Any Second Now, Two Minute Warning

17 11 2016

Depeche Mode is indirectly related to why I do not know Algebra or Geometry. I wish I was joking, but sadly, no. I spent most of my time in Algebra I and Informal Geometry, either having lyric reciting contests or song title contests with a friend of mine. (The rest of my time was spent passing humorous notes back & forth with my best friend – who is now my Spouse – and smoking a cigarette after I was dared to). All Depeche Mode songs, mind you. She (my friend) was kind of amazed at my dedication to them too, after all I was not the long time fan she was, I only discovered them early on my Sophomore year. She knew more about the actual band members than I did, but I have 6 albums worth of their songs permanently etched into my brainmeats.

Recently I found the remastered version of the entire A Broken Frame album on youtube and had to listen. The songs all came flooding back and I can still recall all the lyrics, like old friends.


Dream On, Freak

29 10 2016

Lately I have been contemplating getting back in to my blogging and also trying to finish a book I started a few years ago. This led to me having the following dream just now.

In it I found myself starring as the bumbling heroine of my very own Asian drama, wherein I was the zany but adorable 20-something Korean girl* and I was trying to be a writer. I started my first writing project by writing on the sides of clear plastic storage bins with a bic pen. A black bic pen. I even went so far as to try to snap a cool/funky photo of my contemplative reflection on the side of the first box while I wrote. The shot kept not coming out, so I eventually gave up. However, I had a great start to my writing on that container. Enter the object of my dream affections and me scrambling to hide my prose lest he see it and mock. In my ineptitude I manage to destroy all evidence of my writing, because of course I do..this is my drama! Next, I abandon the writing on plastic container scenario and decide only fruit skins will work for my writing and begin to peel about a billion oranges. Guess who makes a personal appearance while I am mid-peel? Yup…the Dream Man, and naturally this leads to a hilarious cliched scene involving squirted juice in my eye and me frantically trying to explain myself. After a stumbling and stuttering blurting out of my intentions vis a vis said fruit skins, Mr Hawt and Dreamy asks me why I do not value my work enough to write on something that is not trash.

Then I woke up.

I am sure there is a metaphor or a deeper meaning there somewhere and it’s not just my twisted brain…

*Let’s not forget that I am neither young, nor Korean…for some reason I am never myself in my dreams, but I am completely myself, if you get my meaning. Also, there was actually a lot more to the dream, all my dreams are convoluted and full feature films. I just can’t always remember exactly what happened except the bits right before I wake up. I do know that my dreams are always very vivid and realistic though.


29 10 2016

For weeks now I have been sucked into watching various Asian dramas. Taiwanese, Korean, a few Japanese and one Chinese one. It’s become my obsession. I have even watched various forms of the same manga-based shows just to compare. It’s become so commonplace for me to hear Korean, Japanese or Mandarin spoken (and I can tell the difference between the three) that I think if I heard one of them spoken while out & about I would expect subtitles to pop up in front of my face for me to read. I have started to pick up some Korean & Mandarin words as well. I already had some Japanese stored in my echoey brainmeats from years of watching anime. I should start reviewing some of these, but I am completely ashamed of some of the ones I get really hooked on. I mean it’s not like any of them are bad, but I tend to pick some based upon the actors involved – and yes I have my favorites…ones that I don’t want to reveal here – but I am sure anyone who reads my blog ever can guess at least one. *cough*

So yes, this is what has been occupying most of my time for the last 3 weeks or so. I have become very anemic of late so this has kept me planted in front of the tube as well. The anemia has nary a thing to do with the TV watching, but the TV watching is a direct symptom of the anemia. No energy = me slothing out.

I think next on my watching agenda will be a period Korean drama (Daebak), if only because the hats that men wore in the Joseon Dynasty are just so damned awesome…and, you know, the men are totally hot.


Seriously. Made. Of. Win.

Of Cabbages and Things

11 10 2016

When I was wee, just a toddler, my mother’s best friend was a woman from Okinawa. She was married to a former military man (my dad’s best friend) and they happened to live in the same mobile home park as my folks. I was far too young to remember them, but she taught me how to use chopsticks (my little fingers hurt using them the correct way so I improvised my own method that I use to this day) and taught my mother how to make omurice and yakisoba…both foods I then grew up eating. I like to think I came upon my Japanese culture fascination by chance, but something tells me this paved the way. Just as I cannot recall not being able to use a fork, the same goes for chopsticks.

Today I am making a pot of what I call Yakisoba soup. It’s something I devised recently to use up some cabbage & kale I had, without resorting to making the starchy deliciousness that is Yakisoba. It’s basically chopped cabbage (napa or green); chopped kale (whichever kind you have works…I used lacinato last time, am using curly this time); about 1-1/4 cups of diced onion (green, yellow or red); 4 slices of diced, uncured bacon; 1 carton of unsalted beef or chicken stock; one can of reduced sodium beef or chicken broth; fresh grated or powdered ginger (as much as you think you want…careful with the powdered); a little fresh or granulated garlic; a healthy drizzle of Worcestershire sauce; good sized squirt of soy sauce; a shake of toasted sesame oil; one packet of Herb Ox sodium free bouillon powder (chicken or beef depending on which broth/stock you used) and finally a drizzle of agave syrup. I just make it all in my pressure cooker and then end up being the only person who eats it for the next few days, but to me it’s comfort food in a bowl.

So in the wake of my 45th birthday, I raise my sake cup to you mom & Chieko, for instilling in me a lifelong passion (obsession). KANPAI!

Ketchup Patrol

5 02 2015

I had an IV iron infusion today. I arrived for my appointment 10 minutes early only to be told by admissions that there was a 30 minute wait for a spot. 45 minutes later I was told I could go up, however, upon arrival I was ushered to a chair sitting in the middle of the walkway as there were still no spots available, but they didn’t want me having to wait in admissions any longer. Honestly, I didn’t care, I just felt like I was in the way where they parked me. Infusion went without a hitch and I meandered my way to the cafeteria for a plate of regret. The ‘grill’ did not disappoint…one protein puck with cheese, mushrooms, lettuce, onion and tomato to go. They serve the ‘burgers’ sans any condiments, leaving it to the customer to smear the colored paste of their choice over their offerings at the condiment bar. I like ketchup and mayo on my burgers. I know, I am a freak, but this is how I roll, except there was no ketchup in either of the pumps at the condiment station. Before I could say a word, a woman who was cleaning tables at the opposite end of the dining hall yells “That day girl she didn’t put anything in there, not even a bag or nothin’!”.  Only I didn’t hear all those words exactly, I only parsed them out later. I looked around me, thinking that maybe this person was talking to another cafeteria worker, sure she was not ramble-shouting at me. “You gotta get packets from the little store!” she yelled at my confused face. Finally it dawned on me…she was telling me the saga of why there was no ketchup…a saga I was really not interested in, but at least she told me where to get packets. “Where is this little store you speak of?” I asked…I truthfully had no fucking clue what she meant. Turns out she meant the weird coffee stand just inside the entrance to the cafeteria, so I made my way there to beketchup myself. Upon returning, I sat close to the condiment bar simply because it was the furthest from any other dining humans, and if you know me, you know that for me hell is other people. Two other unsuspecting ketchup hunters came up within 5 minutes of me sitting down and were treated to the same shouted story about ketchup and stood there staring at the cafeteria woman with befuddlement. Thing is, never did the woman say the words ‘there is no ketchup’. Nope she just repeated her bitchy story about the failings of the day staff and then directed people to the little store…no one understood wtf she was saying. I could not stomach this for my entire meal, so I turned my chair to face the station and proceeded to inform anyone who hovered near either ketchup pump that they were both out and exactly where to obtain packets.

It certainly made things more peaceful.

Introducing…My Ass

28 01 2015

I debated whether I should post this or not. Not only am I exposing my soft underbelly to humiliation, but it’s a decidedly gross tale. However, I decided to bite the bullet, suck it up and forge ahead…for the laughs.

I had a second surgery on my arm today to correct some issues with my vein access (for future dialysis…technically it’s called a fistula, but I refuse to use that term…it’s fucking gross). The surgery took no time at all, and I was actually under anesthesia longer than the time it took to correct the issue. Upon waking up, I had my usual lizard-brain reaction to the oxygen mask on my face, which always prompts the folks in the recovery room to assume I am momentarily insane and unaware of my surroundings. Nope. I am always completely aware, just pissed to have that fucking thing strapped to my face. We hates it, we does.

I must pause for a moment in my story to mention something else. I realize this is making things out of order, but I felt it needed saying. Apparently all females ages 10-55 are subject to a urine pregnancy test prior to surgery. I was no exception. I am also no stranger to urine tests. As a person who suffers from chronic kidney disease, urine tests are fairly routine. What does happen, however, is I am never able to give much of a sample. This has little do do with my output and everything to do with my shitty urine collection skills. Seriously. I have always been shit at it. You’d think after 43 years I would know where my piss hole is, apparently I do not and each time it’s like a blind man trying to hit the broadside of a barn with a tank and still plowing through the chicken coop to the north. Never have I wished more to have a penis….okay, to be honest the only times I ever have wished for a male appendage have been urine related. Peeing in the snow, peeing with convenience out of doors or in the woods without fear of a vegetation induced rash…laugh if you must, but I would be totally thrilled to be able to directionally piss on a jellyfish sting victim. Best. Vacation. Ever. But I digress…

So there I was, waking up from surgery, a little surly and groggy-high as fuck. Now the last surgery back in November, I woke from the anesthesia feeling completely lucid and alert if maybe a bit loopy. What got me was a lack of coordination with my limbs. Today was no different except for the urgent need to void my bowels. When I say urgent I mean ‘do something now or all of you nurses fluttering about me will have a really bad day’. I managed to croak out the word ‘toilet’ while gesturing vaguely towards my midsection with a flailing, IV linked arm. They actually asked me if I thought I could make it to the toilet itself or if I wanted a bedpan. Really? I can barely flop my hands about and you want me to walk? I opted for a bedpan, which is the absolute last thing I would ever wish to use, but at this point I didn’t care. After some floundering about on my part, the nurse slides the pan under my arse, but I can already tell it’s a no go. Well, it would have been viable if I voided from my tail bone, but the position where she placed it made the odds of me hitting the actual pan much like the barn/tank scenario. I finally waved her off and said I would just wend my listing way to the toilet, with a nurse on each side keeping me upright. Now let me mention here that this ENTIRE time I was pinching my arse cheeks tight enough to make diamonds, which I feel is quite the feat since I was tripping balls. We meandered our way through a pack of medical personnel because OF COURSE we would have to to get me to the toilet while I am wearing an ass exposing hospital gown.

I make it to the restroom with no accidents, much to my relief, but then I am faced with the dilemma of wiping (yes, I said it…fuck off) while one arm is gimped and the other hooked up to an IV…AND I am moving like a drunken sailor with dropsy. I won’t go into the nitty gritty here because no one needs to know the specifics, suffice to say I was camped out for a while and many paper towels were made use of. That alone is gross enough, but honestly it was more because I am a bit fastidious about such things and my impairment made it quite the task. Washing my hands was a fun exercise in frustration too, but I managed that better than I expected and made my way to the hall. I had to lean against the doorway while I waited for my nurse escorts to come back and fetch me, but they didn’t take long. As we were lurching back – me lurching, them trying to help but finding me less than willing to be led – I mentioned my flapping free nethers. One of the nurses said “oh, let me close that as you walk”. “s’okay” I slurred, “we are under no illusions here…I gives nary a fuck.” and I made my way back to my recovery bed, affording the 3 people who had not seen my ass previously, a full show.

Good times.

They bought the bullets and there’s no one left to shoot.

21 01 2015

Bizarreness happens all the time, all over the world. I love this aspect of life, love that I can be contemplating just how ordinary and boring my life is and then wham…I suddenly drive off a cliff and land in the forest of ridiculousness.

Take today, I was driving to an appointment, literally thinking about how utterly boring my life is – despite the voice in my head* reminding me of things I have done in the past that while they were not truly impressive, were far from mundane and banal – when I saw a smallish, sporty car whiz by on the highway with a vanity tag that said ‘boudoir’. This got the synapses firing on all cylinders. Boudoir…on a car…what could that mean? Did the driver live in their vehicle? Were they some kind of mobile prostitute? Perhaps it means something so completely esoteric that I would have to know the driver to understand it…although I really doubt it’s something that complex, given where I live. Still, a whole multitude of possibilities were cycling through my brain…there is a story there and I want to hear it. Well, maybe I don’t…I bet the real reason for that tag is not nearly as inventive as I can imagine.

Another bit of oddity that occurred today was I had no less than two people on two separate occasions ask me today if I urinated. Just like that…”do you urinate?”. I was honestly dumbfounded both times and it took me a few beats to splutter out a response because I couldn’t stop myself from thinking “As opposed to what? Excreting through my pores?”. Naturally I replied in the positive as I do, in fact, urinate…being a human and all that rot. The first time I was asked was on the phone at 8 am after being rudely awoken from a reeeeally good dream. I chalked that one up to my half-asleepedness and dodgy iPhone connection. But then later in the day someone from the same clinic asked it again…a different person even. This is a pre-anesthesia clinic, one I had visited last November before my wrist surgery, and was definitely not asked this question then. But today, two of them asked me. This made me wonder if there are some non-urinating humans out there who have some sort of medical condition that prevents them from urinating. I mean I even wondered for half a second after I was asked if perhaps they wondered if I had a urine collection bag or something, but even then I would still urinate, wouldn’t I? I also thought perhaps it was their way of asking if I could leave a urine sample, but then why not just say it and why two completely different people asking this same question. One day I will discover why. The nurse who asked me this then proceeded to stick me twice in an attempt to collect enough blood for testing, thus rendering my hand completely useless to the infusion clinic. The first stick she actually was fishing about in my vein in a vain (hahahaha, see what I did?) attempt to coax the blood out. When that failed is when she stuck me a second time. Oh the joy of that.

My iron infusion appointment after this went off without a hitch. Nothing strange there unless you count the tech having to stick the IV needle in my forearm thanks to the prior double stick.

Next, I stopped in the cafeteria after my infusion for a sketchy cheeseburger and fries. I knew I probably shouldn’t eat the cheeseburger, but the only sushi left was a chopped fake crab roll (blarfy-boring), the turkey that was on special looked revolting, the sandwich counter was closed, the salads all looked depressing and the fruit there always looks as though it has been used for playing nine pins. Somehow, to my starveling mind, a soggy steam table burger seemed just the ticket. The attendant threw (literally threw) the bun and burger together, added some special ‘grill sauce’ (whatever that is), slapped on some slices of tomato and wilted lettuce leaves, then at the last moment added some grilled mushrooms after asking me if I wanted them then piled some fries on the side. It was a sad looking affair, but the fries looked tasty. I knew I would be disappointed but did not have a chance to find out. Now this bit is not exactly bizarre, but more weirdly fitting for my day in general. I was making my way to a table, juggling my wallet, kindle, phone, keys and my drink in one hand while carrying my foam food container in the other. I don’t have large hands so this was quite the feat, let me tell you. A mere 2 or 3 feet away from my targeted table, the bottom half of my foam clamshell decided to bend and flip my entire burger onto the floor with a spectacular splootch sound. I might have said ‘Shit!’ loudly enough for it to ring through the mostly empty cafeteria, thus calling attention to myself. All 10 people in the room turned to look at me…some giving me death glares for daring to utter such a word. In my head I told them all to piss off. I huffily set my things down on the table and proceeded to clean up my mess, cursing under my breath the entire time. The fries were absolutely delicious though…so there’s that.

Exiting the hospital, I was nearly asphyxiated in the elevator by a woman who had clearly slept in a bath of perfume, allowing it to marinate into her skin…this is not a weird occurrence either, but also fitting for today. It was about 7:30 pm at this point and dark, but I had a wicked craving for a coffee so I pulled into a Wendy’s drive through on the way home. I perused their minuscule coffee menu, finally deciding on something called a skinny vanilla iced coffee, I figured it would at least be low fat and whatever. I was told by the man-child manning the drive through that “We don’t have iced coffees any more”. I assumed he meant they just did not sell them anymore, and found it odd since they were clearly listed on the menu. I expressed how weird I thought this was and then proceeded to order an English breakfast tea instead. I was then told “Well we don’t have breakfast anymore so we don’t have any hot tea either.” Riiight. So not a lick of hot water or tea bags anywhere in the store at all? I looked over the menu again to make sure I wasn’t wishfully imagining the words, but no…there they were listed, with no time restraints in sight. I thanked the clerk for his time after pointing out that they were on the menu and drove off. He apologized as I pulled away…me thinking ‘your pathetic sorry won’t get me a coffee though, will it’? It only occurred to me about 5 minutes down the road that maybe he meant that since breakfast hours were over they no longer were serving such things, and I guess I can understand that for the coffees, but tea? Really? Regardless, they were still listed on the menu and there was nothing saying they were only available during breakfast hours. This is also not an example of bizarreness exactly, but put with everything else, it made me feel like I am even more of an outsider than I like to think I am. I have been in deep hermit mode so long that ‘normal’ is something I no longer recognize…and quite frankly I am deeply relieved that I am so far from normal.

Except for the peeing…I am pleased to keep that bit.

*Lately, the voice in my head sounds like David Tennant. Probably because of all the Doctor Who and various other Tennant shows I have watched lately, and not because I am weirdly obsessed with him or something. *coughcough* But I find his delightful Scottish burr is far more soothing & pleasing than my usual brain-screeching. It also makes my more ridiculous ideas seem brilliant! If anyone who bothers to read my tripe ever thinks I was in any way sane, this would, of course, affirm that no…no I am not.