The entire time we’ve been living in Sparta, the suite below us has been vacant. We looked at it when we were buying, but it was really expensive due to the additional room (the balcony was an office) and it had lousy windows in the second bedroom. I’m happy with our home, but every now and then I get wistful about the balcony/office – we never use ours because it’s loud and dirty and there are undead gnomes everywhere. If it was enclosed, it would have been mine – I don’t have a room of my own in Sparta, and as an only child who hates to share, I yearn for a private area that holds more than one. It’s not like anything I do is a secret, but I want a Kimli room that is completely mine to decorate and hide in as I see fit.

Anyway, this isn’t about my lack of a secret lair – it’s about the downstairs suite. At some point in the last month or so, someone moved into 217. I assume they’re new to the building, and I wish them the best of luck for three reasons:

• The suite has a history of gas leaks (that haven’t reoccurred since the last time we were in danger of explosions, so they may be fine)
• Suite 217 is full of amorous dead things
• The new tenant of 217 is a newborn baby

Settling in to a new home is difficult as it is – I can’t imagine what it must be like when you’re lacking in basic motor skills and the strength to hold your head up. It must be pretty frustrating, which might explain the all wailing we hear in the wee hours of the morning.

I’ve been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately, so I’m usually awake well past midnight tossing and turning. Almost every night for the past two weeks, the baby downstairs has been crying up a mega storm around 1am. It’s not a big deal – the soundproofing in the building is actually quite good (the only reason we can hear Stompy Clomps upstairs is because she replaced all the carpeting with wooden shoes), and if anyone in the room with me is snoring (the cats snore like crazy) or the roads are wet and cars are driving by, I can’t hear anything. However, it’s been quiet enough lately that I CAN hear it, and while I’ve never actually seen or heard anyone else down there, I have to assume there are parents somewhere desperately trying to soothe Angry Baby. After all, if I can hear the shrieking through the floor, it must be terrible and crazy loud for them each night (and that probably sucks).

I’m posting my iPad on Craigslist today. I thought about it some more yesterday, and I’ve decided I want to go back to laptop land. I can’t justify having both, and there really isn’t much that I can do on my iPad that I don’t already do on my iPhone. I really don’t use my iPad as much as I thought I would, and the added functionality of a laptop far outweighs the things I’ll miss. I’ll really, really miss them, though – there are two games in particular that I really love but are iPad only: Corpse Craft and Cannibal Bunnies. And to be perfectly honest, I could live without the bunnies – but Corpse Craft is one of my favourite games (and it’s on sale this week for $1; go get it) and the thought of not having it on my iDevice is for sad making. I even emailed the developer this morning begging for a universal version. Boo for exclusivity I will no longer have (assuming someone buys my iPad)!

So hey, how about that turkey? I wish I had some.

red text is bad, right?

My benefits include access to an online Employee Assistance Program, which I signed up for today. Out of curiosity and refusal to think about PCI compliance for one second longer, I took their self-assessment quiz to see if they agree with my self diagnosis of “depressed, holla” – and judging by the emergency red text that seems to think I am mere seconds from flinging myself out my window and onto the pavement below, we are on the same page.

About the crazy, I mean. Not the flinging. If I flung, I would break my iPhone.

I’m navigating through the maze of the internet to find myself a therapist. If anyone out there has one they think is super awesome and wouldn’t mind sharing contact information with me, please email me – otherwise I’m gonna go with the person who has the best name and specifically mentions they specialize in “EFAP” (which, as far as my exposure to the internet is concerned, means they’re an expert in cyber masturbation).

Baby steps, and all that. Still, I feel good about Doing Something about all of this. The world is woefully short of rainbows and ponies as it is; being trapped outside my own happy silly place is cold and lonely.

not shown: ponies

i am the sum of all my parts

I’ve been quiet lately. It’s unlike me. And it’s because I’m depressed as fuck, and I don’t know what to do about it.

I didn’t post about it because I loathe myself when I’m sad and mopey. I’m annoyed at myself when I’m off kilter. And right now, I’m mad as hell that I let things get this bad before I said anything about it.

Also, I’m blogging about this at all so I don’t accidentally click “purchase” on the MacBook Air I’m eyeballing. Because that would cheer me up, for sure – but to what end?

Don’t get me wrong, I really want a laptop (and incidentally, I’m selling my iPad 2 – email me if you’re interested). I just can’t tell if I want it so bad because I think it’ll fix all my problems, or if because I am tired of the limitations with the iPad.

But I’m stalling again, so I’ll ignore that train of thought for the moment. I am really, really fucking depressed. Like, dangerous levels. Bus tire levels. Thinking maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I just wasn’t here at all levels. This terrifies me – more so because I orchestrated a day at home alone just in case I decided to see how long it would take to draw blood with a butter knife. Yes, I’m mostly embellishing for effect – but I planned it out. Started thinking about who I could give all my stuff to so Ed wouldn’t have to deal with it. I have a lot of stuff; it would take time to divvy it all up .. but then. What then? Where the fuck is this coming from? And how do I make it STOP? I don’t want to be like this. I don’t even want to be inside my own head right now. Things are so, so, so bad inside here – my safe place; the one place I could always retreat to because it was filled with cotton candy and ponies – but it’s all dark and scary and there’s NOTHING. Great heaping fields of terrible, terrible nothing. I would welcome wolves.

I upped my meds once this year, and that caused all new exciting problems. Dialed them back, was fine for a short while. Darkness started creeping in again; so I upped the dose once more. It’s not helping. I don’t know what to do. I miss myself; hate this brittle shell of a Kimli sitting in the dark waiting for a house to fall on her. I miss seeing the good in everything; seeing the fun in every square inch of my existence instead of this oppressive wall of nothing. I’m scared for myself when I can think logically enough to be worried. I don’t know what to do to fix this, so I’m going with angry: I’m mad as hell about being mad as hell, and something has got to change and it has to change NOW before things get fucking stupid.

Where do I go from here?

Help.

We survived the weekend with aplomb – actually, it was mostly enjoyable. We arrived around 4:30 on Friday afternoon, and surprised my mother as planned. We hit up Romeo’s for dinner – an old favourite – then drove around town a little, seeing what’s changed. Mom mentioned she needed a new phone, so we went to the terrifying new Uptown complex and found her a suitably fancy (but not too complicated) new phone with bells and whistles to replace her archaic devices:

i should donate this to the museum of natural history

I think this Caller ID box predates the Crusades. BC Tel hasn’t existed since 1999, and the phone it was attached to was the one I used circa 1991. Not shown is the equally crusty answering machine; one with an honest-to-god micro tape that recorded incoming  calls. This simply wouldn’t do, so I bought her a new phone that had an answering system built in – my mother is not yet ready for voice mail – with a big bright display that showed who was calling. I even programmed all her important numbers in for her, and helped her record her outgoing message (which is weird but not “ha ha” weird). I am an excellent daughter, and I am glad that people talked me out of getting her a computer – after all the trouble she had answering the new phone, I know there’s no way she’d be able to grasp the internet and the thought of being tech support for her until the end of time makes me weep with preemptive frustration.

Friday wasn’t all ancient telecom artifacts, though – my mother is newly addicted to frozen yogurt. She took us to Qoola and even bought me a gift card so I can visit the locations in Vancouver. I will do this soon, as the yogurt was delicious – I thought Pinkberry was the ultimate, but Qoola is Canadian and even more ultimate so they win all my love. Hooray!

Mom turns in early, so I stayed up to watch Grimm before I resigned myself to sleep on the fold out couch. I had forgotten that mom picked up a sofa bed from some random place, and I try not to think about who or what had slept on it before. The Mystery Couch isn’t big enough for two, so Ed braved the plywood mattress and we called it an evening because there was nothing else to do in a house with no internet.

Saturday was cold but spectacular, and as mom had things she needed to do, Ed and I were free to do some errands of our own. We parked downtown and walked all over the damn place: Johnson Street, Market Square, Chinatown, Government Street, Trounce Alley and everywhere in between. I got a hat, and some measuring cups for some reason (okay, the reason is that they’re awesome). We looked into Converse colour availability for Josh and Shan, went to Nando’s for lunch, and wandered through my favourite alley in all the land:

i want them all. i can't wear them, but i want them all.

i love fan tan alley

it's like coming home

We had enough of downtown, so we went to Beacon Hill Park:

sometimes i forget why i left

my army will destroy you all

hey look it is ed he is upside down

Mom was taking us out for Chinese food, so we headed back to the house to collect her. When we come to town, she always takes us to John’s Noodle Village – it’s a tiny place in a grubby strip mall, and it just happens to have some of the best Chinese food we’ve ever had. Mom can always take us to John’s; we won’t complain. We all stuffed ourselves silly, then sped home at dangerous speeds so Ed could watch hockey.

my fortune lied - watching someone watch hockey is far from "great excitement"

He did have to watch the game with my mother though, who likes to provide her own form of commentary as the game rolls on. I read a book and got cozy – too cozy, in fact, because I started to overheat around 9pm and had to go sit outside in the dark three times so I wouldn’t pass out from heat. Unpleasant, and more than a little worrisome.

chester made for good company, though

As pleasant as everything was, we didn’t escape completely trauma free. On Saturday evening, I told mom a bit about our London trip. As soon as I mentioned Marks and Spencer, she lit up and started rambling – she used to loooove M&S underwear and I needed to buy her some. Right now. Lacy stuff. Maybe even a g-string!

OH GOD. My mother went on for about half an hour about how I should buy her some g-string underwear, and went into TOO MUCH DETAIL about it all. You may think it strange that I, of all people, have areas of TMI – but this is my mother, damnit, and she wanted saucy underpants so she could .. do .. things .. oh god, I blocked it all out. We didn’t meet him, but my mother spent most of the weekend talking about Stanley – I get the impression that he is her “special friend”, and will likely be the end user of the lacy British underpants she asked me to buy. I sort of hoped the conversation would just peter out, but no such luck – the next morning, she called up a friend to ask her about underwear sizes. It was decided that I need to get her underwear in a UK10, and she repeated the g-string line another 12 or 15 times. Why? Why me? Why does my mother want me to buy her g-strings? Does she even know what a g-string IS? If so, how would she know this information? OH GOD.

Still, fulfilling her request (sort of – M&S doesn’t sell g-strings; hallelujah) meant I had to place an order online, which meant I might as well make it a BIG order to justify the shipping cost. I ordered her damn fancy pants in varying degrees of fully traumatic laciness, and some (many) pairs of tights for myself. I have half a mind to add a note to her box of underwear that says “please do not ever tell me what you do with these”, but she wouldn’t get it. Which means I’ll probably hear all about Stanley and what he thought of said lacy underpants. I hate my life.

i want a life like the one on tv

As payback for the underwear, we did Groceries at Mom’s. Mom hordes things – I counted 41 unopened boxes of Kleenex stashed around the house – so we helped ourselves to a year’s supply of Saran Wrap, tin foil, toilet paper and dish soap. She didn’t give us any frying pans or knives this time, but she did try to give us yet an other quilt (that we left behind – oops). My mother isn’t at reality TV hording levels yet, but it’s pretty bad and I’m not looking forward to the inevitable move – who needs that much laundry detergent?! No one, that’s who.

And finally, the bucket is still in full effect. I thought she had stopped peeing in the bucket, as Friday night was entirely bucket free – but Saturday night’s alright for peeing (in a bucket) and it made a glorious comeback several times, and all was right with the world.

Except for the g-strings.

*shudder*

When I finally told my mother I had gone to London, she gave me shit because I hadn’t been home to Victoria in a long, long time. I just checked my archives, and she has a point – our last trip over was in March of ’10. Oops. Victoria, try though it might, just can’t really compare to London – but I did tell my mom that I would come home soon. I’d like to think that it’s because she misses me, but I really know that it’s because she wants her wastebaskets she bought at Ikea when she was here in January and left for me to bring over. Baskets are in the car, I have enough electronics to drown out almost everything, and we’re off. The wi-fi on the ferry is a nice touch, but that won’t stop the towering resentment over paying $160 just to get us there and back for two nights. Up yours, BC Ferries! Your expense makes me seethe!

I should go outside while it’s still dry. There’s snow in the forecast, but we’ve had a lot (relatively speaking) of sun so far today. I’m naturally not dressed for any kind of weather, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to spend most of this trip in danger of getting blown off the deck as I shiver and swear. That, plus the Island Farms soft serve ice cream I’ve already devoured, is the only reason to take the ferry at all.

I wonder if my mother is going to tell me more about the men she’s seeing. I am afraid yet dreadfully anticipative.

One of the most heart-wrenching things I do all year is put together the gift list for the office’s “adopted family”. This year we got a 22-year-old single mother of three girls under 6, asking for new bedding and dishes. I tend to pad the gift lists a little – I’ll make sure you get the things you asked for, but there may be a few more tags requesting toys and clothes and gift cards than on the original list. Everyone deserves to have some festive joy, and if I can help make that happen .. well, maybe it’ll make up for the slow people I viciously mow down in the mall when they stop for no reason in my path.

The list is sobering as always, though. May I never forget that this woman’s life could have easily been mine – it could be any of us. All that separates any of us is our collection of experiences: go left instead of right at a crucial point in your life and suddenly you’re homeless, or choosing which child gets to eat today, or relying on the kindness of strangers to keep a roof over your head.

Now I am sad.

Although to be honest, that could also be due to the weather and my brain going south on me.

just for the taste of it

It’s been one week since you looked at me threw your arms in the air and said you’re crazy the Boob Ultimatum was handed down, and unsurprisingly, I hate it. Just because I understand the why doesn’t mean I have to agree with it, and every morning is an epic struggle between my closet and the Brave New World we’re drably descending into. I got dressed three times this morning before I was satisfied that I met all the wardrobe complexity requirements, and I still managed to fail rather spectacularly depending on your angle. This sucks. It’s also making me far crankier than I thought it would, which upsets me and makes me think Deep Thoughts like “am I really so shallow that I think people can’t see me unless I’m embarrassing” “I AM NOT DEFINED BY MY CLEAVAGE!” “I’m a strong proud brownish woman; I shouldn’t have to show my tits for attention” “what if the boobs were the only reason people liked me and now everyone will ignore me and I’ll be invisible” “that is stupid, stop thinking that” “FUCK I HATE UNIBOOB”, etc etc etc. It’s been a rough week, even with the Friday holiday (I let my freak flag fly that night, and it was so nice and breezy) – but there may be a solution in sight.

A lot of people at the housewarming party asked me how the deboobening was going, to which I replied honestly that it sucked a great deal of ass. People commiserated – and then they offered up EXCELLENT SOLUTIONS to my two rather buoyant problems. It led to animated discussions and even more awesome solutions, some of which I can’t wait to try:

• Scarves! Winter is coming, and if no one usurps my throne with an incestuous snot of a child, I can use scarves to cover up. I have a lot of them, and this really cute video shows 25 different ways I can tie the scarf when I get tired of the basic drape. Also, as an added bonus, a lot of my scarves are ridiculous so they’re fun to wear.
• Bring back the ascot! I’ll have to buy a cutaway morning coat and striped grey trousers to really pull this off, but the noble ascot has been fancying up the chest of men for centuries – I’m sure it would cover my shame most adequately.
• I’ve already made my thoughts on the Cami Secret known, but it’s a possibility I must consider as I am dead set on not layering (I am already bulky; why would I want to add to that?). I could get some of the dreaded boob aprons and maybe alter them just a little – add sequins or bedazzle the shit out of them. I might even be able to make my own, out of non-traditional materials like vinyl or latex or Hello Kitty flannel. There’s a lot I could do with the idea, even if the whole thing is offensive to me.
• A rainbow of feather boas; one for every day of the week. I was just told “cover up” .. not with WHAT.
• Really, really big necklaces. Huge ones. Think “toaster on a chain” big.
• Carry a textbook at all times, ala 14-year-old-with-a-boner-in-math-class
• Tie random things around my neck and call it fashion. Today, for example, I’m wearing a belt looped twice around my neck, tied with a half-Windsor and fastened with a big flower pin. Stylish!
• Fun with Cardboard: this could be my chance to make some political statements, or even better, get a long black rectangle and pin it to my chest as a life sized nudity censor
• I often save the day at work, so I should work the superhero angle and get myself a cape. Actually, a cape wouldn’t really work .. I’d need a cloak and then I wouldn’t really be a superhero anymore but a shadowy villain which is much more awesome
• A bib. There are some cute bibs out there, and it would totally be dual purpose because a bib would keep food out of my bra.
• You know those cones they put on dogs to keep them from scratching or licking? I could wear one of those in reverse so it covers my assets .. or even better, everyone ELSE can wear one normally so they wouldn’t be able to look me in the tits
• A dickey! So sexy, and I could cosplay as Wolowitz!
• Until a few minutes ago, I didn’t know what these were called – but now I totally want a JABOT! There’s even a lace and PVC one already on Etsy just waiting for me!

all set for a day of work

Apparently the Brave New World at work is going to be “still fun, but a more mature fun”.

Something tells me that my idea of “mature” is vastly different from theirs.

Don’t blame me; there’s a REASON “for mature audiences only” doesn’t mean it’s safe for people in suits only.

I was told I’ll likely have to rewrite the new employee manual again to reflect our new mature image. It’s not like I was specifically told to write it in my own style or anything, or that I worked on it for four months straight. Sure, I’d love to do it all over again, only this time with no fun whatsoever. I love not having fun! I am the office go-to person for buttoned down stoic maturity!

Boo-urns.

Those were the most expensive tacos ever.

Ed and I went to a lesbian-themed housewarming party on Friday night in Mount Pleasant, which was an official Good Time. My favourite people were there, and some shiny new people kept things interesting and hilarious. After we had thoroughly warmed the house, Ed and I decided to keep the party going with my favourite double entendre: tacos. We headed out into the brisk fall night, and made way for deliciousness.

One problem: our car was not where we had left it.

For a variety of very sketchy reasons, the Mazdabator had been unceremoniously towed from the neighbourhood and was locked up in car jail. Luckily, Renee was leaving the housewarming at the same time and was able to drop us off at the impound lot. It wasn’t far away, but I had dressed in the evening’s theme – the almighty vagina – which apparently meant fishnet stockings and very high heels (almost THREE INCHES). I was in no condition to hike down Main Street and along Scary Industrial Way until we found our car, so I very much appreciated Renee’s foresight in eschewing public transit for the night.

All things considered, rescuing the Mazdabator from car jail was a relatively painless process. It was only the second time I’d ever been towed, and it was a great deal less traumatic than my first experience many years ago in Victoria. We collected our car (along with a $50 parking violation just to make the night extra special), then continued on with Operation: Tacos. The night was still young, and I had a void deep within me that only tacos could fill! Onward to victory (and tacos)! I am easy to please.

We’re going to visit my mother this weekend. I haven’t been to Victoria yet this year, and I’m starting to feel a little guilty about it all. It’ll be an uncomfortable weekend – I hate that fucking plywood bench – but it’ll be nice to be home for a few days. Nice and potentially traumatic, if she decides to tell me about all the men she’s been dating.

On second thought, maybe I’ll just stay here.

hershel's head is in the box