And the MegaBall is…

… what happens when we get OUT of the jacuzzi!

Okay, so we all know that the Megaball is far and well beyond half a billion dollars tonight and my prediction is that it’ll hit close to $700 million.

My Facebook newsfeed is plastered with everyone’s tickets, and everyone praying to some sort of higher power. For the most part, people have come to a consensus that they’ll all help pay off their family and friends’ debts.


Obviously you’re going to have to do that. You’d have more money than if someone was to offer you a dollar every time Pikachu said its own name (which, btw, was cute and adorable for the first 2 episodes and then you just wanted to smack him across the face and yell “LEARN A NEW WORD!!”). You would take over as the world’s biggest douchebag if you didn’t, forcing Stephanie Meyers to give up her crown. Or maybe Bret Favre. I don’t know who I hate more. But you get the point.

I know I have a lot of opinions, but for the next 3 hours or so, this is the principle I’m going to stand by: the winner of a lottery should be determined by what they say they’ll do with the money. A large portion of the winnings, of course, should be donated to charity (does the California financial deficit count as a charity?), but you should also do hilariously innovative things that benefits all of mankind.

Here are my ideas. Please lottery gods, help me make my dreams come true.

  • I would personally fund another 3 seasons of Tila Tequila. Was it just me, or was Earth just a bit more peaceful when that show was on? Jersey Shore has definitely ruined the dynamics established by that adorable bisexual Asian girl.
  • Buy a plane and take all of my friend to visit a McDonald’s in each country.
  • Breed and distribute teacup rhinos. I’d also like those miniature giraffes, but I think NASA is already working on that.
  • Invest a shitload into teleportation technology.
  • Create a perfume line that includes “PHOking All Night,” “SYRAHously Wet,” and “Smell my Ho-Hos.”
  • Fill a water park with cooked spaghetti noodles so we can all be like that old lady in Patch Adams.
  • Train a bunch of lions and re-create a liveaction THE LION KING.
  • “Accidentally” throw radioactive waste into a local water tower and then fund my own X-Men. Except they’ll be called A-Men. A for Alexha, obviously. But then whenever anyone would be saved, they’ll have to respond with an AMEN!

I don’t know who wouldn’t benefit from these contributions to society, so if you’re the winner reading this blog, please give me your monies so I can make these dreams come true. Think of the impact you’ll be making on the world! How could we possibly have nuclear wars if everyone is all jolly riding down a slide into a pit of spaghetti noodles?!

Just make the check out to Dongha Alexha Lu Luong. :)

However, should you choose to take a more practical approach, I found this earlier.

Just something to keep in mind. Good luck everyone :)


Peeta: the poor man’s Draco.

So I fear that I might be impaled by stones (or maybe arrows) for saying this, but I think Peeta is a giant sack of sappy shit.

I held out as long as I could because 1) I’m 24 years old and this book is located in the “young adult” section and 2) I was afraid it would just be another Twilight type of diarrhea in your pants, but I finally got around to reading The Hunger Games yesterday when there was nothing to do at work and I finished it today when there was, again, nothing to do at work. Sure, maybe I rushed through my routine duties to get back upstairs to get through the next chapter, and sure, maybe it took me over an hour to eat my bowl of soup (which got super cold, btw) because I was too engaged in this weird, awesome, badass world, but I’m still not impressed whatsoever by this “Peeta” character.

When I announced to the universe that I’d finally hop onto the “HG bandwagon,” a lot of my friends told me that I’d “love Peeta,” and I think this in large part has to do that when I was in high school, and maybe even throughout college, I was a hopeless romantic. I ate all that shit up like it was a delicious bowl of lucky charms. (Except for Twilight, which is the shit that comes out of the behind of a regular shit after it’s had a meal consisting of an insane curry consisting of ghost peppers and e coli.) But it’s become pretty evident lately to me that something happened in the last couple of years and I’ve become more hopeless than romantic. In fact, my boyfriend can pretty much attest that I am the least romantic person on the planet. I make Freddy Kruger look like a decent date. Actually, I bet he would be a good date. He probably has a lot of interesting stories about dreams he’s teleported into. Maybe he’s been in a few of my weird Justice-League-at-Hogwarts dreams. I make Sheldon Cooper look like a decent date. And it’s not like I think romance is dead. I just think the way Peeta is constantly treating his moments with Katniss in the arena as a “date” rather than being on guard is irritatingly stupid. And the mushy gushy crap he says?! C’mon. No one says shit like that. Or maybe just not to me. Because they know it’ll make me throw up. But really now, who seriously thinks making out when you’re being hunted is a good idea?!

This all dawned on me on my ride home from work today. At one point in my life, I really did think that when I was with the right boy, there would be fireworks, and my leg would awkwardly kick up (okay, someone please explain to me why this happens in movies… as a pre-med, I can tell you they do NOT explain this reflex whatsoever in muscles and bones class), and the first time we’d lock eyes when he sees me actually non-ugly (remember, I was a hideous child), Sixpence None the Richer would play…

(I’m equally as graceful, btw. Thanks for giving me hope, Rachel Leigh Cook!)

Anyways, I think this is one of the ways the Beastie and I have grown to be different. It can be argued that the foundation of our friendship was boys: the ones we had a crush one, the ones that liked us, the ones that broke our hearts. No matter what, the conversation always came back to boys. We’ve both had our share of heartache, but unlike me, the Beastie has never been jaded in her confidence that “true love” really does exist out there. For this, I am unreasonably jealous. Or Envious. (As a linguistics minor and a member of the Jane Austen book club, I feel like I really should remember which is used for arbitrary and which for concrete objects, but I’ve had enough wine tonight to not really care.) Because honestly, all I want is that look that my parents still give each other after being in a relationship for 38 years. But I don’t think it’s ever going to happen to me. Which is fine, because you don’t get everything you want in life.

All I know is that being madly in love is so unproductive. First of all, no one would ever hang up the phone! We’d literally be glued to the phone for the rest of our lives. “Oh you hang up!” “No, you hang up!” OH JUST SHOOT ME ALREADY. 

I miss feeling that giddiness though. And the excitement. And the butterflies.

No offense to my boyfriend, of course. He’s probably the nicest, most loving person I’ve ever been with. Especially if he’s put up with me for this long. Don’t get me wrong; I am the absolute best girlfriend you could ask for. I’m also the worst. How? I try really, really, really hard to be as thoughtful as I possibly can. When I die, that’s what I want people to remember about me: my thoughtfulness. I’m also probably the most distant person you’ll ever encounter. Sorry, buddy.

I’ll also be the first to admit that I’m pretty selfish. I’ll choose my family over a boy 10 times out of 10. They mean everything to me, and that’s never going to change.

Speaking of family, my baby sister (okay, she’s not a baby. She’s 21. Weird. I feel like she’s still 2) left this morning to study abroad in London. It’s a weird feeling because I’ve never been apart from her for over a week, and now there’s an ocean separating us for over 4 months. This is the same girl I shared a room with for 18 years. The one I don’t go a day without talking to. I hope she meets Tom Felton and gropes him, and then tells me all about it so that I can live vicariously through her. I tried to convince her to pack a few roofies so that she can bring him home but I guess she doesn’t want to go through the trouble of declaring him in her suitcase when going through customs. SELFISH!

Oh Draco. You’re so much more dreamy than Peeta. You would never say any of that mushy crap.

With that said, I actually did enjoy the books. Not as much as Harry Potter, obviously, because… well come on. I felt really bad for saying this out loud once, but even if they found a cure for cancer, I’ll still consider Harry Potter the greatest contribution within my lifetime. But I still liked Hunger Games.

Like the short bald guy from Princess Bride, what I really appreciate more than anything is wit. I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I think wittiness is the most admirable quality a person can have. And not just witty in the sense that you’re funny, but witty has in you have the ability to out-clever everyone else. And that’s why I really enjoyed reading the cunningness of Katniss. And especially Rue.

Anyways, I hope the Beastie writes a sunshine-filled post soon, just so you’re reassured that there’s more than just ice running through this blog’s veins. Until then, I’ll leave you with this short note and two songs:

HP >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> HG

PS, that Lovemakers’ song is the very first song I ever bought on iTunes :)

PPS, despite what I feel for Pita, this still makes me laugh:

I’m pretty much Adam Levine…

… except I can ride a motorcycle.

I yelled this at my sister the other day when she was arguing with me about how cool I really am. It just came out, but now that I’ve thought it about it more, I’m ready to back up this statement.

  1. I LOVE tattoos. And since he has so many, I’m assuming he does too.
  2. When I am speaking regularly, I have a gender-appropriate pitch, but when I sing, people start to wonder if I’m really a man trapped in a girl’s body. Adam’s voice also suffers from gender-confusion.
  3. We’re both the perfect combination of nice, funny, and douchebag-y.
  4. Maroon is one of my favorite colors.
  5. Christina Aguilera irks me, but I also can’t stop staring at her boobs.

All I need now is a Victoria Secret supermodel and we’d pretty much be the same entity. I have Judy though, so I’d say that’s pretty close.

Anyways, back to the motorcycle thing.

When I turned 21, oh so many years ago, I wrote a bucket list that had been brewing inside my head for quite some time:

1) go sky diving
2) write a NYT best-seller
3) travel to all 7 continents
4) win the Nobel Peace Prize
5) finish a FRIDAY crossword puzzle sans help
6) compete in the AVP tour
7) become a photographer and have a picture sold at an art gallery
8) conquer a black diamond via snowboard
9) own a bakery
10) invent something
11) write a song and perform it live
12) change someone’s life
13) live abroad
14) learn how to make a classic espresso
15) play a full round of golf
16) follow Elizabeth Gilbert’s journey
17) become Martha Stewart’s successor
18) learn French, Italian, and at least one Indian language
19) make my own wine
20) restore a classic Mustang
21) learn to ride a motorcycle

The Beastie immediately responded. I thought she was going to tell me “OMG, I WANT TO DO ALL THOSE THINGS TOO! LET’S DITCH COLLEGE AND EXPERIENCE LIFE!” so I ran off and started packing my duffel bag, ready for some adventure! Halfway through my wool-sock drawer, I got distracted and came back to Facebook. That’s when I actually read the Beastie’s comment:

i like that you’re def online but not responding to my texts betch!

p.s. i want to skydive tooo

Damnit. Time to start unpacking. Worse, I actually have to write the paper due the next day because evidently, we are not bailing on this ” silly college thing.” Worse worse, I got caught not responding to my texts! Oops. You won’t like the Beastie when she’s angry!

Just kidding :)

But seriously, the only one she wants to do is go sky diving? Sure, it’s the one that terrifies me the most, and I’ll definitely need someone to hold my hand (and maybe change my diaper afterwards), but what about the other 20 things? Who’s going to help me with those?

Soon after, someone else also responded to the sky diving comment.

Seriously people, did you even read the rest of the list?! 

From now on, I’m sticking sky-diving somewhere in the middle.

Anyways, 2012 has been an awesome year thus far, because I’ve been able to knock multiple things off this list! I knew this would happen coming into the year because, well, twelve is my favorite number. And according to Professor McGonagall, magical things always happen to you when it’s your favorite number’s year!

What did I actually accomplish, you ask?

Well for one thing, I most definitely got a DSLR and the Rosetta Stone for French and Italian, so I can pretty much half-cross off #7 & #18. I’ve also played a bunch of rounds of 9-hole, so cumulatively, I can half cross off #15.

But seriously. Last harvest, (with a lot of help), I made my own 5 gallon batch of premium-grade Cabernet Sauvignon. So excited to see how it turns out! As long as it’s better than the box wine I was dressed as for Halloween, I’m going to be really happy. If it tastes like the offspring of a grape and a skunk, or like someone poured vinegar all over a durian and then let it sit in the sun for 5 days, then I’ll re-do this bucket list item.

Earlier this year, I also (somehow) managed to carve down a black diamond, so adios #8! I felt so awesome, and buff, and gorgeous. It’s really easy to spot me because I usually wear a highlighter-pink jacket. Guys were whistling and cat-calling from the lifts, dropping panties left and right. AND THEN. I ate it. Bad. But it was all worth it! Which reminds me, I really need to invest in a helmet. The time prior to the last, when boys weren’t oogling me, I had a really bad fall that resulted in a mild concussion. So don’t believe your mom when she says boys find you more attractive when you’re blacked out!

Anyways, onto the MOST exciting news!

I got licensed to ride motorcycles and drop panties worldwide.

Most of you probably already know this because I haven’t been able to stop talking about it, and you probably want to punch me in the face just so I’ll shut up, but I don’t care!

I’ve wanted to be able to ride a motorcycle all my life because growing up, my dad was always obsessed with motorcycles. For my mom’s 18th birthday (yes, they’ve known each other that long. So weird. When I was 18, I had barely just graduated from the training bras in the kids’ section at Target. I’m glad I didn’t meet the love of my life then) he got her MATCHING MOTORCYCLES. So adorable, right? Not that I would ever advocate couples having anything matching, but if it had to be something, matching bikes is pretty bad ass. I feel like I am one step closer to becoming my dad’s favorite child, because now we can start our own bike gang and go terrorize suburban Minnesota!

I’m also super excited to be able to ride around town because I feel like in some small way, the tramp stamp that I picked up when I was 18 (see? I clearly didn’t make good life decisions at that young age) is now justified. How or why? I don’t know. But who cares? I CAN RIDE A MOTORCYCLE.

Now that I have knocked out a few things on my life bucket list before I’ve even turned 24, I’m considering adding a few things, but I’m not sure what. Other than brewing my own batch of beer, I’ve got bucket-list-writer’s-block. If you have any suggestions, please let me know. Also, if you’d like to accompany me on anything else, please let me know.

Even if some of these seem impossible, or possimplible, Rick Astley taught me never to give up, so here’s a short tribute to him.

For now, you can find me walking around town holding a bike helmet all HAM-like… even though I haven’t even bought a bike yet.

Stay classy, blogoverse!

I want these posters for my house… SO. BAD.


Tuesday funny: All The Things You Must Have Said To Your Children, In Poster Form. We ran across these absolutely hilarious masterpieces on DesignTaxi and felt obligated to share such comical pieces.

Iowa-based artist Nathan Ripperger has come up with a series of humorous yet adorable posters expressing the things he has said to his children. At the time, they may have been some serious situations, but looking back now, things that you might have said to your children seem pretty comical now.

If your words are still not going down well with your kids, perhaps these posters would be more effective? Then again, maybe not.

images via


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What Dreams Are Made Of

Today I got into work and my manager was on the computer trying to plan a spontaneous vacation for her upcoming 30th birthday. Cleverly, I decided to throw in a few suggestions in hopes that it leads to another discussion that takes up a good chunk of my work day.

This lady is crazy. First of all, she speaks eleven languages. FLUENTLY. I thought I was cool because I can say “¿dónde está la biblioteca,” but apparently that’s about as cool as Dwight Howard dunking on a Little Tykes basketball hoop in her world.

Secondly, she’s been everywhere.

I’ve always been under the impression that I’m relatively quite the worldly traveler. I’ve been to all 48 continental states and only have 2 more continents to knock out. Pretty cool, right? RIGHT?! Wrong. My manager lived in Australia. And Ireland. And now her parents live in Panama and she tours around Central/South America every summer. When she was living in Ireland, she would just grab some green eggs and ham and eat it on a bus, eat it on a plane, eat it on a train throughout Western AND Eastern Europe.

It’s a good thing I’m simultaneously doing some “sensory evaluation” (aka “tasting” wine) during the conversation because otherwise I probably would’ve Hulked out of my safety vest and thrown the titrator sitting in NaOH at her face out of jealousy. Honestly, I don’t really care if I’m “rich” when I grow up. I just want to be able to travel and see everything this planet has to offer. I don’t care if that means I have to poo in a hole I dug myself, or if I have to live through 10 days of night time (or day time!), or if I have to eat fried iguanas like Andrew Zimmerman. My life goal is to be that awesome old grandpa sitting in a giant leather reclining chair (whiskey in hand) telling my grandchildren about my awesome Indiana Jones life. I don’t even care that it’s physically impossible for me to a “grandpa!”

Anyways, eventually the conversation steers towards UC Davis and we talk about all the crazy stupid stuff we used to do as freshmen (is it just me or does freshmen year of college feel like it was just yesterday?), and I accidentally let it slip that my friend and I used to stalk our chem TA on Facebook (heeeeeello, Jeff!). My manager scoffed and told me stories about her housemate got arrested TWICE for public intoxication. And then she was like “when I was in college, you had to have a college email address to join!” and I was like “how young do you think I am?! It was like that for me too.” and she was like “OH YEAH?! WELL DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT LIVEJOURNAL IS?!”

Uh, say what? I think I’ve heard of Livejournal, but seriously, all I could think of at that point were “Live Links” commercials. They’re so awkward. And hilarious. Like when mama cats lick their kins’ buttholes. We know you wanna clean your children’s butts, but please save that for when I’m not about to eat this HoHo… you’re ruining fake chocolate for me!

Anyways, I was too afraid to ask what Livejournal was like… I can only assume it was a less cool Xanga? Cuz c’mon, everyone in middle who had discovered the magic of sexual innuendo had a Xanga! I tried to sign on awhile back but unfortunately this was prior to when I made all of my passwords my ex-boyfriend’s nickname and I couldn’t recall what my stupid pw was. (I call them stupid not because I’m angry I couldn’t remember… I really did make REALLY STUPID passwords. At one point, my running pw was “buffet.” I DIDN’T EVEN EAT AT A BUFFET THE DAY I MADE THAT PASSWORD.)

(Sidenote: On one of those magical days strolling around Vallejo in which I was trying to get to know it better because I had just moved in, I saw a fatty hoard of people stampeding in the same general direction. Quickly they swept me up in their tide– so unfortunate that I didn’t have my Razor scooter or else I would’ve salmon-ed upstream– and somehow fell into the doorway at KFC. I have absolutely no recollection of how it came up, but soon I discovered that the [I’m assuming] 16-year-old cashier also used her ex-boyfriend’s name as her password and was too lazy to change it after they broke up. So I’m pretty confident that I can crack anyone’s security system now. Hardison, you’ve got nothing on me. COME HIRE ME, LEAVERAGE TEAM!)

Back to the point. If I had a Livejournal, I’d use it to keep track of my dreams. Like a dream journal. I’ve always wanted one, but have always been too lazy. So I have one in my dreams. Whenever I open up this leather bound pop-up dream journal, the song WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF would play.

(Speaking of awkward and hilarious… Remember when bellbottoms were cool?!) (Sorry to feature so much Hilary Duff on this blog. I had no idea I was such a fan..?)

By pop-up book, I mean you would see holograms of my dreams. But since Apple is totally slacking on this invention, I’ll just have to paint you a word picture of my dreams. I should warn you now that I have weird dreams every single night. And most of the time, when I wake up, I only remember 50% of it or so. But here are 3 examples that I think are sufficiently representative of what I go through every night when I drift off to Never Never Land. Please make sure your seatbelt is on tight, and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times– this is going to be a crazy ride!

Dream 1:

I was at Mall of America (or MoA to us cool Minnesooooootan kids) when it suddenly got super dark. I was really distraught because I was frantically looking for the TCBY. (This is weird because I’d take Dairy Queen over TCBY any day. Such a shame that DQ’s suck here in Cali. DAMN YOU HEALTH CONSCIOUS CALIFORNIAS! Take a lesson from the generally overweight population of the midwest.) Suddenly, bat signals start flashing all over the ceiling. And then DOOMS DAY music blares all over the sound system. From out of the giant water fountain in the middle of the mall, the Legion of Doom’s UFO-shaped headquarters thing pops up. To my side, Batman and Ash Ketchum appear. I scoff and I’m like “gentlemen, I take my whiskey neat and I taught Bear Grylls how to machete the shit out of pokey plants that are overflowing forest trails, so I think I’ll be able to handle this Legion of Lame.” (someone call the BUUUUURN unit.) I barely got my words out, however, because suddenly, MoA has transformed into Hogwarts and it’s the final battle sequence: Superman is flying around lazering Dwight K Schrute (the flying version from Second Life), who is shooting beets out his ass like when you’re playing Mario Kart and you can shoot turtle shells backwards; Aquaman is being eaten alive by a blue eyes white dragon (the Justice League can afford to lose Aquaman, dontchathink?); an army of Angry Birds are bombarding Snape (I’m not sure who is good and who is evil in this instance). Ash soon realizes that this could be the end and runs over to Jubilee and asks “Hey, do you mind if I Pikachu?” She shoots him in the face with the weak fireworks, or whatever her superpower is. I love over at Batman and everything goes slow-mo. He looks over at me, and there’s a twinkle of yearning in his eyes. Lionel Richie’s “Hello” plays in the background.  Or Maybe Sara Bareilles. Definitely a “long looks, stolen glances” kind of moment. You know what I mean. If you don’t… brush up on your Community!

Anyways, I don’t really remember anything after that. Even in my dream, where a vortex of entropy had unleashed itself, I stopped caring. I think Batman took his mask off and revealed that he was Ryan Gosling? Drool.

Dream 2:

One night, I dreamt that I was in a lecture hall (SciLec123) with Christina Ly (or the Donut Princess, as you might know her as). The professor asked us a question and I raised my hand to answer, when out of the corner of my eye, I notice Christina’s hand reach inside her awesomely fashionable handbag purse thing. You know… those things are women lunk their stuff around in. Midway through the professor’s praise for my brilliant answer, Christina shoots me. Execution style. I scramble down and over a few rows to where Thom is sitting. Apparently no one heard the shot, but surely the fact that I”m bleeding to death will alert those around me that I need medical attention! I yell to Thom “CALL 911!! I’VE BEEN SHOT!” and he yells back “YOLO!” The lesson continues and I just lay on the ground near my roommate, praying that the EMTs are going to be hot. They finally get there after the pop quiz but dismisses my case because the guy says “she’s not shot– she’s just drunk.” And I stand up and tell him “THERE’S A FREAKIN’ BULLET LODGED IN MY BRAIN!” (At this point, I realize that I should be dead, and I start freaking out that I’m not.) Class is let out and Thom tells me to meet him and Christina, along with our other friends, in the cafeteria for lunch. I start walking over, cuz, well I’ve got nothing better to do, when I realize that I can’t walk straight… and my vision is blurry. But I’ve been shot, so that’s expected. Right?! At this point I’m mad because I can no longer function like a normal human being, and not only did Christina shoot me, but she also grabbed the last serving of mac & cheese.

And then my alarm went off and Jay-Z is singing about his 99 problems.

What made this dream even weirder was that I wasn’t even mad at CLy or anything. I would be, though, if she ate all my mac & cheese. ALL FRIENDSHIPS NEED BOUNDARIES.

Dream 3: 

Sometimes I dream in cartoon. And sometimes it’s half cartoon, half live action. Just like this video I found:

Pretty exciting, right?

I’ve always wondered what I’d look like if I was animated. I’d hope it’d be something like this:

But I actually look like this:

Speaking of dreams and Tom Brady, I need to get to bed. This schedule is completely messing with my internal clock (like ghost pepper chicken wings do to your intestines).

NUT up or SHUT up.

My sister has three verbal motifs, if you will. If you spend just 30 minutes with her, she’s sure to say the following three words/phrases at least thrice:

  1. Negatory / Positron (in response to when you ask her a yes or no question)
  2. Bitchass (I have no idea what this means. I keep telling her that it’s a compliment because “some bitches got nice asses,” but she says it’s not a compliment at all. And she always SCREAMS it. Especially when she’s got road rage.)
  3. Nut up or Shut up (this one I completely approve of… except when she’s saying it to me.)

I chose to headline my post with this saying because a) it always makes me laugh b) my sister is leaving to study abroad in London in exactly one week and I still can’t grasp the fact that there will be an entire country along and an entire ocean between us c) I am super jealous that she gets to be so close to St. James Gate Brewery, Speyside Scotland, and Platform 9 3/4 and d) it always gives me perspective. Let me give an example.

My work is being audited sometime this week, and because I’m the lowliest ranking, my shift got moved to 3-11pm to free up time for the more senior chemists to prep for the audit. That’s fine with me, I get it. Whatever helps the team! Plus I get to sleep in extra. (Too bad I stayed up until 4:30am getting caught up on PLL, Community, and Are You There, Chelsea.) So today I ended up working until 12:30am due to a problem with one of our bottling lines. When I actually realized what time it was, I immediately tweeted “It’s past midnight! Why am I still at work?!”

You know that feeling you get when you send a text and then immediately wish you could reach out with your hands and snatch back the words? Well in case you don’t, this is what it’s like:

So yes, I had tweeter’s remorse. All the way home from work, I kept thinking about how stupid I was to complain about something like that. First of all, I have a job. During a recession. Are we coming out of this recession? I think we’re on our way out of it, but given how many Little Cesar’s and Popeye’s coupons I’ve gotten in the mail, it sure as hell feels like we’re still in a recession. Secondly, it’s a job I actually really enjoy. Third, I got overtime for staying late. But let’s focus on the first two: it’d be along the same lines as if I was to tweet “oh god, they gave me two extra donuts. Why am I still eating?!” If someone said that outloud with me in the vicinity, I’d personally walk over and smack them in the face. And then steal their donuts. It’s such a stupid thing to complain about.

I come from a long line of lower-class, blue collared folk (with the exception of my Army General grandfather). Like the typical Asian sob story, when my parents came to America, they both worked whatever jobs they could get to help support their families. My mom’s first job was in a turkey factory (like Butterball) where she carried dead turkeys from palate to another; her sisters all worked in various assembly lines around town; my dad worked in a butter factory. Yeah, a factory that makes butter. Sure, I work in “manufacturing” as well, but I’m running the show. I’m also not making $3 an hour, like they were. $3!! Let’s take a quick break from my venting to consider what we can buy for $3 today.

  • Not even a Happy meal at McDonald’s
  • 3 songs on iTunes
  • 3/4 gallon of 87 octane gas
  • a couple of rolls of toilet paper
  • 3-pack of condoms

I know, I know. You’re probably thinking “but what about inflation?” Blah blah blah. I don’t care– I’m making a point here! Would you seriously work for an entire hour just for ONE of those things?! Probably not, right? Furthermore, I get to go home and relax with a glass of wine after work. My mom came home from her graveyard shift and then proceeded to cook/clean for her  parents and 8 siblings. I barely want to cook dinner after a day of work! How the hell she ever managed to be so productive is beyond me. My dad, on the other hand, would pick up extra shifts anywhere else he could, like delivering pizzas or flipping burgers at McDonald’s. Clearly I have no grounds on which to complain about my life.

So I came to realize on my drive home that I’ve seriously got it good, and I need to nut up and shut up. Sure, I’m tired from working until 12:30am, but there are a million other ways that I could be worse off. Which brings me to my next point…

Sometimes I just want to yell NUT UP OR SHUTUP to people. One of my biggest pet peeves is when I see fb statuses or tweets about the most pointless complaints. Okay, I know I already wrote an earlier post that “I have a knack for complaining about stupid stuff,” but most of the time I’m being ironic. Like “ha-ha, I’m complaining about my bed being too comfortable because my life is so awesome, that’s all I have to complain about.” Sure, I’m not perfect, and every once in awhile I let one slip. But there are just some people who ONLY COMPLAIN. It makes me want to punch them in the face… only I know that there will immediately be a public complaint about it!

The ones that bother me the most are the ones where people complain about school. Don’t you dare tell me that “school sucks.”

  1. There are millions of people on this planet who would kill (probably kill YOU) for the opportunity to be where you are
  2. There are also millions of people who are in school and NOT complaining about it

You can argue that you’re privy to complaining because your circumstances are “special,” but c’mon, who are you kidding? You’re not the only one who’s had to pull an all-nighter, or had to take an exam during an “emotional crisis” (aka, your BF forgot your anniversary of the first time he ordered meatloaf on your weekly date night, or something stupid like that), or got the sniffles during finals.

My good friend / very famous friend, Jennifer Allison Tran, recently told me about her classmate who gave birth (TO A HUMAN BABY! OUT OF HER VAGINA) one day and then came to school the next day to take her final exams. Apparently Touro University can only give you 3 days “maternity leave” before you’re due back in class. But seriously, if this lady did this without complaint, I don’t see any possible reason why you’re telling me your life suddenly sucks because you couldn’t get off LoL long enough to study and you failed your test. Shove a bowling ball from out of your uterus and then we’ll talk.

Anyways, sorry for ranting about people who rant. I just wanted to publicly apologize for my tweet from earlier tonight.

Also, I should probably apologize for placing that bowling ball / vagina imagery in your mind.

Oops, I did it again.

The human body is amazing though, isn’t it?

Now I want a Happy Meal.


I know I’m really just perpetuating the problems with stereotyping in our culture, but for some reason, I find racist jokes pretty hilarious… I mean, as long as they don’t cross a line, of course. In my world, a little bit of harmless racism can be quite hilarious. For instance, I heard this joke when I was probably in 4th grade or so:

An Italian, a Scotsman, and a Chinese fellow were hired at a construction site. The foreman pointed out a huge pile of sand and told the Italian guy, “You’re in charge of sweeping.” To the Scotsman he said, “You’re in charge of shoveling.” And to the Chinese guy, “You’re in charge of supplies.”
He then said, “Now, I have to leave for a little while. I expect you guys to make a dent in that there pile.”
The foreman went away for a of couple hours, and, when he returned, the pile of sand was untouched. He asked the Italian, “Why didn’t you sweep any of it?” The Italian replied, “I no hava no broom. You said to the Chinese fella that he a wasa in a charge of supplies, but he hasa disappeared and I no coulda finda him nowhere.” Then the foreman turned to the Scotsman and said, “And you, I thought I told you to shovel this pile.”
The Scotsman replied, “Aye, ye did lad, boot ah couldnay get meself a shoovel! Ye left th’ Chinese gadgie in chairge of supplies, boot ah couldnay fin’ him either.” The foreman was really angry by now and stormed off toward the pile of sand to look for the Chinese guy.

Just then, the Chinese guy jumped out from behind the pile of sand and yelled…


BAHAHA. I’m pretty sure I fell off my chair laughing at this joke, mostly because it’s true. My mom really does say “surprise” like that, along with the rest of my Asian relatives. In my mind, this joke isn’t “racist” because it’s true!

But enough of that. The theme to tonight’s post is… SURPRISES!

More importantly, life’s little surprises.

Like when you go to the bathroom due to #1 and your body surprises you with a gigantic #2.

Or when you find a random $5 bill in your old jeans pocket. (or better yet, when you fit your old jeans.)

Or when you find out that Community is finally coming back on.

Or when you wake up and find that your crazy psycho roommate has cleaned and sanitized the entire house just to avoid studying for her pharmacy exams.

Or when you find a half-eaten Ho-Ho in the couch cushions.

The list goes on and on.

Some surprises are better than others. I’m never really all that pleased when a birdie that I already hate decides to give me a “special gift” from above. But what can you do? You have to take the good with the bad; the “30 Rock” with the “Toddlers and Tiaras,” Hershey’s Special Dark Chocolate with Mr. Goodbars, the Harry Potter with the Twilight.

(Apparently all I can think to write tonight is a bunch of lists. So sorry.)

Anyways, I feel like there were a bunch of surprises last week!

For one, I went winetasting, got pretty buzzed, and then got offered a new job. But that was probably the least exciting surprise.

The medium-sized surprise was being invited over for a homecooked meal with Christina Ly’s mom… AT THE NOTORIOUS DONUT SHOP. I spent hours preparing for what I thought was going to be a “my friend’s mom and me” type of date, but turns out she just cooked enough food for a village and then watched me eat it with Christina. So yeah, you can pretty much sum it up to a 50% awesome 50% disappointing surprise. I’m really good at flattering parents, so I thought I would get another chance to wiggle my way into a possible adoption with the Ly’s, but I guess I’ll have to settle for wiggling further into Christina’s heart.

But yes, the grand finale! The big, jackpot surprise of pre- St. Patty’s day week! (sidenote: what does St. Patrick’s Day celebrate? The birth of leprechauns? When is it national unicorn day?)

I don’t know how normal people typically respond to grocery ads, but in our house, we treat them like they’re letters from N*Sync-era Justin Timberlake. Or maybe Friends with Benefits JT? We’ll take either. But yes, come Wednesday afternoons, we scurry around the dinner table, searching the papers like treasure maps. To preface this elaborately short story, Judy and I have been experiencing wildly chaotic food cravings ever since we started turning into meatheads. AKA, we’re ravenous. At all times of the day. So you can only imagine what it’s like when we peruse the food-porn. We also have a deeply-seeded problem with too much food inventory. Our fridge and pantry suffer what I can only assume China and India are experiencing population-wise. We hear the cabinets groaning with fatigue as we make an overly extensive shopping list and reluctantly decide to scour through the slums, searching for any usable ingredients.

An hour later and that original reluctance has turned into excitement– going through our freezer was like going through a time capsule! Minus all the worms and (I wish I could say) decay, of course. I pull out a gallon-sized ziploc bag of mystery and notice Judy is holding another bag with very similar contents. We’re scientists, of course, so we whip out the microscope and titraters  and eventually figure out that it’s a 10 lbs of leftover turkey meat from Thanksgiving with my folks. At first fear strikes our eyes… WTF are we going to do with 10 lbs of turkey?! The only person who seems overjoyed is Gambit. He jumps around on an invisible pogo-stick begging for the tryptophan. Slowly, we realize that we’ve stumbled upon a blank canvas, and we can pretty much make WTH we want!


The brain juices get flowing (we may or may not have stumbled upon some questionable beer in the fridge and used ourselves as test subjects to see whether or not beer goes bad*).

The room goes silent and still.

I close my eyes.

At first, all I can hear is Gambit begging for me Thom to cuddle with him. eeeehn- eeeehn- eeeehn.

Then a piece of foil from a Costco hot dog is heard rustling in the wind. chiiiiii- chiiiiii- chiiiiii.

Kelis walks into our house all of a sudden and starts singing about her milkshakes. La-La La-La La.

What’s that computer operating system that came before Windows again? Oh yeah. Dos.

I don’t know how, and I don’t know from where, but I figured it out: we’ll make enchiladas!

So… SUPPLIES! Here’s my super makeshift recipe for some pretty bomb enchiladas, and a surefire way to get rid of random turkey meat you find in your freezer.

Alexha’s Racist Enchiladas:


  • 1 medium onion
  • 2 lbs (ish) shredded turkey meat
  • 1 large can enchilada sauce (I used Las Palmas because it’s spicy. I’m a working woman, alright? I can spare a shortcut here or there.)
  • 1 can fire-roasted green chilies
  • 8 flour tortillas
  • Mexican blend cheese
  • sour cream (or yogurt, for you healthy folks)
Does your unpacked grocery bag look like this?

Yes? Awesome. Let’s get started!

  1. Dice the onion and throw it into the slow cooker with the turkey.
  2. Grab your can opener and get some arm exercises in. Open the enchilada sauce and green chilies and add them to the pot.
  3. Hold the pot at about waist level, turn on Apache, and do a quick few hip swirls to mix semi-mix the ingredients. Set the timer for about 2 hours. *I chose to slow cook the turkey out of fear that its frozen origin would render it dry. If you know for a fact that your meat is nice and juicy (bahahaha), give the onions a quick saute in olive oil on a hot pan and then add the meat, sauce, and chilies. Let simmer for about 15 minutes.
  4. While you’re waiting for the meat to stew, line up your boxes of Girl Scout cookies on the counter. Blindfold your roommate and take her to the kitchen. Shove her into the counter where the boxes are neatly sitting. The first one she touches on her way to smashing her face becomes the box you should devour while skimming through Hunger Games for the next 2 hours.
  5. When the timer is about to go off, lightly oil a casserole dish with olive oil to ensure that the tortillas won’t stick to the bottom when they bake.
  6. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. (Yes, I got too lazy to clear out our real oven so I used the small convection oven.)
  7. Remove the chicken/onions/chilies mix from the sauce and spoon generous portions onto the tortillas.
  8. Roll the tortillas up like you’re rolling up a newspaper to smash a fly and then place them seam-side down on the casserole dish.
  9. Pour the sauce over the tortilla rolls and then top it all off with fistfuls of cheese. NOT TINY SPRINKLINGS. We’re talking a HAILSTORM of cheese, none of that drizzling crap.
  10. Foil and let bake for 20 minutes. Remove the foil and bake an additional 5 minutes. Carefully take it out of the oven and then start fanning the aroma towards your roommate’s room.
  11. Serve with sour cream (or plain yogurt) and lots more cheese!
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I really wish our kitchen didn’t have such warm lighting. Probably has to do with some sort of symbolism. Like how our house is so cozy and warm, like a fireplace. Or how we’re so hot. Who knows?

I’m glad it’s been cold lately. Enchiladas are pretty comforting to me. Well, maybe not comforting? Reassuring? They make me feel like… like if I were to have a bad day and then the bartender buys me a drink and gives me one of those “life is bullshit, it’ll get better” winks. You know what I’m talking about. The non-creepy kind of free-drink-wink that bartenders give you.

Anyways, life isn’t bullshit. It’s full of SUPPLIES!…es.

*I’m obviously kidding. Beer never lasts long enough in this household to even get a chance to go bad. You have better chances finding the end of a rainbow whilst riding on your centaur boyfriend than finding expired alcohol here!

Baby if I’ve got you, I don’t need a parachute.

I recently changed my fb profile picture to one in which I’m wearing a straw fedora and consequently, everyone suddenly thinks I’m this cool hipster. The Beastie is surely laughing at this notion because I am the farthest thing from a hipster (though I heard denying that you’re a hipster is the tell-tale sign of being a hipster). In all honesty, I think hipsters are cool, and thus they kicked me out of the biweekly hipster meeting. Also, they found my hidden Britney Spears stash. But anyways,  when people ask me what kind of music I like, I still like to play off like I’m cool, and respond with accessibly indie things Meg+Dia (Monster is one of my all-time favorite songs), Death Cab For Cutie, She+Him (obviously, I like bands with a “plus sign” in the name), Young the Giant, etc etc. and then I go on a rant about how Ingrid Michaelson is one of my musical idols.

(sidenote: can you have a musical idol if you’re not musically inclined? I have absolutely no musical aspirations– I just think Ingrid Michaelson is the best thing to happen to music since the decline of Ricky Martin. And the fact that she isn’t nearly as revered as she should be is beyond the tragedy of the decline of the Spice Girls.)

This rant goes on and on until whoever I’m talking to tries to bring my crass voice to a screeching halt by asking a simple and short question: what’s my favorite Ingrid Michaelson song? It’s at this point that I whip out my dissertation on Ingrid fandom. But I’ll keep this short, because the main point of this post is eventually going to be about friendship (trust me, I’ll get there).

Usually I’d pull up a chair and serenade you with every Ingrid song in my repertoire (oh what? This is an electric chair and unless you beg for an encore you get zapped?), but since my voice is better appreciated live, rather than the medium of this blog, I’ll save that performance for when you come to collect your level 3 hug and instead include Youtube videos of my top two (what did we ever do before Youtube?):

(Obviously, “The Way I Am” is way up there on the list, but saying that it’s my fav would be as if I said pink Starbursts are the best Starbursts– some things just don’t need to be said.)

Also obvious: don’t take anything I say seriously without a grain of salt. (Okay seriously, English was my second language. Is that how the saying goes? It’s something like that, right? Or is it a grain of sand? I can’t think of anything else that comes in “grain” form, so I’m going to go with either salt or sand for now.)

I go through a lot of phases, I’ve realized. One day I love Milk Duds, the next day all I can think about is breaking off a piece of that … Kit Kat bar. There was a point in time when all I would wear were “track jackets” … now I have a box of useless Hollister jackets that don’t even keep me warm somewhere in the garage. I am constantly flipping back and forth between team Razzmatazz and team MangoAGoGo (though ever since I discovered the magic of a juicer, all I ever order is an orange-carrot-banana juice. So. Effin. Yum. Someone at the airport went out of their way to tell me I’m gross for ordering that once. My mom used to tell me that carrots were good for my skin. I hope that jerk is riddled with scurvy-pimple-constipation-itis. ALL THE TIME.).

(Back to music) I used to have a 32mb mp3 player. Yeah, MEGABYTE. That shit fit 6 songs on there, 7 if I was lucky. That’s when picking songs were cut throat. Kids these days are spoiled with the stress-free lifestyle that 64GB ipods and iphones and ishit facilitate. For some reason, even though my mp3 player had the same amount of room as Kate Gosselin had in her uterus, I kept two songs constant: Green Day’s Brain Stew (a legitimate choice) and Hilary Duff’s Come Clean (slightly less legitimate).

Yeah, I was that teenage girl. (To further elaborate on what I mean by “that teenage girl,” I’d like to openly admit that the Beastie and I would waste all of 7th grade English class writing BRING IT ON quotes to each other. The entire class period. I’m not sure why we were oblivious to the fact that boys in real life DID/DO NOT GIVE A SHIT ABOUT MOVIES ABOUT CHEERLEADING.)

Anyways, my embarrassingly prepubescent lifestyle came rushing back to me on my drive home from work today because COME CLEAN came up on my ipod.

It got me thinking about two things:

  1. Wow, I’m kind of an adult now. Who ever thought “commute” and “home from work” and “colleagues” would be words/phrases I say on a daily basis? And when the eff did I have to start packing my own lunch?! I NEED YOU, MOM.
  2. Things were a lot easier back when we were younger.

Sure, it was fun not having any real responsibilities beyond giving your friends cootie shots, (remember when running a mile in PE was pretty much the worst day of your life?) but what I really miss is how easy it was to make friends when we were younger.

Some brief Alexhistory:

As I mentioned before, English is my second language. In fact, neither of my parents ever spoke English to my brother and me when we were growing up, so I didn’t even learn it until I was about 7, leaving me unable to really communicate in Kindergarten and 1st grade. To make matters worse, I grew up in a suburb in the middle of the midwest, aka I was the only colored person in my class. Yet I still had plenty of friends. Because kids don’t care about stuff like “talking about our feelings” and “verbal social conventions.” They just want to paint with their fingers, knock over buildings made of blocks, and build snow men; as long as you let me use some of your blue paint or help crash a toy car into the house or throw snowballs at the 2nd graders with you, we were friends.

Even when we were in middle school, when kids supposedly become “vicious” (and granted, some of them were), it wasn’t even that hard to find people to eat lunch with you. And this is coming from me, the girl who was introduced to the class as a boy by the teacher, because I was THAT ugly. And THAT tomboyish. (sidenote: the Beastie was in this class, and that’s how we eventually met.) Yes, I enrolled late to middle school because I was awkwardly transitioning from a “traditional” school system to a “year round” system, so I came in to my first class on my first day of school and the teacher called everyone’s attention to announce “Everyone, this is [Alexha]. He will be joining our class.” I pretty much died on the inside. But hey, lunch time came around and I had new friends to sit with. (Maybe they thought I was a hot guy, who knows.)

So the point is, as long as you were nice to people and willing to share your toys, it was easy to make friends when you were young. These days, however, it’s ridiculously hard to meet new people if you’re not in school. You’re pretty much limited to the people you meet at work, unless you frequent the bars as regulars (or McDonald’s). When I was going to UC Davis, I joined a “sport and social league” called XOSO where 21+ year old kids played dodgeball, kickball, and volleyball (and more importantly, celebrated victories at local bars afterwards) during the week. Some of my most cherished “early 20’s” memories have resulted directly from XOSO, and I’ve made countless lifelong friends, but there ain’t nuttin’ like that happening here in Vallejo. I’m pretty sure that if I asked some random V-Hos if they wanted to play dodgeball with me, they’d whip out their guns and shout

DODGE, DIP, DUCK, DIVE, DODGE this, bitch.

I complain about the lack of opportunities to meet new people in Vallejo all the time. Sure, I meet a lot of people through my roommate, who’s in grad school, and through college friends, but I feel like I’m just some sort of social leech that hooks her fangs into any friendships she can get her hands on. Obviously, I’m a vampiric leech. I told Christina Ly this when she said that social leeching is an essential social skill at our age, and that I should blog about my leeching strategies, so here goes:

How to mooch friends off of your existing friends:

  • Randomly sign your roommate up for grad school without her knowing. Then, when she gets in, she’s pretty much obligated to go, and she’ll feel forever indebted to you. Tell her she needs to whore herself in class to make you some new friends as payment.
  • Invite yourself to social events that may not necessarily apply to you (class bonding outings to the bowling alley, happy hour after class, game night at a classmate’s house, etc) and just try to blend in. Tell everyone that they’ve never seen you because you’re so smart, you don’t need to go to class. They’ll fall for it about 25% of the time.
  • When your roommate’s classmates are inebriated, immediately make plans with them. They’re more likely to agree. The next day, they’ll feel too bad to tell you that they didn’t mean to actually agree to hangout with you and will become socially obligated to spend time with you. Now you’re really wiggling your way into this social circle!
  • Facebook stalk all of them and then subtly drop hints that you have a cool blog (in which you’ve conveniently written flattering things about them).

If all else fails, build an impressive wine/whiskey cellar and offer to hold tastings; cook large elaborate dinners and mention that you “have too much food” and “need help finishing it all” ; exploit the crap out of how adorable your dog is.

There, your lonesome cocoon is about to sprout wings… you social butterfly, you!

We’re all wieners.

Judy and I have been flirting with the idea of flirting with some TV execs to create a show about us. Realistically, no one would pay may money to watch a show about two random Asian girls a) not mud wrestling in their apartment b) talking about how awesome hummus is or c) re-enacting scenes from Bridesmaids (we’re not as cute as Kristin Wiig or Maya Rudolph). So one night, as we were watching the food network– or King of Sandwiches, to be more exact– I intoxicatingly suggested that we should have a show about hot dogs. These are the potential names of the show that we came up with:

  • Queen of Wieners
  • Queenerschnitzel
  • Beaner Wieners (Judy’s racist suggestion from Mexican style hot dogs)
  • Weenie Meanie Minie Moe
  • Two girls, one hot dog
  • Polish Sausages from Costco
  • Weird Wieners (a spin-off of Bizarre Foods, obviously)
  • Between my buns

Please help us in adovcating this idea to culinary television networks by picketing their corporate offices.



So sorry, but it has come to my attention that I “forgot” the “BEST” idea we came up with: TEENY WEENIES. Aka a show about Judy eating a bunch of tiny hot dogs and sausages. If anyone has access to a shrink ray, it would be incredibly macho and manly if they lent it to us.

Thanks again!

Do you guys like cheese?

It’s crazy how nice guys are to you after you call them handsome on your blog. It doesn’t even have to be a popular blog. Of the 6 billion people on this planet, there are a total of 5 people who read my ramblings ( I’m counting you twice, Judy). As long as you somehow get these handsome gentlemen to stumble upon your words, you’re set. If you’re unfamiliar with how to persuade men, I have the following tips/suggestions:

  1. Mail them anonymous love letters. Sure, it’s pretty creepy, but most people (myself included) are too egotistical to ignore the attention.
  2. Hire a hypnotist. Yes, I’ve been watching the Mentalist.
  3. Utilize Skinner’s behavioral reinforcements. I hope you’ve seen the opening segment of the Office in which Jim trains Dwight to salivate every time his computer chimes. If you haven’t, feel free to click out of this page. We’re probably not going to be anything more than awkward subway acquaintances in real life– you know, the people you commute with daily that have become recognizable but you’re still hesitant to talk to out of fear that they’ll have bad breath and you’ll be stuck with that Pandora’s box for the next 20 stops (or worse, when you introduce yourself, they’ll smile and say “I already know who you are” and then proceed to open the heart shaped locket hanging from their neck to reveal a picture of you from 30 feet away).
  4. Roofies– they’re not just for bringing girls home from the club anymore … Obviously, I’m kidding … But Ambien, or a strong dose of Benadryl, will do the trick.

How did I bamboozle this modern Prince Charming into reading my blog, you ask? Simple. I nudged the girl sitting next to me in class who gchatted her friend who texted her cousin who Skyped her boyfriend who went to go play basketball with his roommate who had dinner with his mom who went out for drinks with her colleague who called his brother-in-law in Argentina who farmed grapes with his high school sweetheart who sent a postcard to her American best friend who dogsat for her neighbor who sold Girl Scout cookies to Mr Handsome himself. Like I said… simple. You just have to be committed.

Anyways, once he figured out that I’m “that girl” that everyone at Touro keeps lining up to be friends with, he immediately added himself to the waitlist set up for people who want to embark on El Tour de Napa a la Alexha.

Eventually, the top of the list reads “Tezus.”

The morning of our trip arrives and he knocks on our door with this fiesty firecracker that referred to herself as Lindsay. My roommate Judy rushes downstairs with a magnificent platter of assorted cheeses and swings open the door.


They scuttle upstairs for a quick and cheesy dance battle as we await our donuts delivery from The Donut Princess, aka Christina Ly. No one leaves our house without gaining 5 lbs first.

One extensive car-aoke (karaoke in the car, DUH.) session and two disposable-camera-photos later, we make it to Peju Province Winery. I flash my VIP badge (aka sweet-ass smile) and we’re set up for a tasting with the most hilarious man on this side of the North Pole. Richard was his name. He cleverly inebriates the group and then starts insulting women in the most adorable and flattering way possible.

You ladies don’t even know what you do to men. You’re like wild, heat-seeking missiles, and we’re just the poor targets. You pretend to be zebras like us, but really you’re a pack of lionesses, ready to pounce at any given moment.

Why, thank you sir. That’s pretty much what I’ve always wanted to hear. Seriously. Nala was a badass.

The room ebbs with laughter from the lionesses and as the zebras are lulled into a false sense of security.

Richard continues to charm us with his Rodney Dangerfield-esque ways…

…and soon, we’re roaring from Pride Rock.


Outside, a flock of old flamingos are quacking about, posing this and that way around the watering hole. (Is it just me or have there been a lot of Lion King analogies lately? Sorry, this was entirely unintentional. I’ll switch soon, I promise.) We brush by them like we’re the shit, because let’s be honest, they’re a bunch of floppy awkward pink birds (you know who I feel about birds) and we’re pretty much Lindsay Lohan in her prime.

(Please excuse the horrendous quality. I couldn’t find a good clip of them just walking down the hallway. BUT YOU GET THE POINT.)

So we slow-mo walk to our car and zip on over the glorious palace that is Beaulieu Vineyards. It is there that dementors appear. With a swish and a flick, I wingardium leviosa off Lindsay’s bra, and with this newfound comfort, she finds the inner happiness necessary to conjure her llama of a patronus. Too bad the llama is too busy eating Judy’s hair to actually protect us. Before anyone has noticed, Christina disappears, but soon this girl dressed in a Sailor Moon outfit appears… except she smells like donuts? And WTF, she’s sitting down eating a donut?! DONUTS ARE NOT TO DEMENTORS AS GARLIC IS TO VAMPIRES, FYI. Inches from the dementor’s kiss, Tezus let’s out a


And we all follow suit.

A Megazord fight sequence later and Beaulieu Vineyards is rescued. The winery workers spill out of the nooks and crannies like bears coming out of hibernation in the spring time and graciously thank us over and over. Before we know it, we’ve received the the highest honor any Power Ranger could receive: THE GOLIATH BOTTLE OF GEORGES DE LATOUR PRIVATE RESERVE.

The Justice League doesn’t even have it in their trophy case. You jelly, Superman?

Let me take a break from this adventure while you take a breath. I know this is titillating and all, but don’t get a heart attack or anything.

The Romulins defeat the Empire.

There, I’ve said it. Now you can relax.

Anyways, I’m glad I’ve ruined the ending for you because, to be honest, the story gets a little hazy from here on out. There was a lot of wine to be had, okay?

All I know is, the day started out looking like this:

Classy, right? I know. That’s just the kind of girl I am.

(sidenote: I do not apologize one bit for the shameless BV plugs. BV was the very first place I ever went winetasting– when I was exactly 21 years and 4 days old– and the very first place to employ me after I graduated college. I owe them everything. Well, not everything. I owe them a whole lot of wine.)

The day progressed, as days naturally do, and eventually, it turned into this:

Obviously, I’ve been working out. If you can’t tell, then visit this website here.

Soon after this photo was taken, we were kindly asked to evacuate Napa county on account of being an embarrassment to the human race. We swiftly braided Lindsay’s mane of hair so that it wouldn’t get tangled with the saddle and watched her gallop away into the sunset.

The moral of this story is that you shouldn’t feed the animals.

And that there is no shame in drawing all over your only white top with permanent gold marker.

And that you should never leave your house without your wand (example, mine is 10¾” vine wood, with a dragon heartstring core).

But most importantly, greet your guests with cheese.

Happy hunting, fellow lionesses <3



*it is also important to remember to avoid that person on the subway who’s always staring at you and making out with their locket necklace.