toy. crap. brilliant.

I came home from work to greet my handsome cat.
He seemed normal, albeit a little apprehensive-- though I could just be reading into things.
Then I saw it-- one small hard kitty poop with a sprig of hair, sitting on my carpet.
My first thought was the same as any cat-owner: What have I done to displease you?!
I refilled his food bowl, cleaned the heck out of his food/water station, rendered his litterbox spotless (without losing his natural scent, of course)...
... aaaand as a sort of afterthought, I cleaned up his little "message".
Kinda impressive that he could will a single one out.... hm....

I wake up to my cat meowing out of boredom. I get up and squint at the toy he had dragged into the room (look what the cat dragged in, har har...) and the dark object beside it. He started to bat at the object, flicked it into the hall, and I recognized it as another hairy poop. (Honestly, part of me was relived that he didn't bring in a bug that large.) I quickly substituted it with a normal cat toy and cleaned it up. He then proceeded to check both areas where he'd left... his new favorite toys..?

Oh, God, no...

I realized his little sprig of hair made for easy carrying, the little ball was perfect for movement, and the weight wasn't too heavy to carry but substantial enough for captivating interaction.
... My normally-clever cat... had discovered the attributes of the perfect cat toy...
... in his poo.

friday. lights. action.

Friday nights tend to be date nights for a lot of couples. It's a time for celebrating the end of the work week. It's a great night to check out a hot new restaurant.

I arrived at the hot pot restaurant before the dinner rush. However, this trendy establishment relied on an iPad merely to place a patron's name on the waiting list. The lanky host seemed confused when the app faltered, and crashed again and again, no matter how insistent he pressed the screen. After a phone call and a brisk walk to fetch help, the young man returned to point at the broken thing and quickly explain the situation in Chinese. More touch-screen prodding ensued, escalating to a full tablet restart. When this didn't seem to solve the problem, the two disappeared down the hall to heatedly discuss their options.

Meanwhile, a couple entered the restaurant, the young woman stepping right up to the tablet to experience a couple of rounds of the growing-fad-of-a-game "Crash da App". To avoid letting the cycle continue, I stumbled over my own foot and awkwardly brought the couple up to speed. They nodded and sat down. Instantly, three more couples and a family reunion of about 20 people all materialized in the blink of an eye. Children chased each other, 30-something-year-olds embraced smiling elders, bundled newborns were introduced, reservation times were reaffirmed, doves sprung into flight sprinkling shimmering confetti over a cheery crowd chanting, "We want food! We want food!"

--- The lanky host returned (!!!) ... with a piece of binder paper. He fumbled with a pen, scribbled words, looked at me uneasily, and asked for my name and the number of members in my party. He added two more names before the app miraculously reopened, as if there were never a problem in the first place.

I managed to snag a seat in the waiting area, and I awaited the arrival of my sister and her daughter. A stool remained available around the corner from where I sat, in a tight squeeze between wall partition and a cocktail table. A young couple ambled around the table with some effort, and I barely watched in my peripheral vision as I played a mindless game on my phone, secretly hoping to earn the envy of the toddler next to me. (Setting them goals high!) When the couple quietly remarked how crowded it was as the young woman slid slowly onto the only available seat, I silently assumed my fluffy potato body was taking up a bulky amount of room, and that girly was probably in uncomfortable shoes and clothes to do some impressin'. Scoffity-scoff-scoff.

My sister arrived just in time to have our little party of 2-and-a-baybeh seated. I glanced back at the young couple to discover that the girl had a cast on her lower leg, instantly hoisting the flag declaring me an asshole.

We assembled ourselves in a small booth beside a moving conveyor belt of food. My sister created a mountain between her torso and the moving plates of food using her baby-wrangling supply sack and accompanying car seat. Baby sat across from the conveyor belt, with a backdrop of about 40-feet-square's worth of unoffensive live sports at a brightness setting of "The Sun".

Although Baby was a good distance from grabbable edibles, she sat nearly within stretching-distance to our active electric stovetops and accompanying bubbling broths. Keeping an eye on her to make sure she didn't try to reach for my dangerous territory, I tried to focus on an awesome, quality dinner while maintaining an active conversation with one of my favorite people in the world. I watched the conveyor belt for items I wanted to cook in my broth and consume. I began to notice a pattern: three dishes of each ingredient within reach of multiple tables, then only two dishes of dessert-- one orange cake, one tiramisu. At first I tried to be considerate of other tables, glancing across at the twelve people piled into a booth modestly built for four, children hopping around, teens glued to their glowing screens, eyes glancing disinterested at dish after dish. I tested the waters, allowing one tiramisu to pass, and then another. Neither were touched. I humbly accepted the responsibility of collecting and enjoying all of the tiramisu. I built a civilization of tiramisu in my tummy, and it was divine.

Of course things easily became a little overwhelming. My sister couldn't reach the conveyor belt ('member Mt. Diapers'n'things?) so I had to continue to offer to swipe, pass, shuffle-- block the baby from hot counter-- damn that wall of tv's is bright-- ADD TO TIRAMISU EMPIRE-- you need more of this kind of noodle?-- oo! My kobe beef is ready to fish out of my broth! -- Sure, I'll have more water, thank you -- OMG Baby sauce dish is not for you! -- oh there's the bok choy, yoink! -- So how's the husband? -- No one cares that this is my 17th tiramisu right? -- Where did you find a spoon, Baby? -- Argh, couldn't they find a channel of dark colors instead of bright sunlit whateverball?! -- Yeah, dude, that sucks-- Oh yes, thank you for water. Boy, they're diligent here, aren't they? We've gotta tip 'em-- Prawns! Got 'em! Yes! Here ya go! -- Oh I never started cooking my noodles-- TIRIMISU-- NO, Baby!

... I don't remember if I felt full after that experience, but I wouldn't mind going back. Thems was good eats.

tone. run. ouch.

An Amazon review I've written for a sports bra:

I knew buying this thing would be a gamble. This bra is ridiculously tight. Trying to squeeze my fluffy marshmallow torso into this thing is hilariously awful. Perhaps it could be marketed as an arm exfoliator; during my feeble efforts, it certainly took away some of my skin cells. Finally, securing a cellphone in a kangaroo pouch located between one's shoulderblades adds an element of annoyance unless the rhythmic slapping on the back happens to motivate you.

Every morning, I awaken from an uneventful yet oddly realistic and thus immersive dream to somehow drag myself out of bed, slap myself with a cup of coffee, rub soap on my greasy self, leisurely pet my darling cat, close my eyes and meditate on the option to attempt a morning workout, reawaken to realize I'm officially running late, utilize adrenaline rush to get to my car, sit and listen to the nagging beep of the key sitting inactive in the ignition whilst I gingerly feed the stray cats whom I call Little One and Little Scrappy Cat (taking care to scatter the treats so they don't fight), resume adrenaline rush to speed to the toll booth to sit.
... and strategize to sit. ... in the moving-est lane.
... while silently judging others...
... and applying make-up...
... sometimes listening to Bollywood...
... brainstorming ways to remind other drivers that we're frail little squishy human bodies in our low-emission tanks...
... irrationally hating all red Priuses...

-- AND I REALIZED!!!!!! .. guys... In the morning, I look for the one asshole who isn't a total jerk, cleverly weaving from gap to gap while still using their turn signal and managing not to cut people off-- I mean, you still kinda hate the guy, but you're also a little impressed and you think to yourself, "Damn, if I were smarter, I'd be following that guy. Then maybe I wouldn't be as late to work!"
... In the evening, that same feller becomes demoted to impatient asshole, and I find a stable driver who won't stop short (usually a semi or an old pick-up full of tools), and I relax behind them while allowing my crazy little wound-up multitasking brain to wander.
I mentally prepare a to-do/idea list a hundred items long, but rarely have a chance to write them down even though I keep notebook paper and a pen in my car at all times.
I park.
Catch up on messages.
Chill with the strays after making a couple of scattered treat piles.
And happily allow myself to be judged by passers-by who are convinced that I'm a homeless crazy cat witch.

pho. pun. fun.

When I was little, the trip to my doctor's office passed a restaurant called Phuket, which is apparently a gorgeous province in Thailand. Of course, in the English language, this is phuking hilarious. 

I had a terrible song stuck in my head at work one day. To take my mind off of this earworm, I started to think of names for Pho restaurants. (Yes, I just jumped to Vietnamese cuisine, 1,145 miles away.)

• Pho-Eva Yarn (Noodles and sewing supplies)
• Girls Just Wanna Have Pho
• She'll Have Pho, Pho, Pho Now Her Daddy Took Her T-bone Away
• Don't Chew Pho Get It (Don Chu Pho Get About Me)
• One Two Three Pho
• One Pho In The Door
• What Is It Good Pho
• Fufu's Faux Pho
• Pho du FaFa
• Poor Un-Pho-Tunate Seoul (More like a news article about a Vietnamese restaurant closing in South Korea.)
• Pho Fo' You, Ewe

(Psst. Hey. Yeah, no, you're doing great. Just one little thing: ... Pho is pronounced "fuh".)

....

I saw a Smart Car speeding down the highway, and the Benny Hill theme played in my head.

(Haha. It'd be awesome if they had that on YouTube.)

Thank you, ZeInternet.

dootdoodoo. dootdoo. doodoodoo

I need to talk about "Baby Shark."

My sister wanted me to cut and color her hair. I wanted to cut and color my sister's hair. We never have enough time for me to properly infuse my sister's head with the full potential of my amateur cosmetology prowess. I thought we had it rough with our tight schedules and lack of patience. There has to be a special breed of salon masters who specialize in cutting new parents' hair while they're holding on to a bored squirmy child.
Enter Baby Shark. We listened to this song on a loop for literally hours. Here's the crazy part: I never got sick of it. I love this stupid song. My darling baby niece loves this stupid song. My sister puts a soothing, happy bounciness to this song when she sings it with a dimpled smile to her daughter. I thought the best song in the world was "Good Vibrations" from the Beach Boys, but it might have just been bested by a baby shark (dootdoodoo dootdoo doodoodoo).

My dad is the type of man who listens carefully for a spark of passion in your conversation, researches it, masters the knowledge, and educates you further on what you already love. If you mention a band's music video, for example, he will research the band, the video, other videos by the band, other bands under the same record label, news about the band, individual band members' solo projects, etc.

... My sister has just introduced my dad to "Baby Shark."

cuckoo. g'joob.

Over a text conversation, my sister asked how I was doing. I let her know that the small fold in the back of my throat, lovingly referred to as my "throat vajayjay", had captured a large ball of partially-digested food (why is it always white?!) in the back of the trap instead of the usual nook of the front fold. I can usually massage the folds until the blob pops out, but it usually results in a serious gag reflex, and sometimes minor residual irritation that disappears within an hour. Although this particular swabbing was an eventual success, it challenged me to the point of disturbing and evicting the contents of my stomach.

Side note: The more information I gift upon the question "how are you", the more likely it is that I treasure our relationship. An individual could read a Soozn one-word answer as curt and testing, like a moat guarding a wall guarding an army guarding a titan guarding a plasma forcefield guarding a mutant army guarding another moat (this one's on fire) guarding a fence (covered in spikes decorated a la Vlad the Impaler) guarding a chihuahua guard dog guarding a fortress. Either that, or a Soozn could be feeling lazy.

I asked my sister how she was doing. She complained of a sharp pain in her abdomen. A few hours later, she finished her shift at work, picked up her 9-month-old daughter, and drove herself to the ER. After an uninvited tour of San Francisco and what can only be a practical joke (thanks Google Maps!), I finally arrived at the hospital in time to hold the beautiful, crying baby while my sister received an ultrasound. (It would appear that my niece is far-sighted, and can only truly appreciate my presence from at least a foot away.)
     We awaited results and I did my best to keep both mother and child entertained, making balloon puppets out of gloves, sharing string beans, hiccuping, singing, clapping, hopping around with tupperware-- y'know, the usual auntie bag of tricks. Since the past three years have been filled with multiple hospital trips for all of the members of my immediate family, I tend to travel daily with a cell charger, deodorant, water, snacks, and aspirin. (I've considered keeping an overnight bag in the trunk of my car, but then it'd sit there and get smelly and I'd have to eventually wash it-- it just seemed like too much of a hassle.)
     A staff member arrived to request the copayment, and my sister had her hands full of bored, squirmy princess whilst hooked to an IV drip that was being tugged and tested in the fray. I was called-upon to fetch currency from the shirt breast pocket, and in doing so, I retrieved... an egg.

(I just asked my boyfriend what game he's playing on his PC. The name went in one ear and out the other. Is there a random video game title generator out there? Super Dungeon Wrangler Fighting Battleground Zero Six Turbo Rally Force Dungeon Master Hero -ville...)

     My sister's husband arrived before my hospital volunteer shift arrived at its 3-hour mark... after I'd worked a hectic 10-hour shift. I took my leave and returned home (a 1.5-hour drive), just in time to scarf down some dinner and get my 6 hours of rest before my hectic understaffed Friday.

I've. Earned. This.

potato. cowboy. lunch.

One day I was a potato.

Another day I was a turtle.

I had a pointy face and white cowboy boots and a dense yellow poster reminding parents to not let their children grow up to be monkeys whilst depicting a rodeo monkey in full cowboy garb slinging a lasso.

... It honestly frustrates me that I need to break down my beautiful poetic words to include everyone on what my expressions are attempting to convey.
     I once heard a stand-up comedian describe the look of Irish people as "potatoes." This invokes an image of something round, bloated, and pocked, whilst doubling as a historical reference to the Irish Potato Famine of the mid-1800's. (The comedian was also Irish, like meeee.) Part homage to this comedian and part self-deprecation, my bored-senseless mind clung to this thought whilst it tried to distract itself from the agony of Bay Area traffic.
     A few days later, I was trying on clothing, and a particular top had a rather large rounded collar, bringing attention to my odd neck, which is segmented like a fluffy marshmallow winter coat, and the tiny potato head sitting on top, like an upside-down exclamation point. (What a God-awful sundae I've just illustrated, with gobbed marshmallow and uncooked potato. I sincerely apologize.)
     And the rest is quite literally history. Which brings us to today...

Soba, you're benched. I will abandon you in the trash, you disgusting garbage. Pretzels! French onion dip!  You're up! Let's do this.

....

Actually......

... No, no. I should at least attempt nutrients today so I can finish my shift fueled with something more tangible than mere anger.