Mukbang

I’m on the ragged edge. Between this accursed pandemic, the thick blanket of smoke that’s blotting out the sun, the loss of our beloved RBG, unnecessary drama at work, and discovering that someone I love more than life went to a large, multi-day party and posted pictures of himself marinating in the maskless, close-knit crowd, when he knows I know firsthand how precious and fragile life is, and how it should never be squandered, I’m at the end of my rope. I mean, just look at me funny right now. I dare you.

Fortunately, there is a way to turn off my brain without the use of electric shock. It’s called mukbang. It’s a Korean word that loosely translates as “eating show”. And that’s about the size of it. You can find it all over Youtube. You just sit there and watch people eating way too much exotic food, often while talking to the camera.

Yeah, I know. Maybe this is evidence that I’ve lost it already. I have to admit that I find mukbang oddly comforting. Maybe it’s the crunch, crunch, crunch sound. Maybe it’s because when I’m really angry, I tend to eat, and these people do the eating for me. Maybe it’s just that I get to watch people just doing their weird thing at a time when the world seems so utterly out of control. I don’t know.

My favorite mukbang channel is Stephanie Soo. She sits there and eats and talks about true crime, which is another interest of mine. Check it out and tell me what you think.

My second favorite channel is Food Monster. This one shows footage of a girl working really, really (supposedly) hard in the Korean countryside, and then coming home and (supposedly) eating about 6000 times more than a normal person can eat. It’s kind of funny.

Yes, there is a reason to criticize mukbang. It promotes extremely unhealthy eating habits, food waste, and in some extreme cases, animal abuse. I don’t condone or encourage any of this. And yet I can’t seem to look away. (I’d never watch the animal abuse ones, though. Never. Give me a little credit.)

I know, this is nutty. But it takes my mind off the fall of civilization. And hey, I once wrote about my obsession with pimple popping videos. Surely this is a step up. Right?

Tell me I’m right. Please.

Stephanie Soo

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Not Real Life

Have you ever noticed that no one ever says ouch in action movies? They get attacked and immediately respond in kind. I’m not so quick on the uptake. If someone hit me, I’d be shocked. I’d say ow. Only then would I beat the living crap out of them.

Another thing is that combative females often have long hair, but no one ever grabs that hair to yank them to the ground. I mean, seriously, in real life, no one plays that fair. If you really want a more level playing field, ladies, then get a freakin’ haircut.

A major pet peeve of mine is movies where cars successfully jump opening drawbridges. As a bridgetender, I can assure you that when people attempt this, it never, ever, ever ends well. If you value your car, your life, and your reputation as an intelligent human being, you won’t try this, at home or anywhere else.

And how is it possible, Hollywood, to throw so many punches without revealing how badly this damages the puncher’s hand? Hands are poorly constructed for impact. Giving people the impression that not only can you knock out someone with one punch, but that you’ll be able to walk away and play the piano afterward is irresponsible at best.

Another unrealistic trope is that you can plunge through a plate glass window and emerge without a single cut. Come on, now. We all know better than that.

The characters in movies seem to be superhuman. They can get shot and carry on. That doesn’t happen. Getting shot freakin’ hurts. After you’re shot, you just aren’t going to be in the mood to do much of anything, I promise. You’re going to say, “Yeah, I’m done.”

And, for what it’s worth, most women can’t run very far in 5 inch heels. I can’t even walk in them. Most conversations in bars are done at a shout. Most dumpsters are full of sharp objects. Doors are not easy to kick in. Most apartments in big metropolitan areas are extremely small. Dorm rooms are even smaller. It’s not easy to make a car explode. It’s pretty much impossible to hold someone’s hand while they dangle off the side of a skyscraper and then actually pull them back up onto a roof.

Come on, script writers. You can do better than this. I just had to get that off my chest.

Thanks. I feel cleansed.

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The Type of Luxury Even I Can Get Behind

I have been struggling with how to approach this subject. Truly I have. And my apologies in advance to the more fragile readers out there. But my life has been raised to such a high level of satisfaction of late that I just had to share it with you, dear reader.

I don’t know why luxury makes me so uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never had the opportunity to get used to it. It feels like something out of my reach that I don’t deserve. I’ve never been to a spa. I’ve never had a manicure or a pedicure. I just recently had my first professional massage, and I loved it, but I haven’t had one since. (Thanks, COVID.)

What I’m about to tell you has never even been on my radar. I’ll just put it right out there: I bought a bidet. Specifically, a Luxury Class USPA 6800 Bidet Seat for my already existing toilet. I was able to justify this purchase in my mind because using less toilet paper is good for the environment, and also I got a screamin’ deal at Costco, which never hurts. I’m telling you, it has changed my world.

All things toilet seem to be taboo, so I never thought I’d say this out loud, but I have never used a bidet before this. Therefore I had no clue what I was missing. I didn’t realize how deprived I have always been.

The toilet is an excellent place to think, and here lately I’m thinking that I must be experiencing what every human who has been present for a bathroom improvement must have experienced. It’s like unspoken heaven.

Imagine what it must have been like to go from squatting in the woods to using an outhouse. Imagine tearing down your outhouse because now you have indoor plumbing and don’t have to venture out in the snow to do your business. You get the idea.

But this bidet is like experiencing interstellar travel for the first time after having trundled around in a broken down jalopy for your entire life. This bidet does everything but digest your food for you.

I mean, it has a night light. A pretty blue night light. It has a heated seat. It has a dual nozzle system for front and back. The water is temperature adjustable, and it oscillates. I mean, who is expecting oscillation? I certainly was not. It still makes me giggle.

It has a remote control. A fan. It self-cleans. And it comes with a warranty, for cryin’ out loud!

And speaking of clean, I have never felt so clean in my entire life. Clean as a whistle. Squeaky clean. So clean, in fact, that now when I use a primitive public toilet, I can’t wait to get back home to my own.

And most of the time I remember that TP is no longer required at home. But sometimes I forget. There’s a lot that one does in the bathroom without thinking, it seems.

So yeah, there you have it. I got a bidet. Blush. Life is good.

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Loony Candidates of the Pacific Northwest

A few days ago, I voted in a primary and special election here in the Seattle area. They really make it easy here. You vote by mail, and they provide you with a nice thick pamphlet which tells you everything you need to know about the various candidates and issues.

People in the State of Washington really have no excuse not to vote. It’s not like you have to stand for hours in a blistering hot parking lot, waiting for the chance to vote, and have to conduct hours of independent research to know who to vote for, like I did for decades in Florida.

The pamphlet for my area was 91 pages long this time around. I adore these pamphlets, because they help me do my homework on the candidates. I can eliminate many people on their statements alone, and then do further research on the more serious ones if I feel the need.

But I also enjoy the pamphlet because there are enough loony candidates to turn it into a joke book. Anyone can run if they meet the requirements. But jeez, it really makes you wonder why certain ones bother.

For your amusement, here are some of the more lunatic fringe candidates (in my opinion) running for office here in the Seattle area, and some quotes directly from their statements as included in the voter’s pamphlet. Suffice it to say, I voted for more sane, serious, and qualified candidates than these.

  • Alex Tsimerman is running for Governor of the State of Washington and says he prefers the StandupAmerica Party. Under his Community Service, he lists, among other things, receiving “over 12 trespasses for a total of more than 1,200 days from going into the Demo-Nazi-Gestapo Council Chambers.” In his statement, he simply repeats the following sentence 25 times: “Stop Seattle/King Fascism with idiotic face!”

  • “Goodspaceguy” has been running for one office or another for as long as I’ve been in this state. This time he’s running for Governor. Apparently this is his legally changed name. He says he prefers the Trump Republican Party. His statement includes the following. “Viruses will always attack you. Your immune system defends you. As governor, I will not shut down your businesses or forbid you to go to work….How many robots would you want to supervise to make your work easier? … Please refer to our world as ‘Spaceship Earth.’ This concept might improve your descendants’ future.”

  • Omari Tahir Garret is also running for Governor. He prefers the Democrat Party. He says he’s running as a spokesperson for anti-apartheid/reparations now movement, and claims that “the current Governor’s biggest mistake is turning Seattle’s SVI building over to proven historical Negro vampire criminals.” He also says that “since race is arbitrarily based on ‘skin color’, redefine ‘race’ based on hair color, which is much easier to change.”

  • Jared Frerichs is running for Lieutenant Governor. He says he prefers the Libertarian Party. Under “Elected Experience” he says he was the student council president at his high school. His statement is short and, I suppose, to the point. “Poverty is bad for business. I have some wild ideas on how we can end poverty forever, but I need your help. I don’t need your money. I need your vote.”

  • Cameron Whitney is running for Commissioner of Public Lands, and prefers the Republican Party. In his Community Service section, he states, “I’ve never been to jail.” And his statement is as follows: “I like environmental protection. I don’t like fires. Let’s work together to clean up the environment and stop fires. President Trump says we need to rake our forests to clean up debris that exacerbates fires and that’s where I intend to start.”

  • Mr Whitney’s competitor for Commissioner of Public Lands is Steve Sharon, who also prefers the Republican Party. He says that “If elected, I will direct an independent, state funded study of the effects of 5G cell-phone towers upon living things. My research indicates that this radiation is killing trees, birds, honey bees, human life.” He also assures us that he will stop chemtrails in Washington state, and says he’s against eugenics, Satan, the New World Order and the Green New Deal.

  • Stan Lippmann is running for Superintendent of Public Instruction. He states that “Sometimes I think it would be better to start all over from 550 BC with a Pythagorean Academy, since it’s been all downhill in the common sense department since then.”

  • David Spring also wants to be Superintendent of Public Instruction. He states that “it makes no sense to shutdown schools for months at a time when there is not even a single case of any child in any school anywhere in our state transmitting the corona virus to any adult.”

  • Chirayu Avinash Patel is running for Insurance Commissioner, and he prefers the Republican Party. He wants to do so in order to manage 168 students so that he can major in every degree at the University of Washington. He plans to run the office externally like the Reagan Administration and internally as the Jefferson Administration. He says he’d be the external commissioner 60 percent of the time, and two other candidates would have the role the other 40 percent of the time. He says he would fill the roles of Ronald, Nancy and Nixon, and the other two would be Carter and Ford. Internally, he says, 168 insurance agents would hold the position in one hour increments.

  • Peter Thompson, Jr. is running for Representative. He prefers the Republican Party. Under Professional Experience he says he’s a Machinist who has worked at one shop owned by a real machinist and two shops owned by bureaucratic shareholder welfare queens. Under Community Service he says, “Praying for the souls of roadkill. Opossum coffins are not awesome.”

Don’t you just love the democratic process? Who says voting is no fun? All jokes aside, though, I’m sitting here poking fun at these people under the assumption that a nut can’t possibly get elected. But I thought that in 2016, too.

Goodspaceguy

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I’m Glad I’m Not a Lima Bean

My husband came across a recipe that called for dried, not canned, garbanzo beans. He asked me if I could pick some up since I was making one of my increasingly infrequent trips to the grocery store. “Sure!” I said.

Silly me.

The dried bean aisle of my grocery store was completely empty, with the exception of 3 bags of lima beans. (Apparently, I’m not alone in my dislike of lima beans.) So yeah, America is hoarding beans now.

I can sort of understand the instinct. Beans are reasonably priced. They store well. They’re filling. They’re the perfect food for the end of times. But lest we forget, they can be a pain in the butt to cook, frustrating for all but those who are into delayed gratification. A lot of people I know buy them with good intentions, and then never get around to actually cooking them. So there’s that.

But I do love a good garbanzo bean, I must admit. So when it was my husband’s turn to brave the contagion, I reminded him to look for them. He was going to a different store than I had. Sure enough, there was an empty aisle, inhabited only by a few bags of lima beans.

I kind of feel sorry for those lima beans. Abandoned. Not even deemed suitable for panic beaning. I’m glad lima beans don’t have feelings. I’m also glad I’m not a lima bean. Then nobody would love me. Waaaah!

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Thinkin’ about Trucks

In the world prior to COVID-19, I was sitting in our pickup truck while my husband made a much-needed dump delivery. As he emptied the junk from the bed, the cab swayed back and forth. I tried really hard to breathe through my mouth to avoid that dumpy stench. To pass the time, I thought about how I always feel when I sit in a truck.

Small. Foreign. Extremely not male.

I’ve been in trucks more than a time or two, but not so much as to make myself at home in them. I always feel kind of ill at ease in these behemoths. Climbing into them is a challenge. They’re usually dirty inside and out, and when I’m riding in one, I always seem to be going somewhere I don’t routinely go. A dump. A repo yard. A junkyard. A lumberyard. (Yards, in general, seem to attract trucks, don’t they?)

I’ve bounced down many an unpaved back road in a truck. I’ve hauled things. Moved things. Picked up things. Towed things. Delivered things. Every time I’m in a truck, it seems, I’m about to do something that I don’t find particularly fun. It will be dirty, sweaty, potentially painful and unpleasant, and quite likely long overdue. Either that, or I’m about to go somewhere I couldn’t normally go. Someplace rocky or steep or rugged or muddy.

Trucks often look like they’re about to fall apart, but at the same time they feel like the most reliable things on earth. That’s quite the contradiction. One thing’s for certain, though. I always feel like I’m about to get ‘er done when I’m in a truck.

Yes, indeed. And for some reason my Southern accent tends to come to the surface. I start to use words like “chores”. I start droppin’ my g’s.

I’m always ever-so-grateful to have use of a truck, because whatever it is I’m doing could not be done without one. And I know I’m utterly dependent upon the good will of its owner. That can sometimes be awkward. I’m sure truck owners get rather sick of being asked for favors.

No one has ever loaned me their truck. I’ve been told more than once that I wouldn’t be able to drive a truck or start a truck or stop a truck. I’ve always found that supremely insulting, and sexist, but I’m also secretly relieved, because I really don’t want to be bothered. I can’t imagine putting myself in one of those smelly, noisy, rattling things if I didn’t have to.

Love them or hate them, though, trucks sure can come in handy. That, and they always make me want to take a shower after interacting with them. Most cars don’t do that. So there you have it. Trucks promote hygiene.

Truck

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You Just Can’t Satisfy Some People

Over the years I’ve blogged numerous times about my love of the National Parks here in the United States. And what’s not to love? Every American owns 84 million acres of land that gets maintained by the government for our enjoyment and education.

I’ve visited, and subsequently blogged about:

I look forward to every visit.

So when my husband sent me this link entitled “I Illustrated National Parks In America Based On Their Worst Review And I Hope They Will Make You Laugh (16 Pics)” I did have to laugh. It’s an artist who illustrated posters for each of the national parks with a hilarious twist. The posters are based on one star reviews that the parks have received.

Yes, there will always be people who can be put into the most gorgeous places on earth and still find something to complain about. I suggest you check out the link to really get a feel for these beautiful and comical posters, but here are some of the one star reviews that she used.

  • “There are bugs and they will bite you on your face.”

  • “Trees block the view and there are too many gray rocks.”

  • “No cell service and terrible wifi.”

  • “All I saw was a lake, mountains, and some trees.”

  • “Nothing specific to do.”

  • “Scenery is distant and impersonal.”

All I can say to the above is… wow. I’m so glad I am not these people! I can’t imagine being presented with such natural beauty and still managing to find fault with it. I can’t imagine being so full of negativity that I couldn’t see the closest things to paradise that we have on earth for the priceless thing that they are. You just can’t satisfy some people.

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When Does This Stop Being Funny?

Recently I posted a meme on my Facebook page that said:

CDC: To prevent coronavirus, stay home, avoid physical contact and don’t go into large crowds.

Introverts: I’ve been preparing for this moment my entire life.

It’s not the only meme I’ve posted on my page that is trying to make light of this pandemic, but as the schools and libraries and concert venues begin shutting down, and as the number of confirmed cases rise, I’m starting to feel increasingly uncomfortable about these memes. As the death toll increases and as our lives become more and more strange, it stops being funny. Sh*t is getting real.

A friend of mine in Canada told me that his government announced that they are anticipating as many as 70 percent of their population will get COVID-19, and of that number, 3 percent may die. My friend did the math, and that would mean 210,000 dead Canadians. That’s not funny at all. Not even a little bit.

It’s not unusual for people to use humor to diffuse an uncomfortable, stressful or scary situation, but at some point it becomes inappropriate. Where’s that tipping point with COVID-19? Some people will never reach it. They lack subtlety, or they don’t pick up on social cues, or they’re trolls who enjoy shock value. I suspect many of us will get there the exact moment when someone we know becomes infected.

Heaven knows I’m not the arbiter of good taste. I think every one of us will have to decide for ourselves. But we need to take into consideration that people are dying. And they’re leaving people behind who are grieving.

I would love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Meanwhile, wash your hands and don’t touch your face. Stay calm and stay safe.

I’ll leave you with this quote, which a dear friend reminded me about:

“I am fearful when I see people substituting fear for reason.”

                                   -Klaatu, in The Day the Earth Stood Still

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Anthropomorphize Much?

Just when I thought I’d seen the most ridiculous product to waste money on, another one crosses my path. I can’t even… Just… Sigh.

Neuticles, y’all. Neuticles.

According to their website, these prosthetic nuts for pets “allow your precious pet to retain his natural look, self-esteem, and aid the pet and pet’s owner with trauma associated with altering.”

As they say in the South, Jesus, take the wheel.

I mean… I’m struggling to find the words to adequately express how… (the enormously long pause while I gather myself has been deleted in the interest of space) nonplussed, stupefied and generally flipped out I am by this product.

Oh, where to begin. I can’t even…

Okay. First of all, do you honestly believe that your dog’s self-esteem is shattered when you get him neutered? Really? I mean, I’ve had a lot of dogs fixed in my lifetime, people, and not one of them has appeared to have sunk down into a bottomless pit of depression afterward. Granted, I don’t know what they’re thinking when they wake up, all alone and nutless, at three a.m. on a random Friday night, when all the other dogs are all nutfull and partying, but whatever it is, they seem perfectly willing to play fetch the next day. Life goes on.

Trauma for the pet? Well, yeah, I’m sure it doesn’t tickle, but they seem to recover quickly, and their health and life expectancy vastly improve, all while reducing the stray dog population. (Talk about trauma. Try being a homeless dog for five minutes.)

I’ve often said that I wish my veterinarian had done my hysterectomy. It would have only cost about 75 bucks, and I would have been up and running the next day, rather than flat on my back for 6 weeks. And I think my self-esteem would have been just fine.

And trauma for the owner? For heaven’s sake, get a freakin’ life. If that’s the most traumatic experience you’ve ever had, then you must be living in a plastic bubble. I certainly wouldn’t recommend that you be subjected to the average Seattle commute or, heaven forfend, a Brazilian wax. You wouldn’t survive.

But hey, Kim Kardashian’s dog Rocky has neuticles, so we should all rush out and get some, in order to keep up. Visit the website to find a participating vet near you. (I truly hope my vet isn’t on this list.)

Oh, and while you’re there, you can also order PermaStay! Those are ear implants for dogs, “to correct broken, bent or floppy ears that should otherwise stand up straight.” Because the world can’t abide dogs who don’t have perky ears.

Give me strength.

Dog
This dog fears for your sanity.

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Scarred for Life

I am currently sporting a three inch gash on my right cheek. The worst part about it is that I have been so sick that I don’t have a clue where it came from. I just surfaced from my swirling pool of delirium at one point and there it was. And of course the minute I knew it was there it started to hurt.

I hope it doesn’t leave a scar. I guess it’s actually more like a scratch. A bright red, deep, angry scratch. Maybe it’s something my enthusiastic dog visited upon me, or else the result of a bad wrestling match with my CPAP mask. I have been known to sleep walk and wind up in strange places, and Nyquil does tend to keep its secrets. I only know it looks like I’ve been in a bar fight. As people stare at me, I’m tempted to say, “You should see the other guy.”

It’s embarrassing to go out in public looking like this, especially since I don’t have a funny story to go along with it. It’s a good thing that I’m feeling so weak and unmotivated that I’m naturally lying low anyway. But in retrospect I needn’t have worried, because I forgot that I am now living in the Pacific Northwest.

You see, in Florida, if I had gone out like this, strangers would be stopping me on the street. “Child, what happened to you?” If I had been walking with my husband they might even say, “Did HE do this to you?” All while giving him the hairy eyeball. In the South, people are all up in your business.

But here in the Pacific Northwest you could walk down a busy street with a sucking chest wound and no one would even bat an eyelash. Here, no one wants to intrude. Its as if everyone walks around wearing a cloak of invisibility. You could have a second head growing out of your chest and the most intrusive interaction you’d have with somebody would be their inquiry as to what floor you are going to when you get on the elevator and can’t reach the buttons because your second head is in the way.

This has its pros and its cons. Sometimes I genuinely don’t want to be bothered with people, and here people make that very easy. You do you, I’ll do me. But I do miss that sense of community, and that honesty. Because come on, if you see a gash on a woman’s face, you really do want to know what the hell happened. At least I do. I’d rather someone asked than that they make up a story. I’d rather think that someone gives a shit rather than feel like I’m all alone in the world. I like my privacy, but I’d also like to think that there’s help out there if I should ever need it. Yes, there’s a happy medium in there somewhere. I just always seem to live out in the lunatic fringe, where all the extremes of behavior come home to roost.

In the meantime, until this wound heals, I’m kind of liking the Pacific Northwest realm of things. Here, my gash doesn’t exist. No one but small children will even look at it directly. No one will ever inquire about its origins. Therefore no one will never know that in this instance, their guess is as good as mine.

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