Mayday Monday Mayhem

A few months ago, right after the first snowfall, I returned to Anchorage with a bit of bad Monday mojo.  Through a chain of unfortunate events too banal to list, I found myself at the tire store on one of its busiest days waiting for a flat to be repaired.  The wait was estimated at 3 hours, and unfortunately I had left the house in a flurry without anything to eat for lunch, any coat appropriate for winter, or any book to read to help pass the time.

Nobody likes being stranded, so I decided to hoof it to the nearest establishment that might serve food ... which turned out to be the McDonald's located inside of Walmart.  Even though I was in Walmart, I tried to be positive - maybe my day was going to get better.  After all, my bank had an ATM there, so I was flush with cash.  And the Golden Arches always seemed to have a familiar and comforting glow regardless of location ... right?

CASH + McDs = RELATIVE HAPPINESS FOR A FEW HOURS?

When I looked around to see who else might be found on a rainy Monday afternoon in an Anchorage Walmart, these were the peers I spotted eating French fries:

I know what you're thinking.

PIRATES!

PIRATES eat at McDonalds on Mondays in Walmart!

Just in case you were looking for us....

YAR!

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Soul of a Fatso

Many of you may have been asking where I've been?  It's true it has been many moons since I last blogged, and to have committed the most serious blogger crime of prolonged absence, there must be a really good explanation, right?

So what have I been doing this whole time?

That's right; I was too busy to blog because I was too busy STUFFING MY FACE.  Some of you may be skeptical, but those who know me well realize that this is altogether an unfortunate but very real possibility.  It's a sad thing to watch a rational adult unravel over food, but hey, sometimes this kind of thing happens.

Put simply, I am but a Beast.

While Abject Lack of Self-Control is of course partly to blame for my predicament, my love of food is also a Genetic Inheritance not so easily cast away.  I come from a family of legendary eaters on both my maternal and paternal sides.  The first time my dad ever saw my mother was when he followed the delicious scent of homemade chow mein across a cafeteria to where my mom was eating her lunch.  

As it was the Power of Food that was responsible for bringing me here in the first place, the least I can do is pay homage to this great Force on a regular basis.

In my youth, I was blessed with an insane metabolism that grossly subsidized my garbage-disposal-like eating habits.  My eating prowess was the only thing Olympian about me.  Yes, The Girl Who Failed Every Presidential Fitness Test (except for Stretching) was wholly incapable of doing a single pull-up, yet she could stand her own (and then some) against any boy when it came to lunch.  If eating were a college sport, surely I would have been recruited on a full scholarship, and my name would be on some shiny plaque somewhere for all posterity.

To this day, the only feat of endurance in my life can be summed up with:

"YES!  I CAN POLISH OFF THAT LAST DRUMSTICK!"

While my eating used to give me a sense of pride, lately the tide has been turning.  God-like powers are fading, and my metabolism is catching up... or rather, slowing way way down.  I can see a light at the end of the tunnel, and it isn't a pretty sight; it's a day when I won't be able to eat four slices of a large pizza without breaking a sweat.  And while it was fun being the petite Chinese girl first in line at the buffet, we all know it's no fun being the Chubster Waddling Up To The Chafing Trays.

Various unsolicited comments from my father and Taiwanese cab drivers have led me to believe that the time has come for me to take control of the situation.  I may or may not be successful in my efforts to curb my eating, but before I embark on this journey, I'm taking one last moment to pay homage:

Regardless of what I may look like on the outside 

in the past, present, or future,

on the inside,

I will always always have

The Soul of a Fatso.  

Now, back to the business at hand, lest anyone think I was exaggerating when I said I was busy eating the last six weeks, here's some photographic documentation from my latest journey to the Lands of Food -- Taiwan and Japan:

Here's a sample of BREAKFAST in Japan.  Inspired by the Swedish smorgasbord, the Japanese refer to hotel all-you-can-eat-buffet breakfasts as "Vikings."  All I know is that Vikings are the only place I've ever eaten sausage and sashimi in the same sitting for breakfast.

Yes, You Can Have Spaghetti for Breakfast!  

Yes, You Can Have French Fries For Breakfast!

Not All Of This Was Mine, Just The Plate In Front

Exquisitely Poached Spring Egg
with Fresh Tofu, Scallions, and Tiny Anchovies in Dashi

There was a stretch of 72 hours during which I bravely attended and survived THREE all-you-can-eat buffets with my aunties and uncles as we ate our way through Shizuoka, Japan and our hometown of Taichung, Taiwan.  And the only thing hungrier than a pack of senior citizens descending upon a lunch buffet is a pack of TAIWANESE senior citizens descending upon a lunch buffet that includes SUSHI.

At the restaurant buffet located next to the fish market in Taichung, Taiwan, I was literally too busy running from food station to food station to do any justice with my camera, but I managed to snap a few quick shots:

There was so much food I almost cried.  You see?  The poor beast had no choice!  I was not exaggerating!

Now, safely back in the States, I will find a gym and start repeating to myself that mantra I've heard yelled at me all too often:

"Put down that chicken wing!"

And so, let the holiday games begin!

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Get Your Party Started....

The leaves are falling, the temp is dropping -- we're officially in that final stretch in the long winding path of political poop leading up to Election Day!  And for this voter, it can't come soon enough.  Whether you're Democrat or Republican or None of the Above, nobody gets to escape the last month of pandering by all the parties.

Tonight will be the second televised showdown between the candidates for the presidency.  In honor of the upcoming event, I thought I would share a few memories from my first political debate.

First, a little background.  I grew up in a Republican family.  How do I know this?

1. Because in our family photo album, along with pictures of us in diapers and at piano recitals, there's a postcard of George Bush Sr. on its own page.
2. Because one day in 1990, I spent an entire Saturday afternoon trapped in our kitchen, sketching the President George Bush Sr.  

Somebody had decided that it would be great weekend fun to hold a contest to see who could draw the best President Bush.  Using a cover of TIME Magazine as our model, all five of us proceeded to express our patriotism through the fine American art of portraiture.

This Shit Actually Happened

I recall very little of the results of the contest except that my Mom's George Bush was really toothy, and let's just say nobody would consider using my George Bush as a campaign poster either.

What I do remember more vividly, however, was what happened after our George Bush Art Festival.  That was the day I decided to explain to Little Brother just what it meant to be a Republican.  As far as his eight-year-old self was concerned, "Democrat" was some kind of dirty word in our house.  He didn't know why, but he instinctively knew we were not supposed to be one of them.

As Big Sister, of course it was my duty to pop his bubble and shove in some reality whenever the opportunity presented itself.  Little Brother was probably feeling quite vulnerable at the time, having lost the George Bush Art Festival despite his precocious artistic skills.

It was a perfect moment to shatter his political reality using a series of swift rhetorical kicks in the gut.

Me: "Don't you know you're a DEMOCRAT?"
Little Brother:  "No I'm not."  

Me:  "Do you believe in CIVIL RIGHTS?"
Little Brother: "Civil rights?"

Me:  "Should women and other minorities have EQUAL OPPORTUNITIES?"
Little Brother: "E-QUAL...?"

Me:  "HA, HA! ... YOU'RE A DEMOCRAT!"
Little Brother:  "DEMOCRAT!?"

Me: "DEMOCRAT, DEMOCRAT, DEMOCRAT!"
Little Brother: "WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS?  I HATE YOU!"

The truth was that I didn't know what it exactly meant to be a Republican either.  The first American president to enter my young consciousness was Ronald Reagan, and back then (although everybody will deny it now) everybody did in fact love the Gipper.  This former movie star had a nice voice, presidential hair, and of course was good at doodling.

The Commander-In-Chief Who Made These Doodles Carried 49 States in 1984 

So it was pretty easy to be Republican in the 1980s.  As for what the parties actually stood for, I admit like any self-respecting big sister, I was intentionally torturing Little Brother with histrionics more than anything else.  The more Little Brother denied any affinity for the Democratic party, the more I twisted the knife with little regard for true ideology or policy.

Have things really changed much?

As kids, neither Little Brother nor I truly understood the position of either party, but like good Americans, we spoke a language of Us v. Them.  Unfortunately, these days, that's the only language used in the campaigns.  But why are we bullying each other into our political beliefs when there is so much ailing the country - the world - right now?

Tonight's debate is as much anticipated as any prize fight.  I'm just hoping there will be minimal nipple-twisting or ear-biting, even though that's what America wants to see.

After all, there's this country that's waiting to be fixed....

See you on the other side.

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Can We All Just Get Along?

One voter's frustration with the upcoming elections, in full color.... 

Make you're dancing to the polls on November 6th!

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The Metamorphosis

The Swamp Thing Awakens

And Begins To Form A Mass

Rising From The Earth

Reality Begins To Fracture

The Mucus of Life Cannot Be Contained

WTF

RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!

7:01 AM

Some people do yoga in the morning.  

I do coffee.

For those who have to deal with me before it happens ...

Maybe you should come back in an hour....

SORRY!

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Confessions of an Addict

As is the case with many addictions, I started young.

My love for the Orange Dust began in the early 1980s.  I was just a bag runner back then. It was my job to peer into the see-through plastic window of each bag in order to find the one with the cheesiest chips.  

I learned this trade from Big Brother who never settled for anything less than the bag with the most fluorescent Orange Dust.  If the shit I brought back wasn't good enough, he'd send me right back into the aisles.  There was no leaving Krogers until the job was done -- and done right.

  

That's how I got started in the business.  When you're young, you think you can keep it all the shit under control, that you can stop any time.  I had the sick metabolism of a hyperactive child and the iron stomach of a kid who could live off of junk food.  Doritos were no problem for me.  I could spend a day with a family-size bag without missing a beat.  Back then, we had many long walks and happy times together.   

In The Beginning, It Was All Good

As I got older, though, things got complicated.  The relationship became less on my terms and more on Doritos' terms.  I felt like I was losing my identity, like everything in my life was getting covered in a fine layer of Orange Dust.

The more I used, the more powerless I was against The Supreme Saltiness.  Doritos began demanding more from me, even when it was clearly not good for me.  Soon, I found myself lost in a cloud of Orange Dust with no way out.      

Caught in a Vortex of Dorito Desire

It always seemed so harmless to open up a bag, but I was never satisfied with just snacking on a handful of chips.  No matter what I did, I just couldn't stop.  The first chips were always pure salty joy, a celebration of fake nacho cheese flavor and awesome crunchiness.   

It was a deadly combination -- and I couldn't get enough of it.  

  

Like any drug, Doritos had a dark side that would suddenly turn on me with no thought to consequences.  I had to bear those alone.   Big Brother began to notice that I was an addict and tried to pull me out of the business, but it was too late.  I would promise him that I could handle a few chips, but halfway through the bag, I would turn into a raging ORANGE-FINGERED-MOTHER-FUCKING-MONSTER.

That's right; Doritos can RIP YOUR FAMILY APART.  

Doritos Had A Nasty Side

For those who find this story a little too close to home, I have one piece of advice.  PUT THE BAG DOWN.  Wash your fingers and get clean.  The side effects will only grow worse with time.  In the long run, the Doritos that you once loved will only leave you with nightmares, bellyaches, and shattered memories.

Do you really want to wake up every morning full of abdominal pain and regret?

A Night of Too Many Doritos

For me, if my story can reach even one kid....

Who I am kidding?

I FUCKING LOVE DORITOS!

WOO HOOOO!

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HOWL

Are you tired of waiting for your hipster human guardian to finish her latté and fancy cheese?  

Life is too short to spend all day at chained up at a café!

Starbucks is my prison.

Are you offended by the widening economic gap between the classes and insulted by your involuntary role as a symbol of exploitation?  

Your bark may be small, but you can still make a mess!

I just peed on your iPhone!

In Argentina, the dogs roam free and run the cities.  We spend only enough time with the humans to sniff out if there's any food, and if the humans do not have food, it is time to do WHATEVER THE HELL WE WANT.  

We are brothers in revolution!

I know where to find the best empanadas,
but the question is, mi amigo, do YOU?

There is only one place where the canine is free to run and poop in the mountains and woods where our ancestors came from.  It is the Last Frontier, where dogs are loved by humans but are still the animals we were born to be.  

OH BOY, OH BOY, OH BOY!  I GET TO BE A DOG ....
I GET TO BE A DOOOOOOOOOOOG!!!!!

So bark and poop in indignation!  

Let the world hear our HOWL!  

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Poop: A Public Service Announcement

Please wash your hands after using the bathroom.

This is something your mother should have taught you years ago, but just in case, I'll say it again:  Please wash your hands.

Why?

1.  Bathrooms contain toilets.
2.  Toilets contain poop.
3.  Therefore, bathrooms contain poop.
4.  You'd wash your hands quite thoroughly with a lot of hot water and soap if you touched poop, wouldn't you???

But I didn't touch any poop when I was in the bathroom, you might say.  WRONG!  Poop is everywhere in the bathroom!  It's invisible, but it's there.  Every time someone does a Number Two, vaporized microscopic poop fills the air and scatters forming a Poop Envelope.

Schematics of The Poop Envelope

The radius of the Poop Envelope can put a lot of things in danger.  For some, constant vigilance is necessary to prevent invasion:

Others have resigned themselves to their existentialist lot in life:

 And finally there are always those who just embrace their fate:

Regardless, these bathroom items all agree on one thing:  poop is everywhere.  The best thing you can do is take appropriate precautions.  So please wash your hands after using the bathroom.

Thank you.  Now we can be friends.

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