Super Bowl Sunday Was Super Awesomeness

It should be no surprise that I had an awesome Sunday watching the game with Clyde. It was so much fun!

The quick and dirty version of my Legally Blond moments can be found here

You know what makes me super sad? You’d think I’d be better at knowing what the hell’s going on in football. Here’s why :

1. I Like Football Movies

Some of my favorite movies to watch are “Waterboy” with Adam Sandler and “The Longest Yard” with….Adam Sandler again. Huh. What a weird coincidence…and they’re both football movies. Strange…

Anyway. You’d think I would’ve picked up a few things about football from watching those over and over and over and over and over again. Alas, the only things I’ve managed to figure out is that the cross dressing "ladies" in "The Longest Yard" make better cheerleaders than I could dream of being, don’t drink water collected in gross barrels and being in prison does not look like fun.

Luckily, I learned a thing or two in high school besides things like math, science and discovering that mandatory Chapel means I get a scheduled nap every school cycle.

2. And One Time….At Band Camp….

That’s right. Your’s truly was in marching band from sophomore year in high school AAAAALLL the way till the bittersweet end senior year when we almost beat our arch nemesis…only to choke during the 4th quarter. No, I’m not bitter. Not at all….

It would be completely natural to assume I would’ve soaked up the fine details of the sport after watching game after game for so many years. Right? Nope. So wrong. This is all that I know.

- There are 10 yards to a down. Suddenly I find myself singing "Get down, GET DOWN!!! JUNGLE BOOGIE!!".

- You get 4 tries to get a first down.

- If you run one way, that’s good

- If you run the other way, that’s bad

- A touchdown is worth 6 points.

- If you kick it through that U-shaped thingy, that’s worth 1 point

- If you rush the line after a touchdown and somehow miraculously make it through the wall of pure beefcake and muscle, you are rewarded with 2 points and a possible concussion with a side order of miscellaneous bone fractures.

- The quarterback is the guy throwing the ball around

- There are a lot of positions ending with the word "-back". RunningBACK. ForwardBACK. This makes me think the sport is obsessed with asses and all things buttock related. I mean, hell, they wear those vertical and skinny buttpad thingies.

- Something something about a blitzen-fahrfenuegen and a Hail Mary.

- Those blue and yellow stripes that show up on my TV aren’t actually drawn on the field. They’re products of computer graphics. I was under the impression for years that some crazy menehune would scramble all around the field frantically drawing lines and waving some magical wand to make them disappear before my very eyes as soon as the play was over. I’m special.

- Those supersized master blaster sized Pixie Stix contained enough sugar to power me not only through the entire game but probably was the reason why I was so hyper for the rest of the week. I’m pretty sure my mother cursed the day she agreed to let me join a school activity when she saw me literally bouncing off the walls when I came home from a game. It’s fantastic.

You know what made me super happy? The Saints won. I know they’re the underdog and that’s one reason why I wanted them to win so bad. I’m all about the underdog. In addition, what with Katrina and all the tragedies the city has suffered, I really Really REALLY wanted them to win and have something to celebrate.

I guess wishes really do come true.

I’m Beyond Saving

My typical weekends last year usually involved a club, a lounge, a cafe, a karaoke (or if I’m on a total bender of a weekend) all of the above…and usually that’s just one night.

Did I mention the river of liquor (usually in scotch form) that flowed this-a-way?

Yeah….crazy nights…

My friends at work loved to hear the insanity they thought my weekends consisted of. I never really understood because I thought my life was normal. Apparently the things that happen to me don’t happen to most people. Who knows? Certainly not me. I just tell stories about my life.
So it’s Sunday today and not just any Sunday. It’s the Man Holiday aka Super Bowl Sunday.

…Yeah, the only reason why I knew that is because Clyde told me and I paid attention to the commercials on the radio.

Lemme tell you about my weekends now.

Friday

MissQTee came over to meet Clyde. We ate Bon Chon chicken that Clyde picked up for me while drinking bekseju and sitting on my imaginary dining furniture. I didn’t have plates yet so we used paper napkins.

She left by 1130 pm. I was asleep by 1 am.

I so rock.

Saturday

I worked all day, bought furniture for the bedroom (omfg w000000t!!!!) and watched a movie with Clyde.

We went to the Landmark in the West Side and had a great time.

We came home by 1 am and decided to stay in. We shared some Macallan and lounged on my imaginary sofa. It was awesome.

We passed out by 2:30 a.m.

Omg.

Sunday

We were up by 9 a.m.

You heard me. IN THE A.M. I was up when the time can still be read in single digits AND the sun was still shining brightly.

I know what you’re thinking. Wtf. Believe me, I’m thinking the same.

But here’s where it gets even more Twilight Zone.

We got up (I realized I love waking up to morning kisses from him) and got coffee at my neighborhood Coffee Bean. The difference between us and 90% of the rest of people getting a cup o’ joe?

We weren’t members of the hung-over and zombified because we’re bright eyed and sober. Score!!!

And then we went to Target.

I went to Target. With my man. I’ve officially become one of “those”.

Single people, as someone who was only recently one of you, you know what I mean. The couples who look happy shoving that red cart around and browsing aisle after mind-numbing aisle of STUFF.

They used to make me sick. I wanted to gag and throw up a little in my mouth whenever I saw them. This was before the Borg known as Cupid shot me in the ass…that sneaky bastard…not that I mind. Oh hell no.

So Clyde and I were on a mission. We were going to go out for brunch but opted instead to make breakfast at home.

This means I need a pan and food. He already gave me a bunch of kitchen goodies, silverware, glasses and cocktail tumblers.

We skipped through the store sipping on our coffee. He was like “Omg, baby….we’ve become one of those couples who go to Target together”.

That’s when it hit me. I’ve become domesticated. This man singlehandedly managed to take my aversion of commitment and turn it on its head…and I’m not running away.

As my housewarming present (besides moving large, heavy random crap around for me, swapping out my refridgerator doors around, installing random bits and pieces around my apartment, feeding Barney the Tapeworm delicious food, feeding me coffee, supplying me with pretty glassware and silverware so that I wouldn’t have to eat like a caveman anymore. Sorry, Geico cave-spokesman), Clyde got me a KILLER black/charcoal grey 16 piece dinner set so that I could actually have plates to eat off of, a skillet so that I can actually cook yummy food again and a small pot so that I can boil stuff in case I need to boil water for ramen.

Tell me my man rocks. That’s right. He does.

We came home and I immediately started to put things away (he totally helped me. I adore him) and make my yummy French toast sandwich.

He liked it. I’m happy.

He watched the Super Bowl sitting on my imaginary sofa aka The Floor. I cleaned up in the kitchen and joined him for the rest of the game.

Fyi, I did not make him watch the game in my currently empty apartment. He wanted to. Aaaww….

I’ve become domesticated and you know what? I’m happy. My friends at work (the ones who got married a loooong time ago) cannot believe I no longer go completely nuts on the weekend.

Neither can I….but I like this. Haa haa haa!

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What’s My Name, What’s My Name

I’m a sucker for quizzes, memes and all that stuff. It’s my touch of narcissism coming out to play.

So the one I found interesting today is the Urban Dictionary one.

Here’s the rules for CrackBook…I mean, Facebook :

Go to urbandictionary.com, type in your first name. Copy and paste this as your status and the first entry for your name under comments.

I typed in my name (“Bonnie”) and just like magic, I get a bunch of results. These are the ones that made me haa-haa-haa.

Means “pretty” from the Scottish word bonnie, which was itself derived from Middle French bon “good”. Is a way to describe a fair, good and beautiful girl.

You know what this reminded me of? I started thinking of Anjelah Johnson’s skit about the nail salon. More specifically, it was the “you so pritty” part that popped into my head.

‪She’s so funny!

Ahahahaha!

A wife, serious girlfriend, or female family member of someone who’s in the mafia. This slang was widely adopted from the first highly famous Bonnie, wife of Clyde.

A straight up ride or die girl who keeps it real and doesnt give a fuck; the essential dream girl.

I’m not a wife but I am Clyde’s lady. That works for me.

How’d they get all this from just my first name? Amazing.

They also rock in the sack. Bonnie and Clyde (you’ll notice no one ever says ‘Clyde and Bonnie’)

AAH HAA HAA HAA!! Omg…I’m willing to bet Daddy’d probably rethink giving me this name if he saw this part.

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The Joys Of Cleaning

So I just moved in to the new apartment in Ktown. That’s right. I’m in Ktown. That’s both good and bad.

The Good

- I drive against traffic going to work at the ass crack of dawn.

- the supermarkets are open past midnight. Did I mention they have delicious ready made stuff?! Heeeell yeeeaaa!!!

- I’m central to all the lounges/clubs/bars

The Bad

- I’m central to all the lounges/clubs/bars.

- it is now that much more impossible to hole myself up in my apartment

- a bunch of my friends live within a few blocks of me in Ktown also. Oh God…

The Ugly

- why do I get the feeling my apartment’s gonna turn into some kind of party pad or the We Need A Place To Crash pad?

Hhmmm….

So back to my original point. I got a fridge yesterday. My aunt’s friend had an extra one so I gratefully accepted. What I didn’t know was :

- how loud this thing is. I swear it has bronchitis or some fridge variant of respiratory issues.

- HOW DIRTY IT IS!!!

Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to have a functional fridge and beggars can’t be choosy.

But let me explain what I found. There’s weird spots in it and the crisping drawers had caked on DIRT and LEAVES and RANDOM TWIGS!!!

I know I’m part Chinese and we use a bunch of that stuff in ancient super secret Chinese medicine but really?!?!

Holy shit….

Thankfully I am not one to walk away from a challenge. I donned my battle gear (David and Goliath’s Stupid Factory designs. A Miso Hot tank and sushi print booty shorts), pulled on my +5 Gauntlets of Massive It’s-Gonna-Hurt-So-Good Destruction (Rubbermaid housecleaning gloves in Supersonic Retina Searing yellow) and got down to it.

I Ajax’d the bejeezus out of the drawers, Clorox wiped the crap out of everywhere else and am polishing it all off with one more round of clorox wipies. Damn, these things ROCK!!! I got the biodegradable ones.

Eminem cleans out his closets. I get down and dirty with my fridge and emerge VIC-TOOOOOR-IOUUUUS!!!

So awesome.

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My Boyfriend Is Awesomeness

I’m rock at a bunch of things. Examples include (but are not limited to) :

- eating
- sleeping
- laughing like a hyena
- acting like someone half my age
- daydreaming

I’m good at some other things. These include (but are not limited to) :

- cooking
- not burning down my kitchen while cooking * knock on wood * – acting my age

I’m not so good at :

- knowing when someone is being Ninja Dater
- end of list. Haa haa haa

I suck at :

- packing. Aaagghh!!!! Packing is the ultimate spiny sea urchin on the ass of my existence right now. Ugh.

- assembling furniture. Don’t get me wrong. I can put stuff together. I just can’t promise anyone that whatever it is I’m building will stand and/or look like it’s supposed to. This includes myself because no matter how hard I try to fool myself into thinking I have mad epic carpentry skills, I can’t quite seem to believe myself.

- lifting heavy stuff.

- lifting stuff in general.

I’m a delicate Asian lotus blossom. Haa haa haa!!

Thank HEAVENS Clyde’s packing some muscles. He helped me move all the boxes from the garage and helped me move a bunch of stuff into my new apartment.

He even bought me dinner at Bon Chon! We ate like cavemen. Barney the Tapeworm was so happy.

Am I lucky or WHAT?! Jeezus…remember that song “Whatta Man”? Yup, that’s what I have.

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Packing It Up

Moving is a royal pain in my ass. I’ve been living in the same place for 10 years so I’ve accumulated a bunch of crap. Interestingly enough, the physical manifestation most of this stuff favored was in the form of shoes. Weird…

I’m so happy I’m not a pack rat. GOD, I’M SO HAPPY I’M NOT A PACK RAT!!

Well…I don’t think I am anyway. Time will tell when I’m desperately clearing out my microscopic room.

That’s another thing I’m grateful for. My room is smaller than most standard hotel rooms. This means I’m forced to carefully weigh how badly I want that tacky knick knack when I was in Mexico and wearing the most epic pair of tequila goggles.

I’m happy to say I won most of those battles. On the other hand, I’ve amassed a frighteningly large supply of Royal Carribean shot glasses. You know something’s up when your servers on a cruise give you all the martini glasses and shot glasses you and your girlfriends went through as a parting gift during the bachelorette party. Every night. Yeah….good times.

Over the next few days, I’ll be sorting through all my stuff in a full blown panic. Actually, this is a good thing because I’ll finally have no excuse to avoid clearing out my closet. Out with the old and all that stuff.

I’d say “You know what that means!!! Shooopping!!!” Oh, wow. That reminds me of that line in “White Chicks”. Friggin’ hilarious movie.

Ugh…

Oh hey. I just remembered something. The closet in my new apartment? Friggin’ HUGE!!! Oh yes…maybe I will go shopping…ehehehehe…

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So Grossed Out

Let’s talk about sex, baby. Let’s talk about you and me. Omg, this song brings back some memories….like when this song used to traumatize me when I was 10 and I’d turn beet red whenever it came out on the radio. My mom would always switch to another radio station whenever this song came on. OoooOOOOoohhh….how things have changed….

I think my mom’s probably the most progressive woman not only of her generation but of all Asian women her generation. She’s so chill about everything….except when she’s blowing up my phone after midnight because she wants to know where I am, what I’m doing, who I’m with and what time I’m coming home. I’m always like “Aaargghh!! Mommy!! I’m 30! Relax!!” This happens every time she’s in LA or I’m in Hawaii or wherever it is she happens to be at. Jeezus….

Anyway. Back to why I’m grossed out. My sister, MiniMe, and I just finished an epic 2 hour conversation about why we love our mom but why sometimes she makes us want to throw up. So my mom knows I have a new boyfriend. She doesn’t say it but I know she’s waiting for me to introduce him to her. I know this because she goes “So when are you going to bring Clyde by the house so that I can meet him?”

Subtlety is something she doesn’t possess when it comes to her children.

I didn’t have a boyfriend from August 2006 till January 17th, 2010. That’s a long ass time. I wasn’t dating anyone or seeing anyone. I relished being alone. My mom was concerned but for the weirdest reason. The conversation is as follows :

Mom : Hey…are you working out?

Me : No. I’m too tired to go to the gym after work and on my precious days off, I just want to sleep. Why? Are you saying I’m getting fat?!

Mom : No no no…I just don’t think a young, healthy young woman like yourself should live the life you do.

Me : …..I don’t get it….what am I doing wrong? Is this because I don’t work out like a fiend anymore?

Mom : No no no….you’re not dating anyone are you?

Me : Nope…thank God…that’s just too much drama and it requires too much thinking. I shouldn’t have to think so hard about something that I don’t want right now anyway. What’s wrong with me being single? Are you getting ready to give me one of your “Give To Me Some Grandbabies Now” talks? Because if you are, I’m about to suddenly remember I have to do something super important…

Mom : Like what?

Me : I dunno….I’ll think of something….okay, but seriously. What are you trying to get at? Just tell me because I suck at guessing games.

Mom : Well….I think it’s only natural for you to find a “friend”.

Me : I’ve got plenty of….friends….hey, wait. What do you mean by “friend” exactly?

Mom : You know. Aiya, don’t make me explain what a “friend” is. You should know. You’re young, you’re healthy, you’re an attractive girl…and it’s a great way to lose weight.

Me : AAAAAGGGHHH!!!! OMFG!!! WTF DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR THAT STUFF FROM YOU!!! AND HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT SEX ANYWAY???!! YOU AND DADDY HAD ME BECAUSE YOU HELD HANDS AND THEN THE STORK CAME!! AND I DON’T WANT THAT KIND OF A FRIEND!!!

By this point, my mom thinks it’s hilarious that I’m gagging and trying not to spew my lunch all over the walls. She’s chasing me around the house as I’m desperately trying to find something to throw up into and she’s calling out after me “It’s natural! You’ll lose a lot of weight too! How do you think I got so skinny again after I had you?”

There are just some things you should never have to talk to your parents about once you hit a certain age. I’m all for having safe sex conversations with your children well before their hormones kick in and they start wanting to screw anything and everything that walks by. But I’m well beyond that age. I’ve gone back to thinking my parents had us via immaculate conception.

You can imagine my mom’s face when I walked in with a HUUUGE bag from Victoria’s Secret. I dropped $500 on a bunch of pretty things and my mom just gave me that grin. She has never reminded me more of the proverbial cat who ate the canary bird.

Good God….ugh….and now she’ll always ask me “Soooo…..did you have a good time with Clyde?”

I don’t know how to answer that because I don’t know what she’s getting at.

My mom’s finally figured out my kryptonite when it comes to her. All she needs to do to set me straight or make me toss my cookies is to start talking to me about sex. Ugh. *barf*

I’m So Grateful

New year, new decade…

I have a wonderful boyfriend who I adore (luckily the feeling is mutual. Haa haa haa) AND I HAVE A NEW APARTMENT!!!

Someone pinch me because I’m afraid I’m dreaming.

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Conan Cracks Me Up

I like Conan. I really do. I have no idea wtf happened during that crazy week when everyone of you people on my twitter and Facebook were all TEAM CONAN. That was a week when my life was too crazy so I had little time to pay attention to other stuff….like….outside a 15 foot radius of my immediate physical presence.

So I understand Conan’s being pulled? Why? He’s so funny!!! So sad….I like him better than Jay who I like better than Dave “Mr. Worldwide Pants” Letterman.

Anyways…I hope Conan gets another show somewhere. I really like Triumph the Dog. I also like Conan. He’s crazy. Maybe that’s why I think he’s so funny….hm…..

Jacked this clip from FreshLA’s FB and damn….what an excellent way to show NBC how you really feel, Conan. Vengeance is best served hot, fast and with style.

Cookie Monster

I don’t know why this song makes me want to go into the kitchen and make something to eat. I think it’s all the references to sugar and candy and stuff.

I love to cook. Some people eat to live. I live to eat. That’s because I have Barney the Tapeworm to think about. You know how hard Clyde rocks my socks? He said he’ll never let Barney the Tapeworm get mad at me because I forgot to eat as long as he’s around. ….* dreamy sigh *….

Clyde has a sweet tooth. I know he likes chocolate. He likes milk chocolate. I loooooove dark chocolate. I decided I’m going to bake him cookies!!! I figured I could pick and choose which types of chocolate to use when I make these Double Chocolate Cookies.

Never mind I haven’t baked anything besides beer bread in years. It was fantastic. I just had to add butter and beer to this mix and let it do its thaaang in my oven. I don’t count the lasagna that I make because that’s not like making cookies or whatever. That’s like….layering a ton of fantastic savory goodness on top of each other….kind of like you’re building a really sloppy sandwich.

I make bomb lasagna. I bomb at making cookies.

The first and last time I ever tried to make cookies from scratch was during high school. It resulted in an Epic Fail. I couldn’t figure out the difference between melted butter and softened butter. I figured butter is butter so I nuked it in the microwave before adding it to the mix.

I dutifully followed the rest of the instructions, plopped little spoonfuls of the batter on a cooking sheet and hopped around my kitchen doing the Victory Dance complete with a war cry because I made cookies from scratch. I was a cookie baker virgin no more!!!

I still remember the name of those cookies. They’re called Snickerdoodles. I picked that recipe because it looked like the easiest one to make.

I was so excited when that damn buzzer thing went off but the excitement quickly turned into puzzlement. How come my cookies didn’t look like the recipe picture? Why was it one big friggin’ Snickerdoodle SHEET the size and shape of my cookie sheet?

I was so sad.

Dude, I can TOTALLY do this!! Now I know not to nuke butter unless the recipe tells me to. Got it.

Wait…what’s this thing about a mixing bowl and a beater? What the hell is that?! You can attach them together? How am I supposed to know when butter looks fluffy??

WHY WON’T THEY JUST LET ME NUKE THE DAMN BUTTER???!!!

* sigh *

I just wanted to make cookies from scratch for Clyde.

….maybe I should just stick to cookie dough mix for now until I figure out what the hell these recipes are telling me to do. I think that’d probably be the safest thing to do.