Discord and Rhyme

17 03 2018

March. It comes in like a drunken leprechaun and goes out like a shamrock shake. Starts off blustering around your head with a shillelagh and taunting you about it’s secret pot of gold and ends slightly greener, smoother and a little minty.

As I lay in bed this morning, finishing up my nightly dialysis, I was reminded that it is St. Patrick’s Day today. In the distant past this meant to me a day where I needed to scrounge some green from my mostly black wardrobe or pretend I was clueless of the date and maybe enjoy some corned beef and cabbage with beer at some point. However, since moving to the Metro Kansas City area some 19 years ago or so, it has since become yet another day when I attempt to avoid the 9/10ths of humanity that surround me…so basically like any other day but with more drunks.

People take this holiday srsly here. Perhaps not as much as say, Chicago, where they even dye the river green, but certainly something that is more than simply a fun day to wear green or get pinched.

Recently my “sister” who also lives in the Metro KC area, was telling me about her woes trying to get home. She encountered the Snake Parade and so had to take a longer way ‘round. I had to admit that despite my many years here, I had no clue wtf this was and had to head to Google to sastisfy my curiousity. Snake Parade is something I would avoid like the plague anyway based on the name alone, but I was really hoping it didn’t involve thousands of serpents in feathery boas on parade floats charging down a main street.

Apparently what this is about is that back in 1983, some dude name Mickey Finn (you could not get a more Irish name if you tried) and his pal Bill Grigsby started the concept as a promotion for Rodeway Inn. So on a cold, ten degree faherenheit day, the parade took place in the Rodeway Inn parking lot where the guests could see it from their rooms and the coffee shop. After the parade (according to the official Snake Saturday website), the North Kansas City mayor turned to Mickey Finn and said, “We might as well take it to the street next year.” And as they say, “the rest is history”. The parade has celebrated every year since, regardless of weather conditions and always on the Saturday before St. Patrick’s Day. It has grown to be a two day festival of various activities where, presumably, no snakes are actually involved.

Cut to the actual holiday, which everyone and their booze soaked monkey celebrates with a green hazed fervor. It is a day I try not to be on the roads lest I encounter some of the less sober celebrants attempting to commit vehicular manslaughter. Granted, things are less boisterous here on the Kansas side of things, Missouri being the hot bed of the worst infractions.

Regardless, I think I will simply kick back at home with some hard cider, make french toast with sausage for dinner and numb myself into oblivion with some Korean sageuk dramas. In short, fuck this day in it’s hairy, snakey greenhole.


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.

Why My Cat is a Fuckface

30 10 2016


I have been owned by cats my whole life, enough of them to know that they all have their own personalities. Some have been more standoffish than others, some have been so in my face that they made me nuts. Enter my current cat, a ridiculous Maine Coon named, Colette. Colette is a rescue beast, one that I found at a shelter/vet’s office around Christmas one year. The staff had named her Coal, and I was thinking it was because of her dark, dark brown-black fur. It wasn’t until she was a permanent fixture in our home that I made the Christmas and coal connection.

She was 6 months old when I adopted her, and had been found feral prior to her brief stay at the shelter. When I was picking her up, they actually knocked $10 off the adoption fee because she threw a royal hissy fit over having her last shot. At the time I just thought it was odd that they would do this as it didn’t seem weird to me that an animal that was kept in a cage all day, would be pissy towards her captors. Warning bells should have rang in my head when they were all completely shocked that she let me hold her. She was not completely docile in my arms, but I chalked that up to being with an unfamiliar person.

I get her home and she immediately walks around the house, tail held high, sniffing out everything. This I felt was a good sign as most cats new to an area will slink and cower a bit until they get the lay of the land. She was already the mistress of her domain from the moment she set paw inside. This was a huge issue with our existing cat, an elderly, dainty, but fearsome abyssinnian/tabby named Abby. Abby took one sniff, hissed, swiped and stalked off. This relationship NEVER warmed either. They remained aloof but mortal enemies until Abby’s death a couple years later.


At 6 months, Colette seemed to be a typical American Longhair. Her size seemed normal to me. However, by 9 months, when she was already larger than Abby, I knew something was up. When she reached a year old it was finally glaringly obvious that we had a Maine Coon mix on our hands. So much of her build, behaviors, etc. fit with being a Maine Coon…a large breed cat that sometimes feels more dog than cat.

It became apparent early on that Colette was not going to be the lovey dovey pussycat my children would have loved. Nope. This is unfortunate as Abby was never the ueber friendly cat either. Abby would allow the boys to pet her though and would even sleep with them on occasion. She was never hostile towards anyone but dogs, other cats and all the animals outdoors. Seriously. She ruled the yard with an iron claw. Months after her death I caught a neighborhood cat sneaking into the yard to crap by the fenceline, only to dart back out again like his ass was on fire. You can call me crazy, but I like to think that the other neighborhood cats dared him to shit in HER yard. Maybe a bit of new guy to the ‘hood hazing. But, getting back to it, Colette refused to let anyone but me pet her, and she stuck to me like furry glue, even going so far as to sleep under my monitor and swipe at my hands when I would type sometimes.

As she eventually grew far, far too large to sleep in her little under monitor niche, she started sleeping on the side of my desk, but that too became more problematic the bulkier she grew. These days she is banned from the desk entirely as she would take up at least half of it even while curled up.


As she was attaining critical mass, we were also learning to become used to her many, many flaws and foibles. She hates strangers. HATES them. Except she doesn’t just go hide from them like a normal cat, oh no. All usurpers to her kingdom are met with growls, hisses and then slinking face rubs all over their legs. I know, contradictory as all hell and confusing for any person who meets her. “Does your cat like me or hate me?” It’s pure hate, believe me…I think the face rubbing is a way to lull you into a false sense of security. DO NOT try to pet her. While I doubt she would bite anyone hard enough to break the skin…there would be biting. Even I, who am allowed to ruffle her fur and more, get nipped on a daily basis.

She seems to not like when strangers to the house are near me either, and will guard me with a barely checked, quivering rage. A few times I have given her some all natural calming herb cat treats but even those only took the edge of her anxiety away. And this is really what it is, anxiety over the newcomers. She really is not hateful so much as she is deeeeeply distrustful of all humans. If you happen to smell like dog, you might as well sign your death warrant. She is NEVER becoming your friend. EVER. Those who have the audacity to come before her reeking of canine get put in her permanent book of loathing…in indelible ink.

At this point in my posting, I should really just start to list the many things she does that are out of the norm for any other cats that have owned me, otherwise this will become a book:

  • Refuses most cooked or raw meats unless it’s canned fish or bologna. She has a wicked love of bologna.
  • Growls whenever anyone knocks on the door or rings the doorbell.
  • Gets super jealous when I am at my computer desk and looking at any cute animal photos. I make cooing noises which spurn her to mew at me with her meeplike peep of a meow and stretch herself up, paws on my desk, to get my attention.
  • Loves all baked goods. ALL OF THEM. Sure she will refuse a turkey leg, but will take my hand off for a cinnamon roll.
  • Cheese. The beast is a whore for cheese. If it happens to be a cheese sandwich – cheese + bread – watch out. That is like crack to her.
  • Is really kind of stupid. I can fake her out with the pretend toss like you can a lot of dogs.
  • Is always somewhere within my general vicinity and will even bust in on me on the toilet. There are entire rooms of the house that she never even enters…until I do.
  • Whenever I leave the house, she hides somewhere and won’t come out until I get home and am home for a while. This is something that she only started in the last year or so.
  • Is terrified to go outdoors, though she will make brief trips if I am with her the whole time and even then only on the porch.
  • Is scared to death of birds.


Honestly, she really is not so much a fuckface as she is a true character and takes some patience and understanding to get used to. I cut her a lot of slack because the fact that she didn’t really live around humans until she was 6 months old means she was never properly socialized. Despite all of this, I am ridiculously smitten.

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!

Would you like some tea with your disdain?

29 03 2016

Rabid Hyena the Younger is taking an Intro to Culinary Arts class this semester. Every couple of weeks he has a cooking assignment where he has to cook a certain thing and document his work. This week it was to peel and devein some shrimp and boil it. Simple task. However, most of the stores around here that sell shrimp sell it in the EZ peel pre-deveined form. But I knew Whole Foods would have at least one variety that was what we needed, so off we went.

Just as I thought, they had an untouched variety, so shrimp was acquired as well as a few items for which I had coupons…I also grabbed a daffodil for Rabid Hyena the Elder to dissect for his Biology class. I was adulting like fuck! At any rate, as I approached the check outs, I quickly took stock and realized I had too many items for the express lane, which left only one other open check out. I inwardly cringed. The cashier manning said stall was one that I have known in the past. She’s one of those kind of people who work at health food stores. Silently and sometimes not so silently judging as they ring up your purchases. She likes to judge me for buying meat, judge me for having the audacity to be a fat girl, judge me for dairy purchases. I know it sounds as though I am projecting, but I swear I am not. She’s made little comments in the past. I find her insufferable and on more than one occasion have wanted to punch her in her judgy-ass mouth…with a side of hormone & antibiotic laden beef. Honestly, I have rarely encountered people like that at the various health stores in our area…shockingly. Or at least I have rarely crossed them working at said stores. The workers oft times are the cheery, white-rasta, patchouli smearing, herb smoking, salt of the earth types. The people who shop there are a whole other story…the word HONKIES comes to mind.

But needs must and we had to GTFO of the store at some point. I piled our soon to be purchased booty on the counter, including the flower that I had at one point dropped from the cart and rolled over the stem, crushing it. I mentioned said crushed stem and that it made no difference as Rabid Hyena the Elder was just going to dissect it for Biology anyway.

I probably should have kept my mouth shut. I probably should have just let them think whatever they wanted about the sad, lonely, stem-crushed flower. But no…I had to open my mouth and invite stupidity. Immediately, Judgy Cashier asked why he was dissecting a flower. I am almost positive that I looked at her as though she was the stupidest person on the planet, and was about to snark something back when the bagger saved us all by gently explaining why someone would need or want to dissect a flower. I shot her a grateful look and was doing my level best to ignore the other checker when she piped up with “Well, better a flower than a frog. I couldn’t do it.” Really? I’m sorry, you have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit about your opinions. Is what I wanted to say. Instead I shot her a withering look – or what I like to think of as a withering look…she probably thought I was just constipated – and we were on our merry way, me grumbling under my breath about self-righteous twatwaffles.