Love me, feed me, never leave me.

My apologies, dear readers, for leaving you malnourished for so long. Things have really picked up here at work. Que? You thought moi was a professional blogger? Oh, you flatter me so, mon cherie. But I make absolutely no money writing this amazing blog. I wish I could live off this blog! But if I did, I’d probably go broke and become one of those “mole people” living in the sewers. Sure, you get more sunlight as a homeless person, but the mole people take my long, luscious hair as currency, so I’d more power down in Pipecity. But that is all hypothetical. The reality is, I have to pay some people to read it, just to give it some traffic. So remember, every time you click on this blog, you’re giving a poor, third world country child a blog. Very philanthropical of me, I know. Soon, blogs will be referred to as “Dongs,” and hipsters will love then hate them, and normal people will hate and then love and then hate them again.

But yes! Thanks for asking about my work at Acacia Vineyard! I’ve somehow gone from “human paper weight” to “glorified delivery service” to “awesome joke teller” back to “attractive girl that randomly walks around looking bored” and finally, “indispensable.” So my prime blog-writing time (aka, lunch break at work) has been severely cock-blocked lately by my duties as a “working adult.”

As you Americans know, it was Memorial Day last weekend, and I am not particularly productive on 3-day weekends. I hope everyone spent at least a few seconds before popping open the beer kegs at 10am to thank those who had or are fighting for us. My brother and I drove down to LA to visit my aunt and uncle, who’s son is currently serving in Germany.

All in all, it was a great weekend, that could easily be summed up by my cousin’s Instagram photo:

My aunts and uncles tend to have a tendency to think my brother and I are starving children just because we live 3000 miles away from our parents or something. Did I mention my brother is almost 30 years old?! I don’t even know why I’m complaining. It was glorious and coma-inducing. Yes, pity the Luong siblings and shower us with your fancy cheeses and charcuterie and wine and weird Asian ice creams! Throw plates of Korean short ribs and bowls of ramen and garbage bags of popcorn and tubs of Vietnamese food I’m afraid to describe in public at me! I’ll take it all!

Don’t ever ask me “what is there to do in LA?” BECAUSE I HAVE NO FREAKIN’ CLUE. All I’ve ever done is eat. Even when I visit the Beastie, such as this weekend, what did we do?!


Oh wait, we also drank 2 bottles of Champagne at 10am.

Not that I’d have it any other way :)

By now I’m sure you’re brimming with jealousy that I can eat like a pregnant woman, drink like a frat boy, and still look like a fabulous 10-year-old girl from District 11. Let me warn you: it’s about to get worse.

The reason I am cooler / better / more likely to be asked to guest judge on SYTYCD than you is this:

I have a cool new screensaver on my phone of a picture I took over the weekend, and I plan on taking over the world with it. Wanna see?

Magical, isn’t it?

Love me, feed me, never leave me.

I plan on having this inscribed inside my wedding ring one day. Wait– do I put it on his wedding ring? Oh screw it. I’m just going to use it as my vows (remind me, dear reader, the night before my wedding when I’m still struggling to write said vows, will yah?).

You know how sometimes you meet someone, and you just KNOW you’re going to be friends forever? That’s how I felt when I saw this quote… scribbled next to the bathroom sink.




A blessing and a curse.

As I’ve mentioned before, my brother is the fearless leader of our family weight loss competition, so every day, he sends 3 motivational memes and 3 motivational youtube videos, usually accompanied by a “thought-provoking” fitness question that’s open up for discussion. (“Thought provoking” is in quotes because apparently my questions have been dubbed “stupid” even though I don’t see a real difference. His questions are usually something a long the lines of “What was your ‘rock-bottom’ moment when you realized you needed to get into better shape?” whereas mine are along the likes of “is it weird that sometimes I don’t shower after a night-workout if I didn’t sweat much?” Same thing, right? Yeah, I thought so too.)

In one of the threads, he asked us what our fitness goals were, and so I decided to physically write out my fitness goals for the summer and stick it in the bathroom where I’ll see it every day (hopefully). My list is as follows:

When you’re blessed with a body like this, people tend to have… certain expectations. 

Waiters tend to assume that I’d like to skip dessert and are always pleasantly surprised when I wolf down a brownie sundae by myself (I can tell they’re pleasantly surprised because they are so shocked, they don’t know what else to do but convulsively high-five me).

People on the street stop me, blush, and ask me to sign their abs because they assume I’m “that Asian girl from the Insanity DVDs.”

Every once in awhile, young girls ask me if I’m a “short firefighter in disguise,” and now that it’s nearly season, other patrons in line at the grocery stores are always looking up from their tabloids and asking why I’m not in London, training and getting acclimated to the climate/altitude.

Yes, I get mistaken for Kerri Walsh all the time.

It’s so embarassing. And kinda weird, because I never wear my hair in a braid. And any true fan of mine knows that I’m more a Misty girl, myself. I did play DS/libero, after all.

Anyways, you get the picture. It’s a blessing and a curse, this body of mine. I’m getting carpal tunnel from all the autographs!

I finally get why child actors are always whining “I just want to live a normal life” and why Billy Ray Stewart invented his daughter’s Hannah Montana alter-ego.

I was a little disappointed when I re-listened to O-Town’s “Liquid Dreams”

and didn’t hear myself mentioned in it. I mean, sure, Janet Jackson has a nice smile and sure, I’d love to have Cindy C’s beauty mark, but c’mon. What is so “special” about Angelina’s lips, anyway? I just don’t get it.

Maybe it was a 2001 thing… but times have changed, my friends!

I now present to you the 2012 edition of a “morpherotic dream from a magazine!”

By the end of summer, I will have:

Michelle Obama’s arms.

Blake Lively’s smile.

Padma Lakshmi’s eyebrows.

Cobie Smulder’s legs.

Jennifer Aniston’s hair (it’d be blasphemous if I said anyone else, don’t you think?).

Christina Ly‘s fashion sense (shameless plug for my own photography).

Dianna Agron’s voice.

And Hermione Granger’s everything else.

Thing’s I do not care about:

  • abs (Mama needs to eat!)
  • butt (That ship sailed a long time ago. No one’s perfect, guys.)
  • supermodel-pose repetoire (I do what I want.)
BOOM. Instant perfection.

Feel free to get back together and re-write this song, O-Town.




PS, who is Michelle Obama’s trainer?!

PPS, while creepily looking for pictures of Padma, I stumbled across an article about her workout regime in case you’re feeling ambitious this summer.

Date a traveler.

Last night was fantastic.

That’s what she said.

HAHA. No, but really, that’s what she said. She, meaning Judy. Because– guess what! FANCY FAMILY DINNERS are back!

It’s been awhile since the 3 of us have actually had dinner together. For about 3 weeks or so, my roommate temporarily moved out of our apartment and moved into the library, where she set up a fort, burrowed into its comforts, and played various iphone games and shopped online. Oh, and some studying was sprinkled in here and there. Or so I’m told. I’m still not convinced. But needless to say, she completed her PharmD finals and first year of grad school.

Right when she and her mole-people-classmates resurfaced into civilization, Diablo3 was released, and thus we immediately lost contact with Thom.

So yeah, it’s safe to say that it’s been awhile since the entire house has cohabitated one room without one– if not all– being super distracted and, more often than not, screaming “RAX THEM! PUB RUN! YOUR FACE IS A DIABLO3!” (I don’t really know what gamers say to each other, so these are my guesses).

It was nice :)

We broke out the fancy (non-paper) plates, poured wine into glasses instead of swigging from the bottles, and cooked a meal together. We even spoiled ourselves silly with salad dressing options (we hoard sauces and dressings like they’re limited edition Beanie Babies). 

There are few things I’m more passionate about in life than bragging about my muscular arms: chocolate Snak Pak puddings, sharing home cooked meals, and hating the LA Lakers.

If you know anything about me, you must know that I was overjoyed last night when the LA Lakers got kicked out of the playoffs and immediately ran to my computer in order to write a gloating blog post and/or vlog of my happy dance.

By the middle of the 4th quarter, after the Westbrook steal + and1, I poured my second glass of wine, texted the Beastie and attempted to hug her through the phone, and by the time the buzzer had run out, I was chasing my poor, terrified dog around the house screaming “KOBE IS YOUR BITCH, GAMBIT!”

Now, I’m aware that some of you probably spent the night crying while I was elated, so I’ll try to keep this brief, but seeing as how I take my Kobe-hating VERY seriously, I’ll lament a little longer.

I don’t know what it is about him that I dislike so violently. It might be the fact that he looks like E.T. and that scares me, because that movie scared me when I was little, or maybe that he thinks he’s better than Jordan, and as a native Chicagoan, I find that utterly blasphemous. Or maybe it’s the fact that he rapes girls. Who knows? But rest assured that I am not just your typical fair-weather-ed, bandwagon Laker-hater. You know when people say “I wouldn’t even wish this upon my worst enemy” when they’re talking about suffering from a broken heart or Cholera or getting your arm stuck under a giant boulder for 127 hours? Well, I’d be ok if he got stuck on a camel that was strapped to a non-camel-hurting-bomb that would explode if– you know what? Scratch that. Why should the camel do all the work? HE should be carrying the camel!

Anyways, I’m sure you get the picture. Moving on

The other two things that I’m passionate about are traveling and dating. When I say I’m passionate about dating, I don’t mean that I’m a serial dater (aka giant slut), or that I even date very often (if you recall from our first date), but the idea that romance can consume an entire species intrigues me. It might just be the Walk to Remember playing in the background (thanks, Pandora), but I think it’s pretty amazing, anthropologically speaking, how love can cross borders and cultures and even time periods, and essentially, is all anyone has ever wanted. We’re pretty much all looking for the same thing, don’t you think?

So that’s why I pretty much jumped off a happiness cliff when I stumbled onto these two blog entries this morning:

  1. Date a Girl Who Travels
  2. Date a Boy Who Travels

If you have a second, give them both a read. If you are still with me, and didn’t just skim this post for cute pictures of the Beastie and myself, you’ll notice that they both address the two interests I just mentioned– traveling and dating. Both are beautifully written and embody the spirit of what I’ve always aspired to be:  well-traveled, independent, curious, and inspired.

Fun fact: My parents LOVE road trips. And thus, I’ve been to every single continental US state. My parents love to travel in general, and thus, I only have 2 more continents before I get to yell BINGO!

Still, my list of hopeful destinations is longer than Barney Stinson’s list of sexual encounters.

Write me a list of all the places you want to see and visit. Chances are, I’m dying to go there as well.

Chances are, I’m going to invite myself. Thanks for understanding <3

Call me, maybe.

Oh! Why hello there. Still swooning over how amazing and loyal and sensitive I can be from my last post? Awesome. Try to contain yourself, though. I am busy at work here, which is why it’s so cluttered. Sorry!

Do you mind passing me that spinny propeller thing? Great, thanks. And that monkey wrench?

Careful! Watch your step!

What am I doing? What does it look like I’m doing? Playing make-believe with crazy ol’ Maurice? NO! I’m building a time machine, silly!

I recently watched Midnight in Paris and completely fell in love with it. Like most human beings who’ve seen A Kid in King Arthur’s Court (how did that movie only get 4.5/10 stars?!), I’ve always wanted to travel back in time and try to baffle local residents with my Sony Walkman. Not unlike Owen Wilson’s character, I’d love to go back and meet my idol author– though mine is Jane Austen, not Ernest Hemingway.

Yes, I am in love with Austen-romance. Most specifically, I love Pride and Prejudice. So typical; so mainstream. I know. It’s like if I were to go into Krispy Kreme and only order their original glazed donuts, or if I met 98 Degrees and only make out with Nick Lachay, or fly to Paris and get frisky only under the Eiffel Tower. Sure, everyone’s done that, and sure, there’s more to life than glazed donuts, Nick Lachey, and getting cited for public indecency in France, but you know  what? There’s a reason everyone’s done it! It’s safe, never disappointing, and a rite of passage, just like P&P. I fear, however, that these same reasons are exactly why the Beastie always rolls her eyes (no smirk involved with this one) and tries to fake a heart attack or epileptic episode whenever I start droning on and on about why Mr. Darcy is the absolute most perfect man imaginable…

… but heeeeeeey, you haven’t heard this schpeel, right?! Awesome. You’re in for an amazing ride.

Okay, first things first: I’m kinda delusional about what makes a man “great.” While other members of my gender may look for kind eyes, or emotional commitment, or 6 pack abs and a Maclaren MP4-12C, the first thing I look for is someone who is articulate. As a linguistics minor (I know, I’m the whole package. You are not the first person to tell me this), I’ve always been in awe of the power of language. Language is like food– it’s something that can change the atmosphere of a room, bring people together, and be arranged and combined in endless possibilities.

Along the same lines, I find it super sexy when a man can command a room. He doesn’t have to have a booming voice, or be super tall (is that how some people command a room?), or anything, but just interesting and well traveled / informed / opinionated and most of all, engaging. Here comes the cheesiest thing I will ever write on this blog: if you can captivate an audience, you can captivate me. Ew, does that mean I’m kept in captivity? Whatever. You know what I mean. Darcy might be shy and not be “blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends” like Wickham, but just as many people look at Darcy when he enters a room as Cinderella when she enters the ball, and no one (but Lizzy) dares to challenge him when he’s speaking.

Lastly, it’s nice when a man upholds a certain air of mystery. What’s Darcy doing when he “goes to London” all the time? Why isn’t he ever in that freakin’ Dubai-king-slash-European-Drug-Warlord palace? It’s big enough for 10 Dugger families to live in, complete with its own hospital/delivery wing, if you know what I mean. I would never leave that place unless if I absolutely had to. So after intense research, I’ve concluded that there could only be one explanation: Darcy was the late 18th/ early 19th century British Batman. Only a Bruce Wayne character would leave their luxurious  palisades that often without anyone knowing why or where or when.

If there was respectable Pride and Prejudice fanfiction, I’d read it. Oh who am I kidding? I already do. Not internet, written by lustful 13-year-olds, scribed onto Xanga fanfiction, but at one point I discovered that there are a lot of published books parodying Ms Austen. Is “parodying” the right word? What’s the word that’s like parody + deference? Because that’s what I’m looking for. For instance, after I read Pride and Prejudice (for the 10th time), I read “Darcy’s Story,” which tells the exact same story, except for Mr. Darcy’s point of view. Pretty interesting, if you ask me. Point is, I cannot get enough of Austen-era romance, and because I was served Johnny Walker Blue Label at my work function earlier today, I feel badass and secure with myself enough to admit this on the interwebs.

So if you’re out there, Mr. Darcy-Batman…

here’s my number, so call me maybe.

(Ps, when I google-imaged a picture of “Crazy Old Maurice,” both a picture of Mitt Romney and Dana Scully popped up. Coincidence…?)

BRR’s (Bestie[/Beastie] Rights & Responsibilities)

I won’t lie. As much as I’d like for you to think that I’m an endless well of hilarity, I have to admit that, sometimes, even the deepest wells dry up. I hit a wall a couple of weeks ago, and I don’t know if you can tell the difference in writing, but I was struggling. I could also feel my writing becoming stale. Well, maybe not stale, but definitely predictable. I decided that I owe it to my audience (of 2) to make them pee their pants at least 3 times per post. Nothing less. So, for inspiration, I reread Tina Fey’s “Bossypants.” And, because I didn’t quite get the 6-pack abs I wanted from laughing, I also reread Mindy Kaling’s “Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns).”

Two of the best books I’ve read since Harry Potter.

You may think I’m exaggerating.

If you do, get out.

Obviously, you don’t know me well enough to know how deeply I revere Harry Potter.

I have a lightening bolt tattooed somewhere on my body.

Will I tell you where? No! This is a respectable blog, not a “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Ass Cabin” video.

Okay fine. If you quit pestering me about tattoos and sending me those “wow, you look fantastic these days! have you lost weight?” texts, I’ll let you stay. But you’re on thin ice, buddy!

Anyways, where was I? Oh yes. Tina and Mindy are geniuses. (I hope they don’t mind if I’ve decided we’re all on a first name basis. I’m hoping that if I do this enough, we’ll just magically become instant friends.) There’s a segment in Mindy’s book called “Best Friends Rights and Responsibilities” where she gives the guidelines of bestfriendhood. Some of the ones she mentions are:

  1. I can borrow all your clothes
  2. I must be 100% honest about how you look, but gentle
  3. I will take care of your kid if you die
  4. I will keep your favorite feminine product at my house
  5. I will try to like your boyfriend 5 times
  6. I will hate and re-like people for you
And so on and so forth. Most of which I agree. However, I only need you to be 90% honest about how I look, but I need you to be 300% gentle. Too many harsh criticisms about my muffin top or my bony elbows or my lack of dimples and I will break into tears, and then you’ll have that to deal with. So really, this rule is more for you than it is for me.

To this list, I’d like to add a few things. Beastie, you know I’ll pretty much do anything short of sharing a pet bird with you. In turn, here are my expectations for you:


Laugh at my jokes, even when they’re not funny. 
No one likes awkward silences. I know most of the time, you (and everyone else) are really just laughing at me, but you know I don’t care! As long as people are laughing, no one is noticing that I ate the entire tray of brownies. So please, if there’s ever a time that my joke is sub-par, let out a hideously nasal laugh so that everyone stares at you and I can lick the brownie crumbs clean.

Know when it’s my “time of the month”
so that you know when to be extra sensitive to my needs. Also, conveniently pretend to forget when it’s my “time of the month” so that I can blame my outrageous cravings and emotional outbursts on it, even when these accusations are completely invalid.

Always say “YES!” to dessert.
And understand that when I say “let’s share this slice of cheesecake,” I just want you to have one bite so I don’t feel like a fatty, but I pretty much want it to myself. We never really order the same flavor anything, anyway. Also, this is already deeply implied, but “sharing food” and “going halfsies” is always a given. You know I can never decide on just one dish on the menu. I’m pretty much going to spend the first 15 minutes at the restaurant convincing you to order the other item I want, and the rest of the meal sneaking forkfuls of your food onto my plate. Please don’t swat my hand away. I’ll let you eat the extra piece of bread they brought out for us.

When my ex changes his status to “in a relationship,” you notify me immediately.
If we are within 1hr driving distance of each other, we are on the same computer within 60 minutes. If we are further than that, we are both on our computers and on the phone within 60 seconds. You will already have prepared a list of, at minimum, 3 ways in which I’m prettier than her. And then you will remind me of all the reasons the ex and I broke up in the first place, and remind me that I’m better off without him. I want to pity this new girl, not want to kill her.

Do everything within your power to alert me when you’re engaged. 
Call me when he’s on one knee if you have to, so I can hear the proposal. After all, he’s pretty much proposing to me by extension, as part of this package deal. Likewise, *like* my status change as soon as I’m engaged. Alert the tabloids. This is as close as I’ll get to becoming Kate Middleton.

Don’t believe me when I tell you “I’m fine” and show up at my house with a tub of ice cream and box of donuts after a breakup anyway.
I don’t care if the relationship only lasted for 3 days… or only took place in my head. I need you. (sidenote: not that the other things on this list hasn’t happened, but I can very clearly remember when the Beastie came over, uninvited, with a pint of my favorite ice cream– chocolate malted crunch from Rite Aid– after I found out a boy I liked had just started dating another girl. We ate ice cream on my bedroom floor and I wallowed and then I got over it. Thanks, Beastie!)

Humor me when I tell you I’m going to marry Tom Brady one day.
Also, text me your condolences after he chokes during multiple Super Bowls.

Tell our friends “she’s fine, she’s just cleaning the bathroom bcuz she is OCD” when I’ve locked myself in the bathroom during a party…  and immediately cut me off from beer pong.
Help me save face. Not that this happens often, but I’d prefer it if no one ever knew about it.

Sit around watching movies we’ve already memorized with me.
You know I am more emotionally handicapped than you, and I can only open up about feelings if Matthew McConaghey is being a dbag, or Katherine Hiegl is being an insecure little beech.

Never directly call me a slut. Or a prude. “Directly” being the key word. 
Even though I’m probably being both… at the same time. Our years of friendship have made us inexplicably talented at dropping hints. I know what you mean now when you say “you’re just old fashioned” and then smirk and roll your eyes. Or when you say “you’re just being friendly and social… with the fellas…” and then smirk and roll your eyes. Sometimes there’s a *sigh* mixed in there somewhere. But pretty much, I know what a smirk and eye roll means.

Remind me how cool / awesome we were in high school. 
There will be days when I call to complain that “my life is going nowhere” and “I’m such a nobody.” I am literally fishing for compliments. Amongst the numerous lies I’d like you to tell me (you’re the smartest person I know; you’re so pretty, Blake Lively is jealous and Facebook stalks you), I’d also like to be reminded that I’m not only awesome now, but I was the shit in high school, and have pretty much always been this amazing. Like remember that time when my volleyball team won the national championships under my leadership and then that night we went to Prom and I won both prom queen AND Miss Congeniality after saving the building from being burnt down by Al Qaeda and then on our way home our limo got a flat tire and I changed it by myself and then was asked to be on the next swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated by the editor driving by on the freeway but turned it down because I wanted to focus on staying in school and curing cancer? Me neither. A made up story never hurt anybody. Alternatively, there will be days in which I’ll call to complain that “my life peaked in high school.” Please remind me how much we’ve grown / how much cooler we are now.

Sing as loud as you can in the car with me
because you know I’m dying to sing, but it’s no fun to sing by yourself. Make up the words if you have to.

Help me go to the bathroom whenever I need assistance.
As an experienced baby sitter, older cousin of 12, former day care teacher, “assisted living center” volunteer, future nurse, and bff of the Beastie who decides to buy an unnecessarily long Prom dress, I’ve done my fair share of assisting others to the bathroom. One of my greatest fears about getting older is losing control of my bladder. I’m just asking you to return  the favor and help me avoid the embarrassment of peeing my pants.

Keep your own check list of what I need in a bf.
Let’s be honest here: I may not always know what’s best for myself. You know me better than I know myself at times. I can’t believe you sat idly by when I dated that underage, drug-dealing, dog-fighting, UFO chasing, registered sex offender with the socks-under-sandals and unibrow! Just kidding. But now I feel like I should, just to make sure you’re doing your job. The better you enforce this check list, the faster you’ll be my MOH.

Keep and maintain detailed logs of my “wedding blog bookmarks.” 
I definitely won’t remember everything, and I need your help persuading the poor guy that my way is best. Also, let me lash out Bridezilla style and stay loyal as my MOH. You know I’ll do the same for you.

Understand that when I open up a bottle of wine, we are obligated to finish it. 
We’re just being wasteful if we don’t.

Nothing changes between us, even if we go days/weeks/months without a real conversation. 
A quick update and then we pick up right where we left off like real best friends do. If we go a year without talking, it better be because one of us became an astronaut and got stuck floating around in space.

Remember to leave out the eggplant and throw in extra beets when you’re cooking for me, and I’ll remember to leave out the onions and throw in extra mushrooms when I’m cooking for you.
I still can’t believe you spent 2 hours picking the caramelized onions out of the risotto I slaved over for you. The fact that we’re still friends speaks volumes about our friendship’s strength and how we’ve overcome these dauntingly horrific obstacles. ONIONS! THEY’RE SO DELICIOUS!

Be there to hold my hand and keep my husband in check during childbirth. 
You’re a woman. You understand the pain I’m in. Let me demand whatever the hell I want. In return, I’ll name you godmother.

Write a blog with me. 
First, thanks for pushing me to finally start a blog. You know I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, but I’ve always been too lazy to. (Half of me thinks it’s because you’ve just gotten tired of my whiney/random/sporadic texts.) Second, thanks for agreeing to embark on this journey with me, even though you don’t even like to write that much, because you understand that I don’t want to do it alone.

I LOVE YOU, WHALELAMB. I hope this made you pee your pants 3 times <3

Schwarma me.

Did everyone have fun celebrating their moms over the weekend?

Was it just me, or did everyone take their parents to see The Avengers? My little cousins, the Beastie, and I all went to see it on the same day! Albeit, my mom just got back from Texas to MN, so yesterday while I hung out with her on google+, I told her all about the movie… that’s pretty much the same thing as seeing it together, right?

I guess it’s pretty much the perfect movie for pretty much every type of mom out there. It’s got a little bit of something for everyone!

  • Chris Hemsworth for those that are into that whole long-haired, Fabio thing
  • Robert Downey Jr for those who sometimes fantasize about how the “bad boy” from HS 30-something years ago turned out
  • Mark Ruffalo for those that are looking for a strong yet sensitive man
  • Samuel L Jackson for those that either crave dark chocolate AND/OR a pirate in their lives
  • Stellan Skarsgård for those that are looking to fill in the void that the lack of a Mamma Mia sequel left in their hearts (yeah, he played Bill. Is your mind blown?) or for those that like men with those little circles above their vowels in their names
  • Tom Hiddleston for those in the Lucius Malfoy fanclub that don’t really like “Awake”
  • Paul Bettany for those that like creepy, albino monks (okay, this one is stretching it a little because you don’t actually see Jarvis)
  • Cobie Smulders and ScarJo for those who prefer the ladies… especially the kind dressed in skin-tight clothing… or those who just want their daughters to be exposed to strong female characters
  • Chris Evans for those with functioning eyes

Unfortunately for us, the Beastie and I weren’t able to see the movie together. Fortunately for you, the Beastie and I weren’t able to see the movie together. Believe me, you wouldn’t have wanted to be in a 10 mile radius of us once this came on the screen:

Is 10 miles enough? Probably should make that 20, just in case.

Let me paint you my emotions with a bunch of GIFs.

It was like



and a whole lotta

I’m not sure if “schwarma me” is a real pick up line or not, but I feel like anything said with correct tone and a perfectly executed wink could be. And I’m positive that if I ever was to ever meet Chris Evans (and my body wasn’t too busy convulsing out of control), that’s exactly what I would say to him.

Schwarma me.

Which brings me to my next point:

That movie was a lot funnier than I’d expected. Much like when I feel superior-ly intelligent when I understand the scientific references in Big Bang Theory, I feel pretty damn good about myself when I get the random, external references that the Marvel movies have been throwing around, such as the Legolas thing, the Point Break thing, the Reindeer Games thing…

That being said, I still have some questions for Joss Whedon.

  1. Why did the Romulins team up with Loki, and why wasn’t Captain Kirk there to team up with the Avengers?
  2. Why doesn’t Tony Stark buy Gwenyth Paltrow some shoes?
  3. What kind of hair conditioner does Thor use?
  4. What kind of magic, non-tearing pants does Bruce Banner wear, and can I buy a pair for next Thanksgiving?
  5. What kind of butt exercises does Scarlett Johansson do?
  6. When will Cobie Smulders introduce Ted Moseby to his future wife (surely to be an Avenger. Maybe Elektra?)?
  7. If Tony Stark already has the new NSX, does that mean Jay Leno and Jerry Seinfield already got theirs?
  8. Where were the X-Men when the beasts were raining down on NYC, and which jet flies faster? The X-Men or Shields jet?
  9. What’s the point of Loki’s beetle-like antlers? Is it a symbol that he’s ready to mate?
  10. Who would win in a fighter over Robert Downey Jr between Pepper Potts and Irene Adler?
  11. Why does Thor still have a cape? Did he not learn anything from The Incredibles?
  12. Did the Avengers ever get their schwarmas? And do they eat it with yogurt or tzatziki sauce?
  13. When is Hercules going to show up, and do the two demi-Gods combine to make one whole god and one whole mortal?
  14. Why didn’t Pepper Potts turn off her phone when she was on the plane?
  15. When is Natasha going to hook up with every single man in the Avengers like the comics, and are they going to show it?
  16. Was it Mulder and Scully who discovered Thor?
  17. Which district does Hawkeye come from? Why isn’t he coaching his tributes? How did he escape Panem?
  18. Is Nick Fury a cylon?
  19. Is Captain America considered a silver fox since he’s the oldest (well, barring Thor)?
  20. Why doesn’t Loki shimmer with a glittery glow when he’s in the sun?
  21. When will Cobie Smulders get bit by a radioactive rabbit and gain unparalleled hopping powers?
  22. What’s the point of having a “COUNCIL” if Nick Fury is going to do WTF he wants? And do they call him Nick Führer-y?
  23. Why do all superheros spawn from childhood trauma?
  24. Who does Natasha root for when she’s watching Olympics gymnastics?
  25. Does a nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon help the Hulk relax?
  26. How do female superheros feel about Spanx?
  27. What in the world is the purpose of a urinal cake?

So many questions, so little time.

If you have any answers to any of these questions, please respond ASAP. I can’t sleep until I figure it out.

Until then, I’ll be hanging out with my fellow superheros in the Nick Fury Airport:

(image courtesy of my favorite “Icons” blog)

i’m glad you came.

Second weekend of my new LDR-I-have-so-much-free-time-on-my hands-life and what do I do? Pick up a new hobby? Actually blog more like I promised? Go on a crazy awesome adventure and have the story of a lifetime to share?? Nope. I make the incredibly mind-numbing 12+ hour roundtrip drive to be home for exactly 48 hours. It’s shocking how exciting and independent my life has become.

So in full disclosure, yes, this is where the boy currently is but in my semi-defense, it was getting to surprise my mom for Mother’s Day that convinced me to make the last-minute trek (aaaaand maybe a little seeing the boy too). So at 8:30pm Friday night, my poor mother opened her front door expecting to find her Mother’s Day present and found her crazy daughter on her doorstep instead. Surpriseeee!

Weekend things:

  1. Leatherby’s in Elk Grove! And apparently the place to be on a Friday night.
  2. The Avengers. The Bestie reaaaally wanted me to mention I watched The Avengers and “write a review.” My review: Captain America is kinda boring, Iron Man/Robert Downey Jr. = hilarious, Thor = probably my favorite although I do have a littleee soft spot for The Hulk. Movie was pretty freakin’ awesome. And done :)
  3. Peaches are not one of those “juice-able” fruits. Remember this next time you attempt to hand-squeeze a peach, realize Magic-Bulleting the dang mutilated thing would probably be a better idea, and then end up with random peach chunks in your Mother’s Day brunch concoction. Whatever, still delicious.
  4. Best mom-line of the weekend when I was setting up her iPad:

K: Now you can Skype with me on your iPad!
Mom: [super-alarmed] What?? You’ll be able to see me??
K: Yes mom, there’s a camera on the iPad.
Mom: But I’ll have to pay for the camera right?
K: What? No, the iPad already has a camera.
Mom: So you’ll be able to see what I’m doing??
K: Yes mom, that would be how a webcam works.

Truth be told, I was pretty miserable adjusting last week and this trip home was exactly what I needed to make my heart happy again. Sometimes you just have to do exactly what you want :)

Hope everyone had a nice weekend as well!

A farewell to [hands].

When I asked my aunt to upload her pictures, she asked if I preferred a Facebook album or emailed photos. Didn’t matter to me; whichever was easier. She replied, asking “isn’t it crazy that it’s easier for me to upload 40 pictures onto Facebook than it is for me to send you an email?” to which I responded “hey, remember when ordering double prints at Rite Aid to send out via snail mail was a thing?”

It pains me to think that people don’t print pictures at Rite Aid anymore because it used to be one of my favorite past times. If all I did on a Saturday afternoon was drop off a canister of film (full of random stupid snapshots of the floor and door knobs, no doubt, because I have the photographic skills of a 3 year old), and more importantly, sliding on over from the “photo center” to the ice cream counter, then I’d consider it a pretty damn good weekend. I’m vain and I love having pictures developed. Also, Rite Aid ice cream is the shit.

So if no one’s doing that anymore, what else is going to be “history?”

Things that will be obsolete in 5 years:

  1. “Please wash hands before returning to work” signs. If Japan gets their way– and let’s face it, in what universe will they not get their way?– we will all be using fancy bidets that shoot water and perfume and unicorn tears (I heard it’s the secret to keep your lady parts “young and fresh”) up our yoo-hoos. And because the Japanese are so efficient, these bidets will most certainly come equipped with squeegees and dryers (and maybe even a little robotic arm that feeds you Greek yogurt while you’re taking care of your business), eliminating the need to ever “wipe” or use your hands.
  2. Physical stores / malls / shopping bags. Another thing to thank Japan for! In Japan, they’ve capitalized on the notion that people LOVE TO PUSH BUTTONS! Myself included. That’s why in Japan, there’s a vending machine for every 23 citizens. That’s more than the ratio of Kobe jerseys to LA residents. Which is greater than the ratio of dollar bills I make rain per stripper. In Japan, you can pretty much buy anything from a machine: beer, cigarettes, flowers, umbrellas, lingerie, veggies, shoes, porn… even live lobsters! And say you’re not just too lazy to drive to the store, but you’re also too lazy to walk to the vending… well they solved that problem too! They built vending ROBOTS that WALK AROUND. Aka, THEY will come to YOU! For everything else you need, there’s the internet. Now all I need is a robot Tom Brady and I’ll be set. GET ON THAT, ASIAN ENGINEERS.
  3. Vocal chords. I’ve recently realized that I communicate much more often (and much more efficiently) through written word than verbally, and have concluded that humans will evolve in a way that soon, we’ll lose our vocal chords and they’ll be replaced by a second set of smaller hands, specifically designed to type at 280wpm. Obviously, this will only last a short while. Darwinism will win out when we move from “touch screens” to “voice activated” everything, and we’ll regain our vocal chords and lose those mini-neck-hands.
  4. Paper clips / Staplers. Now that we’ve moved into the digital era where paper is only used to wrap up leftovers from buffets to throw into your oversized purse, paper clips and staplers* will no longer be necessary to hold documents together. Henceforth, paper clips shall only be used to pick locks to break into your crush’s home, and staplers will only be used to throw at your boyfriend’s face when he tells you you’ve had enough beer for the night.
  5. Fedoras. Far too douchey. And though douchey is “in” right now, we’re either going to move onto the “bitchy” look, or find something even douchier to wear / accessorize with.
  6. Laughter. Because Alec Baldwin is leaving 30Rock, and only 13 more episodes have been ordered for its final season (along with Parks and Recreation, the Office, and Community). To be replaced by TLC’s “John and Kate and Gremlins,” ABC’S “Dancing with the Gremlins,” and A&E’s porno “INMYPANTS-ion… with Gremlins.” Yes, we will all turn into Gremlins because Alec Baldwin is abandoning us.
  7. Those “the audience singing with you at concerts” moments. Do people even go to concerts anymore with the invention of Youtube? Thanks, Youtube.
  8. Spice Girls fans. It makes me cry to report that I was babysitting these kids one day and they didn’t know who the Spice Girls are. They also didn’t know who the Backstreet Boys are (even though Kevin is officially back and another album will be releasing soon! EEK!), or that Justin Timberlake was from *NSYNC. Worse, kids in grade school right now probably don’t even realize that he can sing. THEY THINK HE’S JUST A SHITTY ACTOR! This is my plea to you, JT, to please release another CD. 
  9. Christmas Coke commercials. Due to global warming, kids won’t even know what polar bears are in a few years, and seeing the traditional Christmas Coke commercials with the all-white bears will probably cause children to freak out that their TV’s have reverted back to black&white and immediately smash the screens with their archaic wii remotes (it’s also pretty ridiculous that “remotes” are going to be obsolete. DAMN YOU, XBOX KINECT).
  10. YOLO. As a Buddhist, and strong believer in reincarnation, I find “the motto” to be completely incorrect. Therefore, I am proposing that we change it to YOLOL— you only laugh out loud. Because that seems much more fun. I know this directly opposes my #6, but it’ll take a few years for us to morph into non-laughing gremlins, so you have at least a year to YOLOL.

Honestly, if this is what the future will be like, I’d rather avoid becoming a gremlin with hands coming out of its neck chasing after robot vending machines, and welcome the 12.20.12 apocalypse. I will spend the next 7 months trying to prepare you for this through my wise blog-words.

Until then…

YOLOL, my lovelies.




*Can’t have a stapler mention without an Office Space clip!

Hydrate, caffeinate, libate. Repeat.

First and foremost, let me begin this entry with a:


Great, now that we got that business out of the way, let’s get serious.

To my boyfriend’s dismay (and/or ball-crushing terror), I’ve been saying for quite some time now that I’m ready to have kids.

Any friend of mine (especially the Beastie) that’s known me for at least half a decade can attest to the fact that I’ve been saying this before we graduated high school (I was trying to win a spot on mTV’s “Teen Mom” before it was even a show), but now that I’ve finished my undergraduate work and jump-started a career, I suddenly feel more empowered to demand my loins to start producing some fruit.

I know, I know. “I’m too young to start settling down,” and “my body will never be this bangin’ again,” and “breast-feeding looks and feels weird.” I’ve heard all the counterarguments, people! But here are my counter-counterarguments:

  1. cancel your gym membership. Once that little booger starts running around, you’re gonna be in the best cardio shape of your life chasing after him/her/it. You will also fall victim to countless accounts of oogling thanks to your super toned arms from constantly picking up and holding your spawn.
  2. free compliments. People can’t help but compliment babies on their adorableness– even the ugly ones! I have been privy enough to both witness and participate in this phenomenon. Mathematically speaking, that baby is half YOU, so when a stranger compliments the baby, you actually deserve  at least 50% of that compliment. (I say “at least 50%” because you can demand more in your pre-nup.)
  3. the perfect scapegoat. Having a baby means that you’re automatically able to cancel on anything and everything. Don’t feel like going to your mother-in-law’s church’s rendition of Passion of the Christ starring Gel Mibson? Boom– your water just broke.
  4. ordering off the kids’ menu. I have two very essential criteria (criterion?) for new restaurants: are their bathrooms cool, and do they let me order off the kids’ menu? There’s not much you can do about the bathrooms past the initial architectural planning, so whatever, but it really bums me out when the waitress says “sorry madam (yes, I’ve transgressed from a 24 year old to a madam in this not-so hypothetical situation), you must be under the age of 8 in order for the chef to consider reiterating his gourmet, buttermilk garlic-confit, caviar-infused-foi-gras chicken and simply renaming it ‘chicken tenders’ for a fraction of the price.” Okay, I know I don’t have the body of an underaged Chinese Olympic gymnast, but I’m still relatively pretty small compared to the average American adult (which is 5’7″ & 177.65 lbs, in chase you where wondering)  and more often than not, I can’t finish a typical serving size at a restaurant. Wouldn’t it be much more cost efficient for me to just order off the kids’ menu, rather than have to ask for a box to take home my leftovers and then forget the doggy bag on my way out anyway? C’mon, economics is not that hard folks! This explains why I like McDonald’s so much. They never judge when I order a happy meal. I often fantasize about going into a restaurant, ordering the “children’s chicken tenders platter,” and upon being told that I’m “too old” to order that item, whipping out my baby from my purse and snapping back “oh yeah?! Well it’s for the baby, so what do you have to say about that?!” Check, and mate.
  5. baby clothes. They’re freakin’ adorable, and can be shared with your equally-sized dog. In fact, I’m sure your baby won’t mind receiving some hand-me-downs from his/her older, furrier sibling! Who said babies are expensive?
  6. postpartum cravings. Ever heard of postpartum depression? Well I bet you didn’t know it had an awkward squib of a sister called postpartum cravings. Yes, it is the Ariana Dumbledore of post-birth woes, and it will allow you to eat whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want, as long as you keep claiming it as the cause, and no one can do a damn thing about it.
  7. unconditional audience. If you’re anything like me, you spend 90% of your time trying to concoct situations in which your friends would be obligated to sit around and listen to you sing / rant about how one container of sweet & sour sauce is not enough for a box of chicken nuggets plus fries / practice being an auctioneer. Most of my ideas include tricking them into going on a road trip in a windowless, doorless, escapeless van, or podcasting myself over speakers I’ve personally installed and hidden around their homes/cars/showers/regular Starbucks. These plans, however, require an exorbitant amount of time and commitment. Pregnancy and childbirth is probably much easier in comparison, and you’ll have that one obligatory audience member for 18 years, as mandated by law!
  8. pajama jeans. I read somewhere that it is socially and fashionably acceptable to wear pajamas jeans as long as you’re with child (or recently with child). Um, did I just get the green light for “the world’s most comfortable jeans?!” This is happening.

Even if you never even wanted kids, these reasons alone should get your ovaries / scrotums tingling. You’re welcome.

This all hit me due to the combination of experiences I had this weekend:

1) I turned 24.
2) My aunts and uncle came to visit with my baby cousin in tow.

I’ll address #1 first, because it comes first on the list, and is also easier. Multiple pre-med and human development classes have taught me that the female body’s ability to produce children start declining at 27. 27!! This was no big deal when I was learning about it, aka when I was 19 and 27 seemed like a galaxy far, far away. But if my 2nd grade teacher hasn’t failed me, I do believe I am now officially 3 years away from hitting my peak, and if I want to squeeze in 4 kids (oh yes, did I mention that I plan on creating having 4 horcruxes kids?), I should probably get a move on.

Second, I know I’ve already dedicated probably too many posts about how amazing my family is, but seriously, if you’ve met them, you understand. I come from the most boisterously loving pack of human-shaped love-o-potamus-es imaginable. My visiting relatives are no exception. There’s something about being with them that makes you love life that much more. Like my jokes are suddenly that much funnier, and my cooking is that much better, and my face is that much prettier. It’s magic, I tell you!

Jokes aside, I’ve grown up around a lot of amazing “mother” type role models, and just instills an excitement to one day become a mom yourself. To this list (headlined by Mama Luong, of course!), I’ve added my uncle’s wife (the one that came and visited this past weekend). In my opinion, my aunt epitomizes the phrase “joie de vivre,” and I’d like to tell myself that I’ll be like her when I grow up.

That and my baby cousin is the most adorable thing. Ever. She has such an air of eager curiosity that makes my soul smile. If you don’t believe me, check out my pictures from this past weekend (shameless plug for my own photography):

Remember how I said that when someone compliments your child, they’re really complimenting you? This is a prime example. Tillie is such a reflection of her parents that it’s ridiculous.

It’s pretty well understood that your life changes after you have kids because your life no longer revolves around what you want and what you need. Sure, you’ll probably start going to bed way earlier, and you have to drop whatever you’re doing every once in awhile to change a dirty diaper, but that doesn’t mean your social life is over! We had a great time winetasting with a 2 year old this weekend, with barely any glitches. It wasn’t that different from any other winetasting trip I’ve been on (and to be honest, taking care of a baby is a lot easier than taking care of your 200 lbs drunk friend), and with proper planning, we were still able to complete everything we set out to do: drink wine, explore Napa’s terroir, eat like big ballers. I’m convinced that had Michael Chiarello been at Bottega on Sunday, he would’ve personally come out to feed Tillie her split pea soup and gourmet fries!

Anything is possible if you plan accordingly and your baby is cute enough.

So why don’t I already have a bun in the oven if I was so easily able to convince you to conceive so quickly?

  1. My mom said I need to have more than 200$ in the bank before I can give her a grandchild.
  2. I still can’t figure out a way to give up sushi.
  3. Too young for gray hairs.
  4. No wine for 2 years? No thanks.

And on that note, I’m going to go get ready for my Macallan Scotch tasting.

Hasta la vista, baby

PS, in case you thought otherwise, or were confused by my overuse of the word “bf” and underuse of the word “husband” (which is only used when referring to Tom Brady), I’m also not married, which is probably reason #5 as to why there’s yet to be a mini-chimidongha. Is it weird that I feel old enough to be a mom but way too young to be married? Also, is it weird to love coconut water pretty much the same amount that you love any of your limbs?




OH! Are you searching for an explanation for my title?

At brunch on Sunday, my aunt Natalie and I ordered the exact same beverages (another sign that our souls have been wandering this planet as best friends these past few lifetimes): iced coffee and a bloody mary. When it arrived, our cups lined up shortest to tallest, aka water, iced coffee, bloody mary. Natalie then explained that it’s her motto to life: hydrate, caffeinate, libate. I’ll take this over YOLO. Suck it, Drizzy.

Also, I think this is a very appropriate analogy for parenthood: 1 part seriousness and necessity, 1 part asking for help, 1 part “sometimes, you need to just put the baby in the high chair and (responsibly) enjoy a delicious cocktail.”

Douchebags need lovin’ too, y ‘all.

(Alternatively named “How to be a blatant douchebag and still have friends”)

I feel like we are entering that inevitable era in human history where douche-iness transitions from “scum” to “cool.” Like everything else in life– Pokemon cards, Yomega yo-yos, Glee– I’m hopping on this bandwagon ASAP. To test out the waters, I started wearing my sunglasses indoors. At night. Even if it dramatically impaired my vision. Even if it made me walk into walls, or worse better yet, into the bathroom while my roommate’s dropping some kids off at the pool. Then I got my motorcycle license so that I could split lanes and guffaw at the tunnel of middle-finger salutes. Now my roommate and I decided that douchebagery needs to encompass every facet of our lives, and where better than to kick it up a notch than the gym?

With a little inspiration from Lebron James, we decided that it’s not enough to just be super hot, buff girls. We need to rub it in your face. And thus, we opened up our DIY DOUCHEBAG-SHIRT WORKSHOP.

I’ll (not-so) live stream it here for you.

What you’ll need:

  • a tshirt that is the perfect combination of athletic and slutty (much like its owner)
  • fabric scissors (yes, they must be scissors of the fabric variety. We’re douchebags, not animals.)

Step 1.
Lay your shirt down somewhere flat.

Step 2.
Cut off one sleeve.

Step 3.
Cut off the other sleeve.

Step 4. (optional, so I obviously didn’t do it.)
Cut off the shirt collar for extra deep-V sluttiness.

BOOM. Done. Being a douchebag has never been so easy.

The best part is, everyone will be so distracted by your super buff arms and now exposed abs that it won’t even register how douchey you’re being. EXTRA DOUCHE POINTS. Plus, it is comfortable as hell. I never realized how constricting a freakin’ t-shirt can be until I started preemptively hulking out of my clothes. It’s like my body just broke out of Azkaban for the first time and went swimming in a pool of delicious chocolate pudding. MMMM :)

Actually, on second thought, the best part about these intense side-slit shirts is the fact your dog (aka best friend) doesn’t have to be left out! EVERYONE WINS!

Nothing sexier than a douchebag and her douchedog prancing around Vallejo, I guarantee it.

(If you find yourself needing a towel after seeing these pictures, it’s probably because I just finished doing Insanity Abs. Thanks, Sean T!)

Anyways, a fun fact about douchebags. It took me a really long time to be able to drop the d-bomb (very much like how I can still barely utter the word “penis.” In fact, my fingers cringed just typing that). I didn’t really say it ever until I moved in with a certain Judy-shaped potty mouth last year. In fact, it used to bother me whenever people would say it. This is mostly due to the fact that it brings back horrific nightmares.

The summer I graduated high school, I worked as a “courtesy clerk” at Raley’s. AKA, I bagged your groceries, walked them out to your car, and loaded up your car for you, put away all the random shit you brought to the register and then decided “on second thought, I’m just gonna go to Panda Express tonight because I hate myself and my body and love cheap knock-off Asian food (this is ironic because Asians monopolize knock-offs).” But most of the time, I just walked around the store saying HI to people and asking them if they needed help finding anything. 99% of the time, people would just tell me how incredibly cute I look in my uniform and ask me to strut down the cereal aisle and then be well on their way, because 99% of people are self-sufficient enough to find things in a freakin’ grocery store.

You know how sometimes you can just sense impending doom? Kinda like Spider Man and his spidey senses? Well, that day, I sensed it. But I went for it anyway. I was gallivanting in the produce department, blowing kisses and signing babies’ heads, when I noticed a somewhat distraught looking older lady. Though there was already a line of boys following me around, begging me to help them find the donuts and pickles (thanks Edith Wharton!), I winked and coyly asked them to stay behind the velvet rope, and then proceeded to walk up to said distraught lady and asked her if I could be of any sort of assistance.

She turned around and sweetly said “sure, can you help me find the douchebags?”

“Um, excuse me? Sorry, I’m hard of hearing.”

“Silly girl, help me find them douchebags!”

“uhh… well, I’m not sure if we, the union of respectable grocery stores, carry them, but I’d be ‘happy’ (I wish I had air-quoted that word in the moment) to help you find them. I highly doubt they’re kept here… between the bell peppers and brussel sprouts… BUT FUN FACT ABOUT BRUSSEL SPROUTS! They’re freakin’ delicious if you saute them with some ham hock!”

“I’m allergic to anything from Brussels. (Damnit, my change of subject did not work.) Now about them dbags?”

“Oh. Yes. Dbags. You can find a plethora of them in the self-tanner and body oil aisle at Target across the street. Can I interest you in some tiny peppers instead?”

“That’s what he said.”

Okay, she didn’t actually say that, but I feel like she should’ve. Her request automatically catapulted our relationship into that level of conversational intimacy. The worst part was, she was so calm about it. Like it was no big deal. Could this lady seriously not tell I was freaking the eff out?!

Eventually I regained control over my legs, heartbeat, sweat glands, and dropped jaw, and started to “casually” walk her around the store, frantically trying to figure out where in the hell douchebags would even be stocked in a grocery store as she continued with some random small talk completely unrelated to my horrifying task.

At this point, God himself decided enough was enough. You know how sometimes you’re watching TV and something is just so unbearable awkward or gross that you can’t even summon the strength to watch it, and end up either getting up to “grab something from the fridge” or changing the channel? For me, the epitome of this phenomenon is when Stiffler eats the dog’s poo in American Wedding. I just can’t bear it, and that’s coming from me, the girl who brings up poo at every formal dinner. Anyways, I’m pretty sure that’s how God felt when he was watching me helplessly wondering around Raley’s with this lady. With a stroke of luck, we randomly walked by the aisle with feminine products, condoms, and yeast infection medication that I only recognize from those equally soul lemon-facing commercials. (Yes, so awkward it lemon-faces your SOUL.) I thought to myself “if it isn’t here, maybe I can feign surrender and next time, she’ll keep her grocery shopping and douchebag shopping separate.”

We brisk through the aisle. My eyes are so glazed over, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. But then I hear her exclaim “Oh yay, there they are! Can you reach them for me?”

I think this question alone sums up pretty well the type of lady she is. I’m 5’4″. If she needs my help reaching something, you can only imagine how petite she is. Also, she said “oh yay,” clearly identifying her as a hip grandma who’s caught that catch-phrase from an even cooler grandchild (who probably knows her grandma should just order douchebags online to avoid the awkwardness). So I throw on some extra thick, fire-proof gloves, grab a box, throw it in her basket, and run like it’s a live grenade emblazoned with the Dark Mark.

So… the end, right? RIGHT?! Wrong.

If you’re as careful and thorough a reader as you claim to be, you’d remember that another majestic responsibility of mine is to bag groceries. I’ll give you 2 guesses to guess who showed up in my aisle. Yes, I handled that box of douchebags 2 more times that day, chalking my life’s experiences with douchebags to a whopping total of 3. And hopefully it stays there forever.

But as you can tell from this post, I have no problem saying it anymore. Just one of the perks of having a foul-mouthed roommate.

Speaking of douchebags… THOMAS KELLER IS THE SHIT.

I mean, this guy has more “chef of the year” awards than Lil’ Wayne has baby mamas.

Okay, I don’t actually think Thomas Keller is a dbag. He’s too godly. That’d be like saying Morgan Freeman is a dbag. But in case TKeller really is a dbag, I’d like to be the first to say that I’m completely okay with it. The world needs douchebags. You need that much ego to make fried chicken as delicious as TKeller. And, as you know, mama needs her fried chicken.

I’ve read Ad Hoc cover to cover. Camped outside of the French Laundry begging for scraps like Tramp more often than I can count. And you can bet your ass I’m at Addendum every weekend, eating that buttermilk chicken. A few months ago, I found a buttermilk roasted chicken recipe by SmittenKitchen that I can sincerely say I love more than I love your mom. Being the culinary genius that I am (move over, TKeller), I made a few tweaks, and made my own fried chicken.

Alexha’s Juicy-Ass Chicken for Douchebags (roasted or fried):


  • 2 cups buttermilk
  • 5 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed (um, I used 10)
  • 1 tablespoon garlic salt
  • 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons paprika, plus extra for sprinkling (I used Hungarian)
  • 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
  • 1 teaspoon Mexican Style (hot) chili powder
  • Lots of freshly ground black pepper
  • lots of fresh thyme
  • 2 1/2 to 3 pounds chicken parts (we used all legs)
  • Drizzle of olive oil
  • Flaked or coarse sea salt, to finish
  • flour (if you’re frying it)
(I typically double this recipe)


Let’s do this shit.

  1. Smash your garlic. Embarrassingly enough, I, the culinary genius, don’t have a garlic smasher. (My birthday is coming up in 2 days though, so if you feel ever so inclined to send a gift, you know what I need!) So, instead, I threw the peeled garlic cloves into a ziplock bag and smashed the crap out of it with a glass cup. The results are similar, and you get to feel like MacGyver.
  2. In a bowl, whisk together the buttermilk, garlic, garlic salt, sugar, paprika, cayenne pepper, chili powder, and black pepper.
  3. Strategically arrange your chicken in a gallon-sized ziplock bag and pour in the brine.
  4. Toss in as many sprigs of thyme as your heart desires. (Did you really neatly place the chicken in the bag in perfect puzzle formation? Me too. And then they all fell out of place as soon as I stood the bag up haha) Let this sit in your fridge for anywhere between 2 to 72 hours. I wouldn’t cook it a second before it hits 48 hours, but maybe that’s just because I like my chicken drumsticks to sploosh me in the mouth with amazing chicken juice whenever I take a bite.
  5. When you’re ready to have the absolute best roasted chicken of your life, preheat your oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit. (If you’re going to fry the chicken, skip to step 7.) Take the chicken out of the brine and once again, arrange it perfectly on a lined roasting pan (I used a casserole dish, because I’m a douchebag like that). Drizzle with olive oil and some additional paprika and salt.
  6. Bake for about 30 minutes, or until golden brown.
  7. When you’re ready to have the absolute best fried chicken of your life, combine in a bowl your own flour dredge. In this instance, I used flour, paprika, garlic salt, fresh black pepper, a pinch of cayenne pepper, and an even smaller pinch of chili powder.
  8. Remove the chicken from the buttermilk brine and dredge in the flour mixture.
  9. Let sit for about 30 minutes so that the flour absorbs your amazing buttermilk brine.
  10. Toss into your deep fryer for about 8 minutes. (Not pictured. Sorry, I was too busy being attacked by a giant monkey.)
  11. Serve with some super-delectables! For this evening, I served both the roasted and fried chicken (that’s right, my guests got BOTH) with a simple salad, my homemade (and improved) Zuppa Toscana from Olive(r) Garden, corn, and scalloped red potatoes.

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(Pairs perfectly with Acacia Vineyard’s Lone Tree Pinot Noir, btw. Too bad that’s actually a 2006 Napa Cab Sauv in that glass.)

So delicious, your friends will beg to put up with your douchebagedness, just for more chicken. You have my promise!

If you feel like I’m further douchebagging by bribing my friends with my cooking, then fine. I’ll admit it. We need lovin’ too!

If you’re still not convinced, then you can just suck it.




PS, it tastes extra delicious when you’re wearing a homemade douchebag shirt.

PPS, you owe me a shot for every single time I said “douchebag” in this post. Including that last one. Oh, you didn’t know this blog was a drinking game? Think of it this way: frats and gangs haze for a reason, right? I’m just trying to establish that sort of camaraderie with you.

PPPS, I swear I’m not a dbag in real life.

PPPPS, No offense to proud dbags.