lingering guilt

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Nine years ago, I was flying from New York to Seattle on a red eye flight. It was my original departure flight, but only because there were no other flights that would get me home sooner. The night before, our group had finished covering the GGL AmeriCup Finals and we collapsed in a collective heap in the hotel room, recovering our scattered wits before heading out to find some food. It was then my mother called: I needed to get home immediately, because my dad was dying.

I don’t remember much about the trip to New York, any of the coverage, or the trip home. I do remember I had double, triple checked with my parents before I left – I knew my dad was in the hospital, but they insisted he was fine, I should take the trip, and I’d see them when I got home. As my dad was clearly invincible, I knew he would recover .. so I took their advice and went to New York for the first time ever. I had worked my ass off for that trip (it was an internal contest – those who covered the most AmeriCup games online in the weeks leading up to the finals would be sent, and I covered 5-7 games a week to ensure I’d get to go), I had never been to New York, and I was excited. I didn’t want to think about the possibility of my dad dying – who does? – so I went.

I remember sleeping fitfully on the plane ride home, almost sick with fear and lack of sleep. I awoke when our plane landed in DC, and I looked out onto the tarmac. I remember seeing many well-dressed black people in their Sunday best, and wondered how they could stand to wear so many clothes in the sticky late-summer heat. I have no recollection of the flight from DC to Seattle, deplaning and collecting my luggage, and pouring myself into the Mazda – Ed had driven down from Vancouver to pick me up at SeaTac, and then drove us back over the border and to the ferry. I have no idea how he got us through the border, as I was completely out of it – I vaguely remember handing over my passport, and then waking up again as we somehow managed to get a spot on the ferry (we were the last or second to last car allowed on – if we were a movie, it would have been a nail biter).

I’ve told the rest of the story many times – we got to my dad’s bedside just after ten that night, and he passed away as I held his hand – but what I haven’t shared is the guilt I still feel about going on that trip to New York. I was so worried about letting my team down, missing out on an event, ruining my chances to travel with iTG in the future, that I completely bailed. I don’t remember our last conversation – when I called to ask what I should do, I always spoke to my mom. I’ll always be grateful to the powers in the universe that got me to the hospital before he died, but I feel a lot of guilt about not being there for what turned out to be his last week on this astral plane. I try not to live a life full of regret, but this is one I definitely have. And it sucks.

I miss you, dad.

flash the message something’s out there

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This is how I spent my Sunday evening:

*bloop*

let that freak flag fly

bc place (the b stands for bubbles)

bubble vision

all hands

just another run of the mill boring vancouver sunset shot full of bubbles

i think of you and let it go

the moment i burst

all that remains

I love bubbles. A lot. I didn’t learn about Bubble the City until Saturday, but I still arranged my Sunday around it and I was not disappointed. It was a gorgeous day, the sun was just beginning to set, a small orange child shrieked in my ear multiple times and I did not push him into a puddle, and the light was phenomenal. SO MANY BUBBLES!

*happy bubble sigh*

will it fit?

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If you’re at all like me (and if you are, congratulations!), you have just two questions about the new iPhone 6 and iPhone 6 Plus:

  1. Will it fit in my bra?
  2. Will it hurt less when I drop it on my face in bed?

While I can’t do anything about the face-dropping until I have the new device in my hands, I can prepare myself and my underwear for storage. Just like going from the 3GS to the 4 required some cold hard science, so too will going from a 5s to a 6 – and for the first time, there are two screen sizes to choose from. How can I make any decisions at all until I know how it’ll fit under my shirt? I can’t, that’s how.

Luckily, I am not the only person who is curious as to the hands-on reality of the new phones. While I may be the only one setting aside time tomorrow to put myself in very real danger of areolaial (shut up, that’s a word) paper cuts, the fine people at WonderHowTo have released a downloadable print-and-cut-out sheet so you can get a good idea of how the new devices will fit in your hands before September 19th.

If mere paper won’t satisfy your questions, you can also ask amongst your non-Apple friends. The new iPhone 6 has the same screen size as the Nexus 4, and the 6 Plus is the same as the OnePlus One (and the Samsung Galaxy Note II, if you don’t happen to work with people who always have the latest and greatest toys). Neither the other phones nor the cut out will give you a great idea of the weight, thickness, or feel of the new Apple phones, but it’ll give you something to do while you wait to pre-order on the 12th (or stand in line like a chump on the 19th).

As for myself, I’m torn. I don’t know what size I will end up getting (speaking of which, anyone want to buy my 5s?) – every time I talk myself into a decision, I change my mind a minute later. The 6 will work better in my tiny elf hands (on the current 4″ screen, my thumb can barely reach the opposite end of the device in portrait mode), but the new layout and functionality in landscape iOS8 is pretty sexy. Both phones come in 128GB (I let out a squeak of joy at that announcement – fucking FINALLY!), both phones have an amazing new camera .. I just don’t know. And I only have three days to figure it out (and 10 days to get a new bra for the cold hard science).

Man oh man I love tech toys!

PS: Thanks Harms!

storing up karma

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This will never fail to freak me the fuck out:

i am not my mother!

i am not my mother!

I needed to talk to Shaw about my mother’s account, and as I’m technically not an authorized account user, I pretended to be her for the purposes of deception. It makes life easier in the long run, but it feels really weird to wear that name like an ill-fitting hat.

I’m playing Good Daughter a little early this year, and taking over the payment of my mother’s cable bill (to go along with the phone bill I took over last Christmas). Once I got access to her account, I did a little poking around – my mom has been paying $45/m for basic cable, which I didn’t know still existed. A basic HD package, including the HD box, is only $40/m. I know my mom’s TV is capable of HD (it’s our old bedroom TV, which had an HD box on it), but should I bother upgrading her cable to save $5 a month? It’d be an extra remote and channels that go up into the 200s (she called Shaw last week to find out where channel 20 went, and when she learned it was now channel 158, she didn’t bother seeing if she could get it), and me too far away to support things. Not sure what to do here. Is HD easier on old people eyes? Can old people get used to entering three digits to watch TV instead of 2?

Being thoughtful is a pain in the ass. I should order myself a new phone as a reward.

share a coke with the mainstream

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On our first night in London, Ed went out and bought me some Diet Coke. He came home with this:

my son is also named bort

I was immediately amused at the idea of named Coke products, and we had fun finding bottles with friend names on them and drinking them. It was my first experience with the whole #shareacoke campaign, and as fun as it was, I couldn’t help but be sad with the knowledge that I would never get a Coke bottle with my name on it – sometimes, being a special snowflake rainbow unicorn has disadvantages. They’re uncommon, but they’re there.

In Europe, you can order special Coke bottles with your name on them and have them shipped to you. In North America, we do not have such futuristic technology .. but if you live in a major city, you may have access to a Share a Coke booth at an event near you, where you can get a can printed with your name on it (Canada | USA). It’s free (unless you’re at an event with gate admission) and fun and .. surprisingly complicated.

I’d been stalking the booth since we returned from London, determined to get a can with my name on it. Last night, this happened:

SHARE ALL THE COKES WITH KIMLI (diet only plz)

I thought that all I had to do was walk up to the booth, enter my name, and walk away delighted with my prize. Unfortunately, that was not the case – you see, you can only get your name printed if it exists in the Approved Coca Cola Name Database. The database holds many more names than the 270 printed in Canada and the 250 in the US, and while I assume it’s a vast and culturally inclusive list, it can’t possibly be complete. My name doesn’t appear, of course – it doesn’t even appear in the 500,000 name database of the UK (although “Kimlie” does, wtf is that) – and because my name isn’t Officially Coke Approved, I couldn’t get a can without intervention .. in the form of ID.

Yeah, that little line on the Coke website that says “In some cases, ID may be required” ? If your name isn’t in the database, they’ll still print it for you .. IF you can show them identification with that name on it. They won’t take online proof, it has to be a physical card with your name printed on it (which, as it’s not a legal name change [I really need to get on that], I didn’t have). I pled my case while fishing through my wallet just in case, and came upon my Costco membership card issued to Kimli .. and luckily, they accepted it. The booth guy overrode the “NO CAN FOR YOU” message, typed in my name, and ten seconds later I had my prize. Hooray! Ed didn’t have any luck (he wanted to print his gaming name which is definitely not in the database), but he didn’t really care. I was delighted, though. KIMLI CAN! YAY! And I’ll never drink it, because it’s Coke and yuck!

So, that’s how you get a custom Coke can, if you’ve got a regular person name. If you’re a sparkle unicorn and can prove you really exist via a plastic card in your wallet, you’ll be allow to proceed. Everyone else, you’re shit out of luck .. unless you live in the UK and are willing to pay for one (which, let’s be honest, I would totally do).

C’mon, Coke. I know you’re trying to just protecting your brand by stopping people from printing cans with dirty words, but there has to be a better way than entering a name on a website and hoping it makes it through the gates for next time. I consume more Coke products than anyone I know – I deserve my name, damnit. Don’t let my eventual aspartame mutation be all in vain!

fixing a hole

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My previous post about my mental health was really cathartic, even more so than the usual warm glowing warming glow I feel after getting something off my ample and amazing chest. It was (stupidly) difficult to get the words out, but having my brain laundry dangling all out there in the open (coupled with the support and encouragement lovingly foisted my way) has galvanized me into action. When you’re depressed, Taking Action is the single hardest thing to do – it’s Step One, and if getting there was easy, there wouldn’t be a mental health epidemic.

So, I’m pretty proud of myself for Taking Action. It took too long for me to admit the state of my brain to myself, but I’m glad I did: in an almost unprecedented turnaround, I already feel better. Was it the Taking Action? Is it just psychosemantic? Dunno! It could be all or any of the things I’ve done to fix my depression since Monday:

  • Admit to myself and the internet at large that I was feeling lousy and needed help
  • Made an appointment to speak with a doctor (thanks, Medeo!)
  • Bought myself a present
  • Had a long talk with Ed
  • Cut back a little on my caffeine intake
  • Tried to go to bed at a decent hour
  • Spoke with the aforementioned doctor, who didn’t dismiss my concerns as stupid or tell me to just man up
  • Looked into cognitive behaviour therapy via MoodGYM (which better come with a Pokemon badge)
  • Increased my medication
  • Had a 1v1 with my manager
  • Tacos

Obviously this is a very Kimli-specific list, and one I don’t necessarily recommend you follow for treating your own issues (except for tacos: everyone should always have many tacos). We’re all beautiful unique snowflakes, so what works for me isn’t guaranteed to have any effect whatsoever on you. Blah blah disclaimer blah small print blah butts – all I know is that I’m feeling better, and I’m grateful for it.

One thing I did do that I really don’t recommend for anyone (including myself, but we who write the rules rarely obey) was tinker with my meds. I’m on a particularly low dose of brain pills at the moment, but I had some pills left over from my previous mental escalation. They’re the tiniest of stepladders, but they really help when I need them .. and on Monday, I needed them. I took a tiny stepladder with my regular dose, and the next day I felt markedly better. Was it the additional medication? Was it the fact that I decided it was time to feel better? Tacos? I can’t answer that. While it’s true I arbitrarily decided “MOAR MEDS”, I did talk about it with the doctor (albeit a day after the fact), who agreed to prescribe me the stepladder so I don’t have to horde pills in the future. Increasing my medication, along with the other things listed above, should make things better. I am looking forward to feeling like myself again.

Also, you may be confused at the inclusion of the 1v1 with my manager, but today I got some feedback on my performance to date and it was great and I am awesome and everyone is still super happy they hired me, and that is lovely. I work much better when I get feedback, and positive feedback can make me light up like a teenage boy’s bedroom under blacklight.

ps: anytime you see the wrong word (ie: horde where hoard should be used), it’s on purpose. word play. homonyminal fun. a wizard did it. i’m teaching the world ’bout homonyms!

falling slowly

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It’s probably for the best that this post has nothing to do with falling in love with scruffy Irish buskers, even if would be terribly exciting (likely in theory only). Of course, even if that WERE my reality, chances are a) I wouldn’t notice, or b) I wouldn’t feel a thing .. because that’s what this post is really about: my mental health is in a really, really bad state right now.

Things should be awesome here on Planet Kimli – adorable kitten, new job, a trunk full of Diet Coke, fun things to look forward to, excellent scooting weather, my skin is better than it has been in a year – but they’re significantly less than good, for no real reason. I’m tired all the time. Nothing makes me happy. Nothing makes me sad. Nothing makes me anything, actually. I feel utterly detached, and everything is an endless sea of grey. Logically I know I should want to fix this, but the only solution I can come up with is largely based around my crawling into bed and never ever coming out. I’m told this isn’t so much of a fix as it is a terrible idea that will leave me both poor and smelly, but damn if it isn’t the only thing that interests me even a little these days. I am in a Bad Place. I don’t know how to get out.

Help?

Apparently, I can feel two things: shame and disgust. The shame comes from my posting this at all, and the disgust comes from that shame. Isn’t it stupid that I can wax poetry for weeks about my genitals, but when I really need to say something serious about my mental health, my very strong gut feeling is to sit down and shut up and post something meaningless instead so I won’t embarrass myself or others? I know better than that. As a whole, things won’t get better until there’s as little stigma about depression as there is about having a cold. And yet .. it’s taken me ages to post this. I haven’t been feeling like this for a few days or weeks, but months, and I’ve said nothing. I am ashamed of my silence. This is so much more important than what’s going on with my vagina (not much of anything, thanks for asking), but I can’t speak.

Now I am super annoyed at myself, too. I do not like today so much.

oh HELL no

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The Ontario Provincial Police released an app this week called “Send This Instead” (iOS|Android), aimed at getting kids to send a snarky response to a request for nude pics instead of the nude pics themselves. While I applaud the sentiment, I’m dubious that this will actually work – but if it even stops one kid from feeling obligated to give up the digital goods, then it’s worth it. I can’t help but look at the app with a critical eye, though:

  • Oh my god that iOS icon is PAINFUL please fire your designer
  • They asked “funny people we knew” for snappy responses, and the best they could come up with included one racial insult (“eskimo” is frowned upon by some), and several prison rape jokes. Great job, funny people.
  • Grammatical and punctuation errors make me want to punch babies and are why we can’t have nice things.
  • Blah blah greater good, they mean well, etc – but there are some things that are just unforgivable: the app, when installed, will take it upon itself to SAVE ALL ITS IMAGES TO YOUR PHOTO ALBUM. It doesn’t ask you, or tell you that this is going to happen – it asks for access to your photos (standard iOS behaviour), then saves over 40 stupid pictures to your device. NO. HELL TO THE FUCKING NO. I’m sure that most people aren’t nearly as anal retentive as I am about their phone space, but you do NOT go saving shit I didn’t approve to my goddamn phone! Just for that, I’m sending naked pictures to anyone who asks or otherwise! That’s right – say hi to me in the hall, and you’re getting a goddamn naked picture. SUCK IT, ONTARIO PROVINCIAL POLICE. YOU GO TOO FAR.

Grumble. This entire user experience is just fucking awful.

seriously though, this is fucking hideous. doesn't look like this on android, either.

seriously though, this is fucking hideous. doesn’t look like this on android, either.

horde and purge

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We’ve been doing some purging, for Reasons. It’s a wholesale get rid of shit throw down, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t still things that don’t give us pause when playing Keep, Donate, Toss (the boring old person version of Fuck, Marry, Kill): a tiny shirt I wore in grade 1 (go Hampton Hawks!) (kept), freebie gaming shirts (how will people know I’m a nerd if I don’t wear this Titanfall shirt?!) (donated), the Fertility Blanket (tossed).

I feel really guilty about tossing the Fertility Blanket, but I didn’t have a choice. Some history: Ed and I received it for our wedding from my Auntie Grandma Cousin Lady (an elderly relative on my mom’s side – we’re apparently related, but I don’t know how). She crocheted it for us in the babibest of blue and pink, leaving no question that the blanket was intended to encourage (or perhaps cause) procreation on a biblical scale. The blanket was lovely (if kind of hideous), and I really appreciated the gesture – crocheting something of that size must have taken ages. Auntie Grandma Cousin Lady knew nothing about me, and had no reason not to think that Ed and my first goal would be to have ALL THE BABIES .. so, very touching gift. Even if I was terrified of it.

We decided to hang onto the blanket in case we ever needed a covering that would fertilize eggs when no one was looking. We moved it from Edmonton to Calgary to East Van to North Van and back to East Van, never once using it for its intended purpose because why on earth would we. I may have even worn gloves while handling it, just in case (I am nothing if not paranoid of conception). We didn’t really give it much thought until last night, during the Purge Part 1 – I had to pull it out from under the dresser so we could vacuum up the dust chunks that had accumulated and become sentient. It was then that I realized:

  • moths!
  • cat hair!
  • cat hork!
  • scorch marks!

In the frigid depths of last winter, we turned the bedroom heater on to stave off the worst of the cold. It wasn’t on a lot, but it was evidently enough to burn a fucking hole into the blanket and melt fibres and char things up a little. While I’m very glad things didn’t burst into flame and become a baby-making ball of fire, I’m kind of freaked out at how easily things could gotten very bad, very quickly. We disposed of the Fertility Blanket once and for all, vowed to keep the baseboards free from any and all obstructions, and moved large pieces of furniture around because our neighbours suck.

Tonight, more of the same. I am so very excited about it and definitely do not want to punch or kick anyone.

on the way home

on the way home

hello world

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hai!

hai!

Piccadilly Circus officially joined our family yesterday afternoon. She’s camping out in my bathroom for a couple days, and then we’ll start introducing her to the others. Everyone has seen/smelled each other from afar, but with the exception of a couple of startled hisses (Lemon barged into my bathroom and scared himself and Picca) it’s been very civilized around here. Her first 24 hours in our house have been full of play time and non-stop purring, and she’s so friggin’ cute I could just melt (and given the temperature in here, melting is pretty damn likely). Just look at this face:

eeeee kitten belly

eeeee kitten belly

DSC_5939

the only time she hasn’t been purring is when she’s deep sleeping

DSC_5940

srsly i can’t even