Recent Posts

Possum Chronicles: Volume 1 (#391)

We have a lot of possums in our neighborhood. They freak some folks out, but they’re great to have in your yard—they eat bugs like ticks and they’re immune to rabies.

But those possums don’t always stay in the yard. Andy and I found one in the garage one night, sitting in a bag of dog food, chowing down. He blinked once at us and kept eating kibble. The possum continued to stuff his unbothered little face as Andy dragged the bag out of the garage and into the yard. Eventually the possum sauntered off into the night, sated.

We got a giant plastic container for dog food storage the next day.

Andy and I had a rare date night at a fancy gala when our son Dalton was in middle school. I was excited that there would be dancing. Andy was excited there would be good food he didn’t have to cook. Dalton was excited to finally be at home, alone, with unlimited time on his gaming computer.

But no sooner had the dancing begun than I got a phone call: “MOM! There’s a possum in the kitchen!”

“What?! Are the animals attacking it?”

“It’s in the corner under the chair and the dog barked but couldn’t get to it. I locked the dog and Boss Cat in my bedroom.”

“Well done, we’re on our way!”

We hurriedly exited the event (WHICH WAS NOT CHEAP, ALAS FOR DESSERT) as Dalton texted me a picture:

Halfway home, Dalton called again: “I got it out of the house!”

“Great job! How?”

“I set up exercise mats and cushions blocking off every path except for one to the door. Then I opened the door, got a broom, and kind of herded it along the path until it ran out the door.”

We congratulated Dalton on his ingenuity and speculated that the very small possum squeezed under the gap in our security door, possibly to escape a predator. Except fleeing into a house with a bully mix and a fierce cat was jumping from the frying pan into the fire. That possum was darn lucky that 1) our house is small, with minimal open space between furnishings, and 2) Boss Cat preferred to hunt other predators.

After we hung up the phone, Andy shook his head and said, “I can’t believe he got the possum out of the house.”

“Oh, I knew he would.”

“You did not.”

“Honey. Our kid is impatient as fuck. No way was he going to wait for us to get home.”

Especially not when his gaming computer was locked up with the barking dog and cat.

Mascarpone Melee (#390)

Unlike Andy, my caffeine intake is minimal. No more than two cappuccinos in the morning, separated by a few hours or I get jittery. (Andy’s note: “’Jittery,’ means you bounce your leg, honey. You either talk non-stop or rewrite the lyrics to old songs and sing them to the pets. “Dancing in the Dark” becomes “Dancing While You Bark,” “You Belong with Me,” is now “Use the Litterbox When You Pee.”)

So as much as I love tiramisu, I never have it for dessert. No way does Andy wanna hear “But kitty Mama told you/ It’s all right/ You were on the streets with bad flea bites/ Homeless in the SoCal night/ Now you got three beds and claws of might…” at 11 PM. (Sing to Taylor Swift’s “Opalite.”)

The only tiramisu Andy made was a lemon version, usually during the annual citrus tsunami here in Southern California.

Until his Elder Millennial Coworker got hungry and bored. Like most offices, there’s always extra food from October until New Year’s. Leftover Halloween candy is followed by the Thanksgiving potluck and then Christmas goodies begin appearing. At Andy’s work, there was also the Cinnamon Roll Throw Down.

But in January? There were only tasteless Aramark lunches again. Andy, who sometimes brought in leftovers or my extra baked goods, had been moved to a different project in a different office in December.

Until Elder Millennial Coworker insisted there was a problem with the old project and Andy was recalled part-time.

Elder Millennial Coworker slyly asked Gen Z Coworker (who had won the Cinnamon Roll Throwdown) about her tiramisu while Andy (who is STILL salty about not winning the Cinnamon Roll Throwdown) was nearby.

Gen Z Coworker, “Oh, the Cortina Olympics inspired me to make some. And since store-bought lady fingers suck, I started baking my own.”

“Wow. Is that hard?”

“A little, but it’s worth it. People love my tiramisu even more than my cinnamon rolls—”

Andy: “That’s it! You and your lady fingers are GOING DOWN!”

Which is why I found Andy in the kitchen at 8 PM, whipping up mascarpone and brewing espresso.

“Elder Millennial Coworker is playing you and Gen Z Coworker,” I told Andy. “He knows you, at least, will bring in multiple ‘intimidation’ batches while you figure out the best recipe. So he’s going to get that as well as being guaranteed two servings of tiramisu on the day of the competition.”

“Actually, a couple other people want to compete this time, too.”

“The plot thickens! How many?”

“Well, one woman says she’s going to make a version with tea—”

“With TEA? What the actual fuck is THAT?!”

“Don’t you love tea?”

“Yes, and that fact that I am still saying what the fuck should tell her something.”

“And the Vegan Younger Millennial is bringing a vegan version—”

“How?”

“No idea.”

“So there are four of you?”

“More like eight.”

“Full on dessert scam!”

I thought Andy’s first version was pretty good, even with store-bought lady fingers. But when he took it to work, the verdict was “more liqueur.”

Also his Gen Z Coworker smirking and saying, “I didn’t know Kroger made generic lady fingers,” as she served up her own intimidation tiramisu.

Andy ate a bite and retorted, “And I didn’t know anyone would use instant coffee instead of making real espresso.”

“Nobody has their own espresso maker,” she scoffed.

Andy smirked in Gen X paycheck. “I do.”

FYI, Andy doesn’t actually drink espresso. He only got the expensive Italian coffee machine with the milk frother and espresso maker in order to avoid sharing any of his precious 10 cups of dark roasted drip coffee with me. Coffee addiction coupled with Chinese American frugality is the real reason I get mellow morning cappuccinos made by my own personal barista.

Highly recommend.

Andy dug out my piping set and my cookie cookbook for his next round of lady fingers. But they turned out “too spongy.” He refused to listen to my advice: 1) bake while it’s not humid, 2) turn off the oven and let them dry out after baking. Instead, to Elder Millennial Coworker’s delight, Andy tried several more recipes before finding one with the right consistency.

“But it still doesn’t look especially pretty,” he grumbled. After his fluffy cinnamon rolls lost to Gen Z Coworker’s underbaked—but uniform—cinnamon rolls, Andy knew he had to win on appearance, as well as taste.

“You could use a springform pan,” I suggested. “Make it look like a cake. Then you unmold it at work, in front of everyone, adding to the suspense. It’ll look more impressive and get them rooting for you when it holds its shape!”

“IF it holds its shape.”

Andy practiced with my 6-inch springform. His tiramisu held (even though his icing skills need work):

Sunday night, he made his competition dish. Monday morning, he put the tiramisu (still in the springform pan) into a cooler and took it to work—along with one of my cake plates.

He unmolded it and…it held. He frosted the sides with more mascarpone filling and put it on the cake plate, sure his was the prettiest.

But Gen Z Coworker went full kawaii, creating fucking adorable bunnies with a cookie cutter out of cocoa powder:

Since Andy’s office has no windows and requires security clearances, I have no way of personally knowing how they all tasted. One was lemon, and one was rum raisin (WHY WOULD YOU WRECK YOUR CHOCOLATE WITH RAISINS). Andy reported that his and Gen Z coworkers were the prettiest and the tastiest when he got home.

“BUT WHO WON?!” I practically screamed.

Andy shrugged. “I dunno. Elder Millennial Coworker hasn’t finished tabulating yet.”

When Andy came home last night, we STILL didn’t know. Maybe Elder Millennial “loses” the results and they have to try again next week. Or there’s maybe there’s a tie and the top two chefs have to have a final bakeoff!

Ultimately, the real winner was always going to be Elder Millennial.

Or maybe me, because I get tiramisu for breakfast.

 

Cinnamon Roll Throw Down (#389)

I would never have thought I could get sick of cinnamon rolls. And yet here we are.

For those of you not following the Cinnamon Roll Saga on Threads, it began when Andy’s Gen Z Coworker told an Elder Millennial Coworker that she was planning on making cinnamon rolls. Elder Millennial Coworker asked Gen Z Coworker if she’d ever made cinnamon rolls before.

Gen Z Coworker: “No. How hard can it be?”

Elder Millennial: “You know, Andy brought in his homemade cinnamon rolls once.”

Gen Z Coworker: “I’m sure mine will be better.”

Andy overheard this. For years, he’s been honing his bread-making skills on everything from those cinnamon rolls to baguettes. He set the oven on fire (twice). He killed my Kitchen Aid (spoiler alert, also twice). But Andy’s also gotten very, very good with all kinds of dough.

Andy immediately called out, “Oh, you ready to throw down?!”

“Yeah!” responded Gen Z Coworker.

Andy came home and started the dough for an “Intimidation Batch.” He stayed up late to form the rolls, then baked them the next morning right before work. Andy brought them in, still warm, and carried them past Gen Z coworker, calling out, “Anyone wanna try my test batch of homemade cinnamon rolls?”

While coworkers gathered and grabbed the rolls, Andy sadly (and loudly) sighed and told Elder Millennial, “This is not my best work. It’s my first time baking them in our new oven, and they were taking a long time. I checked the temp with an oven thermometer. Turns out the oven was about 25 degrees low. So I upped the heat. But the long baking time dried them out a little. Sorry,” he added, handing Gen Z Coworker a cinnamon roll.

Gen Z Coworker ate the entire cinnamon roll silently…but with a growing expression of panic. She disappeared almost as quickly as the cinnamon rolls.

Over the next few weeks, our kitchen turned into a test kitchen. Andy did multiple batches.

Filling winner: brown sugar over white sugar.

Icing winner: cream cheese, possibly with a hint of almond.

Loser: me, because I don’t think I can ever eat another cinnamon roll again.

But Gen Z Coworker was not cowed. She brought her own “Intimidation Batch” of cinnamon rolls into the office!

Andy tried one and IT HAD AN APPLE FILLING!

That has to be illegal.

Cinnamon legalities aside, Andy reported to me later that it was tasty and moist, but the chew was a little gummy (as if under-kneaded).

But to Gen Z Coworker, he merely said, “These are good.”

She got a little in his face, with what he called “Gen Z swagger,” and said, “So. Are you intimidated yet?”

Andy’s response: “No.”

But over Thanksgiving, Andy made yet another test batch.

Me: “Seriously, honey? You have stuff to make for Thanksgiving, don’t you want a day off?”

Andy: “I have to crush her down!”

Andy’s cinnamon rolls were looking good the morning of the official throw down. Maybe not quite as fluffy as the ones he made on Thanksgiving, but still big and moist.

As some of you know, there are no windows where Andy works and no cell phones allowed.

So he and Gen Z Coworker met outside and took a picture (because I badgered him relentlessly):

Elder Millennial Coworker appointed himself poll worker and vote counter. Ballots were distributed to a dozen employees. Elder Millennial Coworker opted to get all fancy and there were three categories on the ballot: Taste, Appearance, and Texture.

I called Andy at noon: “Well? Who won? You won, right?”

Andy: “I don’t think the polls are closed yet, honey.”

Me: “AAARGGHHH.”

Andy texted me after 5 PM to say he was on his way home. I called immediately: “WELL? Did you win?”

Andy: “I dunno, I was in a different building. I guess Elder Millennial emailed the results, but I haven’t looked yet.”

“HOW CAN YOU NOT LOOK.”

When Andy walked in the door, I was waiting. “Check. Your. Email.”

Andy did. “Huh. Looks like we tied on taste—”

“How even?”

“She won on appearance—”

“What? Her rolls are TINY. With no frosting!”

“And I won on texture. But Elder Millennial says she won by more votes on appearance than I won on in texture, so I guess he’s giving her the win.”

I erupted. “THIS IS BULLSHIT! There is no way, NO WAY those little rolls are as good as yours! I mean, I know I didn’t even get to try hers, or even have one of yours this morning, but—”

Andy grinned and held out a container. “I brought you home one of each.”

I immediately pounced, opened the container, and sliced each roll in half.  “Oh, honey, there’s no way you lost. I can already tell her rolls are dry from the way it’s separating.”

I took a bite. I was right. Dry and yet also dense. They clearly didn’t rise enough and were overbaked. I’ve had Hostess Honeybuns that were better.

I took a bite of Andy’s. Even 12 hours after baking, sitting in an office, it was excellent. Fluffy, but moist, and the cream cheese kept the icing from being overly sweet.

“You were robbed,” I told Andy. And I guess I wasn’t THAT sick of cinnamon rolls, because I ate the whole thing.

Someone with a far less discriminating palate ate the rest of Gen Z Coworker’s roll.

And, to be fair, he a) had no complaints and b) begged for more.

The Safe House (#388)

My neighborhood, which is flat with sidewalks, became super popular for trick-or-treating about a decade ago. Families drove in from other areas of LA, parked at the nearby schools, and made the rounds. I was thrilled, especially once our son Dalton decided I was “not allowed” to escort him tick-or-treating anymore. I’ve never met a holiday I didn’t like, but the elaborate costumes and piles of candy make Halloween one of my favorites.

Because dogs go insane over door knocking and doorbells (and we always have at least one dog), my friend JM and I sit at the bottom of my porch on Halloween night, wearing witch hats and handing out candy from a huge cauldron. Last night, I even had my K-Pop Demon Hunters playlist and speaker ready to blast the second we saw any members of Huntr/x or the Saja Boys.

Andy, who is not a holiday person, was happy to raid the cauldron, take all the Reese’s, and watch TV inside.

Generally the cauldron is emptied of candy by 8:30 PM. Until last night.

We had far fewer tick-or-treaters last night than last year or the year before. No one parked in the school parking lot, either.

Much to my sorrow, there was only ONE Rumi from K-Pop Demon Hunters.

We told every kid to take whole handfuls of candy. If they passed us again, we insisted they take some more. We pushed candy on every parental escort.

We flagged down adults walking their dogs AND the UPS driver, reverse-robbing them by demanding they take candy.

The horde of teens that usually comes by to mop up (maybe with a single mask or wig shared between 5 adolescent males) never showed.

We were ready to pack it in, cauldron still more than half-full, when a minivan finally stopped right in front of us. And sat there for a full minute.

JM and I saw a flap of black fabric, perhaps a Dracula cape, caught in the rear passenger door. There was movement in the car, maybe the twinkle of sparkly fabric briefly catching the streetlight.

We held our breath, like you do when you’re afraid to startle a wild animal.

Finally, the minivan disgorged a mass of costumed kids: an inflatable capybara jockey, a walking tombstone, something requiring glittery orange veiling, and more that I can’t remember because I was entranced by the capybara.

Those trick-or-treaters were bit taken aback by the enthusiastic cheering from two middle-aged white women. We had to encourage them to take as much candy as they wanted, which they did. It still wasn’t as much candy as I wanted them to take (but probably it was more than Dalton the candy hoarder wanted them to have).

Even though there were elaborate decorations and lights on all down the block, most of the group immediately returned to the minivan. Only the capybara jockey tried the house next door (yes, the one belonging to my infamous, asshole cop neighbor).

No one answered.

After the cabybara jockey returned, the minivan drove away. JM and I stared at each other, confused.

JM asked, “Um…why just your house?”

“I know, right? Every other house on the block looks like an infestation of Halloween inflatables and I just have the wreath you made me. I didn’t even do a jack-o’-lantern this year, since Andy thinks it’s a waste of money to buy food for decoration.”

Shaking my head, I looked back at my porch and its minimal fall decor.

And saw the flag I hung out months ago.

A white and red flag that reads "ABOLISH ICE"

I barely notice that flag any more. But I’m glad someone else did.

Welcome to WordPress Prison (#387)

I don’t post as much as I once did. I still follow more prolific bloggers. New posts show up in my WordPress Reader daily. I like them and comment on them. The original blogger mostly responds.

However, WordPress will sometimes put my comments in prison. This means my comment will appear—but only to me—under other comments with the caveat “Your comment is awaiting moderation.” Usually this happens when I use profanity, because a) I swear A LOT and 2) WordPress is a prissy little bitch.

WordPress supposedly notifies the original blogger/judge that my comment is languishing in prison. The blogger/judge laughs uproariously at my wit, scolds WordPress for yet ANOTHER wrongful arrest, and approves my comment, thus releasing me from WordPress prison. My comment rejoins society, utterly unchastened, and returns to run its potty mouth among the more decorous comments.

In some cases, WordPress, like ICE, says, “Fuck that due process shit” and doesn’t notify the original blogger that a comment is awaiting moderation. Midwest Mark once got super peeved that he wrote a whole eloquent paragraph in my comments that WordPress immediately imprisoned. WordPress never notified me, but Mark managed to smuggle a message out of prison (i.e., wrote a second comment telling me his first comment had been disappeared).

WordPress frequently flagged my comments on the now retired (and much-missed!) blog of Ally Bean (probably because profanity at The Spectacled Bean was not the done thing). Since Ally is on social media, I’d sometimes tag her on Threads and let her know I was in WP prison. She would always bail me out.

But this past week, something new happened. I commented on multiple blogs and went on my merry way. No one responded. At first I assumed it was user error—either I’d forgotten to hit “send” or the cat had jumped on my keyboard at an inopportune moment. I went back to River Girl, Kate, and 2 Summers and put in my comments again.

Crickets.

Was I not hilarious? Were they not entertained? They all usually responded, even if just with a smiley face (or a frowny face).

As a lifelong catastrophizer, this issue kept me up at night. Had I been blacklisted? Were bloggers from multiple continents in some group chat, looking at my repeated, frantic comments and sniggering?!

My mind goes to increasingly implausible places at 3 AM.

I made multiple attempts. My comments appeared to go through:

But when I checked back later, my comments had disappeared.

I logged out of WordPress. Rebooted my computer. Used different browsers. Tried my phone. Changed passwords. Checked to see if my website or my email was being used for spam or other nefarious purposes. I found nothing.

I kept trying:

My comments continued disappearing within minutes.

I commented with email only:

My comment vanished within minutes. The only blog currently retaining my comments is Deb’s Despatches (based in the UK).

I contacted WordPress. Their useless AI assistant told me that humans at WP are reserved for those who pay for premium services ($20-$200 per month). Sooooo…imprisoning IPs without premium service would be a good way to convince them to pay for premium service, perhaps?

Eventually, my husband/tech support will work on this. For a conjugal price, no doubt.

For now, I’ve left bloggers messages on their social media telling them about my disappearing comments.

Maybe I’m in their spam folders.

Maybe Chinese hackers finally bested Andy and landed my IP address on Akismet’s no-fly list.

Maybe it’s time to emulate Ally and bail on blogging.

In case your comments also disappear, you can find me on Threads, Instagram, BlueSky, or Facebook.

Andy On Notice (#386)

I’ve occasionally written about how maddening it is to have a husband who is oblivious to things like dirt. Or ants. Or a rat under the house.

This seems to be a common theme among women. Partner doesn’t notice the things that need to be done, which enables partner to avoid doing the things. This move is often referred to as “weaponized incompetence,” although I like the rebrand of “strategic laziness” better. Or maybe “strategic blindness,” which often pairs with “selective hearing.”

It’s frustrating when you’re the person who notices anything out of place—and you can’t do anything about it because you’re injured.

Me: “If the tendonosis in my arm and my knee injuries didn’t hurt so much today, I could have vacuumed up all the dead ants in the bathroom.”

Andy: “There are dead ants in the bathroom?”

Me: “Yes. Cuz we sprayed?”

Andy: “Really? I didn’t see any.”

Me: “You literally had to step over them to take your shower.”

Exhibit A:

Actual photo of dead ants

I can never decide why so many men don’t see the things that need to be done. Did male and female brains evolve differently, perhaps because only the observant mothers in the jungle who noticed the poisonous creature had surviving offspring? Or is it societal, where the patriarchy only punishes women for not cleaning up messes?

And do men not notice all details, or are they unconsciously—or possibly VERY CONSCIOUSLY—selective?

I’d like to say they are selectively obtuse, but my hair stylist once cut off more than 12 inches of my hair; Andy didn’t notice until all our friends complimented my new look.

More recently, there was our clock:

For one of our anniversaries, I gave Andy a crystal and mirrored glass clock. It sat on our sideboard, where we could see it while watching TV or hanging out in the living room. It was invaluable when counting down to bedtime or calculating our son Dalton’s various pick up/drop off times for school, sports, and all other activities.

I looked at that clock multiple times a day for nearly a decade. I figured Andy did, too. Especially since the cat liked to knock it over with a loud THUNK when she was hungry. (The cat was always hungry.)

Recently the clock stopped working consistently (possibly due to years of thunking). Sometimes it would keep time after I changed the battery. Sometimes it wouldn’t. I pointed this out to Andy, saying, “Honey, the clock is having issues. If only there was, I dunno, an engineer who could look at it.”

Andy did not take that hint, nor any of the others I dropped over the next month. I gave up and found another clock online on sale—this one twice as big and three times heavier. It arrived while Andy was at work. I set it up, put the old clock in the garage, and waited for him to notice.

New Clock

The cat noticed right away. There was angry tail lashing when the new clock proved unthunkable, but cat moved on (i.e., attacked a nearby picture).

It’s been weeks since I replaced the old clock.

The new clock works.

Our framed photo of Dalton is now battered and covered in feline teeth marks, but the new clock has yet to be knocked over.

And Andy?

He still hasn’t noticed.

Old clock & new clock. Are you an Andy or do you see a difference?

Update: Andy read my post and insists that he “noticed the clock last week and just didn’t say anything.”  

To which I respond, “Okay, Jan.”

An Envelope of Appropriation (#385)

No white woman appropriated the Chinese custom of giving lucky money (“lai see” in my husband’s Cantonese-speaking family) as fast as I did when I married Andy. All my debutante mother’s admonitions against giving money as a gift? Gone the second I realized that a pretty red envelope with gold designs was the perfect way to class up cash.

Cash is much more practical than gift cards. You can spend cash on anything, or save it. But gift cards? There’s NO WAY you ever spend the exact amount on the gift card. Corporations profit from expired cards, damaged cards, unredeemed balances, and sometimes fees. Starbucks, for example, gets about 10% of its revenue from unredeemed cards (from everyone except my husband and Coffee Kate). Stick it to corporate overlords and give cash instead!

I have countless nieces and nephews (thanks to over a dozen siblings, half-siblings, step-siblings, ex-step-siblings from various parental units’ divorces and marriages) who get lucky money on their birthdays. Our son Dalton has lobbied for cash gifts since he learned what money was (age 3). Dalton’s friends and coaches, even the non-Asian ones, learned to look forward to seeing red when they open a greeting card.

I buy my red envelopes in bulk. Yes, I know that most actual Chinese moms, like my MIL Sunny, get them for free from the bank when withdrawing cash for Lunar New Year or weddings or birthdays (stamped with the bank’s logo, of course, BUT IN GOLD). Back when Andy and I got married, however, our bank didn’t have red envelopes. I bought a variety of designs online: the nieces on the swim team got fish, the nephew who demanded orange juice got oranges, and the nephew who loved pink got red and pink peonies. I even splurged on some bigger, more rigid envelopes for weddings (the better to keep shiny new bills crisp and unbent).

While red envelopes haven’t gone mainstream in California (yet), there’s a Hawaiian custom that has: graduation leis. I’d never seen a graduation lei on the East Coast, but when I got my MFA in Los Angeles, flower leis were everywhere. Since then, high school graduations have morphed into a lei arms race in California. There are real flower leis, fake flower leis, candy leis, money leis, and even Happy Meal leis.

I’ve been at graduations where the leis are piled so high all you can see are the graduate’s eyes. Not one to miss out on the fun, I created a lucky money lei by braiding red yarn and gold ribbon, punching holes in red envelopes (with cashed tucked inside), and then attaching them to the lei with artificial daisies. (Then I warn the recipients to guard that lei with their life.)

SoCal high school graduation leis (mine has the red envelopes with flowers in the center)

When Andy’s nephew graduated, I had his lei all planned out: a kukui nut lei (to acknowledge his family’s history in Hawaii) with lucky money attached by red and gold ribbons. I sent Andy a reminder to leave work early and pick up cash on the way home. Lucky money is, ideally, the largest denomination of bills possible. As my husband is notoriously frugal, I texted him specifics: “I have 3 red envelopes on his lei, and, YES, each should be no less than a fifty!”

Andy brought home a bunch of crumpled twenties.

The ancestors wept.

The white wife insisted on stopping at an ATM that would let her choose hundreds. She may have also berated him the whole way there: “What is wrong with you? I’m not even Chinese and I know anything less than a hundred is shameful!”

Andy’s response was a shrug and, “It’s not like I got cash when I was growing up.”

“But when your mom gives Dalton lucky money, it’s always new, crisp hundred-dollar bills!”

“Crumpled twenties spend the same,” was all Andy said.

Until I returned from the ATM with a pile of Benjamin Franklins.

“How many hundreds are you giving him?!” he huffed, accelerating out of the parking lot with significantly more speed than necessary.

“You had your chance to get him fifties and you blew it.”

“But it’s only high school! And he’s got two younger siblings. You’re setting an expensive precedent.”

“Listen, Scrooge, I’m not giving him all of them. I had to get extra bills in case the ATM gave me old or ugly ones,” I explained. “See? This one is folded up in the corner. I can’t use that. And this one is creased! Only pristine bills make the cut.”

Andy remained horrified over the amount of lucky money in that lei.

Same as my southern ancestors, I expect.

But I like to think the Chinese ancestors were as pleased as our nephew.

Me assembling the #1Wong Nephew’s lei on the freeway.

 

First Fire, Now ICE (#384)

Los Angeles still needs federal funds to finish cleaning up the devastating fires from January.

We got ICE instead.

We got the California National Guard, too, as Trump jumped at the chance to finally play Fascist-in-Chief. It’s not legal, of course, but what does that matter to Felonious the Filth?

Is this bullshit? Absolutely. Boston may run on Dunkin, but Los Angeles runs on immigrants (approximately 33% of our population).

And the immigrants ICE is targeting? Many are legal. They’re getting arrested at work, which means these immigrants ARE WORKING. Even the waste of flesh that’s running ICE admits they aren’t the criminals Trump promised to target while lying his ass off as usual campaigning last year.  These immigrants pay taxes, which is why ICE now uses the IRS to find them. Some have had the visas they worked so hard to get capriciously revoked. Some are being deported due to administrative and clerical errors.

ICE lies in wait in the fashion district and elementary school graduations. Cuz that’s where hardened criminals like moms and little kids hang out, apparently.

ICE is so proud of their work ripping apart families that they now cover their faces. Couldn’t get those MAGA fuckers to wear a mask during an actual pandemic, but now a mask is better than being identified. “Proud” boys, my ass. I guess they’d rather not have their own families see them sending other families to concentration camps.

Maybe it’s a good sign that our American-grown Nazis wear masks. Keep ICE ashamed and afraid.

ICE is SO bad that initially, both our notoriously racist and corrupt Los Angeles Police Department and Sheriff’s Department put out statements on Saturday saying, “We are absolutely NOT with them!” (Admittedly, that was short-lived. The LAPD is already climbing back on the authoritarian bandwagon.)

For those of you who’ve reached out, asking if we’re okay or telling me to stay safe, I appreciate your concern. We’re fine. The city isn’t engulfed in flames, no matter how many times the media shows a single burning Waymo car. The protestors are peaceful (with the exception of the inevitable masked agitators always looking for trouble, like during their attack on the UCLA encampment).

Today the biggest protest is in downtown LA, demanding the release of union leader David Huerta after his bullshit arrest by federal agents on Friday. 

The ICE/police/military response of rubber bullets, tear gas, and flash bang grenades are nowhere near us, at least for now. News 9 from Australia is in more danger than we are.

And if protestors shut a freeway down? It’s for a good fucking reason.

What you probably aren’t seeing are attempted ICE raids at our schools, or the 4th grader at a local school who was deported. Or the fear in the eyes of so many Latinos, even folks who’ve been here for generations. You’re not seeing much about the Asians who’ve been targeted, nor the international students at the University of California campuses who’ve arbitrarily had their visas revoked.

No wonder LA is protesting. The loss of anyone’s right to due process is the first step on the road to authoritarianism.

So, yeah, I’m gonna cheer on protestors closing those freeways.

What Los Angeles-hating MAGA never seems to realize is that the fascists will eventually come for them, too.

Maybe Buyer’s Remorse MAGA should also be out there protesting the use of the National Guard on American citizens.

While they still can.

Dog Tails: Abattoir Edition (#383)

It’s a Sunday morning. I breeze into my son’s room with, “Good morning, sunshine! I’m gonna need your help cleaning up blood.”

Dalton groans. “Again?”

“Yep! It’s much easier for you to get the baseboards and under the dining room table.”

You may be wondering why. Because Dalton’s knees are three decades younger than mine and my husband’s, of course.

Wait. Was it the blood you were wondering about?  Cleaning up blood is simply our new morning ritual. And not because we’ve embraced sacrifice.

It’s because of our dog. More specifically, his tail.

Tankie, our rescued staffy/cattle dog mix, wags his tail with unmatched ferocity. I say this having endured the lashings of master tail waggers. I grew up dodging a chocolate Labrador’s tail. I endured repeated beatings from the tail of Woofie (Dane-Labrador-American bulldog). And I would choose to be hit by Woofie’s tail while wearing shorts and sporting a severe sunburn over being hit with Tankie’s tail in padded gardening pants.

We no longer allow drinks on our coffee tables. Hell, we no longer allow ANY items on our coffee tables. A single whack from Tankie’s tail turns a Kleenex box into a dangerous projectile.

While I do not condone tail docking, I began to understand its history. Especially among cattle dogs.

The funny thing is, Tankie never cut his power tail on anything. I don’t know if that’s because said tail was battle hardened during his time on the streets of LA or if it’s genetic. But his tail could—and did—smash against everything from iron furniture to glass-edged tables to an angry cat’s claws without the skin ever breaking.

It took Tankie’s own teeth to draw blood.

While we were away among the sequoias in March (post to be written some day when I’m not spending hours cleaning up blood), Tankie had anal gland issues. An abscess formed and then ruptured. Our pet sitter thought Tankie stank and gave him a bath. This didn’t help the smell. It took our return and a trip to the vet to identify the culprit as the anal glands, which is a pretty common canine problem, though we’d had Tankie for years without his anal glands acting up.

Tankie got antibiotics and a cone to keep him from licking his butt.

Tankie, who is nicknamed “The Relentless,” because he never gives up trying to get you to throw a toy or ball for him even after he’s walked 5 miles and played ball for an hour, managed to contort himself enough to access the body part closest to his butt: the tip of his tail.

The tail mauling occurred overnight. When Tankie excitedly greeted us at 5 AM the following morning, his tail left a bloody trail on walls, doors, and furnishings.

Exhibit A: Bloody tail smear on Dalton’s bed frame

There was blood on curtains. The tablecloth. The floors. The white kitchen cabinets.

No rug escaped gory baptism.

Tankie’s tail wags with such force and intensity that blood landed in the upper corners of windows.

Exhibit B: Just one little spot of blood…out of thousands

Future owners of our house will someday find flecks of blood on the ceilings and wonder what gruesome murders we committed here.

We’ve spent the last month trying all kinds of bandaging and cone-like deterrents so the tail can heal enough to stop making our house look like it belongs in Nightmare on Elm Street).

Here Tankie models the “pillow cone” and a sock bandage.

Tankie the Relentless always gets to it again.

Maybe I should simply paint our walls red.

Lunar New Year & Stuff (#382)

Gung hei fat choi!

For those unfamiliar, it’s New Year’s Day. At least in most of Asia. And since the western new year started off so badly, what with fires and the inauguration of nazis and shit, we’re gonna hope the Asian New Year starts a little better. (Maybe with a plan for actual resistance, Democratic Party?) At least this week we’ve had rain and clear air.

But back to Lunar New Year (which we use in SoCal because it’s more inclusive than “Chinese New Year”). Since my Chinese American husband didn’t grow up celebrating many holidays, I only recently learned that the traditional Cantonese New Year greeting  of “Gung hei fat choi” translates as “Hope you get rich.” I discovered this via Ronny Chieng’s hilarious stand up special, which I promptly showed to Andy. Andy laughed until he snorted and said, “Can confirm.”

The cultural emphasis on money is probably one of the reasons why my husband is so focused on saving money. He made coupons a huge part of my life. He spends hours making sure we have the best deals on the internet, cell phones, streaming services…and always get free new iPhones with them.

There are only two things Andy hoards: information and money. Everything else? Purge! He’s constantly trying to get rid of stuff in our garage. After our first two cats died, he tossed all their stuff. Then he threw out storage containers that had curtains from our last, bigger house.

Once we got Boss Cat, I had to buy new scratching posts, litterboxes, bowls, etc. When Andy moaned over the cost, I reminded him that it was his fault. And when Boss Cat promptly shredded some curtains and I discovered Andy had purged the old ones, I pointedly said, “Oh, too bad I have to buy more! They’ve gotten so much more expensive.”

I said that frequently.

After we lost our dogs Woofie and Fey to various cancers, Andy carefully boxed up their bowls, toys, leashes, and collars. He even sacrificed precious garage space for their bagged-up beds. Months later, we had all the amenities ready for our new dog Tankie. Tankie loved his beds and dog-proof soccer ball; Andy loved the lack of a canine cash outlay.

Our son Dalton, unfortunately, takes after both of us. He likes money AND stuff—especially stuffed animals. He refuses to donate any of them, despite being a teenager.

Some of the lesser stuffies relegated to the garage

Much to Andy’s dismay, the garage had to make room for a storage container of stuffies once Dalton started playing the tuba in middle school (the stuffie army AND the tuba could not all fit in the kid’s bedroom.)

Then Dalton got a surfboard. Andy quickly figured out how to secure it in the rafters of the garage.

Dalton recently spent his Christmas/lucky money from Andy’s mom on a snowboard.  This put Andy in a quandry: we will ultimately save money by not having to rent snowboarding equipment, but now there is more unpurgeable stuff in the garage.

Andy is currently eyeing Dalton’s tub of stuffies speculatively.

I’m not entirely certain that Dalton’s stuffed snake* is going to make it through the Year of the Snake.

And with the fascists in the White House?

I’m not exactly sanguine about the rest of us, either.

*Dalton also has a stuffed tarantula and Komodo dragon, though stuffed tigers dominate.