The Incredible, Edible Egg (Oodle Doodle)

I have long been a sucker for wacky Asian anthropomorphic foodstuffs. Be it Beer-Chan or that burnt bread guy, I just can't get enough. So, imagine my delight when I came across this egg song through one of my random, pointless searches online.

I was first struck by the bright colors and annoyingly cute singing. But oh, the lyrics, and if you pay attention, the storyline.

My favorite part is the egg that dresses up like a cowboy near the end, and then turns into a pacifier for the screaming baby. What baby wouldn't be screaming at a bunch of singing, dancing eggs?!

Come into my tummy, oh so very yummy.

Yours always,

Zoe Doom

P.S. I haven't been writing much lately because my life's been a bit hectic. I can't wait to start again!

Electric weirdness

I've spent the past eight days in partial darkness. To quote my maintenance man: "This is some Twilight Zone shit going on in here."

I've been sick with flu-like symptoms for almost two weeks now. It's been hell. Eight days ago I was taking an afternoon nap because I had a hoity-toity social function to attend, I was sick, and it was important that I be there. I decided to rest up, and I set my alarm clock to prevent oversleeping. Being the lazy bum that I am, I hit the snooze button. When the alarm went off again, I shut it off and went to my bathroom to take a shower. The lights in my bathroom would not turn on. None of them. I went back to my room, and the power was out there, too. My living room, however, had full power. My alarm clock had gone off no more than 30 seconds earlier. I called maintenance and it took them three days to come out here. They sent out fellow #1, who couldn't find the problem (he checked the fuse box, just like I had before him...no trouble there). He had some fancy voltage meter thing that shows that I have electricity coming from all the outlets in my bedroom and bathroom, but nothing works in either room. I had to move my "office" to my living room floor, where I'm sitting as I type this. I can't sit at my desk because I can't plug in my computer or broadband router or lights or, you know anything. So, the past eight days I've been sleeping on the sofa, bathing in the dark, and doing hair and makeup in the hallway. It's tiresome. More electricians are supposed to be coming out next week. If they still can't find anything, I'm going to start flying kites with keys attached.

Much love,

Zoe Doom

Let's hear it for the rat-boys

(Cecil, left, and Roman, right)

My love affair with rats began in my 7th grade science classroom. My teacher, Mrs. Broyles, had two rats named Patches (a girl) and Justin (a boy). She bred them, and that's how I got my first rat, Toby. I've since loved rats, but didn't have any more pet rats until 2006. My desire for pet rats as an adult started on a whim. I scoured craigslist.com and found two boys that interested me. I named them Roman and Cecil. It was love at first sight.

Cecil, born in August 2005, was about a year old when I got him, and Roman, born in February 2006, was six months old. Rats only live to be 2-3 years, but Cecil was a charming boy and he needed a good home and I was more than happy to take the boys in.

Roman, the first day I met him (August 2006).

Since he was six months older, Cecil was the dominant male. I used to watch their cage like a television set; Roman would grab a bite of food and begin to eat it. Cecil would snatch the food from Roman's paws. Roman would look sad and then get more food while Cecil scarfed down the food he just grabbed. Cecil would then grab the next piece of food from Roman. Roman couldn't eat a thing without it getting stolen, and Cecil wouldn't eat anything he didn't steal. Sad, but funny.

Cecil had chronic respiratory problems, even when I first got him. He was always wheezing and coughing.

Cecil, December 2007

He was a dumbo rat, which means he had a genetic mutation that causes big ears low on the sides of his head. Sooooo cute.

He liked to run around the living room and chase my cat, Cleo. He also liked bananas and peanuts. On the morning of January 16, 2008, I found Cecil cold and limp on the floor of his cage. He was still breathing, but barely. I had him euthanized immediately.

Roman was the sweet boy. He was a blue berkshire rat, with adorable pink ears, feet, and nose. He was the more laid-back of the two. He preferred snuggling to exploring, and would fall asleep on me while I watched TV. My wonderful veterinarian told me that Roman was the most laid-back rat he'd ever met. Coming from an exotic pet specialist, that's saying a lot. Roman was a good match with Cecil, because he never fought.

When he was 15 months old, he had a bad ear infection which led to a permanent head tilt as seen here:


The head tilt led to a lot of confusion in my poor little boy. He often thought he was upside down, and he would flip over when it wasn't necessary. He always looked like he was asking a question. He still loved climbing up into his hammock, though.

I had Roman euthanized on April 23, 2008 after he'd felt cold to the touch for three days. He was responsive, but just barely. He couldn't reach his water bottle, and I saw him fall over backwards while sitting on his haunches. I didn't want to do it, but I didn't want him to suffer. I didn't want to find him like I found Cecil.

Roman, April 2008

He slept in my bed his last few nights. I slept with him nuzzled in my shirt to keep him warm. He didn't move much during the night, and he didn't chew anything up. All he did was sleep, cuddle, and give me little kisses. He didn't even do that much on his last day. He was just lying quietly.



I miss them both dearly, and they will never be replaced. They made my life much nicer for the short time they were with me. I love them both so much.

Cuddlebugs circa September 2006.

Rest in peace, Roman and Cecil.

Love, Zoe

No more tangles

This is my hair. All of it. I shaved it off completely last Thursday for the first time in six years. As you'll notice, that's not a lot of hair. Keep in mind that my hands are the size of a 10-year-old's, and my hair was fairly long...a couple of inches past my shoulders.

Over the past 19 years, I've lost about 70% of the hair I had as a little girl. No one knows why. I have completely stumped 14 different doctors including internists, dermatologists, and endocrinologists.

The worst thing about it was the reactions I got as a teenager. When you're 14 years old and losing your hair, people assume that you're scrubbing your head with steel wool doused in turpentine. I've been asked a lot of stupid questions, and been given a lot of stupid advice. I've had strangers tell me to lean forward as often as I can so I'll improve circulation to my head. I've been told that my hair must have fallen out from blow-drying it too much. I've been a vegetarian since I was 17, and I have been told that my hair fell out from not eating enough meat. For this and many other reasons, I've barely left the house with a "bare head" since 2000.

A few weeks ago, I had a scalp biopsy after my new endocrinologist told me that my hair loss was far too extensive to be caused by an endocrine disorder. The results of the biopsy didn't indicate much of anything. It's not a fungus, stress, hormones, or a vitamin deficiency. It's not genetic. The only thing left is an autoimmune disorder, which would mean that I'm essentially allergic to my own hair. I already have Hashimoto's thyroiditis, which is an autoimmune disorder, and autoimmune disorders tend to flock together. Unfortunately, though, my pattern of hair loss looks nothing like any known autoimmune disorder. I was "diagnosed" with Alopecia NOS, which means "Not Otherwise Specified" which means no one has any idea what the hell is wrong with me. I had the biopsy because two different endocrinologists told me that my hair loss pattern resembled alopecia areata. I'm not a religious person, but I prayed my biopsy results would in fact reveal alopecia areata. Alopecians are like a family. They have support groups and conventions. I'd love more than anything to meet someone else who has gone through what I have in the way that I have. I still haven't found my family. I go to message boards for women with hair loss, and it seems that almost half of the women are 50+ years old with mild thinning, and almost all the rest are completely delusional 20-year-olds with no hair loss at all. I have found some people like me, though, which is a relief. My biopsy also argued against androgenic alopecia, which I was previously told I had. Androgenic alopecia typically happens to peri-menopausal women, not 10-year-old girls. I've read a lot about androgenic alopecia, and most of the time the literature will entail a statement like "androgenic alopecia can affect women as young as 30 years old." Where does that leave me? I turn 30 in five months, and I've been dealing with this about 19 years.

My hair loss started when I was 10, but most of my hair grew back once I started taking thyroid medication. I'm actually quite horrified to see pictures of myself from 2004. My hair really wasn't that bad, and I can't believe it went so far downhill in such a short time.

Shaving it was a relief and surprisingly liberating. A few weeks ago, I found myself staring at my bald spots in the mirror. I'd lift up the back of my hair and examine the little spots and streaks. I have pictures of my bald spots, but I'm not quite courageous enough to post those here. I don't want to wear my wigs anymore. I'm tired of it.

I had nightmares for years. In all of my nightmares, my dream would be progressing normally, then at some point I would realize that I wasn't wearing a wig and had no head covering. It was the alopecian version of the stereotypical "doing a class presentation in your underwear" dream. I realized recently, though, that I wasn't afraid of being bald. I was afraid of people knowing that I'm going bald. Somehow, that realization triggered something in me. I (almost) don't care anymore.

I don't have to shave my legs because most of my leg hair is gone. I'm losing my eyebrows as well. I'm actually okay and calm about this, and I'm getting stronger every day. Part of me wants to go to the alopecia areata convention this summer in Louisville, Kentucky. Just to connect. I don't have a diagnosis, so I'm still an outsider, but I do know the pain of losing hair randomly.

I've never wished for cancer, but I've often wished that I would have lost all of my hair. First of all, if I lost all of my hair, my parents or other adults would have recognized it as a real condition and I would have gotten to go to a doctor. Secondly, if I'd lost all of my hair, I'm sure someone (an adult or another child) would have stood up for me when I got bullied. Third, now that I'm shaving my head again, it would be nice to not have that extra hair to deal with.

There are many beautiful, strong wonderful people with alopecia. This video of a beautiful young girl almost makes me cry every time, despite the Kelly Clarkson soundtrack. The girl has less hair than I did, and she's gorgeous and she's smiling. I hope one day, that I can have her confidence. Until then...


---Zoe Doom

And this is why I hate answering my door...

I live in a weird neighborhood. Not weird-good, but not necessarily weird-bad, either. Just weird. No one ever knows what I'm talking about when I try to tell people where I live. It's the land that Seattle forgot. It's not West Seattle, it's not South Park, it's not SeaTac, it's not Burien, it's not even White Center, really. It's Top Hat. Yes, Top Hat. It's far away from everywhere I want to go, it's close to some rather sketchy parts of town, but my rent is really cheap so I stick around. Some people make fun of me for living where I do, but hey, at least I don't live in Kent.

I went out with a friend last night and returned home a little after 1:00 in the morning. I was still awake and alert, and thought I would wind down by watching The Office on DVD. At approximately 2 a.m. I was halfway through the Season 2 finale when I heard some screaming and a loud, deep, booming voice yell "Get on the ground, now! On your knees!" So, I paused my DVD and went to my living room window. I peeked outside and there were flashing police lights everywhere, and I could see two police officers with their guns drawn. I heard a guy yelling "I'm down, I'm down!" or something to that effect, but I couldn't really see him. There are many trees behind my apartment, and I couldn't see the street too clearly. I could also hear a woman crying. The yelling continued for quite some time, and I eventually saw the cops drag a man in a white t-shirt and jeans toward the cop car. I couldn't get a look at the man; I couldn't even tell what ethnicity he was. He and the crying woman were yelling to each other, though the man did most of the yelling. "I loooooooove you! I love you, baby! You're my heart, my HEART!" He also started crying for his mother. I don't think his mother was there, but he started yelling "Mama, I love you! Help me, Mama!"

The police put the man into one of the squad cars, and began to question the woman. I'm not sure what came of that. I only heard more crying. The cop cars were still around when I went to sleep around 3:00.

This morning I looked at the news online to figure out what had gone on. Apparently, the guy who was crying for his mother had shot a 78-year-old man for not letting him inside his house to use the phone. Some reports say that although the victim did not know the shooter, he had seen him around the neighborhood before. I wonder if I'd recognize him. He had apparently attended an "alcohol and marijuana party" prior to the shooting. I've been to many parties in my life, and many of them were "alcohol and marijuana parties," but I don't recall people getting shot afterwards. Weird.

There are a lot of wannabe gangster types in my neighborhood, but they generally don't bother anyone. The shooter hid his gun in the bushes about 20 feet from my window, which is why a lot of this transpired right outside my living room. The victim is expected to make a full recovery, which is great. I can't imagine how horrible it would be to die because a stranger shot you after you didn't let him into your home in the middle of the night.

---Zoe Doom

Odd

The past 24 hours of my life have been weird enough to warrant a blog entry.

One of my old college friends is in town visiting. I hadn't seen her in over six years. We decided to have a movie night. First we watched the perennial bad-movie favorite, Troll 2. I'll probably write more about Troll 2 later, as it is a very weird but very important part of my life. We also watched Gozu, which left a bad taste in my mouth. It was Japanese and billed as a horror movie, and though it was horrific, it was clearly not horror. It was a gangster movie with lot of lactation. Like, a lot. And weird genitalia. And...a soup ladle used in a way I don't care to write about. It was disturbing and gross. And I like wacky disturbing Japanese horror movies. I found my mind wandering through most of Gozu because I've had trouble focusing lately. That's a different story, though.

It snowed in Seattle today. It's the end of March. It's spring! I've lived here 12 years, and never seen it snow this time of year. The snow makes the next part of my weird day even weirder.

I have a cute little pet rat named Roman. He's my baby. Look at him. Isn't he cute?


Unfortunately, Roman (like many rats his age) is very prone to skin problems including abscesses. Because of this, I've been spending a lot of time at the vet's office lately. He also has chronic respiratory problems (specifically mycoplasmosis, which is a common ailment among geriatric rats). Roman has been on several antibiotics and I've had to have his abscesses lanced and flushed twice now. I was on my way to the vet today, when I had a coffee craving. I was early, so I thought I'd hit the nearest espresso stand.

Believe it or not, it took me a while to find an espresso stand. Usually in Seattle, you can't even spit without hitting a barista, so why on earth could I not find an espresso stand today? I drove for several minutes up a major stretch in North Seattle, until I finally came across a drive-through espresso stand. Excellent. The sign said "Chicka Latte" and the logo was a '50s-style pinup girl.

I pulled up in my car, and the barista was leaning against the window while wearing a naughty soldier girl outfit and thigh-high fishnet stockings. It was essentially skanky lingerie. Do I need to remind you that it was snowing? The other barista was wearing a halter-top/camisole type thing and a very short pleated skirt. I think she was supposed to be a schoolgirl.

I was a little thrown off by this. I just wanted coffee. I'm not offended by girls dressed in lingerie, but I want to be prepared to be around the scantily clad. I think that the store logo should have been more provocative in order to foreshadow things to come. I kept staring straight ahead because I felt like it was rude of me to look directly at them. This espresso stand is in the parking lot of an auto supply store. Very strange. I got my drink, handed over my money while looking at the girls as little as possible. I hope they make good tips, but it seems like they'd make more money at Hooters. Also, I think Hooters is less degrading than being forced to dress up like a naughty schoolgirl at work. Not much less degrading, but a little!

So, gangster movie with lactation, rat abscesses, random springtime snow, and nearly naked baristas. Um, yeah.

~Zoe Doom

Well Played, Zoe Doom

Isn't Zoe Doom, like, the coolest name ever?!!

Yes, it certainly IS.

Rock on with your bad self,
Tegan Jovanka

Weird Food

I'm obsessed with weird food and drinks. I don't want to consume anything too weird, but I like knowing that the weirdness is out there. I was recently in the beer/wine aisle at my local grocery store, and was greeted by the following:




In case you're unaware, Clamato is a mixture of tomato juice and clam broth. I don't know why anyone would mix Clamato with beer, let alone cheap, light beer in a 24 ounce can. The label claims it is "the perfect combination," but I have my doubts.

Also weird: bread in a can.

I have a confession to make. Once upon a time, many years ago, I let my curiosity get the best of me and I actually purchased and tasted brown bread in a can. It wasn't nearly as horrifying as one would expect. It is, however, still weird.

Love,
Zoe Doom

Quirky

I’ve always been somewhat of an anti-social weirdo. In my youth I had a few friends, yes, but I went on a whopping total of two dates in high school, and one of those was a pity set-up so my best friend could drag me to homecoming without me being a third wheel. College was more or less the same. This never bothered me much, except in the ever-decreasing attempts of friends to set me up with boys (and occasionally girls), or on rare occasions when I’d get quizzed about my perpetual state of singlehood. My family never questioned it, and I’m thankful for that. This may not seem all that strange, but as I barrel towards my 30th birthday, I find myself in a smaller and smaller portion of the minority.

About eight years ago, I went on a quest to find others like myself. It was around that time that I stumbled upon AVEN, the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network. AVEN was in its humble beginnings back then, and was essentially just a Yahoo group and a bare-bones website. It is now a bustling forum for men and women with little or no sexual desire to discuss what they want out of life, love, and relationships. I was in contact with founder David Jay for a while, but we’ve lost touch. I veered away from AVEN for a few years, but one day I stumbled upon a book that spoke even more to me and my particular predicament – Quirkyalone: A Manifesto for Uncompromising Romantics.

I’ve never enjoyed labeling myself, but the label of a quirkyalone is quite versatile and I feel comfortable with it. There are several categories, and you don’t need to be single to fit in. Quirkyalones are introspective, often shy, creative, whimsical, and rebellious. To quote author Sasha Cagen, “We are the puzzle pieces who seldom fit with other puzzle pieces.”

If I do ever marry, which is unlikely, I know that there are others out there who identify with my values and share my ideals. I'm not the type to settle with someone because I'm afraid to be alone, and I'm not going to date just because I happen to be single. I know many women who are afraid of being single and end up settling for the first guy they find. I tend to have what I can only call "intense friendships." I've had "breakups" with people I've never dated or gone out with. More often than not, it's because there are people value their sexual relationships above their friendships, which means I've been pushed to the side and discounted a few times. I have never understood that line of thinking, my friends mean damn near everything to me.

International Quirkyalone Day is February 14th. It's not anti-Valentine's Day...it just happens to coincide with V-Day. I have never celebrated it, but perhaps I will if I ever meet others like me in person.


With love,

Zoe Doom