details.

Time to put on my ranty panties!

My boss messaged me this afternoon, asking if I was working from home. I am, and I’ve gotten a lot done! It was an odd thing to ask – his official policy is “work from Rome if you want, just get the work done” – so I asked him what was up. Apparently, someone “noticed” that I hadn’t been in the office “all week” and “brought it to his attention”, so he just wanted to make sure I was still alive.

That really grinds my gears.

Yes, I’m working from home. I’ve got the blessing of both my boss and my boss boss to do so when needed, which I appreciate because I do need to often. I’m in the office each week for at least three days, but work from home the rest of the time for reasons both medical and productivity related (you try editing articles when surrounded by howler monkeys). I do know this is a privilege I’ve been given, and I don’t abuse it. When I work from home, I am both available and visible – more so than when I’m in the office, actually – and today in particular, I’ve been making noise in at least half dozen work related tools.

If my bosses are okay with where I am, why is it anyone else’s business to inquire as to why they can’t see me in meatspace? I don’t like feeling obligated to share every single medical issue that keeps me at home, but if I have to, I will:

The smoke from the fires happening all around Vancouver is making breathing really difficult for me. In fact, I’ve been coughing non-stop since Friday. The coughing makes me throw up. In addition, I am presently virally compromised with some sort of throat grossness that is not an infection. I am potentially contagious, and have been at home to protect people from me, and me from people. I took a vacation day on Friday to go away for the weekend, but instead stayed in town being sick, so there’s that. Also, the air is really dry. For the last two nights in a row, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night with catastrophic nosebleeds that go on for 30 minutes or so. Gross, bloody things are coming out of my face. One of the chunks had tentacles. I named him Martin! He’s really disgusting, but I’ve almost come to terms with the fact that my periods have been replaced by geysers of blood erupting from my nose. I say “almost”, because I generally try to take care of all my fun party tricks at the same time, and so will often throw up while dealing with my nose. Funny story: last week I threw up the baked potato I ate for dinner, in the sink. Some of the potato didn’t go down the sink as much as I had hoped, and was actually stuck in the fancy drain stopper thing. Not only did it stop other things from going down the drain, it was collecting matter like nose blood and pieces of Martin. All that lovely stuff was starting to rot in the sink, which made things smell really bad .. which then made me throw up even more, when I discovered what the smell was! Haha! Anyway, due to my sore throat virus, my difficulty breathing, the overall lack of sleep I’m getting, the sore muscles from throwing up, and startling amount of blood loss, I’ve been working from home. If you really wanted to know why I wasn’t in the office, you could have just asked – I’m always very forthcoming with the disgusting details of my life. I probably would have made it a little less gross for you, but since you didn’t ask me directly and instead went to my boss and made me feel as though people perceive me as someone who doesn’t do any work because I can’t always be seen in three dimensions, you can have the whole story.

Today is my one year anniversary, too. Me and Martin are there in spirit.

 

 

+voice

This article made me laugh: it’s Liam Neeson‘s famous speech from Taken re-written in the style of seven famous authors, from Dr. Seuss to Chuck Palahniuk. I love exercises like this, because it drives home the whole point of The Voice (not the TV show) – something I encourage people to develop in their writing to set themselves apart. Having a voice and knowing it is a powerful thing – most popular authors write in a very specific way. Hell, even ones who aren’t popular. Like me! I have a voice. It’s not that great, but it’s mine and I kind of like it.

If you need a refresher, here’s the original speech:

I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. If you’re looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money; but what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career; skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now that’ll be the end of it. I will not look for you. I will not pursue you. But if you don’t…I will look for you…I will find you…and I will kill you.

Just for fun, here’s the speech re-written as one of my own blog posts:

Who are you? Seriously, dude. I don’t know a) who you are, or b) what you want. What I DO know:

  • I’m poor as hell (so if you’re looking for ransom, you are SOL)
  • I have mad skills (because I’m awesome)

No, really. I’ve been in this business for a long time, and when I wasn’t making a spectacle of myself, I acquired some skills that make me a pedantic nightmare for people like you. Gauntlet: thrown down, bitch!

So clearly, you should let my daughter go (now would be nice). If you do, super! That’ll be the end of all this .. unpleasantness. I won’t look for you (my eyesight is lousy), I won’t chase you (outside sucks). If you don’t, though .. well, I WILL look for you. And because I’m awesome, I WILL find you. And then?

I will totally kill you.

Hah! I make me laugh.

nimbyism

Across the street from my home is a hotel that has been converted into social housing. People in the neighbourhood have had their collective panties in a bunch since the plan was proposed, and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better – the housing has been in operation for almost two years now, and every communication I receive from the neighbourhood speaks of the housing as though it’s the source of all evil in the world.

The truth of the matter is that crime and police incidents have dropped in the area since the housing opened. There have been far fewer random occurrences that require police intervention since the hotel was converted, but no one is paying attention to that – they’re too busy actively looking for ways to close the shelter down and put people back onto the streets in the name of “thinking of the children”. If they truly wanted to set a good example for the children, why not teach them that everyone deserves a home and that some people need help? People in the neighbourhood have been quoted in the news saying “we believe in social housing”, but it’s painfully obvious that their sentences end in “.. just not in our neighbourhood”.

According to the organization that runs the place across the street:

[The former Ramada Inn] is a 40-room transitional housing centre, operated in partnership with the City of Vancouver and the Vancouver Aboriginal Friendship Centre Society. These buildings have adopted a Whole Life Housing approach to wellness which features: affordable rent; assistance with addictions and medical issues; a breakfast and community kitchen program; housekeeping services; employment support; free laundry; and, an advanced pest control and room maintenance program.

Oh, the horrors. People living near us, learning how to become productive members of society. Recently, it was announced that the city is trying to make the housing a permanent thing instead of the temporary solution it was initially proposed to be. Naturally, people in the neighbourhood are panicking, thinking no doubt of how they will possibly explain the lower crime rates to their children. I’m really disgusted with most of my neighbours – who the hell are we to interfere with other people having a roof over their head? What makes your home so precarious that the thought of someone different than you living nearby puts it into actual peril? The people in the housing program have waited for months or years for the luxury of a stable home – they want to be there, they’re getting help to overcome their issues, and they want to be a part of the neighbourhood. Remind me again how that’s a bad thing?

The emails I’m getting from the neighbourhood association are just the best. In the last few weeks:

  • I received an invitation to the Community Block Party that excluded both our building and the social housing across the street, but we were given an exception and extended an invite
  • A neighbour had an incident with a housing resident. The last line of their email was a threat: “If I ever have another experience like this or hear of another neighbour who has,  I will immediately resign from the [community alliance] and will become a strong opposer instead of a supporter.”
  • Someone living in my building sent a list of all the times and dates that police, fire, or ambulance vehicles were at the hotel over the last six months, and demanded an explanation for each incident (holy fuck are you kidding me)
  • People are freaking the fuck out over the marijuana dispensaries, with emails like (everything [sic]): “I personally find it extraordinary that the Mayor thinks he can trump Federal law. And I am sick and disgusted over what the blocks of xxxx-xxxx East Hastings look like, and the businesses they support. Not only do we have at least two pot shops.. I refuse to call them dispensaries, but we have the Ramada social housing and we have the government office where social assistance cheques are picked up.” GASP! WON’T SOMEONE REFUSE TO THINK OF THE HUMANITY!
  • Everything the “community association” does is because “if we don’t do XYZ, the housing will become permanent”

Gross. Truly, horribly, gross. I don’t understand people at all. HOW can you be so against someone having basic human rights? For that matter, how can you be horrified that there are heavily regulated, no-minors-allowed weed stores in your area, but not give a rat’s ass that men are buying sex next door? People have gone on record saying they’re worried that the screened and monitored housing residents will include pedophiles looking to diddle their children – why aren’t they worried about the guys getting hand jobs instead? After all, the massage parlour closes at ten pm. What if someone come by at 10:30pm wanting a bbbj and ass-play only to find the parlour closed .. but little Jimmy and Susie are hanging out in the McDonald’s parking lot, and they got real purdy mouths? Why is no one concerned that someone going by the name “sex monster” is thinking about visiting the parlour and wants to know if the girls are any good? What if that person is truly a monster and goes all Godzilla on the precious neighbourhood? What if they’re Ed Gein? No, who cares about any of that – let’s instead threaten the people across the street who are simply trying to make a home for themselves. Makes perfect sense to me.

Do you want to know the biggest impact the housing across the street has had on me, personally?

It no longer makes sense that my wireless networks are called “Ramada Wireless” and “Ramada Guest Wi-Fi”.

That’s it. Oh, and no one threatens to snip my spine on a regular basis. It takes some getting used to.

NIMBYs, you are fucking disgusting and you should be ashamed of yourselves.

update my heart

I’m still alive!

After a battery of tests last Thursday, I had an appointment this morning to go over the results. There were a lot of complicated words and assurances that my liver has not fallen out (more on that later), but the bottom line is that my heart is operating at 35%.

As terrifying as that sounds, it’s actually an improvement! When I dragged my half-dead ass into the ER, I was actually much closer to three-quarters-dead: my heart was operating at 20%. The drugs I’ve been taking and my steadfast, noble refusal to run any marathons no matter how tempted I am has brought me UP to half-dead, which feels pretty good (so that should give you some idea of how terrible 3/4 dead really felt).

Because I have ovaries and also am not a cardiologist, math is hard. It took some mental gymnastics to figure out my Ejection Fraction, which is not only a thing but also the name of my death metal Starship cover band:

Ejection fraction is usually expressed as a percentage. A normal heart pumps a little more than half the heart’s blood volume with each beat. A normal LVEF ranges from 55-70%. A LVEF of 65, for example, means that 65% of the total amount of blood in the left ventricle is pumped out with each heartbeat. The LVEF may be lower when the heart muscle has become damaged due to a heart attack, heart muscle disease (cardiomyopathy), or other causes.

An EF of less than 40% may confirm a diagnosis of heart failure. Someone with diastolic failure can have a normal EF. An EF of less than 35% increases the risk of life-threatening irregular heartbeats that can cause sudden cardiac arrest (loss of heart function) and sudden cardiac death.

That cheery information comes with a handy chart:

EFM

you could be getting down to this. irregular. beat.

It always comes as somewhat of a surprise to me just how REALLY FUCKING SICK I WAS/am, because I am adorkably naive when it comes to my own person. I’ve honestly just been going about my business as usual and treating all of this as a minor annoyance like a cold or not enough ice cubes or my handmaidens missing a spot when they anoint me with fragrant oils, but I guess it’s much more serious than that. I mean, look at that chart. I am at risk of life-threatening irregular heartbeats! That doesn’t sound like much fun at all.

As of today, my heart is ejecting fractions at 35%. That is officially one half of normal, so it’s not great by any stretch of the imagination .. but it’s so much better than where I was, so things are looking good. The meds are doing what they’re supposed to, Doc Awesome is pleased at my progress, and he doesn’t know why the hell I’m so itchy all the time either.

Apparently, most heart failure patients have their follow-up ultrasound done 6-9 months out. Mine was done pretty early, but I’m glad it was – this gives me a good idea of where I’m at (and also a much needed reminder that it’s okay if I feel lousy sometimes because I am really for real sick and not just a big baby for not powering through it). I’ll be scheduled for another one come January.

The only real downer news from the appointment is that I’m going to be married to this old person pill sorter for the foreseeable future – I’ll be taking this delightful assortment of medication for something like 18 months. That’s insane! At least my medic alert bracelet investment won’t go to waste, though. That’s good.

I was completely a little worried going into the appointment this morning, because it felt like the ultrasound took an inordinately long time. Ramon the Technician prodded at me for what felt like hours, and seemed to be rescanning certain areas repeatedly while peering at the screen with a furrowed brow. That’s disconcerting at the best of times, let alone when you’re waiting to find out where you sit on the scale of one to dead. However, I’m pleased to report that I’m very slowly but very surely getting better. Hooray! Unless you hate me, at which point I apologize that I’ll be sticking around for some time yet. Sucks to be you!

but no one hates me because i'm awesome, right? :(

but no one hates me because i’m awesome, right? :(

 

the good ship pointy dong

Yesterday we went penis sailing:

totally a penis

totally a penis

It’s a little Lara Croft circa 1996, but it’s clearly a penis. And it was totally unintentional, too – we didn’t realize the route we took until we looked at the GPS-dealie when we returned to dock. Pointy cocks: they’re always on our mind.

It was Ed’s birthday yesterday, and we spent it in an excellent fashion: on Renee and Damian’s boat, sailing around the Burrard Inlet like fancy people. Ed and I had originally planned to take the Sea-to-Sky Gondola up a mountain for some epic views and bears, but a pulled hamstring (his, not mine) put a limp in our plans. R&D had already planned to go sailing, so we asked if we could join the three hour tour.

I spent most of Saturday night chopping vegetables in preparation for the voyage and also in a misguided attempt to soothe myself with knives – after a fun breakfast and long scooter ride, our collective day went to shit via a spilled container of sour cream and a cat-traumatizing fire alarm. It wasn’t planned, but I was That Person on Sunday .. the one who brings vegetarian and vegan dishes to a bbq. Not really necessary since all ten people on the boat were shameless meatigans, but delicious all the same: Vince Dip and Mango Salsa make any occasion an extra good time.

The gondola will happen another weekend, but we had a fantastic time on the boat all the same. Ed had a good birthday, which is the most important thing – he’s not a fan of big showy displays, so a low-key penis sail was just the thing.

That being said ..

I’m surprisingly bad at shedding my cool, detached cynicism and showing genuine affection for those I love, both in meatspace and online. I am not sure why this is – probably because I am just that super cool – but I’ve been actively trying to shed my surprisingly prudish and aloof ways. So!

Happy birthday, Ed. Here are some of the reasons I love you:

  • You make me laugh even when I don’t want to
  • You bring me drinks whenever I ask, and sometimes even when I don’t ask
  • You are ridiculously generous
  • You still smell good, even after a million years
  • You never eat all of my candy stash
  • You let me have the spare room to house all my ridiculousness, even though you work from home
  • Watching you interact with the cats is adorable (but I still don’t want babies)
  • You don’t want babies either
  • You accept my nonsense as simply who I am, and you still chose to stick around
  • You care about things
  • You’re the best pigeon rescuer I know
  • I love our actual conversations, the ones we have when we’re done being silly
  • You get it. This one is harder to articulate, but it relates to the point above. When we talk about feminism, sexism, racism, and more, you totally get it and that makes me so proud of you I could burst.
  • We are very alike in a lot of ways, but the ways in which we differ make my life better and I love you for it

*squish*

also: boners

chipset

When we were in Seattle a few weeks ago, I found this in a parking lot:

“my grace is enough for you” well *someone* thinks mighty highly of themselves

It’s kind of depressing to think of the various scenarios that could have resulted in someone losing or discarding these. However, I didn’t find the chips in the parking lot of a bar or liquor store .. I found them outside a Panera Bread. I’m somewhat less saddened by the thought of someone struggling to recover from carbohydrate addiction, not being able to take it for a second longer, and throwing it all away for a delicious sandwich. Oh, yeah. That’s good sandwich.

i write the docs that make the whole world sing

I’ve been to conferences before (usually in a costume), but this is the first time I’ve ever been to a conference that is just for me. I mean, not me personally – KimliCon would be a terrifying yet hilarious experience – but a conference for people who are crazy into technical writing, documentation, punctuation, grammar, content-appropriate tone, and the Oxford Comma. I’m in love.

Last night was the Write the Docs party, and even though I was convinced that I would end up skipping it because neon anxiety, my feet had other plans and I found myself attending. Naturally, I ended up having an amazing time and meeting a ton of really cool people, all of whom do awesome things. Today is the second day of the conference, and I’ve learned a lot so far – I have a huge pile of notes to go through and turn into content to share back home. I absolutely want to attend next year, and will be working on the people with the money to bring some fellow owls with me, as I think a few people in particular would get a ton out of it.

During my down time, I’ve gone to Powell’s twice and explored the Dr. Martens store thoroughly. When things wrap up tonight, I’m going to head to the waterfront and relive some GTA (sorry in advance). I fly home tomorrow, and while I wish I had thought of extending my trip so I could have more Portland time, I miss my cats and Ed. Only solution: another Portland trip later this summer! I love this place. I could easily live here, actually – wandering through Portland feels natural. I usually feel out of place in Vancouver what with my lack of yoga pants/small dog/wads of cash, but here I’m not weird. I haven’t decided if that’s a good thing yet – I kind of love standing out – but there’s a lot to be said for fitting in, too. I could fit in here.

If nothing else (and there is so much else), attending Write the Docs has reaffirmed that I am absolutely doing the right thing – I was meant to be a technical writer, and I will continue to be the best I can be until such a time information is shared by hive mind and I am obsolete.

the gathering of my people

I’ve been dodging aggressive kombucha vendors and eating handfuls of kale that fell from the sky since my train got in at 3pm, but it took me a full 6 hours to find a place to buy Diet Coke (which I did, in vast quantities). I passed 14 breweries, nine coffee shops, three boutique ice cream parlours, 5 bike shops, and one full-service sex store (bookmarked for later), but not a single one could help me fill my body with chemicals.

Welcome to Portland!

I’m here for a technical writing conference, and I am super excited. I’ve been trying to attend Write the Docs since its inception, but this is the first time I’ve managed to pull it off (thanks, boss!). There was a reception tonight where I awkwardly collected my conference badge, awkwardly collected some stickers, and awkwardly stood around being awkward for a while before I bailed to begin the Great Hunt (and also eat something that wasn’t friggin’ kale). The official start is tomorrow. I will be surrounded by people who are all about documentation. I’M HOME!

Before coming to Portland, Ed and I spent Saturday night in Seattle at the wedding reception of two of our friends. It was great to get all fancy and celebrate with awesome people – I am sorely lacking in excuses to get fancy, so I was pretty thrilled to doll up as the fanciest space hooker there ever was. The venue was a whiskey distillery in Woodinville, and there were open firepits and lemon curd everywhere. It was bliss.

While the Portland hotel isn’t hosting MamaCon like our Seattle hotel was, it’s still really nice. My room is a full-on suite with a kitchen and the most adorable Mad Men-esque stove I’ve ever seen, a separate bedroom with a king sized bed and almost enough pillows (there are 8), and a bathroom for unspeakable deeds. I’m both a block or so away from the venue and Powell’s Books, so I have plenty to do in the few free hours I have on Tuesday night. I’m also within skipping distance of the Dr. Martens and Fluevog stores, so .. sorry in advance, Ed. Portland has no tax, remember? That means everything is practically FREE.

Shit’s good, y’all.

FullSizeRender

poor skeletor.

oh dear god

A complicated money transfer sent me on a hellish stroll through memory lane, thanks to old yearbooks online in PDF form apparently being a thing. I couldn’t get into my bank account because it wouldn’t accept my answer for my high school mascot (or as is more likely, it couldn’t believe that my high school mascot was so lame and thought I was making a funny – seriously, it was the “warm fuzzy”. I went to hippie school, okay), so I went digging to see if the school still exists. It does, and there’s an alumni site. Neat! There isn’t much information for my “graduating” class, though. But our yearbook is online! Let’s take a look ..

Jesus christ, I wish I hadn’t done that. I am cringing so hard at my teenage self that I have practically imploded, so naturally I will share:

apparently i decorated this door, perhaps with my giant hair

apparently i decorated this door, perhaps with my giant hair

terminator was cool, okay.

terminator was cool, okay.

oh for fuck's sake this is fucking terrible what the hell i hate you teenage me

oh for fuck’s sake this is fucking terrible what the hell i hate you teenage me

I’m suspiciously absent from the school newspaper tribute page, as is probably fitting. Also, I fought really hard with my name – anywhere I was allowed to submit it shows up as “Kimli”, but anything anyone else wrote on my behalf came out as “Kim”. Jerks. I am predictably all over the band and choir page, not in any of the sports pages, and I have a sneaking suspicion that every school picture taken happened on just one day because I am wearing a big red sweater thing in almost every image.

Ugh I am actually ill when I look at that quote. Shoelaces? Cartwheels? ADVERTISING EXECUTIVE? 17-year-old me was a tool.

Kinda miss that hair, though.

perchance to dream

This right here? This is my deep-down secret dream. Maybe not so much the “middle of nowhere in Texas” part, but I’ve always harboured a desire to live with (but not with) friends. You know that thing you do where you daydream about your life after winning the lottery? For the record I don’t ever do that, but in the darkest, quietest parts of my soul, this is what I want more than anything: to build a 4-6 unit building and fill it with my closest friends. A little community, just for us. A place where we all had our own space for secret no-pants times, but with large communal areas for friend times. I suppose this is really a two-part fantasy, with the logistics being the easiest thing to figure out (er, beyond getting the millions of dollars that is) – the other half of the equation is having good friends who’d want to join my commune, and not just for the cheap or non-existent rent. One of these things I can buy with money. The other I cannot.

The closest I’ve come so far is living in an apartment with friends a floor down. I loved the arrangement, although the other people in the building were varying degrees of terrible. Replace the terrible with awesome, and it would have been perfect – so if I ever come into a sizeable amount of money, I’m going to do exactly that. If you want a spot in my amazing daydream commune, become my friend. There’s gonna be so many cats!