Happy Friday, comrades :)
For the past two months or so, my Facebook has been on drugs. The Adderall kind of drug. All my news feed could think about was graduating and getting married. Well, I guess it’s more of a Ted-Mosby-if-he-was-a-high-school-girl kind of drug. But you get what I mean… super tunnel visioned!
I tried to remind myself that I’m not that old. I’m only 24, after all.
Just a few years ago, I was posting those cap & gown photos!
Oh god. I’m 24.
24 is pretty much 25.
Which rounds to 30.
And everyone knows that the 30’s just blend in with the 40’s.
So pretty much I’m 24 going on 50.
I tried to remind myself that just 6 short years ago, my Facebook was full of statuses like “____ IS dreading the AP Calculus exam tomorrow. Meet me at Starbucks beforehand so we can 1) seem like sophisticated high schoolers that drink coffee and 2) squeal together about the test.”
(remember when FB forced you to begin your status with “___ is _________?” It was so much harder to be whiny and witty back then.)
And just two years before that, we were all outstretching our backs, taking pictures of ourselves at super awkward angles in the dirty bathroom mirror to post onto MySpace!
So when did I get to this point in my social-media life that screams “EVERYONE ELSE AROUND YOU IS AN ADULT! HURRY AND GROW THE HELL UP!”
(Beastie, I’m sure you can relate to this given
how often I complain about it how often we talk about it.)
Then it occurred to me that simply complaining about feeling old meant that I had already begun to grow up! VICTORY! Between doing a back-breaking number of crunches (bikini season always has a way of sneaking up on me like Simba on Zazu) and eating slices of Cookies ‘N Cream ice cream cake (I deserve to splurge after those 20 situps), I sat down and made a list of ways in which current me is more mature/older than “Alexha is currently waiting for the OC series finale to air and wishing it didn’t have to end. My life is over.” me.
If you’re ready to be wow-ed by my personal growth, read on.
Ways in which I now act like an adult:
- Weekends mean doing chores, not sitting around the house watching TV while your mom tells you to clean your room, because you no longer live with your “laundry fairy” (my affectionate nickname for my mother) and if you don’t wash your undies, water the plants, and clean out the fridge, no one will. And you will die of excessive mold inhalation.
- I listen to classical music during my commute, because today’s pop music is “too much noise.”
- When I go out to dinner with my friends, we are all civil until the bill comes out. At that point, all hell breaks loose. Everyone claims “I’m a working man/woman! I’ll pick up the tab!” This is also a good indication that not only are my friends and I adults, but also Asian.
- Taking shots is suddenly child’s play. If your cocktail wasn’t muddled, foamed, fizzed, imported from some European country, include some sort of obscure herb, served in a martini or high ball glass, AND cost less than $12 per sip, then you might as well go back to drinking your juice box at recess. Bartenders are barbarians– I only trust my libations with my mixologist.
- During my lunch breaks, I’m either looking up recipes to cook for dinner, perusing wedding registries, or working. Because there’s that much work to be done.
- As an extension of the last bullet, I also worry about work-related projects after work and on the weekends. And when I run into friends, we ask each other how work’s going, not “what did you get for the 3rd question on yesterday’s midterm?” and then secretly hate each other for getting the tricky question right.
- Calendars are my new best friend. There are too many things to do, and 90% of the time I forget unless I write it down. I’ve started penciling everything into a compact but dense schedule. My only glimmer of adolescence is the cute colors and stickers I put on my calendar.
- Seeing baby shoes makes my uterus quiver with a strange mix of fear and excitement. Similarly, I have also made a mental note of “baby names that I think are cute.” I will not elaborate on this, however, for fear that my bf is reading this.
- Going out or “getting away for the weekend” means finding a sitter for my baby or finding canine-friendly activities/venues.
- My fridge is a mural of take-out menus and coupons instead of crayon artwork and “A+” science quizzes.
- The movies I’m most excited to see this summer are NOT typical superhero-summer movies (though I am pretty excited for Dark Knight Rises). Instead, I am looking forward to seeing two of my favorite books made into movies: Anna Karenina and Perks of Being a Wallflower. I also plan on pitching a tent and camping out in the IMAX-3D theater on opening weekend of Magic Mike, but that’s another story.
- I take a multi-vitamin, glucosamine, calcium + Vitamin D, and fish oil pill every day. And have flirted with the idea of investing in a pill box. Do they make them in pink with pictures of unicorns? Is there such a thing as a mini-pill vending “machine?” Like those M&M dispensers you buy in NYC or Vegas! Ooh, I’d take all my vitamins if I had one of those.
- Mornings without coffee mean mornings with headaches; nights without a whiskey nightcap are unprecedented.
- Every conversation with my parents end with an “I love you” because, well, you just never know.
- I pay my bills… on time!
- I have to be careful while watching the Olympic trials because some of the male athletes I think are cute are younger than me– or God forbid, under 18. (Is there such a thing as being an seasonally Olympic cougar?)
Despite all this maturity, however, I still feel like a braces-having, training-bra-wearing, insecure and curious little 15 year old girl. Most days, I still find myself feeling like Jennifer Garner’s character in “13 Going on 30” and wondering how I got here.
I’m not really in a rush to grow up. I just thought I’d feel differently, especially now that I’ve graduated college and work full time and live on my own. I still feel like a little kid inside.
Now that my rant is over, please excuse me while I go check my face in the mirror for wrinkles and browse the interweb for deals on Spanx.
I’ve been trying to figure out how to respond to this post for over a week now, but the more I think about it, the more frustrated I get because she already articulated my thoughts and feelings exactly, so instead of messing with what’s already quite perfect IMO, I’m just going to reblog.
I hope you pass the test.
Alternatively named “(Kissed you) In the Moonlight.”
For weeks and weeks I’ve been trying to figure out why Gloriana’s single, “(Kissed you) Good Night,” sounds so freakin’ familiar. It finally hit me the other day… in a dream.
Am I the only one that thinks the chorus of this song:
sounds EXACTLY like the chorus of this song?
I especially love the Gloriana video because it just goes to prove that good things can happen if you star in One Tree Hill or Secret Life of the American Teenager. And moreso, good things can happen if you date a boy like Dylan.
Happy hump day, everyday :)
Did anyone outside the Northern California central valley experience a heatwave this past Father’s Day weekend? I swear, it was the only topic of discussion on my FB newsfeed (which was a welcome change from all of the Lebron James malarkey).
Naturally, due to the profuse sweating going on in my apartment, Judy and I decided to slaughter what little self-esteem we have and peruse the Victoria’s Secret website for swimsuits. The experience reminded me a lot of going to a haunted insane asylum: at first it’s all fun and games as you’re running around with your friends, laughing and playing flashlight tag, when suddenly a door closes by itself and an impending doom rushes down everyone’s spines as you realize you’re locked in here forever. And by that I mean, at first it was super exciting to look at swimsuits that we’d “look awesome in after a summer full of eating right and working out,” only to realize that 1) unless we somehow figured out a way to survive off of low-calorie tap water, we’d never look like this, 2) we had just thrown back half a tube of thin mints* while swearing to each other that we were never eating again, and 3) all of our favorite colors and cuts were only available 2 sizes too small or 2 sizes too big…
DAMN MY PERFECTLY AVERAGE BODY!
This morning I was arguing with the boy about which gender has it worse when it comes to societal pressures to be physically perfect. Obviously, I think women have it way worse because there are 10 ScarJos, Padmas, Cindys, Heidis, and fucking “Gisele Bundchen”‘s for every 1 Ryan Gosling to be dealt with.
First of all, if you’re a boy, you’re either buff, not buff, or somewhere in-between, and that’s about all there is to it. When you’re given a female body, you are frantically running around like the SOLO maintenance guy at Disneyworld trying to ensure that everything is working and in tip-top shape (which, as you can imagine, is quite impossible). You might have nice legs but overly broad shoulders; a nice butt but no boobs; nice abs but a weird fuzzy mustache you can’t get rid of. Don’t even get me started on backne and love handles! The potential “problems” are agonizingly endless!
After about 24 years, you start to really grow comfortable– more like you give up wishing you looked different– with your body and are just content that you don’t look like an alien. That’s pretty much where I’m at now, and this self-appreciation slash self-reverence is where my unparalleled self-esteem comes from. Just when my ego has gotten the best of me, however, my little sister likes to remind me that my itty-bitties are ant holes compared to her Mount Everests.
If my sister was a dinosaur, she’d be a Voluptusaurus Rex.
I will not grace this blog with a comparative photo between in my sister because this is my ego’s sanctuary, but I will say this: poo on you, little sister.
Secondly, there’s a reason why there are more make-up brands for women than entries in Charlie Sheen’s little black book, yet the only advertisement I can find for “makeup for men” is this:
Henceforth, society is much more okay with men looking “natural,” but expect women to change their face… daily. Think of all the time you spend putting makeup on. Is it really necessary?! What does mascara even do, anyway? And that creepy eyelash-curling torture device? How closely are people looking at your eyelashes?!
Third, I’ve always found it strange that men “read” “magazines” such as Maxim that feature super hot women on them… and women read magazines such as Cosmo that ALSO feature super hot women on them. WHY DON’T CHANNING OR ANY OF THE HEMSWORTH BROTHERS DROP TROU FOR OUR MAGAZINES?!
Ladies, we’ve been fighting for over 92 years for equal rights. This may be the final frontier. Get some hot men on our magazine covers, please.
Or, instead, impose some sort of regulation for how “skinny” (I’d prefer to call them skeletonly) women in the media can be. If I had to be “this tall” to ride Space Mountain, you sure as hell should be “this heavy” to be featured in this fashion spread, don’t you think? Is it crazy for me to think that a model should weigh more than the camera+lens they’re being photographed with? Or at least a suckling pig. I mean c’mon. As I stated many months ago, I can BENCH AND CARRY A SUCKLING PIG. How long do you honestly think you’ll last in the Hunger Games if all you eat are ice cubes?! That alone should motivate you to scarf down a burger or two.
And since I’m already complaining: why is it that you need at least 120IQ points to understand the female clothes-sizing system?! Why do we make life so much more difficult for ourselves? Don’t even get me started on accessorizing. That’s a whole ‘nother monster to sigh at.
Anyway, in the case that you still think men “have it worse” than girls, let me know, and I’ll give you a play-by-play explanation of childbirth. With accompanying videos. And if that’s not enough, you can sign up for my podcast about my monthly period. Get ready for lots of details– I own several thesauruses.
Boy or girl, you have to agree that our idea of “the perfect” body has gotten pretty out of hand. If the simple act of online shopping can throw such a giant wrench in the gears of my self confidence, I can only imagine what it’s like for those who don’t think nearly as highly of themselves.
But enough about that! All this talk about “never eating again” makes me hungry, and I realize it’s been awhile since I’ve posted any sort of culinary magic for you to try, so here’s a super simple pork chop recipe that’s easy enough to make while you’re skimming through your Reader’s Digest, Wired Magazine, or National Geographic.
Alexha’s “Pork chops for Fat Dinosaurs trying to lose weight” pork chops:
- 4 boneless pork chops, fat trimmed
- 3 Tbsp whole grain Dijon mustard
- 2 Tbsp very finely minced garlic
- 2 Tbsp grated parmasean
- 1/2 cup whole wheat Panko breadcrumbs
- 1/2 Tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped
- 1 Tbsp fresh parsley, minced
- 1/4 tsp. garlic salt
- 1/4 tsp. ground black pepper
- 1 Tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
Throw on that sexy apron and let’s get to work!
- Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. In a bowl, combine the garlic, parmasean, breadcrumbs, rosemary, parsley, salt, and pepper. This will be your “dredge.”
- Gently rub mustard on pork chops until both sides are evenly covered.
- Dip pork chops into the dredge bowl and generously coat both sides.
- On a skillet or nonstick pan, heat some olive oil on medium high heat. Once ready, add the pork chops and saute both sides until the panko coating is a nice golden brown color.
- Place pork chops on a foil covered baking sheet in the oven (or, if you’re fancy, put your cast iron skillet in the oven) and bake for about 5-8 minutes, or until the internal temperature has reached 145 degrees F.
- Enjoy! Apparently half of this recipe is from a “healthy eating-weight loss” recipe blog, so it’s half healthy!
Happy hunting, fellow VS-shoppers :)
*yes, I still have Thin Mints laying around the house. I’ll be featured in the next episode of Hoarders as the girl who hoards Girl Scout cookies. Stay tuned…
Alright, raise your hand if you’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey. Now raise your other hand if you’ve read Twilight. Good. Now keep them raised for this entire post. If you have one hand up, chances are you have both hands up, and I plan on draining the blood from both your limbs as punishment for partaking in such ridiculous nonsense.
When I first heard of Fifty Shades of Grey, I thought it was going to be about either
- a colorblind painter
- a depressed, colorblind painter
so I looked it up on Amazon to see if it was worth buying and immediately got smacked on the side of the face by reviews either loving or hating the latest soft porno pandemic spreading across America’s libraries.
This morning when I got into work, my coworker popped up on our office communicator and announced
50 shades of grey – it has begun.
Pretty much, Bella goes to college (without a computer or email as an english major ), gives up on vampires and inexplicably bites her lip ALL THE TIME. She is still hella clumsy and for no good reason, a biollionare, a photogrpaher, and a lawyer all throw themselves at her.
Oh, and she changes her name to Anastasia Steele and gets a new best friend called Katherin Kavenaugh– and thus is my summary of the book thus far.I’m like half way through and it is so improbable, I feel like glittery vampires are more likely than this story line.I basically gave up after finding out she didn’t have a computer… as a graduating english major. In 2011.
Frustrated by what qualifies as “literature” these days, I decide to fireman-pole down from the high road and quickly suggest to my coworker that we cash in on this money train, and write our own stupid book about a stupid, bland girl zombie-of-a-human that has no opinions or thoughts of her own and have tons of improbably spectacular men throw themselves at her. (In my version, they will literally be throwing themselves at her… PHYSICALLY IMPALING HER WITH THEIR OWN BODIES.)
Unsure of where to start, I ask my coworker about the main character– seriously, how do I build a character that will fall so madly in love with this not-super-gorgeous, socially awkward twit? She tells me:
You’ll also need to come up with some ridiculous story for the main love interest: Christian Grey is all crazy because he was born to a crack whore, grew up hungry (so he has this strange obsession with making her eat), and then was adopted. Oh and he also had some crazy Mrs. Robinson experience at 15.
We’ll need somethign like that to explain why he is all weird and aloof.
… but you can’t reveal it til like the last 100 pages
Last week, our fridge was found barren and my housemates and I (okay, Judy and I. Thom hasn’t resurfaced from Diablo III quite yet) were frantic to find something to eat for dinner. Because I’m pretty much as good as it gets in terms of housewife-qualities, I decided on meatloaf because I knew wifey #2 had been craving it for months (insert crude joke about Judy not getting any meatloaf since Diablo III came out).
We raced to the grocery store, desperately clinging on to our integrity while grazing our way through Costco, and came home, high from the excitement of prospective meatloaf. The rush of adrenaline, combined with her cute, adorable, nubby fingers, caused Judy to drop an onion while getting out of the car and it rolled underneath, smack dab in the middle of the chassis. Deflated, we crouched down and stared at the onion longingly. Because I’m a lady, I asked Judy to “put a blanket on the Grand Canyon*” as I got on all fours and pleaded to my elbows to grow an extra 2 feet. They sent back a “Child, please. Have you heard of stretch marks? Have you seen your thighs? Why do you hate us?” memo.
I didn’t mean to do that to you, body. The fried chicken just has a siren call I can’t resist. Please forgive me.
Judy stared at me as I had this internal emotional break down. She asked if I was thinking about that scene where Dumbledore asks Snape “All this time?” to which he responds “Always.” I lied and said yes. As far as she knows, that’s the only thing that makes me cry on a regular basis. It’s not like I cry when I hear “Hey there Delilah” or anything. Anyways, Judy gave me a knowing nod and lightly tapped her heart with her fist, signaling that though she understands my pain, I need to get over my PMS moment and quit freaking out the nearby children whizzing around on their knockoff Razor scooters. We’ve seen Hunger Games. If those kids sense any sort of weakness, they’ll pounce on us faster than an Asian tourist whipping out their camera for a “foodie Instagram” photo.
All hope seemed lost. I couldn’t reach the onion. Trying to disguise my search for some Kleenex, I mutter something along the lines of “let me check to see if I started growing onions in the back of my car and forgot about it” and pop open the trunk. The clouds instantly parted and the sun shone down on my old lacrosse stick like a spotlight. (I dabbled in a bit of lacrosse when I was in college, no big deal.) It was as if the heavens were speaking to us, saying “Don’t give up. Your meatloaf needs onions.” I’m pretty convinced that all I had to do was stick out my hand and the lacrosse stick shot towards me like Mjölnir.
By the hammer of Thor, Judy and I had a delicious, onion-filled meatloaf.
And the rest is history.
You’d think after that lifechanging story, I’d reveal my level-8-secret meatloaf recipe.
Well, sorry to disappoint, but laughs and intensely sexy mental images of me playing lacrosse are all you’re going to get out of today’s post. Call me old fashioned, but I think something as ambiguously named as “meatloaf” needs to retain as much mystery as possible. Would you ask the lunch lady how she made Thursday’s mystery-meat-meatloaf? No. Of course you wouldn’t. Because you respect the fact that she went through the trouble of naming it mystery-meatloaf.
I may not be a lunch lady, but I do eat lunch, and I am (relatively) a lady. So I ask you to respect the meatloaf code. In turn, I will promise to thank you, my readers, one day when I’m giving my Oscars speech (which I will accept on behalf of my soon-to-be best friend Natalie Portman, who begged me to go to the “silly aw(k)ards ceremony in her place because she’d rather be in Africa simultaneously ending poverty and curing AIDS.”).
So the moral of the story is: keep a lacrosse stick in your trunk. You’ll save your wife from an onion-less meal, and it increases your chances of hooking up with a lacrosse boy by 378%.
Have you seen lacrosse boys?
I’ll leave you on that note.
*in case you’re typically the “last person to laugh at a joke,” “put a blanket on the grand canyon” refers to el crack de la ass.
Is it just me, or does someone ALWAYS yell “they just don’t make music like this anymore!” when either:
- a Beatles song
- Don’t Stop Believing
- a MoTown song
- an ABBA song
- a BSB/NSYNC/98 Degrees/ 90’s love ballad
- More Than Words
- a disco song
- the National Anthem
- a Michael Jackson / Prince song
- a pre-cougar Madonna song
- Sweet Caroline
- a “classic rock” song that anyone born after 1995 only knows from playing Rock Band
You’ve noticed it too, right?
Have you also noticed how nobody says that about songs that came out 5 years ago? Yeah? That’s because NO ONE MISSES circa-2007 pop songs! It’s been awhile, so let me remind of you hit songs from that year. In 2007,we let songs such as:
- “Glamorous” by Fergie ft. Ludacris
- “This Is Why I’m Hot” by MIMS
- “Girlfriend” by Avril Lavigne
- “Beautiful Girls” by Sean Kingston
- (the death of Daft Punk genius) “Stronger” by Kanye West
I did a lot of soul-searching with my iPOD during my last road trip, and think I’ve stumbled upon the answer: music is confusing these days.
Remember when Mariah Carey and Enrique Iglesias would sing beautiful love poems? Remember “Sweet Fantasy” and “Hero?” Whatever happened to that? How the hell did they, 10 years later, regress in maturity and crank out lame lyrics about soft porn being on Youtube? How is yelling “baby, I LIKE IT!” 250x in a song considered music? THEY ARE THE BENJAMIN BUTTONS OF MUSIC.
This all dawned on me when I was jammin’ to Jay-Z’s “99 Problems” (which, IMO is one of the greatest songs of all time) with Lindsay and Judy, when I accidentally asked out loud “do you think this is Jay-Z’s idea of romance? Is this a love song for Beyonce?”
Okay, think about it. The whole song he talks about how difficult, demeaning, and frustrating (ARGH! Couldn’t get one more d-word in for ultimate alliteration!) it is to be a victim of racial profiling and discrimination, but in the chorus, he pretty much says that even though he faces all these struggles on a daily basis, he feels bad for anyone who has “girl problems” because he doesn’t have to experience that pain. So pretty much, he’s saying that Beyonce is awesome, and he never has to worry about his relationship with her because they’re so committed to each other, and that he’ll go buy ice cream and tampons for her at 2am if she ever needs or even wants it.
Oh Jay-Z, you’re such a romantic!
(never mind that he calls her a BITCH… I’m sure it’s his cute wife-nickname for her.)
(We are also ignoring the fact that “99 Problems” was originally written by Ice-T in 1993 about his sexual conquests. Let me swoon over Jay-Z, damnit!)
Fast forward 7 years and we get things on the radio like Jason Derulo’s “It Girl,” where he does things like compare the love of his life to this oversized paperweight:
Oh, you love me more than THAT broken mini record player? Gee, thanks.
And what do you mean by “you could be my it girl / this is it girl / give me 25 to life” ?!?!
AM I A LIFETIME PRISON SENTENCE?!
So you can see my confusion with today’s lyrics. I can never tell if a song is about him loving a girl, him ironically loving a girl, him satirically loving a girl, or if all these mentions of a “girl” are actually code for something else… like the secret treasure my mom told me I had to guard until the end of time… or a super fancy hot pastrami sandwich.
Take a love song writing lesson from Jay-Z, Jason Derulo. I’d rather you just lovingly call me a bitch.