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.”

Do you guys like cheese?

It’s crazy how nice guys are to you after you call them handsome on your blog. It doesn’t even have to be a popular blog. Of the 6 billion people on this planet, there are a total of 5 people who read my ramblings ( I’m counting you twice, Judy). As long as you somehow get these handsome gentlemen to stumble upon your words, you’re set. If you’re unfamiliar with how to persuade men, I have the following tips/suggestions:

  1. Mail them anonymous love letters. Sure, it’s pretty creepy, but most people (myself included) are too egotistical to ignore the attention.
  2. Hire a hypnotist. Yes, I’ve been watching the Mentalist.
  3. Utilize Skinner’s behavioral reinforcements. I hope you’ve seen the opening segment of the Office in which Jim trains Dwight to salivate every time his computer chimes. If you haven’t, feel free to click out of this page. We’re probably not going to be anything more than awkward subway acquaintances in real life– you know, the people you commute with daily that have become recognizable but you’re still hesitant to talk to out of fear that they’ll have bad breath and you’ll be stuck with that Pandora’s box for the next 20 stops (or worse, when you introduce yourself, they’ll smile and say “I already know who you are” and then proceed to open the heart shaped locket hanging from their neck to reveal a picture of you from 30 feet away).
  4. Roofies– they’re not just for bringing girls home from the club anymore … Obviously, I’m kidding … But Ambien, or a strong dose of Benadryl, will do the trick.

How did I bamboozle this modern Prince Charming into reading my blog, you ask? Simple. I nudged the girl sitting next to me in class who gchatted her friend who texted her cousin who Skyped her boyfriend who went to go play basketball with his roommate who had dinner with his mom who went out for drinks with her colleague who called his brother-in-law in Argentina who farmed grapes with his high school sweetheart who sent a postcard to her American best friend who dogsat for her neighbor who sold Girl Scout cookies to Mr Handsome himself. Like I said… simple. You just have to be committed.

Anyways, once he figured out that I’m “that girl” that everyone at Touro keeps lining up to be friends with, he immediately added himself to the waitlist set up for people who want to embark on El Tour de Napa a la Alexha.

Eventually, the top of the list reads “Tezus.”

The morning of our trip arrives and he knocks on our door with this fiesty firecracker that referred to herself as Lindsay. My roommate Judy rushes downstairs with a magnificent platter of assorted cheeses and swings open the door.


They scuttle upstairs for a quick and cheesy dance battle as we await our donuts delivery from The Donut Princess, aka Christina Ly. No one leaves our house without gaining 5 lbs first.

One extensive car-aoke (karaoke in the car, DUH.) session and two disposable-camera-photos later, we make it to Peju Province Winery. I flash my VIP badge (aka sweet-ass smile) and we’re set up for a tasting with the most hilarious man on this side of the North Pole. Richard was his name. He cleverly inebriates the group and then starts insulting women in the most adorable and flattering way possible.

You ladies don’t even know what you do to men. You’re like wild, heat-seeking missiles, and we’re just the poor targets. You pretend to be zebras like us, but really you’re a pack of lionesses, ready to pounce at any given moment.

Why, thank you sir. That’s pretty much what I’ve always wanted to hear. Seriously. Nala was a badass.

The room ebbs with laughter from the lionesses and as the zebras are lulled into a false sense of security.

Richard continues to charm us with his Rodney Dangerfield-esque ways…

…and soon, we’re roaring from Pride Rock.


Outside, a flock of old flamingos are quacking about, posing this and that way around the watering hole. (Is it just me or have there been a lot of Lion King analogies lately? Sorry, this was entirely unintentional. I’ll switch soon, I promise.) We brush by them like we’re the shit, because let’s be honest, they’re a bunch of floppy awkward pink birds (you know who I feel about birds) and we’re pretty much Lindsay Lohan in her prime.

(Please excuse the horrendous quality. I couldn’t find a good clip of them just walking down the hallway. BUT YOU GET THE POINT.)

So we slow-mo walk to our car and zip on over the glorious palace that is Beaulieu Vineyards. It is there that dementors appear. With a swish and a flick, I wingardium leviosa off Lindsay’s bra, and with this newfound comfort, she finds the inner happiness necessary to conjure her llama of a patronus. Too bad the llama is too busy eating Judy’s hair to actually protect us. Before anyone has noticed, Christina disappears, but soon this girl dressed in a Sailor Moon outfit appears… except she smells like donuts? And WTF, she’s sitting down eating a donut?! DONUTS ARE NOT TO DEMENTORS AS GARLIC IS TO VAMPIRES, FYI. Inches from the dementor’s kiss, Tezus let’s out a


And we all follow suit.

A Megazord fight sequence later and Beaulieu Vineyards is rescued. The winery workers spill out of the nooks and crannies like bears coming out of hibernation in the spring time and graciously thank us over and over. Before we know it, we’ve received the the highest honor any Power Ranger could receive: THE GOLIATH BOTTLE OF GEORGES DE LATOUR PRIVATE RESERVE.

The Justice League doesn’t even have it in their trophy case. You jelly, Superman?

Let me take a break from this adventure while you take a breath. I know this is titillating and all, but don’t get a heart attack or anything.

The Romulins defeat the Empire.

There, I’ve said it. Now you can relax.

Anyways, I’m glad I’ve ruined the ending for you because, to be honest, the story gets a little hazy from here on out. There was a lot of wine to be had, okay?

All I know is, the day started out looking like this:

Classy, right? I know. That’s just the kind of girl I am.

(sidenote: I do not apologize one bit for the shameless BV plugs. BV was the very first place I ever went winetasting– when I was exactly 21 years and 4 days old– and the very first place to employ me after I graduated college. I owe them everything. Well, not everything. I owe them a whole lot of wine.)

The day progressed, as days naturally do, and eventually, it turned into this:

Obviously, I’ve been working out. If you can’t tell, then visit this website here.

Soon after this photo was taken, we were kindly asked to evacuate Napa county on account of being an embarrassment to the human race. We swiftly braided Lindsay’s mane of hair so that it wouldn’t get tangled with the saddle and watched her gallop away into the sunset.

The moral of this story is that you shouldn’t feed the animals.

And that there is no shame in drawing all over your only white top with permanent gold marker.

And that you should never leave your house without your wand (example, mine is 10¾” vine wood, with a dragon heartstring core).

But most importantly, greet your guests with cheese.

Happy hunting, fellow lionesses <3



*it is also important to remember to avoid that person on the subway who’s always staring at you and making out with their locket necklace.

How Merlot Can You Go? … pt 3

Gimme a few seconds with Dia Frampton’s DON’T KICK THE CHAIR to pump myself up for this last post. I’ve been shamelessly obsessed with this song for months, and it still hasn’t let up. In case you haven’t heard it, it’s this song here:

I wish I could buy floating speakers that follow me around playing this song. I’d walk down the street or through narrow hallways in the library with my posse behind me and out of nowhere, papers will go flying everywhere and we’d break into song/dance. The rap will start to play and we’re suddenly out splashing through puddles in the rain… Oh, how glorious my life would be. I’d also be perfectly happy if my life turned out like this:

But anyways, what we were talking about? Oh yes, Napa. First things first: they LOVE it when you drop it like it’s hot in Napa. But here are a few things they DON’T LOVE:

  1. Drunkards. There is a thin line between buzzed and drunk, and the people in Napa are very good at distinguishing one from another. If you’re drunk, ask for water. Get some carbs in you. And never, EVER drive. Napa Valley cops are pretty much the offspring of the Justice League and the Avengers, with a little bit of X-Men mixed in when it comes to cracking down on DUI’s. KNOW YOUR LIMIT!
  2. People dancing on their tables. I’ve also been lucky enough to witness this. Unfortunately, it was not the same lady who whipped out her Ta-Tas for the winery, but I wouldn’t be surprised if  it’s already on her rap sheet.
  3. W(h)iners. HAHA, I’m punny. Anyways, yes, it gets busy and crowded sometimes, and you may need to wait a few minutes to get the attention of your server. Relax! Go outside and soak in the scenery. Have a conversation with that cute and friendly girl standing next to you… I think her name is Alexha? This is not a sweaty nightclub where you need to barge into the bar, slam 4 shots, and then go grind on random girls in the corner. First of all, I’m pretty sure that lady is someone’s grandma. Secondly…. well, I just can’t get that image of you and Betty White out of my head now. I’m always astounded by how impatient people can be when winetasting. What’s the rush? It’s not like there’s a limited supply of the stuff.
  4. Overly couply couples. You know who I’m talking about. Those hormonal middle schoolers trapped inside grown ass adults’ bodies. It’s called wine country, not wine-in-the-privacy-of-your-own-room, so put your clothes back on and quit making all those awkward makeout noises. You’re going to make me throw up. This is what plays in my head whenever I see excessive PDA:
    Also, there are PLENTY of chairs in Napa. You do NOT need to be sitting on each other’s laps. Now, in the case that you think I’m just a bitter old spinster, rest assured that I am not. I don’t own any cats, so I’m pretty sure I’m in the clear. It just makes me super uneasy when people are overly affectionate. Call me old fashioned, but I think the only reason someone’s mouth should be touching someone else’s mouth that often in public is if one of those someone’s was drowning, and the other is CPR certified. I’m going to assume I’m not the only one on this naive wagon.

Alrighty! Onto things that ARE encouraged in wine country!

  1. Dumping your wine. No one expects you to finish every single pour you get. If you don’t like it, or if you’re trying to pace yourself, dump it into the bucket they have in front of you! Don’t worry about it going to waste. At night, a fairy goes around and collects all the wine that’s been collected in the buckets and feeds her unicorn with it, so you’re actually doing them a favor.
  2. Asking lots of questions. Wine tasting is about the experience. The more questions you ask, the better the conversation is going to be between you and whoever is presenting the wine to you. I’ll be honest, wine country is like a cult, and we try to suck in as many people as possible. This is done in two ways: we either intrigue you with all of our fascinating wine talk, facilitated by the questions that you ask, or we send our enological vampires after you. If you’re like me, you’d probably prefer the former, because my neck is too perfect looking to have any holes in it. If you want to know anything, ask. The more you understand, the better the experience.
  3. Taking lots of pictures. You’re (most likely) spending time with people you like, (hopefully) having a fantastic time, and smack dab in the one of the most beautiful places in the world. Why not whip out your DSLR and snap a million photos? Besides, you look HAWT, and you haven’t posted pictures onto your Facebook for over a week! CARPE DIEM!
  4. Clinking glasses. There are few sounds that resonate cheerfulness better than a bunch of glasses clinking together. There’s so much to celebrate, every single day. I try to make a point of making toasts and clinking as often as possible, even if it’s something stupid like “to healthier bowel movements!” Or, at the very least, a CHEERS! will do. Here’s how to say it in a bunch of different languages, in case you get bored of our stale American way: CLICK ME.

AWESOME. WordPress has a “word count” feature so conveniently located right in front of my left eyeball. Seeing as how I’m about to hit 1000 words, I should probably wrap it up, out of fear that I’ve rambled far too much these past 3 posts and I’ve lost your patronage forever. Also, I stopped mid-way through an episode of Pretty Little Liars and I’m dying to find out what’s about to happen. Say what you will about the show, it is way too intriguing. I will be the first to admit that I am sometimes afraid of watching it by myself with the lights off. And before you scoff at me, I’ll have you know that I am a huge fan of horror movies. There’s just something about this show!

Whoops, there goes the rambling again.

It’s almost the weekend, so go pick out a sundress– I’ll see you in Napa!

How Merlot Can You Go? … pt 2

Ok, unbunch your panties. I’m back.

So you want to go winetasting, eh? No? But I’m coercing you to? Cool. I don’t care what it takes, as long as I get you there.

Watch your step as you hop onto the FUN TRAIN, we’re about to journey through my guidelines for visiting wine country! *toot toot* ALLLLL ABOARD!

The first thing people always ask me is “what do I wear?” This makes me very happy because for the first time in my life, I’m revered as a fashion guru. This is probably no one’s intention because, understandably, no one would ever put “Alexha” and “fashion” together in a sentence (unless if it’s something along the lines as “Alexha, that is such a fashionably chocolate ice cream cone you’re eating!” Wait– can chocolate be fashionable? SEE? I AM A LOST CAUSE). But again, I don’t care. Just give me one, okay? I’ve come a long way from wearing my older brother’s hand-me-downs, though this sweater of his is pretty BAMF.

Anyways, I no longer dress like a total dork, so you can trust me now. Napa Valley, like all valleys in California, is subject to the infinite awesomeness that is Californian weather. We really only have 2 seasons: chilly and sunny. It’s easy to dress when it’s chilly because all you have to do is watch people scurrying around Union Square. Those San Franciscans deal with chilly weather year round! Through some very thorough research, I’ve deducted two algorithms. The first is for a female: just put together some sort of combination of boots, skinny jeans, sweater, jacket. BOOM. You look the part. The second algorithm is for the fellas, and it goes like this: just pretend it’s casual Friday at work. (Wait, how casual is casual Friday? Business casual, right?) Here is a photo of the Beastie doin’ it right. (Thanks for letting me use it… even though I didn’t ask. SURPRISE!)

Winter is a breeze (pun intended). The sunnier months, however, is when people start veering from decency. For some reason, girls start to forget about the “classy” and “reserved” aspects and start focusing on the “slutty” and “drunk” aspects. I am by no means ultra conservative, but I most definitely do not want to be seeing an eyeful of cleavage while I’m chugging down my Syrah! Firstly, coming from a small Asian girl, I do not need to see you flaunting what my ancient culture has not blessed me with. Secondly, they are distracting, and I don’t want to look like a perv just because I don’t know where else to look when I’m talking to you– you’re setting me up for failure! In the morning when you’re getting dressed, if you’re having doubts that your boobs are totally and completely secure in that top, please change. No joke, I have seen a boob pop out at a winery. And it was not pleasant for any of us… except maybe the winery dog, who suddenly wasn’t at the center of attention for being adorably overweight and frighteningly asthmatic.

Fellas, I don’t have many rules for you. I know it’s summer, but please don’t confuse winetasting with houseboating. If you can wear it onto a golf course that costs more than $10 to play a round, you’re probably safe. Above all else, if you’re going to wear sandals, please commit to it 100%, and for the love of God, do NOT wear socks underneath.

So here, study these two photos of people (okay, I admit it, they’re pictures of ME) doing it right, and one that’s all wrong. I won’t label them so you can figure out which picture falls into which category… think of it as a pop quiz!

Wow, this was a lot longer than I expected (that’s what she said), so I think I will take a break and go at it again in a few hours. (TWSS. I CAN’T HELP IT, GUYS. THEY WRITE THEMSELVES.) Go stretch your legs and your mind. The next portion is going to be a marathon of knowledge.

How Merlot Can You Go? … pt 1

Alrighty ladies and gents. Now that we’ve gotten the nitty gritty formalities out of the way, it’s time for date number 2. (I swear I won’t try to date you this entire blog, but this is a good tie-in!) In my mind, the perfect setting for a second date is winetasting in the (world famous) Napa Valley. Okay, winetasting in general. But Napa has the best wine. How do I know this? I work in Napa. SO AWESOME, right? RIGHT?! Yes. And no. The best thing about working in Napa is that I get to go winetasting for free whenever I want. The worst part about working in Napa is finding people my age to go winetasting with. [Full disclosure, I’m 23.75 years old.] There aren’t a whole lot of recent college graduates who have a palate for wine, much less mild excitement about wine.

For this, I blame cheap beer brands and their clever drinking games. Seriously, beer pong?! A quiet evening with your closest friends blind-tasting wine and nibbling on cheeses you can’t pronounce doesn’t stand a chance against the possibility of taking home the highly coveted PONG-CHAMP belt. I also blame the fact that more companies haven’t popularized plastic wine glasses. C’mon, no one wants to bring breakable glasses to a barrel-er (the wine equivalent of a kegger) if they can rinse out the red Solo cups they used last weekend. But mostly I blame the misconception that Napa winetasting is super snobby and “sophisticated.” It’s really not. If I can do it, the Beast (prior to his Cogsworth and Lumiere makeover) can do it… which means YOU can do it. Not that you’re the Beast.

But seriously gentlemen, here are my top 5 reasons as to why a trip to Napa Valley makes the perfect second date:

  1. She’s going to think you are super classy, and super into sophisticated things like art, literature, and blah blah blah, all those other things girls like. ALL BECAUSE YOU’VE PRETENDED TO LIKE WINE. This way, you’ll never have to take her to a museum, poetry reading, etc.
  2. It’s pretty much the only way to get a nice day-buzz going without being judged.
  3. Everyone else around you is going to be, on average, 65 years old. AIN’T NO OTHA PLAYA GON’ BE STEALIN’ YO’ GIRL.
  4. The people who pour you wine are incredibly friendly and talkative, meaning there’s way less pressure on you to keep the conversation going. Just chime in every once in awhile. Seriously, those pourers are PAID TO TALK TO THE TWO OF YOU. Just let them do the work.
  5. Kind of cheesy, but Napa is INCREDIBLY GORGEOUS. Even if she turns out to be kind of a dud, there’s plenty of other beautiful things to look at.

Check out these photos I google-imaged while I take a sip of my wine.

What girl in her right mind is going to suddenly make up plans to get out of spending a day with you getting drunk amongst that scenery? NO GIRL. If she bails on you after you mention Napa because she suddenly remembered she has to go to a seminar on menopause or needs to take her brother’s girlfriend’s aunt to the airport or has a UTI, SHE IS LYING. First of all, menopause, like global warming, is a myth. The female body only gets more awesome as time goes on. And secondly, if she mentions anything about a UTI, just drop her like a bar of soap in the shower. You do NOT want to be dating a girl who believes in aliens.*

Aaaaand yeah. That last one’s a real, momo-effin castle. Took 30 years and $14million to build; all the materials were shipped from Europe and they only used 18th and 19th century technology to build it, NBD. Did I mention there’s a torture chamber?

Okay, I can tell you’re getting excited, so like the writers of HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER, I’m going to leave you, unsympathetically, at a cliff hanger until tomorrow for my guidelines on how to impress said date in Napa. Until then, practice swirling those glasses of wine! Nothing more painful than a wrist injury from overswirling wine.

*okay, this is only the second time we’ve ever contacted, so I feel like I need to clarify that I don’t actually get UTI and UFO mixed up. I’m listening to HIMYM in the background and it just seems like something Barney would say. So yes, I am channeling NPH’s fictional character and yes, I am equally as awesome.