I confirmed it with at least two other people: I *was* hearing Christmas carols at the Burrard station this morning.

This is why I don’t take public transit. It FUCKS WITH YOUR MIND.

don't say i didn't warn you

The following program update contains material that may not be suitable for all audiences – reader discretion is advised.
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My Olympic journey has come to an end.

When I applied and interviewed to be a volunteer back in March, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I knew that I didn’t want to sell hot dogs, but maybe there was something else I could do; something that would perfectly suit my skills and make the most of my abilities. Deep down, I was really hoping that the Olympics needed a short, busty blogger who could work inappropriate references into the luge coverage. It’s good to have a dream.

During the interview process, I learned I had been placed into the Fleet Group. While it wasn’t hot dogs, it also wasn’t ideal (honestly, I had applied to volunteer for either the opening ceremonies or in some sort of media liaison role). I’m always up for a challenge though (and I was appropriately brainwashed by the inspirational videos they showed us), so I decided to take the red pill and see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Turns out that rabbit hole ends in a parking lot.

I received my volunteer position offer yesterday: Load Zone Attendant at Whistler Olympic Park!

Translation: Parking Lot Monkey in the middle of nowhere!

Do I really want to spend 16 days directing busses of tourists into parking stalls in Whistler?

As crappy as that sounds, I could potentially be interested – I mean, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance to play Parking Lot and I’d be a part of something huge.

Then there’s the reality of it all: Whistler is logistically impossible to get to because of the car restrictions, so I’d likely be on the Olympic shuttle each day to and fro (adding at least three hours to my day). I’d be standing outside in the middle of the mountains, in February. I am short and not easily seen, and I don’t look good in safety gear. All this can be dealt with – I am nothing if not resilient – but there’s more:

My work isn’t making any allowances for people who want to volunteer for the Olympics. I checked with HR yesterday, and my choices are as follows: use up all my vacation time (I get 15 days a year), or take the days without being paid.

Frankly? I am not that selfless.

I know that not every volunteer position can be an awesome exciting one, but this one is not only boring and horrible, it will cost me a lot of money. That’s the turning point right there – I might consider doing it for the sake of having an experience if I was still getting paid (through work), but if it’s going to cost me a couple thousand dollars, I can’t justify it.

There’s one more reason too, but this didn’t play into my decision at all: my mom is having cataract surgery on her OTHER eye on February 12th, so I’ll need to be in Victoria for the first 4 days of the Olympics. Since the event is 16 days and they want you to work a minimum of 13 shifts, that puts me out. The decision has pretty much been made for me, regardless of what I want.

There isn’t any kind of option on the website that allows you to decline a position – you can only choose to accept it. I want the satisfaction of saying NO I WILL NOT BE YOUR PARKING LOT MONKEY, but even that has been taken from me. There is no justice!

I’m a little sad – I did want to have an Olympic Experience, after all – but I will live. Perhaps I will find another way to take part; one that doesn’t require me to get up at 4am every day. That would be ideal. Anyone want a cute local blogger who can make dirty luge jokes on the fly? I’m your girl!

I cleaned some more tonight, and in my frenzy (I lost a pair of shoes; it was causing me concern) I uncovered a book I did not know I owned:

sausage IS mysterious, i'll give you that

This stuff doesn’t happen to most people, does it.

Kübler-Ross is full of crap – there are way more than just 5 stages of grief. Some of the ones she missed are:

• Horniness: Life is short! Let’s have sex!
• Experimentation: Life is short! Let’s have sex upside down in the parking lot doing the hands-free reverse yodeling donkey with a Batman Sundae on the side!
• Cleanliness: Hey, I wonder what’s under the bed?

I spent most of my weekend grief cleaning (and fucking): I tore the bedroom apart and cleaned up and under and behind every little thing I could find. I went through everything I own and made some tough decisions. By the time I was done (2am on Sunday morning), I had filled three large garbage bags of crap and three more of things to donate to Goodwill. I pulled out an army of missing socks from under the bed, vacuumed up four or five cats’ worth of hair, and threw out my mountain of expired makeup. It was oddly liberating. The bedroom is still a mess – I didn’t have the energy to continue cleaning last night – but there’s so much less stuff.

Now I just need to do that to the REST of the apartment, and we may be getting somewhere.

I had four ultimate reasons for the purge: it kept me busy so I didn’t have time to be sad; the room was an utter disaster and the cleaning was long overdue; every once in a while I *like* doing a deep clean and enjoy the shiny neatness of it all; and I lost my copy of The Legendary Starfy for the DS. I still haven’t found the game, so I think it might actually be gone – there’s no way it could have survived my frenzy of activity without being unearthed.

Yesterday was time for exploring. Miranda had asked that we drive her friend Mike to the ferry, so we did then went to Point Roberts afterward. I hadn’t been to PR in a long, long time – when I lived on the Island, we used to go there because it was on the way back to the ferry, and we could buy exciting American candy. Ed and Miranda had never been, so we gathered up our passports and set out to explore.

Point Roberts is really neat. It’s like driving into a forest, with the added thrill of being in a different country. I’m planning on scooting there again soon for a day at the beach – it was a gorgeous day, but the beach still had ample room for people and BBQs and swimming. Definitely somewhere to explore on two wheels!

August is right around the corner, and it’s time to ramp up the summer activities. There are many things on my Fun List that I’d like to do: a weekend scooting the Sunshine Coast; the aforementioned picnic in Point Roberts; scooting to Seattle – and we’re running out of free weekends to do them in.

Oh, and after a forced 4-month absence (due to the extreme lack of good games to play), I finally have some DS pre-orders in. Late summer is going to bring some decent titles to the system, and I want in – my DSi is sorely neglected these days, even when I *can* find the games I’m playing to bide my time.

We picked up Sasha’s ashes yesterday afternoon. It was hard – insanely hard – and I broke down in the parking lot, startling the snowboard dudes who share the same complex. I carefully placed her in Lola’s bucket – even after Ed pointed out the “No Pets” sticker – and we drove home.

The urn they supplied is nice. It’s small and white and coated in a rainbow glaze, tying in with the Rainbow Bridge poem they gave me three times. She’s on my desk now – her favourite place in the world was on my desk, against my chest and draped over my arm(s) while I typed. It’s a small comfort, but she has a permanent spot on my desk now. I’m trying not to think of all the times I got annoyed and moved her off my desk – that won’t happen anymore. I’d give the world to have her pinning me down at my keyboard again.

the urn is strangely classy on my desk

The vet sent a nice card, and we got a certificate of cremation with her ashes. The cremators took a creative effort at spelling my name, coming up with “Kemlie” – that’s a new one. I opened the card while I was sobbing in the parking lot, and it made me laugh.

also hilarious: ed welsh

It’s strange – I never thought in a million years that I’d be glad to have her back in ash form, but I am. I know she’s home now, and won’t ever leave. It’s a weird sense of relief; one I didn’t know I was anxious about. I know she’s with me. It helps. I feel .. better. The tears are still there, but I know the day that I can remember her and smile instead of crying is coming, and that’s a comfort.

Let’s see how I am handling my grief:

• Dressing like a 14-year old let loose in Hot Topic with mom’s credit card? Check!
• Wearing enough eyeliner to keep Adam Lambert and Pete Wentz happy for a year? Check!
• Calling my mother then immediately regretting it when she started to talk for 15 minutes straight about “that dumb bitch” (long story) and rant about people who are depressed, not letting me get a word in edgewise? Check!
• Throwing diseases at my co-workers? Check!
• Listening to gangsta rap? Check!

.. I am slightly confused as to which of the five stages of grief this is, though:

Denial: This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening. I’m not even supposed to BE here today. This is not happening.

Anger: FUCK YOU I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME FUCK YOU I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME I’VE NEVER SEEN A MAN EAT SO MANY CHICKEN WINGS

Bargaining: I will give you this shiny new penny if you could go back in time and bring her here. I’ll even supply the flux capacitor for the DeLorean, okay?

Depression: pfft, like I care. They’re all a bunch of conformist assholes. Life is pain. Life is only pain. We’re all taught to believe in happy fairy tale endings, but there’s only blackness .. dark, depressing loneliness that eats at your soul.

Acceptance:  Dearly beloved we are gathered here today to get through this thing called .. life. Electric word, life: it means forever, and that’s a mighty long time but I’m here to tell you: there’s something else. The afterworld! A world of never ending happiness; you can always see the sun – day or night.

.. nope, nothing about eyeliner and American Idol. Figures – I don’t do most things in a clinically accepted way; why start now?

Seriously, though. I look ridiculous. My boots are friggin’ hot, but the rest of me looks really, really silly. Ed even tried to warn me of this before I left the house, but did I listen? Noooooo. I have to EXPRESS MYSELF, which apparently means dressing like a mall goth. Wicked.

I had planned to go into the office today, but I am too sad to play dodge ball. I feel guilty, but really, I’m making things easier for my co-workers – as evidenced by a conversation I had yesterday, it is incredibly awkward to have a documentation-related discussion while one person is visibly crying yet attempting to talk shop.

*sniffle* So, I think that if we remove section 3 and replace it with section <wipe away tears> 14, the overall process flow *voice breaks* will make more sense to the end user *sob*

I’m actually being productive at home. I had to bribe someone with candy and give him my pornographic password so he could email me a couple of files, but if I get next week’s deadline started, I’ll feel better about not being there.

iTunes is keeping me company, but it’s an uphill battle. I can’t listen to anything remotely sad or melancholy because it makes me burst into tears. I’ve told the Genius Playlist to only play upbeat songs, but that apparently limits my options to Big Dumb Sex by Soundgarden and a few choice songs I am too embarrassed to name here. It’s sort of working – it’s hard to cry along to a peppy dance beat and songs about disco sticks.

Okay, not really, but picturing what I must look like from the outside – crying and involuntarily chair-dancing at the same time – is kind of hilarious.

It’s funny – in times of great heartache, I always think the same thing: I want my mom. I absolutely don’t understand this, because my mother has never been any source of comfort for me – she’s actually pretty scary. If I called her up and sobbed my current agony to her, be it the loss of my best friend or a fight with Ed, she wouldn’t exactly open her arms and let me cry out my pain. She would ramble something inappropriate, offer me some chicken, then maybe buy me shoes. Worse, she would try to justify it (whatever “it” is) and that would make me explode. So why do I always want my mother in times of sorrow? It’s weird. Maybe I just want someone authoritative to hug me and tell me everything will be okay; to take care of me and let me do what I need to do – someone who is removed from the thing causing my grief. Yeah, that’s it. It’s one thing to grieve together, but sometimes you just need outsider love.

I am so clear and concise; it is obvious why I am such a successful tech writer.

So, after I get over the whole “why do I want my mom? My mom scares me” thing, my thoughts turn to my second default grief reaction: memorial tattoo! I should totally get a memorial tattoo!

I haven’t decided this one yet, but the thoughts are there.

Kinda funny.

Funny like this porn star cookie I’m eating.

I am not right in the head today.

I wasn’t planning on writing about this until later, but I need to get some stuff out so you get a bunch of words to wade through.

I’d also like to apologize in advance if I seem at all .. off today. I am feeling seriously weird – almost stoned – and my thoughts are scattered and sardonic (more so than usual).

Death makes me bitter and cynical, apparently. I was like this after my dad died – in between moments of crushing grief, I was mocking and acerbic; firing off highly inappropriate (yet witty!) observations that shocked people. We all deal with it differently. My method is kind of brittle.

We have an appointment to put Sasha down today. I’m at work for a conference call – a commendable display of dedication in the face of two chickens a year – then I’m going home to spend one last afternoon with her. I will stop at the store and buy a can of tuna, and we will share lunch. She loves tuna.

I don’t want to do this.

I have to do this.

She peed on the floor on Monday night and it was bright pink. Her kidneys are gone. She can hardly walk. She sleeps with her head in her water dish.

I can’t do this.

My insides are throwing up and spilling out my eyes.

I love you so much, Sasha. Fuck you for getting old and sick – you couldn’t wait another 60 years or so? Selfish cat.

She purrs and wants to be petted and yells at me when she’s hungry. She’s fine. We don’t have to do this.

Why can’t she tell me yes or no? I want to do the right thing but I don’t know what that is.

I hate this so much.

Last night I wished she would die in her sleep just so I wouldn’t have to be the one to kill her. I don’t deserve her – I am a terrible person.

I just wish I *knew*. What does she want? Does she think it’s time to go? Or does she have no idea what’s in store?

This is tearing me up. I can’t do this.

Fucking hell.

Help?