Sorry I haven’t blogged at all for ages. I’ve been too busy trying to absorb/recreate this video:
Happy Monday, everybody! I’ll return soon, I promise :)
Sorry I haven’t blogged at all for ages. I’ve been too busy trying to absorb/recreate this video:
Happy Monday, everybody! I’ll return soon, I promise :)
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
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
As I’ve mentioned before, my brother is the fearless leader of our family weight loss competition, so every day, he sends 3 motivational memes and 3 motivational youtube videos, usually accompanied by a “thought-provoking” fitness question that’s open up for discussion. (“Thought provoking” is in quotes because apparently my questions have been dubbed “stupid” even though I don’t see a real difference. His questions are usually something a long the lines of “What was your ‘rock-bottom’ moment when you realized you needed to get into better shape?” whereas mine are along the likes of “is it weird that sometimes I don’t shower after a night-workout if I didn’t sweat much?” Same thing, right? Yeah, I thought so too.)
In one of the threads, he asked us what our fitness goals were, and so I decided to physically write out my fitness goals for the summer and stick it in the bathroom where I’ll see it every day (hopefully). My list is as follows:
When you’re blessed with a body like this, people tend to have… certain expectations.
Waiters tend to assume that I’d like to skip dessert and are always pleasantly surprised when I wolf down a brownie sundae by myself (I can tell they’re pleasantly surprised because they are so shocked, they don’t know what else to do but convulsively high-five me).
People on the street stop me, blush, and ask me to sign their abs because they assume I’m “that Asian girl from the Insanity DVDs.”
Every once in awhile, young girls ask me if I’m a “short firefighter in disguise,” and now that it’s nearly season, other patrons in line at the grocery stores are always looking up from their tabloids and asking why I’m not in London, training and getting acclimated to the climate/altitude.
Yes, I get mistaken for Kerri Walsh all the time.
It’s so embarassing. And kinda weird, because I never wear my hair in a braid. And any true fan of mine knows that I’m more a Misty girl, myself. I did play DS/libero, after all.
Anyways, you get the picture. It’s a blessing and a curse, this body of mine. I’m getting carpal tunnel from all the autographs!
I finally get why child actors are always whining “I just want to live a normal life” and why Billy Ray Stewart invented his daughter’s Hannah Montana alter-ego.
I was a little disappointed when I re-listened to O-Town’s “Liquid Dreams”
and didn’t hear myself mentioned in it. I mean, sure, Janet Jackson has a nice smile and sure, I’d love to have Cindy C’s beauty mark, but c’mon. What is so “special” about Angelina’s lips, anyway? I just don’t get it.
Maybe it was a 2001 thing… but times have changed, my friends!
I now present to you the 2012 edition of a “morpherotic dream from a magazine!”
By the end of summer, I will have:
Michelle Obama’s arms.
Blake Lively’s smile.
Padma Lakshmi’s eyebrows.
Cobie Smulder’s legs.
Jennifer Aniston’s hair (it’d be blasphemous if I said anyone else, don’t you think?).
Christina Ly‘s fashion sense (shameless plug for my own photography).
Dianna Agron’s voice.
And Hermione Granger’s everything else.
Thing’s I do not care about:
Feel free to get back together and re-write this song, O-Town.
PS, who is Michelle Obama’s trainer?!
PPS, while creepily looking for pictures of Padma, I stumbled across an article about her workout regime in case you’re feeling ambitious this summer.
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:
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
Did everyone have fun celebrating their moms over the weekend?
Was it just me, or did everyone take their parents to see The Avengers? My little cousins, the Beastie, and I all went to see it on the same day! Albeit, my mom just got back from Texas to MN, so yesterday while I hung out with her on google+, I told her all about the movie… that’s pretty much the same thing as seeing it together, right?
I guess it’s pretty much the perfect movie for pretty much every type of mom out there. It’s got a little bit of something for everyone!
Unfortunately for us, the Beastie and I weren’t able to see the movie together. Fortunately for you, the Beastie and I weren’t able to see the movie together. Believe me, you wouldn’t have wanted to be in a 10 mile radius of us once this came on the screen:
Is 10 miles enough? Probably should make that 20, just in case.
Let me paint you my emotions with a bunch of GIFs.
It was like
and a whole lotta
I’m not sure if “schwarma me” is a real pick up line or not, but I feel like anything said with correct tone and a perfectly executed wink could be. And I’m positive that if I ever was to ever meet Chris Evans (and my body wasn’t too busy convulsing out of control), that’s exactly what I would say to him.
Which brings me to my next point:
That movie was a lot funnier than I’d expected. Much like when I feel superior-ly intelligent when I understand the scientific references in Big Bang Theory, I feel pretty damn good about myself when I get the random, external references that the Marvel movies have been throwing around, such as the Legolas thing, the Point Break thing, the Reindeer Games thing…
That being said, I still have some questions for Joss Whedon.
So many questions, so little time.
If you have any answers to any of these questions, please respond ASAP. I can’t sleep until I figure it out.
Until then, I’ll be hanging out with my fellow superheros in the Nick Fury Airport:
(image courtesy of my favorite “Icons” blog)
In case you didn’t know, it was Picnic Day in Davis over the weekend. What’s Picnic Day, you ask? Well if you had accepted my friendship request on Facebook, then you would’ve already known from my status that “Picnic Day is like your 21st birthday, the 4th of July, and graduation day all rolled up into one.” (Yes, I just quoted myself. An obvious sign that I’ve become a success.)
We Davis students (er, alums? I don’t know what I am to Davis anymore. How about “Those of us who have gotten lost in the concrete jungle* that is the Death Star?”) don’t have much to celebrate in our horridly rural UC campus– I am serious, our mascot is an “Aggie”… and we’re not talking about the cool Texan kind– so once a year, we pretend that the entire school is an open campus event that’s been commandeered by an out-of-control frat party. I don’ t know why I said “pretend,” because that’s actually exactly what it is.
Anyways, I’m sure you’re dying to hear all about my awesome adventures, but my body hasn’t quite recovered enough for me to mentally relive the tale, so instead, I am going to make you privy to a very intellectual conversation I had with my brother and roommate the day before Picnic Day.
We were eating my body weight in fried goodness…
(Photo taken AFTER a giant portion had already been partitioned off for Judy)
…and watching something awesome like Always Sunny when suddenly, hidden amongst the normal commercials, sprouted a random, SPANISH-SPEAKING Toyota Prius commercial.
Now, to be honest, because I’m so fluent in Spanish (I’ve been taking Ricky Martin’s GLEEfully SPANISH classes), I didn’t even notice the language switch, but when my brother and Thom pointed it out, it definitely got us thinking: why was this network broadcast commercial in Spanish? Without realizing what channel we were on (FX), I suggested “maybe it’s a local demographic thing?” (My suggestions are always so eloquent and jargon-y.)
This was quickly dismissed because, after all, this was a network channel, and there isn’t even that big of a Hispanic population here in Vallejo… is there? I quickly and very racistly said “there should be a Prius commercial in ‘GANGSTA’!” because let’s be honest here… I don’t know what the ethnic distribution is here in this fair city, but I sure as hell know that every single citizen is 100% gangsta.
And that includes you, Lindsay Newsom. Aka, the whitest girl I know.
So here are the reasons why my brother, my housemate, and I think Toyota should start targeting gangsters as a target Prius demographic:
Ironically, these are the exact same reasons why the police department should also start buying up Prius-es to be utilized as stakeout vans.
Toyota, these ideas are iron-tight copyrighted, so if you do decide to market them to gangsters, pimps, and law enforcement, please know that I am available for marketing hire.
I officially start a new job tomorrow. Thus I am going to try to head to bed early (before 3am) tonight.
Hasta manana, beaches.
*I know you think “concrete jungle” is a reference to NYC due to Alicia Keys and Jay-Z. It’s a very common mistake. Concrete Jungle is, indeed, the Death Star building at UC Davis. NYC is actually a “concrete bunghole where dreams are made up.” So…. yeah.
OH! PS! BEFORE I FORGET.
I am very upset with Costco right now. They, like clever drug dealers, give us the good stuff (Cuties) and then intermittently lose their supply and try to substitute it with significantly lower quality clementine oranges that have similar looking bags and try to trick us into thinking that these impostors are just as sweet and easy to peel. Do not– I repeat, DO NOT— buy “Citrines.” EVEN IF A CUTE BLOND GIRL TELLS YOU TO BUY THEM BECAUSE “THE SKATEBOARDING ORANGE IS SO CUTE AND I WOULD TOTALLY HANGOUT WITH THAT ORANGE IF I WAS AN ORANGE.” IT’S A SCAM. True, it is pretty cute that they name the skateboarding orange “Dandy Dude,” and these bags don’t have creepy photos of creepy-looking children on them like the Sunkist imitation clementines, but they are still a disgrace to the “CUTIES” bin.
Here’s a picture. Make sure to avoid these.
… what happens when we get OUT of the jacuzzi!
Okay, so we all know that the Megaball is far and well beyond half a billion dollars tonight and my prediction is that it’ll hit close to $700 million.
My Facebook newsfeed is plastered with everyone’s tickets, and everyone praying to some sort of higher power. For the most part, people have come to a consensus that they’ll all help pay off their family and friends’ debts.
Obviously you’re going to have to do that. You’d have more money than if someone was to offer you a dollar every time Pikachu said its own name (which, btw, was cute and adorable for the first 2 episodes and then you just wanted to smack him across the face and yell “LEARN A NEW WORD!!”). You would take over as the world’s biggest douchebag if you didn’t, forcing Stephanie Meyers to give up her crown. Or maybe Bret Favre. I don’t know who I hate more. But you get the point.
I know I have a lot of opinions, but for the next 3 hours or so, this is the principle I’m going to stand by: the winner of a lottery should be determined by what they say they’ll do with the money. A large portion of the winnings, of course, should be donated to charity (does the California financial deficit count as a charity?), but you should also do hilariously innovative things that benefits all of mankind.
Here are my ideas. Please lottery gods, help me make my dreams come true.
I don’t know who wouldn’t benefit from these contributions to society, so if you’re the winner reading this blog, please give me your monies so I can make these dreams come true. Think of the impact you’ll be making on the world! How could we possibly have nuclear wars if everyone is all jolly riding down a slide into a pit of spaghetti noodles?!
Just make the check out to Dongha Alexha Lu Luong. :)
However, should you choose to take a more practical approach, I found this earlier.
Just something to keep in mind. Good luck everyone :)
I want these posters for my house… SO. BAD.
Tuesday funny: All The Things You Must Have Said To Your Children, In Poster Form. We ran across these absolutely hilarious masterpieces on DesignTaxi and felt obligated to share such comical pieces.
Iowa-based artist Nathan Ripperger has come up with a series of humorous yet adorable posters expressing the things he has said to his children. At the time, they may have been some serious situations, but looking back now, things that you might have said to your children seem pretty comical now.
If your words are still not going down well with your kids, perhaps these posters would be more effective? Then again, maybe not.
Judy and I have been flirting with the idea of flirting with some TV execs to create a show about us. Realistically, no one would pay may money to watch a show about two random Asian girls a) not mud wrestling in their apartment b) talking about how awesome hummus is or c) re-enacting scenes from Bridesmaids (we’re not as cute as Kristin Wiig or Maya Rudolph). So one night, as we were watching the food network– or King of Sandwiches, to be more exact– I intoxicatingly suggested that we should have a show about hot dogs. These are the potential names of the show that we came up with:
Please help us in adovcating this idea to culinary television networks by picketing their corporate offices.
So sorry, but it has come to my attention that I “forgot” the “BEST” idea we came up with: TEENY WEENIES. Aka a show about Judy eating a bunch of tiny hot dogs and sausages. If anyone has access to a shrink ray, it would be incredibly macho and manly if they lent it to us.