i’ve got a theory

It’s definitely the bunnies. They’re working in conjunction with cheap vodka.

For years now, I’ve been operating under the theory that I am violently allergic to vodka. I avoided it at all cost, because quite frankly I like breathing and being drunk never really seemed to be a fair trade off. I rarely drink as it is, but on the rare occasion I cast off the shackles of common sense, I’ll still keep away from vodka. Because allergic. Makes sense.

Vodka is insidious though, and sometimes it found its way through my defences. In September, Ali took me to Art of the Table in Seattle so I could become better acquainted with gin. We hadn’t told Mitch the Batman (he’s actually Mitch the Barman, but autocorrect made him the caped crusader and who am I to argue) about my allergy, because the plan was All Gin All the Time. Unbeknownst to me, Mitch secretly vodka’d me because he thought I might like one drink over another. He was right – always trust Batman – but more importantly, I didn’t die or stop breathing. Was I cured? Is Mitch made of magic? Either way, I could drink vodka again! Hooray! New hobby!

Because I drink less than your average ten year old, I didn’t explore my newfound freedom until this past week. We went to an amazing Mexican cafe slash gay bar in Chelsea called the Rocking Horse, and I drank things. All good. Fast forward to tonight, when we went to a pop-up Star Wars bar in Soho. I had a vodka-based drink – just the one, and over three hours ago at the time of this writing – and I am drunk off my ass. This is not normal. I feel like I always did when I drank: face is neon red, I’m wobbly (more than usual), and my head feels simultaneously filled with bricks and attic insulation. The fuck? I had four to five times more to drink at AotT, and didn’t feel anywhere near this gross. What gives?

I think I’ve figured out the culprit: cheap vodka. The drink I had tonight wasn’t made with any sort of top shelf booze – it was a super sweet gimmicky sort of drink that hit me like a bucket of bolts. I think I’m reacting to either the vodka, or to the sugar – but either way, my head is pounding. I am not a fan. I think I’ll stick to what I know I can handle: drinks made by Mitch the Batman, and lots and lots of tequila*.

*: I’m still me. “Lots and lots” is like .. two. Two tequila.

sci-fi realist

I’ve always had a problem with the food replicators in Star Trek. I don’t understand how something can be made from nothing. Is it a hologram? Are you eating refracted beams of light? How does that sustain a lifeform? It doesn’t make sense. Maybe if there were entire planets dedicated to the production of, say, a nutrient-rich algae that could be made to look and taste like anything in the universe and all the replicator does is beam up an appropriately-sized chunk of moss and apply a portable holodeck image to it along with some sort of space drug that fools your taste receptors into thinking it’s truly a medium-rare earth cow steak .. but that’s just silly and complicated. So how is it done? What are they actually eating?

I’m much more of a realist. Yes, it’d be nice to feed the planet with instant food producers that can make anything imaginable, but that’s pure science fiction and at the very least, several centuries ahead of our time. I’d settle for something still futuristic, but a little more based in reality: a food filter.

In my head, a food filter is like a colander. It works by scanning the item(s) within the main chamber, and displays the contents on a touch screen. You can select one or more things on the list, and the filter will work to separate those items from the rest of the food. Example: a delicious batch of granola that has been tainted by horrible raisins. It is sticky and time consuming to pick the offending raisins out of the granola, but eating them is like eating garbage. What to do? Dump your bowl into the Food Filter™, select raisins on the screen, and voila! Your food is separated into the delicious and the awful, which you can then feed to someone you don’t like! Picky child? Filter the offensive food of the week right out of their meal! I’m eating a delicious yogurt with a granola mix-in, except some idiot assumed I wanted white chocolate chips with my breakfast. Wrong! I spent 15 minutes picking them out of my yogurt like a petulant three year old, but if I had a handy Food Filter™, I could have easily sorted the chips out and eaten my newly adult-breakfast-worthy yogurt without a care in the world. So simple!

I fully accept that we are nowhere near food replicators, if they’re even possible (Elon, get on that). However, we have scanners. We have colanders. We have a planet full of people with weird tastes. Let’s filter out all those things we hate, and get back to enjoying our food again!

I’d blame New York for making me weird, but let’s face it – I got to weird decades ago.

the toppings contain potassium benzoate

When we last saw our spunky* heroine, she was stressed the fuck out because of Many Things. Although it’s only been three days, enough of those Many Things have moved and warrant an update of some kind.

  • The completion date of our new place has been pushed out by over two months. That’s bad**!
  • Photographs for our listing are still being taken this week. That’s good!
  • The open house has to move: we’re now going to be listing Sparta in the new year. That’s bad!
  • Ed won’t have to deal with moving in the middle of his Metal Man Cruise. That’s good!
  • I am officially Annoyed to Fuck with my current 3-computer setup. That’s bad!
  • I got a work laptop, so I get my own laptop back for personal use. That’s good!
  • I accidentally bought a new 34″ curved ultra wide super HD monitor. That’s bad!
  • I’m selling one of the aforementioned three computers to make room for it. That’s good!
  • By the time we actually move, some of my stuff will have been in storage for almost ten months and I am vibrating with annoyance over this. That’s bad!
  • Mere hours after my plaintive post about work uncertainty I had a meeting that basically allieviated that stress until at least 2020. That’s really, really good!

So, yeah. Completely grumpy about the new completion date. It’s giving me a whole new exciting set of things to worry about and lose sleep over. On the other hand, the next few months should go by pretty quickly what with all the Fun Times and hand-made tortillas to eat. I’m super angsty, though. Patience is not my strong suit.

*: think less Mary Tyler Moore and more .. sticky

**: This may be a bit of an understatement, as I am literally flipping tables in and with my mind


this says it all.

remember the alamo

Alamo = Pocket Raisins

I’ve been packing since May. My life is nothing but boxes and garbage bags at the moment, all to prepare for a photographer tasked with making our home look Desirable to Others. Shortly after that is the open house, during which strangers will walk through our mostly-empty (but still lived in) rooms and judge us harshly (but hopefully generously). We’ve been given strict, yeti-removing instructions to get ready for the two-day event, which will see the closets emptied and the final bits of clutter Dealt With once and for all. Approximately 90% of my belongings are currently in storage. It is freeing, but depressing.

I’ve already written at length about why I have so much stuff. After living without all my stuff for the last several weeks, I’m starting to see the appeal of the minimalist lifestyle. I know that Ed, for one, is loving it – he wishes we could be like this all the time. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve also been enjoying it a tiny bit: things are easier to locate when there are only 3 of them instead of 500. The house looks enormous and so on trend. It’s easier to clean, find the cats, and I don’t fall down quite so much. It’s all a win!

At the same time, it’s sad. I hate knowing that Ed loooves the house like this, because it’s currently devoid of any of my personality. None of the things that make me the force of nature I am are anywhere in the house – it’s all in boxes three miles away. There is a massive dearth of ridiculous in Sparta, and it’s sad. It’s sadder when Ed is so vocal about how great it is. I miss my stuff. Maybe not all of it – I hope that I’ll be able to set up my new safe spaces with a little more flailing room, for tantrum dancing – but all those tiny, useless, ridiculous things I have make me happy. Yes, I can live without them. But why should I have to? I can’t help my ridiculousness, or my need to nest, or my love of physical manifestations of good memories. I can’t help that I’m broken and need to take up space to feel safe and unremovable. What’s more, at this point in my life, I don’t feel all that obligied to change who I am. This is what you get: pink hair, giant boobs, a whooooole lot of really cool nerd things, baggage, wine, and beer.

We’re getting close to Important Dates in the Great Relocate timeline. Scary, grown-up things will be happening over the next few weeks, along with a lot of really exciting things: New York. Holiday parties. Travel plans. Gingerbread Oreos.

Stuff is good, even with my internal conflicts, unending uncertainty about work, and overall planning stress. I just need to keep reminding myself.


I hate that so many people have chimed in with #metoo.

While I don’t at all agree with or condone Mayim Blalik’s ridiculous, ass-backward “feminist” rant, a small part of me nodded when she wrote that she’s never been a victim or target of sexual harassment or assault because she’s not “Hollywood pretty”. I’ve never been a victim because I’m not pretty enough to harass or assault. I get it. I feel safe travelling alone, because no one would look at me twice. I know it’s not about sex but power, but I’m not really worth the effort, so I’m good.

Then .. I remember. Being 12, and having strange men ask me if I want to be their girlfriend. The stares I’ve gotten since my breasts developed. The long-running jokes about my chin, and how good it would look dripping with cum. At 17, being coerced into sex I didn’t want and tried to get out of, and finally just going along with it to get it over with. Being drunk and given to his cousin for sex. Having a friend come out to the car to check on me after drinking too much at the bar, then start kissing me. Another friend, draping his body across mine on his couch. Waking up at a party to someone going down on me. A friend’s birthday, when a goodbye hug ended with a hand down my dress and a tongue down my throat. Slut-shamed by men and women for my cleavage. Hands groping my calves and caressing my legs while I stood behind their chair. Bus boners. My tenth grade math teacher who hunched over me from behind to “help” me with algebra. “I didn’t think you knew how to dress like a professional” from a boss. Being stopped on my way to work by a man who wanted to make love to me for 8 hours. Forcefully groped in public by a boyfriend. Trapped in a makeout session by someone bigger and stronger. Men trying to touch my breasts while corset modelling. Hiding in bathrooms from men trying to corner me. Comments. Stares. Coersion. Threats. “How about a smile, gorgeous?” Accidental grabs. Things thrown down my shirt. The times I just gave in, too scared or tired to fight. Hands on my face. Cab drivers insisting they escort me to my hotel room or rerouting to “show me the city”. Praying for a red light so I could jump out of the car.

I hate that this has made me remember. I hate that I know there are more that I’ve forgotten, or didn’t realize were wrong at the time. I’m smart but oblivious. I believe everyone has only good intentions. I thought the impossibly strong drinks purchased for me were a mistake. I thought he was just being friendly. I thought I had spinach in my teeth, or he was just admiring my necklace. I thought I asked for it by smiling too much, wearing too little, laughing too hard. I should have been more, or less, or tougher, or invisible. I hate realizing just how much #metoo there is. I hate that hundreds of thousands have shared their pain to try to prove and point – and that some people are STILL ARGUING AND DISMISSING IT.

What have we become?


It’s October, which means every goddamn thing is pumpkin flavoured. It reminds me of that time I had a Squash Blizzard:

It’s no secret that I enjoy pumpkin pie. I’ve been known to enjoy it year ‘round, thanks to the marvels of deep freeze.

Every year I get excited to see commercials for Pumpkin Pie Blizzards from Dairy Queen. I like pumpkin – I like pie – I like ice cream – in theory, it can only be a small frozen cup of deliciousness. There is no possible way you could screw up something so simple. Right?

Oh, but no. Last year I was delighted to find myself in a position to actually try a Pumpkin Pie Blizzard. I ordered it, almost bouncing with anticipation – pie! Pumpkin pie! Smooshed up into ice cream! This is gonna be SO AWESOME!

As I watched her prepare my treat, I found myself filled with a sudden trepidation. The pumpkin part of the blizzard was being scooped out of a can – okay, that’s fine, I wasn’t exactly expecting them to slice up a pie and toss it in the blender – but something didn’t look right.

I took a closer look at the can she left on the counter. It was pumpkin.

JUST pumpkin.

As in, not pie filling.

As in, canned plain non-spiced uncooked unprocessed pumpkin.

All jack-o-lanterns and delicious fall treats aside, a pumpkin is no more than a festive member of the squash family.

The Dairy Queen made me a Squash Blizzard.

There was a chance I was wrong, but I was pretty damn sure she had made me a blizzard using not pie filling but regular canned squash that may eventually have been turned into pie by someone who wanted to control the flavour explosion but was definitely in no way meant to be poured into a shell and baked at 400 degrees for 45 minutes as is. I didn’t know how to bring it up – “hey, you made my Blizzard wrong!” – so I just took it and went on my way.

It looked about right – orange and creamy with pieces of cookie meant to simulate pie crust. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Then I took a bite.

Picture yourself eating a zucchini.

Now picture that zucchini mashed up into ice cream.

Yeah, that’s about how good it tasted. It was fucking HORRIBLE. It was a goddamn Squash Blizzard! It tasted like frozen death! I got through two bites before I had to throw the thing away; the pumpkin was too thoroughly mixed with the ice cream for any of it to be salvaged. I was very sad. My delightful treat turned out to be an unholy terror from beyond the grave.

I hate it when that happens.


once and forever kimli

Things I’ve Done While Bored:

  • Book flights halfway around the world
  • Enroled in college
  • Tattoos. So many tattoos.
  • Bought random sex toys off Amazon
  • Made flowcharts
  • Applied for life-changing programs and activities without really thinking them through
  • Adopt small animals
  • Drastically change my look

Basically, I do Big Things in the name of bordom. Big, expensive things. Big, expensive things with legal ramifications. You know, typical stuff. Like this:

Image uploaded from iOS

embossed for extra boss

One lazy Sunday in August I was (more likely than not) naked and splayed out on the loveseat, classing up the joint. I don’t know what triggered it, but I leapt off the couch with parts a-jigglin’, ran to my computer, and applied to legally change my name from Kim Lee to Kimli. I don’t know why it had to be done at that very moment – I’d been sitting on the decision for literally 30 years or so – but I was struck with urgency and boredom, so I pulled the trigger on the long-overdue name change.

I started the process with zero research under my belt, which, in retrospect, was pretty dumb. For starters, changing your name is expensive and frustrating. Here’s a rundown of the hoops I had to jump through:

  • Application to change my name. Cost: $137
  • Requirement: Get fingerprinted. $60 for fingerprinting at the Vancouver Police Department; $25 to send the prints off to the RCMP to ensure I have no nefarious motives.
  • Requirement: A notarized copy of your birth certificate and, if married, your marriage certificate.
  • Gathered all the paperwork and receipts and went to a Service BC office to submit it. Service BC could not help me, because I wasn’t there to collect government assistance. Had to go to the Vital Statistics office downtown.
  • Finally get to the right office. Oops: my marriage certificate is not a legal marriage certificate. You have to apply to Vital Statistics Alberta to get it. Go away and come back with the right paperwork.
  • Apply for my marriage certificate. $39.64 for the application, plus $30 for priority service .. because the application for name change expires within 30 days. If you don’t gather and submit all the paperwork 30 days from the time you pay the initial fee, you have to start all over again and repay all the fees.
  • Marriage certificate finally appears. Contact a random notary and have my birth and marriage certificate copies notarized. Cost: $50
  • Revisit the Vital Stats office, this time with all correct paperwork in hand. Submit it all. Am told to wait 4 – 6 weeks.
  • Wait 4 – 6 weeks. Going on vacation in the middle of this helped pass the time.
  • Today: GET CERTIFICATE OF NAME CHANGE! YAY! All it took was 4 weeks of running around and $341.64!
  • But wait, we’re not done! Now I get to apply for a new birth certificate ($91.50), get a new driver’s license ($27), and a new passport ($160)! All this to change nothing but the spelling of my name!
  • At least I’m really good at forms now?

As ridiculous as all this was, I’m a little bit thrilled to be really totally me for really reals. I’ve been meaning to do this since I was 13, it just took me a bit to get around to it. I kind of can’t wait to have ID issued in my shiny new legal name, too.

One of these days, maybe I’ll get around to finishing high school!