crushing disappointment

After the initial trauma wore off, I admit to feeling a strange sort of affection for my tiny plastic hentai victim. I thought perhaps she was lonely, so I went one step further and attempted to order her a friend.

My plan backfired, though – instead of a fresh new tiny plastic hentai victim, I got the same one. Boo! I was very disappointed, and now I have two of the same girl:

I can’t imagine gazing at herself in the same position all day would be very comforting, so I am offering up the second tiny plastic hentai victim up for adoption. Surely someone has room on their desk for this utterly disturbing piece of Japan. Let me know if you want it – it’s my gift to you.

Also, I feel like this thing looks:

you want to put that where?

On Wednesday morning, I will be signing a 5-year contract extension with Team No Babies by way of a Mirena IUD. I did a lot of thinking and while I really want to Fight the System on the “never say never” policy, I just want something in place already. Also, we’re running out of condoms. I don’t want to spend the next year or so in ovarian limbo as I try to find a doctor who will tie my tubes and then wait some more for the surgery – I want to have freaky no-baby-making sex NOW, and being able to bathe my eggs in random sperm with no fetal repercussions is a priority.

I’m ready for this. I’m mentally prepared for the discomfort, thanks to the repeated sharing of IUD horror stories by people who suck at quelling fears. Ed is coming to the appointment with me then taking me home – the doctor suggested I take the day off, because it’s gonna hurt – and tomorrow evening I will stockpile the bedroom with everything I might need during my convalescence such as reading material, DS games, computing devices, kittens, and Diet Coke. It will be fine. *I* will be fine.

I think.

Yesterday, I picked up my Mirena prescription. I discovered there are two things nobody bothers to tell you if you choose this method of birth control:

  • It’s EXPENSIVE. Price was never discussed, which is good because it might have made me change my mind. The device cost $396.28! Holy shit! Okay, yes – when you price out 5 years of birth control at approximately $35 a month (60x$35=$2100), it’s a bargain. I’m lucky enough to have benefits that cover 90% of the cost, meaning I only paid $39.63, but man. That shocked me a little. And only a little, because I was too busy being shocked over:
  • The size of the friggin’ box.

I’ve never actually seen an IUD up close and in person, but logic tells me it’s probably pretty small because it’s meant to fit in your uterus, which is not enormous usually. Nothing could have prepared me for the shock and awe I felt when the pharmacist handed me the box: it measures 16”x4”x1”. It is big.

How big?

Here are some images to help you determine just how shockingly large this box is:

Mirena vs Domo-kun

Mirena vs Domo-kun

Mirena vs my new boots

Mirena vs my new boots

Mirena vs Macbook

Mirena vs Macbook

Mirena vs a half full bottle of Limoncello

Mirena vs a half full bottle of Limoncello

Mirena vs Sasha

Mirena vs Sasha

WHAT THE HELL!

WHY IS THAT BOX SO BIG??!

I wasn’t scared until I saw that box, and now I am terrified.

I like my men like I like my burritos, but never have I ever requested a 16″ burrito.

I think I’m going to have to do some stretching.

AHH!

that didn’t work

I gave it the old collage try (mm .. glue), but the alcohol didn’t do much by way of fixing all my problems. I got extremely drunk extremely quickly – I am nothing if not extreme – then had a very bad headache for a great many hours afterward. I also turned lobster red – I was dubbed Zoidberg for the night. All in all, a failed experiment.

I don’t know why I feel so out of sorts. Things are quite well – there is a kitten, and new boots. My job is great, I love my apartment and the assorted creatures in it, and there is nothing looming over my head like some sort of horrible spectre. This, then leads me to think that perhaps TEH DEPRESSIONS is rearing an ugly head – except this time I am catching it as it happens instead of letting my world implode and then realizing that I am insane again.

Usually there is much to be said for progress, but this feels like a hollow victory.

I think I will listen to some happy music, doll myself up a little, and maybe ask Ed to put on that assless kilt and dance around a little for my amusement. That, or go shopping. Maybe both – at the same time!

Wait, that would get Ed arrested.

Which could also be highly amusing, actually.

Excellent.

rope

It is unnerving to see rope outside your window.

It is a thousand times more unnerving to see that same rope falling very quickly to the ground.

I’m not really afraid of heights, but I *am* afraid of falling off high buildings.

introduction

It was supposed to happen this morning, but for the sake of office harmony, we moved it to this afternoon. I doubt I’ll have time to update when it all happens, so I will spill the beans now:

Before the day is out, you will get to meet Cream Lemon, the Incestuous Bad Idea Kitten!

I’m adopting the kitten from a co-worker. He’s 9 weeks old, and some sort of Siamese brown point/gray point mix. The pictures I’ve seen so far, while blurry, are adorable. I will have many pictures to share before the week is out, I’m sure.

What’s with the name?

I have a history of giving my animals outlandish (if not downright ridiculous) names. Lemon (as the new kitten shall be known) was named because I was Wiki’ing “incest in popular culture” (don’t ask). I stumbled upon the Cream Lemon saga and thought it was a great name. Very shortly after, the decision – a bad one, according to almost everyone – to adopt the kitten was made. Upon learning that his parents were brother and sister from the same litter, it dawned on me that this kitten was in fact the product of incest – which tied in nicely with the whole “Cream Lemon” thing. My coworker was a little embarrassed to let the whole cat incest thing be known, but I found it hilarious because I am highly inappropriate.

I am very excited and also sleepy. I took the rest of the week off to work on Operation: Kitten Integration, and will be living in the spare room with the door closed for the next couple of days. I’m hoping the kitten will bond with Hobble, who really needs a playmate – he likes to pounce on Cheddar, but she’s getting old and can’t really take a 22lb wall of cat flying at her from all directions.

Sasha will sit in her corner and hiss as usual.

I am well on my way to becoming a crazy cat lady.

stain remover ftw

After Gillian came to my rescue last week after a salsa-related emergency, I came to see the wisdom of carrying a Tide-To-Go pen with me. I bought one that afternoon, and have used it a half dozen times since then. It’s a very good idea for someone like me – a klutz with an ample bosom – to have the ability to rapidly remove stains. Ed suggested that I choose my wardrobe based on what I’d be eating that day, but I don’t own that much red. Besides, it doesn’t work – I’m wearing white right now, and I managed to drip butter on myself. I’m spot-free – for now – but just to be safe, I think I will eat lunch with a bib.

Tomorrow, I will finally let you know what this Cream Lemon thing is all about.

You cannot wait.

bawdy wench

I know it’s Monday, but bear with me as I recap the previous week as though it were Sunday:

The Lagwagon show was awesome. I discovered the existence of a band from England called TAT that I really enjoyed, and purchased their EP for $5 (making a hefty profit, as I received $15USD in change for some reason). The crowd was really lame though, until Lagwagon took the stage – at which point, everyone went stupid. We witnessed two violent takedowns in front of us by security, and I was hit twice – once by a guy running past me who collided painfully with my left hip and kept going, and again by a guy who, in a desperate attempt to puke in the garbage can I was standing beside, ran full strength into it and me. At that point I gave up and watched the rest of the show from the back of the hall. Large drunken frat jocks are scary, and I was sore.

Riding home was a trial. It had started raining at 5pm, and got steadily heavier as the night wore on. I wasn’t wearing rain gear, so before the show started I opted to scoot home, change, and grab the car. When we all got out at 11pm, it was still monsooning so we decided to go single file with me in the rear, hazards on. We made it home, but it was not a lot of fun.

In fact, parts of it were downright creepy. As we crossed over the Lions Gate Bridge, we saw a car coming towards us without lights on. We assumed it was just an idiot, until the car passed under a streetlight – the front end was completely destroyed. As in, the driver plowed at a very high speed into something that was standing still. I have no idea how the car was even functional and the driver alive; it was utterly smashed. That was strange enough, but as we got off the bridge, we saw the accident. Something had happened just past the bridge turn off on the road to West Vancouver, and there were cars sitting around with police and an ambulance on the way. We figure the creepy car we saw either was in or the cause of the accident, and drove off in an attempt to get away. He wouldn’t have gotten far – the car was a little obvious, and not running very well – but it was still spooky to see.

Not much happened for the rest of the week, but on Saturday morning I was up bright and early to drive Josh and Shan to the airport. We left at 6am and made it with plenty of time to catch their flight. I am an excellent friend. I was back home by 7:30, then slept for a few more hours. Ed and I spent the afternoon scooting around the North Shore buying rain gear and lunch, then came home to have a nice little fight and a sleepy evening.

Sunday was much better.

We knew we wanted to do *something*, but were at a loss as to what. We thought about going downtown to the Art Gallery to see the KRAZY exhibit before it closes next week, but weren’t really sold on the idea. I started snooping around the internets for ideas when I found it – the BC Renaissance Fair was in town!

Neither of us had ever been to a Ren Fair, so we were off to Fort Langley to check it out. It was pretty cool – many neat costumes, Ed got nearly drunk off one cup of mead, and a hilarious guy that we dubbed The Village Dick, whose job it was to walk around and insult people with a flourish. Good times! Definitely worth the drive out there. It helped that it was a gorgeous lazy Sunday with no plans but to explore, and explore we did. I wandered in a river, we tried our hand at antiquing (verdict: the suck), I somehow almost blew out my knee, and I bought a pin that proudly tells the world I am a brazen hussy. It was an excellent Sunday.


And now we’re having an equally lazy Monday. There might be some cleaning, the art gallery may still happen, and if not – it’s all good. I like long weekends.

warp core breach

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.