refusing to be sad except for maybe a little

Ever have one of those days where everything smells like tartar sauce?

It was an .. interesting weekend. I had a good dose of alone time, sprinkled with various Gang configurations (not to be confused with the good old fashioned gang bang). Group dynamics are an interesting creature, at any rate. There were times, both good and odd.

At the moment, I’m working hard to ensure this week is going to be less bad than the potential it has to be. While that is possibly the most convoluted sentence I’ve ever written, the fact remains the same: this week could be a horrible one.

To start with, it’s supposed to rain. The weather has been spectacular for the last few weeks, and I’ll be sorry to see it go – especially since gray days will make me all sad and junk, whereas it’s difficult to be gloomy when it’s so damn pretty outside.

This Thursday will be the 3rd anniversary of my dad’s death. That day always sucks for me, but this year I was so busy that the date slipped my mind and I scheduled myself for a very early web conference for which I must arrange attendance and food. I suppose this is just another example of life going on, but trying to keep a bunch of sleepy yet rowdy techs in line when I am deep in sad will be difficult.

Adding to the difficulty: Ed is leaving on Friday to drive to Edmonton for a friend’s wedding. He’ll be gone until Monday. Not a big deal really, except Sunday is our anniversary and he won’t be home for it. I have selfishly been having a little pity party over this, which isn’t fair at all – not only will Ed get a chance to see one of his oldest friends get married, he’ll get to hang out with all his old buddies from Ago. Also, I encouraged him to go. I think he’d really regret skipping the wedding. He likes road trips, and Edmonton, and his old friends. He has the time off – it was previously booked for our anniversary – so he should totally go. And he is. But I get to feel a little sad about it, okay?

Besides, now he has an excellent excuse to buy me fabulous presents.

So, yeah. Rain, deathiversary, missed anniversary, early morning web conference that has the potential to be staggeringly dull, no car. It could be a bad week, if I let it – which I won’t.

Web headline: A new look at the Babar controversy! There’s a Babar controversy? He’s an elephant who wears green suits and sometimes a crown. What, did someone draw him passed out in a pile of hookers and blow? Don’t you people have better things to worry about?

Coming soon: a terrible, terrible update.

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



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.


grand aspirations

Lemon was very vocal about his displeasure at my leaving, so my errands will wait for another day. They weren’t important, and are actually moot for now – my damn game isn’t in at EB yet, and I have plenty of Diet Coke at home. There’s no reason for me to leave, which suits Lemon just fine.

He’s sleeping right now, which is giving my hands a break. He doesn’t seem to like it when I leave the room, but I’ve been ducking out to pee and spend time with the other cats, trying to ignore his tiny squeaky cries. He’s actually doing quite well, and seems to think he’s ready for the world beyond our spare room door. That won’t happen for a few days yet, but it’s good to see that he’s eager to mingle and explore.

I hope this all works out. That’s my biggest fear, and my greatest desire – I want a big happy family of animals and also Ed. We had a very rocky time leading up to Lemon’s arrival because Ed did not want a 4th cat, and I used very stupid tactics to drop the bomb on him. We patched things up (I hope), and seeing Ed interact with Lemon last night made me smile. It also makes me feel guilty on several levels: I know he’s trying to get along with this tiny interloper for my sake and also I think he wants babies.

Did I forget to mention that?

I think Ed wants kids. He would make a great father – he’s good with small creatures, both human and non. Deep down I think that part of his refusal to get a vasectomy is because a very small part of him wants babies, and that terrifies me more than my eloquent vocabulary can let on. My membership in Team No Babies is unwavering as ever, but I do sometimes feel guilty that my selfish decision to spit on my god-given duty to procreate might affect others.

Only sometimes, mind you – I am nothing if not selfish and self-righteous in my refusal to let other people sway how I live my life, even if I happen to be married to one of them. I do not play well with others.

This is what happens when I’m locked in a room with a computer and a sleeping kitten – I think. I should never think. Scary things come to the surface when I think.

ed’s secret

I don’t know what’s more baffling – that our obnoxiously loud neighbour was convinced that Ed lived with our Building Manager Scott, or that she was confused because “how can two men live together??”


dainty feminine allure

I fail at Housewife.

We’re seriously low on groceries right now, but neither of us felt the call of external food. As well, delivery just seemed like too much hassle and expense. I prowled through our cupboards looking for something that might serve as dinner, when voila! Jackpot! Eureka! Buried way back in the freezer under a layer of mystery meat and corn – FISH STICKS!

I did a little more freezer spelunking and came up with an unopened bag of crinkle fries. Hell yes! Tonight we would eat as kings!

Quite pleased with myself, I set about preparing the feast of a thousand hams fish particles pressed into stick shapes. Though we may be poor, we are rich with condiments and not only would there be ketchup for our meal, but tarter sauce. Truly, these are prosperous times.

This is where the fail comes in. Yes, I am fully capable of making many-course meals that are delicious and satisfying. However, fish sticks are neither of those things. Well past the 25 minutes at 425F, I made multiple moves to take our meal out of the oven – only to determine that the wobbly, greasy, pasty looking lumps of fish and/or potato would best serve more time basting in the heat.

Eventually, things in the oven stopped moving and dinner was declared ready. We dished the greasy, undercooked yet somehow still burnt blobs onto our plates, liberally added salt and ketchup and tarter sauce, and .. could not eat it.

It was rank. Beyond rank; it was almost offensive. I don’t know what kind of fish these sticks were made of, but I would wager a guess of bottom-feeding algae suckers not meant to be consumed by anything but drunken frat sharks during Pledge Week.

For the first time in our wedded life, Ed declared the meal offered up from my kitchen as wholly inedible, and threw the entire mess away.

If not for my freshly Lysol’d lady parts, our marriage bed would have been a cold place indeed.

Fish sticks suck.

world’s biggest pizza

Hey everyone, do you remember that particular Simpsons
episode where Homer’s mom, long since missing, returns to
ye old Springfield to reunite with the family via secret message?

Everyone I know is kind of ambivalent about that episode, but
do take into account that it has Glenn Close in it. Glenn Close!
I love her. She is not going to be ignored, Dan!

Anyway. I’ve been thinking about that episode a lot lately,
mostly because I am kind of hungry. Oversized novelty food
gets second billing, and I could really, really go for an
enormous taco or even a pizza the size of a football field.
To be honest, I don’t really care what kind of giant food is presented
to me; I would eat almost anything. Like cereal. We have free milk;
I think I’ll have myself a giant bowl of Special K. Nothing says
“nutritious” like freeze-dried strawberries!

Granted, the health benefits of the cereal is somewhat
altered when you eat 7 bowls of it in one serving.

Kimli is hungry. What else can I say?

I wonder if this is going to work.

Today I will spend my morning putting stickers on shelves.
Though sneaky methods, the Lab found out about my secret,
exciting past as an Inventory Control person, and they are placing
new duties on my plate. Do not want. Zzz.


Things I do not do:

  • Drink
  • Swear
  • Rat my hair
  • Get ill from one cigarette
  • Appreciate your filthy paws on my silky drawers (would you pull that crap with Annette?)
  • Apologize when I’m not wrong
  • Realize how lucky I was for making it 7+ years without a family member discovering my blog

It’s not like I routinely say nasty things about my family (or really, anyone who isn’t a neighbor) or share shocking secrets (real ones, not things that *I* think are shocking) or anything, but I was always very secure in my comfortable bubble of NO CONSEQUENCES – it didn’t really matter what I wrote or when, because there would be NO CONSEQUENCES to anything I said. I didn’t spend my time writing terrible things, but still – if I wanted to complain about my job or wax poetic about my vagina or talk of illicit but non-discrete drug use or say how stabby Ed was making me, I could and it wouldn’t matter.

Until now.

Thanks to Facebook and the increasing prevalence of the internet, I have officially been outed to Ed’s family. After my initial freak out (and believe it, it was an epic freak out of monumental proportions), I am okay. My first thought was to go back and censor 7 years of posts, but that would a) be completely against everything I stand for, b) take a really, really, really long time, c) make me feel horrible inside, d) be completely pointless. I’ve never censored myself (much to Ed’s dismay, I’m sure) – why start now? I haven’t *done* anything! So, no censoring. I am still All Out There. I am Highly Inappropriate at All Times, and not someone you’d want at a classy dinner party. Also, hi mom!

So, how about that local sports team?

identity crisis

Just ONCE,  I’d like someone to realize that:

  • my name is Kimli – not Kim, not Kimberly, not Karen, not Sima – KIMLI. Too hard? Let’s revert, then: KIM LEE. Easier? No? Try anyway.
  • not every woman takes her husband’s last name – I kept mine for a reason, and while I love Ed’s family, I would appreciate it if you would acknowledge that my last name is WANGZILLA, not Pinocchio.

Fucking up my name in three separate ways in one evening is insulting and infuriating.