The Neck (with a brief introduction)

(First of all, I want to say that I know it’s been a while. I have a good excuse. I moved. And not just a little ways down the street. I moved countries. I moved from America back to my home and native land, Canada. So, it’s been busy, and I’ve been frazzled – and also, very COLD.

But, now I’m slightly less frazzled, and excited to get back in the metaphorical saddle.

Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I know I don’t tell you enough, but I really appreciate you taking the time out of your busy day to read with your eyes what I’ve written with my fingers. You’re a wonderful human being. Don’t let anyone tell you any different…

I’d tumble for ya.)

Okay, now for something completely different…

A few weeks ago, I was at work, minding my own business, working on an excel spreadsheet, trying to keep my face neutral (instead of my usual “bitchy resting face”), when my co-workers started talking about their ages.

To give you context: My co-workers are male, in their mid 20s and early 30s. They are young, sprightly and optimistic… They obviously haven’t felt the stinging pain of life, yet.

One especially young, sprightly, optimistic “man” said: “I’m 22.”

I tried to pretend I was very focused on my spreadsheet. I didn’t like where this was going.

Another chimed in: “I’m 29.”

Another: “24.”

Another: “I’m turning 27 next week.”

They all turned toward me. I pretended to be very focused on my spreadsheet, my eyes mere inches from the computer screen.

“How old are you, Kim?”


“How old are you?”


“How old are you?”

Geeeeeeeeezzzzzzz. Fine, I’ll look at them, say something like “a woman never tells” and then continue to crunch numbers like some sort of number-crunching monster.

I turned to them, and I saw it… They were assessing my age.

They were looking at various aspects of my face, hair, wardrobe choices, and my body… and were determining how old I looked.

I don’t like this for a lot of reasons:

My face suggests I have lived a long, full, smiling with my eyes kind of life; my hair looks like Hilary Clinton circa 1998, my wardrobe choices suggest that I lived through the 80s recession, and (full disclosure), my body shape suggests that I have bore many, many children (when in fact, I just like to eat food).

I prepared for the worst.

One of them guessed: “29 or 30?”

Initially, I was very flattered. 29 or 30 suggests youth and vitality that I can only summon into mind if I look at a Facebook photo album.

Then I realized, when someone says 29 or 30, they are accounting for the fact that if they are accurate you will be hurt and insulted… so they kindly and politely subtract at least five years.

Before I could respond, another young one piped up: “I thought you were in your late 20s, but then I saw your neck.”

“Sorry, what?”

He continued: “A woman’s neck always tells her age…The lines on her neck are like lines on a tree. The more lines, the older she is. Based on your neck, I’d say… mid-30s.”

My co-workers all nodded in agreement.

Damn you neck… giving me away.





The Sugar

If you give me sugar, it’s going to get weird.

Today I ate 1/3 of a cupcake from Sprinkles, and then I started speaking with an English accent, saying “hells yes” to all questions asked of me, and then I did a funky dance in front of my co-workers that would best be described as “inelegant.”

It’s okay though… Because Friday’s my last day at that job…

Because my husband and I are being deported.

Okay, that’s not entirely true (but it sounds better when you’re trying to gain sympathy from the AT&T rep who is making it difficult for you to cancel your service). The reality is that our green cards were denied, our visas were about to expire, and the husband was offered a job in Vancouver.

It seemed like all signs were pointing to Canada.

So we’re returning to Canada (after three years in England and three years in ‘Merica).

I like this quote from Michael Morpurgo:

Don’t worry about writing a book or getting famous or making money. Just lead an interesting life.





The Things

I’ve done a lot of things.

A lot.

A lot.

I’ve lived in a lot of houses, in a lot of cities, in quite a few countries (46, 11, 3).

I’ve gone to school to study a lot of different things, in a lot of different places (Theology, Screenwriting, Criminology, Geology, Art History, Sketch Comedy, Photography; Kelowna, Vancouver, London, LA).

I’ve dated some duds and married a good one (numerous, Lloydster).

I’ve been to a lot of different talks, lectures, screenings and concerts (blah, blah, blah, Keep on rocking’ in the free world).

I’ve been there, done that, and bought the t-shirt (everywhere, everything, size L).

And now I just want to watch TV.

A lot.

A lot.


I mean, when you’ve already gone to hear Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein talk about Portlandia and “felt their essence”, you should just stop. There will never be any thing better than that, so you may as well just stop going to things.






The Stopping and Thinking


It really makes you stop and think, doesn’t it.

The cartoon that is.

It’s making a statement.

It’s making a few statements actually.

Statement #1: Cartoons are fun.

Statement #2: Cartoons can actually contain a very important message. New Yorker cartoonist S. Gross draws attention to the need for all people to “stop and think” by drawing a cartoon with two guys looking up at this massive sign that reads: “stop and think.”

Statement #3: Isn’t it interesting that a sign that reads: “stop and think” can actually make you stop and think? (Yes, it is.)

Statement #4: Life can be overwhelming and sometimes you don’t stop and think, but then you see a sign (or a cartoon) that challenges you to stop and think. So you do.

Statement #5: Sometimes you might feel like you’re one of those guys, looking up at the sign, wearing a suit, and worrying about your bald spot.

And (you’re never supposed to start a sentence with the word “and” but I don’t care, FYI), by drawing attention to this cartoon, I’ve also made you stop and think… about the cartoon, about the message, about S. Gross, about the meta quality to this whole scenario.

I hope that makes you stop and think.


The Toilet Seat Cover

So I’m at work, and I’m in the kitchen getting a drink of water like I always do… no big whoop. I’m just filling up my water glass, shooting the breeze with a co-worker, when a guy walks in and goes over to the kitchen sink.

At first I don’t really take notice of this guy, because there are a lot of people in this world and I find it very hard to take notice of all of them.

As I look around the room (as one does), I see it… a toilet seat cover, tucked into his pants/bum, like a lobster bib at McCormick & Schmick’s.

I don’t know this guy, at all. I work for a large company. I have never seen this guy before, and I have no idea where he sits (except the toilet, obvs). This guy is very non-descript. I could not pick this guy out of a line-up. All I know about him was that he was wearing clothes, and he was a he – unless he was a she (it’s hard to tell from the back).

Anyway, I see the toilet seat cover attached to his pants/bum and I think to myself: “This guy is walking around with a toilet seat cover attached to his pants/bum.”

I cover my face/mouth/eyes to muffle the laughter, and by the time I look up… he’s gone.

There was nothing I could have done anyway (to save him from embarrassment, or the dreaded workplace nickname: “Hey, Toilet Seat Cover Guy, have you finished that report?”)

I mean, yes if it were me (it wouldn’t be me), then yes, I’d want someone to tell me (but it wouldn’t be me), so it’s really a non-issue issue.

Things to keep in mind…

  1. There were other people around… Lots! (at least two.) Therefore, it was not my sole responsibility to tell this guy that he had a toilet seat cover attached to his pants/bum.
  1. There is a “bro code” which is a set of rules that “bros” abide by, which include (but is not limited to) telling other “bros” that they have a toilet seat cover attached to their pants/bum (this is according to the “bro”/co-worker I just discussed this incident with). I’m not a “bro”, nor have I ever been a “bro” so I can’t be expected to follow such a code. Also: the other two people present were both “bros”.
  1. Personal responsibility lies with the individual. I think Ice Cube said it best when he said, “You better check yo self before you wreck yo self.”

And that my friends, is what happened today.

The Smoker

So, I’m walking down the street, minding my own business, drinking a smoothie that I just purchased from the aptly named “Da Juice Bar”, and I get that thing where the fruit is sort of tart/sweet/acidic and I start coughing a little.

This was not a big cough. In fact, “cough” might not be the right word for it… It was more like a vocal throat tickle, or maybe an ahem. It can best be described as: an audible clearing of my larynx. No big deal.

What I didn’t realize was that while I was walking down the street (minding my own business, drinking a smoothie) a Smoker was walking in the opposite direction.

The Smoker passed me as I audibly cleared my larynx.

She was female (as you may have expected), past her prime, pale, thin, sickly (as you may have expected), and she looked like life had dealt her a bad hand (assorted low cards and a few jokers).

She was smoking (as you may have expected) but I’m not one to judge.

I mean, yes, smoking is disgusting and it will definitely kill you and others around you, and it’s a huge waste of money, as well as a huge burden on society as a whole what with the second-hand smoke, ozone, tar pits, etc.… But as I mentioned previously, I’m not one to judge.

Live and let live… That’s what I always say (unless I’m talking about spiders).

So (as I mentioned), I’m walking down the street (minding my own business, drinking a smoothie, clearing my larynx) when I hear these two words:

“Real subtle!”

I turn around (because that’s what I do when people make a noise that I don’t expect and I want to see where it’s coming from), and I see that the Smoker has also turned around, and she is glaring at me.

I’m like, “huh?”

And she’s like, “Uh huh.” Her teeth were bared, her eyebrows were arched, and her cigarette was dangling from her sagging lips. It wasn’t a good look.

And of course, I would have liked to explain that I was not making an audible, judgmental statement on her choice to inhale toxic chemicals. I was just drinking a smoothie and had a little tickle, and I just needed to clear my larynx.

But then she was gone.

People sure get hyper about stupid stuff… Don’t be one of them.

The Summer

I’ve learned a lot of things this summer… A lot of things!

2015 will hereby by known as “the summer of learnin'”.

I learned a lot about myself (for instance: that I am capable of things I didn’t know I was capable of, and I love avocados), and a lot about swimming pools.

I thought I’d share some of the latter with you.


Don’t swim in a pool if you’ve had “active diarrhea” within the past 14 days. According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, “Tiny amounts of fecal matter are rinsed off all swimmers’ bottoms as they swim through the water”. All it takes is swallowing a mouthful of the contaminated water, and then you’ll be the one sitting out of the pool for 14 days.

Don’t get in a pool with a posted pool capacity sign of “112 persons” if there are already 112 persons in the pool. If there are only 111 people, then go right ahead and get in there. If you’re not sure how many persons are in the pool, you should count the persons. If they keep moving and you’re not able to get an accurate count, ask the persons to stop moving. If the persons refuse to stop moving, ask them again nicely.

It’s not the chlorine that makes your eyes sting… it’s bodily fluids… all kinds (urine, sweat, poop): “Chlorine binds with all the things it’s trying to kill from your bodies, and it forms these chemical irritants. That’s what’s stinging your eyes. It’s the chlorine binding to the urine and the sweat.” My advice? Don’t let the water come into contact with your eyes, or nose, or mouth, or ears, or arms, or legs, or torso, or any part at all.

Oh, and if you hear the words “Code Brown”, it’s time to get out of the pool.

You’re welcome.

#learnin #summer #getit #dontgetit #chlorine

The A$$hole

For those of you who don’t know who Wayne Newton is… Wayne Newton is an American singer and entertainer, perhaps best known for the song, “Danke Schoen”, which was featured in the best scene of the best movie of all time, ever… Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

Apparently, he’s an a$$hole.

Not Ferris… Wayne.

You may remember the time when I sat in the front row at a Martin Short show and he gyrated in my face while wearing a nude bodystocking with drawn-on genitals, and how it was one of the highlights of my life thus far…

But what I didn’t tell you about that evening (aside from pretending to be “with” a group of people with backstage passes, and then – much to my husband’s dismay – following that same group of people backstage, and only upon entering the green room deciding that I had perhaps taken my Marty fandom too far, and so – to avoid a security incident – pretended to be lost and looking for the women’s restroom)… was that the woman sitting behind us was very vocal about her dislike for Mr. Las Vegas (Wayne Newton).

When the discussion turned to Wayne Newton (as it often does), the woman said flatly: “He’s an A$$hole.”

I had to turn around. I had to find out who was making this declaration for all (within earshot) to hear.

She was amazing: gray-hair piled up on top of her head, costume jewelry that wasn’t even trying to be real, mauve press-on nails, and a sweatshirt that read, “I don’t want to. I don’t have to. You can’t make me. I’m retired” across her bosom.

Her friends were visibly upset by this comment, mouths agape, shaking their similarly adorned heads.

The woman explained… “I went to a Wayne Newton show, and during the banter portion of the show I shouted, ‘I love you Wayne.’ Wayne said he loved me too, and then continued on with the banter. I then shouted, ‘Sorry to hear about your bankruptcy,’ because I was. I was sorry to hear that he’s filed for Chapter 11… Wayne then turned to me and told me to ‘be quiet’. He said it was his show, not mine. Can you believe that guy? What an a$$hole.”

I turned to my husband and gave him a look. The look that say it all. The look that says, the only a$$hole around here is sitting behind me, tapping her press-on nail on my chair.


That Time I Saw Jerry Seinfeld

I saw Jerry Seinfeld.

I should explain.

I didn’t just see Jerry walking around in the public realm…(he doesn’t do that)… I saw him perform stand-up comedy at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas.

The backstory: I was newly married (and, obviously… freshly deflowered), and as part of our “Honeymoon in Vegas” we bought tickets to see Jerry Seinfeld.

I don’t know what was more exciting… committing my life to one man and making a sacred covenant for the rest of my life in front of friends and relatives and the “man upstairs”… or seeing Jerry Seinfeld.

Obvs: Jerry.

You know the phrase, “knee-slapper?”

No? (Where have you been?) Well then…

Knee-slapper an uproariously funny joke which makes you slap your knee with vigor.

That was me watching and listening to Jerry Seinfeld perform his stand-up “routine”. I slapped my knee repeatedly as tears streamed down my face and I honked-laughed in the ear of my new husband.

I have never laughed so hard in all of my life, and I doubt that I’ll ever laugh that hard again, which is one of the saddest and happiest statements one can make.

100_0186Love you Jerry.

You too Rhys.

(Happy anniversary.)

The Dank Meme

I overheard the term, “dank meme” at work. A few of my co-workers were talking about memes, and said kept saying “dank memes” like it was a thing, so I also acted like it was a thing… Then I googled it as soon as they were out of range. 

For your convenience… 

Dank Meme A meme that is just really radical, cool and neat. 

(Thank you to the Urban Dictionary for that wonderfully concise definition.)

Apparently the term “dank” originated in the Bay Area* as a slang word for “good weed”, but eventually came to be used for everything that is good (or: radical, cool, neat, etc.). 

So, a “dank meme” is an awesome meme… (I think).

Other definitions suggest that the term should only be used to describe a meme that is old, cliche, or mainstream (God forbid).

Either way, I’ve incorporated the term into my vernacular to fit in at work. 

When I say, “I need some dank memes for my new cubicle”, I scan the faces of those around me to see whether I have used the term correctly. 

This is my life now.  



* The term is surprisingly not derived from Latin.