Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Mother I'd Like to Have Coffee With


Eight years ago, I was standing on a street corner waiting for the light to change. My 9-month-old daughter was sitting in her stroller clutching her beloved Elmo stuffie. A beat-up car slowed in front of us, and a scruffy young man yelled out the passenger side window, “MILK!” At least, this is what it sounded like. It all happened so fast. InstantIy, I thought: He must know I’m breastfeeding, so he yelled out ‘milk’ as a supportive shout-out to nursing and how beneficial it is for both mother and baby? But how could he possibly tell that I—OH MY GOSH HE SAID MILF.

I am not going to spell out MILF, because we all know what it means. You may be thinking, that is so sexist, what a misogynist, so not woke, etc. At the very least, it is offensive. I was, however, completely flattered--I was 39 years old. Thanks, anonymous dude most likely high on mushrooms! You made my decade.

Today, at the age of 46, I venture to describe myself as a “Mother I’d Like to Have Coffee With.” MILHCW doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but so what? As I approach 50, I’ll take what I can get. I have always been insecure about my physical appearance, and aging does not exactly boost one’s confidence in this area.

It didn't help that my well-meaning mother referred to my legs as “columnar” during my teenage years. Gee, thanks: 15-year-old girls love having their appendages likened to Greek architecture. She reassured me that this was a compliment! Who wants skinny legs, anyway? Um, me, and also every other woman on the planet. Since then, I have begrudgingly accepted my columns. After all, exercise and diet have rendered them more Ionian as opposed to Doric or Corinthian, which I can live with.

However, recently she called me a “handsome woman.” Again, this was not intended to disparage. Evidently, after the age of 45, I have unknowingly departed the “pretty” zone and ventured into the land of the handsome. This is a slight that simply will not stand. In 1783, John Trusler wrote: “By a handsome woman, we understand one that is tall, graceful, and well-shaped, with a regular disposition of features; by a pretty, we mean one that is delicately made, and whole features are so formed as to please; by a beautiful, a union of both." Not content to leave it at that, Trusler delivers a final blow: "A beautiful woman is an object of curiosity; a handsome woman, of admiration; and a pretty one, of love." (excerpted from The Distinction Between Words Esteemed Synonymous in the English Language, via stuffmomnevertoldyou.com).

I suspect that Trusler wrote his Distinction in response to a girl he wanted to let down easy. “See, you’re handsome, and I totally admire you for that. I mean, your nose is in the right place and all, but I’m into beautiful and pretty ladies right now…so, take a hike.” I for one don’t want to be admired; I want to evoke mystery! Inspire love! Look at my columnar legs, consarnit, they are both practical and strong! If I take care of my handsome self, I could live approximately 40 more years. Now THAT is something to admire.


Friday, May 12, 2017

My Top 10 Russian Novels...and One Memoir


Here's something light to kick off your weekend. Social media is all about lists these days, so thought I would get on the bandwagon and share mine.

A friend from my childhood in West Philadelphia, Alex Kudera, kindly asked me to make this list recently. I'm not an expert in Russian Literature or Language; I had a crush on a stupid Russian guy at age 19 and was good at languages. Hence, my Russian major! Alex is a professor of English literature who has taught students in China, Ohio, South Carolina, and right here in Philadelphia. He has a more sophisticated blog than this one that you may want to check out. Ahem:

1. Anna Karenina (Lev Tolstoy, 1873 to 1877). Anna is rich and bored. Anna hates the way her husband chews his food. Count Vronsky—played by Christopher Reeve, so handsome—sweeps Anna off her feet! But things do not end well for Anna.

2. The Brothers Karamazov (Fyodor Dostoevsky, 1880). Not about a traveling circus acrobatic troupe. Its sweeping explorations of God, free agency, and morality are timeless and haunting. My favorite part is Ivan’s reciting of the poem “The Grand Inquisitor” in which Christ is resurrected during the Spanish Inquisition.

3. Crime and Punishment (Dostoevsky, 1866). Life-long graduate student Rodion Raskolnikov tries to justify an unspeakably immoral act with eugenics and hey—a guy needs to eat.

4. Rudin (Ivan Turgenev, 1856). Dmitry Rudin talks the talk, but boy does he not walk the walk. Or is it talks the walk? Either way, he fails to get laid.

5. The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of Private Ivan Chonkin (Vladimir Voinovich, 1969). A peasant drafted into the Red Army is forgotten by his unit in a remote village (every Russian village is remote, natch) because he’s just not that memorable. The fellow takes care of a garden instead. Slapstick hilarity ensues.

6. One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, 1962). Life in a Soviet prison labor camp is not as fun as you think it is.

7. Moscow 2042 (Vladimir Voinovich, 1986). A utopian-dystopian future in which Moscow becomes the communist epicenter of Russia. Like Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid’s Tale), Voinovich has called his novel “prophetic.”

8. Hope Against Hope: A Memoir (Nadezhda Mandelstam, 1970). Not a novel, but personal memoir forms the backbone of modern Russian lit, in my opinion. The wife of exiled poet Osip Mandelstam details the unthinkable hardships she and her family endured during the Stalinist era.

9. Fathers and Sons (Ivan Turgenev, 1862). Like A River Runs Through It, but without the boring fly fishing, Brad Pitt, and Robert Redford’s droning voiceover. All the cool kids are embracing nihilism, but Pavel Kirsanov is having none of it.

10. War and Peace (Lev Tolstoy, 1869). Has anyone actually finished this book? I have not. Napoleon invades Russia. Beyond that, I have no more to say. 

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

Editing My Husband

Several months ago, I was sitting at my desk, texting back and forth with my husband about the usual, mundane details of our lives: So you’re going to Korea for two weeks when? And you have a client dinner Tuesday and won’t be home until after midnight? Boring stuff. Then, just as I turned my attention to actual work, my iPhone pinged again. I read the new text, which seemed slightly out of place compared to the previous thread:

I’m looking for a relationship with someone that is independent, smart, hard working like me and is adventurous. We work hard but carve out time for amazing dates a couple of times per month at minimum. Travel the world, learn new things, eat great food and drink great wine, experiment and thoroughly enjoy our time. Ideally monogamous but that’s not a deal breaker since it’s tough when long distance. But definitely devoted to each other’s happiness.

Holy crap. My stomach sank. My husband just wrote a personals ad and sent it to me by mistake! Perhaps he plans to kill me and has crafted the ad in anticipation of my mysterious absence, à la Forensic Files? I’ve seen enough true crime television to know how this works.

I cried a little. I felt like throwing up, a little. But after that, I was MAD. The woman he described in the ad did not sound like me. She could be my foil; Aisha-like, but different enough to be superior to the present me. Aisha 2.0. She represented the younger, hotter version of me, the woman who likes hang-gliding while wearing roller blades as she sips a glass of fine petite Syrah that she and her paramour just happened to stumble upon in South Africa as they toured the wine country on horseback. Bareback. You know what? This woman sounds insufferable. How accommodating of him to take monogamy off the table; if you were married to her, though, I suspect infidelity may indeed constitute “a deal breaker.”

After dabbing at my semi-smeared mascara with a balled-up Kleenex, I texted the husband once more to inquire about the origins of the mysterious text, whose provenance I had already uncovered thanks to my superior sleuthing abilities. “Oh,” he responded offhandedly, “that wasn’t meant for you. I was writing to a friend who needed my advice.” I wanted to flesh his response out. Is this what he really wants in a partner? But he was boarding a plane and had to hang up. “We’ll talk later,” he dashed off. And that was that.

My husband does not lie, so part of me was relieved to discover the truth. However, his description reflected his real feelings. The fact remained that the woman he described does not fully reflect my personality or interests.

I am an editor by trade. It’s only natural, then, that I would take pen in hand (or Track Changes) and annotate the husband’s description to render it more realistic:

I’m looking for a relationship with someone that (you mean “who”) is independent, smart, hard working[hard-working] like me, and mostly adventurous except when it comes to flying in small-engine planes, swimming in the ocean where sharks are, going up to the top of buildings taller than 25 stories, and riding roller coasters. We work hard but carve out time for pretty good dates a couple of times per month at minimum—who are we kidding! We have two kids and are too exhausted to go out. Travel the world (being careful to avoid the aforementioned scary parts), learn new things (Rick Steves on PBS or reading the Lonely Planet series is good enough sometimes), eat great food (as long as it does not have eyes, smell bad, or requires entering a yurt) and drink great wine (I don’t drink alcohol), experiment and thoroughly enjoy our time. But definitely devoted to each other’s happiness after fulfilling the million other obligations to which we are each committed.

I am essentially the same person you met 15 years ago. Often, however, we live separate lives under the same roof. Making time to have fun independent of our kids is mostly impossible. I can’t travel alone you anymore, because what if we die? Who the heck is going to take care of Oscar, our Jack Russell? Sometimes, the only glue holding us together is that we are always able to laugh at whatever crap is going down, even when we are both grouchy and tired. Your personals ad is a nostalgic ode. I miss all the great stuff that childless couples get to enjoy, too, like brunch, morning sex, and uninterrupted conversations.

However, my life now is pretty awesome, in its own way, in spite of the constant juggling of schedules and lonely nights. Our kids and dog are infuriating and delightful all at once. We are relatively healthy. Our car is paid for.

As for the “ideal” woman you described? Forget about her. She’s sitting in a bar somewhere in Key West doing tequila shots. In a couple of hours, the cops will arrest her for public urination. Also, she has herpes. I’m fairly confident you are better off without her.


Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Getting to Know Mother Russia, Then and Now


I majored in Russian Language and Literature at the University of Pennsylvania back when Perestroika had paved the way for an economic rebirth and an overall feeling of friendship. After Mr. Gorbachev had “torn down” tangibly oppressive walls, he also opened the floodgates for idealistic young people to master Russian and embrace Russian culture. I am not sure how I intended to actually APPLY my degree. At one point, I fantasized about the romantic life of a career diplomat. Working for a profitable American company that needed Russian-speaking employees to forge further economic ties also seemed possible. As it turns out, my degree was good for two things.
Our childhood conception of Russians.


First, I fell in love with Russian literature. Russian poetry is a bit too hand-wringingly dramatic (too much beating of the breast) for my tastes, but Dostoevsky and Tolstoy so perfectly capture the nuances of not just the Russian spirit but the universality of the human condition as well. I read and re-read the major works of each. The second benefit of my major was that my pronunciation was almost “biz aktsenta” (without an accent). Cute Russian guys would tease me that I was a spy; I flirted back; and so on. I may be a very good mimic, but I never advanced beyond conversational Russian.

Our Russian textbooks in college had not been updated since Leonid Brezhnev died. It was as if they were forever frozen in 1980. Casual conversations often centered on the quality of one’s combine harvesters. Vladimir Lenin came up a lot, but Trotsky--Trotsky who?. The Little Octobrists wore star-shaped pins, and if they were good they could advance to join the Young Pioneers! Of course, some aspects of Russian life had not changed between the pre- and post-Soviet eras; blintzes, farmer cheese, little pickles, and open-faced sandwiches were all exchanged between good-natured passengers as the Trans-Siberian railway quietly and proudly (тихо и гордо) chugged across Mother Russia.
Feel the warmth! The Cold War melts.


Today, I can watch FX’s The Americans during the Russian-only scenes and understand nearly half of what the characters are saying without looking at the subtitles! However, a Russian friend informed me recently that the Russian the actors are speaking is kind of dumbed down. I’m trying to convince my husband that there is no better time than the present to venture to Moscow and St. Petersburg, now that President Trump and Putin are on-again, off-again buddies.

In preparation for my desired but not definite trip, I downloaded the Duolingo app on my iPhone. I tested out of the most basic skills, like knowing the Cyrillic alphabet. After that, I tried my hand at common verbs, phrases, and vocabulary. You are asked to translate from Russian to English and vice versa and to transcribe a spoken phrase using the handy Cyrillic keyboard. I’m intrigued by the wide emotional range conveyed to the user within a single lesson.

“I already have a table” is a somewhat annoyed response to a kind offer. The odd question, “Do you have a horse?” is one unlikely to pass the lips of a Muscovite in 2017. But if you are a peasant living in Novosibirsk in 1917, this inquiry may be an acceptably righteous boast (“I am prosperous enough to own a horse; are you, tavarish?”).

Then the mood grows ominously defensive. “We have everything!” and “Everything is perfect” sound like a Soviet official circa 1980 vigorously denying the existence of bread lines and shortages. On the other hand, “Our egg” is historically accurate given the scarcity of such essentials; I guess that a single egg had to be parceled out to two or more diners. The declaration “This is not milk” is strange indeed. If it looks like milk but does not taste like milk, might it be poisoned? Oh, la mystère! Finally, Duolingo ventures into the realm of the conspiratorial (“Here is our plan”), right before it veers toward bizarro land: "Our cats eat eggs."
"Here's our plan...But first, where are my apples?"

I’ve heard Spain is lovely in August.


Sunday, April 9, 2017

Virtue Signaling Through Food



The tired adage “calories in, calories out” appears on countless online message boards and is almost universally echoed by nutritionists. But is it true? Not quite. I followed this advice two years ago, and I didn't lose an ounce. Turns out, when it comes to both jeans and lifestyle modification, one size does not fit all. Merely restricting caloric intake may actually result in your body hanging on to your extra fat because it has entered “starvation mode.” Also, what kinds of calories are you eating? If you continue to eat processed foods, refined sugars, and refined carbohydrates, you are probably not going to lose weight.

This never gets old.
In 1993, researchers conducted the Women’s Health Initiative Dietary Modification Trial for eight years to confirm the widely held belief that a low-fat diet would help the nearly 50,000 female participants aged 50 to 79 lose weight and reduce their risk for heart disease. The ladies were divided into two groups: one followed a low-fat diet, and the other followed their usual diets and received relevant educational materials. JAMA published the results of the study, which proved that…low-fat diets do not work. The scientists assessed many health measurements, such as the manifestations of heart disease (e.g., heart attack, stroke); the incidences of breast and colon cancer; and lipid (i.e., triglycerides, cholesterol) levels. The weight loss in the low-fat group was statistically insignificant. That is, it was approximately the same as the other group, which ate its usual diet.

Today, the consensus is growing that low-fat diets do not work and may even do harm. Why? First, low-fat foods tend to be heavily processed. Their emergence in the 1990s prompted the food industry to make all sorts of false promises to consumers that eating these products would result in weight loss. They contain more sugar and artificial sweeteners as well as fillers and chemicals to render them texturally appealing. Yuck! They also do not make you feel full, so you are more likely to eat that two-month old bag of cheese popcorn buried in the back of your office drawer and the gross-tasting celebrity-endorsed protein bar in the side pocket of your purse. Finally, many of these culinary impostors contain harmful oils such as palm, cottonseed, soybean, sunflower, safflower, and canola. It's not the source of these oils that's the problem; the act of processing them into oils is what makes them unhealthy.

Why are these bad for you? Trans fats! ‘Member when the government banned trans fats? I ‘member. It ruined Cheeze-Its for me forever. However, lots of products still contain these oils, so I’m not sure if the ban has remained in effect, or if the food industry has found a way to circumvent said prohibition.

 Please do not despair and resign yourself to gnawing on fibrous cardboard boxes like my Jack Russell terrier Oscar. There are delicious alternatives that will not only help you to lose weight, but also increase your mental and physical energy. I have tested a few of these options and have also been exploring the available evidence for reducing (or eliminating) grain and sugar consumption.

Seapoint Farms Dry Roasted Edamame (plain and spicy wasabi). These nutty tasting dried soybeans (Sounds appetizing, no?) are a filling snack. One-third of a cup is 130 calories and contains only 10 g of carbohydrates. Make sure you have plenty of water on hand, because they are super dry. My tongue cleaved to my palate the first time I tried them, but as a bonus I had to drink 12 oz of water to clear my esophagus. Where to buy: Whole Foods, Walgreens, online.

Beef and chicken bone broth. Okay, if you are vegetarian or vegan, this will skeeve you out a little. But if you crave gelatin, a bit of healthy fat, collagen, glucosamine, and other good stuff, 8 oz is approximately 40 calories, contains virtually no carbohydrates, and is sodium free. People who intermittently fast often drink a few cups in between meals, and they report it is both filling and tasty.

You can make it yourself in a slow cooker, but this requires hanging around the house for most of the day as you press on the bones and stir it up. You also need to skim the fat after it’s done. This is too high maintenance for me, so I order my supply from Green Grocer Dallas. Do NOT substitute bouillon cubes for bone broth; they are loaded with salt and lack bone broth’s nutrients. My dog Oscar loved the bone broth I mixed in with his water.

Air-dried kale chips (Brad’s Kale Crunch). If I assured you that these taste better than Doritos, would you believe me? The Nacho variety is available at many health convenience stores and major outlets like Target. It is slightly spicy and made with vegan cheese, but do not hold this fact against these yummy green desiccated chips.

One half of a 2-oz bag is only 132 calories. Be warned that when you get close to the bottom of the bag you’re essentially dealing with pulverized chips; there is no elegant way to eat these except to pour the remaining contents into your mouth whilst your coworkers aren’t looking.

Homemade energy bites. My husband came home hungry one night from a business trip and was rooting around in the fridge when he came upon my date and walnut energy bites in a Tupperware container. “Can I eat these meatballs?” he asked. I should have just let this unfold naturally, but I laughed and set him straight. To his credit, these balls do look like meatballs. They also could be mistaken for the droppings of a mid-size marsupial.

I tried one last week before my 5:30 AM workout, thinking I needed to raise my blood sugar (126) to prevent a low from happening during exercise. After exercise, my BS was 226! In the comments section of the online recipe for the balls, one woman exclaimed: “I love how there’s no added sugar!” Wut? Dates ARE sugar. Your body tends to metabolize all sugars in the same way. That is, unless you are running a 5K, one date ball equals a lot of extra sugar. Some of it will be used for energy, but the rest will make your blood sugar rise. I suppose eating a date nut ball is healthier than glugging a sugary soda, but the net effect is the same. It also took me forever to blend the dates, walnuts, shredded coconut, and almond butter and then fashion them into little balls, not to mention the oily stickiness that got all over the kitchen. Verdict: Diabetics, don’t eat unless you’re training hard; may be okay for people with a functioning pancreas.

Bulletproof Coffee. I do not drink coffee, so I cannot attest to bulletproof's health benefits. Many swear that it is a good substitute for breakfast. Blend one cup of black coffee; 1 tbsp of MCT oil; 1 tsp heavy cream; 1 tsp grassland butter; and 1 tsp cocoa powder.

Snap Kitchen. When you don't have the time or energy to prepare healthy meals, Snap Kitchen does all the work for you--at a steep price. I paid $8.00 for a small portion of bland chicken tikka masala that contained three bites of chicken. In under one hour, you can cook a more flavorful version of this dish at home. Snap gives away terrific free tote bags, however.
Please keep one important caveat in mind. If you do alter your eating patterns and diet for the better, don't make a big production of it. Nobody actually cares, you see. A couple of years ago a funny meme was making the rounds on the Internet, and I posted it on my FB feed. It was just a photo of a scrap of paper that said: "Number of times today my co-worker has told me she's vegan: 5. Number of times I cared: 0." Simply proceed quietly and proudly. I'm not advocating veganism, either, but you get what I mean.

Next week: Eating fat does not make you fat, intermittent fasting, and how a low carb diet can make you super aware driver who is annoyed by everything!

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Ski Pants Are Not WOKE

WOKE (definition of, courtesy of the Urban Dictionary): "being aware, and 'knowing what's going on in the community.' It's also specifically associated with being anti-racism and anti-social injustice.

Time to indulge in a little "me-search." Unlike "research," this requires little to no intellectual rigor, because who has time to look up facts and evidence? It's much easier to write about yourself--who knows you better than YOU?

I've been MIA on Facebook for months. Except for Instagram, social media these days seems to be just a vehicle for angry people to whip other people up into a frenzy and to pick fights with each other online. In other words, it's a total time waster and also makes it seem like everyone is a big jerk (which they are not). It is OKAY if we do not all agree with one another all of the time, mmmkay?

Back to the me-search! Last night we returned from our first skiing trip in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. To my surprise, the four of us took to skiing very well, and by the end of the four days all of us had reached "green" status (intermediate) and not relying on the "wedge" to slow down as often as we were the first day. On the down side, skiing is a super expensive sport, as my foray into the world of ski pants was a painful reminder.

My lower body is not straight. I have a smaller waist but a bigger bum. It's not huge, it's all proportional, but I'm definitely curvy. And by that, I'm not speaking euphemistically like in those Dove ads featuring overweight gals; I have an hourglass figure, but I'm not fat. I'm not even big boned--sorry, Cartman.

Shopping for ski pants, then, made me feel like Goldilocks. Too long! Waist too tight! Cannot even pull them past my derriere to find out if the waist fits! The first pair was from Amazon--amateur's mistake! Try them on before you buy--barely snapped shut, and breathing was a problem. When I leaned forward ever so slightly, my gallbladder shifted perceptibly. After we got to Denver, we swung by the REI flagship store (totally awesome, by the way) to try on some more pants.

Wanna look like THIS


Ski pants were designed by a white supremacist! How do non-white women squeeze into these straight and unyielding, unflattering contraptions? I'm almost 100% Caucasian but I'm half Black Irish and half Turkish. Someone in my past had an ample behind, a pox be on her and her ilk.

Scandinavians and WASPs wiggle effortlessly into their ski pants. They get a perfect fit on the first try. We ethnic women are not as blessed. The pair that finally fit me, of course, had no price tag, already a red flag. They were not on sale, and in fact cost over $300. I felt quite slighted by this macroaggression. It was as if the entire skiing apparel industry was saying, hey, you're "differently shaped" and that's cool, but we are going to charge you extra for that additional pound of flesh. Feeling very much the victim of an alt-right conspiracy, I joined the REI savings club to get my 20% off and a free strip of fruit leather.

But actually look more like HIM (2nd from the right)


My pants are not sexy. They appear to be suited for wading in a clogged reservoir, or some other mannish pursuit that isn't coming to mind at the moment. They may not be WOKE, but they were warm and comfortable and faithfully got me through three days of AWESOME skiing. All's well that ends well!

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Aye Chihuahua (Wait, Is That Racist?)

Episode 9, Season 2: “Los Muertos

What should we call this latest episode? How about “The Dead”? Too fucking obvious? Right…How about “Los Muertos”? That’s Spanish, for the same thing folks. Again, AMC, please try a little harder when you are struggling to come up with episode titles. Take a lesson from The Walking Dead and make them so obscure that we have to Google them to glean a minimal understanding.

Nick, again. He’s in the “hospital,” a.k.a. the back of a taqueria, next to a lady coughing up blood. After he leaves, the town isn’t looking quite as nice as it did before. Its crappier aspects have come into view. He meets a little girl looking tearfully into the distance. In this town, they feed the dead with human sacrifices, just like the good old days! We’re talking Aztecs and Mayans. Aren’t there any errant Chihuahuas available, God Dammit! The living even have a nifty religious sounding chant to repeat while some poor sod gets ripped apart by useless dead people. That sod is the little girl’s daddy.

"Yo quiero...to leeve another day."
Finally, we return to Madison (a.k.a. Mad Mom), black Strand, and Alycia (or is it Felicia?). But so fleeting! Nick, again. The pharmacist who helped him earlier is tending to the old and sick. Lady Gang Leader hovers nearby. Strand et al. discover that The Abigail is gone, taken by the military. Mad Mom suggests waiting around for Nick, who always finds his way home like a stray dog. Alycia’s not so romantic about his prospects. The gang minus Nick and Travis pile up in a decent pickup truck to check in to a luxury high-rise hotel, located right on the beach. It was barricaded with chairs. Strand dings the bell for service.


 Lady Gang Leader recruits Nick for a special job. It involves smearing himself with zombie guts and keeping his mouth shut; one out of these two things he can do very well.

In the hotel, Ofelia, Strand, and MM find a grody uneaten wedding cake. Alycia wants to check the minibars for canned nuts. Strand and MM hit the bar.

How does she do it? The perfect coif without water, conditioner, or keratin.
Nick and his new lady boss chat. The pharmacist, she reveals, was bitten, but he has not turned. Sounds like voodoo to me. Drug dealers have taken over, and you know what? It’s not so bad. Lady Boss exchanges medicine for water, but the deal has changed. The old bait and switch! She grabs a shopping cart, and they enter one of the ugliest Costcos ever. At the Mexican Costco, armed clerks patrol the aisles to make sure you aren’t stealing anything. With a full cart, the duo try to leave, but turns out Nick was smuggling snacks. Oh, no, Nick. As they prepare to chop off Nick’s hand, Nick notes that the chopper’s sister needs Oxy or else she’ll die from withdrawal. Somehow, he gets the guy to stop and listen. They have drugs for her, if they get to take more water. Nick’s insatiable craving for Mexican Cheetos has proved to be his potential undoing!

While Strand and MM get wasted on tequila, Ofelia and Alycia go room to room to get stuff. Do Not Disturb sign means “pissed off zombie inside. Please replace towels later.” They do find peanuts, though. A zombie who tried to hang himself from the showerhead is still there, and is waving his arms desperately. They leave and flip the sign on the knob to DND. Later, Alycia finds some booze. She ponders why the dude in the shower gave up so quickly. Ofelia is less sanguine about their future. What’s the point of hope? Alycia tries some gurl bonding with her to make it better. Strand and MM meanwhile, continue to drink. He assures her that Nick is fine. MM reveals that Nick is just like his dad; a drug addict with a death wish. He died in a car crash, when he was probably high. Travis can only fix so much. MM regrets having kids. Strand tickles the ivories a little, but the piano is horribly out of tune and cacophonous. Guess what zombies like to listen to?


Alycia takes a shower and offers Ofelia to do the same, but the older woman is nowhere to be seen. Alycia ventures out on the balcony, where she can see all the other balconies, from which suicidal zombies are throwing themselves. But they get up afterwards! Ofelia has ventured too far in the hotel and has gotten herself into a pickle of a jam.

Back in town, Nick and the pharmacist discuss fate and faith in the context of a diminishing water supply and no medicines. As the man leans over, Nick sees his shoulder bite.

A lot of zombies want a drink, too, so Strand plays sober guy and tries to herd Mad Mom out of there in a hurry. Images of a religious service for the dead and the zombie bar room brawl duke it out. Nick gets into the chanting too. Strand and MM are the world’s most inept bartenders, and they are surrounded by really angry alcohol-dependent patrons who aren’t leaving until they get their speecy Bloody Marys.