We’re on our way home from Cuba :( I’ve wisely booked tomorrow off as well as a recovery day; I will also endeavor to write and post pictures and share all my adventures. Hope you’ve enjoyed this tour through my archives; regular new content shall return as soon as I can get to the internet!

Still in Cuba! But this is actually a serious post – I got quite a bit of flack on election night for worrying a great deal about what Harper’s government is going to do to women’s health; something I am very passionate about. I’m sincerely worried about Harper’s US-style conservatism is going to do about our right to choose, and this is part of the reason why – originally posted on December 1st, 2008:

no more shame

The open book that is my life still holds a few secrets I’ve kept throughout the years. Some are just not that interesting, some are not wholly my secrets to share, and others I just haven’t been ready to share yet – like this one.

Yesterday’s post was truly about my feeling weird at having to defriend someone on Facebook for my own sanity, but I barely scratched the surface on WHY – so let’s start scratching!

Planned Parenthood is making gift certificates available for purchase. A great deal of women in the US go without regular checkups because of the sheer cost involved – an annual exam alone costs $58. The gift certificates, available in increments of $25, can be used for checkups, insurance co-pays, and medication such as birth control.

And yes, they can also be used towards an abortion.

The pro-life community is in an uproar over this, claiming that PP is making a “mockery” of the Christmas season. Headlines such as “Kill a Child for Christmas” and “The Perfect Gift for the Baby Killer on a Budget” are popping up, as well as charming quotes in the media from anti-abortion activists:

“The tragedy is that almost 6,000 fewer children will be celebrating a first Christmas this year because they were aborted in Planned Parenthood’s Indiana clinics,” said Mike Fichter, president and CEO of Indiana Right to Life. Planned Parenthood of Indiana operates abortion clinics in Indianapolis, Merrillville and Bloomington.

“They deserve coal in their stocking, not money for lethal gift certificates,” said Sister Diane Carollo, director of the Office for Pro-Life Ministry for the Catholic Archdiocese of Indianapolis.

Awesome. Just awesome.

It will come as a surprise to absolutely no one that I am fiercely pro-choice – I believe women should have the unquestioned right to choose if and when they wish to have children. I am thankful everyday that I live in a country that DOES give me that right, and it physically hurts my insides to know that this (and gay marriage) is so hotly contested by so many people. I just don’t understand how someone can claim they know what is better for me than I do – how? How can you know my situation, my life, my circumstances? Do you have so much hate in your lives that you actually see forcing women to carry unwanted children to term is a viable option and just punishment for sex, regardless of how it came to pass? I don’t understand.

I can talk pretty about choice all I want, but it’s more than just talk: when I was 18, I had an abortion.

It’s a fairly typical story: I hadn’t received enough education about birth control (I had no idea how to go about getting on the pill), and while we were strict with our condom use, there were incidents. I was 18, living with my boyfriend of less than a year in the basement of his parent’s townhouse, and in absolutely no way physically, emotionally or financially capable of having a child. We made the decision to terminate the pregnancy, and I have never regretted it.

Funny story, I found out I was pregnant by going to the ER for what turned out to be my very first bladder infection. To this day, I am abnormally paranoid of UTIs which also feeds my fear of alcohol – one of the side effects of alcohol in my system mimics the feeling of a UTI. Hilarious!

The act of terminating the pregnancy was not difficult, but dealing with other people was. I didn’t handle the news well, to say the least – even then I knew I was not destined to have children. As well, my doctor had been my doctor since I was 4 years old and being an old, old man from a completely different era, held the “very disappointed” card over my head and insisted on telling my mother. My shrieks of terror managed to dodge that spectacularly hot mess, but he was not happy about having to schedule me for the procedure. Nothing like disapproving old man guilt to make an already frightened kid almost delirious with terror – I am barely exaggerating when I say my mother would have killed me if she knew I was pregnant. Renee can vouch for me; she knows how it would have gone down.

Having an abortion at 18 was the best possible thing I could have done, given the circumstances. I had no job, no education, no real home, and no idea what I was going to do if I was forced to have that baby. While I was in a loving relationship, love alone is not enough to raise a child. I didn’t get pregnant because I slept around, or was promiscuous, or made stupid decisions. We used birth control, and it failed. We did the responsible thing for ourselves, not for the cluster of cells forming in my womb.

I’ve never mentioned the abortion on my site before, mostly because I didn’t want to deal with the backlash (real or imagined). A tiny part of me has been ashamed about it for years, but when reading the horrible things that were being posted by pro-life lunatics, I realized something important: the tiny piece of shame I once held is no longer there, and this is such a big issue that I feel so strongly about that I want my voice to be heard. Having an abortion does NOT make you a bad person, and I want every woman to have a choice beyond “choosing to not open your legs” or “choosing to wait until marriage”. Abortion is not “being lazy and using murder as the easy way out”. What kind of universe do we live in, where being forced to bring an unwanted life into this world is seen as a justified punishment for having sex? If children are as important as the pro-lifers think, wouldn’t they rather see those children cared for properly by people who love and want them instead of being stuck with it for life because of a mistake or a tragedy?

My name is Kimli, and I’ve had an abortion.

Thanks for reading.

abortions for some; miniature American flags for others

It’s Friday the 13th! How spooky! I better have some rum, just in case.

Originally posted December 14th, 2006

kimli’s secret shame

Disclaimer: You may have heard this story before. If so, I apologize – after almost six years of daily updates, I sometimes forget what I’ve written and therefore repeat myself. I don’t think I’ve told this story in its entirety though, so I will now tell you my shameful secret!

Ready? Here we go:

For all my verbal skills and penchant for using seven slyly descriptive words where a smaller one would definitely suffice, I’ve been hiding a fairly large secret from all but my closest friends. My own family doesn’t even know; so deep is my cavern of secrecy. However, in the spirit of the season I now invite you to explore my depths. Won’t you please come a-spelunkin’ in my caves?

I haven’t graduated high school.

I know, I know – in the grand scheme of the universe, this isn’t really all that shocking. Thousands of people haven’t graduated high school, and they don’t write auto exposés about it on the internet. Why am I so very special that I think my non-graduation is any different? Just who the hell do I think I am, anyway?

For starters, I used to be have always been one of the “good” kids. Our kind never dreamed about dropping out or being anything less than perfect in every way. We lived for parental approval, and teachers always left the class in our charge when stepping out because we were just that smart and good and well-behaved and all had excellent heads on our excellent, over-achieving shoulders. I was one of these people; extra curricular activities out the ass and enough volunteer work to be up for sainthood. Yes, we were nerds of every flavour, and old people adored us because we were just so very GOOD.

So, what happened? How can I have fallen from grace? Why did I not receive the standard form letter from the Premier congratulating me on my successful completion of high school? Why do I not have a diploma that at the very least would get me an excellent job manning the fry vat at the Burger King on the corner?

I did not graduate high school on a technicality.

Just over one month before my high school days were to be put behind me, I was called down to the principal’s office. The school administration had been going through all the graduate’s transcripts, and had discovered something odd about mine. I had more than enough credits to graduation – 22 over the required 52, as a matter of fact – but I was missing one thing: I did not take Consumer Education in Junior High.

In grade 9, I desperately wanted to take an additional arts course that was only offered in one block. Unfortunately, that created a schedule conflict with my required Consumer Education class, a government-mandated course that all BC students must take in order to graduate. I seriously did not see how spending an entire semester learning how to write a cheque would help me in the real world, so I went to speak with our guidance counselors, who called a meeting with the principal.

Given my excellent school record and shining example of what every loser nerd ought to want to be, the principal decided that I would be given an exception so I could take my band class and not the required Consumer Education course. He explained that the course was outdated and on its way out anyway, and by the time I graduated high school it would no longer be a mandatory requirement for graduation. He wrote a note to have my schedule changed, congratulated me on being such an excellent student and hapless loser (albeit with a giant rack), and sent me on my delighted way.

Fast forward to May of my graduation year. Consumer Education had NOT been removed from the required course list, and as a result, I would not be graduating high school. I begged and pleaded and cried, but rules were rules – I missed a necessary class, and I would not successfully pass Grade 12. With one month left in the school year, there was not enough time for me to take the class and I was utterly, fantastically, fucked. 74 credits and my extra curricular activities be damned! No graduation for Kimli!

I managed to keep this a secret from my parents. The graduation ceremony things had already been printed, and my name was on it – so they got to see me on the stage with the rest of my class, but that was it. If you check with the government of BC, it will show that I did not graduate high school. I didn’t drop out; I just didn’t finish on a technicality. In disgust and anarchy, I didn’t bother trying to fix what I saw as the School Board’s failing and have since let the issue lie, only bringing it up when I have nothing else to talk about (as demonstrated here).

I am a total fraud and a failure.

I have, however, graduated college with three designations. No high school, but definitely college. I don’t even know how I managed to get in, but I wisely chose not to question the decision and just went about my total fraud and utter failure of a way. My secret haunts me to this day, with my great job and frankly excellent life – it’s all built on a technicality of a lie, and one day the past is going to catch up with me and it’ll all be stripped away and replaced with a paper hat and a salt shaker.

And that’s my secret. I’ll understand if you totally hate me now.

I’m probably drunk! It’s Shan’s 30th birthday today, so we’re all in Cuba celebrating!

Originally posted January 4th, 2007:

spread on toast; enjoy

My alarm clock wasn’t set properly, and as a result I woke up late this morning. I’m not all that certain I’ve completely woken up at all; I’m operating in a thick fog of unknown and probably shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery like cars or the internet.

I’ve actually started this entry four times, each time deleting the text because it either made no sense or was incredibly boring. In desperation, I even turned to an online topic generator which spewed out things like “what was your favourite grade in school” and “where do your thoughts come from”; horrible topics that I wouldn’t touch with several ten foot poles. I must have refreshed the page a dozen times before I found a topic that wasn’t laden with treacle and/or so boring I could vomit fire: write a rhyming poem about your car.

WELL. This is something I can get behind! I proudly present to you my randomly generated topic for the day:

Ode to the Mazdabator

White 5-door hatchback
There’s only one catch that
Keeps my marbles abreast

Where’s my moon roof?

You wanted white
I caved without a fight
I only made that one small request

Oh, Mazdabator
You’re not a scooter
Or a Lexus Hummer Escalade
But I do appreciate your namesake:
Sticky hobo marmalade.

Cuba! No internet access! Archived words!

Originally posted March 21st, 2007:

you want babies; i want a pony

A word to the wise: this is one hell of a long-winded update, even for me. You might want to get a cup of coffee and a snack. Maybe I should start a spoiler page; a site that offers “get to the point” 10 word recaps of my posts. Anyway, it’s a long one. Sorry.

“She’s only a little older than I am,” said Laura, and Lena said “I’m a year older than she was”
They looked at each other again, an almost scared look. Then Lena tossed her curly black head. “She’s a silly! Now she can’t ever have any more good times.”
Laura said soberly, “No, she can’t play any more now.”

All my friends are having babies.

Okay, I know that’s not true. I can name plenty of people who are, at this particular moment, not in any way shape or form having any sort of baby. Truthfully, the number of people I know who are having babies is disproportionately small for my age group because of my hermit-like tendencies and not having existed before 1992. So really, not everyone I know is having babies. Five people I know are having babies.

I’ve spent much of the last year with my head in a fog with regards to this subject, and as I discover more and more of my peers struck by baby fever, the thoughts in my head have become more muddled and soggy. This is my (typically long-winded) attempt to sort those thoughts out and find some peace within myself.

I’m confused by a great many things when it comes to having children. I do know how babies are made – in fact, I can probably tell you 275 different ways in which you can get your baby-making parts inserted into someone else’s, or vice versa – but the *other* logistics behind baby-making are completely beyond even my considerable knowledge of what happens when people get naked.

Why do people want babies?

I, obviously, do not want babies. My reasons are many, but the bottom line is that when I think about having children, my entire body freezes up in terror and disgust. Babies? Are you insane? Why on earth would I want to take care of one or possibly more squalling, helpless infants?

I have a lot of trouble trying to wrap my head around why people do not feel the way I do when it comes to children. It’s very clear that I’m in a small minority here; otherwise the race would die out or at the very least not be quite so over-populated as we are now. Why do people want to have children? Why aren’t they content with things the way they are?

Clearly, this line of thinking is utterly insane. It’s human nature to want to procreate. If people didn’t procreate, we’re back to the race dying out and even I don’t want that, not even on the days where I hate people and think I’d be better off living in a grass hut that has no internet. So, if people actually wanting to give up everything for the sake of being responsible for others is not the illogical line of thinking, then .. it must be me.

I do not understand why I feel so strongly about this, and why I am – yet again – so different from what’s considered “normal” for a woman my age and in my situation.

I worry about a lot of things. I worry that I’m going to wake up tomorrow and be caught up with baby fever and suddenly understand what all the fuss is about. I worry that it won’t happen tomorrow but in 15 years, and it will be too late for me to change my mind. Most of all though, I worry that I am going to feel somehow deficient for the rest of my life because I do not want children.

When I was little, I knew I was not destined to have kids. I didn’t have the greatest childhood, and while that lent a lot to my current resolve, it’s not that simple. So I made a “promise” to myself when I was 12 – so what; I also promised that I would be a dancing fireman princess veterinarian and that I would get an Autobot tattoo. Obviously we can’t keep ALL the promises we make to ourselves when we’re small – it just doesn’t make sense. Some we can. My tattoo is awesome.

I’m conflicted by these thoughts to the point of almost using the word tormented instead. My abnormalities have never bothered me before, and there’s a lot there that really could bother me – so why is it bugging me so much now? It’s normal to want to have children and start a family. I have never been normal. I do not want to have children or start a family. It seems pretty cut and dry – it’s “normal”; so I don’t do it. Simple enough, right? Except .. I just can’t help feeling like I’m broken or bad or crossing-the-line different because I don’t want babies.

I’m admittedly curious about the whole process. I was only half-kidding when I offered my womb out for rent; to bring a baby to term for someone who can’t do it for themselves. After all, I’ll do anything once as long as I get to write about it afterward. It’s a cop-out, though – sure, I’ll go through the process, but only if I don’t have to take care of the kid afterwards. There’ll be no bonding for me, no instantaneous mother-child love that eclipses anything I’ve ever felt before. I’ll bake you a cupcake, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat it.

I’m sure I’ve incurred the wrath of my expecting friends for referring to their pregnancy as an infection – ha ha, they’re infected with baby! Sucks to be them! I don’t truly mean that of course; these children-to-be are wanted and loved and I am thrilled for the parents because they are so happy about it all. Even though I’m happy for them, I can’t stop thinking about babies in the same terms you use to describe radiation poisoning or the nasty flu that Ed has – it’s a foreign, outside cluster of cells that shouldn’t be there. A round of anti-biotics oughta clear that right up, then you can get on with your life.

Throughout all my over-thinking, I’ve done what I always do when I’m conflicted – I research the living hell out of it. I’ve clocked more time on parenting websites than I can count, looked up books, read other people’s tales. In fact, after work today I went out and picked up this book to see if it’ll clear up any of the things inside my head. It’s a subject people are passionate about, so there’s no shortage of opinions or stories or clinical studies for me to read. I’ve read about the biological clock and how the ticking cannot be ignored; how the first instant you see your child you’re transformed into a fierce mother hawk who’d do anything for that tiny person; the sudden awareness of a shocking depth of love for the child that wasn’t there five minutes ago. I’ve waited for these things to come to me, counting down to the unknown day when I wake up and suddenly feel that hollow ache of longing for the child I haven’t yet created; the day when everything just clicks and I realize that THIS is what all the fuss is about – I’m normal, I want a baby too, it’ll be totally awesome and I will be so COMPLETE – but so far, nothing. Nothing except the urge to pee and my ongoing confusion about why my friends are so willing to drop everything and turn their attention towards something you can’t (or at least shouldn’t) even sell on eBay when you get tired of it.

That’s another thing that I think a lot about, too. I don’t understand giving up your freedom to take care of squalling infants. I’ve never understood the American Dream of 2.5 kids, an SUV in every garage and the white picket fence surrounding your house in the ‘burbs. I’ve tried to stop thinking about babies as the End of All Things, Ever – but I can’t. In giving birth to a new life, I sense the death of everything from before. No more fun. No more freedom. No more good times – how can you, when you have to take care of this thing that came out of you? Trade in your toys and party clothes and sense of adventure; your future is dirty diapers and minivans and soccer practices. While you’re attending PTA meetings and dealing with vomit from screaming babies, I’ll be playing video games and traveling and having ritzy soirees with swingers and playboys who lavish me with attention and diamonds and also many sexually satisfying adventures that do not in any way cause problems in the real world.

I know I really need to stop thinking that babies = the end of the world. It’s hard, though. I wonder about my friends – is it at all possible for them to be the same people after the baby is born? Will they be able to have good times anymore? Will there be a place for us in their new lives, or will we be (have we already been) replaced by other friends who have children of their own and understand all those things that I just don’t get?

Part of me thinks stop being stupid; your friends will still be your friends after they have kids – there’ll just be one more person for you to consider a friend, is all. Most of me, though, thinks quite loudly that this is it – I should say my tender goodbyes now before the door will be shut on me because I am not One of Them, Soon To Be One of Them, or family.

There are a lot of reasons I am a captain of Team No Babies. Some of these reasons are sensible – I don’t have the space to put a child, or the disposable income to make sure it gets fed; others are true but a little hard to swallow – I’m very selfish in many aspects including emotionally, physically, and financially and I’m not ready to give myself wholly to another person and maybe never will be; and others are just really damn sentimental – I don’t have a safety net of adoring family and close friends to get me through the whole process.

I’m not close with my family. I don’t have a loving family hovering over me asking when I’m going to make them grandparents, no close friends to coo at baby things with me and go shopping for adorable things like car seats and diapers. Hell, I didn’t have a mom to do the whole wedding dress thing or people nearby for a bridal shower – it wouldn’t be any different if I was expecting a child. Sure, people have made it work with less, but sometimes I feel like I’m missing out on a lot by not having that network behind me – would I want to subject someone else to that? I’m not THAT cruel.

I’m lucky in many ways. For one, there’s no one pressuring me to have kids. I’m also fortunate to have the ability to choose whether I want children or not, and to choose what happens next if I woke up pregnant tomorrow. The choice would be agonizing, I know that much, but I still get to make it – and I’m grateful for that.

It’s taken me a long time to figure out what bothers me about babies and the desire for babies and the need to procreate. I’ve tried to picture myself in the same situation, to feel that need and to think “okay so THIS is what it feels like to want babies”, but I can’t. I’ve never yearned for anything more life changing than an additional cat, and look where that got me.

I’m okay with not wanting babies; I really am. What I need to figure out is that it’s OKAY for me to not want babies, that I’m not a monster or broken or wrong for how I feel. I need to figure out how to stop worrying about what the future will bring, be it babies or cats or the pug I desperately want. I need to realize that people have children every day and go on to lead exciting, wonderful, fun-filled lives that include friends who do and do not having children of their own. I need to stop thinking so much and overanalyzing my every feeling; questioning why I am so ambivalent about babies and so getting so worked up that I’m uncomfortable in my own head. I need to get outside and have some fun. I need to go to the bathroom.

This is all normal, right?

I’m in Cuba with no internet access! I’ll check in if/when I can, but in the meantime, enjoy this post from my archives!

Originally posted May 28th, 2007:

perilous kimli redux

From the carrier of such messenger bags as “Internet Superstar” and “Intergalactic Space Hussy” comes the latest in disturbingly truthful accessories:

Heee. The numbers are attached with double-sided tape and behind a removable pocket of PVC, and there’s a pouch with additional numbers in the bag so I may always be up-to-date in my accidental ways – it has, in fact, been 29 days since I last found down. I unveiled the bag last night to much appreciation, although so far today all I’ve gotten is a blank stare of incomprehension from the yuppie standing behind me in Capers with her box of organic wheat-nut crackers and soy juice. I love my new bag. It tickles me in many fantastic ways.

This does bring up a valid question, though – what constitutes a true accident in my world? It’s not black or white at all; it’s a grey area muddled with contusions and viral strains of Manhattan-style herpes. Drawing from chapters of my own life, I’ve devised a guide of sorts – a scale for keeping track of Perilous Kimli.

1. the paper cut I gave myself on my lower lip in the car last weekend while flailing about with the ferry receipt in my hand
2. that time I gave myself a chemical burn on my left nipple
3. when I tripped on nothing and fell in Seattle after breakfast, or that one time I did the same thing in Calgary
4. tripping on beer bottles in the apartment because my backpack shifted my center of gravity

—– not an accident —–

—– definitely an accident —–

1. any of my numerous burn scars because I never did learn that the stove is hot
2. cutting my finger open on pizza sauce
3. the Very Special Burn on my left nipple
4. that time last month I found down and almost broke my camera and gave myself massive bruises to add to my other massive bruises from the accident I had three weeks prior
5. poking myself in the eyeball, causing a subconjunctival hemorrhage and being sure I was dying of eyeball herpes
6. getting a stress fracture in my right foot, and during the course of healing it, causing a new stress fracture to form in my left foot
7. taking a header on Sally and dislocating my shoulder
8. re-dislocating the same shoulder three days later

The first items on the list are minor and/or not a) leaving marks, or b) requiring a hospital/doctor visit. Below the break point are injuries that either left a mark, required a doctor, or are just so insane – see numbers 6, 7 and 10 – that they have an epic back story and will be told to my friend’s children for generations to come as an example of why they ought to stay in school and graduate.

Hopefully this list will help the average Joe determine what is and is not considered an accident in the Perilous World of Kimli.

I am either amused or scared that it was way, way too easy for me to come up with 12 separate incidents with which I could build the scale.

I’m in Cuba, with no internet access! I’ll check in if/when I can, but in the meantime, enjoy this post from my archives!

Originally posted May 9th, 2002:

Conversations With My Mother

*ring ring*

Dee [editor’s note: this was still early in my blogging years; i went by my online name of DeeAy instead of my real name]: Hello?

Mom: Ahhh! Keem! You’re finally home! Everytime I try to call you’re in Edmonton or at work or just never home! Where do you go? Why don’t you answer the phone?

Dee: Hi, mom .. why don’t you call my cell phone? If I’m not home, I’ll have my cell phone with me and you can call me anytime. Dad has the number, or at least he should ..

Mom: Oh, but I can’t call that phone from work — you know how it is, with the customers and the stupid girls and I had to change my shift because my back hurts but you know how she is the stupid bitch and all the girls hate her but they’re so stupid they can’t sell anything and they don’t know how to close the till and my back hurts so I had to change my shift but the stupid girls don’t want to work with the boss because she’s such a bitch and I haven’t had a raise in 2 years but I can’t retire and I wish I could win the lottery and tell that old biddy where to go and maybe buy and house and so how are you?

Dee: Oh, you know .. things are fine. Work’s going good.

Mom: Have you lost any weight?

Dee: Yes, mom.

Mom: Well, how much?

Dee: 42 pounds.

Mom: Well, you keep at it — you have to eat your vitamins and healthy food and stop eating so much junk and maybe you can lose some weight because I eat my vitamins and only eat healthy food all the time (editor’s note: my mom eats KFC 4 times a week gl hf gg thx) and I eat vegetables too maybe you should eat vegetables to help you lose weight because you really need to lose weight or you’ll have heart attacks and diabetes and how’s Ed?

Dee: Ed’s fine, mom — still working. Stuff’s good!

Mom: I’m so tired after work I usually just go to Frank’s house because it’s closer than home but he’s such a pain we argue all the time so I only spend 3 or 4 nights a week there because I have to give him a bath because he’s still so helpless from his accident almost a year ago (editor’s note: this is where, if you listen really closely you can hear me scratching my eyes out with a plastic fork trying to get to my brain — if I can scrape off that hideous mental image, maybe I *won’t* try to drown myself later) he still can’t shower so I have to help him get clean and then he complains so much he’s like an old woman so I come home and cook for your father and I’m so tired I just stay here because my back hurts so what’s going on with your wedding?

Dee: What do you mean?

Mom: Well, can we stay with you in Calgary?

Dee: Can you WHAT? Why are you coming to Calgary? The wedding is in Edmonton, mom.

Mom: I know but we want to fly to Calgary before the wedding and get a ride up to Edmonton with you and where are we going to stay I don’t want to stay with your brother because Carolee is a bitch so can’t your poor parents stay with you for a night?

Dee: But mom, why would you fly to Calgary when the wedding is in Edmonton? I’ll be going up to Edmonton on Tuesday night and I’ll have people with me and my car is really small — I thought you and dad were going to fly to Edmonton and stay with Poh-Tee (mom’s cousin)?

Mom: Blah blah blah fly to Calgary blah blah stay with you blah blah Calgary blah blah back hurts blah blah?

Dee: Mom! Wait! You can’t fly to Calgary. There is no point for you to fly to Calgary. I won’t be able to drive you to Edmonton — my car will have luggage for 3 people for 2 weeks, plus Ed and Ali. I can’t possibly drive you up to Edmonton! It’s three hours away — WHY would you fly into Calgary?!

Mom: Where are we going to stay? Can we stay with you?

Dee: Mom, I’m staying at Ed’s parent’s place until the night before the wedding when I’ll be getting a hotel room with my friends.

Mom: Oh good idea it’s bad luck to see him before the wedding it might rain.

Dee: Umm, okay. Anyway, Ed’s parents are already going to have his grandparents and aunt and uncle and possibly even some children there, AND me and my friends — I don’t think there’s going to be any room. And his parents smoke. I’ll ask, but I really don’t think there will be room. What happened to staying with Poh-Tee? Dad said you already asked her!

Mom: I forgot.

Dee: You forgot? Don’t you think you should talk to her? *panic is creeping into my voice at this point*

Mom: I have to find her number, do you have it? I don’t know where your father puts these things.

Dee: I don’t have her number, no — but I talked to her at work. Look, you and dad fly into Edmonton on Wednesday and I will pick you up from the airport and take you to Poh-Tees — but I NEED YOU TO CALL HER and ask if you can stay with her!

Mom: What about the wedding? Your dad’s going to give you away so when are you coming to pick us up?

Dee: You want me .. to pick you up .. on the day of the wedding .. and DRIVE you there?!

Mom: Well you dad has to give you away so how are we supposed to get there?

Dee: *tearing out hair* I’ll have to think of something, mom. I’ll either pick you up or get someone to do it for me, okay? I’ll take care of it. Call Poh-Tee. Please.

Mom: Okay I will call her tonight or tomorrow but she might be at work so I will have to call her tomorrow and I will tell you what she says she is probably at work now so I will call tomorrow or tonight and then I will call you back and what do you want for your birthday?

Dee: What? Oh .. I have no idea. What about you? What do you want for YOUR birthday?

Mom: Oh you know what I want? I want a jockey.

Dee: You want a little man who rides a horse?

Mom: No, those jockey shirts. I want those. My back gets so cold and it hurts and if I get a draft my back is sore all the time so I want to get a jockey shirt to cover my back and I have to go to the chiropractor again.

Dee: *using all my powerful skills of mom-deeciphering at hand* Oh! You mean Jockey brand underwear — the undershirts! Like tank tops?

Mom: Yes, a jockey. Get me a large. I like black and grey. It will keep my back warm because it hurts and the boss is a bitch and those stupid girls can’t do anything right and it hurts my back because I have to pick up stuff they drop.

Dee: How about I just get you a gift certificate and let you buy them yourself?

Mom: Okay. I like the large ones to cover my back and do you want to talk to your dad?

Dee: OH GOD YES

Mom: Okay! Say hi to Ed!

Dad: Hello?

Dee: Dad, HELP! WHY IS SHE SAYING SHE WANTS TO FLY TO CALGARY?!

Dad: *saves the day*

Dee: *weeping with relief*

The End.

Now you know where I get it from. And now I have to go. Really looking forward to the rest of the day, let me tell you. I’m supposed to talk to three 13 year olds about women in the work place and about my job. Hi .. I’m Dee .. I sit here and use my work time to write really long updates and bitch about my co-workers .. work? Oh, I do that sometimes .. hey, have you seen our pop machine? It’s pretty cool!

I hate wedding panic. Less than four and a half months, and it feels like nothing’s getting done and no one wants to do anything. Can I pull off an entire wedding with just myself?

I’m on vacation, and I refuse to wear pants.

I will not wear them on the plane; I will not wear them in the rain.

I will not wear them while in Cuba; I will not dance in them to Luba.

I will not wear them on the beach; I will not wear them for a week.

We’re leaving for the airport in an hour. I’m exhausted from Got Craft, but SO EXCITED FOR CUBA OH MY GOD.

I’ve got auto-posts scheduled while I’m gone, so you won’t get lonely. I’ll check in when I can!

domo is pantless with me

One of the things I’ve heard repeatedly over the last month or so is that the food at Cuban resorts is pretty bland, because they try to appeal to our delicate Western palettes or something. I like my food like I like myself: spicy and out of control, so the thought of eating boring pale food for a week concerns not just me but also my traveling companions. We have a plan, though: we are bringing spices. Ed has packed a bottle of Frank’s Red Hot; I’ve got packets of peanut butter and chili flakes, and I’ve been hording McDonald’s salsa packets for weeks. Also, this:

tiny spice bottles !!!

While digging through our junk drawer for some tape, I came across these tiny tiny bottles from Daiso meant for portable soy sauce. I’m not too crazy about soy sauce, but I do love other flavours – so with the the help of a tiny tiny turkey baster shaped like a sunflower, I filled six bottles with:

• Frank’s Red Hot Buffalo Sauce (x3)
• Spicy and delicious balsamic vinegar
• Coarse black pepper
• Strawberry balsamic vinegar

They’re so small! The ridiculous girl in me thinks miniature things are adorable and astronomically better than large things (two obvious exceptions being paycheques and penises), so while Ed was pragmatically pointing out that I have empty travel-sized bottles I could use to hold a great deal more sauce, I happily ignored him to coo over my tiny wee mini bottles of squee. So cute!

Adorable bottles aside though, I am seriously bummed out. I have three shipments of things coming my way that I desperately hoped would arrived today – some new makeup, an underwater camera from Photojojo, and some LEGO pieces for my Heart Shaped Blox display. Unfortunately, the mailman came and went with only one envelope for me, containing exactly 12% of my LEGO order: the padded envelope had been ripped open and taped back up, with almost all of my ordered pieces missing. I’m sad I won’t have the underwater camera or makeup for my trip, but really choked about the missing LEGO – yes, I have a display ready to go and it’s really awesome, but I wanted to go on a crafting blitz tomorrow and make more Heart Shaped Blox for Got Craft (because I keep selling the pieces I had set aside for myself), and now I don’t have enough supplies. I am sad.

.. okay, slightly less sad – while typing this up, my underwater camera got delivered. HOORAY! Pictures of fishies, STAT!

Still sad about the LEGO, though.

It’s easy to tell when there’s a soccer game going on, because it’s pretty much impossible to enter or leave my neighbourhood. Also, it’s very loud – there’s a lot of singing and cheering going on. I never really knew what it was all about, but last night Shan managed to score 4 free tickets to a game against the Montreal Impact. We’ve been talking about going to a soccer game since they started playing next to my house, and last night was as good a night for free sports as any, so off we went.

It turns out all the noise is made by the Vancouver Southsiders, who are the official rabid soccer fanboys of the Whitecaps FC and are completely awesome. Our seats happened to be two sections away from their official areas, so we got to watch the singing and chanting up close and personal like. It was hilarious and infectious, and I loved it:

loud noises!

tot is the head coach of the whitecaps

soccer at the foot of grouse mountain is awesome

it took most of the game before someone realized you could rhyme "pink" with "stink"

I am juggling several birthday celebration ideas, and it just so happens there’s a Whitecaps game on my birthday. HMMMM.

It was a jolly, if somewhat chilly, evening.

what up, wooden rollycoaster