feelings about cream

I subscribe to a number of “beauty boxes”, because although my hair screams “butch DMV clerk”, I love makeup and lotions and all that girlie crap. My favourite subscription at the moment is to Beauteque Monthly, which sends me a bag full of Korean beauty products each month. It’s where I got the Aloe Dildo shown in the post below, plus a whole lot of other neat/weird things that clutter my bathroom counter something fierce.

I just received the August bag, and one of the items was a tube of All in One Snail Repair Cream. At first I was confused because I do not have any broken snails that need repairing, but then I realized that it’s actually snail cream, meant to repair my face. This .. is not better.

I’m seriously conflicted over this, because I LOVE SNAILS. Not to put on my face, but to LOVE AND GENTLY HUG/ADMIRE FROM AFAR. The internet tells me that this cream, which boasts an enviably high concentration of 92% snail extract, is one of the most popular snail creams available. It also claims that the extract is collected in a “cruelty-free way”, but I can’t find any further information on that. I need to know this, because see above re: loving snails. I’m squeamishly curious to try the cream – I could certainly use some repairing – but .. snails. I love ’em. I don’t want to use a product that hurts them. I’d rather have the scars and spots and splotches.

LOOK AT THESE GUYS. How could you want to hurt them for their goo?

too much sun

We rented a boat in Horseshoe Bay today for a glorious afternoon on the water. I got a little too much sun, though, and burned my chest to a mild crisp.

When we got home, I flopped down onto the ground (as you do when you are an adult and also tired). My chest was stinging pretty badly from the sun, so in the interest of after-sun care, I asked Ed to get the aloe out of my bathroom. Still tired and quite happy with the floor, I got onto my knees, figuring it would be easier to apply the soothing lotion to my ample bosom from above. I looked up at Ed from the floor as he shook and manipulated the bottle until the sticky, warm cream came gushing out onto my tits:

ooh, yeah. give it to me. spread it all over.

ooh, yeah. give it to me. spread it all over.

Take care of yourself in the sun, kids.

that’s a first

I got home just before 11pm after being out on Lola for an evening. As I pulled into the alley behind my house, a black SUV stopped suddenly in front of me as I was about to go into the parkade. The driver unrolled his window and looked back, saying something. I thought he asked me a question, but I had earphones in – so I took them out, lifted up my helmet, and said “I’m sorry, what was that?”


“I said, what did you say?”

“I didn’t fucking say anything! Why, you want me to say something? Coz I’ll say something!”

“Buddy, I just thought you said something to me. Calm down.”

“Yeah fuck you you bitch, I’ll fucking say something if I want.”

“Okay there guy, you have a great night!”

*gets out of his car*


“.. I said, “have a great night”. What is your problem?”


“Yeah, no thanks. Fuck off.”


“Bye bye!”

*foams at mouth, yells at me some more. his kids get into the car; he was either picking them up from McD’s or the PNE*

I waited until the gate was fully closed, parked Lola, and went upstairs .. where I promptly burst into tears. I’ve had people try to run me over, people nearly kill me, people with rage issues clearly not happy a scooter was in front of their car .. but never, before tonight, has anyone actually gotten out of their vehicle to threaten me, let alone because I thought they had asked me a question.

That was an extremely shitty way to end an otherwise enjoyable evening. I am shaken. I wish I had gotten his plate number or taken a picture, but I was too shocked to do so.

People suck.

hello today

So far today I:

  • Remembered to take my pants off at work
  • Managed to get – and eat – lunch
  • Audited the ever-loving fuck out of my original audit, resulting in a MEGA AUDIT that is so compliant they’re inventing a new fancy acronym for it (I suggested “EFC” for “Extreme Fucking Compliance”)

I WIN! So far, I mean. I’m still getting a haircut in 75 minutes and plan to go swimming later tonight so those could turn out badly, but so far today I am rocking this Wednesday.

off-white privilege

Last night we gave a lady hard poops.

(I’m on a roll today – it’s not even noon and I’ve already made two poop jokes on the internet)

A large group of friends went out for dinner last night to celebrate Renee’s birthday. After we stuffed ourselves silly, we walked back to where Ed and I had parked our bikes because I had forgotten to bring Renee’s present with me to dinner. While at the bikes, we did a number of civilly disobedient things, like:

  • Laugh at the travel cards from the previous post
  • Eat a lot of candy
  • Stand around talking and having a good time
  • Taking a group picture

While all these petty crimes were going on, a lady who looked very very constipated walked by our group and demanded to know why we were there. It was not enough we were parked there – we did not live in her building, so she told us to leave. As we weren’t doing anything untoward and she likely did not own the sidewalk, we declined her helpful suggestion. This made her angry, so she threatened to call the police. Knowing the most illegal thing any of us had done that day was to sit idly by my scooter at an expired meter, we cheerfully agreed that she should call the police. This made her angrier! She called someone on the phone, glaring at us fiercely the entire time as we carried on with our hilarious conversations and candy (there was so much candy).

As she spoke on the phone (undoubtedly to the very Chief of Police), several things happened:

  • Two volunteer community “police” walked by our group and completely ignored us
  • An elderly lady with a delightfully puffy dog walked by with her companion and allowed us all to pet her fluffy dog and was very sweet
  • The constipated woman went into her building but stood at the door watching our every move, including whipping out her phone to film our nefarious activity

The police never showed up, and we eventually dispersed – not because she was recording our criminal asses, but because we were actually in the midst of saying goodbye to one another (there were 11 of us, it takes a while) when she so rudely interrupted us. She filmed us for a good long while before giving up, but not before warning others in the building lobby about the no-good ruffians lurking on the sidewalk outside the building.

Just for fun, our group was made up of:

  • Web Applications Team Lead and Project Manager
  • Lead Catherine
  • Senior Administrative Assistant, Executive Office
  • Senior Technical Writer and Manager, Special Projects
  • Guy in Charge of #YVR
  • A Social Worker who does more good on a random Tuesday at 3pm than the rest of us do all year
  • Director of Ed, Sales and Analytics
  • A Technical CEO
  • Senior Procurement and Outfitting Manager
  • Mega DBA
  • Noah

Who’s bad?

We’re bad.

That woman must have had the hardest, angriest poops last night.

This seems like an appropriate place to acknowledge that although the woman was over the top in her anger and response (and to be truthful, we in our cheek and sass), we all benefited greatly from being mostly white upwardly mobile Canadians. Had we (well, they) been of colour, or in a city less Vancouver, it could have had a much different ending. I am uneasily grateful for this privilege.

manic pixie starter kit

On a whim, I purchased something called an “Anywhere Travel Guide”. It’s a set of 75 cards for “discovering the unexpected, wherever your journey leads”. I thought maybe they could be a fun writing exercise while in London, for when I get tired of writing things like “omg London” “I’m never coming home” “I miss my cats”, etc.

I finally got around to opening the box of cards yesterday, and realized that I didn’t just buy a box of writing prompts – I bought a Manic Pixie Dream Girl Starter Kit.

Bring a book you love out on a walk. Leave sentences from the book wherever you go.

Someone thought this sounded all romantic and mysterious, but to me it’s just a logistical nightmare. Okay, here’s my favourite book. Now what? Do I also bring an xacto knife to cut passages out of the pages to leave around? Not only am I destroying a book, but I’m also littering. I could copy the sentences out by hand, but now I need to bring a notebook and pen and I’m still littering. And what happens if your favourite book isn’t full of romantic or vaguely inspirational passages? What if you have truly terrible taste in books?

“I don’t think I can. I’ve told you, on the one hand, the hunger — the thirst — that, deplorable creature that I am, I feel for you. And I think you can understand that, to an extent. Though” — he half-smiled — “as you are not addicted to any illegal substances, you probably can’t empathize completely.

“But…” His fingers touched my lips lightly, making me shiver again. “There are other hungers. Hungers I don’t even understand, that are foreign to me.”

Or worse still,

Jamie knows Adam always gets nervous before they head out to sea; he can tell by the way the man walks, the slight tremor in his hands, the hitch in his breath. It’s not that Adam is afraid of the ocean, the man just desperately does not want to get sick. He wants to participate, to feel the satisfaction of seeing one of his builds not screw up for once. He wants to cheer alongside Jamie as the rig they worked on for months performs just as it’s supposed to, to hug the man when it’s over, to hear the whispered words of praise the other man wouldn’t be caught dead saying to anyone else.

It’s a cute idea – sort of – but if you stop to actually think about everything involved, it becomes laughably convoluted and just plain rude. Don’t deface books. Don’t litter! And don’t ever, ever make me look up Mythbusters slash to prove a point EVER AGAIN.

Walk through the city while listening to music that you love. Let the words of the songs tell you stories about things that you pass by.

Makin’ my way downtown, walking fast, faces pass, and I’m homebound ..

Whisper a secret into the wind. Follow it as it flies away.

What. No. Why. Stop this at once.

As someone where to find something really strange.

Wanna see a dead body?

Collect voices. Dark, light, funny, sweet, whispering, slow, loud, soft. Imagine them as a choir.

STAND STILL I’m trying to collect your voice now where did I put my stabbing knife?

Choose a person on the street. Make this person your guide. Follow him/her for as long as possible.

Call home with your one phone call. Ask them to sell mother’s prized horse figurine collection to make your bail. Imagine your happy place during the cavity search.

Look behind you, look above you, look beneath you. These are your surroundings.

This is a word. People breathe oxygen. Cars go fast.

Run four steps, walk slowly for five steps, run ten steps, and turn around a corner. Stop suddenly and stand completely still.

When Joseph Gordon-Levitt catches up to you and asks what you’re doing, tell him you’re following the secret you whispered into the wind. Bask in his adoration as he openly admires your free spirit. Smile and count the polka-dots on your vintage lace chemise as he realizes you are from two different worlds and could never make it work. Skip away, promising to plant kisses in the dirt for him every spring on that hill you climbed together on the day you found out you were terminal.

Start running. Run for two blocks. Can you smell something?

You may want to take a shower.

Hide in different places throughout the day – under a chair, behind a wall, between some trees.

Get stuck. Die slowly when no one comes looking for you. Spend your final minutes on this mortal plane cursing the whimsy that led you to be trapped under this chair behind a wall between some trees.

The entire deck of cards is like this. There are more cards suggesting you leave things places, other asking you to pick things up off the street and mail them to someone, and a lot of talking to strangers. The entire deck isn’t completely useless – there are several things that might be legitimately fun to try, like picking a random restaurant and ordering the 3rd and 12th things off the menu or walking into any place and asking someone where their favourite place in the city is – but the vast majority of the prompts are complete 500 Days of Summer Paper Towns Breakfast at Tiffany’s Virgin Suicides Garden State MPDG bullshit. This isn’t to say that I am beyond doing random-ass things – quite the contrary – but I am not some slip of a caricature of a girl. I am a fierce, independent, anxiety-riddled weirdo. My quirks are not for you!

If you need me, I’ll be dancing with my cat in the centre of Times Square while wearing a dress made of tomorrow’s newspaper and dead roses.

be the most me

Gill posted a link to this really good article about travel writing as a woman. I leave for my trip in 63 days, and while my trip isn’t really long enough to generate a book’s worth of content, I’m really looking forward to writing while I’m gone.

I’m aware that the writing I do isn’t travel-book-material – I couldn’t begin to tell you where to find the best martini in the city, or where the beef carpaccio is so thin and tender it melts on your tongue and leaves behind only a whispered promise of sun-drenched Tuesdays – but I’m pretty sure there’s no danger of my falling into the privileged white world of eating, praying, or loving. I haven’t fooled myself into thinking that anyone would read an entire book of my words. It’s a fun daydream to have, but at the end of the day, who am I writing this for? If it’s not ultimately for myself, then I’ve failed whatever vague and unknown goals I may have had.

I find myself torn between wanting to classify my trip as an attempt to find myself in 25 days or less, or laughing at the whole damn genre and just going with “vacation”. It’s true that I’m feeling a little lost and aimless these days – my health and inability to participate in life has affected me in ways I hadn’t expected – but I don’t know that this adventure is going to be the thing that makes everything come into focus. I’m excited as all hell to go, planning on getting out of my comfort zone as often as I’m able, and will be giddy with freedom and possibility the entire time. I could probably produce 400 eeee-heavy pages on my every thought during those weeks, but why? No one needs that.

I’m going to write whatever comes out, and you’ll get random updates about what went on around me. There will be swearing. I might get lost. Maybe I’ll find myself on the cliffs of Dover. I’ll definitely get too close to the edge and will try hard not to fall off. I’ll take a train to another country and maybe retrace my steps to the Eiffel Tower dildo I regret not buying the last time I was in Paris. I’ll hang out on bridges and wonder about the things that brought me to that place at that time. I’m going to be the best and most Kimli I can possibly be, and see what happens. That’s enough, right? It’s gonna have to be.


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