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Jack and Jill went up the hill and then slid down it on the other side on a board and were given a gold medal for their efforts.

*Note from the blogger — prior to publishing this post, a similar post of similar occurances was posted over at Waste Of Heels, a fabulous blog written by the incomparable-even-though-she’s-cheering-for-Canada-today-Lady B. This basically means that she’s me, but in Canada, and you should be reading her post too.

If you live in Michigan, you’re supposed to do winter-y things. Depending on your level of skill, this means sledding, or tubing, or snowman building, or if you’re truly talented, properly cleaning off your car so as to not be that douchebag that drives down the road with it flying off the roof at other motorists.

From the hilarious blogography.com. If you haven’t read that blog, you’ve got issues.

Now, I’m not saying that I don’t have winter activity skills…I’ve successfully built a number of snowmen in my time, and gone sledding and tubing while growing up, and there was this one time when my Girl Scout troop decided it would be an awesome idea to go cross country skiing, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t fall then.

Here am I. In a tube. Getting pulled up a mountain.

Here am I. In a tube. Getting pulled up a mountain.

…but if you haven’t noticed, sometimes I am occasionally…accident prone.

I saw my friend TomSelleck recently, and our conversation went like so:

Him: So do you have any new bruises?

(The answer is no.)

So, when my friend Arrington texted me that he wanted to go snowboarding for his birthday, I was all…

Laura Thought Bubble

I’ve been snowboarding exactly three four times in my life (now including the recent birthday festivities).

The last time I went, while attempting to figure out this “tow rope,” I fell.

That’s right.

Not coming down the mountain, but attempting to go up the damn thing. I fall within the first seconds of holding on to this rope, and since we had decided to try snowboarding on Christmas Eve, the place was basically deserted. No one was around to give me advice or maybe tell me,

DO NOT CONTINUE TO HOLD ONTO THE TOW ROPE.

Which means that I made it up the mountain. Hanging on for dear life to this rope. On my ass.

I showed up to Cannonsburg thinking we’d have a nice klatch of the high school crew, CoSi and FunSized to maybe be as skillful as I am and chuckle the whole way [potentially on my backside] down  the mountain.

It turned out to be Arrington, his girlfriend (who brought her own skis), and me.

FaceBook

Arrington attempted to walk me through the basics of everything so I wouldn’t make a complete ass out of myself, and I actually made it down various hills of various sizes without too much bodily harm or embarrassment.

The Typical “Run” of L.A. down a Mountain on a Board

Start at top of hill. Congratulate self on making it up the mountain on the murderous rope of towing without falling. Strap foot in.

Arrington tells me to make sure that some foot that does something is either in front or in back because that’s the foot I can use for like steering or bracing myself or something like that. There is silent acknowledgement that I do not know how to steer.

Point snowboard down mountain because that seems like a pretty reasonable choice. Began sliding down mountain. Realize that I’m standing and not falling and try to keep my gleeful “sqee” noises to a minimum. I figure a deadpan face will make it look like I know what I’m doing.

The "I'm probably going to hurt myself and laugh about it when the bruises go away" face

The “I’m probably going to hurt myself and laugh about it when the bruises go away” face

Do a sort of turn to keep heading down mountain. Realize that snow seems to help with steering in the fact that it is making me go ways that I don’t think I was choosing to go. Pray that people know to get out of my way. Arrington tells me to use my back leg as a rudder to steer. I think rudders steer boats. This makes sense until another turn makes my back leg my front leg and I realize that I might not have full control of all my limbs and debate what I can blame this on when I inevitably crash.

Probably a spider bite. Paralyzed left leg. Have no control over it.

Realize I’m going incredibly fast. Arrington basically walks up to me because his normal speed is my fast and tells me ways to lean to slow down.

I lean. I slow down. It’s extremely effective. I remind myself to not forget the slowing down part.

Still going fast. Kind of freaking out. Realize that slowing down does not mean stopping and that the end of the mountain is getting close.

Lean. Lean. Lean. Lean. LEAN. LEANING.

Sit down on mountain. Stop. Am reminded of roller blading around my neighborhood as a youth, when I just jumped in the grass and hugged a tree to stop.

Did that on purpose, guys. I’m at the bottom of the mountain, guys. I didn’t even really fall, guys.

this was from the time that I went up the mountain on my ass, because I did not take a photo this time of me on a board because all my limbs were busy trying to keep myself from falling.

this was from the time that I went up the mountain on my ass, because I did not take a photo this time of me on a board because all my limbs were busy trying to keep myself from falling.

The World is Ending and I’m Turning 25.

So I just have to state how amazing my best friend/co-blogger really is. I’m so happy that I have her in my life to keep me sane and to keep our blog alive and well. Bravo, L.A.!!!

I apologize for my absence. Life gets going for me and I get writers block, making it hard to keep in touch.

This morning I received some snail mail from the Secretary of State. The state of Michigan politely reminded me that I’m turning 25 on December 23rd, and my driver’s license will expire. I do wonder if I have to renew since the world is ending on the 22nd. I will have to call customer service and ask. Maybe they have the answer on the ‘Frequently asked Questions’ section of their website.

20121118-220055.jpg

I have been alive for a quarter of a century. Such a monumental moment. I have reached my quarter life crisis. How should I deal with this dilemma? Buy a sport car? Date a younger man? Get hair plugs?

No, none of these excite me so I decided to list the 25 things I have learned by the age of 25. Drum roll, please….

  1. A smile can get you a long way.
  2. If a guy says others think he is an asshole, then he is an asshole.
  3. Never regret paying for an expensive pair of jeans. No one will ever complain that your butt looks too good when wearing them.
  4. Pay attention to how a guy treats his mom. He will treat you the same way.
  5. Love as hard as you can. And never regret it.
  6. Nothing is ever final in life.
  7. Always be overdressed.
  8. Enter every room like you’re in technicolor.
  9. Find your signature perfume.
  10. Write down your goals. You will complete them if you do.
  11. Quit the job you hate. You didn’t want to be there anyways.
  12. Find a reason to laugh at the bad moments in your life, then you will only have good memories in your mind.
  13. You can live without the guy you thought you couldn’t. And you will be happier that you did.
  14. Kill your competition with kindness.
  15. Don’t date him if doesn’t tell you that you look nice on the first date.
  16. Asking questions is the most intelligent thing you can do for yourself.
  17. Always step out of your comfort zone. The mystery is the best part.
  18. Don’t date him if he doesn’t make you laugh.
  19. Your best friends are your true soulmates.
  20. Time is an enemy and a friend. Accept it.
  21. Start a dance floor wherever you go.
  22. Laugh at yourself before others can.
  23. Having a good hair day is like winning the lottery.
  24. Always apply more mascara.
  25. Look at the world differently each day.

After writing this list, I think I have found inner peace if the world does supposedly end on the 22nd of the December.

I’m ready to celebrate my life at the age 25. Who wants to join my party? But, I refuse to scream YOLO…

We’re so lucky our neighbors are nice, eh?

I have a post stored in the back of my mind that I’ve been trying desperately to write — it’s about why my sister and I are not allowed to be funny anymore, and involves Asians, sunglasses, and touch screens. I’ve been trying so hard for you, our beloved readers — lest you be subjected to another post where Poof is cooking but will not share her cupcakes with you.

But then it became my birthday, and while you’re all super cool, today, I am cooler. Which means it’s Birthday Post time!

And when I say birthday post time, I mean, part one of thirteen billion, or however many posts I decide to write. It’s been a fabulous birthday so far, involving birthday hockey, and birthday cake, and birthday movies, and Justin Timberlake, and birthday heels.

Since my birthday decided to fall on a Monday, I decided to make my birthday a weekend long affair. GoldDust offered to wing woman like the true shenanigan master she is.

“Anything you want to do, we’ll do,” she told me. “I’m your birthday bitch.”

I think you all can guess what I wanted to do.

It’s hockey time, bitches.

Boo’s Grandpa had gotten me tickets for my birthday the year before, and this year, try as he might, the planets did not align. It was the last game of the season, after all. But I wanted birthday hockey, so I took off for the Craig’s listings and ticketmasterings and basically hunted and hunted until…

9:27 a. Text to GoldDust: Tots bought tickets! We be up in here at the Joe!

We Up in Here at the Joe!

Problem? It was an afternoon game. Which means getting ready was going to have to be quick. I scrambled for the shower and the make up, and as a last minute addition:

10:56 a. Text to GoldDust: What are your thoughts on glitter?

10:58 a. Text from GoldDust: Amazing!

Superfan, Glittered up. Credit goes to @jeri_berri for the awesome glitter knowledge.

GoldDust and I drove down to the game, parked the car with no trouble and no men slapping her vehicle, as has happened on other occasions. We walked to the Joe, bought our first whalebones, and headed to our seats.

We sang the anthem. We sat. We drank. We watched hockey. Apart from being in the upper level, I had a great view (are there really BAD seats at the Joe? if there are, I haven’t sat in them.), up until…

This happened.

The row in front of us was an entire group of people wearing blue shirts, from somewhere. They were so excited for the hockey. Which is well and good, until you block my view. I look at GoldDust, aghast. I am about to hyperventilate. I cannot see my birthday hockey. The blue shirts are chanting things in french. I don’t know if I can deal with this. Then.

The row behind us now starts heckling the row in front of us.

“Sit down! We can’t see!Words! Phrases! Pull your pants up!”

GoldDust and I exchange looks. We are stuck between loud and louder. What’s a girl to do??!!

Team Canada in front of us makes a toast. More languages. I decide that if I maybe make friends with them, they won’t block my view. So when they bring in their beer cups to cheers, I stick my whalebone in too. Cheers, boys.

We can all be friends.

Lots of things are said then, and I figure things will all be okay when-

“Hey,” comes a voice from behind me. It’s the hecklers. “Nordiques, we’re from Canada too! Windsor!”

I glance behind us. I glance in front of us. “GoldDust. They’re all Canadians. We are completely bordered by Canadians. It is like we have gotten rid of Mexico.”

The Canadians behind us start talking to us then. They appreciate birthday hockey, and buy us birthday drinks. I tell them I’m seventeen, but I’m no longer sure if people believe that, get scared by that, or what.

Either way, they bought me booze.

“GoldDust,” I whisper, as we begin to drink our freshly filled whalebones. “The Canadians bought us drinks. Can I pay them?”

She debates. “Do you still have a Canadian five dollar bill?”

I try to hand off the hockey money bill. They laugh at me for having Canadian money and tell me it’s a birthday drink.

Sweet.

Meanwhile. The blue shirted Canadians are still attracting my attention. One of them is wearing a furry blue Elmer Fudd hat. And I wants it. I wants it real bad.

“How drunk you think I have to be to ask him for that hat?” I ask GoldDust in a whispershout.

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.

“Drunker then this,” she tells me. “Have another drink. Then ask him.”

But for some reason, this answer is unacceptable to me. “But I need it.”

“It’s your birthday,” GoldDust says. “Just take it.”

“…do you think he’ll notice?” I ask. I’m so mesmerized by this hat, that it does not occur to me that he was probably listening to our conversation.

I realize that he definitely was…when he turns around and gives me the hat.

The Canadian, me, and the furry blue hat.

High fives all around.


Until…the game ends. Hard fought battle, but we lost in a shoot out. Which, btw, Datsyuk’s goal totally went in. At least from the upper level, it did. And then, the Nordique took his hat back.

“…but it’s my birthday,” I pout. “Birthday hockey!”

“But it was for my birthday too,” he tells me in his french-canadian talk. “I am 18.”

And thus I immediately gave him the hat back. No more minors in 2012.

We head out and the Windsor Canadians have walked out with us. They can’t believe that he took the hat back. I’m sad too, but it’s okay. There will always be more furry hats. GoldDust and I pass out blog cards to the Canadians and make them take our picture.

My birthday bitch and me 🙂

Then, for good measure, we take a picture with all of them. To prove we are worldly, and that we did meet Canadians. Plus, let’s be serious. I’m turning 25. Which means new driver’s license. And if you didn’t know, in Michigan, that means you can get an enhanced driver’s license.

A.K.A. Passport to Canada.

Happy Birthday to me, eh?

 

This doesn’t REALLY need a witty title, does it?

*See Update! Yay, Updates!*

I hope you’ve read Lady B’s latest before heading over here. The first part sounds like me and my inability to write anything good. Writer’s Block Alert. Thank God I’m on a computer and just hit delete. In paper terms, I’m sure I would’ve killed a tree or seven already.

In fact, after reading Lady B’s blog, I realized the frustration of my life and did this:

Fuck you words, words, words

“I am EXACTLY what you are feeling!” I then proceeded to text Poof about the post.

Nothing I write sounds good. I may have chuckled at what I’ve written when I’ve first written it, but then I read it again a day later…

It’s complete crap. I’m ashamed of it.

Therefore, I present to you:

Last weekend was spent in St. Louis, MO, where I was born. It was my grandma’s 90th birthday. The whole family got together and it was a very nice celebration. My grandma only criticized me once, mostly because I have an adorable child for her to love more than me.

VS also came in for the weekend, which meant we got to spend lots of time dishing about how amusing our family is.

“I remember when we were little, and we aspired to be our parents,” I tell her. “We were so young and innocent.”

“That’s when our parents were cool,” VS responds. “And when we were delusional.”

“Remember when I told you I wanted to be as tall as Dad and you told me Dad was too tall and I’d be a freak?” I remember fondly. “And you said you only wanted to be as tall as Mom.”

“Mom was tall then.” VS is getting a little grumpy now.

When L.A. was five and VS was seven…

L.A.: “I’m going to be as tall as Daddy.”

VS: Daddy is too tall. You’ll be weird looking. I just want to be as tall as Mommy.

When L.A. was twelve and VS was fourteen…

L.A.: “I’m taller than you.”

VS: “You are not. We are the same height.”

Dad: “Typically, younger siblings do grow to be taller than older siblings.”

*Silence*

VS: “I hate that you were born after me.”

L.A.: “I’m so tall!”

When L.A. was sixteen and VS was eighteen…

L.A.: “I’m taller than you!”

VS: “I hate you. You’re annoying.”

L.A.: “Remember when you wanted to be taller than mom? Well, you are!”

VS: “Mom, are there ANY tall people in your family??”

Mom: “Oh, sure!”

VS: “WHO?”

Mom: “My uncle was 5’6”!”

.And THAT, my friends is why my family doesn’t get together that much and also why I haven’t blogged.

*Update

Since my writer’s block has been beating the shit out of me, I decided to instead paint my frustration. And that spawned a Zazzle. And a t-shirt. Which once I get, I will post a picture of me wearing it, and hopefully, it’s irony will kill my writer’s block.

Writer's Block

Frustration via Cartoon.

Find the Writer’s Block Shirt HERE.

Find our new STORE (and by store, I mean, the one T-Shirt) HERE.

Follow us on the TWAT (because three shameless plugs is better than two) HERE.

Love me more by commenting. Which isn’t really a shameless plug if you were going to do it anyway.

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.

REPLY.

PASTE E-MAIL.

SEND.

Yeah. She sent it to the WHOLE OFFICE.

 

I love you, big sis.

Happy Belated Birthday.