If my sister was a dinosaur…

Did anyone outside the Northern California central valley experience a heatwave this past Father’s Day weekend? I swear, it was the only topic of discussion on my FB newsfeed (which was a welcome change from all of the Lebron James malarkey).

Naturally, due to the profuse sweating going on in my apartment, Judy and I decided to slaughter what little self-esteem we have and peruse the Victoria’s Secret website for swimsuits. The experience reminded me a lot of going to a haunted insane asylum: at first it’s all fun and games as you’re running around with your friends, laughing and playing flashlight tag, when suddenly a door closes by itself and an impending doom rushes down everyone’s spines as you realize you’re locked in here forever. And by that I mean, at first it was super exciting to look at swimsuits that we’d “look awesome in after a summer full of eating right and working out,” only to realize that 1) unless we somehow figured out a way to survive off of low-calorie tap water, we’d never look like this, 2) we had just thrown back half a tube of thin mints* while swearing to each other that we were never eating again, and 3) all of our favorite colors and cuts were only available 2 sizes too small or 2 sizes too big…


This morning I was arguing with the boy about which gender has it worse when it comes to societal pressures to be physically perfect. Obviously, I think women have it way worse because there are 10 ScarJos, Padmas, Cindys, Heidis, and fucking “Gisele Bundchen”‘s for every 1 Ryan Gosling to be dealt with.

First of all, if you’re a boy, you’re either buff, not buff, or somewhere in-between, and that’s about all there is to it. When you’re given a female body, you are frantically running around like the SOLO maintenance guy at Disneyworld trying to ensure that everything is working and in tip-top shape (which, as you can imagine, is quite impossible). You might have nice legs but overly broad shoulders; a nice butt but no boobs; nice abs but a weird fuzzy mustache you can’t get rid of. Don’t even get me started on backne and love handles! The potential “problems” are agonizingly endless!

After about 24 years, you start to really grow comfortable– more like you give up wishing you looked different– with your body and are just content that you don’t look like an alien. That’s pretty much where I’m at now, and this self-appreciation slash self-reverence is where my unparalleled self-esteem comes from. Just when my ego has gotten the best of me, however, my little sister likes to remind me that my itty-bitties are ant holes compared to her Mount Everests.

If my sister was a dinosaur, she’d be a Voluptusaurus Rex.

I will not grace this blog with a comparative photo between in my sister because this is my ego’s sanctuary, but I will say this: poo on you, little sister. 

Secondly, there’s a reason why there are more make-up brands for women than entries in Charlie Sheen’s little black book, yet the only advertisement I can find for “makeup for men” is this:

Henceforth, society is much more okay with men looking “natural,” but expect women to change their face… daily. Think of all the time you spend putting makeup on. Is it really necessary?! What does mascara even do, anyway? And that creepy eyelash-curling torture device? How closely are people looking at your eyelashes?!

Third, I’ve always found it strange that men “read” “magazines” such as Maxim that feature super hot women on them… and women read magazines such as Cosmo that ALSO feature super hot women on them. WHY DON’T CHANNING OR ANY OF THE HEMSWORTH BROTHERS DROP TROU FOR OUR MAGAZINES?!

Ladies, we’ve been fighting for over 92 years for equal rights. This may be the final frontier. Get some hot men on our magazine covers, please.

Or, instead, impose some sort of regulation for how “skinny” (I’d prefer to call them skeletonly) women in the media can be. If I had to be “this tall” to ride Space Mountain, you sure as hell should be “this heavy” to be featured in this fashion spread, don’t you think? Is it crazy for me to think that a model should weigh more than the camera+lens they’re being photographed with? Or at least a suckling pig. I mean c’mon. As I stated many months ago, I can BENCH AND CARRY A SUCKLING PIG. How long do you honestly think you’ll last in the Hunger Games if all you eat are ice cubes?! That alone should motivate you to scarf down a burger or two.

And since I’m already complaining: why is it that you need at least 120IQ points to understand the female clothes-sizing system?! Why do we make life so much more difficult for ourselves? Don’t even get me started on accessorizing. That’s a whole ‘nother monster to sigh at.

Anyway, in the case that you still think men “have it worse” than girls, let me know, and I’ll give you a play-by-play explanation of childbirth. With accompanying videos. And if that’s not enough, you can sign up for my podcast about my monthly period. Get ready for lots of details– I own several thesauruses.

Boy or girl, you have to agree that our idea of “the perfect” body has gotten pretty out of hand. If the simple act of online shopping can throw such a giant wrench in the gears of my self confidence, I can only imagine what it’s like for those who don’t think nearly as highly of themselves.

But enough about that! All this talk about “never eating again” makes me hungry, and I realize it’s been awhile since I’ve posted any sort of culinary magic for you to try, so here’s a super simple pork chop recipe that’s easy enough to make while you’re skimming through your Reader’s Digest, Wired Magazine, or National Geographic.

Alexha’s “Pork chops for Fat Dinosaurs trying to lose weight” pork chops:

(I combined and tweaked two recipes to make this one: 1 & 2)


  • 4 boneless pork chops, fat trimmed
  • 3 Tbsp whole grain Dijon mustard
  • 2 Tbsp very finely minced garlic
  • 2 Tbsp grated parmasean
  • 1/2 cup whole wheat Panko breadcrumbs
  • 1/2 Tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped
  • 1 Tbsp fresh parsley, minced
  • 1/4 tsp. garlic salt
  • 1/4 tsp. ground black pepper
  • 1 Tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

Throw on that sexy apron and let’s get to work!

  1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. In a bowl, combine the garlic, parmasean, breadcrumbs, rosemary, parsley, salt, and pepper. This will be your “dredge.”
  2. Gently rub mustard on pork chops until both sides are evenly covered.
  3. Dip pork chops into the dredge bowl and generously coat both sides.
  4. On a skillet or nonstick pan, heat some olive oil on medium high heat. Once ready, add the pork chops and saute both sides until the panko coating is a nice golden brown color.
  5. Place pork chops on a foil covered baking sheet in the oven (or, if you’re fancy, put your cast iron skillet in the oven) and bake for about 5-8 minutes, or until the internal temperature has reached 145 degrees F.
  6. Enjoy! Apparently half of this recipe is from a “healthy eating-weight loss” recipe blog, so it’s half healthy!
Step 1:

Step 2:

Step 3:

Step 4:

Step 5:

Step 6:

Happy hunting, fellow VS-shoppers :)

*yes, I still have Thin Mints laying around the house. I’ll be featured in the next episode of Hoarders as the girl who hoards Girl Scout cookies. Stay tuned…


50 Shades of Leprechauns

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

  1. a colorblind painter
  2. depression
  3. a depressed, colorblind painter

so I looked it up on Amazon to see if it was worth buying and immediately got smacked on the side of the face by reviews either loving or hating the latest soft porno pandemic spreading across America’s libraries.

This morning when I got into work, my coworker popped up on our office communicator and announced

50 shades of grey – it has begun.
Pretty much, Bella goes to college (without a computer or email as an english major ), gives up on vampires and inexplicably bites her lip ALL THE TIME.  She is still hella clumsy and for no good reason, a biollionare, a photogrpaher, and a lawyer all throw themselves at her.

Oh, and she changes her name to Anastasia Steele and gets a new best friend called Katherin Kavenaugh– and thus is my summary of the book thus far.

I’m like half way through and it is so improbable, I feel like glittery vampires are more likely than this story line.
I basically gave up after finding out she didn’t have a computer… as a graduating english major. In 2011.

Frustrated by what qualifies as “literature” these days, I decide to fireman-pole down from the high road and quickly suggest to my coworker that we cash in on this money train, and write our own stupid book about a stupid, bland girl zombie-of-a-human that has no opinions or thoughts of her own and have tons of improbably spectacular men throw themselves at her. (In my version, they will literally be throwing themselves at her… PHYSICALLY IMPALING HER WITH THEIR OWN BODIES.)

Unsure of where to start, I ask my coworker about the main character– seriously, how do I build a character that will fall so madly in love with this not-super-gorgeous, socially awkward twit? She tells me:

You’ll also need to come up with some ridiculous story for the main love interest: Christian Grey is all crazy because he was born to a crack whore, grew up hungry (so he has this strange obsession with making her eat), and then was adopted.  Oh and he also had some crazy Mrs. Robinson experience at 15.
We’ll need somethign like that to explain why he is all weird and aloof.
… but you can’t reveal it til like the last 100 pages

Alright, so here’s our idea so far!

There’s this amazingly handsome and suave man who has the maturity of George Clooney and boyish charm of Joseph Gordon Levitt; the sophistication of Prince William, sensitivity of Marshall Eriksen, and since we’re already hopelessly lost in fantasy-land, the body of David Beckham. Oh, and he’s brilliant! So brilliant, in fact, that he’s figured out an algorithm to find the end of rainbows, and thus, his fortune has been built upon the giant pots of gold he finds. One day, while ducking from the rain into a neighborhood Starbucks, he absent-mindedly walks into a girl who doesn’t look where she’s going because she’s too busy tending to her Tamagachi, and spills coffee all over her galoshes. She yells “OW!” but then realizes how dumb she is because the galoshes have protected her feet from any sort of minor burns the coffee would have caused. Still, he apologizes profusely, because he’s such a gentleman, after all, but she ignores him as she turns back to her Tamagachi. Because he’s a genius, he whips out his Android phone and quickly develops an app that allows him to hack onto her Tamagachi and makes the pet say “I’m sorry for spilling coffee on you. Can I please take you out to dinner?” She looks up from her table and nods yes at him, because even though she’s pretty dim, even she can realize how cool that move was.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think their first date was really a blind date, full of awkward silences and even more awkward conversation about how she likes to visit koi ponds because she likes to stick her hand in the water and have the fish suck on her fingers, or how she ate her twin in utero. This guy is a little freaked out, but hangs in there, because, as you find out on page 894, he has weird abandonment issues from being left in a stroller at the It’s a Small World stroller dropoff station in Disneyworld when he was 4. They continue to date, and though this girl has never been touched by a man before, every time she awkwardly bites her lip, they pounce on each other like wild animals and hypothetically make babies in the most unimaginably satisfying ways.

However, trouble is lurking in the shadows as we find out in book 2 that his fortune has come at a price: the leprechauns are angry at how he keeps stealing their pots of gold, and plot to seek revenge. A particularly sexy leprechaun is sent to tail Prince Charming but, of course, falls in love with the awkward girl himself. The empire of leprechauns grow furious with both the sexy leprechaun and Prince Charming, while they both continue to simultaneously battle over and cooperatively protect Awkward Girl from impending leprechaun-doom.

Would you buy this book?
Do you think George Lucas would be upset with me if I named the 3rd book “The Leprechaun Empire Strikes Back?”

Some things are better left unsaid.

Last week, our fridge was found barren and my housemates and I (okay, Judy and I. Thom hasn’t resurfaced from Diablo III quite yet) were frantic to find something to eat for dinner. Because I’m pretty much as good as it gets in terms of housewife-qualities, I decided on meatloaf because I knew wifey #2 had been craving it for months (insert crude joke about Judy not getting any meatloaf since Diablo III came out).

We raced to the grocery store, desperately clinging on to our integrity while grazing our way through Costco, and came home, high from the excitement of prospective meatloaf. The rush of adrenaline, combined with her cute, adorable, nubby fingers, caused Judy to drop an onion while getting out of the car and it rolled underneath, smack dab in the middle of the chassis. Deflated, we crouched down and stared at the onion longingly. Because I’m a lady, I asked Judy to “put a blanket on the Grand Canyon*” as I got on all fours and pleaded to my elbows to grow an extra 2 feet. They sent back a “Child, please. Have you heard of stretch marks? Have you seen your thighs? Why do you hate us?” memo.

I cried.

I didn’t mean to do that to you, body. The fried chicken just has a siren call I can’t resist. Please forgive me.

Judy stared at me as I had this internal emotional break down. She asked if I was thinking about that scene where Dumbledore asks Snape “All this time?” to which he responds “Always.” I lied and said yes. As far as she knows, that’s the only thing that makes me cry on a regular basis. It’s not like I cry when I hear “Hey there Delilah” or anything. Anyways, Judy gave me a knowing nod and lightly tapped her heart with her fist, signaling that though she understands my pain, I need to get over my PMS moment and quit freaking out the nearby children whizzing around on their knockoff Razor scooters. We’ve seen Hunger Games. If those kids sense any sort of weakness, they’ll pounce on us faster than an Asian tourist whipping out their camera for a “foodie Instagram” photo.

All hope seemed lost. I couldn’t reach the onion. Trying to disguise my search for some Kleenex, I mutter something along the lines of “let me check to see if I started growing onions in the back of my car and forgot about it” and pop open the trunk. The clouds instantly parted and the sun shone down on my old lacrosse stick like a spotlight. (I dabbled in a bit of lacrosse when I was in college, no big deal.) It was as if the heavens were speaking to us, saying “Don’t give up. Your meatloaf needs onions.” I’m pretty convinced that all I had to do was stick out my hand and the lacrosse stick shot towards me like Mjölnir.

By the hammer of Thor, Judy and I had a delicious, onion-filled meatloaf.

And the rest is history.

You’d think after that lifechanging story, I’d reveal my level-8-secret meatloaf recipe.

Well, sorry to disappoint, but laughs and intensely sexy mental images of me playing lacrosse are all you’re going to get out of today’s post. Call me old fashioned, but I think something as ambiguously named as “meatloaf” needs to retain as much mystery as possible. Would you ask the lunch lady how she made Thursday’s mystery-meat-meatloaf? No. Of course you wouldn’t. Because you respect the fact that she went through the trouble of naming it mystery-meatloaf.

I may not be a lunch lady, but I do eat lunch, and I am (relatively) a lady. So I ask you to respect the meatloaf code. In turn, I will promise to thank you, my readers, one day when I’m giving my Oscars speech (which I will accept on behalf of my soon-to-be best friend Natalie Portman, who begged me to go to the “silly aw(k)ards ceremony in her place because she’d rather be in Africa simultaneously ending poverty and curing AIDS.”).

So the moral of the story is: keep a lacrosse stick in your trunk. You’ll save your wife from an onion-less meal, and it increases your chances of hooking up with a lacrosse boy by 378%.

Have you seen lacrosse boys?

I’ll leave you on that note.

*in case you’re typically the “last person to laugh at a joke,” “put a blanket on the grand canyon” refers to el crack de la ass.

musically confused.

Is it just me, or does someone ALWAYS yell “they just don’t make music like this anymore!” when either:

  • a Beatles song
  • Don’t Stop Believing
  • a MoTown song
  • an ABBA song
  • a BSB/NSYNC/98 Degrees/ 90’s love ballad
  • More Than Words
  • a disco song
  • the National Anthem
  • a Michael Jackson / Prince song
  • a pre-cougar Madonna song
  • Sweet Caroline
  • a “classic rock” song that anyone born after 1995 only knows from playing Rock Band

comes on?

You’ve noticed it too, right?

Have you also noticed how nobody says that about songs that came out 5 years ago? Yeah? That’s because NO ONE MISSES circa-2007 pop songs! It’s been awhile, so let me remind of you hit songs from that year. In 2007,we  let songs such as:

  1. Glamorous” by Fergie ft. Ludacris
  2. This Is Why I’m Hot” by MIMS
  3. Girlfriend” by Avril Lavigne
  4. Beautiful Girls” by Sean Kingston
  5. (the death of Daft Punk genius) “Stronger” by Kanye West
all grace the NUMBER ONE SPOT on Billboards. As a society, we should be ashamed.
The worst part of it is that we even let “What Time is it,” the song from HSM2 (aka the WORST HSM. C’mon, you know you secretly liked 1 or 3) break into the top 10.

I did a lot of soul-searching with my iPOD during my last road trip, and think I’ve stumbled upon the answer: music is confusing these days.

Remember when Mariah Carey and Enrique Iglesias would sing beautiful love poems? Remember “Sweet Fantasy” and “Hero?” Whatever happened to that? How the hell did they, 10 years later, regress in maturity and crank out lame lyrics about soft porn being on Youtube? How is yelling “baby, I LIKE IT!” 250x in a song considered music? THEY ARE THE BENJAMIN BUTTONS OF MUSIC. 

This all dawned on me when I was jammin’ to Jay-Z’s “99 Problems” (which, IMO is one of the greatest songs of all time) with Lindsay and Judy, when I accidentally asked out loud “do you think this is Jay-Z’s idea of romance? Is this a love song for Beyonce?”

Okay, think about it. The whole song he talks about how difficult, demeaning, and frustrating (ARGH! Couldn’t get one more d-word in for ultimate alliteration!) it is to be a victim of racial profiling and discrimination, but in the chorus, he pretty much says that even though he faces all these struggles on a daily basis, he feels bad for anyone who has “girl problems” because he doesn’t have to experience that pain. So pretty much, he’s saying that Beyonce is awesome, and he never has to worry about his relationship with her because they’re so committed to each other, and that he’ll go buy ice cream and tampons for her at 2am if she ever needs or even wants it.

Oh Jay-Z, you’re such a romantic!

(never mind that he calls her a BITCH… I’m sure it’s his cute wife-nickname for her.)

(We are also ignoring the fact that “99 Problems” was originally written by Ice-T in 1993 about his sexual conquests. Let me swoon over Jay-Z, damnit!)

Fast forward 7 years and we get things on the radio like Jason Derulo’s “It Girl,” where he does things like compare the love of his life to this oversized paperweight:

Oh, you love me more than THAT broken mini record player? Gee, thanks.

And what do you mean by “you could be my it girl / this is it girl / give me 25  to life” ?!?!


So you can see my confusion with today’s lyrics. I can never tell if a song is about him loving a girl, him ironically loving a girl, him satirically loving a girl, or if all these mentions of a “girl” are actually code for something else… like the secret treasure my mom told me I had to guard until the end of time… or a super fancy hot pastrami sandwich.

Take a love song writing lesson from Jay-Z, Jason Derulo. I’d rather you just lovingly call me a bitch.

Love me, feed me, never leave me.

My apologies, dear readers, for leaving you malnourished for so long. Things have really picked up here at work. Que? You thought moi was a professional blogger? Oh, you flatter me so, mon cherie. But I make absolutely no money writing this amazing blog. I wish I could live off this blog! But if I did, I’d probably go broke and become one of those “mole people” living in the sewers. Sure, you get more sunlight as a homeless person, but the mole people take my long, luscious hair as currency, so I’d more power down in Pipecity. But that is all hypothetical. The reality is, I have to pay some people to read it, just to give it some traffic. So remember, every time you click on this blog, you’re giving a poor, third world country child a blog. Very philanthropical of me, I know. Soon, blogs will be referred to as “Dongs,” and hipsters will love then hate them, and normal people will hate and then love and then hate them again.

But yes! Thanks for asking about my work at Acacia Vineyard! I’ve somehow gone from “human paper weight” to “glorified delivery service” to “awesome joke teller” back to “attractive girl that randomly walks around looking bored” and finally, “indispensable.” So my prime blog-writing time (aka, lunch break at work) has been severely cock-blocked lately by my duties as a “working adult.”

As you Americans know, it was Memorial Day last weekend, and I am not particularly productive on 3-day weekends. I hope everyone spent at least a few seconds before popping open the beer kegs at 10am to thank those who had or are fighting for us. My brother and I drove down to LA to visit my aunt and uncle, who’s son is currently serving in Germany.

All in all, it was a great weekend, that could easily be summed up by my cousin’s Instagram photo:

My aunts and uncles tend to have a tendency to think my brother and I are starving children just because we live 3000 miles away from our parents or something. Did I mention my brother is almost 30 years old?! I don’t even know why I’m complaining. It was glorious and coma-inducing. Yes, pity the Luong siblings and shower us with your fancy cheeses and charcuterie and wine and weird Asian ice creams! Throw plates of Korean short ribs and bowls of ramen and garbage bags of popcorn and tubs of Vietnamese food I’m afraid to describe in public at me! I’ll take it all!

Don’t ever ask me “what is there to do in LA?” BECAUSE I HAVE NO FREAKIN’ CLUE. All I’ve ever done is eat. Even when I visit the Beastie, such as this weekend, what did we do?!


Oh wait, we also drank 2 bottles of Champagne at 10am.

Not that I’d have it any other way :)

By now I’m sure you’re brimming with jealousy that I can eat like a pregnant woman, drink like a frat boy, and still look like a fabulous 10-year-old girl from District 11. Let me warn you: it’s about to get worse.

The reason I am cooler / better / more likely to be asked to guest judge on SYTYCD than you is this:

I have a cool new screensaver on my phone of a picture I took over the weekend, and I plan on taking over the world with it. Wanna see?

Magical, isn’t it?

Love me, feed me, never leave me.

I plan on having this inscribed inside my wedding ring one day. Wait– do I put it on his wedding ring? Oh screw it. I’m just going to use it as my vows (remind me, dear reader, the night before my wedding when I’m still struggling to write said vows, will yah?).

You know how sometimes you meet someone, and you just KNOW you’re going to be friends forever? That’s how I felt when I saw this quote… scribbled next to the bathroom sink.



A blessing and a curse.

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:

  • abs (Mama needs to eat!)
  • butt (That ship sailed a long time ago. No one’s perfect, guys.)
  • supermodel-pose repetoire (I do what I want.)
BOOM. Instant perfection.

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.

Date a traveler.

Last night was fantastic.

That’s what she said.

HAHA. No, but really, that’s what she said. She, meaning Judy. Because– guess what! FANCY FAMILY DINNERS are back!

It’s been awhile since the 3 of us have actually had dinner together. For about 3 weeks or so, my roommate temporarily moved out of our apartment and moved into the library, where she set up a fort, burrowed into its comforts, and played various iphone games and shopped online. Oh, and some studying was sprinkled in here and there. Or so I’m told. I’m still not convinced. But needless to say, she completed her PharmD finals and first year of grad school.

Right when she and her mole-people-classmates resurfaced into civilization, Diablo3 was released, and thus we immediately lost contact with Thom.

So yeah, it’s safe to say that it’s been awhile since the entire house has cohabitated one room without one– if not all– being super distracted and, more often than not, screaming “RAX THEM! PUB RUN! YOUR FACE IS A DIABLO3!” (I don’t really know what gamers say to each other, so these are my guesses).

It was nice :)

We broke out the fancy (non-paper) plates, poured wine into glasses instead of swigging from the bottles, and cooked a meal together. We even spoiled ourselves silly with salad dressing options (we hoard sauces and dressings like they’re limited edition Beanie Babies). 

There are few things I’m more passionate about in life than bragging about my muscular arms: chocolate Snak Pak puddings, sharing home cooked meals, and hating the LA Lakers.

If you know anything about me, you must know that I was overjoyed last night when the LA Lakers got kicked out of the playoffs and immediately ran to my computer in order to write a gloating blog post and/or vlog of my happy dance.

By the middle of the 4th quarter, after the Westbrook steal + and1, I poured my second glass of wine, texted the Beastie and attempted to hug her through the phone, and by the time the buzzer had run out, I was chasing my poor, terrified dog around the house screaming “KOBE IS YOUR BITCH, GAMBIT!”

Now, I’m aware that some of you probably spent the night crying while I was elated, so I’ll try to keep this brief, but seeing as how I take my Kobe-hating VERY seriously, I’ll lament a little longer.

I don’t know what it is about him that I dislike so violently. It might be the fact that he looks like E.T. and that scares me, because that movie scared me when I was little, or maybe that he thinks he’s better than Jordan, and as a native Chicagoan, I find that utterly blasphemous. Or maybe it’s the fact that he rapes girls. Who knows? But rest assured that I am not just your typical fair-weather-ed, bandwagon Laker-hater. You know when people say “I wouldn’t even wish this upon my worst enemy” when they’re talking about suffering from a broken heart or Cholera or getting your arm stuck under a giant boulder for 127 hours? Well, I’d be ok if he got stuck on a camel that was strapped to a non-camel-hurting-bomb that would explode if– you know what? Scratch that. Why should the camel do all the work? HE should be carrying the camel!

Anyways, I’m sure you get the picture. Moving on

The other two things that I’m passionate about are traveling and dating. When I say I’m passionate about dating, I don’t mean that I’m a serial dater (aka giant slut), or that I even date very often (if you recall from our first date), but the idea that romance can consume an entire species intrigues me. It might just be the Walk to Remember playing in the background (thanks, Pandora), but I think it’s pretty amazing, anthropologically speaking, how love can cross borders and cultures and even time periods, and essentially, is all anyone has ever wanted. We’re pretty much all looking for the same thing, don’t you think?

So that’s why I pretty much jumped off a happiness cliff when I stumbled onto these two blog entries this morning:

  1. Date a Girl Who Travels
  2. Date a Boy Who Travels

If you have a second, give them both a read. If you are still with me, and didn’t just skim this post for cute pictures of the Beastie and myself, you’ll notice that they both address the two interests I just mentioned– traveling and dating. Both are beautifully written and embody the spirit of what I’ve always aspired to be:  well-traveled, independent, curious, and inspired.

Fun fact: My parents LOVE road trips. And thus, I’ve been to every single continental US state. My parents love to travel in general, and thus, I only have 2 more continents before I get to yell BINGO!

Still, my list of hopeful destinations is longer than Barney Stinson’s list of sexual encounters.

Write me a list of all the places you want to see and visit. Chances are, I’m dying to go there as well.

Chances are, I’m going to invite myself. Thanks for understanding <3

Call me, maybe.

Oh! Why hello there. Still swooning over how amazing and loyal and sensitive I can be from my last post? Awesome. Try to contain yourself, though. I am busy at work here, which is why it’s so cluttered. Sorry!

Do you mind passing me that spinny propeller thing? Great, thanks. And that monkey wrench?

Careful! Watch your step!

What am I doing? What does it look like I’m doing? Playing make-believe with crazy ol’ Maurice? NO! I’m building a time machine, silly!

I recently watched Midnight in Paris and completely fell in love with it. Like most human beings who’ve seen A Kid in King Arthur’s Court (how did that movie only get 4.5/10 stars?!), I’ve always wanted to travel back in time and try to baffle local residents with my Sony Walkman. Not unlike Owen Wilson’s character, I’d love to go back and meet my idol author– though mine is Jane Austen, not Ernest Hemingway.

Yes, I am in love with Austen-romance. Most specifically, I love Pride and Prejudice. So typical; so mainstream. I know. It’s like if I were to go into Krispy Kreme and only order their original glazed donuts, or if I met 98 Degrees and only make out with Nick Lachay, or fly to Paris and get frisky only under the Eiffel Tower. Sure, everyone’s done that, and sure, there’s more to life than glazed donuts, Nick Lachey, and getting cited for public indecency in France, but you know  what? There’s a reason everyone’s done it! It’s safe, never disappointing, and a rite of passage, just like P&P. I fear, however, that these same reasons are exactly why the Beastie always rolls her eyes (no smirk involved with this one) and tries to fake a heart attack or epileptic episode whenever I start droning on and on about why Mr. Darcy is the absolute most perfect man imaginable…

… but heeeeeeey, you haven’t heard this schpeel, right?! Awesome. You’re in for an amazing ride.

Okay, first things first: I’m kinda delusional about what makes a man “great.” While other members of my gender may look for kind eyes, or emotional commitment, or 6 pack abs and a Maclaren MP4-12C, the first thing I look for is someone who is articulate. As a linguistics minor (I know, I’m the whole package. You are not the first person to tell me this), I’ve always been in awe of the power of language. Language is like food– it’s something that can change the atmosphere of a room, bring people together, and be arranged and combined in endless possibilities.

Along the same lines, I find it super sexy when a man can command a room. He doesn’t have to have a booming voice, or be super tall (is that how some people command a room?), or anything, but just interesting and well traveled / informed / opinionated and most of all, engaging. Here comes the cheesiest thing I will ever write on this blog: if you can captivate an audience, you can captivate me. Ew, does that mean I’m kept in captivity? Whatever. You know what I mean. Darcy might be shy and not be “blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends” like Wickham, but just as many people look at Darcy when he enters a room as Cinderella when she enters the ball, and no one (but Lizzy) dares to challenge him when he’s speaking.

Lastly, it’s nice when a man upholds a certain air of mystery. What’s Darcy doing when he “goes to London” all the time? Why isn’t he ever in that freakin’ Dubai-king-slash-European-Drug-Warlord palace? It’s big enough for 10 Dugger families to live in, complete with its own hospital/delivery wing, if you know what I mean. I would never leave that place unless if I absolutely had to. So after intense research, I’ve concluded that there could only be one explanation: Darcy was the late 18th/ early 19th century British Batman. Only a Bruce Wayne character would leave their luxurious  palisades that often without anyone knowing why or where or when.

If there was respectable Pride and Prejudice fanfiction, I’d read it. Oh who am I kidding? I already do. Not internet, written by lustful 13-year-olds, scribed onto Xanga fanfiction, but at one point I discovered that there are a lot of published books parodying Ms Austen. Is “parodying” the right word? What’s the word that’s like parody + deference? Because that’s what I’m looking for. For instance, after I read Pride and Prejudice (for the 10th time), I read “Darcy’s Story,” which tells the exact same story, except for Mr. Darcy’s point of view. Pretty interesting, if you ask me. Point is, I cannot get enough of Austen-era romance, and because I was served Johnny Walker Blue Label at my work function earlier today, I feel badass and secure with myself enough to admit this on the interwebs.

So if you’re out there, Mr. Darcy-Batman…

here’s my number, so call me maybe.

(Ps, when I google-imaged a picture of “Crazy Old Maurice,” both a picture of Mitt Romney and Dana Scully popped up. Coincidence…?)

BRR’s (Bestie[/Beastie] Rights & Responsibilities)

I won’t lie. As much as I’d like for you to think that I’m an endless well of hilarity, I have to admit that, sometimes, even the deepest wells dry up. I hit a wall a couple of weeks ago, and I don’t know if you can tell the difference in writing, but I was struggling. I could also feel my writing becoming stale. Well, maybe not stale, but definitely predictable. I decided that I owe it to my audience (of 2) to make them pee their pants at least 3 times per post. Nothing less. So, for inspiration, I reread Tina Fey’s “Bossypants.” And, because I didn’t quite get the 6-pack abs I wanted from laughing, I also reread Mindy Kaling’s “Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns).”

Two of the best books I’ve read since Harry Potter.

You may think I’m exaggerating.

If you do, get out.

Obviously, you don’t know me well enough to know how deeply I revere Harry Potter.

I have a lightening bolt tattooed somewhere on my body.

Will I tell you where? No! This is a respectable blog, not a “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Ass Cabin” video.

Okay fine. If you quit pestering me about tattoos and sending me those “wow, you look fantastic these days! have you lost weight?” texts, I’ll let you stay. But you’re on thin ice, buddy!

Anyways, where was I? Oh yes. Tina and Mindy are geniuses. (I hope they don’t mind if I’ve decided we’re all on a first name basis. I’m hoping that if I do this enough, we’ll just magically become instant friends.) There’s a segment in Mindy’s book called “Best Friends Rights and Responsibilities” where she gives the guidelines of bestfriendhood. Some of the ones she mentions are:

  1. I can borrow all your clothes
  2. I must be 100% honest about how you look, but gentle
  3. I will take care of your kid if you die
  4. I will keep your favorite feminine product at my house
  5. I will try to like your boyfriend 5 times
  6. I will hate and re-like people for you
And so on and so forth. Most of which I agree. However, I only need you to be 90% honest about how I look, but I need you to be 300% gentle. Too many harsh criticisms about my muffin top or my bony elbows or my lack of dimples and I will break into tears, and then you’ll have that to deal with. So really, this rule is more for you than it is for me.

To this list, I’d like to add a few things. Beastie, you know I’ll pretty much do anything short of sharing a pet bird with you. In turn, here are my expectations for you:


Laugh at my jokes, even when they’re not funny. 
No one likes awkward silences. I know most of the time, you (and everyone else) are really just laughing at me, but you know I don’t care! As long as people are laughing, no one is noticing that I ate the entire tray of brownies. So please, if there’s ever a time that my joke is sub-par, let out a hideously nasal laugh so that everyone stares at you and I can lick the brownie crumbs clean.

Know when it’s my “time of the month”
so that you know when to be extra sensitive to my needs. Also, conveniently pretend to forget when it’s my “time of the month” so that I can blame my outrageous cravings and emotional outbursts on it, even when these accusations are completely invalid.

Always say “YES!” to dessert.
And understand that when I say “let’s share this slice of cheesecake,” I just want you to have one bite so I don’t feel like a fatty, but I pretty much want it to myself. We never really order the same flavor anything, anyway. Also, this is already deeply implied, but “sharing food” and “going halfsies” is always a given. You know I can never decide on just one dish on the menu. I’m pretty much going to spend the first 15 minutes at the restaurant convincing you to order the other item I want, and the rest of the meal sneaking forkfuls of your food onto my plate. Please don’t swat my hand away. I’ll let you eat the extra piece of bread they brought out for us.

When my ex changes his status to “in a relationship,” you notify me immediately.
If we are within 1hr driving distance of each other, we are on the same computer within 60 minutes. If we are further than that, we are both on our computers and on the phone within 60 seconds. You will already have prepared a list of, at minimum, 3 ways in which I’m prettier than her. And then you will remind me of all the reasons the ex and I broke up in the first place, and remind me that I’m better off without him. I want to pity this new girl, not want to kill her.

Do everything within your power to alert me when you’re engaged. 
Call me when he’s on one knee if you have to, so I can hear the proposal. After all, he’s pretty much proposing to me by extension, as part of this package deal. Likewise, *like* my status change as soon as I’m engaged. Alert the tabloids. This is as close as I’ll get to becoming Kate Middleton.

Don’t believe me when I tell you “I’m fine” and show up at my house with a tub of ice cream and box of donuts after a breakup anyway.
I don’t care if the relationship only lasted for 3 days… or only took place in my head. I need you. (sidenote: not that the other things on this list hasn’t happened, but I can very clearly remember when the Beastie came over, uninvited, with a pint of my favorite ice cream– chocolate malted crunch from Rite Aid– after I found out a boy I liked had just started dating another girl. We ate ice cream on my bedroom floor and I wallowed and then I got over it. Thanks, Beastie!)

Humor me when I tell you I’m going to marry Tom Brady one day.
Also, text me your condolences after he chokes during multiple Super Bowls.

Tell our friends “she’s fine, she’s just cleaning the bathroom bcuz she is OCD” when I’ve locked myself in the bathroom during a party…  and immediately cut me off from beer pong.
Help me save face. Not that this happens often, but I’d prefer it if no one ever knew about it.

Sit around watching movies we’ve already memorized with me.
You know I am more emotionally handicapped than you, and I can only open up about feelings if Matthew McConaghey is being a dbag, or Katherine Hiegl is being an insecure little beech.

Never directly call me a slut. Or a prude. “Directly” being the key word. 
Even though I’m probably being both… at the same time. Our years of friendship have made us inexplicably talented at dropping hints. I know what you mean now when you say “you’re just old fashioned” and then smirk and roll your eyes. Or when you say “you’re just being friendly and social… with the fellas…” and then smirk and roll your eyes. Sometimes there’s a *sigh* mixed in there somewhere. But pretty much, I know what a smirk and eye roll means.

Remind me how cool / awesome we were in high school. 
There will be days when I call to complain that “my life is going nowhere” and “I’m such a nobody.” I am literally fishing for compliments. Amongst the numerous lies I’d like you to tell me (you’re the smartest person I know; you’re so pretty, Blake Lively is jealous and Facebook stalks you), I’d also like to be reminded that I’m not only awesome now, but I was the shit in high school, and have pretty much always been this amazing. Like remember that time when my volleyball team won the national championships under my leadership and then that night we went to Prom and I won both prom queen AND Miss Congeniality after saving the building from being burnt down by Al Qaeda and then on our way home our limo got a flat tire and I changed it by myself and then was asked to be on the next swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated by the editor driving by on the freeway but turned it down because I wanted to focus on staying in school and curing cancer? Me neither. A made up story never hurt anybody. Alternatively, there will be days in which I’ll call to complain that “my life peaked in high school.” Please remind me how much we’ve grown / how much cooler we are now.

Sing as loud as you can in the car with me
because you know I’m dying to sing, but it’s no fun to sing by yourself. Make up the words if you have to.

Help me go to the bathroom whenever I need assistance.
As an experienced baby sitter, older cousin of 12, former day care teacher, “assisted living center” volunteer, future nurse, and bff of the Beastie who decides to buy an unnecessarily long Prom dress, I’ve done my fair share of assisting others to the bathroom. One of my greatest fears about getting older is losing control of my bladder. I’m just asking you to return  the favor and help me avoid the embarrassment of peeing my pants.

Keep your own check list of what I need in a bf.
Let’s be honest here: I may not always know what’s best for myself. You know me better than I know myself at times. I can’t believe you sat idly by when I dated that underage, drug-dealing, dog-fighting, UFO chasing, registered sex offender with the socks-under-sandals and unibrow! Just kidding. But now I feel like I should, just to make sure you’re doing your job. The better you enforce this check list, the faster you’ll be my MOH.

Keep and maintain detailed logs of my “wedding blog bookmarks.” 
I definitely won’t remember everything, and I need your help persuading the poor guy that my way is best. Also, let me lash out Bridezilla style and stay loyal as my MOH. You know I’ll do the same for you.

Understand that when I open up a bottle of wine, we are obligated to finish it. 
We’re just being wasteful if we don’t.

Nothing changes between us, even if we go days/weeks/months without a real conversation. 
A quick update and then we pick up right where we left off like real best friends do. If we go a year without talking, it better be because one of us became an astronaut and got stuck floating around in space.

Remember to leave out the eggplant and throw in extra beets when you’re cooking for me, and I’ll remember to leave out the onions and throw in extra mushrooms when I’m cooking for you.
I still can’t believe you spent 2 hours picking the caramelized onions out of the risotto I slaved over for you. The fact that we’re still friends speaks volumes about our friendship’s strength and how we’ve overcome these dauntingly horrific obstacles. ONIONS! THEY’RE SO DELICIOUS!

Be there to hold my hand and keep my husband in check during childbirth. 
You’re a woman. You understand the pain I’m in. Let me demand whatever the hell I want. In return, I’ll name you godmother.

Write a blog with me. 
First, thanks for pushing me to finally start a blog. You know I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, but I’ve always been too lazy to. (Half of me thinks it’s because you’ve just gotten tired of my whiney/random/sporadic texts.) Second, thanks for agreeing to embark on this journey with me, even though you don’t even like to write that much, because you understand that I don’t want to do it alone.

I LOVE YOU, WHALELAMB. I hope this made you pee your pants 3 times <3

Schwarma me.

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!

  • Chris Hemsworth for those that are into that whole long-haired, Fabio thing
  • Robert Downey Jr for those who sometimes fantasize about how the “bad boy” from HS 30-something years ago turned out
  • Mark Ruffalo for those that are looking for a strong yet sensitive man
  • Samuel L Jackson for those that either crave dark chocolate AND/OR a pirate in their lives
  • Stellan Skarsgård for those that are looking to fill in the void that the lack of a Mamma Mia sequel left in their hearts (yeah, he played Bill. Is your mind blown?) or for those that like men with those little circles above their vowels in their names
  • Tom Hiddleston for those in the Lucius Malfoy fanclub that don’t really like “Awake”
  • Paul Bettany for those that like creepy, albino monks (okay, this one is stretching it a little because you don’t actually see Jarvis)
  • Cobie Smulders and ScarJo for those who prefer the ladies… especially the kind dressed in skin-tight clothing… or those who just want their daughters to be exposed to strong female characters
  • Chris Evans for those with functioning eyes

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.

Schwarma me.

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.

  1. Why did the Romulins team up with Loki, and why wasn’t Captain Kirk there to team up with the Avengers?
  2. Why doesn’t Tony Stark buy Gwenyth Paltrow some shoes?
  3. What kind of hair conditioner does Thor use?
  4. What kind of magic, non-tearing pants does Bruce Banner wear, and can I buy a pair for next Thanksgiving?
  5. What kind of butt exercises does Scarlett Johansson do?
  6. When will Cobie Smulders introduce Ted Moseby to his future wife (surely to be an Avenger. Maybe Elektra?)?
  7. If Tony Stark already has the new NSX, does that mean Jay Leno and Jerry Seinfield already got theirs?
  8. Where were the X-Men when the beasts were raining down on NYC, and which jet flies faster? The X-Men or Shields jet?
  9. What’s the point of Loki’s beetle-like antlers? Is it a symbol that he’s ready to mate?
  10. Who would win in a fighter over Robert Downey Jr between Pepper Potts and Irene Adler?
  11. Why does Thor still have a cape? Did he not learn anything from The Incredibles?
  12. Did the Avengers ever get their schwarmas? And do they eat it with yogurt or tzatziki sauce?
  13. When is Hercules going to show up, and do the two demi-Gods combine to make one whole god and one whole mortal?
  14. Why didn’t Pepper Potts turn off her phone when she was on the plane?
  15. When is Natasha going to hook up with every single man in the Avengers like the comics, and are they going to show it?
  16. Was it Mulder and Scully who discovered Thor?
  17. Which district does Hawkeye come from? Why isn’t he coaching his tributes? How did he escape Panem?
  18. Is Nick Fury a cylon?
  19. Is Captain America considered a silver fox since he’s the oldest (well, barring Thor)?
  20. Why doesn’t Loki shimmer with a glittery glow when he’s in the sun?
  21. When will Cobie Smulders get bit by a radioactive rabbit and gain unparalleled hopping powers?
  22. What’s the point of having a “COUNCIL” if Nick Fury is going to do WTF he wants? And do they call him Nick Führer-y?
  23. Why do all superheros spawn from childhood trauma?
  24. Who does Natasha root for when she’s watching Olympics gymnastics?
  25. Does a nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon help the Hulk relax?
  26. How do female superheros feel about Spanx?
  27. What in the world is the purpose of a urinal cake?

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)