the house on myrtle street

Remember that time I worried my mother was a scheming murderess straight out of an Agatha Christie book?

The plot has thickened to the point that people are trying to market it as the next evolution of oatmeal. Tired of steel-cut oats? Try some racism!

Backstory is probably important. TL;DR:

My mother is Chinese, and as soon as she is introduced to the rest of the family as a companion to Gentleman X (first wives are always out of the picture, and all children are hella grown), everyone assumes she is a gold digger. They tell their father/brother/uncle to “be careful” and not let my mother out of their sight for fear she might .. steal their millions? There are never any millions. These are just old, lonely dudes who appreciate her company for some weird reason. If my mother was a gold digger, she’s terrible at it. She also has the patience of a saint, because there’s the long con and then there’s my mother being in a “relationship” with these guys for decades before there’s any kind of payoff (which doesn’t exist). It’s weird – these guys always have family, but they’re nowhere in sight to help care for their elderly relative. When my mom steps in, they’re suddenly all concerned about ol’ dad and whatever fortune he is obviously squandering on this gold digging temptress who wears men’s jeans and 5 layers of sweaters from 1983 because she is arthritic and cold.

Also, this:

In between complaining about lottery numbers and asking about my cats, my mother mentioned that her companion was going to add her to his will and not tell the rest of his family about it. Oh, good. That won’t cause any potential problems AT ALL down the road.

My mother’s companion (the same one in the post above) suffered a fall in his home several weeks ago. He’s fine and he’s out of the hospital, but he’s also 92 years old and was living in a large house all by himself. My mother would help him out daily, but just as a friend.

After his fall and hospitalization, they moved him to a nursing home so he could get medical care and support around the clock. He’s very happy there and I believe he’s allowed to have his cat, which is awesome.

What’s NOT awesome is that his family – some daughters, I think – are contacting a lawyer to look into my mother and his will, to see if she’s getting anything of value and to investigate whether she coerced him into leaving her things/money/the house. He told someone my mother was “his girlfriend” and it got back to his family, and they decided to take this information and be racist fucking assholes with it.

My mother doesn’t want his house. She doesn’t want his stuff, or his tools, or whatever they think holds value in the house. She’s never claimed to be his girlfriend or partner, just a friend she helps who gives her money (like, $20 – $40 at a time) to buy groceries for the both of them, not just her.

I am FUCKING LIVID at his family for being unbelievably racist motherfuckers who are siccing lawyers on a 92-year-old man – their father – and his friend because he might have left her something in his will. We don’t even know that he DID leave her anything, although he has hinted at it from time to time. My mother had nothing whatsoever to do with his will – I don’t even know that he gave her Power of Attorney as planned, because she certainly didn’t have anything to do with getting him into a nursing home – she just brings him food and things he wants from his house and visits.

But she’s clearly after his money.

FUCK THOSE RACIST CUNTS for making my mother worry about lawyers, being racist assholes who think my mother is a gold digger based on the fact that she’s Chinese, for making me want to DEFEND my mother when I don’t even really like her all that much, and for not keeping my mom’s friend’s last name so I could hunt them down easily on social media and send the wolves after them.

I AM SO MAD. If my mother ends up needing to pay (or ask me to pay) for a lawyer to deal with this bullshit, I AM GOING TO PUNCH HIS FUCKING FAMILY RIGHT IN THE GODDAMN UTERUS. You fucking despicable cunts.

It is too motherfucking hot for me to be this mad right now.

As of tomorrow, my mom is two weeks out from shot #2. I might have to pay a visit to Victoria, in my most threatening clothing (which tends to be rather warm – no one looks dangerous in a frilly sundress) and delinquenty-looking hat, and just .. be angry.

Luckily, hanging out with my mother makes me angry. I may not be very good at physical damage, but I am very good at being angry.


i’m on it, seagull.

how to help

Ed and I thrive today because our ancestors came to Canada to work on stolen land. Even today, we live on the unceded territory of Kwantlen, Á,LEṈENEȻ ȽTE (W̱SÁNEĆ), S’ólh Téméxw (Stó:lō), Semiahmoo, and Coast Salish nations.

I love Canada, but Canada is not a place worthy of celebrating this year. To that end, Ed and I are donating our Canada Day wages to the Indigenous Residential School Survivors Society and True North Aid. We are privileged to be in a position to do this, and we are only in this position because of our ancestors and the stolen land they were given. I am reading, and learning, and listening. If you’re able, please help in any way you can. We are ALL thriving – whatever your level of thrive may be – because of our ancestors and the atrocities committed to build this country.

Here are some resources that friends have shared with me.

There is so much work to do, and it’s on all of us to help.

bad kitten cam

All four cats like the balcony, but Roary LOVES IT. He would live out there if he could. He (and Sunny) love hunting and eating bugs, and I’m sure if Roary were an outdoor cat he’d be doing some serious harm to the local bird population. He hasn’t tried to go over the balcony railing (yet), but he’s had a few close calls when chasing after a bug that goes over the side. It hasn’t helped my anxiety.

Unfortunately, Roary has somehow figured out how to get past the screen door on the balcony. Both kittens have been climbing the screens since they got here, no matter how hard we try to dissuade them. They’re both at least 9 months old now, but where Sunny is a squat little round potato, Roary is a Large Cat: he’s all wiry muscle and weighs around 13 pounds. He’s discovered that if he climbs to the top of the balcony screen, his weight causes the door to sink just enough for the track wheels to retract and the screen pops out enough for him to jump through the gap and escape. Since yesterday afternoon, we’ve done near-hourly head counts on the cats and four times now have found Roary (and once, his sister) outside on the balcony even though the door is mostly closed and the screen barely askew.

This morning, we did a test. The screen was shut completely tight and the door left ajar several inches. All cats inside and accounted for. Not long after I went upstairs to start work, I heard some scrambling noises and then suspicious silence so I went downstairs to check: Roary was on the balcony railing, digging in the flower box. He at least had the good sense to look guilty when I found him. Only issue (other than the fact that my cat is fucking Houdini): this time, he hadn’t popped the door out of the track. The screen was completely in place. How did he get outside?!

I don’t know how he does it. I don’t know what he wants. If he’s looking for bugs, I can tell him I don’t have any available. But what I do have are great deal of internet-connected devices, devices that will detect motion, devices that will record his every move. If he leaves the screen door alone, that’ll be the end of it. I will not scold him. I will not post the video of his escape. But if he doesn’t, I will yell at him, I will take pictures of him being a Very Bad Cat, and I will post them online for everyone to laugh at.

I will also shamelessly crib text from a movie because I am too annoyed to come up with my own words to convey the Liam Neeson-esque measures I am taking to deal with this.

There’s a camera set up on the floor with full view of the balcony door. A motion sensor has been set up just outside the door to alert me if it detects motion, which will be recorded on the camera. The video feed is streaming to my phone, and when I need to use my phone (or Roary is on my chair chewing my head so I know the coast is clear) I send the feed to my Alexa Echo. I WILL figure how he’s doing it, and then I WILL set up an elaborate and needlessly complicated solution to stop him (or at least watch).

this is a Very Bad Boy

insufferable? stereotypical? completely valid?

This may come as a shock to some of you, but I have problems with anxiety.


No, really. I know I’ve had major anxiety episodes in the past, but in my head I had equated “anxiety” specifically with those actual, textbook panic attacks. I think there was even a paper bag involved, once.

It’s only recently that I’ve realized I’ve suffered from some significant anxiety this ENTIRE TIME – like, if I thought I’d been going from 0 – 10 to rate those attacks at a 6 or 7, but I’d actually been going from 5 – 14 the entire time – and I’m just starting to understand how and why I’ve been feeling so .. introspective lately. This is going to sound exactly how it sounds, but I’ve been figuring out the insanely buried truths behind some fundamental aspects of who I am, and it. is. fucked.

Two specific examples from the last 3 months sort of kicked this all off. I have had full-on sobbing in a heap ugly cries borderline hysterics that were really unusual even for me lately, and I’d been thinking about them: a) when my bloodwork came back from a routine checkup was so bad that I was sent to Every Specialist including a cardiologist and had to do multiple overnight tests and my upcoming echocardiogram, and when I received the letter from BC Health saying I qualified for an early COVID vaccine because I’m extremely clinically vulnerable. Both times, I melted the fuck down entirely. I sobbed so long and hard I gave myself the hiccups. I was a snotty, horrible, mess for hours. It sucked.

It wasn’t until I read this article that it dawned on me that my extreme reactions to potentially unsettling – like, not even actually unsettling, but something that might turn out that way later – medical things isn’t just a run of the mill worried about the spectre of death sort of thing, but actual PTSD from my 2.5 Major Medical Issues in the last several years.

I know I pretend to be a smart person, but I am really quite dumb. The article and existence of medical trauma make perfect sense to me, but I legit thought I was having some sort of psychotic break. I was scared by and of my reaction, which was to a reaction in the first place, so this was like Inception-levels of meta brain shit.

That stunned epiphany has actually changed how I handle these things. I can tell when I’m about to lose my shit, and either calm myself down knowing that I am not actually this scared, or warn Ed I’m about to erupt in a totally non-pornographic way and to please help me cope.

It’s not always successful, of course. Right now, I’m worried and anxious af because I’ve had NO reaction to the second Pfizer dose I received on Friday afternoon. Everything I’ve heard from friends and internet strangers alike is that the first Pfizer dose is pretty mild but the second one knocks you on your ass. I didn’t have much of a reaction to my first dose, so I prepared for a thorough ass-knocking – like, did groceries, got my affairs in order (look, it’s a work in progress), made sure Ed had enough things to eat over the weekend, stored up an ample supply of Diet Coke and chicken noodle soup – and yet I’m fine. Went out yesterday afternoon, did a bunch of errands, made neighbourhood queso. Okay, maybe day two is the worst and I’ll really feel it tomorrow? So far today I’ve made blueberry pancakes and bacon for breakfast, cleaned out two kitchen cabinets and two drawers, ate some queso leftovers in my balconic oasis to the tune of a Broadway showstopper, wrote up some self-serving psychobabble, and made several smaller, less life-changing epiphanies about Greek yogurt and Tupperware lids. I’m supposed to be sick and miserable. Why am I not sick and miserable?!

What if I didn’t actually get the vaccine at all? What if I’m not actually protected from covid?

What if my slight headache and extreme weariness ARE my symptoms, and I’ve been having them all along?

That doesn’t seem right, as I’m not suffering all that much so I must have done something wrong and I’m still vulnerable.

.. and why am I worrying about whether I’m suffering enough to be deserving of the label of “having symptoms”, anyway? This is one of the reasons I also didn’t think I “deserved” to think I was suffering from PTSD, I’m just a stupid broken baby who can’t handle minor life stuff.

Yeah, it’s been an interesting few months.

Did I say interesting? I meant exhausting.

I honestly can’t tell if I’m just being good ol’ Insufferable Kimli, if this is a stereotypical stoner line of thinking, or if it’s a valid realization.

Up next: why I can’t watch TV, and why I hate sharing my age!

i am

  • Waxed
  • Double vaxxed
  • Full of snacks
  • Fully stacked
  • Listening to Basement Jaxx
  • Overtaxed
  • Aware of nymphomaniacs
  • surviving cutbacks
  • Pretty relaxed
  • A lover of knickknacks
  • Unable to fax
  • a fan of Drax
  • Enjoying my pax
  • A geocentric parallax


the sloppy jorge

You look like you could use a sandwich.


One package of lean ground beef

One can of Manwich sauce

Some squishy buns

A diced onion

Spicy/Dilly pickles in your preferred format

Cheese? Sure, cheese.

BBQ sauce

Mayo, according to Ed


Fry up the ground beef. After it’s cooked, stir in the can of man sauce. Let simmer.

Prep your buns. We use submarine buns because they don’t dissolve when wet (looking at you, Kaiser rolls) and they taste good. Pro tip: scoop some of the bread flesh out of the centre of your bun. It makes for more meat room.

If you’re into mayo and butter, slather up the roll. I am a purist who does not need cream to go with my man-sauced meat, but you do you.

Spoon some of the meat into your bun and bun-channel. Add onions and pickles – I use Oh Snap Hottie Bites because a) they’re hot af and b) they’re friggin’ delicious. Ed is a delicate flower who prefers the less-spicy Dilly Bites which are also very tasty but I want my sandwich to make me hurt. Add cheese if you’re into that sort of thing, then top it all with as much BBQ sauce as you can handle. We’re both super fond of Trader Joe’s Sriracha BBQ sauce, coz it adds a really nice flavour to the meat and spicy pickles.

May be an image of food

That’s it. Super short recipe today, but it’s very big on flavour. I call it the Sloppy Jorge because I am very fond of naming things “George”, even if they are not a George at all. This is our go-to quick meal when we’re sick of chicken and fish and poblano peppers, and it never fails to fully satisfy. It’s really just a Sloppy Joe with extra steps, but they’re worthwhile steps that result in a very tasty and filling meal and actually somehow covers all four food groups nicely. If you can avoid eating an entire bag of potato chips alongside your Sloppy Jorge, you might actually have a decently balanced meal. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.

holding out for a hero

At LEAST until the morning light. Possibly longer.

Things are happening, apparently. BC has completely ramped up the vaccination rollout much faster than we thought possible – as of this typing, anyone in BC born in 2009 or earlier (ages 12 and up) is eligible for their first dose of the vaccine. Yesterday, they (they being the shadowy government organizations that decide which microchips will be activated first) announced that second doses are starting pretty much immediately, with your second dose invitations arriving 8 weeks after your first dose. My 8 weeks is up on June 2nd, so while I’m not holding out for that exact flavour of hero, it’s looking like both Ed and I will be double-dosed by the end of June. That is much faster than the original plan, which had us getting our first shots by September, or the updated plan, which said our second shots would be minimum 16 weeks after our first. This is good.

Ed and I have had multiple discussions about what we’re comfortable with when it comes to societal exposure. We’re in agreement that we’ll still be wearing masks indoors in public places, because I don’t think my anxiety could handle a naked face in public just yet. I’m very, VERY excited at the thought of the border opening up again, because I desperately miss our US friends and also Trader Joe’s and my package depot. I haven’t started making lists yet, but I’m basically seconds away from mapping out our Grand Return to Normalcy (which, in our world, is basically a large bag of frozen corn and tater tots).

And yet, for all my eagerness for March 2020 to be over already, there’s one notable area I refuse to think about just yet:


Just as I was willing to be one of the last people vaccinated if it meant that frontline workers, teachers, and retail folk could go first (obviously didn’t happen), I am willing to wait for the world to *truly* go back to “normal” before I start thinking about international travel.

I don’t want part of the experience – social distancing, limited entry, hand washing, mandatory pants in public, restrictions – I want it all. I want to be squished into an elevator with 50 other tourists to get to the top of a tower. I want to hop aboard a bus with strangers and listen to a cheesy recorded tour set to upbeat, royalty-free music. I want to stand in line for an expensive hot dog and not be able to put my preferred relish on it but will make do with the same condiments half the city has used before me. I want to sample foods and drinks and take transit in places I have no business being. I want to experience every single part of “travel”, and I’m willing to wait for it: we’ve all spent so long compromising on our entire existence for the last 15 months that when we’re free, I want to truly be free.

I’ll wear a mask in public for as long as I need to and wear masks indoors if the air I’m breathing isn’t my own, but I’m not going to be hopping on a plane the day after I get my second shot. Hell, my anxiety ramps up if I’m away from my own house for longer than a few hours, so I’ve got a touch of agoraphobia to work through before I get to the point of needing my emergency travel underwear stash .. but it almost feels like it’s time to start hoping again. That would be nice. I’ve been burned out on nothing for so long that I forget what it feels like to have something to look forward to that isn’t sleep because there’s nothing else to do.

For the first time in a long, long while, I’m cautiously optimistic – cautimistic – that there’s something more than an endless sea of nothing just over that horizon.

it’s so noisy inside my head


We have kittens! We’ve had them since December, actually. My Instagram is now a 24/7 all-kitten channel, mostly because I really need a haircut and I miss travel and my balcony, while still my beautiful oasis, doesn’t need to be shared daily.

I’ve had cats almost my entire life, but I’ve never had cats that actually liked each other. Ed had agreed that the next time we were in the market for a cat (so, all the time) we could get a pair. I had tried several times to adopt through our usual rescue associations, but most of BC had the same idea during the pandemic and I didn’t get any responses to the inquiries I submitted.

Then, Chris happened. Chris is the awesome gent who runs the Grist Mill and Gardens up in Keremeos. We met in the early days of social media in Vancouver, and he was always down to show us the proper way to murder people or come to our parties (remember those?) without pants on. Oh, and then there was the shot I invented that had a meatball in it, and the hot dog with a Twinkie for a bun. Suffice it to say, Chris is awesome people even when he DOESN’T have kittens he needs to home.

Close as I can remember, it wasn’t actually my decision to adopt the kittens. Chris posted on social media that he had found some feral barn cats that needed a home, and as there is much overlap in our respective social circles, someone remembered that I had been Desperately Seeking Kittens and volunteered that I would adopt them. I had many thoughts about this, all of them being “YAY KITTENS!!”, but I had to do some fast-talking to get Ed onboard. Ed has a bad habit of sometimes agreeing to things I suggest just to appease me, without thinking it’ll actually happen – this has come back to bite him in the ass many times, because I am a planner. You don’t say “yes” to a planner, because I will find a way to make it happen. I am very stubborn that way.

Okay so the universe had decided I was going to adopt these kittens, and who am I to bet against the universe. Chris had plans to drive into Vancouver for other, non-kitten related business, so he arranged to bring them by our place. A great plan! Except while loading the kittens into his car, one of them escaped and disappeared. It took four days of webcams and tuna, but the missing kitten finally showed herself and was re-scooped for delivery. It felt kind of weird being so worried about an animal I hadn’t even met yet, but I was well-sold on the idea of this particular bonded pair of kittens so it was a few days of heartache until we got word she had been found. Kitten delivery was a go!

Chris arrived at our place on a Tuesday morning with a box full of kittens, who quickly escaped the cardboard confines to explore their new home. The kittens were tiny little gingers, a brother and sister pair:

so small. so crazy.

They were home, but what they hell were we going to name them? We decided to each pick a name, because Ed leans towards the traditional and I am much more of a long florid name with a complicated backstory kind of person. I mulled over a whole lot of ginger-cat names and liked several, but was still holding back on any food-related names because I have serious issues in dire need of therapy.

When we first got word that girl kitten was missing, I made a deal with myself: if she was found, I would name her Sunny after this song. It had gotten stuck in my head while I was doing all my worried pacing and it seemed really fitting. Sunny’s name was decided before she arrived, but what were we going to name the boy kitten?

Ed decided on “Rocky” for a name, which I wasn’t crazy about because it is very traditional. It also didn’t really seem to fit: Sunny was a very cautious, skittish kitten, but her brother was very .. bombastic. He does everything very bigly. He also looks like a little lion, and deserved a better name than something as pedestrian as “Rocky”. We tossed a lot of names back and forth, but one seemed a little stickier than the others: every time he did something cute, we’d say “Look at him, <doing whatever he was doing at the time> – just like a little Rory Calhoun!”

We shook on it, and his name officially became Roary J Calhoun. The J stands for J. It’s a thing.

The kittens have been with us for six months now, and we can’t really imagine life without them. We had high hopes for an entertaining bonded pair, but Chris somehow accidentally gave us two of the best kittens we have ever had the privilege of meeting: they’re (too) smart, affectionate, cuddly, curious, and stinky little beacons of joy. Sunny is also one of the prettiest kittens I’ve ever seen – just LOOK AT HER:

Gahhh. I cannot even. Roary is much less dainty than his sister, but he’s also the most affectionate cat I’ve ever had: when he decides it’s time to love me, I really have no choice in the matter. If I don’t pick him up when he asks (he asks like a toddler wanting to be held: stretches his arms out and chirps at me, often going under my skirt like a perverted Rory Calhoun), he will jump onto me from wherever he is. It’s his favourite game in the kitchen, which adds an element of terror because I’ll be chopping things or at the stove and the next thing I know a 12-pound flying bear attacks me from behind to roll around on my shoulders like a drunk seal. It’s hilarious and scary and adorable. Even when it hurts.

Both kittens have had all their shots, several bouts of medication due to the parasites they picked up while living rough, and were spayed/neutered in early spring (we already have one inbred cat; don’t need anymore). They’re happy and healthy and while Dilly and Lemon are not 100% on Team Kittens, they’ve made our apocalyptic homebound days much easier to deal with.

If you’ll excuse me, I have some kitten snuggling to do.

click the picture for the kitten’s Instagram account and also the rest of the images in this series. it tells a story!

shan bake

It’s Shan’s birthday! Celebrate all things Shan by making her awesome breakfast casserole!

Necessary Ingredients

Many eggs

Plain kefir

Many cheese



Soy sauce


Small frying pan

Casserole dish

Optional Ingredients

Anything in your fridge that goes with eggs: tomatoes! onions! that one sad red pepper you can’t bring yourself to throw away! Ham? HAM! Corn! Watermelon? Maybe skip the watermelon. Peas! Broccoli! Spinach! Leftover potatoes! Basically, anything. As long as it goes with eggs.


Pre-heat your oven to 400. Dump your mushrooms in a frying pan, and douse them with soy sauce. Fry ’em up nice and tasty. While that happens, grab a tablespoon or so of pesto and smoosh it all around the bottom of your casserole dish. Spread the soy-fried mushrooms on top of the pesto. Add in your optional ingredients.

Open up many eggs into a bowl. Salt n’ Pepa them liberally, then pour in some kefir. This will make your eggs thick and chunky and weird, but bear with me here.

Pour the eggy kefir mixture into the casserole dish, then top it with an entire bag of shredded cheese. While I am a Tex-Mex cheese girl, I use the Italiano blend for this dish coz it’s super good. If you’re a little extra, decorate the top of the cheese with pleasing shapes and flavours. I like to halve a bushel of grape tomatoes and line them up to spell dirty words on top of the cheese.

Put the casserole dish in the oven and let it bake for at least 30 minutes – basically, you want it to not only cook but also firm up (unless you like your eggs damp at which point what is wrong with you) and let the cheese on top brown. I usually start checking it at the 30 minute mark, but leave it in for up to an hour. Use the cheese as your guide. If it’s still cheese-coloured, leave it in the oven. Brown cheese is the key.

Take your nicely-browned casserole out of the oven, and let it sit for 5-10 minutes to both settle and also not be catastrophically hot. Slice and serve with a spatula and a variety of delicious sauces, then celebrate Shan for the delight of ingenious flavours inside your mouth holes.

Today is Shan’s birthday! She is one of my very favourite people and I love her madly. We haven’t been able to hang out as much as usual because of the apocalypse, but I hope that will change soon with our shiny new vaccinations and 14 months of non-stop mask wearing. We have *plans*. Birthday plans. I am excite.