We went to a motorcycle shop on the North Shore, and I made some friends:

Chickens are awesome.

Driving the car into work, while environmentally insensitive of me, allows me the freedom to do things I just can’t do on a scooter. For example:

• Wear a short (ish) skirt without worrying that I’m flashing everyone on the bridge
• Wear mascara without going blind when the wind makes my eyes tear up and things run and sting
• Hair ornaments – it is nigh on impossible to be cranky when you’ve got sequins in your hair
• Music! I don’t listen to music while scooting, but in the car I can crank up the tunes and sing passionately of love and fisting
• Dress like a sassy school marm

I don’t know what I’m going to do when scooting season is over. It seems beyond foolish to pay $85 a month to park when I can’t ride, yet there’s a 30-day notice clause for canceling my parking pass – and then what do I do in the spring? Jump through the hoops all over again? Probably. I could use the no-scooting time to look at other lots in the area; I take up so little room perhaps I could find cheaper parking elsewhere.
I’m going to have to get up a lot earlier, too. Transit chaps my ass in terrible ways – the idea of paying $7.50 a day to take 45 minutes to get to and from work is just alien and wrong to me. I don’t know why I’m such a princess about transit; millions of people take it every day and they certainly don’t make it sound like they’re being forced to rub elbows with peasants .. which, truthfully, is part of the problem. Damn peasants; always smelling like dung and manual labour.

I officially Give Up on bathing suits. Granted, I spent a total of 20 minutes looking for one – but still, I give up. Last night in Walmart (I know, I know) I found a rack of clearance suity things, and grabbed an approximation of my size. I didn’t bother trying them on, because I was with boys with a known lack of patience for womanly lycra. I was pretty sure about the size of my bottom, but it was my top half that causes the most angst. Sure enough, when I got home I discovered the $5 bottom fit perfectly – but neither of the two tops were mighty enough to contain the almighty power of my spectacular bosom. I’m going to return the two tops and I’ve come to A Decision about my need for ocean decency: I’ll wear the bottom with a tank top and bra. There is no swimming gear on this planet strong enough to contain my breasts, and I am not bragging – these fuckers are huge, and everything I’ve ever tried on makes me feel exposed and saggy. I will sacrifice one of my many bras by removing the underwire – it would suck to have my boobs rust – and designate a reasonably modest tank top as swimming wear. That way I can still be confident that my boobs will remain covered and contained while I dunk myself in the ocean. I am very crafty when I need to be.

Of course, I could just go to Wreck Beach instead and let everything hang out.

Next year maybe I’ll try looking for a suit before the season ends, and see if I can’t find something made of mithril or adamantium.

This is just awesome. I’ve been bugging my NZ co-worker to perform the haka before his team meetings, and while I don’t think I’d want to see him do it naked, this news story only fuels my interest in sweaty men yelling and dancing.

I love this story. The part about the “streaker” is just fucking hilarious and adorable – my pants on to you, good sirs!

So far so good – I made it here towards the middle of the second band’s set. They sound pretty good, so I bought their EP for $5. I even made a profit – I paid with a 20 and got $15US in change. Wacky!

Speaking as someone with a great deal of experience and knowledge on water and the whole sub-counter-culture of being wet, I have never in my entire life been as soggy as I am right now.

I’m supposed to be in a tiny hall listening to punk rock, but instead I’m at home wringing out my clothing and waiting until I can feel my legs again before I head back out to hopefully catch the last part of the show.

I am a miserable girl.

I’ve had better Mondays.

My day started out with a visit the gynecologist’s office, as outlined below. As much as I claim otherwise, opening my legs for a stranger has never been a top priority for me – especially when the end goal is not mutual sweaty pleasure but instead nasty cold speculums, medical-grade lubricant, and admonishment for pubic shaving. As nice as the doctor was, it’s never a good way to start your day. There is cramping. I do not like it.

I decided to treat myself to breakfast on my way to work, so I went through McDrive Thru for a sausage mcmuffin. I asked three times for no cheese – once at the speaker box, once at the window, and again when they decided they had to park me and bring my order out. NO CHEESE. I hate processed cheese. My breakfast order is a sausage patty in an English muffin – no egg, no cheese, no fancy sauces – and that’s the way I like it.

Naturally, my breakfast had cheese on it.

Okay, whatever. I picked off all that I could, then wiped down the rest to make it cheese-free. I know there are starving children out there, and they are more than welcome to my cheese.

Fast forward to lunch time: I’m hungry. Faced with few options, I decided to give in to the horrible sandwich and grab a sub from Quiznos. I ordered my sub the way I like it, which is to say NO LETTUCE. I love me a good salad, but I cannot eat warm lettuce – the smell makes me gag. Confident that I’d been in there enough that I didn’t need to stand over the sandwich wrapper to remind her not to cram my sub full of lettuce, I went to pay and waited for my meal.

Naturally, my sub had lettuce on it.

I picked out as much as I could, swearing the entire time. The thing is, my sub was full of tiny pieces of chicken and bacon and bbq sauce. Picking the lettuce out was a messy affair, to say the least – which means my hands were covered in warm wet sticky sauce.

Have I ever mentioned my OCD when it comes to the cleanliness of my hands?

Dirty hands make me FREAK THE FUCK OUT.

Not only am I trying very hard not to gag at the smell of the warm lettuce, my hands are covered in horrible things which made my brain short circuit and had me running to the kitchen for some soap and water. I came back and tried to eat my lunch, but the smell of the lettuce had permeated the rest of the sub. I couldn’t eat it. I took it apart, ate as much chicken as I could stand to touch, then balled it up to throw at someone’s head. Today is not a good day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to wash my hands again.

I did everything right: I talked it over with my partner. I did my research. I waited until I was past 30, because at 29 I was clearly too irresponsible and indecisive to make such an important decision about my reproductive schedule. I weighed the pros (no babies) versus the cons (babies) and came to a perfect ten in terms of what I want. I am not being selfish or immature and I will not change my mind. In fact, it is incredibly easy for me to say never: watch me do it now.

I do not want children. I will never want children. I have known I do not want children since I was but a wee Kimli, and now that I’ve grown into a wee adult Kimli, my resolve is still strong: childbearing is not for me. Never will I want children. My womb will never open for business. I like my eggs like I like my dirt: unfertilized and sperm-free. I am the president in excellent standing of Team No Babies. The shirt is literally in the mail. I DO NOT WANT CHILDREN.

So why oh why will you not tie my tubes?

I was in gynecological wonderland today, visiting a new doctor about a variety of things to do with my womanly gardens. I successfully steered the conversation towards contraceptives, because I am looking for a new – hopefully permanent – method of keeping my vagina free from babies. I let it be known that I was on the pill for nearly 11 years, but I recently stopped taking it because I first ran out, and then I realized how great it was to not be on hormones (my sex drive came roaring back, the horrific acne that was supposedly kept at bay by that little blue pill has yet to appear, I felt liberated and not tied down to remembering to take the stupid things every day and did not miss the panic when I inevitably missed two or three days at a time, I am having fewer headaches). Since I thought I’d be long past the age of the insulting “you’ll change your mind” talk, I felt I was a shoe-in for tube tying.

But .. no.

The doctor, while very nice, stressed that tube tying is as permanent as it’s going to get and that it should be considered irreversible (all reasons I wish to do it), and “never say never!” – it’s not a good fit for me.

But it IS. It’s a great fit. It fits so well it is like a glove. It fits like painted-on latex; it fits so well.

She wants me to go back on the pill. It worked so well for me in the past (no sex drive, terrible consistency and additional headaches aside), she reasons, that if it ain’t broke why fix it?

Because I WANT to fix it. One of the things I adore about living in Canada is my legal, unrestricted access that wonderful word: CHOICE. I am exercising my right to CHOOSE what happens to my body, and I CHOOSE to not want children therefore I CHOOSE to take the steps necessary to prevent the unwanted children from accidentally appearing on my wombstep.

The Man – in this case, a woman – does not want me to do this. Never say never, she says, the delighted breeder gleam appearing in her eyes. I’m sure she was once like me, strong and proud and confident that she would never want children – but then one day the heavens opened and the angels sang and a choir of giggling, cooing babies sang forth and called her to a woman’s true duty: motherhood. I’ll change my mind one day, and I too will long for babies. I have to. I’m a woman; it’s what we do.

I am frustrated and more resolved than ever.

However, I also hate condoms.

I won’t go back on the pill. Same for the patch, because having to remember to change it once a week is a pain. I will settle for no less than one of the following:

• The Vaginal One Ring, which I will also be grumpy about because I’d have to change it every three weeks
• An IUS, which is like an IUD but contains some sort of magical non-estrogen medicine that will keep me baby-free for 5 years
• Tubal ligation

I told her I’d talk it over with my husband (and the rest of the internet) and call if I decided to go with an option that is currently not sitting on my bedroom floor.

If I go with the IUS and after 5 years they STILL won’t cut my damn tubes, I’m gonna start having babies out of spite and leave them on the doorsteps of my doctors.

Say it loud, say it proud: TEAM NO BABIES!