The details have been ironed out and the deposits paid – we’re going to Cuba in May.

I’m excited. I’ve never been on a tropical vacation before, and neither has Ed. There’s a group of us going, and we’ll be there for a whole week. That’s a lot of communist sun to soak up, and I’m ready for it. I bought a Kindle so I can sit and read, and when that gets boring, I’ve been told I can rent a scooter and ride around looking for treasure. It’ll be an adventure in every sense of the word, and I am really looking forward to it.

I do have a minor concern about the trip – a niggling little worry that, if I let it, will turn into a full-blown panic attack. It’s not the flight or safety or the resort – those things will be fine. I’m not even all that concerned about our cats or home; we have A Plan. No, I’m trying hard not to freak out about something much more important:

Do they have Diet Coke in Cuba?

Everyone else is excited about drinking mojitos on the beach until they can’t stand up. This holds little interest to me – I don’t drink, and I like standing up. While I’m sure there will be a number of non-alcoholic options available, I’m really only interested in one: I drink Diet Coke. That’s it. I’ll drink water if there’s nothing else available, but everything I’ve read says to avoid water and ice cubes. What the hell am I going to do? I need my Diet Coke! It’s my caffeine, my best friend, my secret lover! I can’t even go one day without the deliciousness, let alone 8! Do I really need to bring clothing? Can I use my suitcase to smuggle in a supply?

Try though I might, I can’t see a way around this. I’m certainly not going to skip the trip just because I can’t wean myself from the chemical tit, but I need to find something else I can live off for a week without suffering from withdrawal. I’ve only thought of one half-assed solution, and I’m not too crazy about it: I’m going to have to learn to drink.

I’m thankfully not allergic to rum, so I’ll start there. We have some random rum in the closet somewhere, and I picked up some mango-infused rum to practice on. I will practice until I am Awesome at Drinking. I will get really Good at Drinking so I can spend my vacation plastered off my ass – the Thing to Do, apparently – so I won’t be annoyed at the lack of Diet Coke. This is a good plan, right? You can do anything if you just practice hard enough.

Who wants to get practice drunk with me?

Here is a picture of a tiny bejeweled monkey for some reason:

i do not know why i am

I’m not one to brag, but I have a pretty spectacular vagina. At least, I assume I do – why else would EVERY SINGLE PHYSICAL EXAM I HAVE garner an audience and mood lighting?

Almost two months after I had officially given up on my delicate sanctuary, I received a call from the Lady Part Clinic at VGH asking me to come down for a howdy-do: it seems my file had been misplaced. They were very eager to take a look at my fancy basket, so could I please come down and let everyone take a peek? The mysterious pain had long since subsided and I had all but forgotten my Adventures in Spectator Speculuming, but I’m not one to turn down a free glob of lube in my nethers so off I went.

I sat around waiting for a long time before anyone came in, and that anyone was an exceedingly young Asian chap who asked me ten thousand questions about my cloven tuft. After I had convinced him that I’m not crazy or a floozy, he left the room to fetch the doctor. Dr. Lady actually had Some News for me, which is much further than I’d ever gotten before – after examining my ultrasound in detail, she spotted something. She explained that it was very likely a lovely-sounding thing called a hemorrhagic cyst, which is a harmless bumpy thing that expands and contracts like terrifying disembodied lungs and usually hurts a bit. She suggested that she and the exceedingly young Asian chap take a romp through my silky gardens, and that I go for a follow-up ultrasound next month just in case. Both these things sounded just swell to me, so my pants came off and my legs spread and everyone had a good hard look at my cervix. Another Wednesday, another bunch of random spectators inspecting my quivering velvet – I should start charging admission.

I have an ultrasound scheduled for mid-April, but the rest of my sugar basin received high marks for healthiness and welcoming ambiance. It was nice to get some actual news about my gardens; it’s more than a little worrisome to experience Mystery Pains for no reason.

To celebrate my healthy tinkleflower, I am wearing a petticoat under my dress.

i am a true lady

My spam filter must be asleep, but I’m okay with that because this wouldn’t have made it through otherwise:

Sale!
1. Heroin, in liquid and crystal form.
2. Rocket fuel and Tomohawk rockets (serious enquiries only).
4. New shipment of cocaine has arrived, buy 9 grams and get 10th for free.

Everyone is welcome, but not US citizens.

ATTENTION. Clearance offer. Buy 30 grams of heroin, get 5 free.

Prices upon reqeust.

WOW! What a deal! I’d be a fool not to stock up now! If any US citizens want in on the deal, we can work together and place a bulk order!

blow sparkles, right?

I can barely walk and I won’t eat again for a week, but that was the most decadent Tuesday night I’ve ever had.

Shan and I were among the lucky Yelp Elite to be invited to attend a chic soirée (for real) at YEW restaurant and bar in the Four Seasons Hotel. It was the second of two nights; instead of having one massive and crowded party they wisely and excellently threw two small parties which meant people had room to mingle, chat with YEW staff, and gorge themselves on some of the most incredible food I’ve ever had the privilege of trying. The entire evening was a blast – Yelp’s Community Manager Cyndi is adorable beyond belief (as is her sister), Shan and I lucked into the same party as some of my favourite people, and I got to play with power tools – there’s little more I need to ensure an incredible time, and thus a memorable Tuesday was born.

YEW really pulled out all the stops to ensure we were a well-fed and well-watered bunch. The wine flowed non-stop, and the bartender served up some wicked Negronis to all who dared. Molson was on hand as well, debuting their new Molson M (some sort of microcarbonated beer – near as I can tell, this means it has tiny bubbles) Lager. Me, I drank water. Even if the booze is free, I’m afraid of it – but what I didn’t ingest in alcohol, I more than made up for in food.

mac n' cheese done all fancy

Oh, the food. YEW served up plate after plate of incredible goodies – I officially stopped eating at least four times, but was easily convinced to try the new delicacy coming my way. Among the highlights of the tasty things YEW had in store for us:

• Lobster Mango Rolls
• Gourmet Mac n’ Cheese
• This absolutely incredible gnocchi dish served with fancy bacon and truffles
• Freshly shucked oysters
• Some of the best mushroom soup I’ve ever tasted

The food was amazing. Have I mentioned that yet? It was clearly prepared with love and deliciousness, and I truly enjoyed myself – and I haven’t even mentioned the desserts yet.

mango ravioli: tastier than you

The lighted dessert bar was the first thing that caught my eye when we walked into the room, mostly because it was shiny and pretty. I went over to see what was up and found that in addition to looking good, the table was groaning with YEW’s legendary dessert tapas: small portions of transcendental sweets allowing you to choose your own flavour explosions. I’m pretty sure I had more dessert than savoury food, but can you blame me when faced with:

• The above-pictured Mango Ravioli, served floating in a sea of honest-to-god Delicious Juice
• Chocolate caramel truffle lollipops
• Strawberry compote on whipped white chocolate ganache with coconut meringue
• And the surprise favourite, the espresso caramel pot de crème

truffle lolli!

espresso caramel

So much fun. Jeff Hanson spoke with almost every person at the party and talked about his restaurant, which he is clearly – and rightfully – proud of. It was a brilliant evening, and I feel incredibly lucky to have been included – YEW is a beautiful place with fantastic staff (and Joel the Waiter deserves a special shout-out for his smooth-talking ways that had me eating far more than I should have but enjoying every minute), and I’m planning to visit again with Ed in tow very soon.

I’m still full, but I’d give my left arm for more mango ravioli in delicious juice.

oysters were here

.. the life preserver, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Actually, I take that back – this won’t be a bumpy ride, because I don’t want it to be. I will try very, very hard to behave myself this time, and maybe I won’t need to worry that I’ll be tossed out into the open ocean as shark bait. I will sit perfectly still. I will not rock the boat. I will be quiet and keep my mouth shut and not many any (more) snide comments within earshot of people who thought this was a good idea. I’m good, see. That means no one will fire me for speaking my mind, because I don’t have one. No boat rocking here!

.. okay, maybe a little wave:

Our corporate website got redesigned. It looks nice – very bright and clean, and without any horrible stock photography. Except I almost wish they DID use stock photography, because at least those pictures of fake-ass smiling employees have WOMEN in them, unlike our new website which is a complete and total sausage fest. They had a photographer come in and take pictures of some of our more photogenic staff, and those people are the ones you see on our site. That’s a nice idea and all, but what are they trying to say here? We don’t employ women at all? Or we only hire ugly women not fit to be displayed for internet consumption? Boooo. Neither of those things are true, and the righteous feminist in me is appalled that they’d make our website so full of wang. Have we not come further than that as a society? Is this not 2011? Do I not work here as well? If you give me a project, do I not bleed hilarious and accurate documentation? I demand equal representation for our capable, knowledgeable sex! Put some ladies on our website! We can and do work here too!

*splash splash*

Okay, I’ll be quiet now.

It’s just kind of annoying, is all.

I am frustrated with my face.

The habitual dry skin I get in the winter is out of control this year, and is so much worse than it’s ever been. I’m scaly and gross all over my face, and it HURTS. Nothing I’ve done is helping at all and I can’t stop clawing at the dried pieces of flesh hanging off my face like some sort of disgusting Kimli jerky. I got a prescription for some soothing creams from the horrible clinic I go to for my meds, but it did nothing – it lacked the steroid component I’m used to getting when my face threatens to fall off. I figured I could work around the cream and keep things under control, so I didn’t bother getting a different cream.

Fast forward to today, when EVERYTHING HURTS. Moving my face in any way is a crusty exercise in pain and bad times, and nothing I’ve done since September has made things any better. Even worse, the zombie areas have spread – there was a time when only the right side of my nose was devoid of moisture, but those were apparently the good days. My entire nose and both sides of my mouth are excessively, horribly dry and my forehead – I have a unibrow made of scales. No part of this is any good at all, and I am depressed and ugly and sad.

I won a shirt because my team somehow came in second in our office Rock Band tournament last Friday, but the shirt I picked out is hitting a little too close to home today:

ow my face

I have a doctor’s appointment on Wednesday after work, and I will not leave the office until there are steroids in my tiny elf hands. I am tired of being gross! In the meantime though, I will mope. Today it sucks to be me (and my face).

Thoughts I had while cleaning out my closet on this snowy Saturday afternoon:

• So that’s where my black tulle petticoat went! I should totally wear this to work on Monday to my job as a whore in a frontier brothel!
• Why do I have so many sequined vests?
• Wow, I sure have a lot of dresses
• I am going to kill the person who designed this closet, but he’s probably already dead because no one this stupid could ever figure out the finer logistics of walking and breathing at the same time
• I need a wardrobe for all my corset. I wonder if I could talk Ed into that.
• Cool, my white dress! Now I can tie-dye it!
• Will I ever wear this latex shirt again? Better keep it just in case.
• My friends are doing a lousy job of keeping me from buying things because they’re hilarious – they’re fired.
• Seriously, fuck this closet so hard. I wonder what would happen if we took off the doors?

Turns out, closet looks much better without doors. We stashed them under the bed, where they’re out of our way and also blocking any monsters from hiding underneath. It’s win-win for everyone, except maybe the monsters.

I think I’ll clean out the storage closet next – I need to dig up the leftover tulle from Tanya’s wedding so’s I can be a princess at River’s birthday party next month.

Yeah, you’re jealous.

i am drowning
there is no sign of land
you are coming down with me
hand in unlovable hand

Okay, maybe that’s a little dire – I’m not planning on taking you with me, and I don’t feel your hands are all that unlovable – I’m just SO FRUSTRATED I NEED TO SCREAM (and/or sing Mountain Goats songs until I’m hoarse and sobbing).

I’m building an intranet for my company, using Sharepoint 2010. With the exception of the two-day course I took on Sharepoint 2010 and my ability to write words on the internet, I have absolutely no experience or skill or talent with intranet building in any way. I am so over my head I feel like I’m drowning and therefore ruining food court tacos for millions across the land. I’ve spent the last two days wading through XML, CSS and Javascript; three things I am wholly unprepared to wade in. All I want to do is change a fucking font size, but is it an easy thing to do? Of course not. To change the font size of a pre-built SP item, you need to somehow unpack the .THMX file, extract the CSS that dictates font sizes, rewrite it, pack it all back up, and trick the system into thinking it’s the original file. WHAT THE HELL, MICROSOFT? NOT EVERYONE WANTS TO READ PAGE AFTER PAGE OF CONTENT IN 8PT VERDANA!

I am frustrated and annoyed that I can’t do this. I hate feeling completely lost; knowing that I am woefully lacking in the knowledge needed to do the things I want to do. I feel dumb and angsty, and my toes are cold. I AM A SAD KIMLI, AND I HATE SHAREPOINT SO HARD I COULD JUST POOP.

In other news, we paid our deposit: we’re going to Cuba in May. Perhaps I will defect – I bet they don’t have Sharepoint down there, and I could learn to like rum.

I’ve always been somewhat proud of this ridiculously one-paragraph’d rant that was posted on June 11th, 2004:

I’m annoyed about panty liners, people. While rummaging through my collection of feminine hygiene products, I happened upon a box of black panty liners. I remember buying these; even though they were more expensive than the handily compact ones and came 32 to a box instead of 36, my inner goth gave a rousing “meh” of delight at the thought of panty liners as black as the midnight of my soul. It seemed like a truly excellent idea at the time, but now when my womb is shedding its lining that had been prepared for the fertilized egg it will never receive, I am annoyed. Black panty liners suck. It’s not enough for me to know I am being vaguely protected ‘down there’, I need to see the evidence of the flower of my womanhood. Nothing shows up on a black absorbent surface — I could be bleeding out mango chutney or Ovaltine and I wouldn’t know. I am inconvenienced monthly because I listened to my inner goth, and I’m not happy about it. Not only that, but in order to dazzle you with packaging so you can marvel at how far vaginal technology has come, the box is designed to carry the liners at their full length to maximize the impact. This means they’re not individually wrapped, making them awkward and unhygienic to carry, and they don’t fit neatly into my Vinnie’s Mini Tampon Case. Everything about the black panty liners piss me off. I am pissed off at the difficulties they add to my menstrual cycle. Just who do they think they are, throwing a wrench into places there best be no wrench at all? And don’t even get me started on the OTHER kinds of stupid panty liners — while I personally wouldn’t think to ever wear a thong while leaking out my hoo-haw, there are those who do and thong-shaped liners must seem like a good idea to them. A few years back, companies were putting patents out for panty liners that were soaked with chemicals to help you better understand your menstrual cycle. Good lord! Where has this stuff been since the dawn of time? I don’t know how our foremothers were able to live without a handy colour-changing rag between their legs to tell them they’re about to ovulate so they could conceive their 9th child. These new fangled liners were to come with colour coded charts — purple on gold means you’re ovulating, red means it’s a little too late to be wondering when your period is going to start, blue means you’ve got the clap and pink indicates that the stars are in alignment on the cusp of Capricorn so today would be a good day to ask that hunky office dreamboat out for coffee and “dessert”. WHY is it a good idea to drape my most delicate bits in chemicals? Who thinks of this stuff? My vagina is JUST FINE without help from your caustic concoctions. It does not need to be deodorized or disinfected or moisturized daily to avoid unsightly wrinkles. It does not need designer products once a month to help me forget the embarrassment of being a woman. I do not need a spray to mask my womanly odors. I don’t need “special sized” protection for my fat girl cunt, and nobody needs you to entice an entire generation of young girls into paranoia that they vagina is too big or too small for your products which, while we’re on the subject, are ridiculously expensive for something we have no choice over. I’m a woman. I bleed out my vagina for 2-5 days a month, and you’re making MONEY off my natural cycles. You’re trying to introduce new and excitingly colourful ways to tell me if I’m a cheating whore who’s knocked up and riddled with STDs and just to add insult to injury, you’re dropping subtle hints that I stink and should cover up in case someone can tell that I’m on the rag. OH, and you’re making tampons with “silent” wrappers, too, so no one can hear us in the bathroom because other women would be MORTIFIED to learn that ANOTHER WOMAN is HAVING HER PERIOD in a PUBLIC PLACE when we should obviously be at home bedridden until our womanly cycles are through. It’s punishment, you see, for BEING WOMEN. Well, here’s a hearty FUCK YOU from me and my vagina and all the fun that comes with and from it, including the oh-so humiliating fluid from my uterus and the only organ on the human body specifically designed just for pleasure and any and all scents that might come from this flowering, bleeding, leaking proof that I have a fabulous set of the XX running wild through my body like Godzilla on the streets of Tokyo.

So *there*.

Originally posted March 8th 2005 after someone gave me shit about the stuff I was posting (the icons got lost in the archives, so these are new ones):

I’ve taken a page from the ESRB and have decided to code all my posts at the beginning so my readers will be able to tell at a glance what sort of controversial topics today’s offering contains. Here is a handy guide to the symbols we will be using for your protection:

The Internet Journal Rating Board (IJRB)

Sex: This post contains references to the horizontal mambo, the beast with two (or three or four) backs, drilling for oil, plowing the back 40, sinking the little man in the boat, a fuck-a-thon, a Russian salad party, going after the quad when the red armour is up, opening the door for the little old lady, dripping mustard on a yellow shirt at a LAN, and so on and so forth.

Feminine Issues: This post contains my vagina and all the wonders within. If it’s not swearing up a self-righteous storm, things are gushing both above and below the border. Caution: contents under pressure.

Church: This post contains righteous ire directed towards organized religion. While the author does not hold specific followers at fault, the views contained within might blow your conservative gay-hatin’ Sponge-Bob decryin’ birth control withholdin’ minds.

Frivolous Spending: This post may have content of a consumeristic nature. We’re throwing wads of money into the sky and hoping to hit a genie to give us warm golden showers of shiny, shiny gold. Warning! We are living in a material world, and I am a material girl.

Financial Woes: There’s a discarded couch on the money train tracks, and there are hard times ahead. This post contains melodramatic woe and references to Little Timmy and his empty Christmas Stocking.

Angst: We’re one step closer to the edge, and we’re about to break. This post contains recaps of my troubled life, lovingly detailed in dramatic prose with plenty of analogies to an unhappy childhood and Nine Inch Nails lyrics.

Haircut: We’re totally phoning this update in. This post contains nothing of interest whatsoever; I never go outside and constantly wonder why I have no friends. There are only so many ways to make “I watched TV all night” sound interesting, but we’re still giving it the old college try.

Potential Grammatical Errors: Even with use of a spell checker and an online dictionary/thesaurus, this post may contain incorrectly used words that escaped the author’s grasp. Hemmingway himself had a bad day or two, but he was a real author with editors and paycheques and alcohol dependencies where as I am just some yahoo with an internet connection and web space.

Gay Porn: This post contains lustful fantasizing about of two guys going at it bareback, possibly in an uncommon setting like the beaches of Normandy or the Anomalous Materials Laboratory in the Black Mesa Federal Research Facility. Is that a crowbar in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

Sausage: This post contains sausage.

To take full advantage of the IJRB system, it’s important to check both the rating symbol (before the post) and also the outraged comments when not everyone agrees with your lifestyle, even though the same “this is my website, so there” rules apply universally. Additionally, online journals that include user-generated content (opinions, links to external websites) should carry the notice “Journal Reading Experience May Change During Online Browsing” to warn readers that content created by players of the game has not been rated by the IJRB.

We reserve the right to add additional warning symbols as the internet changes. If you have any suggestions or comments, please feel free to drop us a line below – but please be warned that your Journal Reading Experience May Change.