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Let them eat timbits! and other things I’d say as a benevolent Queen.

Once upon a time, on a blog far away, Poof wrote a story that would be one of those stories. Everyone has those stories — the ones they tell over and over because they’re just that good.

I love to tell the Zamboni tale, or the time that my Dad accidentally left my sister and me at a gas station, or the time that VS parallel parked my car on the curb. Because the point was that the car was all in the space.

These are the stories that are still funny, or if they aren’t, then I either probably hate you or love you, depending if you’re still laughing.

I went onto timehop today, and came to the realization that there was a story that had gone untold. Two years ago today, I would give up doughnuts. Specifically, cake doughnut holes.

In real life, I tell this all the time: whenever the JumboTron gets mentioned or someone offers me a doughnut hole and thinks I’m completely cracked out because who does not like a tiny hole made of doughnut?

This is the story of the Doughnut Queen


Once upon a time, Poof and I made plans to go to a hockey game. We had a group of girls, a ridiculous amount of Sharpie’d posters saying phrases that probably shouldn’t be allowed around children, and a hotel room for the night. We had the capacity for ridiculous things to happen.

Hotchtics at the Game!

Hotchtics at the Game!

In true form, Poof and I began our day overly excited and exposed to social media.

Twitter: where all things good and wonderful happen.

After all, ever since she and I had both ridden the great bright ice cleaner that is the Zamboni, I’d been crazy gung ho to have Zambattle 2012 happen. Who doesn’t want to see two girls strapped to the top of Zambonis with light sabers battling it out?

zamboni war

That question was clearly rhetorical. Because not long after Poof and I had begun our early morning banter, we had received notification from “the social media guy”.


Everyone likes the idea of a Light Saber Zamboni Battle. Except apparently, safety regulations and the like – which meant that on this day, we might not be able to Zambattle, but we would be fighting on a completely different battlefield.

Baked Goods.

@AyronattheWings offered us in exchange for our light sabers and souls, a Timbit eating contest. It sounded simple enough. Here is a box of doughnut holes.




Thus, we accepted.

Fast Forward.

It’s the first intermission. Poof and I have spent the first intermission trash talking each other about our eating abilities and downing whalebones. We’d been approached at the beginning of the game, and we knew that at some point during the intermission, someone would come fetch us for our shining moment of infamy.

The exact phrase was they’ll come for you.

Doughnut holes should never sound so ominous.

We’re standing in front of a camera with a woman brandishing a microphone. We’re wearing Tim Horton’s shirts that were given to us, because everyone also loves free advertising. We’re movie star waving to our adoring fans as the woman tells the crowd that we’ll have one minute to eat as many doughnut holes as possible.

Start the clock.


Within the first three seconds, things go bad. Bitches gave us powdered sugar. Poof and I both had the strategy of shove as much into your mouth as possible [insert jokes here] because we only have one minute.

We had one minute. We did not have enzymes.

My mouth is full of powdered sugar and cinnamon and doughnut and I have no saliva left.

It’s like the Sahara Desert in here, and I. Cannot. Swallow. [insert more jokes here].

I glance at Poof. She’s looking at me. There are tears in my eyes and I don’t know if they’re from laughing or crying. The woman with the microphone is still counting down and I’m debating if it’s acceptable to drink alcohol on the JumboTron because my whalebone is RIGHT next to me and liquid would be perfection right about now.

Poof eats another doughnut hole. I debate which I hate more – losing or doughnuts, and losing wins. The next doughnut hole was a terrible idea.

Poof and I make eye contact again and a combination of laughter, doughnuts, booze, and peer pressure overload my senses. I hold the box up to my face — more free advertising for Tim Horton’s — and pray to the hockey gods.

For the love of all things holy, please don’t let me throw up on the big screen at a Red Wings game.

And then, in the best display of multi-tasking I’ve ever done, I managed to swallow [jokes], not choke, dodge a doughnut hole thrown at me by Poof, and not throw up on the Joe Louis Arena version of national TV.

They count the remaining doughnut holes. I have two. Poof have four.

I’m simultaneously thrilled and nauseous. I’m both proud of myself and mentally swearing that I’ll never eat another doughnut again. The arena is cheering at the spectacle of it all and I scream out,


As I celebrate, the woman gives me my prize.

It’s a gift card.

For doughnuts.




I did a project on St. Valentine once for my 10th grade religion class. My teacher was a nun, and gave me an A- for seeming completely nonplussed about St. Valentine’s martyrdom.

“Are you happy about this Saint, Laura? He dies.

I wish I had a picture of this nun, complete with sound recording, to show you exactly how distressed she was by my attitude. It ever so perfectly sums up how I am towards Valentine’s day.

I wouldn’t be too surprised too, if St. Valentine was in the same boat as me on today’s culture though — chocolate and hearts and OHMIGOD, I DIED FOR MY RELIGION and all.

Here, in no particular order are my favorite Valentine’s tales of my life, thus far.


1. My first Valentine.

My seventh grade boyfriend and I fostered a great love, that spanned two skating parties, my first kiss, and approximately five months. That’s basically marriage, guys. Love and marriage, Catholic school style. The relationship did pass by a Valentine’s day, which meant we gave each other gifts and stuff — I actually don’t remember what I gave him – color me shocked, as usually I remember everything.

It was probably like…a rhyming poem, typed in size 12, impact font.

But he gave me chocolate and a card. It was very nice, and I remember opening it up, all excited and….

Dear Seventh Grade L.A.,

Seventh grade words of like love and stuff.

From, Seventh Grade Boyfriend

Granted, he drew hearts around the word “from.”


2. When records are broken instead of hearts.

During my splurge of “I don’t know why social media keeps letting me win things,” NeighborGirl and I entered a Red Wings Wing[wo]man contest. 

Goose and Maverick.

Goose and Maverick.

We submitted why we should be allowed to watch hockey on Valentine’s Day.

Men are good at disappointing. There are the men that don’t call, the men that won’t stop calling, and the men that don’t appreciate you. That’s why we want to spend our Valentine’s Day with the Red Wings, the men who have never really let us down. 98 new potentials couldn’t hurt either. This Valentine’s Day, we don’t want chocolates, roses, or even a candlelit dinner. We want cold beer, rowdy fans, and a Red Wings victory. The only red we want to see is blood on the ice.

Which we won, along with a bunch of other single people, which meant that we were watching hockey on Valentine’s Day. This was actually a wonderful Valentine’s Day.


3. Anonymous.

High school really did more of the same thing that middle school did. Holidays would come around and we would send candy to each other to support like…athletics and stuff. I’m not actually sure where the money we spent went. Except the bon bons. If you bought bon bons, you were definitely supporting the Latin Club and the Latin teacher’s probable drinking habit because my latin class was definitely a reason to drink.

By this point of life, I had realized that I was really socially awkward, and had no idea how I’d managed to straggle successfully through my formative years thus far. I was single probably because of all those things, and maybe because I once tried to make a utility belt out of crushed velvet and the back pockets out of a pair of jeans to carry my pens and TI-83 in.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 "punk rock" costume.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 “punk rock” costume.

Weird little L.A.

Imagine my surprise then, and the surprise of my girl friends, when I received a candy-gram.

To L.A.

From: ???

Instead of a message, this person drew an arrow, pointing to the computer printed bear saying Happy Valentine’s Day. We never did find out who sent that one.


4. Nothing says I love you like a text message.

Because the college version of me was so romantic, I chose to send my love not by flowers or candy, but by text.

This was college L.A. You're probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine's now.

This was college L.A. You’re probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine’s now. Please note that I am wearing an NES wristband and have a flip phone clipped to my pocket.

In honor of the holiday, I sent this text off:

Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you!

The response:

Who’s number is this?


5. Finally,  I’d like to direct your attention to Valentine’s conversation with my sister, VS.

“I’m going out with some girls for Valentine’s Day.” VS tells me.

“That’s always so depressing,” I lament.

“No, it’s empowering,” VS argues.

“Oh yes,” I say. “A toast to our empty vaginas!”

VS shrugs this off. “We’ll put chocolate in them.”


Happy Valentine’s Day!

it’s a massacre, guys.

Post Edited – scroll down, friends and lovers.

I took Boo to a hockey game a few weeks ago, because we like hockey and that’s what we do sometimes.

Here we are, hockey gaming.

Here we are, hockey gaming.

It turns out that the game is the annual teddy bear toss, so we stop by the store to get Boo a teddy bear to throw. He’s excited, guys.

And then the bears start flying.

Boo: Is it time?

Me: Yeah, you can throw the bear now.

Boo: We’re too high, it won’t go that far.

Me: We can go closer so you can throw it.

Now, we’re sitting in the upper bowl…

This is KINDA high up.

This is KINDA high up. That’s Boo’s head.

…and the kid has a point, so we start moving closer so he’ll have an easier time of getting the bear onto the rink.

Boo: Where do I throw it?

Me: On the ice, see all the other bears?

Boo: Throw him on the ice?

Me: Yeah, see how everyone else is?

Boo: …

Boo: …

Boo: …he’ll get cold.

Me: I think they’ll warm him up.

Boo: …

Boo: …

Boo: …he’ll get wet.

Me: I think they’ll dry him off.

At this point, volunteers are on the ice to start boxing up all these flying teddy bears. The players start helping gather the bears. That’s when it gets really fun.


Me: Just throw the bear, bud.


Me: No, they’re just helping to gather the bears up.

Boo’s face is a cross between Puss in Boots and the Screamer. This isn’t a good cause. This is not for the childrenlike Mommy told him. This is a mother-effing massacre.


Me: Baby, just throw the bear. It’s not hurting the bears.


Me: They’re not hurting the-


And that’s how Dash the polar bear joined our family.

Boo and our new friend Dash and his hockey bell.

Boo and our new friend Dash and his hockey bell.


I’m mildly amazed at the amount of popularity this post has gotten…

[Almost] FAME. I'm gonna live forever.

That’s the blog. [Almost] FAME. I’m gonna live forever.

…and the various tweets and facebook posts from people who have enjoyed this post (all the good karma to you people) — amazed to the point where I read the whole thing out loud to Boo, as I sometimes do when it involves cute things he says, minus the swears Mommy adds when she writes it.

Mommy: “…and that’s how Dash the polar bear joined our family.”

Boo: He’s a pretty good bear.

Mommy: He taught Mommy that we will probably not be going to the teddy bear game next year.

Boo: He taught me that the only thing we throw at hockey games is the octopus.

I killed a man in Reno.

I mean, I didn’t really kill a man in Reno. But I’m working on my alibi for as to why it looks like I was attacked by an angry kitten.

I went to soccer tonight with every intention of playing, dying, then coming home, posting a video, winning a bet and then going to sleep. This was not in the cards.

I’m on the field. A guy is coming at me with the ball. At the last second, he turns and goes into me with his shoulder. His shoulder, full force into my face. I fly off my feet, like I always do and land. My face hurts.

I yell things.

Poof would later tell me I went down in a puddle of fucks.

The guy keeps going but the ref blows the whistle.

“I didn’t even hit her!”

I yell more things. I’m bleeding.

I run off the field.

The front desk staff MacGyver‘s an ice pack for me and some ladies on the bench debate if I need stitches.

Nobody makes me bleed my own blood.

Nobody makes me bleed my own blood. Photo courtesy to Poof, because she wanted the blood in the picture.

So, the game ends, and I tell everyone and their mother about my lip. And that’s about when I decide this is much more important than a fitted sheet.

Reaction 1. Poof, from her perspective.

Reaction 2. Soccer v. Hockey


Hockey Friend: You’re so dramatic. Hockey players cut their lips all the time and go back and play.

Me: It wouldn’t stop bleeding!

Hockey Friend: You’re so dramatic!


Reaction 3. TwitterVerse.

Reaction 4. L.A. converses with her father.

Me: Hey Dad.

Dad: You’re home.

Me: Yup.

Dad: OH! You’ve got a brute.

Me: Yup.

Dad: …well, I’m sorry.

Me: Thanks.

Dad: Who’d you piss off?

*Update: upon waking up this morning, the cut had not healed, but instead had decided to bleed all over my bed. It was like waking up in a horror movie. So, I headed to an urgent care, and the old man doctor glued my lip together, so it wouldn’t keep re-opening. Then he warned me to “limit my mouth actions.”

*Update Two: upon the re-hashing of the tale with Poof, the following discussion happened.

Blood and words


So, you owe a thank you to Poof for the painting with the words, to match my painting my tale with my blood. HashTag. BloodBrothers.

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Here’s to you, here’s to me, friends forever we shall be.

This post was actually written a number of months ago. Shit happened. I didn’t post it. Time passed. I now feel better about posting it. Thanks, life. You’re awesome. You too, twitter. You’re awesome too.

I’m amazed at the fact that it’s hangover Saturday, I’m having trouble keeping down orange juice, I cried in my car last night, and I’m blogging.

Yeah. I’m a trooper.

Last night, Alto came over and we headed downtown for the opening night of the Griffins. Thank goodness for the AHL gods keeping their hockey going even if the NHL can’t figure things out. One of my friends, Photog, was down there too, for other reasons than mine (those namely being yelling, watching hockey, and ingesting dollar beers).

We met up during the game, and made plans to meet up afterwards. We figured Gardella’s. He wasn’t a fan (probably just has never had a one legged lesbian), so right after the game, Alto and I headed there to get some food and drink before he met up.

Cue the obligatory bathroom shots.

After awhile of being there, I found out he was at a different bar, and we abandoned a giant tray of cheese fries to meet up.

He was at another bar with some of his friends when we met him.

“So,” asks Friend One. “How do you guys know each other?” He mentions to me and Photog.

Cue awkward glance. Cue L.A.’s awkward words.

“Well,” I head into a mangled explanation of words and phrases involving following various people on twitter which eventually had me following Photog, then DMing when we randomly both ended up at a graduation where I was watching LittleBro graduate and Photog was graduating.

How Photog and L.A. became friends.

Hashtag: Random.

“Oh,” says Friend One. “So you’re friends with [twitter person]?”

“Friends…twitter friends…” I’m drunk by now. I think I said something to that extent. I must sound like a chatch.

A shot comes and Friend Two asks what we should toast to.

“To Twitter!” proclaims Friend One.

Cue to the next morning.

For some reason, I can’t get the twitter talk out of my head. I mean, five years ago, how was I making friends?

We “officially” met when BabyDaddy told me he was taking me out to a movie and had neglected to tell me that he had also asked Mystique. He had told her the same thing, in reverse. AWK.COM.

Granted, five years ago, things were still random, but everything connected through people. It’s five years later, and I’m basically making friends completely through technology.

Thus, I posted to the twitter.

There are a number of people on twitter I probably have more regular contact with than some of my real life friends. Weird. I honestly wonder about the divide between where someone is your friend specifically through social networks — to where someone is your friend that beyond that — hanging out, actually seeing each other, sharing a drink, etc.

Especially with my consternation in place, the response was a little ridiculous. It seems like everyone has managed to connect with a friend who made the transition from twitter friend to real life friend.

It’s funny if you think about it then, that twitter seems to create new friendships, while facebook seems to weaken existing ones. Ever heard of the defriend button, after all? If you’ve ever been defriended or done the defriending, do you still at all consider that person to be a friend? Or once the internet disconnects you, do you try to keep the connection in real life?

Twitter seems to do just the opposite and constantly be creating those connections, which…according to everyone, could eventually lead to real life friendship.

Take Photog, for example. His tweets might not be as amusing as mine (He’s admitted that), but we did end up connecting through twitter. And meeting. And becoming friends.

Back to last night…

“What should we toast to?” asks Friend Two.

“To Twitter!” says Friend One.

…well. Alright.

To twitter!

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.


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?


In which I actually know all the word’s to Canada’s National Anthem.

My mom is originally from the Philippines. I’m sure you know that by now. Which means that she was born there and she grew up there and she also has a large amount of family there. Not here. Although, a great number of them have come to Canada…which is super close by.

Translation: Road Trip!


Hi, it’s my mom and me in Canada!


I was going to post about this before, but then we actually came to Canada, and let’s be honest —

Who can even think of posting when Dudley Do Right is traipsing down the street singing “Oh Canada” at the top of his lungs?

Am I right? Eh?

I’m totally kidding. Granted, while I’m in this fair country, my money is worth less, I hear millions of languages, and so many men walking past are talking about hockey that I might pee myself. But there is really no time to blog.

Plus, since Toronto is uber multicultural, my mom keeps making friends.

Strange Filipino folk, at the boat we went on, on the island we were on, at the gas station, in line for the effing bathroom…

Stranger(In my Mom’s native tongue): Oh Em Gee, you are the Philippines,  yeah?

Mom: I don’t talk to strangers. I’m white with a great tan.

Me (in English): Mom. You aren’t even that tan for an Asian. They know. They all know.

Mom (in Tagalog now): Hey! Yeah! I’m the Philippines too! Where are you from, who do you know, how strange that we have found each other in this corner of the world!

Next post. How I got another cousin.