Let Me Blow Your Mind

I'm not romantic. Shocking.


RL: I have to tell you something. I really really really like you.
Legalmisfit: Hummm. I'm going to have to sit on that for a few days.


1/2 a week later:


RL: Why is it that you have that way of taking my breath away?
Legalmisfit: I dunno. Maybe you're really asthmatic?

Random Act of Kindness #83972

I don't sit in the emergency exit on airplanes.

I should, because that window seat has the most legroom, barring there's no seat in front. But I push aside my selfish tendencies for the rest of the 180 passengers on the plane, and take another window seat.

Why is this a random act of kindness?

Because I sleep on flights. I sleep on a flight like a bear hibernates. Does Southwest still serve peanuts? No clue. Haven't gotten a bag in years. For all I know drinks aren't allowed. I'm talking I zonk out before 3/4 of the passengers are even on the plane, and I don't wake up till the plane taxis in.

I sleep through all weather announcements.
I sleep through the safety pow-wow (although I have stayed awake long enough on one flight to know that you have to manually inflate your own life vest.)
I sleep through the raising and lowering of landing gear.

Its the last one that scares me the most. Who the fuck sleeps through landing gear? Apparently me.

So Sunday night I get on the plane and immediately start sleeping. I wake up, and boy am I surprised that there is someone in the middle seat. I look around and its a completely packed flight. Then I look out the window, and we're on the runway. I'm thinking, 'shit-slept through the whole flight AGAIN.' I take off my seatbelt, and the lady next to me is looking at me weirdly. Oh. Seems we never took off. We're just camped out on the LAS runway. Hee hee.

I go back to sleep.

Wake up.
Look out the window.
Still see runway.
Turn to the lady and say, 'humm...we're still in Vegas?' 'Nope. Now we're in Los Angeles.'

High Five

My weekend in Vegas was nothing short of AWESOME!! First and foremost, I placed at a poker tournament!!! Granted, the buy in was only $25, but there were 4 tables and I made it to the final table!!
For the majority of the hands, I didn't realize I won until the dealer pushed the chips in front of me.
For the majority of the hands, I was scared shitless.
For the majority of the hands, I was a poser. Every once in a while when I get the poker itch, I watch one of the WSOP tourneys on tv. There's always a guy or two that wears the hoodie, the shades, and the headphones. This time, I was that guy, sans shades. On the one hand, it was working because duh-I was winning hands. On the other hand, it wasn't working because I didn't know I was winning hands. Once, the dealer even said to me, 'Honey-you need to take that shit out of your ear and pay attention.' Yeah. Brutal.

BUT I PLACED!!!!!

Annie Duke be afraid. Be very afraid. I have no strategy. I'm basically comedy for the rest of the table.
One guy was trying to stare me down. Trying to get in my head. Let me tell you that's a bad idea. It's a waste of time. I'm a newbie at poker. I don't know enough to think about what hands can be made, and what cards the other players have. No. I'm not that advanced. What was I thinking about the whole time? Dinner. What a waste to try to read my mind.

I also saw Cirque Du Soleil's Love show. Which was the bomb. I can't say enough about how truly awesome it is, except that you HAVE to see it. My excitement during the show was equivalent to my excitement at Disneyland. It was THAT good.

I lost money at craps. But let's not speak of that since I did lose money, and I don't like focusin' on the negative.

That's Sampson. He's one of the coolest dogs around. I want a dog. Like him, but not nearly as hyper.
I'm off to Vegas. Wish me luck! B school apps are expensive and I sure as shit could use some money.

J-Unit visited me. With her by my side, I blew money like there was no tomorrow. I bought a wool coat. A WOOL COAT. I work and spend the majority of my time in Santa Monica. SANTA MONICA where its in the 70s in November. When the fuck am I going to get the opportunity to wear a WOOL COAT?

That's not the worst of it. I actually bought two. I know, I know. I haven't stumbled on a day to wear one of them, I'm not so sure both are going to be used. I have walked around my bedroom with them on though. But I don't think that counts for anything.

So imagine my surprise when we went to the BMW dealership to kill time beefore her flight and I didn't walk out with a new car. I know...shocking.
We saw this beautiful, absolutely gorgeous 5 series BMW sitting on the lot. Supposedly the owner totally went to town and got every damn option available. The only thing left to do was put an M5 engine in it. His company shipped him overseas, and the car couldn't tag along, so there it was on the lot. For 10k under what he should have paid. GORGEOUS. Too bad I wasn't in the market for a sedan.

Too bad I didn't have the nearly 60k to spend on a car. So I do the next best thing. Tell everyone I know about it hoping that someone will bite.

And someone does! One of my coworkers.

Legalmisfit: OMG it was specatular! It had everything on it-its just one step below an M5. You've got to see it! Its silver, only has 500 miles on it, and is going for 57 and change.
KT: I'll swing by this weekend and see if its still on the lot and take a look at it.
Legalmisfit: I get a ride in it if you get it!!!! I'll even call the dealership right now to see if its still there.

I call the dealership. The guy tells me there is no silver 5 series BMW on the lot, and there hasn't been one on the lot for a while. I say, 'Hell no-I was just there a few days ago and it was on the lot. Maybe it sold.' To which he replied, 'No-I'm looking on the computer and a silver one hasn't been sold within the past week.' I'll skip all the minor details, but basically, after 5 minutes of a somewhat heated argument, he tells me that the car he thinks I'm talking about is actually white. And going for 59k. The 2k part I don't give a shit about. But seriously, how do I mix up silver and white? I chalk it up to the fact that it had just finished raining and the whole car was littered with raindrops. Made the car look silver when it was white. This is nothing short of an egregious mistake, so I txt J-Unit.

Legalmisfit: Dude-that 5 Series was silver, right?
J-Unit: Ummm...no. I think it was black.

This makes the whole silver-white debacle look petty, right? So I had to go back and tell my coworker, KT, that no, it isn't silver. No, it isn't white. It's black. He replied with something I'm not going to repeat but along the lines of feeding him misinformation and being blind.

Hummph.

Oh-by the way, I look hot in my wool coats. Well, as hot as I can possibly look seeing as how the important parts are completely covered.

You Stupid Girl

I think your idiocracy is rivaled only by your laziness.

My First Time Ever

Oh all you lurkers-get your head out of the gutter! (I know who you are!). Last week I worked a charity event. It entailed me helping models dress for a runway show. This was a bigger deal than I thought. Volunteers were asked to wear comfy clothing, being that we're dressing models, we should not be in stiletto heels hobbling around. Ok cool-I wore a long sleeve, jeans, and Converse. I figured there'd be a back entrance. NOPE. Walked the damn red carpet. So I'm not sure what was worse-the fact that I thought I looked like a slob, or the fact that when I walked, all the paparazzi put their cameras down and the lights went out. Fabulous.

The main concept of being a dresser for a model is that they can't dress themselves. Literally. With their hair and make-up all done up, they can't risk getting foundation or lipstick on the collar of their tops and whatnot. This is what they didn't tell us about dressing models-if you have kids, you're going to be a pro at it. Try putting a top on a model when she's trying to put on earrings. I wanted to yank her arms out. This was after I wanted to throw up. Models are deathly skinny. You don't realize just how skinny until you're standing two inches away. You don't realize just how skinny until your nose is half a centimeter from their knees because you're trying to tie their shoelaces for them. How skinny was model? My model's first outfit included silver hotpants. No joke. And a silver jacket that barely covered her non-existent assets.

These models are 6 feet tall. Without shoes. And their calves are the size of my wrists. I wanted to throw up. But I'm smarter than that. That and I just bought some Ben & Jerry Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream.

Ye Shall Know The Truth

I love all those one hit wonder songs. They're sappy. They're catchy. They're all right up my alley. So up my alley that I have 38 of VH1's Top 40 Worst One Hit Wonder Songs. I had them before the show aired.

Yesterday I was yapping with one of the IT dudes and I mentioned how shocked I was that my new i-Pod did not have any Milli Vanilli songs. For some reason they didn't make it from my old laptop to my new laptop, and subsequently didn't make it into my new i-Pod. So today, he BRINGS IN his Milli Vanilli CD. Yes!! Someone owns it!!! As a tribute, I've played the CD the whole day. Not the whole CD, because lord knows they weren't that good. But I had 4 songs on repeat. Their only famous 4 songs. But that's 3 more than a one hit wonder.

So here I am in my cube jamming to 'Blame It On The Rain.' Life is good. General Counsel (GC) walks by, stops three steps pass my cube, turns around, and starts laughing at me (I'm actually quite used to this now). We wax nostalgic about Milli Vanilli, and he says, 'Rob and Fab.' Whoah-you know their names?? Yes! I had their CD when I was a kid!! Once again, this is GENERAL COUNSEL talking.

Not to be outdone, the Chief Compliance Officer walks by, and informs us that she WENT to a Milli Vanilli concert way back when because her kids wanted to go. It was a show with Paula Abdul and some other washed up 90s star.

And this is why my group gets along so well.

You can pinch his cheeks. 5 bucks for one, 8 bucks for both (College ain't cheap).

What exactly are 'nutmeats'??

Tabula Rasa

For the past few days I've been having a crisis. Not a mid-life crisis because I can't afford a Porsche, but I guess it'd be considered something similar. It all started with the Dodgers game last week. The Dodgers game I went to and had a blast at. The Dodgers game where I was on the outset of celebrity.

It was a foul ball. Most people sitting in the area where foul balls are prone usually bring a glove. I didn't. First and foremost, because I don't own a glove. A close second is the fact that even if I did own one, I wouldn't catch the ball anyway. Whenever something scary is about to happen, I usually close my eyes and start humming. Trust me, it's hard to catch a ball when your eyes are closed and you're rocking. Its hard to catch anything besides weird stares.
But the section I was sitting in was behind a net, which serves the distinct purpose of ruining pictures and saving our lives from foul balls.

Except this one. It was in the latter half of the game, and the foul ball went up high and looked like it was coming down in my section. Fight or flight. What do I do? Grab my purse, stick it over my head and start chanting to myself. I know people have gotten hurt big time from attempting to catch a foul ball with their bare hands. I can't imagine the damage it'd inflict on a noggin. My noggin for that matter. And this being a baseball game? The seats are somewhat akin to an airplane. TIGHT FIT. There's no where to run. I can't dive onto the floor (I seriously contemplated that at the beginning of the game) because there's about 1.3 inches from my friend's knee to the back of the seat in front of him. So I shrivel up and chant underneath my purse.

Here's the thing: I always thought that in life or death situations, your life is supposed to flash before your very eyes. Trust me-I perceived this as one of those situations. HB and LG didn't think so. In fact, they were laughing at me. I was a one woman side show...
But anyway, so I was scared. Scared shitless. I DO NOT want to be beaned by a baseball. What if I go into a coma? I don't even know what kind of medical insurance I have. I assume I have medical insurance. Which hospitals are good? What if I get brain damage? So many questions so little answers. This I chalked up to a 'life or death' moment. What do I expect to be running through my head? Oh I dunno-maybe good memories? I'll even take some bad ones to mix things up. But NO. Nothing. No memories, no good throughts, no questions about the pearly gates (assuming I go up and not down). My mind was BLANK.

My conclusion: I haven't done anything worthwhile with my life. I'm almost 30, and I have a couple of degrees behind my name. I can't drive, don't know cardinal directions, and love ice cream. That about sums me up in one sentence. Hence, my crisis. As I was telling my coworkers, even Britney's done enough to last two or three lifetimes. I haven't done enough to fill up 10 seconds worth of time while I'm waiting to see if I'll get clocked with a baseball.

Sad.

I've done a ton of work with the Make A Wish Foundation of Greater Los Angeles. While that's fun and all, I think that that's basic. I firmly believe that everyone should do some kind of community service to make society a better place. So, I haven't done anything significant. Like cure AIDS. Or save someone from drowning. The only thing I've done is help an old lady across the street. And throw out the kitchen trash on a periodic basis...

A dash of ambition, two shakes of luck, a swirl of delirium

From: Legalmisfit
Sent: Monday, October 01, 2007 10:25 AM
To: EA; CT
Subject: RE: lunch tomorrow

Yeah—I’m trying to lose weight too. Don’t believe me? Ask Clint.

While we’re on the whole losing weight topic, here’s my new goal: to get Britney’s body (pre-marriage and subsequent downward spiral) before Britney does.

I know-lofty goals.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
EA's response???
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From: EA
Sent: Monday, October 01, 2007 10:32 AM
To: Legalmisfit; CT
Subject: RE: lunch tomorrow

I think that’s awesome. My goal is to make Beckam look like a couch potato… Talk about lofty goals

Think Blue

Earlier this week I went to a Dodgers game. My work thought that my coworker LG and I did a good job, well...at our job, so we got rewarded with some kick ass seats at a Dodgers game. When we got our tickets, the Dodgers were still in the running for a spot at the playoffs. We were stoked.

Oh boy-what a difference two weeks makes. By the time our game rolled around, the only way the Dodgers were going to go to the playoffs was if they won every game AND Arizona loses the rest of their games AND San Diego loses the rest of their games AND Colorado loses the rest of their games. Hold on...the Dodgers still probably don't have a chance.

Oh well.

But here's a pic of LG and I at the game. This was how close we were! 13 rows from the bottom!!!

Here's the thing about baseball games-they're actually not boring. Its a whole different world when you're at the game than when you're camped out in front of the tv watching. So LG and her sister left during the first or second inning (I can't remember which) to get food. They come back and the Rockies have scored two.

Legalmisfit: We're losing
LG: OMG what happened?!?!
Legalmisfit: I dunno. I was too busy looking for David Duchovny.

Yes, that was our actual conversation. And David Duchovny really was there. I have to give credit to HB-he's got hawk eyes. Me? Not such much. I didn't even believe him at first. So I'm going to add him to my list of celebs I've seen.

The parts of the game I saw were good. This meaning, yes, I wasn't watching the whole game. But I have A.D.D. so much can't be expected of me in the first place. Between looking for David Duchovny, eating a Dodger Dog, eating garlic fries, trying to find the damn malt guy (note to the uneducated like me-malt IS NOT ice cream), getting whiplash from trying to find the wave, and eagerly anticipating the 7th inning stretch, I really wasn't concentrating on the game. But it was fun and I had a blast.

Fight or Flight

You know that civilian who will run into a burning building because he see grandma on the second floor trapped? Or the guy who will run into the street to save a dog when a car comes barreling down? Well, I am neither of those.

My brain and body aren't equipped for 'fight or flight.'

A decade ago I visited my brother up in Washington state and we went white water rafting. I distinctly remember the instructor telling us not to hold onto anyone if they're falling out of the raft. On the raft floor are flaps that you put your inside foot in so you won't fall completely out. So if you grab onto someone by their arm, he runs the risk of dislocating a joint. Ouch. I remember the instructor telling us this before we began rafting.

Halfway through we hit a pretty big wave. Lo and behold, my brother starts flying out. Of course his foot is secure in the raft. And of course I lunge and grab his arm. I'm holding onto him for dear life. And of course I remember the instructor telling everyone not to do exactly what I am doing. But duh-I'm not letting go.

I CLEARLY DON'T FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS.

Last night I cooked for the first time in my new crib. Roomie wasn't around, and I told him that I'd get a fire extinguisher, but I didn't, which means I had to be super careful. I did, however, buy a small bag of flour. It had the capacity to put out a match.
I like searing chicken first and then dumping it in the oven to finish cooking. Especially with white meat-it keeps it from drying out. Before I start cooking the chicken on the stove, I go to see if I know how to work the oven. It has all over three knobs, but trust me, these things are difficult. I don't know when to preheat, but I think now is as a good a time as ever, so I turn the temperature to 350. Immediately I smell gas. Not gasoline like at Shell (that smells good), but the natural gas smell. Uh oh...and then there's a little ticking sound going on. I'm not sure what it is, but it can't be good.

I think most people would have immediately turned off the oven and ran. Either or. Both would be fantastic. Me? What do I do? I stand five inches away from the oven and count each tick I hear, similar to counting sheep at night. After counting to 45, I'm bored, so I walk to the stove, poke my chicken a few times with the pasta scooper, and throw it on the stove.

I'm surprised I'm still alive.

You Know I'm Bad, I'm Bad-You Know It

I've ordered a knife set and a spice rack from Amazon. It shipped Friday, and should get here by the 17th. I don't know why anything shipping from inside the US to another place also inside the US takes more than 2 weeks, but hey-I don't make the rules here. I got the spice rack because I was appalled that Roomie didn't have one. The apartment apparently doesn't come equipped with salt and pepper either. Well, now that I think about it, the spice rack doesn't come with salt and pepper. So I guess in two weeks I'll still be in the same boat. Hummm...
I sprung for a knife set because Roomie doesn't have one of those either. When I asked him, he replied, 'I have a knife or two.' Oh boy. One day I was digging in a drawer for said knives, and almost walked away sans 3 fingers thanks to his uncovered bread slicer =(
So knives and spices it is.

I tell Roomie that I bought these things when we're out at lunch. My life is so mundane that buying spices and knives is considered news. I give him hell because he doesn't have salt and pepper. And he responds with something along the lines of, 'I'm a guy-I don't cook. That's your job!!!!' So I fired back, 'Boy-I can poison you so fast...'

So let's now assess my two week stay here:
1) I've warned him of a possible fire as a result of my culinery skills
2) I've threated to poison him

I see the wheels in his head turning, wondering what kind of mess he got himself in by signing me on.

Black as You Wanna Be

Here's the thing: I love video games but I suck at them. I'm not big on violent gory stuff too. Or maybe I just love the idea of video games. Actually, I just love Yoshi and all the Mario Brothers characters (minus Daisy and Peach). Since Roomie is more mature than I, (or maybe Mario is seen as childish) he plays the 'adult' games complete with gore and carnage.

He's got a subscription to Game Fly, and this week, the game was Def Jam Icon. The sleeve mentioned something along the lines of 'starting a record label and signing artists.' I thought it was like a journey-similar to Donkey Kong. HELL NO. You're suppose to open a can of whoop ass on your opponent to the beat of the music. I think that's the part where EA was trying to integrate the music aspect of Def Jam into the game more so than its predecessors. Hubcaps spin and twinkle to the beat of the song. Roomie fought Luda. He fought Redman. He fought T.I. He fought Young Jeezy (who the fuck is Young Jeezy?)

Here's the amazing thing: after an hour, Roomie was kicking ass and taking names! He's the whitest white boy I know. I'm Asian and have urbandictionary.com favorited. Neither of us understood half of what was said. Maybe it was the Ebonics? Maybe it was the poor grammar? It was just incomprehensible.

So there's the option of building your own gangsta rappa. Or fighter. Whatever. I'm impressed with the amount of detail put into building your own person. Everything was adjustable. From the color of the eyes, to the shape of the eyes, to how high the cheekbones were-absolutely everything was changeable. And in the middle of it Roomie asked, 'How black do we want him?' Yes, even that was an option. Our guy (named aptly: Playa) did so well that he got $1,000 to go buy clothes. We're trying to sign on more people and get richer so we can afford to get him a grill (priced around $35,000). I'm not sure what the goal of the game is, but now I'm hell bent on getting him a grill. That's how we roll.

Denied

I love my new home. Its very comfortable, and by that I mean its nice but not over-the-top. Its tastefully decorated, lots of open space, and comfy. The thing I love about the complex is that someone was nice enough to steal three shopping carts and keep them in the garage. I know-it seems ghetto until you realize that without it, you're going to make 4 trips up and down to get all groceries in. Since I'm in the process of moving, I have much more than just groceries. So here I go loading up the cart. Groceries at the bottom of the cart. Then I have a garbage bag fully of dirty laundry that I threw in. Over the sides of the cart I draped the dry cleaner I just picked up. On top of that was a bag of toiletries, and a bag of miscellaneous items. This cart was chalked full of stuff. Across the garage I go. Up the elevator, and down the hallway. None of the flooring is carpet either, mind you. Its looks almost like huge brick pieces. I know I'm going to do this again tonight and tomorrow night. I'm seriously thinking of investing in some ear plugs it was so damn loud. The safari animals in Africa probably woke up.

Too bad I was so excited about my new place-otherwise I would have just felt homeless. I totally had the look down: dirty jeans, hair unkempt, huge part of my life wheeled in a shopping cart.

This is going to be my downfall in my new home: I can't get in. The lock doesn't turn for me. I had this problem when I first picked up keys, and two days ago when Lisa and I dropped off some items during our lunch hour. 5 minutes I'm fiddling with this lock. The door will not fucking open! So now here I am, sweating profusely, near tears, and my shopping cart is somewhat warped and threatening to roll away from me. AND I CAN'T GET IN!!! (notice how I'm already calling the shopping cart 'mine'?)

I call Lisa and ask her how to open my door. Her words, not mine: 'You have to be gentle with it-slide it in slowly and out again a couple of time, and maybe wiggle it around some.' (what are we talking about??)

Either way it didn't work. So the only thing I can think of doing is trucking the shopping cart back down to the garage. What a way to announce my presence. Off I go again clanking and baning down the hallway. At this point I'm not sure what to do. Oh-on top of all this I NEED TO PEE.

Finally I break down. I go introduce myself to my new neighbors and say, 'hello! I live next door and can't get in. Can you please teach me how to work the lock?'

I can't remember the last time I was so excited to be inside. Oh wait-probably the last time I had a tall cup of coffee and then ended up sitting for 45 minutes in traffic.

My roomie came home much later. I informed him that under no circumstance was I to leave the town home again. I'll deplete my checking account, savings account, stocks and mutual funds (in that order). Once I'm down to only having enough for a month's rent, I'll put in my 30 days. His response? 'Cool!'

New Home

I signed the lease to my new digs this afternoon. Exciting. I can't wait to move. My new roomie, E-Dawg, is showing me around the building, and we're discussing, among the communal things, what he has and what he needs.

Me: Do you have pots and pans and bowls and that kind of stuff?

Him: Yeah. It should be enough for us.

Me: Ok. Good. I don't know how to cook, but I like to try once or twice a month. Do you have a fire extinguisher??

Him: ...

Me: I don't want to burn down your place...

Him: Oh-I like the way you think

I was tempted to ask and make sure he had fire insurance and that it'd cover stupid acts like me attempting to cook. But then I don't want him to kick me out before I've even moved in.

I Spy

Last night I had dinner w/ H and L from my old job. I left that place after oh...6 months. My job description: watching paint dry. Only H has been a trooper and has hung in there for over a year.
So we met up at Cafe Brasil, which is a hole-in-the-wall Brazilian restaurant. The food is awesome. And Chris Tucker was there! He looks a lot bigger in person. By bigger, I mean buff. Maybe its just his voice, but whenever I see him in movies (which is just...Rush Hour), he seems scrawny. Not in real life! But this was uber exciting. My two younger cousins can't believe that I worked in Beverly Hills for 6 months and didn't see Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan and the gaggle of paparazzi that hover inches away. They weren't impressed with me seeing Larry King or Jamie Lee Curtis. Oh well-you can't win 'em all.

Vegas Baby! Vegas!!

I told myself that as a goal, I'm going to get my passport stamped every year. So where's the first place I go after vocalizing my new goal??? Vegas. Yeah...

But this was my annual company party. And boy, can my co-workers party. Big time. They go all out.
The top pic is a shot of the strip from the club Mix, which is the 64th floor of THEhotel in Mandalay Bay. My company had tables set up with all you can drink alcohol. This is actually from my camera. That's how much the view ROCKED. Sadly, I couldn't hang with the drinking. Because...




Before Mix, we had dinner and drinks at Border Grill. And when I say drinks I mean drinks with a capital S. I started off with a margarita.


Didn't care much for that drink, and since the alcohol was free, I got a Grey Goose Cran. Uhhhh...yummmy. I followed that with a shot of Petron. And then another shot of Petron.

Shortly afterwards two lemon drops. Those sneaky bastards. I was good. For about ten mins. Things went sour fast. REAL FAST. I had to high tail it up to the hotel room and make nice with...well...you know.

Although Border Grill is inside Mandalay Bay, its quite the hike from the hotel elevators to the restaurant. Like a 5 mile hike. I swear months had passed by the time I made it up to the room. I swear I spent no more than 5 minutes up there, but when I made it back down to Border Grill, there was an APB out on me. I walked back to my table, sat down, and got the stink eye from the hostess. 'YOU!' He glared at me. 'YOU!!! We were looking all over for you!!!' I think I really scared the shit outta the guy. Poor guy. Had the whole hotel looking for me. I guess its not such a hot idea to down 4 shots in 25 minutes. Kinda fucks with your brain. Guess that's also why the hostess let me walk out with a huge bottle of flat water.

I had to take a nap after dinner.

One hour later, when my mind unfucked itself, it was off to Mix.


There's another pic but I don't think I'm not allowed to post it. Something about scandal or whatnot...well...you know...what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

For best results, use the right fingers

I've never taken a bowling before. How hard can it be? Swing your arm back, then swing it forward and let go of the ball. That was my strategy. These were the results. ('L' is Leese-one of my coworkers)


A whopping 54!!! One of my coworkers so eloquently put it, "Wow. Its actually kind of hard to score that low..." It IS hard to gutter 4 consecutive times!!
I'm going to chalk up game 1 to me not bowling for roughly 3 years. This was the Game 2 score. Much better!

81!! And I started off with a spare! Wheee! Here's the thing about the way I bowl-its slow. I'm talking molasses slow. Paint drying slow. So slow that you can put a load of laundry in the washing machine, and then hang dry it slow. The lane to my right was occupied by two kids, I'm talking middle school-high school age. Bowling etiquette dictates that one person bowls at a time. So I'm up at the same time one of the guys is up, and he nods in my direction to let me go first. I bowl. Then he bowls. His pins realign and he's about to finish out the frame. MY BALL IS STILL ROLLING. WTF. This is why I suck at bowling. The ball all but stops right in front of the pins.

Speed wasn't my only problem.

Nor was it my biggest.

My other coworker joins us. He is Mr. I-Used-To-Bowl-In-A-League. Oh it shows in the score. But...after watching him bowl his first frame, a lightbulb turns on. I've been bowling using my index and middle finger! This is probably why every time I bowl I've broken those fingernails. And subsequently, why I think the 10 lb ball is way too heavy. So once I started bowling with the correct fingers (my form was all fucked up and will continue to stay that way), my score improved yet again!!

So close yet so far away from a 100.

Lifestyle of the Poor and not so Famous

Television has never been a big part of my life. I didn't grow up with cable, so back in high school, MTV was like Santa Claus-I'm sure he existed, just never saw him. I didn't have cable throughout the three tortuous years AKA law school. That wasn't so bad. What was bad was that I didn't even get regular tv programming except for one channel. NBC. Needless to say, I watched A LOT of Law and Order. And the Olympics. OMG I just about watched every damn event (yes, even underwater basket weaving).

Because of this, I've never felt the need to splurge on a tv. Or an entertainment setup for that matter. I'd rather read a book. Which is why my tv setup looks like this:



You can see this from the submarine window of the apartment. Talk about theft deterrent system and TV in one. Oh-and the bottom tv doesn't work. It's merely a tv stand for the top TV.

Not going for incognito eh?

When I'm doing my thing on the can, I like to read. And judging by the fact that other people have books and magazines in their bathrooms, its a common thing. Understandable. Here's what I don't understand. Why do people take magazines and papers with them to the public restroom? You might as well have flashing lights around you and bang on a gong announcing that you're going to be letting out a stink bomb. Why why why? When you stink up a restroom in public, you're suppose to blame shift, and make like someone else let loose. Don't roll up a packet of papers and freely wave it around! This mainly goes towards men. Women can be discreet by carrying a purse in. But guys??? Come on.

Go ahead. Try to find a baby cuter than me.

So Close...Yet So Far Away

Here's reason #72960 why my next car will have navi:

I had to go to a store last night that I've never been to. Its fine with me because all I need to do is Mapquest the location and off I go. The directions say to take the 170 North and exit Roscoe. I leave at 6:45pm, which is still daylight out, and although there's traffic, it shouldn't be a big deal. Besides, its only 9 miles away.

There's a little bit of traffic, but its more than bearable. I'm jamming to Madonna (back when her music was enjoyable and she had better things to do than write children's books, or say, posing nude), and inching along the freeway. Pass up the exit to my gym, and think I'm getting close. Pass up 5 more exits, and still think I'm getting close. Come upon the 'Pasadena-next 6 exits' signs and realize, 'HOLY SHIT-this isn't right!!! In sheer stupidness that only I can achieve, its dawns on me that I was on the wrong freeway. From the get go. I was suppose to take the 170 N, but instead hopped on the 134 E.



So, here's a map of my scenic route. The little green arrow (the southern most of the three points) is my humble abode. The yellow dot to the northwest is my destination. The red dot all the way to the east in BFE is where I ended up before it hit me that I was on the wrong track. I can't even say that I made a wrong turn, because I kinda fucked up right after I left my hood. 134. 170. You say tomato, I say tomatoe. This is one of those times where getting 1 out of 3 just doesn't cut it.

This is probably why I can't do well on the math portion of the GMAT. I can't even play Sesame Street and realize 134 is not the same as 170.

How to Look Bad While Trying to Look Better

One of the things I hate about going to the gym after work is that everyone else on the planet is trying to do the same. At the same damn gym I frequent. I'm not a fan of waiting for a treadmill or elliptical machine to open up. I don't like hopping on an exercise machine right after someone hopped off. It's the same train of thought as waiting in line to use a public restroom. Gross.

So I decided that I would hike up to Griffith Observatory as a workout at least twice a week. Its a great ass and thigh workout, which is excellent since my badonkadonk seems to grow exponentially with each passing breath. I've gone every Saturday and Sunday for the past two weeks. Eventually I'm trying to build the strength/energy/stamina/guts/neurosis to walk up it twice. Every time I'm next to my car stretching, I think, 'Ok-Legalmisfit-today's the day you're going to hike up it twice! No giving up or wimping out!' Five minutes later, sounding like an asthmatic kid, I think, 'Yeah-who are you kidding. Let's just try to make it to the top without dying/passing out/or dying, passing out, and rolling off the trail.' Hope springs eternal, I guess...

I'm not skinny. In no stretch of the imagination am I skinny. Oh wait. If being a female and weighing 250 lbs is average, then yes, I am skinny. But I wouldn't go so far and say I'm gargantuan either. Hefty? Chunky? Fat? More likely than not. (this is depressing) So I can't understand why people more round and robust than I pass me up on the trail. Not just one person. More like 5. Is there chocolate cake at the top I'm unaware of? I don't think I'm slow. Ok-maybe I am slow, but it's a pretty damn steep incline. So how are these people who are clearly heftier than I going at a faster pace?

That's not even the worst part. OLD LADIES PASS ME UP. I'm not 15 years old and think that anyone over 21 is old. I'm 27 and consider anyone pushing 65 old. The old people passing me up? There's at least a generation gap between us.

I'm baffled.

I've Got the Magic Touch

Some people have talent. Others have crazy amounts of talent. Michael Phelps can swim faster than a swordfish (I just Googled it-swordfish is one of the fastest fish, if not the fastest). Michelle Kwan looks like a ballerina on ice. McGuyver can make a bomb out of an eraser, a feather, and belly button lint. Paris Hilton has made a career out of lacking any talent. And then there's the kid who memorized the first 400 digits of pi.

Here's my talent: I can break things. Not anything and everything (sadly, I'm not that omnipotent). But if an object requires electricity of some sort, chances are I can wave my fingers and break it faster than Lindsay Lohan can wreck another Mercedes. Lemme run through a quick list of things I've broken:

1) A Mac at the computer science lab in college
2) The Mac to the right of the first one I broke
3) The Mac to the right of the second one I broke
4) The antenna on my first car
5) The antenna on my dad's current car
6) 3 iPods

The latest victim? My laptop Marshall. I'm not sure if he even turns on anymore, so I can't even crack jokes about getting the blue screen of death. Seeing that ominious sign would be a step up. Now Marshall sits in my backpack waiting to get repaired. I have begged IT to look at him and tell me if he's a lost cause or if I can continue to hold out hope.

Just so you know...you can go ahead and blame me if we're cruising in your car and all of a sudden it goes dead.

Take That Twice Cooked Pork!!!

This is what I learned this weekend:

Oven: kitchen appliance used for baking or roasting
Dutch Oven: a heavy cooking pot, usually of cast iron or enamel-on-iron, with a heavy cover.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered they were two different things. Previously, the only definition of dutch oven I knew was from Roomie: when you fart and hold your partner's head under the cover.

I bought all the ingredients to make pot roast. Its suppose to take three hours of cook time, and probably 30 minutes of prep time. I logged in an hour's worth of prep time. So I'm happily washing the veggies and whatnot, and Roomie informs me that we don't own a dutch oven. Hummm...
Then she comes up with the genius idea of using the slow cooker. Brilliant. The only thing is that I found a recipe for pot roast using the slow cooker, and let me just say this: starting at 4pm it would have been done around midnight. But we figured that's as good an idea as any. Since we were trying to speed up the process so that it wouldn't take a mere 7 hours, I browned the meat in a pot over the stove. After 10 minutes, I dumped it in the slow cooker with carrots, celery, onions, garlic, mushrooms, rosemary, and thyme.

In the meantime I studied (supposedly) and worked on my fitness (according to Fergie Ferg). Three hours later, took the lid off slow cooker and said, 'DAMN!! It doesn't look hearty!!' Roomie asked me why I wanted something hearty when its 90 degrees outside. I had no clue, but I was really after some blizzard weather hearty meat.

The slow cooker ain't lying when it makes the claim that it cooks slow. NO JOKE. I cut open the meat and its red. Blah. About this time its 9pm, and I've been at this since 5, so needless to say I'm hungry and impatient. We decided to stick the pot roast and all its glory onto a pan, throw some foil on top, and finish cooking it in the oven for an hour. And the picture below is the result. Yummy! Seriously, it was yummy. The picture doesn't do my three times cooked pot roast any justice. The picture looks like a mini moat with floating carrots...

Tacolicious!

This was one damn good layered taco salad. Ok-it was really just decent, but the standards I judge my cooking by are significantly lowered. It just has to be to level the playing field. But anyway, from start to finish, the recipe claimed that this was a 45 minute meal. It took me nearly 2.5 hours. And that's not including the trip to the grocery store to get all the ingredients (where I proceeded to have a spazz fest in front of the butcher because I didn't know what ground chuck was or what a proper substitute for it was).

My True Calling

So if roughly a million other people come up with the same brilliant ideas as mine, does that idea lose its brilliance and gets relegated to the status of being a good idea? If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it still make a noise??

I figured on Mother's Day everyone should be taking their mom out for brunch and a day at the spa or a day shopping. Thus, it would be the perfect day to hit up Disneyland. I've obviously given children way too much credit because Disneyland was PACKED. A thousand moms got hosed. But anyway, this is the picture of Nico and I on the Buzz Lightyear Astro Blasters ride. My score puts me at Level 5- Ranger First Class!!!! I'm doing my part to save the universe from the evil empire Zurg. We'll forget for a minute the fact that the ride stopped twice which helped my score immensely...
Good to know I'm good at something. Always need a Plan B in case a career in finance isn't in the cards...

Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

Growing up I used to watch this show. It was touted as the fun way to learn geography. I'm sure this show, along with my elementary and high school education have taught me generally where countries are located.

Through the UCLA extension program, I'm going towards a certificate in International Trade and Commerce. It's definitely not all that and more. One of the courses I'm taking this quarter is titled, 'Doing Business in Europe.' This is taken verbatim from the course syllabus:

DOING BUSINESS IN EUROPE is a 12 week course designed to introduce various participants to approaches, opportunities, and risks of doing business in the markets of the Western and Eastern Europe, primarily Germany, France, United Kingdom, Ireland, Austria, Spain, Portugal, Sweden, Norway, and Finland, Greece, and Turkey. The course focuses primarily on the member nations of the European Union.

I should sue the program for false advertisement. Let me re-hash what I've learned about doing business in Europe after 4 weeks (a quarter of the way through the quarter)

1) The Swedes are the most educated group of people

If you read that line and you didn't know it before you read it, you owe me $181. That's about what 4 weeks of this class has cost me.
I sit in class for 3 hours every Tuesday evening bored out of my mind. I think gouging my own eyes out with an icepick would be a more pleasant experience. Studying for the bar was more interesting. Yes, read that again-studying for the bar was more interesting!

Last night we discussed the roles of various religions and how they effect business policies. Fair enough. However, we had already discussed religion last class. So this class session, we broke into groups of 3-4, had to pick a country, and talk about how the various religions affect business decisions by companies in that particular country. It sounds like a good plan. Until you realize that the class is made up of students (students in the sense that no person has more than a year or two working experience, not student in the sense that we are students taking this course). And I already learned the first class that no one has any experience working in another country or working for a company in that company's global relations/sales department. Basically none of us bring anything to the table. Which is fine. That just means that it cannot be as interactive as the professor had hoped, and as the students, we rely on him for information on doing business in Europe.

So, with none of us having any global working experience, we can't really say how religion shapes the business practice of a company doing business in Europe. Nevertheless, we trudge on. Here's the kicker. The first group picked as their country India. The second group picked Japan. My group picked France. The last group picked Russia. Now tell me when Japan and India were officially recognized as European countries?

Welcome to Chevy Nation

This is the Chevy Cobalt. It is not only a car, but also doubles as a patience tester.

Nico's friend came into town, and had this for a rental car. Its unfair to knock a rental car, because hello-that's why they are rental cars to begin with. But this one was extra special. Extra special as in the-key-won't-come-out-of-the-ignition special.
It was stuck at In-n-Out Burger.

A: Oh shit-the key's stuck
Nico: What???
A: The key won't come out of the ignition
Me: (hee hee)

A: (turns car back on)
(reverses car)
(re-parks car)
(attempts to take key out)
A: It's stuck!
Nico: (reaches over to turn the key)
Oh my god-you're right-it won't come out!
Me: (laying across the back seat dying)

8 rounds of turning the car on and off...
7 reversals and parking in THE SAME SPOT
6 rounds of cursing later...

The key miraculously came out!!

Here's a list of the things we did try to get the key out

1) turned the car off with the A/C off
2) turned the car off with the A/C on
3) turned the car off with the radio on
4) turned the car off with the radio on
5) turned the car off with foot on brake pedal
6) turned the car off with foot off brake pedal
7) turned the car off with handbrake off
8) turned the car off with handbrake on


Next next stop was Griffith Observatory. It was fabulous. It was gorgeous. It was a freaking surprise hike. Cars are not allowed to drive up during the day. People are not allowed to hike up at night. Guess when we showed up. It wouldn't have been so bad if I wasn't in jeans. If I had my sunglasses on. If I was sporting real sneakers and not Chucks. The view was gorgeous. The view of the smog that is...

Nevertheless it was an awesome workout. I think I'm going to hike up to the Observatory every weekend. I think I'm insane. But, no joke, its a great workout. Imagine my surprise when I woke up Monday morning and didn't have buns of steel.

Back at our apartment came another round of 'the key is stuck! the key is stuck!'
This time it was street parking. So...after...

4 rounds of turning the car on and off
5 rounds of reversing and pulling back into the same spot
5 rounds of cursing
2 fake outs (people thought we were leaving only to watch us lurch back and forth)

...the key was still stuck. The woman whose house we parked in front of was eying us suspiciously (but wouldn't you?). So what did we do? Drove around the block and re-parked at the same spot. The key came out. Good thing the neighbor didn't. I'm not sure exactly how we were going to explain our car problems. It was a riot though. Its been too long since I've laughed so much. All I was doing was laughing. Oh wait-I had one idea; drape a jacket over the steering column and hope nobody looks in thinking, 'I wonder if that jacket is there because the key is stuck...'

Soup

I made soup last night. Supposedly it was Irish Beef Stew. Supposedly.
It took three hours from beginning to end, and trust me when I say that I will not be making that again.
I'm not sure what went wrong, but little went right. Hence this blog is sans picture of stew.
I've emailed Nico aka Roomie to see if she is still alive. Cross your fingers. Its been three minutes and I haven't heard back from her yet. But I'll start fretting if I don't hear back from her in three hours.
I guess one of the problems was the excessive amount of thyme I added. Its not my fault though-all the other spices had the 'control' top-you know, the plastic top with holes for easier measurement control. The thyme is the only spice without that plastic covering, so needless to say much more than one tablespoon was added. Probably much more than two tablespoons. I think half the container let loose.

The other problem was the fact that I used half beef stock and half chicken broth. Not intentionally. Once again-its not my fault. Once I went into Ralphs I had to go pee. BADLY. So I blazed through the aisles picking up potatoes, tomato paste, Worchestershire sauce, and beef stock. I didn't bother checking to see if the container behind the beef stock was beef stock or not. I just assumed. MY BAD.

After browning the beef, I added the first container. Then I added the second box. The coloring of the second box was much darker than the first. Imagine my surprise. My shock. I yelped. But what can I do, right?

Roomie still has not emailed me back. Shit

Job Fair Ka-put

One of the millions of reasons I loved childhood was the boundless opportunities life presented. It was the time where I could declare myself to be an astronaut on Monday, a doctor on Tuesday, a scientist on Wednesday, a ballerina on Thursday (sans my non-lithe figure), and a circus clown on Friday. Life was chalk full of opportunities.

The downside to growing up is the realization that not everything is possible, and as you progress through life, you're suppose to narrow your career choices down. In other words, focus on one career path. Basically dashed dreams. Right now my title is Compliance Associate (as you can probably deduce, it wasn't any of my Monday-Friday career paths either). There's no way to describe it in plain English so I'm not going to bother trying. I've batted around the idea of working at a bookstore or Starbucks if I'm ever in the situation where money is not an issue (just to point out my lack of progress, from the day I got my first job to the present, money has always been an issue).

I'm old enough to know that I have to actually do something to become rich, but young enough to believe that the way to go about that goal is by playing the lottery. J-Unit sent me a link to a Starbucks game, 'Be the Barista!'


http://www.epicurious.com/promo/starbucks/indexs.html
(for some reason I can't get my links to work)

Its a time game where you have to make various drinks. Its suppose to highlight the hundreds of variations to a Starbucks drink, but in all honesty, it highlights my inadequacy and lack of coffee knowledge. Its a damn good thing I'm nowhere near winning to lottery. I got 1 out of 8 drinks correct. So far I've played this game 5 times.

All Grown Up

Supposedly...
I spent my birthday-Super Bowl weekend in Vegas. Had a blast (as always).


This is the crew at a bar in Mandalay Bay. From L to R: Nico, Bob, J-Unit, Marky Mark, me, Paul.
I couldn't quite figure out what the bar was called, but I think it translates to 'Red Square.' Or at least that's what we called it (maybe it was the whole Communism theme going on).


Mark and Nico. I think Mark is wishing for some other kind of action.


Mark again. Really, no need for an explanation.


I'm not even sure how to explain this one. This is at the Bellagio hotel in the garden area. I have no clue what the garden area is called, but they decorated it for Chinese New Years. And this is the picture I have to show for going there.

To sum it all up: won at blackjack-the $5 table at Palace Station and the $3 table at Slots O Fun (hey-we po' folks can't afford tables at the big fancy-smancy hotels!), lost at bingo, lost at craps, and lost a dollar on a slot machine. Oh...and lost betting on the Bears :( But...nonetheless, only lost around 25 bucks!!!!

Isn't bowling like golf?

Sunday afternoon was the annual Bowling for Wishes at Pinz. I've started volunteering for Make-A-Wish, and its one of the best decisions I've made. I was put in charge of manning the check-in table along with 4 other volunteers. During my break, I went to bowl a frame. Lane 1 was set aside for all Make-A-Wish volunteers. Granted, I haven't bowled in years, but I didn't think I would have sucked as much as I did.

First time up-I gutter balled it 2 feet down the alley. The second time? I hit one pin! The back left corner! Which, of course, is one better than gutter balling it a second time. Sadly though, the toddler next to me hit two pins on his first try. I got schooled.

Friendship for Sale: Criticism Included

This is Jason Anderson. I'm sure 99.9% of America has heard of him. Has heard him singing. Has seen him juggling. Wished that he had more common sense than he's displayed recently.

So he sucks. At singing. At juggling. At trying to do both simultaneously. For some reason his friends and family can't muster up the courage to tell him that he's doing nothing for himself by auditioning on American Idol.

Million dollar ideas are constantly percolating in my feeble brain. Or, more aptly put, ideas are constantly percolating in my brain that I hope will make me a million dollars. You can buy my friendship. I haven't figured out the cost structure or pricing plan-that'll come later. But I'll be the friend that points out when you have food stuck in between your teeth, when your skirt is nicely tucked into your undies in the back for all the world to see, and when you suck at singing so you don't humiliate yourself in front of millions of people.

What more can you ask for?

Secret to My Success

So people have this irrational notion that because I passed the California Bar, I'm somehow smart. There's a fallacy with that thinking. Namely-it just isn't true. No, I didn't spend countless hours studying. No, I don't know law, and if you get stopped by the police and thrown in jail, I will be just as lost as you. But I will tell you what I did, and whether it helped me pass the Bar or not, its up to you to decide. Here we go, in no particular order:

(1) prayed (to a few higher beings-I was trying to cover my bases)
(2) drank Pedialyte each morning of the Bar (for the electrolytes, not the runs)
(3) watched Wheel of Fortune each night of the Bar
(4) watched Clifford the Big Red Dog each morning of the Bar

I would love to say that I studied my ass off and was well prepared. But that would be flat out lying. Passing the bar is purely luck. It depends heavily on what food you ate the night before, what god you prayed to, what subject you studied last, whether or not your brain decides to function...I can go on ad nauseam. If there was a Real Property essay on there, would I have passed? No. Same goes for Civil Procedure (I still don't know what that is), Evidence, and Remedies. Its actually quite amazing California decided to pass me. I barely wrote a thing.

So all in all, there is no secret to passing the Bar. Its as simple and complicated as that.

I love Jack Bauer

So here is a guy who spent the past 20 months being mercilessly tortured in a Chinese prison. The President of the United States decidesto leverage the US's power to free him-to turn him over to terrorists inside the US in exchange for a different terrorist. To say the least, I'm sure this is very stressful for Jack. On top of it all, Fayad has now turned to torturing him in vengeance for his brother's death. Miracle of all miracles, Jack escapes. So let's recap:

(1) 20 months in a Chinese prison tortured everyday
(2) set free, only to find that he's being turned over for another group to kill him
(2) target practice for multiple terrorist groups

And what's the first thing he does when he escapes? Puts coordinates into a high tech phone to find an exact location to save someone. Unbelievable. I've had my new phone (Motorola KRZR) for over a month and I can't even figure out how to use 1/10th of its features.

Takes A Licking...Keeps on Ticking

Man, I thought the email from Dad was harsh. This is the email I get from Brother this morning,

So here is my email for today. What special dinner did u make last night. U know, I am not gonna go to LA until u learn to cook something good cuz I can cook crap here for myself. No need to fly 3000 miles to eat crap.

Brother

Does anyone want to adopt me?
I feel like I need to cure cancer or save Africa from AIDS before I'll get any kudos from any family member. Just for the record, the only reason I don't have an email from Mommy up here is because she's not hip to the workings of the internet just yet, so emailing is a process that, with her, is slower than snail mail.

Unconditional Love

I sent my dad the picture on my last post of the pan fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and veggies. This is a milestone in my life. I've been living by myself (or, not with my parents) for 7 years. I'm on year 8. I've cooked maybe 5 meals. 3 of them happened to be this week. So needless to say, the fact that I'm cooking is just astounding (my roomie is still alive and kicking, which earns me brownie points). Anyway, I sent the pic in an email to my dad to show him that I'm finally growing up (or that was the point of the email anyway). This is his response,

Legalmisfit,

I have been cooking for you for so long. May be it is time for you to cook a full dinner for me next time when you come home. I will settle for just mash potatoes, chicken, and some vegetable.

Dad

HUH??? I was expecting an email praising me on my accomplishment and how yummy the food looks.

Nope.

This is monumentous! Three short years ago I couldn't even follow Shake-n-Bake instructions. Learning how to cook is nowhere on the list entitled, 'Things That Are Expected Of You Because You're Asian.' (some items include: graduating high school, graduating college, graduating grad school).

Now what?

Oh-here's a pic of Roomie with last night's dinner: Blackened Chicken Breast and Frozen Veggies.
(at least she looks happy that I'm cooking)

1 Day Down, 364 More to Go

I went to the gym AND cooked a meal yesterday. It wasn't a wimpy workout at the gym either. I was about to leave when a Bon Jovi interview came on (I love Bon Jovi), so I stayed on the Stairmaster for 20 more minutes. The interview was a full hour, but let's face it-as hot as I think he is, I won't last an extra 15 minutes on the Stairmaster.

I cooked some sort of panfried chicken, and made mashed potatoes from scratch!

I also threw in some veggies, but that's unimpressive since they were frozen and I think I overcooked them anyway. Doesn't my chicken look good? Or at least halfway decent? Somewhat edible??? I was supposed to make fish. That's what the recipe called for anyway. It wasn't until after I mixed the batter together that I realized the fish was still in the freezer (SMOOTH), but there was thawed chicken. So chicken it was. I think I under-seasoned the chicken (what can I say? Chicken is denser and bigger than fish), and over-seasoned the mashed potatoes. I sent an email to my roomie to make sure she's still alive (if she doesn't respond in the next hour, I'm going to spazz). Ok...her 'Out of Office AutoReply' sent me back a message, but that's not the same thing...

Here's further evidence that I'm turning over a new leaf...while watching The Colbert Report, I flipped through recipe books so I can cook Tilapia tonight. OMG-I'm being domesticated (in the learning-how-to-cook way, not in the getting-potty-trained way).

I'll mention New Years Eve party if and when I see the pics of Nico and I floating around randomly in cyberspace.

I've taken to reading at least 30 minutes everyday to broaden my horizons. I'm also trying to stop limiting myself to a particular genre. In the process, I've succeeded in scaring the shit out of myself. Currently I'm reading Under the Banner of Heaven by Jon Krakauer. Its about the history and the principles surrounding Mormonism. Its a fascinating religion, both corrupt and captivating. So last night I read a few chapters before going to bed. BAD IDEA. HORRIBLE IDEA. I had a nightmare that I was forced into a plural marriage, and the only thing I could say was, 'I'm Asian! I'm Asian! I'm Asian!' That was my staggering defense to getting hitched to a 65 year old man. Thank goodness I'm so educated.