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Once upon a time, I was in 8th grade. I was 13, young, innocent, and dating a boy that lived a block away from me. We were hanging out in his parents basement with a bunch of our friends, watching a movie, declaring our couplehood to each other, and occasionally kissing. Because that’s what all 8th graders in relationships should do.

At one point, my boyfriend leaned in to me and told me that he didn’t just like me — he really really liked me. I, being the sophisticated teen that I was, swooned and decided that I had the best boyfriend ever.

And when I turned my head to tell him this, he leaned his to kiss me. That’s when it happened. I felt his tongue crash into my mouth and hit my teeth in that awkward young version of kissing where nobody knows what the fuck is going on.

So, this is french kissing…I think to myself…I wonder if I’m supposed to do anything.

He all of a sudden leans back and jumps up from the couch, holding his hand over his mouth.

“I cut myself!” He yells, his hand still over his mouth. “I cut my fucking tongue!”

Did I mention I had braces?

Oh, the humanity.

Have you ever seen the movie John Tucker Must Die?

There’s a part of the movie, where the guy is about to kiss the girl and he bobs and she weaves and it’s basically really…really…awkward.

Heads butt, boobs are awkwardly brushed and then you don’t know if you should apologize or yell at the person for not matching your hugging technique.

So, rewind to last year sometime. I’ve been talking to this guy. Good guy, good friend, and the way we’ve been talking, it could potentially turn into something more.

The downside of the situation is that he’s living a couple states away, and the most personal we’ve gotten with each other is by text message and one very drunk phone call.

How the hell do you act in person then?

Time passes and the guy ends up moving back to Michigan. We make plans. I’m excited to see him, but am so nervous. It’s like I don’t know how to deal with real life contact after all this time apart.

But he comes over, and real contact is made.   

He leans in to hug me. I lean to hug him. And all of a sudden…

He went one way and I went the other way and it ended with this awkward sort of bumping, bumbling hug that you give a relative or someone you don’t really care for. Where do you go from there? 

We kind of awkwardly smile at each other and attempt to ignore the fact that we probably both would give better hugs to my Aunt Lenore, and I don’t even have an Aunt Lenore. At that moment, I find myself thinking back to that 8th grade boyfriend and my awkward first french kiss…

This guy and I still hang out that day, though we never really make any contact with each other besides eye contact. And that’s a stretch. When he leaves, we try the hug again. Only this time we switch directions and it’s still a fail. He finally just wraps his arms around me, and I kind of just chill out. I’m still thinking of that 8th grade awkward moment…

…in case you couldn’t guess, the 8th grade boyfriend and I broke up two weeks after the braces incident. Another month later, I woke up and found my house TP’d.

Awkward kissing encounter with the neighborhood boy turned into full fledged battle of the sexes neighborhood war.



I’d rather laugh with the [Lions] than cry with the Saints.

Now, granted, the Saints probably aren’t crying. The Saints are probably very happy. Who doesn’t want to win in the playoffs, after all? But let’s be honest. Lions fans, it was a great season. It was a winning season.

Now, you might be asking why the hell I’m writing about football. Well, while as you all know, I’m all about hockey, this year, I was equal opportunity with my sports. Ish.

Basketball is still stupid.

I digress.

One of my favorite things about football this year was the championship games. What a great way to end the season, and start a new year, than DRINKING, and PIZZA, and FRIENDS, and A LOT OF MEN RUNNING INTO A LOT OF OTHER MEN.

But namely, the drinking and the friends.

The view in Pep's really just can't be beat. Two screens, two sports.

I ended up going to Pep’s for the Sugarbowl. Now granted, I’m not all college obsessed like some Michiganders are (Like Captain is with U of M for example), but I will still cheer for a team from Michigan over a  team from Virginia.

And I will drink while I cheer. We remember how cause and effect works.ANYWAY. The Sugarbowl get together was the brainchild of NeighborGirl’s. I made new friends, drank some, and later learned that Macy was sitting probably around 25 feet away from me. SMALL WORLD.ANYWAY.About a week after the Sugarbowl, NeighborGirl texted me for another football gathering. The Lions were in the playoffs, and she was meeting people at Pep’s again. Was I in?Let me answer you with this:

The Rumpleminze shot waiting for me when I got there did a quick number on me.

NeighborGirl and I decided it was a good night to get drunk. I bought shots. One for me, one for NeighborGirl, one for NeighborGirl’s friend who sat by me and was my facebook friend in t-minus five minutes or less, and one for the random girl behind me who decided I was cool and bought Blueberry beer for me.

E'rybody at the game watching party. Minus my random that I met. These are all actual people that NeighborGirl knew, not randoms.

At some point in all this, NeighborGirl saw a lion’s helmet sitting on the bar, and decided this MUST BE THE PROP for tonight (See the picture of me rocking it above?). The bartender took it down and let us borrow it for the night. At some point, it even tried to go to another bar with us, but apparently football helmets don’t count as regular head gear.

Let's go Lions.


NeighborGirl decided it was time to go to a different venue. Translation: the lions are losing, and we need somewhere new to drink. I head for my car first to charge my phone then run over to the bar. Things get blurry at this point.

When we were still at Pep’s, NeighborGirl was joined by a friend of hers who had come to the Sugarbowl party too. He seemed nice, and obviously into NeighborGirl. I mean, he came out to meet up with her and her friends. Twice. And he was really ONLY talking to NeighborGirl. Then watching the game. Then watching her. Even though I’m clearly not good at love and relationships and all that (see the past three years of my life), I could even tell he was into her.


At one point when the Lions were still winning (I think I had just taken a shot at this point), I leaned over to him and asked, “Scale of 1 to 10, how in love with my friend are you?” At least, I think I whispered. It may have been a whisper-shout.

WhisperShout: the drunk portion of the night where you are trying so hard to be quiet that you are unnaturally loud and people stare at you because they're wondering WTF is up with your voice.

He gives me a look (proof of the whispershout), then holds up seven fingers.

“Seven?!” I’m still whisper shouting. He nods. I’m 95% sure and 105% embarrassed that  I responded in this vein: “Why don’t you do something about it?!”


NeighborGirl, friends, and I are talking in Bar #2.

“[The man who is a “seven” on the how much do you love NeighborGirl scale] just came up to me and was like, ‘NeighborGirl, I’m going to make out with you,'” NeighborGirl is telling us emphatically. “And I was like, ‘What?! No! What are you talking about?!'”

Ooooh, epic fail. That would be my bad. Lesson learned. Don’t make any interactions involving friends and men and making out while drinking. And probably don’t tell NeighborGirl about this.


I’m dancing with NeighborGirl’s friend, the one that I facebook friended so immediately.

We have become FRIENDS and we are DRINKING and we are having FUN

I’ve set down my purse because it feels really heavy. I keep looking over at it to make sure no one steals it. Then I keep telling people not to steal it. I’m amazed at my level of commitment to my bag. A guy comes up and is dancing with us. I think. I’m not sure. He’s in the general vicinity of us.

Then he leans over to me. “I KNOW YOU.”

My eyes widen. That’s never a good start to meeting someone at the bar.


There is NO WAY this story will end well.

I’m scrutinizing this boy in the dim light of the bar. He does look vaguely familiar through my beer goggles.

“You used to date my teammate! Goalie!”

The ball drops. So does my jaw, I’m pretty sure.

Mystique, Macy, and I went over to this boy’s house sometime in 2010, back in the era of drank. The more I awkwardly stare, the more I remember this boy now. Macy had almost hooked up with him. Mystique, I think, had hooked up with his roommate and teammate.  I talked to his friend, Goalie, for awhile, and we had a little fling before I realized that he was way too into me. Remember Goalie?

Well, drunk L.A. definitely did. And she definitely called Goalie FOUR TIMES to tell him that she ran into his teammate. Then proceeded to call the country singer, MusicMan…and then proceeded to call Security.

Hm. Well, at least the lions won. Except they didn’t. Well, at least we all had fun, right?

And by ALL THE WAY...we mean, hey, we made it to the playoffs at least!

One of my dogs must really enjoy porn.

I hate doing laundry. There’s this whole process where I have to bring my laundry basket to the basement then go all the way upstairs and hang out while I wait for it to finish then go all the way back downstairs to change it out and bring it back upstairs and fold it and put it away, etc etc.




I’m in the middle of this tedious process and at some point, I forget to close the basement door. Now. I have two little shit dogs, that due to their immense stupidity and my father’s asthma, are kept in two rooms of the house: the kitchen and the living room. We keep all other doors closed to pin them in.

the little one looks like the creature from the neverending story.


The next day, I’m going to get dressed. My laundry had all been cleaned and put away in their specific drawers and compartments. I grab a pair of undies.

Clearly, I reached into my porn star drawer.

My panties are crotchless. Apparently, one of the damn dogs snuck into the basement when I left the door open. Not only that, he chewed out the crotch of my panties. I’m standing in a matching bra and homemade garter. Even the lingerie I buy isn’t this skanky.

Nearly ALL my underwear has been destroyed, with the exception of two black thongs and some white granny pants that are so old and ugly that I understand why the dogs didn’t go for them.

I’m reminded of those times in life where all your underwear are in the laundry basket. You have the choice: do you want to do laundry? Or do you want to spend some of your hard earned money on some new panties?

Victoria’s Secret is about some serious business from me.

Not that they haven’t before.

Genetics and a collection of stories about VS

When my sister and I were growing up, we were basically two little bitches. We either REALLY loved each other, which involved exciting Barbie games and the like, or hated each other, which involved less exciting Barbie games where generally my Barbie would lose it’s head.

Then we grew older, and learned to appreciate each other.  This is pretty easy when there’s ten hours of distance between you, and an Asian mother who just tends to say really funny shit. Plus, we realized the world balanced out between the two of us. For example, I was street smart, and she was book smart. I could solve Sudoku like no other, and she got her SAT results in the mail saying “CONGRATULATIONS, EVERYONE ELSE IS FUCKING DUMB.”

VS: Age 7. L.A.: Age 5

Her street smarts lead to a number of hilarious moments throughout my life. I now bring you:

Stories that wouldn’t have happened if my parents hadn’t had a huge surprise in 1985.

The year is 2003. VS has just graduated from high school. We’re at Target with her best friend and we’re shopping for her new dorm room.

“Oh, crap.” VS tells us as we heave and ho a giant mini fridge into the cart. “I forgot my wallet in the car! How am I going to pay for my stuff?”

Her best friend and I exchange a look where we wonder how she ever got into college, then remember her near perfect ACT scores.

“VS,” the best friend says. “Why don’t you go out to the car and get your wallet?”

The lightbulb goes off. VS heads for the door.

AND THEN the Target Police got her.

Cue alarms and bells and whistles. Her best friend and I practically pee our pants laughing while VS looks at us with this innocent “WTF did I do” look.

Last Winter. VS is home for Christmas. We’re driving to meet some other Asians for drinks. We get to the bar and the best parking spot available involves parallel action.

“I suck at parallel parking.” I tell her. “How do you feel about walking to the bar from a non parallel location?”

Fuck that shit.” VS tells me. “I can parallel like a pro.”

So we switch places and she does some manuvers with the steering wheel while I try and fail to put eyeliner on.

“Done.” She puts the car into park.

We get out.

// Parking lessons from VS

“VS,” I tell her. “HALF my car is on the curb.”

“Yes,” she responds. “But ALL of it is in the parking spot.”


That brings us to the reason of this post.

  1. Yesterday was VS’s big 26th birthday. I dedicate this post of love to her. If anyone wants to send her some blessings or money or artistic opportunities, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.
  2. The most recent story of “Why my big sister kicks ass and should write a book about it”


VS is at work with her co-worker, who has one of those ridiculously long and hard to spell hyphenated names. The co-worker wants to set up VS on a date.

VS debates over this for awhile. She decides that she will e-mail co-worker about the set up.

“Dear Impossibly long named co-worker,

I’ve decided you may set me up with your friend. However, he must be good in bed.

Best, VS”

However, when she goes to send this e-mail, she can’t remember how to spell the really long name, which conveniently is the co-worker’s email address.

Quick thinking has VS finding the co-worker’s name on an office e-mail.




Yeah. She sent it to the WHOLE OFFICE.


I love you, big sis.

Happy Belated Birthday.