#had an awful week at work but whatever its peanut butter jelly time

[kijeu]

hyunjin ─ jjam mv making

[captain-cerrillo]

(its all a set up for smut don't let me deceive you lol)

It was weird to be at the point in his career where he was beginning to spend more time behind a screen than on the ground. Though, it had always been the ultimate goal. The Paladin and the Captain were almost like two different people inside of him. He thought of blue eyes and wondered how many other selves he had tucked away inside.

Eva appeared in his office not nearly as much as he wanted her to but, infinitely more than he had expected. It was a jolt to the heart every time. He wanted to see her forever. He smiled at her expressions as she took in the large glowing datamap projected from the holotable between them.

“Not a scientist.” Isaac huffed a breathy chuckle, gesturing lightly between them. “Just a bit of a nerd.” The corners of his eyes crinkled.

He made a few shorthand gestures to navigate the hundreds of datapoints mapped in a three-dimensional landscape of information. With a thematic swooshing motion, it jumped to a close-up view of a section of ranges in blue. A cluster of particular points made what looked like a mountaintop in the pixelated scenery. Isaac gestured lightly. “Here’s you.”

Eva’s eyes narrowed and she bent to study the chart more closely. Telekinesis, kinetic fields, and spatial distortion - the Alliance’s golden trifecta of biotic classification. “Are we being studied?”

The thought surprised him and he shifted his weight, suddenly unsure. “Honestly? Probably.” He watched the weight of it settle over her, although he got the distinct impression that she was neither surprised or particularly concerned. “Officially, I don’t have any reason to say yes. Unofficially, I know the people that I work with.” He gestured to the map of data in front of him.

"You know.” He glanced to her, hesitating as he considered. “Sometimes the soldiers call biotics wizards and, while maybe insensitive, I'm not sure it's wrong." He gestured again to move the datamap to a wider section.

"This is the little one." In a sea of blue, a line of teal green spikes stood out. Eva looked away from the landscape only to take in the way he put his hands on his hips, brown eyes heavy and far away in thought. "These are just the base readings that the shuttle picked up on our last run.”

Eva watched his face as he studied the mountain of information, wondering what he was looking for. “Isaac.”

His eyes lifted to hers and he didn’t want to talk about the data anymore.

“Here.” He activated his omnitool and Eva watched it glow softly, casting shades of orange across his face as he tapped a quick input and then extended an open hand to her across the table.

Eva returned the motion to let her ‘tool capture whatever he’d transferred, then studied the small display. A line of characters from different languages - common, binary, and foreign all mixed together – danced across the screen.

“What is this?”

“An access code.”

“An access code to?”

“My quarters,” he replied quickly, coolly and confidently, just before he realized, once again and way behind schedule, that normal people would automatically assume that was a sexual proposition. He panicked.

“But not for- To talk!" He blurted, almost sputtering the words before pausing to breathe, allowing himself a heartbeat to collect his thoughts. “I just meant to talk. I just want to talk to you...” He gestured to the sterile, accessible office around them. “…comfortably.”

Eva’s eyes sparkled and Isaac’s cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink. “Only if you want to. Eva, I-”

Eva's mouth had just fallen open to respond when the door behind her slid open. Luca, Davis, and then Harris almost fell through.

"Captain!"

Luca always started with an exclamation so Isaac waited for the spiel, genuinely curious about what could have sent the entertaining trio running to his office. His posture quickly stiffened, brows knitting tightly together when he realized, realistically, what sorts of shenanigans could have sent them running to his office.

"Is this a one or two door problem?" Isaac asked, referencing an old conversation.

(Isaac had pulled Luca aside early on to share a situational assessment technique his mentor had taught him years before – a solid, reliable, and easy way to distinguish true emergencies from the multitudes of mundane would-be stressors that were bound to come up on a spaceship in the middle of a war.)

"Um." Luca shook his hair out of his face as he considered. "Two."

"Okay. Good.” The captain felt genuine relief and his curiosity bubbled. He’d apparently lost every bit of necessary emotional distance, he mused as he watched the trio bumble over themselves and wondered what he was about to agree to.

"What were you- were you busy?" Harris asked – interrupting but, as innocent in intent as she was emotionally intrusive. Her big brown eyes studied Eva, who only stared her down in silence.

Isaac tried not to smile. "Almost always. But how can I help?" His eyes smiled for him.

“Luca tinkered with the projector in the conference room trying to set up a stupid Blasto-fest date night with that Phoe-” Harris’ eyes widened at Isaac as her mouth snapped shut, suddenly remembering all of the times the captain had specifically asked to never hear the word Phoenix in reference to a request.

Luca turned three shades of red and squealed a little, realizing he really needed to get better at learning to hide.

“And he broke it and you need to approve the replacement requisition before the meeting with Captain Sharon from the SSV Belgrade next week,” Ensign Davis chimed in with refreshing practicality, holding her ever-present datapad.

“Hey!” Luca whined. He reminded Isaac of a puppy. “That’s not exactly what-”

“Requisition. On it. Anything else?”

Harris and Luca shared a heavy look that made Isaac furrow his brow. They both looked to Davis who shook her head NO and the pair visibly deflated.

“I don’t even want to know.” He cast a weary glance between them. “Anything else?”

-

Isaac thought of Marie as he pressed a selection of shining buttons on his shower wall to start the steaming hot stream. He’d always been fond of the Sentinel in an abstract, if not brotherly way, but it was newly heartwarming to see her come into her own as a Commander on the Berlin.

He peeled his crisp blue shirt from his shoulders and tossed it to the corner of the room’s wide bed before working on his belt buckle as he toed off his shoes next to a small closet. While it would have been ridiculous to say that the Captain’s Quarters almost made the whole job worth it, it wasn’t too untrue, he thought with a small smile when he finally slipped under the hot water.

Isaac’s career gave him enough variety that he preferred to keep his personal routines the same. He used the same soap he’d grown up with – handmade with rosemary, black pepper and goat’s milk from a local farmer on Terra Nova – because it smelled like home for as long as the fresh shower scent lasted. It was one of the few things he’d made a point to ask of the Requisitions Officer before disembarking.

The scent carried on the shower’s thick steam air out of the little metal bathroom and into the open space of the bedroom. Eva noticed that first as she stepped across the threshold into a place she probably should not have been. Isaac rounded the little bathroom’s corner and they both froze.

“Is this a bad time? I can go-“

“Maybe… don’t?” Isaac blurted, grateful for the fact that his loose grey shorts were already on as he finished pulling a plain black t shirt over his damp skin. He slicked his wet hair back with a self-conscious smile. He couldn’t tell her what to do but he really hoped she’d want to stay.

-

He’d noticed her absentmindedly trying to stretch her sore legs and her eyes twinkled when he sat his datapad down to clap his hands against his lap in invitation. Although it had seemed perfectly natural and not at all blatantly inappropriate in the moment, the feel of her skin and the slight shifts of her weight against his lap betrayed him.

“It’s not too different from Earth,” Isaac said seriously, brows knit together as his hands worked. “There’s a desert around the equator but the poles are pretty lush. There’s a waterfall with a pink sand beach called Moonmoor – which is kind of funny because Terra Nova doesn’t actually have any natural satellites.”

He paused, glancing at Eva when she hissed as he worked at a particularly stubborn knot in her lower calf. She sensed his concern through her closed eyes and waved him off with a smile while she breathed through the waves.

Even though he wasn’t sure why, she seemed to enjoy his ramblings. He rambled mostly to keep his mind distracted as she stretched next to him on the lounge, shifting her slim legs across his lap to give him better reach.

Isaac couldn’t believe how soft and smooth she was under his battle worn hands. It was hard to believe she was the same Fury that inspired so much curiosity, awe, and even fear among the scattered crew. He fretted, internally, about all the ways his lack of biotic ability made parts of her feel inaccessible. It didn’t matter.

“What’s your home like?” Her voice was soft and her eyes traced the lines of his face as he considered how to answer.

“Wheat fields and cows. The closet neighbor a klick and a half away. People leave their doors unlocked at night.” He smiled at the memories, more aware of the homesickness deep in his bones than he’d ever noticed before. “The colony is huge overall but, my home is just a little village in the southern valley.”

“That sounds nice.” Eva’s eyes drifted shut again as Isaac’s hands worked over her lower legs, coaxing the tension from her tired muscles.

“I miss it,” he said quietly, serious and half-lost to old memory. “And peanut butter jelly sandwiches,” he admitted with a genuine despair. “What do you miss?”

Eva smiled with her eyes closed, surfing her own memories in her mind. “Elyssian sunsets. Eletania’s mountains. Nodacrux’s lightning storms. The way eezo sings on Thessia. Peace and quiet. Organic broccoli.” Her laughter almost twinkled and he couldn’t help but join her. “My life is kind of a tornado.” She gestured lightly to the iconic red stripe that flowed down the shoulder of her oversized hoodie. “Too much of a disaster to miss much.”

“You're not a disaster.” Isaac’s voice was warm and sure but, he didn’t meet her eyes because he was afraid she would see. “You're a miracle.” He could feel the heat from his flushed face again and let his eyes trace the lines of the interlocking metal plates that made up the quarter’s floor. Her body stilled under his hands and he swallowed but, continued.

“Eva, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” He said it so matter-of-factly, almost as if it were just another immutable statistic, burned into his brain. “And I’ve seen a lot of things.”

The tension of all the unspoken crested between them when she laid her small hand over his and whispered his name.

He marveled at the way his hands found her body as she closed the space between them, crawling into his lap and settling over him with an unmistakable hunger in her perfect eyes. He was rigid before her lips crashed into his but, he was throbbing by the time she rolled her hips. She ground herself into his lap as they tasted each other with warm, open mouthed kisses and gentle slips of tongue.

Every movement one of them made escalated the desire of the other. His fingertips found the skin of her upper thighs and he tried not to groan at the feel of her lithe muscle under his palms as she moved against him, working for delicious friction. Her hands went under his loose shirt and the tickle of her nails across his ribs almost made him giggle. She swallowed it.

“Eva,” he pleaded against her lips, his hands cupping her breasts under the oversized hoodie as she squirmed on his lap, moving her hips to increase the friction. “Eva, please.”

She stilled only enough to look at him with eyes full of questions and he could only beam a shy smile. He wrapped his arms around her folded body, already scooping her against his chest. “Can I take you to bed?”

-

His mouth caught a nipple, rolling the sensitive bud against his tongue before his lips slid down her body, savoring her supple curves. One hand worked between her thighs as he kissed the planes of her soft belly. He hummed against her skin as she reacted to his touch, arching to feel more of his body against her.

His fingers alternated between dipping into her wetness, rubbing his thick fingers against her slick walls and swirling tiny circles on her sensitive clit. He took his cues from the way she breathed, gasped, moaned, and strained under his attentions.

He used his free arm to support his weight as he shifted up to kiss her again. He moaned against her mouth when she tangled her fingers into his thick, damp hair and tried to pull his body closer with the sweetest whine falling from her open lips.

“Hey.” He whispered, pecking her smooth cheeks to try to bring the temperature down. His body surged at the idea of discovering all of her other sounds.

“Hi,” she whispered back, eyes twinkling in the dark. She squeezed her thighs around his hand, still steadily stroking as he nuzzled against her neck, trailing kisses to her shoulder.

“I just want you to know its not that I don’t want to know what you feel like. On the inside.” His eyes shuttered, a micromovement betraying his need. Eva moved her hip against his tented shorts knowingly and he fought the urge to hump against her - if only for the fact that he was certain he’d cum. He blinked back to reality and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “But there’s a whole lot of other things I want to know about you first.”

He kissed her deeply, slipping his fingers from her aching body only to spread her thighs for his descent. More than anything he just wanted to fall asleep in her puddle.

[sockparade]

tips for surviving the pandemic: things i learned from my immigrant parents

It’s hard to believe that it’s only been a little over a week since the WHO announced that the coronavirus (COVID-19) was officially a pandemic. This has been a long, challenging week for a lot of people and it is nothing short of terrifying to read reports of what is happening in Asia and Europe as many predict that we’ll likely endure a similar fate here in the United States. In the midst of all of this chaos and uncertainty, I’ve been reminded of so many lessons that my Taiwanese immigrant parents taught me. I’m sharing them here so that others might also benefit. Thanks Ma. Thanks Daddy.

你昨天已經出去了.

“You already went out yesterday.“

1. Learn how to stay home. Our family is eight days into self-isolating at home and Tony asked me this morning if I had cabin fever. And strangely, the answer is no. I’m not. Not to downplay the difficulty of this moment but my experience with this “shelter-in-place” ordinance reminds of pretty much all my summers between kindergarten and 8th grade. Both of my parents worked full-time so summer was just three blissful months of nothing. No structure, no plans, no camps, no playdates, and no responsibilities. My parents never made me feel like I was missing a thing by staying home and I don’t remember ever feeling bored. There were always library books to read, stories to write, and thoughts to journal. Hours were spent playing school with my big sister (now a first grade teacher!), making up random games like who can avoid touching the carpet longest, learning Kim Zmeskal’s latest gymnastics floor routine, writing lyrics to Kenny G saxophone solos, and rehearsing for our variety show that we would perform to our tired parents at the end of the day. And that’s not even including the hours we spent watching The Price is Right, CHIPS, Knight Rider, and Airwolf (yep, no cable).   

As a teenager I carefully plotted all my hangouts with friends so that I didn’t have too many consecutive days when I was out of the house. Whenever I asked my parents if I could hang out with friends, they would always say, “But you already went out yesterday. What’s wrong with staying home? Why do you always have to go out?” It was as if having too much fun two days in a row was off limits. If there was a big party on Friday, I would purposely make sure I stayed home Wednesday and Thursday just to increase the chances of being able to go out on Friday. I know a lot of people talk about how awful their high school years were but I was one of those lucky kids who had a really great group of friends that made me feel seen, loved, and cared for. The downside was that I couldn’t get enough of it. I was always thinking about the next hangout, the next event, the next thing. It took me all the way until my late twenties to fully appreciate the fine art of staying home and to finish my unexpected transformation into the expert homebody that I am today. 

I’m reminded of that old quote by Blaise Pascal, “All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone." 

It’s great to be out and about, but it’s also really important to learn how to stay home.  

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晚上要吃什麼？清冰箱.

“What are we eating for dinner?” “Cleaning the fridge.”

2. Be creative with what you have. I love food. Not in a foodie sense, but I get a lot of pleasure out of eating. I’m not a food snob by any stretch of the imagination. I thoroughly enjoy a Stouffer’s frozen lasagna or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as much as I enjoy a fancy, inventive, Michelin-starred meal at Commis. What’s hard for me is when food is eaten as sustenance rather than with delight. But my parents taught me that you can always take pride in preparing a meal. No matter your ingredients.

My mom is an excellent cook. I know a lot of people think their mom is a good cook but my mom is legitimately skilled in the kitchen. There were some nights when I’d ask what was for dinner and my mom would just reply, “Cleaning the fridge.” 

Now for some, this might sound terrifying. But my mom could honestly make something out of nothing. I still crave my dad’s simple egg and garlic fried rice. My parents raised me to be able to make an tasty meal just from rummaging in the pantry and fridge for random leftover things. There were plenty of summers where lunches and snacks were an individual culinary adventure for each of us kids. I still remember the day I witnessed my baby sister add a Kraft single on top of her onion ramen noodles. She saw my confusion, shrugged and said, “You should try it, it’s good.” 

With all the hoarding folks have been doing during this pandemic, I’ve found myself feeling quite anxious. Trying to calculate if we have enough food. Estimating how many more meals we can eat at home before we need to make another grocery run. As someone who struggles with a scarcity mentality it has been hard not to panic. But then I keep reminding myself that I know how to make good food using just whatever’s available. 

You know, I was pretty disappointed with Mary H.K. Choi’s second novel, Permanent Record, given how much I enjoyed her debut novel, Emergency Contact. But I was absolutely thrilled with the shine she gave to what her protagonist calls “Hot Snacks”.

Here’s an excerpt from Permanent Record that is a beautiful ode to creative food mashups and immigrant kids everywhere: 

“I edit and post a Shin Ramyun Black video set to music. My favorite instant noodles with three flavor packets and so much garlic. It’s a classic Korean HotSnack, especially when you throw in cut-up hot dogs, frozen dumplings, extra kimchi - and this is where the artistry comes in- eggs, cheese, corn from a can, and a drizzle of sesame oil on top. And furikake if you’re feeling wealthy. The next night I put up a bacon, egg, and cheese not in a bagel but in a glazed honey bun. Laced with sriracha and pan fried on the outside. Then it’s chilaquiles with Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos and chorizo. Jamaican beef patty casserole disrespected with a smothering of Japanese curry and broiled. With Crystal Hot Sauce over the top and pickled banana peppers. I’m trolling with that one but the controversy is berserk. When I run out of old videos, I make saag paneer naanchos with Trader Joe’s frozen Indian food, and it’s a hit. Especially when I add yogurt and a thick layer of crushed-up Takis on top.”

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看連續劇.

“Watch soap operas.” 

3. Find a way to escape. I’m generally pro technology but I’ll admit I’m a little bummed at the way iPhones and iPads have made TV viewing such an individual activity. I like how Disney+ has gotten some families back to watching TV together again. Although I will say, we really coddle our kids these days. I grew up in a time when movie ratings only applied in the theaters and we watched movies with our families like Alien, The Fly, and Gremlins. We were scared out of our minds and sometimes could only watch through the cracks between our fingers covering our eyes because it was so scary. Okay, this also might be why I can’t watch horror movies as an adult. 

From a young age, my parents taught me that watching other people’s drama unfold on screen is one of the best way to escape your own drama. Some people say binge watching became a thing when the TV networks started releasing shows on DVD. Others give credit to Netflix releasing their original content a whole season at a time. But truth be told, I first learned how to binge watch from my parents. 

We would rent 30-40 VHS cassette tapes from that random spot in Bellaire Chinatown. Can you picture it? You needed multiple plastic bags to transport that many VHS tapes. 

Do you remember the one about the dying mother who needed to find homes for each of her 7 children? I don’t think it’s normal for a 10 year old to cry so much but you better believe it’s made me learn the true value of a soap opera escape hatch. 

Are you in a pandemic? Now’s the perfect time to pick up that YA novel, binge that reality show, start that kdrama, or rewatch all six seasons of The Sopranos again.

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下個禮拜會下雨.

“It’s going to rain next week.”

4. Be informed about what’s ahead. If you ask either of my parents about the weather at any given time they can reliably tell you the daily percent chance of precipitation and humidity for at least seven days out. They’ve always been this way. They would inform me of the weather at various points throughout the week. They planned their yard work and car washes around the weather forecast. There’s something about the way the weather forecast is available to everyone. And it feels like it’s just a matter of making the small extra effort to access it and gain a slight advantage. I feel like so much of the immigrant mentality is to be diligent in making the right choices to not screw yourself over and seizing opportunities whenever you can. And it wasn’t just weather but this is such an obvious example of it. 

I remember my dad saying to me once, "Can you imagine if someone decided to read every book in their local library? If they just went shelf by shelf and systematically read all the books? You could do it, you know. It’s free, it doesn’t cost any money to check out a book from the library. But no one really does it.” 

I think immigrant parents get a bad reputation for forwarding chain letters and health/science hoaxes they get on email, WeChat and Line. And in a pandemic, yes, they are definitely susceptible to misinformation, rumors and flat out untruths. But the thought behind it seems right. 

The mistrust of government leadership is actually quite relevant right now in this pandemic. Many immigrants left countries with governments that were overtly corrupt, oppressive, and used propaganda to influence its citizens. And while many Americans still take pride in living in a country that verbally champions freedom and democracy, the truth is that our government has already failed us and lied to us in many ways. During this pandemic, we cannot wait on leaders to tell us what to do. We must be diligent in reading for ourselves, seeking experts, using our critical thinking skills, and making preparations accordingly.

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會不會冷?

“Are you cold?” 

5. Check in with yourself. Check in with others. I have so many memories of my parents walking through the living room and asking me and my sisters if we were cold. It felt like they couldn’t walk past the thermostat without asking us if they needed to raise it or lower it. As if they couldn’t hear us sneeze and wonder if they needed to turn off the ceiling fan. They couldn’t see us sitting in a dim room without turning on a light for us. There are so many times I fell asleep reading on the couch and woke up with a blanket over me. Or sometimes I was fully awake doing something random, like playing Egyptian Rat Screw with my sisters (a cardgame for the uninitiated), and my mom would walk by and wordlessly drop a warm, heavy blanket over my shoulders. That’s care, y’all. Consistent, immediate action, and often without words.  

The tip here is to pay attention to your discomfort during a pandemic. There’s this immigrant stereotype of stoicism and that’s true to some degree but maybe the resilience is made possible not because of unnatural toughness but largely because immigrant parents can also be so incredibly perceptive and tender in some very tangible ways. 

When everything is chaotic around you and you’re busy multitasking these next few months, don’t ignore your needs. Notice how you’re feeling. Physically and emotionally. Where are you carrying your stress and tension in your body? You don’t have to tough it out. Oh and remember to check in with your people on how they’re feeling. Is there a light switch you can turn on for someone? 

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笑死人.

“Laugh to death.” 

6. Laugh to survive. Look, we didn’t have the perfect family or anything like that. We’ve definitely had our share of difficult times, financial stress, health issues, arguments, and pain. But my parents also really knew how to laugh and taught us to laugh with abandon. Like, bent over, tears running out of your eyes, can’t breathe kind of laughing. Our dinner table was kind of like a writer’s room. It was difficult to tell a mediocre story. You had better come prepared with a punchline or a point. It was a tough crowd, every night. On many occasions I stopped myself halfway through a story upon the self-realization that there was no real way to land the plane. Polite laughs were nowhere to be found, except perhaps a charitable smile from my baby sister. But it didn’t stop us from trying. I think my sisters and I are all probably better storytellers for it and we definitely have learned to try to bring humor into difficult times.  

I know that this pandemic is so incredibly dark and depressing that it can sometimes feel disrespectful, inappropriate, or childish to laugh at anything. But my parents taught me that you laugh to survive. Nothing is ever so dark that you can’t find a reason to laugh. And sometimes you really need to find something to laugh about.

I’ve been taking long breaks each day from major media news outlets but I have been finding such joy and laughter from the meme creators on IG and the comedic geniuses on Twitter. In Taiwanese when something’s really funny, people will say a phrase that is imperfectly translated as laugh to death. Like you killed a person it was so funny. Now’s the time to find that content or those people who will get you to laugh to death. 

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我要去挪車.

“I’m going to go re-park the cars.” 

7. Go to bed with a plan for the next morning. I grew up in a suburb of Houston, Texas where one property developer built the entire neighborhood and used the same eight or nine floor plans for all the houses but changed up the brick and trim color to keep things interesting. Most homes have a long driveway that connects a garage set near the backdoor of a home to the street. By the time I was driving, we had four cars in total -- two in the garage and two on the driveway. At the end of the day when everyone was home for the night and my dad was getting ready to go to bed, he’d announce, “I’m going to go re-park the cars.” Then we’d all kind of stop what we were doing and rearrange the order of the cars to match our morning departure schedules. This meant figuring out who was leaving when in the morning and sometimes also prompted brief check-in conversations about any changes in our usual routine. 

In a pandemic it can sometimes feel like there are a million different things to attend to and large conceptual concerns that demand your attention. But there’s something calming and centering about spending a few minutes each night thinking through specifically what needs to happen just tomorrow. Not the day after or next week. Get super tactical and specific about what tomorrow morning looks like. Check-in with your partner about any aberrations to your schedule (e.g. I have a super important conference call at 7am tomorrow) to minimize any unnecessary surprises. There’s something magical about setting up your morning that helps you rest just a little easier at night. 

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星期三我們有禱告會.

“On Wednesdays we have prayer meeting.”

8. Make time for your spirituality. Growing up my parents both had physically demanding jobs. My mom was a seamstress for many years, providing alterations at my aunt and uncle’s dry cleaners. She later worked in an elementary school cafeteria and then eventually became a classroom aide for special needs students. My dad worked at that same dry cleaners for years until he got a job at the post office. He then became a letter carrier, delivering mail on foot. The summer months were especially grueling, carrying a heavy sack of mail in 100 degree, humid weather, and walking until sweat soaked his shirts and blisters formed on his feet. They had every excuse to skip weeknight events. But unless they were sick in bed, I can’t remember a time when they missed their weekly prayer meeting with their friends from church.  

Pandemics have an unsettling way of forcing us to confront our mortality and can trigger a bunch of unresolved shit that has been bubbling underneath the surface. We’ve lost some of our usual coping mechanisms and it can be super hard to quiet the anxieties, fears, and other demons that we usually try to keep under control. This isn’t a lecture about a particular faith or belief system. It’s just a reminder to prioritize your existential questions, your interior life, and your connection to things much bigger than yourself -- whether that’s a community, a yoga practice, a faith group, a tradition, or something else. 

I have a fledgling meditation practice that I’ve been trying to strengthen since last year. When I say fledgling I mean that sometimes I bail before the ten minutes is up and check my phone. Even though I’m not very good at it yet, I can really tell the difference on the days that I make time for it. Our church started hosting its weekly Sunday service online and that’s challenging for me because a church service feels like it’s designed to be so much about the physical rhythm of going to a place, seeing faces of people I love, hearing their voices co-mingling with mine in song and in prayer, and tasting the bread and wine in my mouth. The online service was short, and just for viewing through a zoom conference call, but there was still something meaningful about setting aside that time Sunday morning, asking our wiggly kids to be present, and saying the liturgy out loud knowing that in homes all across the country, other people are doing the same. 

If things are really going to get as bad as some are predicting, we’ll need the spiritual strength to make it to the other side. Those habits are hard to form overnight. My parents taught me that you really have to make the time for your spirituality non-negotiable, so that you won’t abandon it when it’s inconvenient or when you are too tired.    

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沒辦法.

“What choice do we have?” 

9. Rise to the occasion. Whenever my parents are telling old war stories about things they had to do to get to where they are today, inevitably one of us will say, “Man that’s crazy, how did you manage to do it?” And instead of pointing to some super personality trait of theirs or some complex self-help principle, they always say, “We had no choice.” It’s not said in a defeated way, but in a posture of accepting that life can be cruel, unfair, and capricious. And that it’s not helpful to dwell too long on the why’s and how’s. My parents taught me that you can’t stay in despair mode. You eventually have to push yourself into problem solving mode and you do whatever it takes to move forward.  

This coronavirus is so unlike anything we’ve ever experienced in our lifetime. It is so unprecedented for me that my brain is having a hard time processing the reality of what’s happening right now and the rest of my lived experience. I spent the first few days of this week just being overwhelmed, anxious, angry, and irritable. At this point though, I’m in go mode. I’m doing what needs to be done for our family and taking care of business. What choice do we have? I can hear my parents saying it. One day, if we’re lucky, we’ll say it to our kids too. 

[visionarylee]

Raised by Broken Women

It’s a topic that we rarely, if ever, discuss; Broken souls having children only for those children to be shattered souls themselves. Because I know that millions experience this, I want to share my story in order to save a life or even change one. If that means my story goes public, well I hope something good comes from it.

My mother comes from a neglected, unloving home where her father was in and out of the home, and her mother saw her as a stain on a pearly white wall. She didn’t grow up surrounded by love. Embraced. Held. She would tell me stories as I aged about her life and my grandmother, the grandmother I saw as an angel that guarded me from the darkness that was my mother. Her conclusion was that my grandma was a broken woman herself-shattered by not only the times she lived in, but by her husband, a man who was in and out of the house leaving her with six children to raise alone only to have another child by a different woman. This love child would become friends with her siblings without her identity being known until it was...well...known.

There are many things I can mention about my mother’s life. The one that stands out the most is that my mother is an addict; sober, but what stands out from that is that it was her younger sister who was her “drug dealer”. Ironically, her sister gloats about being the favorite of my grandmother. I know this because she did. If you ask, she will tell you she had a great childhood. Not so much for the other five.

My mother, the shattered woman she was, decided she wanted a daughter. My father wanted nothing to do with me so she left him and married a man, having his child when I was four. I was young; therefore, I can only remember so much of the good, but the bad, it sticks with me like a repetitive nightmare that shakes you out of your sleep.

When I was in the second grade, my mother rushed into the after-school daycare to pick me up then to my grandparents' house. I’m sitting on the couch, my mom in the chair, my grandparents in the kitchen. Silence. Not even the ticking of a clock. That’s until the phone rings. My mother looks up, eyes distraught as she gazed at her father. He answers, listens, and then looks to her, and I can’t remember his exact words, but I remember the shrieks that escaped my mother’s mouth. The cries. I watched as if she was crumbling into a ball of nothing. My step-father had just shot himself and later died.

That’s when the devil himself intertwined with our lives. My mother was already a shattering piece of glass, but this time, she was just...shattered. Her addiction started, she slept for most of my childhood, which I recently discovered her addiction was Ativan and cocaine, the cocaine coming from her younger sister. The same home she grew up in was now my home, and now she was able to snap her finger, and in mere minutes, I was her.

Neglected, unloved, unbearable, I was now a speck of dirt on a new pair of shoes to her yet she treated my brother like a king and honestly, I’m thankful for that because in my eyes, my brother is royalty. However, with me she crippled me into a sheltered, antisocial, reserved being who just closeted her emotions and resentment. We lived in an emotionless, noiseless home except for the occasional running faucet and laughter coming from our television sets. There were no hugs, no speaking about emotions, rarely any “I love yous”. It was no home. Just a house.

As I grew older, my grandmother would try to tell me something was wrong with my mother. Well, obviously, but I’m a child. How was I supposed to know? What was I supposed to do? I remember my mom walking around our house in a daze as if in a dream with a cigarette in hand. I would try getting her attention, shouting, cussing at her, screaming. Nothing, but that daze of hers. She would finally stumble out of my room, and when she was in her right mind, she would initiate arguments with me as if she fed on them. As if she fed on my misery.

From morning to bedtime, she was asleep on the seemingly comfortable sofa in our living room.  I put myself on the bus every morning making sure to lock the door. Tried to keep my unkempt hair tidy as best as a child could. Food? She rarely cooked so we had the choice of cereal, cans of ravioli and spaghetti, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which I am eternally grateful for. We had the basics: a roof over our heads, hand-me-down clothes, for the most part electricity and running water. See, my mom would get social security checks in the name of her son due to the loss of his father. We lived off a measly $1000 a month. She would go years without working. How could we survive on just $1000 a month? We couldn’t.

Eight grade comes around. My mother used to pawn off my electronics without asking-even stole money in my older years-so this time she asked and promised me a dog. I was ecstatic! I told her pawn whatever! Soon we went to adopt the being that would alter my life; change its course. A rat terrier I named Casey. A small, 2-month-old baby, and for the first time, I felt loved. I felt wanted. I felt needed. I was finally shown that maybe I mattered. Someone thinks I matter.

I’m finally 18, It’s prom time. I remember thinking maybe this time my mother will be involved in my life. She’ll take me shopping, buy me shoes, do the whole deal, but I should’ve known that the past repeats itself. She only came to one of my basketball games in middle school. Perhaps two. My teacher offered to pay for my basketball pictures because she caught me in the hall crying. My mom decided she didn’t want to miss out on her Ativan, a Bud Light, and sleep the day away. Those were more of a priority. Thankfully my aunt, who I didn’t have to ask, prepared me for two proms. Took me shopping, did my makeup, did my hair. When she told me to take a look in the mirror, I was breathless. This wasn’t me. It couldn’t be me. No unkempt hair, no baggy clothes, no old shoes. I felt like a princess on her way to a ball as cliché as that sounds. I felt beautiful. Confident for the first time.

Before I was off to college, my mother decided to go to rehab-the same facility her brother used. I was happy for my brother’s sake as he was too young to know who and what she was, but my childhood was over. I’m off to college. It was simply too late for me to forgive her.

I became physically sick my sophomore year. It was suggested that I return home for the semester, but I chose to bear the pain than to return to the narcissist who was my mother. Her addiction was gone, but her treatment of me with a city in between us was no different. My mental health was starting to decline because the chronic pain was something a school clinic wasn’t equipped to handle, and I had no insurance. My mother never put me on her insurance when she worked so throughout college I had to endure this mysterious, chronic pain. Eventually I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder, anxiety and fibromyalgia. My grades slipped, the pain increased. I would miss a month worth of classes. Rather that than return home to my trigger-my mother.

I managed to graduate college somehow, and now I was in the real world. I was sick, no doctor could help me, I couldn’t hold a job, I crashed my car twice within a year. There were times when I just wanted to die. I prayed for God to end my life, but Baby Casey. Who would take care of him like I did? Anytime suicide popped into my mind, I remembered Casey needed me, and that was enough for me to go on for another day.

But the worst had finally debuted. May I add on time. I knew Casey was sick for years. He had a bad heart and was getting sick and sicker by the months. The love of my life, my guardian angel. He didn’t have much time. I was on vacation for the week when my brother texts me that something was wrong with Casey. I come home, and he looks awful, bloated, but he had always looked like this if his body had too much fluid in it. I gave him his daily medicine, thinking I’ve seen this a hundred times. He’s fine...The next day what I thought were seizures were not seizures. Cardiac arrest. He died. It took weeks for me to comprehend that he was really gone. I would come home and shout for him, be at work thinking I needed to hurry home to walk him only to remember...

I fell into the deepest depression that I had experienced. As I type this, I’m still experiencing it. Since December I feel no emotion. No happiness, no sadness, no motivation, no anger. Nothing. I knew I needed help, and I went to my mother. What a mistake. She couldn’t have cared any less, calling me miserable, depressing, and pathetic yet there were times she’d texted or called me crying about a man breaking her heart. Once I had to leave work and take an extended lunch break because she was so distraught on the phone and indubitably intoxicated. I left my job to comfort her over a man. She’s in tears, stating she wanted to call her drug dealer. I stayed with her for an hour to calm her down. I even took her to Miami to get her mind off of him and my brother, who needed a car and was depending on my mother for that.

Time passes, and I lose my job. I’m about to lose my car, my apartment, my belongings. I’ve already lost my mind. To protect myself from her as I am in this bottomless pit that has no exit sign, I isolated myself. What does my mother do? What a broken woman who despises her daughter would do. She leaves voicemails saying if I starve myself to death or hurt myself, she’d be sad for a little while, but REMEMBER, “it’s not my fault. You’re an adult. You make your own decisions. You're not going to kill me!" I hadn’t talked to her in weeks, and she knowing how fragile my mental state was says this. She goes on to say she never wanted to live with me, but since I don’t have a job “I GUESS you can come live with me.” She rescinded the invite.

That is my mother. The mother who purposely harms me. The mother who compulsively lies to the family about me, who then turns around and degrades me. For example, I visited my grandma, who lives with my aunt and her children, to ask for assistance. My 23-year-old cousin verbally attacks me calling me pathetic, looking down at me as if I was some stranger begging for change. As if she is not in nursing school, although lacks compassion for the career. I could see the emptiness in her eyes as she persistently attacked me even after I apologized. Just pure boredom. As if she herself didn’t ask her parents for help when she moved in with them with a man and child. As if she didn’t turn a blind eye when her brother borrowed $500 from our grandmother with no intention of paying her back as he continues traveling. This is the grandma who is my pillar. The damage my mother has done is irreversible. This is the woman who gave birth to me.

She is a woman with no remorse. No empathy. Shows no kindness to me. There have been no apologies. Ever. Even while I was reaching out for help, she blocked me from communication unconcerned about my well-being. She reserves that for my brother, who is delighted to be her favorite yet considers him dangerous and threatening afraid to sleep with her door open if he is present. This is why I can longer be anywhere near the shattered woman who gave birth to the shattered girl.

It is a never-ending cycle in some families. Broken people growing up in neglected, unloving homes only to have children and replicate that same environment, picking their favorites as they build and decorate.

Although I thought it was too late for me, I take any opportunity I can get to heal. I jog, I write to producers, literary agents, and submit profiles to talent agents. I promote my screenplays, I continue to write, read and watch films when my depression doesn't hinder my concentration or my anxiety doesn't send me into heart attack mode. I am posting this with the hope that others will read this and not only end this horrendous cycle but heal themselves. Isolate yourself if you must. If you can relate to this even just a little, I want you to know that you are not alone.

Broken people give birth to broken children, and it’s time to end it.

Written by Lee

[christinasayswhatsnext]

It is 3 A.M., and despite how strong and capable he his, I am a little worried about the man in front of me. He is still smiling, yes, and takes a gulp of Pepsi as he sits and looks around. Then, he meets my eyes and the smile fades.

“This,” he says, “is really hard. This is crazy. I want to be done with this already. I want to be done.”

It’s an understandable desire, since Tim, the man in front of me, has currently run 67 miles. It makes sense that he is ready for this to be over. The problem is, though, that he still has another 33 miles to go before this race is over. He has more than 12-hours of running left, so while he has already done amazing work, he is far from the end.

Still, in his own form of resurrection, Tim gets up and, with the help of his pacer Justin, starts to shuffle off to complete his fourth loop of the race. I am grateful that, after the earlier moment of vulnerability, Tim has gotten up with a smile as he said, “See you soon!”

I’m grateful, because I know that I won’t just see him soon, but I’ll be meeting him in five hours to run the last twenty miles of this race with him. He’s got the hardest job– making it to the end. I’ve taken on the task of doing everything I can to help him get there, and I can already tell it’s going to be quite an adventure.

Tim Griffiths of Three Forks, MT, has been nothing but positive the entire time we’ve known each other, which is about two weeks come race day. He already has a few hundred-milers under his belt, and has an optimistic and realistic mindset about doing what he can and simply focusing on trying to finish. He’d done it before, and he was hopeful he could do it again.

This isn’t just any race, though. Tim is taking on the HURT100, one of the most technically difficult trail races out there. It’s five loops on O‘ahu’s wet, muddy. root-strewn trails, making not only physically hard, but mentally challenging as well. The documentary Rooted captures it really well: it’s a crazy, amazing adventure that tests so many things about an athlete’s capacity and capability to commit to the joy and pain of distance running.

Still, it sounds crazy when you first consider it.

I mean, who would run 100 miles? That sort of distance is ridiculous– a laughable fool’s errand at best, but an overwhelming and dangerous prospect in the eyes of some. A marathon is already a crazy distance. Who would do that nearly four times over?

I can’t claim to, completely, understand why someone would run 100 miles– because I still haven’t done it (yet?). I do, however, stand in awe of the people who do it. This year, after continuing my own running journey, I decided to get a little closer to the action by volunteering and then, at the last minute, offering to pace Tim. 

I had learned a few weekend before, though, that this was no normal twenty-mile run. Trail running and road running are more like cousins than siblings. I have cousins, for example, that are six-foot tall basketball players. We share a few similar features, and there’s a lot of love between us, but there are some ways in which we are very different.

Running the HURT100, as I was taught by some awesome folks who joined me on my practice loop, is much less about pace than road running. The course is so technical, there are a whole lot of sections that are much more like scaling a mountain�� including climbing over roots and rock faces– than actually running a race. At the end, also, it’s much less about an actual time and more about staying in a good mindset, healthy (lots of racers end up twisting their ankles and having to drop) and moving forward. 

So, my job when I meet Tim later that morning, was to help ensure he stayed in good spirits, kept eating and drinking as much as he could, and getting him whatever he needed.

I see Tim again at about 9AM the next morning. He is two hours behind his initial plan, with the fourth lap taking its difficult mental toll. Lots of runners, I both learned in the documentary and Tim told me later, struggle with that fourth loop– it’s well out of sight from the end, takes place in complete darkness, and begins reaching the point when runner’s are no longer simply tired, but sleepy as well.

So, when Tim comes in a little late, his wife and I are a little nervous, but not overly worried that he’s off schedule. His initial plan was ambitious, and we’ve heard he’s still in good spirits. He also still has more than 9 hours to complete the final loop of the race, and as long as he’s able to keep close to his current pace, he should have more than enough time.

When Tim finally runs in to the aid station, the sound of cowbells that congratulate all runners fills the air. He is followed by Justin, head-banded and tutu’d, as they come in. Tim, ever the optimist, waves at me and gives us a big smile. “You’re here!” he exclaims. “You ready?!”

“Hell yeah!” I respond. We know it’s time.

But first, there’s some wounds to tend to. Tim’s crew– lovingly made up of his wife, two kids, mother and step-father– start prepping him for this final lap. Shoes are removed, to discover massive blisters on his feet that need to be lanced and drained for him to go forward. This is as painful as it sounds, and Tim scrunches his face as he drinks Pepsi, coffee, and eats as many peanut butter sandwiches and potato chips (refueling his protein, carbs, and sodium are key at this point) as he can.

He sits dazed for a moment as his crew prepares his body, while he prepares his mind for what’s to come. Then he looks up at me. “You ready for this?” he asks, with a wry smile on his face. “We gotta go. We gotta get moving.”

I nod, putting up a fist for him to bump. “Alright,” I respond, “then let’s do this thing.”

He nods, smiles at his family, and we head off. The sound of his crew’s cheers and cowbells follows us, and we try as hard as we can to suck up its energy as get ready for this final, arduous loop ahead of us.

You have to keep him talking, I think to myself as we climb up the hill.

This is what Tim’s family and pacers have told me as I prepped to help Tim out. He needed to get his mind out of what some runners would call “the dark place.” It was something I knew all too well (heck, I had it yesterday at mile 6)– the mental state you go into when you’re tired or it just feels hard, and the idea of doing this for another minute seems unbearable. Part of my job was to help Tim focus on anything other than how crazy this journey was, and help him find the energy to finish this race strong.

And here’s where my nerves kicked in– I’m not used to talking while I run. This is why I run solo. Running is, so often, where I finally find quiet, that the prospect of having to talk with him is a little daunting.

But, as this site has likely shown, I do love a good story, and I love to hear the stories of other folks. So, without thinking, I start asking Tim every question I can think of. How has the race been so far? How are you feeling? Are you excited to say good-bye to these places? 

Tim starts answering, a smile on his, face slowly growing, as he realizes that this, finally is his final loop. “This is crazy!” he hoots. “I have never seen anything like this! How is this a race?!”  He starts to laugh. “I can’t wait to be be done with this.” 

“I know,” I start to laugh along with him. “So let’s get this done!” 

He nods, puts his head down, and starts to get us to work. 

The rest of the race passes in a blur of steps– all kinds of steps. Trot-to-jog-almost-running steps. Slow, slogging, hands-on-thighs steps up hills. Careful, climbing over roots-and-rocks steps. The mental aspect of continuously moving the body for hours on end, unable to rest because we have to be constantly vigilant to ensure we don’t get lost or fall, is exhausting.

Still, it is also incredibly joyful– in the fullest sense of the word– to watch Tim work towards this amazing achievement. He breathes deeply through his nose, working his way up the nastier slopes, staying positive as he tells me about how much he loves his wife and kids, how he started bow hunting, what his life in Montana is like.

And through it all, we keep moving.

Eventually, through Tim’s hard work and the grace of God, we make it to the final aid station– Jack-Ass Ginger, on the Nuuanu Pali trail– meaning we only have 8.5 miles to go till the end. About a mile from the aid station, I had asked Tim what he needed– Pepsi, coffee, food. I had fallen at this point, and so my hands are covered in mud.

As soon as we get up there, I start asking his crew and all the nearby volunteers for what he needs. As I do this, though, other folks immediately take over so I can take care of myself. Someone, without my asking, grabs my hands and starts wiping the mud off them. Rebecca, another awesome teacher and runner who is volunteering, hands Tim and I smoothie after smoothie to fuel us to the end. Someone slips a peanut butter and jelly sandwich into my mouth. Everything around us is full of so much love and support. It’s a little overwhelming.

But there’s no time to be overwhelmed. We have to get moving.

Tim is feeling jovial for these final few miles. After a three mile climb, the last five miles is almost completely downhill. The climb is incredibly hard, but knowing that the end is near keeps Tim feeling excited.

Then, though, we get to the final four miles, and Tim is pushing, but I can tell it’s getting hard. He’s feeling it, now, saying that as much as he is determined to get to this finish line– and he is damn determined– he is starting to feel it. While he is still positive, and greeting every one who we meet on the trial and who roots us on, he occasionally intersperses it with moments where he admits that he is in pain. He is cheered on by folks as we pass, and so he is able to keep smiling.

  Still, we keep moving.

Finally, we get to the last few miles, and Tim is a little in his head. We’re both working to get him out. “Tim, we have to do this. You can do this.”

“I know,” he replies. “Almost there. Get out of your head,” he tells himself, “We’re almost there.”

“You’re bigger than the pain, Tim. You can do this.”

“No weakness,” he says back, “We have to keep moving. I didn’t get this far to stop.”

Finally, we get him to the last half-mile. I let him know that we’re so close.

He stops and looks back at me. “Still a half mile?” He looks at me confusedly. “That can’t be. I thought it was right there. I can’t go anymore.”

“Yes you can, Tim,” I immediately respond. “You didn’t come 99.5 miles to stop now. Keep moving.”

He nods, and moves from a slow jog to a faster one.

“There we go,” I encourage him. “We’re doing this.”

He starts moving even faster, until the moment he has been waiting for comes. We round a corner, and there are Tim’s family– particularly his children– cheering him on and ready to run the last few feet with him.

  And with that, after 34 hours and 37 minutes, Tim has finished. We’ve come back to the end.

Words can’t begin to describe how powerful it was to watch this incredible journey. We never truly know the capability of our own spirits until we meet that moment.

Watching Tim get there, I realized that even though I so often think of running as “my” time, it is so much bigger than that. Running is where we come we come back to our most human, the purest versions of ourselves, without all the things we try to put between us as others.

On the surface, Tim and I may have little in common. In the end, though, he let me join in on his incredible journey. And I could not be more grateful or inspired.

HURT: Pacing the 2018 HURT 100 It is 3 A.M., and despite how strong and capable he his, I am a little worried about the man in front of me.

[the-grumpy-panda]

Eat Them Up, Yum!

No fish heads here. Just the remains of my counter top junk food blow out. I can use my counter again! The real treat within these treats may be the two (originally three, but one was cancelled on the sellers end, and of course it's the one I really wanted. Maybe next time...) chips I ordered from Canada, because why not? Thanks Ebay! I've already gotten candy from all over the world, so let's see what the Canadians are hiding. Besides the secret to producing attractive celebrities. Curse you Ryan Reynolds. Do you know how hard you make it for us average folk? Bastard. But I'm keeping Neve Campbell and Evangeline Lilly. They are mine now! Oh, and Emily VanCamp. Thanks so much. I'll probably just blow right through these and make any comments short and direct. I think I'm simply ready to be done with this phase of eating. **Quick note. Parts of this were written months ago. So excuse the fact that some of these treats may no longer be on shelves. Maybe I should change my nom de plume to "That Fuc*ing Lazy-Ass Panda." HEY! Even Grumpy Panda's get busy. Orphan Black marathons won't watch themselves. But don't ask me to tell you about the show. I'm merely in love with Tatiana Maslany. Wait a minute... lemme check this internet thing... WOW! Another Canadian! Yup. MINE. Seriously, Canada... what's in your water up there? On to the eaty (Fake word number 46.) things -Honey Roasted Reese's Peanut Butter Cups! Almost no discernible difference from a regular Reese's cup. The aftertaste is where this gets you, but not pleasantly. There's an acrid note coming way at the end, and a bit of an oily sensation somehow. -Barbecue Payday candy bar! Take a Payday, roll it in some dry rub barbecue seasoning, and you'd have this bar. It doesn't work all that well, though. It's not gross, and I think I've learned that peanuts coated with a dry rub barbecue mix would be delicious, but the barbecue does not mix well with the sweet nougat portion. At all. -Hershey's Cherry Cheesecake candy bar! An unpleasant smell is the first thing to greet you. It's like a cheap, institutional soap almost. Taste wise, I don't like it. Whatever they did to try to get the white chocolate (not something I'm a fan of to begin with) to taste a bit more like cheesecake is off, and it leaves me reminded of lavender candy... which is also not very good. This may be due to the cherry element. It's present, and were it not for the surrounding chocolate, it might be a decent flavor element. Maybe they'll try this part in another bar. Then there's the cookie bits, which make the bar look unappealing as well. Little dark pieces festooned like barnacles. I suppose this is meant to simulate a crust like element, and while it does add a needed crunch, that's about all it does right. -Strawberry Kit-Kats! Was strawberry a flavor in the mix from all those Japanese Kit-Kats I tried way back when? I can't recall, but if it was, I bet it was better than this one. Not that this one is wholly bad, it's just a bit mediocre. It smells of Frankenberry cereal, which is fine by me, but the taste is just too artificial and a bit too sweet. -Mike & Ike Cherry Cola candies! Aw, man. These smell like cinnamon. They taste like a cinnamon or spiced cola. It's cool the cola flavor comes through, but no cherry seems present and a spiced cola is not appealing. Anyone else remember when Pepsi tried that exact thing one holiday season? Yeah, it was gross, and these unfortunately remind me very much of that. Mike & Ike also have a Root Beer Float candy out, but I didn't see those whilst oot and aboot. (Is that Canadian enough to trick Mia Kirshner, you think? Yet ANOTHER fine example of prime Canadian genes.) -But wait! What's this that just became a thing in my life mere minutes ago.I kid you not. I wrote the preceding paragraph yesterday, and today this makes its existence known. How coincidental... and saddening.  Pepsi Fire soda! Pepsi with cinnamon. Didn't they learn from the spiced cola fiasco? If this wasn't handed to me, I never would have bought it of my own accord. It smells like dank beer. It tastes like sheer awfulness. That is all that need be said. -Mike & Ike Buttered Popcorn candies! I know I've had a popcorn jelly bean before, but I can't remember my thoughts about it. These can't be much different though, can they? To start with, they certainly nailed the stale popcorn smell of a run down theater. That's not necessarily a bad smell, just a distinct one. There is a surprisingly decent and understated buttered popcorn to these. Unfortunately the gelatin aspect of the candy overpowers the whole thing, so ultimately once the initial flavor burst subsides, it's like chewing a mouthful of unflavored goop. Which, I suppose, is exactly what candies like these are before getting flavor added. I will say I like them, and eventually I finish up the box, but I do think an extra dose of flavoring pumped into the mix would take these up a notch.   Ruffles Mozzarella & Marinara potato chips! These smell just like a cheap,  frozen mozzarella stick. If that's good or bad depends on how you feel about cheap, frozen mozzarella sticks. I'm okay with them. I don't get a lot of cheese flavor from these, but there is a very noticeable marinara with Italian seasoning element, and it's not bad. But not great, either. It's... fine. Were the marinara flavoring not so noticeably powdery, these would be better. Not bad, overall. I'd try them again down the road once I'd forgotten I'd had them before. -Ketchup flavored Pringles! These smell like a ketchupp packet left open in the bottom of a mop bucket. I think the bucket part might be the can permeating out. What are you making these cans from, Pringles? The taste isn't all that bad, though. I'm reminded very much of a cold, limp french fry dipped in ketchup, but with the crunch of a chip. I thought these would be gross, but they're serviceable. I wouldn't eat too many at one time, but I'll graze on them in the coming week. -Chocolate Peanut Butter Twinkies! I almost passed on these, because they just LOOK boring. Do they come out a winner, though. Nope. Dry as desert toast and a nearly missing filling makes these a quick trick by Hostess to use up leftover batter and get your dollars. Don't give them any! -Lay's Crispy Taco chips! Lay's Everything Bagel chips! Lay's Fried Green Tomato chips! Shoot. I can't remember enough for a full run down. So here's the quickness... The bagel ones were my least favorite. The fried green tomato ones were my favorite, but I also liked the taco ones. However, I thought the variety should have been different. The taco should have been the 'kettle cooked' version leaving the bagel for the regular chip. -Let's not forget Lay's Bacon Wrapped Jalapeno Popper chips! I had them. Again, specifics escape me, but I was left unimpressed. I didn't hate them, but would ignore them if I saw them again. -Dunkin' Donuts Mocha Oreos! I liked these. Just enough mocha flavor complementing the chocolate cookie for an enjoyable treat. Goes great with a glass of whatever milk or milk like substance is your fancy. -Tropicle Fruit Punch flavored pickle! Because... because sometimes life is sh*t and fruit punch flavored pickles in a jar are there to hold your hand as you take that last step off the bridge. However... I found these unassaulting. (Fake word number 86.) They were fine. Not delicious, but just "Oh. So that's what a pickle soaked in Kool-Aid tastes like. Okay. This is a thing, though?" Wouldn't buy them again, but if I were at your cook out and you put one on my plate I'd eat it. And then dial the suicide hotline for you. I believe that brings me to a conclusion. And a respite. It is now close to mid August. That means... Halloween sweets are soon to be upon us. As early as August 7th, 2017, I saw Pumpkin Spice Cheerios and Pumpkin Spice Quaker oatmeal on shelves. Now THAT'S early. And just a couple of days after that, I saw the pumpkin shaped Reese's cups. Time to cash in savings bonds and get ready for a spooky treat fest. Or a trip to Canada. What are they building? They have subscriptions to those magazines. They never wave when they go by... what are they building up there?