Tampons in the Zombie Apocolypse

Let the record show that the only reason I'm writing this is because my brother David says I can't legitimately open up my bottle of fancy champagne until I write something worth celebrating. And homegirl needs some wine stat. I actually meant to write this weeks ago and just never got around to it. Like I never get around to most things... So here goes.

This blog is dedicated to that bottle of champagne,
which I will be drinking shortly
to celebrate my return to blogging.
Don't ask about the bananas and bare chest.
Long story.

Anyone else here tired of zombies? I know that I am. They're gross and boring, despite the few movies and television series that attempt to prove otherwise. (Warm Bodies is the exception. And the Shit.) In any case, zombies are a good demonstration of the philosophy that you just never know. And that it doesn't hurt to be prepared.

So freaking adorable. Though I would not tap that.

I started thinking about zombies a few weeks ago after LA was plagued by a rash of earthquakes. I was sitting at home by myself, when I felt a single jolt. My first conclusion? Some drunk ass ran their car into the building (much like I did when I was 16 and was backing out of the driveway by myself for the first time. True story. Though alcohol wasn't involved). But being too exhausted to investigate, I let it go. Maybe 45 minutes later, I felt The Big One. (At least the Biggest One I've Ever Felt. Tee hee, that's what she said...). I jumped out of my comfy chair and stood in a doorway. I was ok in the moment, but as soon as it was over, I instinctually called my mommy. When the call wouldn't connect, presumably because the circuits were jammed and you're not supposed to use your cell after an emergency, I started having a panic attack. I full on hyperventilated, even after reaching my half-asleep mother. As the on-site representative of the property management, I probably should have ventured forth to check on the welfare of my residents. But… rum happened instead. I would have been no good to them anyway with my nerves frazzled to hell.

Pictured: My worst nightmare

Lots of people on Facebook were making fun of those of us who collectively lost our shit, even though nothing really of consquence happened. While I am a native Californian and this was not my first rodeo, earthquakes are my biggest fear. Really, all natural disasters. But earthquakes specifically because of my geographical context and the complete and utter lack of warning. Chances are, if a zombie apocolypse hits, there's gonna be some kind of notice sent out.

The next 24 hours after the Big One, I felt 5 aftershocks. The earth refused to sit still and let me walk all over it. By the last one, I ceased to be panicked and breathless, and started being annoyed. The best way for me to deal with my anxiety over feeling helpless is to switch into project mode. I decided to finally put together my earthquake/tsunami/zombie apocolypse kit that I promised my dad I would make when I first moved down to Southern California in August of 2005.

Girl Scouts Prepare
Me: Before, Me: After. Pigtails and everything.

It's weird to think about what kind of things may come in handy in an emergency situation. Of course, I packed the usual: first aid supplies, bottled water, the combination flashlight/radio/phone charger/siren I bought on a whim during an ill-advised late night Walmart excursion. Then I started looking around at the random stuff I have around my apartment that I ended up stuffing in the ugly, hand-sewn tote bag I made as part of a mother-daughter Mormon activity night.

Yep. I made that bag. With my own two 12 year old hands.
And you never know when you're gonna need a bullhorn.

1. A floral hammer with Russian doll nesting screwdrivers in the handle. An unironic gift from my amazing, late grandmother. I know that she would want me to be prepared in case things get primitive and I have to construct myself some kind of shelter. And still be fabulous at the same time.

2. Playing cards, because I assume waiting for help to arrive will get pretty boring without electricity.

3. Garfunkel & Oates lighters, which I got an inexplicably large amount of after a concert at Upright Citizens Brigade. I don't smoke, but I don't like to throw away potentially useful things. Plus, Garfunkel & Oates would be amazing survival buddies.

What's your zombie apocalypse book?
Chances are it's a hell of a lot different than your desert island book.

4. "God Bless You Mr. Rosewater" by Kurt Vonnegut. I've never read it, but I bought it at a library book sale for a quarter a few years ago and never got around to it. (Notice a pattern here?) I think Vonnegut is a good choice for zombie apocolypse literature though.

5. A change of clothes: old athletic pants that probably no longer fit, my bright yellow 'P' t-shirt from high school (Go Hillmen!), socks, and some granny panties. Because no one is gonna care what kind of underwear you're wearing at the end of the world. But they do care about school spirit.

Sadly, I couldn't find a picture of the legendary P shirt.
Do they even still make them?

6. Non-perishable food items: all I had was ramen, Costco tuna, and a can of nonfat refried beans for which I purchased a cheap can opener.

7. Toilet paper.

8. Notebook and pens. In case I get the urge to pen the great Post-Apocalyptic American novel.

Fun fact, in the original screenplay, Julia Roberts was supposed to be snorting crack, not flossing.
But that would have made a less peppy survival tip.

9. Various personal hygiene accoutrements. Because as Julia Roberts tells us in Pretty Woman, "You shouldn't neglect your gums." Not even after a major disaster. Seriously, dentists may be in short supply.

Guts & Glitter
I found a happy face made out of tampons. My life is now complete.

10. Tampons. Because your period may not be able to wait for FEMA.

After I was done with my kit, I felt an enormous sense of accomplishment. I took control over my destiny. And the universe will get no pleasure from fucking with me now that I'm prepared. And my dad couldn't be prouder. Unless I had fashioned the whole kit from duct tape.

PS. I think my kit needs a kazoo. And I just so happen to have a Garfunkel & Oates kazoo. Everyone is gonna wanna be my survival buddy now!

Why My Mom is Awesome Part 2: Mother's Day Extravaganza

Prepare yourself for a mushy, sappy, sickly sweet post in honor of Mother's Day! Because I love my mama (and am a horrible person when it comes to giving gifts, sending flowers, and taking her out to dinner because I'm a. poor, and b. 500 miles away), I've decided to compile a list of all the reasons why she's awesome. I've already covered one major facet of said awesomeness, so I know you're dying to know more about the special woman who created the awesomeness that is me.

• Mama Hutch gave birth to five children in ten years the drug-free, old-fashioned way, like a friggin' boss. Not that there's anything wrong with epidurals or C-sections. I plan on going that route myself one day. I don't believe in unnecessary pain. You have to admit, it's pretty impressive to shove not one but FIVE watermelons down your hoo-ha. And we were not small watermelons.

Pictured: Ouch.

• She graduated from high school at sixteen and travelled throughout Scandinavia before college like some kind of overachieving viking. So when she got married at eighteen and had my oldest brother at nineteen, she was already way ahead of the game. 
• She went back to school to get her teaching credential when I was two years old, meaning that she had five kids under the age of twelve and still managed to handle her business. What's your excuse?

No fetching hats required.

• She has taught literally thousands of kids to sing, play all kinds of instruments, and genuinely enjoy music with a passion. From choir to band to piano lessons and musical theater, she has done it all, often spending her own money and free time to enrich her curriculum. The woman is basically a legit Professor Harold Hill, without the fancy hat. She organizes concerts every semester for parents bursting with pride at the sight of their children performing on a huge scale.
• One of those children she taught to sing was me. First in church when I asked her why she was singing different notes from everyone else. She explained what a harmony was, thereby instilling in me an appreciation for the more hard core, under-appreciated altos of the world. I was hooked. She was my Mr. Shue in middle school vocal ensemble, with less hair product, and later the director/music coach for several musicals.

My mom is way less obnoxious though.

• Given her large household of eight (including her mother who lived with us until I was fourteen), Mama Hutch was the guru of grocery shopping. By this I mean, she managed to fit 80 million bags of groceries (everything on sale) into the trunk of a compact Geo Metro. Watching her reconfigure the brown paper Tetris blocks was quite the feat. She could have had her own game show, for realsies.
• Another little known skill is her ability to hide Easter baskets. I wrote an entire blog about that talent alone. I think she was a very successful pirate in another life, burying treasure where no one would EVER find it. It's probably because she is constantly losing things. Her keys, her phone, the remote, her damn mind (haha just kidding!)

OHMYGODSOGOOD!
(And to my theater snob friends,
get over Anne Hathaway. She wasn't that bad.)

• She was the one who introduced me to Les Miserables when all we had was the Anniversary Concert VHS which we watched over. and over. and over. until she finally was able to take us to the real thing in Sacramento. It was very special to finally get to see the movie with her and my brothers Nick and Scott who are secure enough in their manhood to enjoy musicals (cough cough Andy and David...).
• When I went away to college in Southern California, I wasn't homesick in the slightest until six weeks in when it hit me all at once. It was bad. I called her crying on a Friday afternoon and she literally jumped in her car that instant and drove five hours to meet me in Bakersfield to take me home for the weekend.

What I picture my mom doing everyday.

• Did I mention that she's secretly Fraulein Maria (only a former Mormon instead of a former nun)? When I first into my apartment in North Hollywood, she came down to help me get settled. Most parents are willing to take their kids to Ikea. But do they also turn leftover curtain fabric into matching pillowcases? That's in addition to my favorite pink blanket, penguin apron, and countless costumes that she sewed herself. 
• Oh yeah. And she makes OUTSTANDING chicken. Like for real. Even when the power went out because of a crazy blizzard and all she had to work with was our wood stove, she still made the greatest chicken of all time. Also pot roast. And cheesecake. And Orange Goop (family tradition, don't ask).

The Ladies Hutch

Even with all of this, she still thinks that she's a sub-par teacher, a bland cook, a less than perfect wife, a mediocre mother, and an only ok human being. To that I say, poppycock.

Lazy Day Stream of Consciousness

This is pretty rare for me. I feel like blogging, but I have no particular topic in mind. Yet, I'm just going to keep typing until something starts to flow. Heh. The word 'flow,' always makes me think of periods. Periods, and Progressive insurance. Either way, not a pleasant association...

HAHAHAHAHA! But also, kind of depressing if you think about it too much.

So, it's Easter today. I suppose I could write something Easter-y. But I did that last year. Or was it the year before? Except that the only festive activities I've accomplished today entail eating the Robins Egg-shaped Whoppers I bought myself, and the mini-Cadbury Eggs my mom hid around my apartment whilst she was visiting me. (Thereby re-creating my dad's tradition of hiding treats around the house for her to find when he goes away on long trips). I don't think watching massive amounts of Buffy and lazing around in bed all day is particularly reminiscent of the Resurrection or pagan fertility symbols of rabbits and eggs. I definitely enjoyed it though!

"Grape nuts are neither grapes nor nuts."

I suppose I could branch out and write about my Passover experience last Tuesday. Seder dinner is always (and by always, I mean both times I've gone), a treat. Fascinating cultural ritual (which involves a lot of interactive drinking of wine, which we all know is right up my alley.) It's also a fun fish-out-of-water experience for a former Mormon-turned-agnostic to participate in a Jewish holiday extravaganza. I also got to hear an older Jewish lady say, "this brisket is like buttah," thusly invoking childhood memories of Mike Meyers in drag on SNL. But for realsies, the brisket really did taste like buttah. Kudos to my sister-in-law's stepmother on a fantastic meal!

This cake better be worth it...

I could also use this platform to call out my fella for texting me a picture of cake at three in the morning.  AND for refusing to give me any of said cake. Not cool, friend-o. Our relationship is officially on the rocks. (Sidebar, he just now texted me saying that if I was nice, he would bring me a piece. Apparently being nice means either giving him a back massage and/or buying him new underwear. Worth it?) (Second sidebar, he also texted me not to blog about that particular negotiation because it makes it seem like he uses "food for clothing like a hobo with magic." And then I called him a ninny. I'm pretty sure he'll never date another writer ever again.) What a couple of weirdos.

Things also accomplished today:

1. Multiple hours spent on reading my new favorite blog, Brittany Herself. Thank you Kelly Bean for introducing me to Brittany. If I lived in Ohio, had three kids, and a flair for plus-sized fashion, Brittany is who I would want to be when I grow up (even though she's only like five years older than me).

My mom and I are terrible influences on each other when it comes to shopping.

Aaaand... that's about it. I fully intended to clean my apartment today. I'm surrounded by discarded DSW shoeboxes, yogurt cups, and various items of clothing flung carelessly about my room. But some days I'm in the mood to clean like some kind of germaphobic demon (still in Buffy mode), and other days I'm totally happy to just wallow in filth. But at least I completed a blog! Even if it was completely incoherent and babbly, just like me!

Why My Mom Is Awesome

I originally posted this as a Facebook note (the second prototype to Sporadic Sporkitudes following the decline of my many ranting Myspace blogs) on October 25th, 2008, just before the vote on Prop 8. It is just as relevant over four years later as it was back then. 

My mom is down in Pasadena for a short visit. Naturally we're spending quality time together in our PJs watching the Notebook and Beaches, and eating whole wheat blueberry pancakes. We're sitting side by side on the couch with our phones out, scrolling down our respective Facebook pages. While mine is practically bleeding with all the variations of the red equality symbol, hers is covered in anti-gay outcries. My mom, like me, worries too much about offending people with her opinion, but she is allowing me to re-post the following: 

"I just want to share how incredibly proud I am of my mother. She wrote the following response to a friend who was sending Yes on 8 e-mail chains out. As a heterosexual, usually conservative, white, middle-class woman with five children who's been happily married for over thirty years, this is the last person you would expect to see the light about this incredibly important issue. But she stood up for what she believes and that proves to me that people's minds can change.

'I know this is a huge issue for you, and I respect that. Your answer was carefully thought out and shows how much you care about this. There was a time when I thought the same way. In fact, I thought the worst thing that could happen to our family would be to find out that one of our children was gay. (That didn't happen). It is also a huge issue for me. Enough that I left a church I loved my whole life over this as one of the key issues.

I'm sure this is not the case with you, but many people have a distorted view of gays. They only see the extreme and think that's how the majority of them are. Most of them live in our neighborhoods, work around us, and you would never even know they are gay. Many are intensely spiritual people with extremely strong moral values. Many are still Christian, while others have been completely disowned by their churches and family causing tremendous heartbreak. Many Christians don't know the Bible well enough to know that Christ never spoke a word about the subject. Paul did, but then he never even met Christ except as a vision on the road to Damascus long after Christ was dead. It is talked about in the Old Testament along with several other outdated laws that don't apply and are not practiced in this era. The form of homosexuality talked about in the Old Testament is really pedophilia. That is certainly not acceptable in this day either! Some people assume that all gays and lesbians are pedophiles which is absolutely not true. This is not directed at you, but I just get frustrated with the ignorance and superiority some people feel over their way being the only right way. There was a time when good Christian people believed in the the right to own slaves using the Bible as their support. I feel like this falls into that category, and hopefully some day will be looked on the same. To deny them this right is essentially saying they are not as good as the rest of us, and I believe that not to be true.

It was nice to get to express my opinion. I haven't been able to do that before over this particular issue. We can respect our right to differ. I should have just let the email slide, but I felt I had been silent on the issues long enough. To say nothing would be like saying I agreed with it.

Life would be pretty dull if we all agreed on everything. You know how much I care about you, and hope you know none of this was directed at you personally. I just needed to vent as did you apparently!'-Cathy"

Yeah... my mom is cooler than your mom. Don't hate.

Obligatory Holiday-Themed Post

Since commenting on the arrival of any given holiday always seems to be a proven goldmine for blog topics, I thought I would continue my grand tradition of lameness and discuss this most glorious of days, Easter. And by glorious, I mean, 'meh.' Seriously, if you're not a kid, you don't have kids, and you're not religious by any means, Easter kind of sucks. Especially if you don't even have any family nearby to at least use it as an excuse to gather boisterously, eat too much Orange Goop, play an overly competitive round of Apples to Apples, and drink boxed White Zinfandel (is that just my family?).

Happy Easter Island!

Because I disdain of most religions, I'm not obligated to give up my Sunday off and sit around in a drafty church getting high off of incense or torn up bits of Wonderbread (that last part makes since if you are now or ever were Mormon). So that tradition is out. Because I'm four and twenty, not just four, I can't rationalize a good Easter egg hunt (because that would look kind of creepy for a childless grown-up to hang out around an event meant for children. Plus, the best hunts were always at my Grandma's in Sacramento). And because my mommy is five-hundred miles away, I can't even re-enact the best of my childhood memories: searching for my skillfully concealed Easter basket. My mom was seriously a Wiz at hiding our baskets. Our house was not huge, and yet it always seemed to take me at least an hour and a half to find it. But when I did, there would be waiting a giant chocolate ostrich-sized egg filled with fudge or peanut butter. *DROOLS*

Sorry, Chuck. Never a good idea.

Mom came to visit me last year right before Easter. She left the morning of, but left me a note that I had to find my "basket." And by "basket" she meant the white, plastic kitchen colander she re-purposed and filled with Ikea chocolate she bought when I wasn't looking the day before. Pretty sneaky, Mom! So that was awesome. But then the rest of the day I spent doing laundry and drinking a bottle of Two Buck Chuck Chardonnay. Then the rest of the night I spent puking up the Two Buck Chuck Chardonnay. (The lesson learned was that if you're going to go with Chuck, stick with red. And eat something besides Ikea chocolate first, for God's sake!) Maybe the Easter bunny will bring me some Cabernet Sauvignon, since I'm on a diet and can't technically eat most treats associated with the occasion.

Totally irrelevant, but this made me giggle.

But this year, I'm all by my lonesome. Just sitting at my computer, reminiscing about holidays and massive chocolate eggs gone by. Woe is me! But at least I had eggs for breakfast. That's somewhat festive, right?

Why thank you Rob Pattinson!

Happy Easter to you too!

(I don't think he actually knew he was posing for an Easter-themed greeting, do you?)

(Sidebar, I'm not really a fan. I just thought this was really random.)