Gillianic Tendencies

I’m referring to the current tagline on my blog, ending “now in the temperate desert of the Okanagan where moisturizer is much more important”. A few people have commented on it without realizing that, actually, keeping my skin moisturized has become a really big deal for me, far more so than when I lived in Vancouver. I had no idea.

Back in my former coastal rainforest life, moisturizer was something I wore mostly in winter, and then just around my nose (where skin would get flaky for some reason). Come late fall I’d go rummaging through my toiletries collection for the hand lotion, which I’d then forget about in the spring. The “cold” (I now no longer consider Vancouver winter to have that, though I did at the time) would make my knuckles raw.

I had peppermint foot lotion from The Body Shop, sort of as a personal tradition because I used to massage my feet with it as a kid when I got foot cramps. I hardly ever used it in adulthood, yet always had a bottle on hand to remind me of my lost youth.

Body lotion and body butter (butter? Am I toast?) were these bottles and jars I’d get as gifts from people and never use. Whenever I’d have to clean out the cupboard under the bathroom sink I’d find an array of these items and feel a bit guilty for never touching them; but I had a theory that these were entirely unnecessary cosmetics, at best just another version of perfume.

No more. Good thing I didn’t throw them all out when I moved to Kelowna.

I noticed the climate difference instantly when I got here in August. It was summer, but I had to start using the face moisturizer right away. And hand lotion. And that peppermint foot lotion, not that it helped that much. I just dried all up, like a raisin. When it got colder, I noticed dry skin on my legs for the first time ever: hence the discovery of the purpose for body lotion.

I kept waking up coughing at night, and was finally able to use that humidifier I’d bought years ago but hadn’t used in ages because it had made my bedroom so humid that water was dripping off the furniture, and it didn’t help my colds anyways. Now it just makes things comfortable (and helps my skin), and I’ve been running mine every day since I got sick last week.

Oh, and my hair! When I was in Vancouver over New Years and it was pissing down with rain most of the time, my hair curled up from all the humidity and I realized how much my hair had changed in Kelowna. It comes out boringly straight, here, and I’m rather depressed by that, because it looks kind of dumb straight when it’s been curly or wavy as far back as I can remember. The dry air also brings static electricity and all the tiny, half-grown hairs tend to stick up, too; I wondered if maybe my hair was damaged until a stylist said no, it’s just the weather.

One rather silly result of this newfound need for skin products has had me drop mega cash at Sephora when I’m in Vancouver. My favourite moisturizer so far is Hope In A Jar, and not just because I find the name hilarious. I also have fancy and expensive versions of hand and body lotion, but their names don’t generate a sense of yearning so there’s no point mentioning them.

I have yet to find a good hair conditioner, though; my usual Fructis doesn’t really cut it here anymore, as Kelowna’s water is harder than I’m used to and my hair is still pretty tangled when I exit the shower. (Can you guys recommend anything?)

So, yeah. I guess my limited experience outside of BC’s coast meant I had no idea how climate affected my skin, hair and health. It’s just not something I would have thought about, though perhaps my surprise makes me a bit of a dumbass. But there you have it, that’s why I mention it in my blog’s title. Don’t neglect your skin, peeps.

Since most of the people I know in Kelowna are spending New Year’s Eve night at home, it’s a good thing I made plans weeks ago to fly to Vancouver today. I’ve got a party to go to tonight, whose title includes the words “orgy”, “drunken” and “Gastown”; and upon RSVPing to the event’s page on Facebook, I got two hot chicks with big boobs each messaging me online asking if I’d make out with them.*

I have never made out with girls before, let alone cute ones with ample rackage, but at least there’s no stubble to worry about, and I’d bet their hygiene is superior. Plus breasts are so soft and squishy.

Happy New Year, everyone! Kiss some hot chicks tonight!

*Strangely, this is 100% true.

I’m booking to take a week off mid-to-late February for vacation. This is something many of you do several times a year, and it’s no big deal. For me, however, it’s a momentous occasion, because the last time I successfully managed to both book, and take, a week-long vacation from work was

October 2006.

I had booked a week off for October 2008, but as I was laid off in August of that year I don’t count it as vacation. 11 months of unemployment isn’t vacation, it’s personal hell where you get enough sleep but can’t plop down a few grand to fly somewhere because you need food and shelter more.

The time before that where I had booked a week off work was November 2007. But I don’t call that a vacation either, because my employer called me back in on the Tuesday. I quit later that week, but started the next job a week after that, so there was no time to go anywhere. I did take a long weekend in Portland with some friends that month, but I wouldn’t call 3 days a vacation.

I went to New York in October 2006. It was incredible, and I’ve been trying to survive on the memories of that trip for the last 3-plus years now, because there’s been nothing else.

The vacation trip before that: July 2000. As you can see, I’m out of practice.

And because I’m out of practice, I don’t know where to go.

This may seem like a white whine to you, but it’s actually worrying me. I’ve seen Facebook updates of so many friends going away on trips all the time, like it’s normal, and I’ve felt so incredibly saddened about my life and how I’ve been denied these opportunities because of work or money. Everyone needs breaks, but I’ve spent a good portion of my career in constant burnout mode, where I was told I couldn’t go on vacation because nobody else knew how to do my job. I missed out on a few weddings, too, because of that excuse.

I’ve dreamed of going to all sorts of places, taking pictures, and bringing back memories and stories that will last me for years. But I don’t know what to do, now that I’ve been given a chance!

I was saying a few weeks ago that I would go to Walt Disney World, as I’m lucky enough to have free passes and a discount on the hotels. It’s a bit too late to try to wrangle a friend to come with me, though, so do I want to go to Orlando all by myself?

I suppose I could try to get some all-inclusive package thingy to Mexico or Hawaii or somewhere. I haven’t been to either of those places, and hope to go someday. Again, though, alone? Perhaps I should book myself into one of those singles resorts and get myself a tropical venereal disease as a souvenir.

Since you’re not me, I’m guessing you’ve actually managed to have fun and go places in your life, and might have some advice as to what I should do. I’m really lost. Yes, I know, nobody’s died, vacation’s supposed to be a good thing, what am I complaining about… Maybe I’m worried that, like my other plans, these will fall through for some reason or another, and I’ll spend another few years just working all the time and banking up vacation pay for when I get laid off.

Well, my birthday was good, if uneventful. Given that Friday was the work Christmas party (formal, with alcohol) I didn’t get much enthusiasm for the idea of celebrating my birthday too, so it went by largely ignored by the Kelowna masses. That’s okay, 32 is not exactly a milestone, and I’ve gotten used to being bored here.

My birthday gift to myself was a 42″ LCD television, because my eyes are going with my old age and now I can tell all those Gossip Girls apart. I consulted a bunch of my male workmates on which model TV to get (they all had strong opinions, sometimes differing, so I took the average) and it all turned out okay, because the TV is nice and big and I wonder why I waited so long to upsize. Then of course I remember that oh yeah, I was (self-|un)employed for nearly a year and spent the first few months of this job paying off my consumer debt from that time. Right.

For Christmas, work gave us all Nintendo DSis, each with a skin of the company logo and mascots (which I can’t show you because I’m not supposed to say where I work, though I can list it on my LinkedIn profile just fine). No included games, though. I didn’t know you could buy a gaming console without a default game (where’s my Tetris equivalent?), but maybe they’re just not included in bulk orders of over 300 units. I bought a DS Lite in 2006 but sold it after a year or so, so getting a new one now is a bit funny. I couldn’t find any games I was interested in buying this weekend but a workmate has lent me Scribblenauts, so I should be able to entertain myself for a while by summoning Large Hadron Colliders to help cats off of house roofs (I managed to play one level back when the game first came out, so that’s all I remember).

I kind of forgot to get ready for Christmas, though. Good thing the mall’s open until 9 every night this week.

When I told a workmate that “if 40 is the new 20, then I’m 12″ he corrected me that really I’d be 16, since in order to keep the ratio you’d be dividing by 2 instead of subtracting 20. It’s too bad, because I liked the sound of 12 better. I was less miserable at 12 than I was at 16, even though I had no breasts.

I yearned for breasts when I was a preteen. The way breasts grow on a girl from flat to ka-boing is a long and slow process taking several years, and the interim tadboobs are pretty ridiculous looking. They don’t hang like a teardrop, they just stick out straight, as if you stuck two cotton balls down your shirt. Which I did once, but it didn’t really help my overall appearance.

I wish having boobs made me as happy as I thought they would at 12. But, like everything else, they lost their novelty value after a couple decades. Thankfully others’ boobs are still awesome and new, because they’re all different, and some are HUGE.

I’m 32 on this uneventful day. At least my age is still less than my bra size.

I wish I had a photo to show you, but it’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t want you to feel sorry for me that I’m living in The Ghetto of Kelowna.

I kept calling this area that, as a joke, except it happens to be true, making the joke far less funny. I just found out there’s a brothel a block from here, above the little grocery store. I already mentioned the drug dealer in my building; did I also say how before I moved in there used to be two? The more obvious one got kicked out, but the remaining guy had managed to keep it on the down-low enough to stay, I guess. I probably wouldn’t have noticed, had I not been told about him, though I may have otherwise wondered about the rather dazed looking people I often see coming in and out of the building.

If that’s not ghetto enough for you (there’s also the shouting matches on the balconies, and people here repeatedly telling me how poor they are and how expensive everything is), there was Thursday morning just to make the experience complete.

It wasn’t yet 7, and I was woken up by a loud low ringing I didn’t recognize. It unfortunately didn’t go away, and after remembering who I was and what end was up, I realized it must be the building fire alarm. I was hoping it would stop, but it didn’t, so I drowsily found some pants, put on my jacket and shoes and took the stairs outside to where my neighbours were all standing. Yes, I’m aware had this been a proper big building fire I’d have probably died, but I didn’t smell smoke until I got to the bottom doors.

After a couple minutes the fire truck came (the fire station is, like, 4 blocks away, so I’m surprised they even drove) and two firemen (sexy by default, though I was too tired to notice) entered the building through the front. After another minute an apartment window opened and out flew a mattress with a big hole burned into the middle of it. Someone had fallen asleep with a cigarette, or something; I never found out for sure.

The mattress, however, belonged to the drug dealer. Whoops. We were all let back in the building soon after (which was good, as it was probably -10C or colder outside) and when I left for work I saw that the apartment of the fire had police tape on its door, and there was a police car parked outside. DRAMA! You can only be so discrete as a pusher if you’ve set fire to your business.

It is too bad I didn’t take a photo of all this, because the burnt mattress was outside on the front lawn of the building for two days. Which makes me so proud to live here, let me tell you. Reminds me of Surrey.

In the end I was pretty pissed off to have been woken early and made late to work, but what upset me most of all was that it seems I am a bad cat owner. All these neighbours showed up with their cats in their arms or in a cage, while I left Shebang in my apartment to BURN TO DEATH OBVIOUSLY and am therefore a horrible person. I just hope she never finds out.