My God is the Sun
I hate IKEA. It is such an awful place to be if you only want to get in and out quickly, and I will give you one guess what I was trying to do today. I wanted a little bookshelf display sort of thing, because I wanted to be able to show off some of my books and CDs and things which I am actually proud to own, as well as finally find a goddamn place for the huge Batman chess set I have been steadily receiving over the last year and a half, and IKEA had exactly what I was looking for. The problem, as always, was that I had to go to IKEA to get it.
For the uninitiated, navigating IKEA is a nightmare. It is a maze of alleyways and furniture and hate and death and despair, unless you take the path IKEA would prefer you take, in which case it is a two hour tour of furnishings you cannot afford along with a thousand other arseholes. If, for example, you had looked up what you were looking for on their website before attending, it could actually take you over an hour to actually find a display model of what you were looking for, because of the enforced, quasi-mandatory path you are forced to walk. I was having none of that shit.
I was That Girl, the one with kind of weird makeup projecting an aura of pure “get out of my fucking way humans”. I cut through the crowd like a woman possessed until I found what I was looking for, noted the warehouse location, and set out again. After getting lost in the home furnishing section for a while – because seriously, fucking IKEA – I finally got the warehouse, found my crap, and got out of there, abandoning my trolley in the foyer because I did not have time to wait for an elevator and even if it would hurt my muscles terribly to carry the huge flat pack carton they had given me, it would still be quicker to get it to the car on my own.
I was in and out of there in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes! I was like one of those raptors who hunts fish just under the surface of water, plummeting to earth and submerging for mere seconds before re-emerging, the prize held in my beak, as I rocket up into the sky again. A graceful arc of efficiency and unrelenting horror. That was what my IKEA trip was.
I had it assembled within about half an hour once I got it home, and filled with stuff before the hour was out. I think it was worth it:
It is a shitty photo for some reason, but I will try and walk you through it. On top is the Batman chess set, minus two pieces I haven’t received yet and Batwoman who is currently in pieces because we live in a cruel and uncaring universe. The top left quadrant is books, Dan Abnett’s Inquisitor series (all three of them), both of the original Fear and Loathing paperbacks from the seventies, some Terry Pratchett and books one, three and four of the five part Tales of the Otori series. The top right quadrant has a book my mum gave me, the Little Book of Excuses and Lies, as well as a set of vampire themed tarot cards gifted to me by my friend Tony, and the ludicrously expensive Batman toy I bought on a whim a few years ago. The bottom left is signed Penny Arcade DVDs, some of my favourite movies, and Jason Webley and QOTSA CDs.
The bottom right was kept empty, to perhaps tempt the cat to leave the other three cubbies alone. I’m not sure it will work.
Rain Rain Go Away, Seriously Just Fuck Off For A While
It is going to rain on my washing. I just…I just fucking know it. I haven’t hung it out to dry yet, because I am still considering my options, but I know if I do, the very second I finish the heavens will open up and unleash hell on my freshly laundered accoutrements. Then I will have to wash them again, which is something I definitely do not want to do, because that is just an aggressive waste of water and electricity that could be avoided completely by hanging my clothes inside. Hmm.
At different points in my life it has been suggested to me by people that I should just procure or use a dryer, but I would rather die. I am not a thrifty woman. I have close to two thousand dollars in shoes and of those shoes 100% were impulse purchases purchased on impulse…but electricity, man, I can’t do it. I just can’t waste it like that. I couldn’t do it when I lacked solar power and was actually paying for my electricity, and I can’t do it now with solar power and a zero dollar utility bill for the last twelve months. My brother has no such qualms of course, but he’s also fucking useless at handling money so you know.
You know what it is definitely going to rain again today, and I simply can’t stand it. I’m hanging the clothes inside. It must be done, and will be, as always, a monumental pain in the arse. What’s the use of living in this horrible, hot country if you can’t even hang your clothes on the line when you want to? I know I am a Worshiper of the Rain, but right now I find my faith to be wavering because the rain is just going to fuck with my day if I even whisper the idea of hanging my clothes up outside, in the elements, unprotected from the harsh fury of precipitation. For the first time in a very, very long time, I am wishing it was dryer and hotter.
Fucking damn it.
All Hail the Queen of Dunces
Another Saturday, another trip to the eyebrow lady. I was unsuccessful in not booking in another appointment when prompted, because some unwell part of me feels a bizarre sense of loyalty to this person, despite them giving me the shits and charging me more than I can really afford. I have three weeks to work on a new plan. Wish me luck, I think I am definitely going to need it.
I looked great though!
The top is one of my many recent ModCloth purchases, a really charming little piece that seems to be made by the same people who made my favourite sailor dress. ModCloth call it Sock Hops and Dreams, which is just fucking ridiculous, but renaming clothes stupid things is kind of their MO, so I try not to stress about it. I’m wearing it with a kind of generic skirt from Target that I’m not sure they sell anymore, but apart from my Inspiration Skirt (which does not fit), it is probably my favourite skirt in the world. It is by a brand called Hot Options, and they call it a Skater Skirt; I have an identical version in black and white stripes because I liked the cut so much. It doesn’t hang as well as it used to, mainly because I’ve lost a ton of weight lately, but it is still nice. Flippy skirts are probably my favourite kind of casual skirts.
Oh, hold on, I hear you interject, did you just say you’ve lost a ton of weight? Why yes, yes I have, how nice of you to notice! I weighed myself at dad’s today, for the first time in a few weeks, and I am down to 88.9 kilograms. That is a career low for me; the last time I was this light I was 21 years old, largely presenting as male, and seemed to keep weight off exclusively by chain smoking (I am really, really good at smoking, I’d show you but I’d get addicted again instantly). This time I’ve got there just by eating more conscientiously; I’m not eating any differently than I used to, I’m just eating less, in general. MyFitnessPal makes that extra easy too, and makes it really simple to track where you are fucking up on your nutritional needs – for me, it was mainly lunch and dinner and also breakfast. For you it might just be dinner. I would recommend this app to anybody, it is amazing.
Anyway, back on track. The shoes I wore today were some Diana Ferrari flats, a variety that they have named ‘Roberta’. I have four pairs of flats and three of them are Diana Ferrari because Diana Ferrari make the most comfortable flats in the world, and these are no exception. You cannot see them really in this picture, but they have a silver buckle on them and a kind of lifted heel. They are the shoes I was wearing while confined to that dreadful wasteland of not having any heels for work, and while I like them a lot as casual shoes, for work I demand a little more presence. Still, comfy as all get out. Everyone should own Diana Ferrari.
The necklace and rubber bracelets (Batman themed, naturally) are both gifts from my mum and I have no idea where she got them, and yes, like my eyebrow lady astutely noticed, I’m not wearing any tights today at all! Miracles do happen, and also sometimes I don’t wear tights even though I ordinarily would at least five days a week. I’d say take a picture to preserve this moment, but I already went to the trouble of taking a picture for you. You can thank me later.
Doki Doki Morning
I need to break up with my eyebrow lady, and I don’t know how. I have done this before, with other service providers, and had no issues then – not even when the service provider in question was my fucking sister – but something seems off about all this and I don’t know what. It is not like she is awful, after all, but she isn’t cheap to visit and every appointment comes with a side of subtle judgement and not-so-subtle upselling. That, and she has kind of betrayed my trust lately, and you know, while I’m aware that what is said between a beauty therapist and a client isn’t protected by any kind of confidentiality agreement or laws, I always believed that there was at least an implied agreement of ‘shit what is said while you denude my face doesn’t leave this room’. Apparently I was wrong.
In happier news, today I had my face IPLed, for the first time since early January! I mean, I’ve seen my IPL friend since January of course, we’ve just been systematically working over other areas, because the face wasn’t in need at the time. It’s always easy to tell when the face is due for another session though; slowly, maybe even subconsciously at first, I start using more concealer on my upper limit, and my razor begins to get clogged more easily. Then I notice what is happening, and for a while I can notice without freaking out even a little bit…and then I lose the ability to do that and end up on the phone to Sharryn begging her to apply intense pulsed light to my facehole again, because it pains me to know I have even the memory of a shadow of stubble, even if no one else in the world even notices. The signs are there, people, if you know what to look for.
Just please don’t look so closely that you see them.
Uki Uki Midnight
I got my heels fixed today! Not my mary janes, because I fear they are beyond repair, but some nice wedges I had been using as work shoes until I wore the heel down past the sole. The mary janes are lost cause, I think, the velcro is starting to come free of its stitching and one of the straps has begun to deteriorate. I will put them aside, for now, and save them for special occasions. They are too nice to grind into dust doing everyday, boring things. If they are to die, I want them to die with dignity – at a nice party, or an important appointment. No sooner, and no later.
Still, heels. My god, how I had missed them. I have been wearing flats to work until I had an opportunity to get these repaired, and it was driving me mental. I mean, do not get me wrong, they are nice flats – they are Diana Ferrari, after all – but they don’t project the image of professionalism I strive for in my job, even if that image is mandated by nobody but myself and my own impossibly high standards re: personal appearance and accountability. I know I bitch about my job and opine on my wanderlust frequently here, but even if I hated my bosses and every second of every minute of every hour of every day stretched on into infinity while I was working there, I would still expect nothing but my best from myself. Between my mum and my dad I somehow got a work ethic that would kill a lesser woman.
I must be invincible.
I bought lemon chicken for dinner from the local chinese restaurant, basically guaranteeing that I went over my kilojoule budget for the day, but I don’t mind too much. Sometimes you just gotta ease off the dieting throttle a little and have something really nice that you have been craving, because the alternative is legitimate madness. I try not to get complacent on my diet too often, which I usually accomplish by keeping my cupboards next to bare and only buying and eating the foods I know I can trust, but today I kind of decided “fuck it”. I mean, I was still mindful – I didn’t over-eat for over-eating’s sake – but I decided not to make the whole thing into some terrible sisyphean tragedy either. Time was, I’d eat three pizzas on pizza night, spending almost $40 and then do it again tomorrow. I am not sure eating a small chicken kebab for lunch and one portion of chinese food sans rice for dinner even compares to that level of conspicuous consumption.