The Simpsons Test: Hints, Hoops and Bread Crumbs

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.

The Simpsons Test: Hints, Hoops and Bread Crumbs.

via The Simpsons Test: Hints, Hoops and Bread Crumbs.

I hope you pass the test.


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


I apologize about the vulgarity of this title. I swear there’s more to it than me loving the Ying Yang Twins.


Though I think it is SUPER ADORABLE that someone google’s this blog everyday with these taglines:

  1. bestie beastie project food life wine
  2. the bestie beastie project love life wine
  3. bestie beastie food love wine
  4. the beastie beastie project food love life wine
  5. bestie beastie project love life food

you are making it incredibly evident to me that I (we) pretty much only write about being romantically cynical, alcoholic, fatties. And though there may be some truth to that (okay, a lot on my part… I can’t speak for the Beastie), please, for the love of God, just bookmark us. I’ve noticed that “clothes” was nowhere to be found on that list… I guess I am still, in no way, any sort of authority in that department. “Boys” was also left unlisted, but there’s no surprise there. WOMP WOMP.

But back to the original storyline.

Despite the fact that I am no boy-expert, I am pretty content with calling myself a Ryan-Reynolds-expert. Given the amount of times I’ve fallen asleep watching various RR movies (I fall asleep  not because the movies bore me– *ahem* LOTR– but because I’m so enthralled by his good looks and even moreso good acting! bahahaha.), I am confident that I can pretty much tell you all the scenes in which he is incredibly gorgeous. AKA all of them. But there’s always one scene from The Proposal that has a falcon-like grip on my heart, despite the fact that Sandra Bullock actually outshines Mr Van Wilder. You’ve guessed it! Who wants to see Sandra Bullock shake her bottom to some pretty inappropriate lyrics with Betty White?

In case I haven’t mentioned this a million times yet, I LOVE THE YING YANG TWINS. I don’t know why, but I always have. That special way that Lil Jon says “YEEEEEEEEAH” really gets the juices flowing for me. But enough about me! What I love most about “Get Low” is the fact that it always reminds me of the Beastie.

Let me set this up for you :)

The year is 2005.

The Beastie and I are pretty much being the life of the party at our Junior Prom, arms flailing and shoulders popping and hips thrusting all about the dance floor with our then-boyfriends: Karina with her freshman boy that seemed way too overwhelmed with the fact that he was dating a hottie 2 years his elder to ever actually talk to her bestie (ME!), and me with the boy I had spent 3 years chasing and wearing down until one day he finally caved  and agreed to hold my hand. Gary Marshall couldn’t direct a better love story.

Now keep in mind that this was when it was COOL to super soberly gyrate to hip hop while simultaneously singing all the lyrics, like you’re Lil Jon himself.

Suddenly, GET LOW comes on and I shoot the Bestie that look that pretty much says “AWWW SHIET! DIS MAH JAAAAAAM!” and she returns one back suggesting “GO CRAZY! But also, please don’t embarrass me, or anyone within the near vicinity, with your terrible, terrible dancing.”

Alright. Clear me some room, people.  It’s about to get CRUNK “up in here.”

I give my bf the signal that it’s time to let the bird fly on its own and UNLEASH THE DANCE BEAST WITHIN ME. He nods in approval, knowing that once I unleash, hoards of paparazzi will swarm us, and we’ll be instantly escalated to the status of “celebrity couple” and that he’ll have to start covering my “bathing suit area” whenever I exit a car and we’ll have to start running from our limos into the restaurants with various items like purses and newspapers covering our faces.

But just as I’m about to break it down, I hear this voice to the side of my head that I’ve never heard before. It’s definitely not Lil Jon, but it’s his words. I look over and low and behold, the Beastie’s 14-year-old boytoy is rapping. Keep in mind that, prior to this, I’ve never heard him speak before. I was floored. So baffled that I couldn’t even claim my dance stardom. Soon, I realize that he’s screaming “AAAAW, SKEET SKEET MUTHAFCUKAS!” and it’s everything I can do not to laugh. I mouth to the Beastie “is he old enough to know this song? Does his mother know that he sings these lyrics? HE KISSES YOU WITH THAT DIRTY MOUTH?!” She just shrugs, and keeps dancing, and I guess if it doesn’t concern her, it doesn’t concern me either.

The next song plays and I recall laughing at him a little less. And the night goes on in similar fashion. And that’s pretty much when I realize:

Prom is magic :)

If the Beastie and I weren’t best friends before, Prom definitely cemented it.

We were both on the class council, and thus it was an obligation to be a part of the Prom Planning Committee (though it wouldn’t have taken much effort to convince us to join if it wasn’t required) so for months and months, we would meet with a bunch of other love-thirsty girls at lunch, planning every last detail of pretty much the high-school equivalent of a wedding. We also coincidentally sat next to each other in several classes, and since we had a lot of mutual friends, we decided that we should also plan our group’s itinerary for Prom, ie “the house to get ready at” and “dinner venue” and “limo ride” etc etc. AP Physics pretty much became PROM PLANNING for the two of us (sorry Mr. Siemens), as evidenced by the countless (pointless) lists we made. Prom was in the air like SARS. It was insane. (Also, I guess this is around the same time Asian had a SARS outbreak, so perhaps this is a poor choice of simile?)

We ro-sham-boed for who gets to wear pink, and agreed that we were going to have to become grown up women and purchase those chicken cutlet things. Apparently this is how girls bond? It was probably the most exhilarating and exciting and stressful era of my high school career. Forget about taking the SATs, AP Exams, etc. Planning Prom was the ultimate test of real-life-preparedness.

I thought of all this when my Facebook wall recently became over-spammed with this WongFu video:

More than anything else, I remember being super excited to slow-dance with this boy (remember, I spent 3 years chasing him down!), so it’s weird to me that kids don’t slow dance anymore? What do they do? Surely not grind! My baby cousins are going to prom this year! Oh god. How times have changed.

I blame the fashion industry for this.

I walked onto the middle school campus I used to coach volleyball at last year and I could not believe how much skankier kids are dressed nowadays than when I was in middle school. Seriously. These kids made me look like I was wearing an Amish dress. And call me old fashioned, but I feel that dressing like you’re in a rap music video is a right of passage, and you have to EARN it like the rest of us did.

Anyways, it would be pretty ridiculous to expect a bunch of kids dressed like play bunnies to slow dance at their school dance, so that’s why I’m upset with the fashion industry. That and because I want fanny packs to come back SO. BAD. But unless you live in Seattle, Portland, or San Francisco, you’re pretty much a tourist if seen with said fanny pack.

I can’t wait to be an 80 year old Asian lady so I can look as Asian touristy as I want!

PS, as a testament of my devotion to this blog, I’ve tried to sign into my ancient MySpace account to quickly copy and paste some classic prom photos for you guys, but unfortunately I can’t remember my log-in info, whatsoever (I even tried to the BUFFET password!), and unfortunately unfortunately, I gave away my computer that held all of my high school photos on its hard drive (thinking I’d never need them again… silly me!) so here are some very poorly taken photos of physical photos I have laying around in my room. I really need to invest in a scanner.

Beastie, I have absolutely no pictures of you and Muma, so feel free to upload your own :)

Maybe, if you’re lucky, we’ll upload our senior ball photos. Much more attractive pictures, I have to say. What a difference a year makes.






Oh, how we’ve blossomed!

it’ll all be alright.

Well, it’s here. The countdown to long distance-hood officially began for me last week. In less than a month, I will be LDRing it for at least the next 365 days. I’ve been thinking about/planning for/trying to push this day out of my mind since basically before the boy and I even started dating (well, officially dating. long Karina-dramatic story for another time) and it has finally crept up on me. I had a mini-LDR taste last summer when the boy was on the other coast for 8 weeks (2 WHOLE MONTHS!) aaaaand I might’ve been a wreck. Like bawling my eyes out the weeks up to, the hour before, AND on the drive home from the airport. Oh, and every single Skype session thereafter for the first few weeks.

Typical girl-crazy stuff, right?

It would be, except for one little tiny fact about me: I never cry. As in the only movie I have ever cried during was My Dog Skip (a few glistening tears and it was only because I had just read Where the Red Fern Grows, I swear). As in the Bestie told me I was an “emotional robot” in high school and I have been unable to convince her otherwise since. So realizing I had become one of those girls was actually quite extraordinary.

Well thaaaank goodness I got over that less-than-a-quarter-life crisis and have reverted back to my usual robot self, even if only temporarily. Only a month out and I still have yet to spontaneously combust into a full-blown cry fest (!).  Maybe it’s because it still hasn’t full on hit me yet (he’s leaving… you won’t be with him for a whole year… as in you will never ever ever both live in LA again!) or maybe I have actually prepared myself for this better than I thought. I’m sure it’s also helped my sanity that he will only be a 6 hour drive/1 hour flight away when the dreaded day comes. Either way, I selfishly get the boy all to myself for this last month and I plan to make the most of it. And when May does peek itself around the corner, I’ve already started setting some goals / have some fun things coming up that will hopefully make my faux-singledom life transition a little bit easier. And lucky for you all (and the Bestie), one of the items on the list includes more blogging :)

So in short:

  1. Unhappy countdowns stink
  2. Thank goodness for airplanes
  3. It’ll all be alright. :)