire Tic-Tac-Toe Girl.

You fucking twits,
Your bus fare takes your asses from point A to point B; the bus is not a fucking sketchpad. I hope you enjoy my grimacing face when you upload those pictures to your computer.
Sincerely, the girl who’s pretty fucking sure she can beat herself at tic-tac-toe.

Seriously though, I *am* young and hip. Take a look at what I bought on Sunday:

Can you see what the graphic on the board is of? Take a closer look:

A stereo. Can you think of a more fitting design for a deaf person?

My tax return just better get to my door before my credit card bill does, or else I’m going to look very stupid.

I said I would take off to Europe this summer if my tax return was large enough. It was. So, I’m going through the process of getting my passport. I already have the application form printed out, and it was decided today that I’d have my passport picture taken. I also decided that it would be a good idea to slather 5 hojillion pounds of makeup on my mug– only one hojillion more pound than usual. And, of course, I ended up looking like a zombie prostitute in the picture.

The next step is to find a guarantor (person who has known me for at least 2 years, and holds a valid Canadian passport) who can sign the back of those pictures. “I confirm that, yes, the painted whore photographed looks like lkvy.” Should be easy.

In other exciting news, a few days ago I took a nap on the couch. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?! No, seriously, I was napping away, and when I woke up I went into the kitchen for a glass of water and…

I GOT A NEW FRIDGE!

The old, disgusting rusty fridge which was probably around when this place was first built (circa 15th century) was replaced with a younger, whiter version. The arrival of this new appliance didn’t come to me as a total surprise, but the fact that a bunch of people managed to enter my place, nick my old fridge and shove a new one in place all while I was napping less than 5 meters away is, well, mostly amusing.

The fridge guy visited me last Friday when I called Bubbles the Landlord to complain of my dead fridge, and told me I was going to get a new one; I just didn’t know when it was going to arrive. The landlord is legally required to give the tenant 24 hours notice before entering their place, but I don’t really feel like complaining about it. “Thanks for giving me a new fridge! JERK!” Naw, I’ll let him off the hook this time.

So… here is the man responsible for keeping my vodka chilled and vegetables crunchy:

He came with a default last name, Moffat, so I gave him a first name.

My inspiration came from my all-time favourite boy band (yeah, right): The Moffats. I’d have gone with Scott, but I didn’t have any t’s and already had to improvise with a plus sign for Clint. Clint even came with a mini ice cube tray that makes ice cubes that look like little gems.

In even more exciting news, I had a Scrabble showdown yesterday with a friend and broke 300. At that point the board was getting really crammed, and there were still at least 50 tiles left in the bag, a hint that perhaps there were more than the regulation number of tiles being played in this game. I had also obtained the letter “Q” for the third time, and in Real Scrabble, there is room for only one “Q”. Upon this realization, we ended our game, dumped all the tiles onto my coffee table and started splitting up the letters and went on to build a mountain of “E”s and a vast plain of “O”s. We filled the bag with the proper amount of each letter, and took the remainder to a friend’s place where we spelled out his name along with “SUCKS BALL *blank tile*ACKS” on his doorstep.

Now I’m thinking the makers of Scrabble should really release Ultimate Scrabble. The board would be twice as big, with spaces for quadruple word scores. And of course there’d be a lightning round. Duh.

And now for some insanely, mind-bogglingly exciting news, I lost in Monopoly on Tuesday night. I’ve never won the game, but I had never lost either. Monopoly is well known for being one of those games that go on forever and ever. Except in my case.

BECAUSE I SUCK.

I even wasted my Monopoly shekels on the ever so welfare Mediterranean Avenue. Why?

BECAUSE I SUCK.

But at least I was the hat, which is the most kick ass game piece there is in classic Monopoly.

To sum up this post: I look like a whore, suck intensely at Monopoly, kick ass at non-regulation Scrabble, and am well-stocked with fresh food.

Since the end of September 2007, I’ve spent over 50 hours on a ferry. Granted, I’ve probably spent at least 40 hours of that asleep, but I’ve been awake enough times to encounter a celebrity twice (Gordy Dodd and Santa… YES THEY COUNT), made a few friendships that lasted an hour and 45 minutes (the duration of the sailing) each, and of course, made a bunch of random observations.

Here’s my favourite:

People seem to get a giant kick out of waving to their friends sitting inside from outside on the decks. They’d knock on the glass to get their friend’s attention and then proceed to wave like an excited idiot. For some reason, the person on the receiving end of this idiocy almost always seem to be equally thrilled by this encounter.

Oh my god! You’re outside… I’m inside… A PANE OF GLASS DIVIDES US! ISN’T THAT  WILD?!

This pretty much happens every single fucking sailing. I wish I were that easily amused.

A few weeks ago, I was in the produce section of the supermarket squeezing the avocados when a middle-aged guy took note of this and made a comment. I turned around to nod and smile, hoping he’d read this reaction as me listening to him and walk away. but, no, he kept jabbering on about the fruit. So, I informed him with indifference that I was deaf, hoping he would walk away.
Success!

BUT! He stopped, turned around and returned to where I was standing, once again interrupting my fruit examination.

“Are you a student?” He asked.

I shook my head.

“What do you do for work?” He probed further.

Although I’m not a great lipreader, I understood him perfectly but I was so baffled as to why he would ask such a question, that the next word that left my mouth was a “What?!”

He took out his wallet, opened it up and drew a $20 bill out of it. “What do you do for money?”

At this point, I resorted to digging through my backpack for a pen and paper so that I could ask him why the hell he was asking me about my job. Without the hell part, of course.

He said something about being curious what with me being deaf and all.

“I’m a lawyer.” I wrote back.

“Really?”

I nodded and he walked away. For real this time.

I think I ended up peeling a sticker off one of the organic avocados since none of the cheaper chemical doused shit were ripe. I’m a lawyer on a budget, after all.

This guy turns stuffed animals inside out and re-stuffs them.