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


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.


I have a knack for complaining about stupid things.

If you follow my twitter, you already know exactly what I’m talking about. If you don’t… well, WTF man?! I’m hilarious. Go follow me NOW. Oh, you don’t know how to use the “tweety bird?” Alright, I guess I can help you out. First, think of a hilarious/punny/cute username. Anything but “chimiDONGHA,” because 1) it’s already taken and 2) YOUR NAME ISN’T DONGHA. Next, start writing. Anything. Whatever comes across your mind. THAT’S IT! Now in case you need some inspiration, here are a few of my tweets that have to do with #firstworldproblems:

  • Freakin Comcast can’t fix our cable so I’m stuck watching Jersey Shore instead of the new 30 Rock. RAGE!! #firstworldproblems
  • Boo, I miss my puppy! It’s the one downside to vacations.#firstworldproblems
  • I’m so bored, I tried to download Pocket Potions but couldn’t find it for Droid, so now I have to play Restaurant Story. #firstworldproblems
  • My spicy chicken nugget 5-piece had a normal one in it.#firstworldpains
  • I can’t decide if I want a Big Mac or Chipotle for dinner. #firstworldproblems
  • I can’t sleep with my engagement ring on because it’s too big and scratches me. #firstworldpains
  • My white strips make my teeth hurt. #firstworldpains
  • I eat too much and poop too often. #firstworldpains
  • No one noticed I correctly answered the Final Jeopardy question.#firstworldpains

Okay, so you get the picture. Twitter is more than just complaining about dumb shit, but I always seem to find the #firstworldproblems ones the most hilarious. Anyways, my most recent complaintweet was that I will be celebrating my friend’s birthday in Vegas this weekend and my clothes are NOT nearly skanky enough for Vegas.

In fact, I’m not skanky enough for Vegas. I’m the type of the girl that likes to go to microbreweries, hole-in-the-wall taquerias where nothing is written in English, and last but not least, COSTCO. Guess what! My jeans and t-shirts are sufficient in all of these situations.

I have A LOT of clothes. Enough to easily go more than a month without doing laundry. Is that TMI? Who cares, we’re all friends now. Unfortunately for me, I have a single tracked mind when I go shopping. After ripping through my closet, hunting down anything remotely Vegas-appropriate, I’ve come to realize that all of my articles all fall within 4 categories:

  1. Jeans
  2. Gym clothes
  3. Cardigans
  4. Flannel shirts

I’ve been clubbing maybe 5 times tops, and all I remember about them is a lot of sweating. I certainly don’t know how to channel my inner Snooki, and if “the Situation” flashes his abs at me in the unlit club, I’d probably freak out because I find his face to resemble a super creepy chipmunk.

So… what’s a girl to do? Should I just cut holes in all my clothes? Is that what other non-clubbing girls do when they go to Vegas?


If you have any suggestions, please send me an email ASAP. Until then, I’m going to immerse myself in lots of “the Hangover” and “Las Vegas” (the Josh Duhamel TV series) research.

UNLESS! This is actually more of an “Ocean’s 11” type of trip…