wow. i can't believe it's been almost 4 months since i last posted. weird.

real life got in the way, i guess. and it wasn't always good, let me tell you.

anyhoo, i'm back.

for now, anyway.

but not tonight since i have to sleep early since real life begins early tomorrow.

ugggh.

but i'll be back soon.

definitely sooner than 4 months.

toodles.

p.s. just had to post this axe detailer video because srsly, wtf?! is it for balls or is it for balls? because that-lady-from-my-name-is-earl said it had a soft side and a rough side. and i don't think guys would want to use anything rough on their balls. i'm so confused.

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Warning: This post may or may not make sense because I'm running on 3 hours of sleep, y'all. Just so we're clear.  


Finally saw Eclipse last night. And yea, I know it just opened but I say finally because you can't imagine how hard it was for me to wait 17 1/2 hours* to finally see it. I'm not the most patient person obviously.

This is my favorite book of the series so a lot was on the line. So my reaction? I have no words.

No, wait. I have one word.

BRILLIANT.

As brilliant as Edward's sparkles. And that's saying something because Edward's sparkles are as bright as the moon on a dark star-less sky, as radiant as the rarest of diamonds, as dazzling as the beads of sweat that glisten on a fat man's hairy chest on a hot summer day. Sorta like this. But less gross.

Along Came Polly  - Basketball Game

Anylikey, the movie was so brilliant, I almost decided to stalk hunt down look for David Spade and ask him to marry me. Ya know, ala Eclipse Edward.

It would probably go down like this.
Me: getting down on one knee "David, will you do me the extraordinary honor of marrying me, you bald little man you?"
DS: teary-eyed "Yes"
Me: standing up and lifting DS in a hug and twirling us both

Obviously DS is a man of few words. But then, I remembered that DS also directed 30 Days of Night which made me shat my pants even if I've only actually seen the trailer so yea, you won't be getting any proposals from me any time soon, you crazy crazy bastard. But I love you still.

I do think I need to have a second a third an unlimited number of helpings of Jacob's abs the movie first before I can do a proper review. You know, to give a comprehensive assessment. For research purposes, y'all.

I can give you, however, a few of my fave moments from the movie since you're all so rabid and all. So, in no particular order . . .

1) The tent scene. My fave scene, hands down. I'll take a fire and ice sandwich please.
2) The battle scene. Vampires + werewolves versus newborns. Nuff said.

3) The birds-and-bees talk with Charlie and Bella. Deliciously awkward.
4) Alice and Jasper during Jasper's back story. Awwww.
5) Jacob's abs and arms and chest. As yummy as ever.

6) Xavier Samuel as Riley. A new one to fawn over.
7) Angry Edward after Wolf Boy kissed the selfish biatch. Mmmm . . . schmexy.

Some WTF moments . . .

1) Bella's engagement ring. Ugliest mother-effer ever. I'm sorry, Edward my love, but I would've said no to that too. Only at first, though.
2) The Quileute ancestors. No freakin' way Jacob came from those dudes.
3) Carlisle's accent. "Someone's creating an ahhhh-my".
4) Jacob carrying Bella while running. Made me laugh.

So, that's it for now. I'll get back to you after I've seen it again. And again. And again. And again.

* Eclipse opened midnight Tuesday + I watched it 7:30pm on Wednesday = 17 1/2 hours. My genius self is at work, you guys.

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i know i haven't been around much lately but i just really needed to make a quickie post about this one. heehee. i said quickie. yep, still got the brains of a 7-year old boy.

anybeezers, just read it, okay? trust.

The Non-Football Fan's Guide to the World Cup

and you're welcome.

p.s. can anything be more annoying than the sound of a bajillion vuvuzelas being blown?! it literally sounds like all the world's killer bees banding together and deciding to take over the universe. and i hate killer bees. DOWN. WITH. VUVUZELAS.

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I went running today. 

And by running, I really mean jogging. 

Okay, it really wasn't jogging so much as walking at a really really really slow leisurely pace.

But don't you judge me, Judge Judy. 

Because I almost got murdered today. 

By a hawk. A red-faced hawk. Or maybe it was an eagle. Or a falcon. Or a vulture! CRAP.

Whatever.

It was a HUGE bird. 

And it was following me the entire time. 

Except not really, because I started running and waving my hands like a crazy madwoman which probably freaked my neighbors out but hey, you do what you have to do. 

So yea, the bird eventually stopped following me because it got scared. Or maybe it just had better things to do like find other food sources that didn't run around screaming "Killer bird on the loose! Killer bird on the loose!" while throwing rocks at them*. 

Yup.

Anyhoodle, I got home and decided that taking walks around my neighborhood might not be the safest option for a delicate flower like me, what with killer birds and flying insects running loose. 

But because I'm determined to get in shape lose 15 lbs not be Huffy McPuffy everytime I go up a flight of stairs, I looked up other exercise options I could do within the comfort of my own bed safe confines of my home. 

Lookie-here what I found. *clapping hands giddily*

1) The Face Trainer for my face. Yes, you heard me right. MY. FACE. Ellen Degeneres' producer demonstrates the product way better than any infomercial or customer testimonial could ever do, so I'm posting that. Abso-fucking-lutely hilarious! And yes, I'm getting one. 

  

2) The Rio Neck Toner for my neck and chin. Nuff said.  

3) The Shake Weight for my biceps and triceps. This could either be really sensual or really offensive, depending on how you look at it. And hey, it's got a his and hers model! Per-fuck-to!

For women:

For men:

4) The Easy Curves for my chest. Of course, I'm doing this with only a bra on. That's the whole point!

5) The Hawaii Chair for my abs. This could totally work, except I don't sit still long enough for it to actually work. Except when I'm in the toilet. Yes, someone should invent a Hawaii Toilet! Except crap would splatter all over which would be gross.

6) The Flex Belt for my abs. You know, since the Hawaii chair might not be enough to turn my 1-pack into a 6-pack by the time summer rolls around the corner of I-found-the-perfect-bikini Road and I'm-too-chunky-to-wear-it Avenue. 

7) The 3-minute Legs for my legs and buns. Hell to the yeah.  

8) The Kegel + Smart Balls for my vagaloo. Ob-vious-ly, my lady bits get exercise, too. By the highway, Mr. Kegel looks mighty creepy. Just sayin. 

So, there you go. A full body workout without leaving your bedroom! You're welcome. 

* Oh, relax PETA. I was exaggerating. I didn't actually throw rocks at the killer bird. In "fight or flee" situations, I always choose the latter. I'm an animal lover like that. No, not really. Clearly, I'm just a big wuss. Whatever.

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ALL single men should read this post from Life Uncensored.

I don't understand why guys are so clueless when it comes to this particular issue.

Go figure.

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So, I have a theory.

I think pimples, instead of being caused by excessive oil and dirt or skin bacteria as previously believed, are actually the result of getting farted at in the face. Or fart-faced, if you may.

I mean, it totally makes sense.

See, when my nephew was a wee tiny baby, I loved playing with his stubby toes whenever I was forced was bribed volunteered to change his diaper. I thought it would make the ordeal less painful more fun for me both of us. I'm a cool aunt like that. I suppose he didn't find my idea of fun fun or funny even because as I was giving his toesies little kissies one day, he decided it would be more amusing to fart in my face. My nephew, my sweet adorable nephew, released a gust of air so repugnant, it was hard to believe it was coming from such a charming little bugger. I looked at him in horror. He looked at me with glee. We both ended up guffawing with laughter. When I woke up the next day, BAM! I had a pimple on my face.

Not to mention the unlimited number of times my sister's dog breaks wind. I mean, she walks on all fours so she never technically has an opportunity to fart in my face, unless she does so when I'm asleep which I think she would totally do if given the opportunity because she's a b*tch like that. No worries. I still love her to bits. Anyhoo, believe me when I say that her farts are so intense, so . . . powerful, that they would probably cause acne in half of Chicago's pubescent population before the year is over. So yes, I blame her farts not only for Chitown's teen angst but also  for my grown-up pimples. Yep, I blame the dog for everything nowadays. Totally works.

You are probably now asking yourself why you're still reading this lame post why I suddenly dredged up all these bad fart-face memories from so long ago (read: a few months back).

Well, let me tell you.

I was at work yesterday and one of my patients was a mean cranky old fart. Get it? Cranky old fart. Bahahaha! I crack myself up. Wait, crack?! Wahahahaha! I'm a hoot.

Anytwat, the old gent had this really bad wound in the gluteus maximus area and of course, I was assigned to change the dressing on said wound. When I got to his room armed with my supplies, I found him asleep. Since his dressing was already soaked with drainage and I didn't want his wound to get infected, I tried to wake him up by calling out his name. He was a bit hard of hearing, so I called out louder a few more times. Nope, not one flicker of the eyelids. Since yelling at patients isn't really allowed on my floor and because I'm such a smart nurse, I decided that poking him in the shoulder might do the trick. I stood beside his bed and gave him a double poke for good measure. Poke, poke. My brilliant plan worked. It worked too well, in fact, that my patient got extremely upset for getting "scared shitless", and yelled at me for "being stupid" and "almost giving him a heart attack". Whoa. Calm down, old geezer. Be a little bit more pleasant, why don't ya?! Geez. So after he was done with his little tirade temper tantrum, I apologized sweetly and informed him that I needed to give his butt a dressing change. I didn't say it that way, of course, since we're not allowed to say butt on my floor either. I always just call it ass, especially if the patient is one. *snicker*

Well, I proceeded to help him turn to his side and once this was done, I arranged all my supplies on the bed. I squatted down to his level for good body mechanics and better visualization, unknowingly putting my face in direct line of fire. I then took off the old dressing and started cleaning the wound when, out of nowhere, KABLAM! The patient farts in my face.

IN. MY. FACE.

Don't get me wrong. I am not a fart elitist, a fart-ist if you may. Not at all. I am actually tolerant of most malodorous and putrid odors. I have to be to survive working in a hospital. Thing is, my patient's fart was one of the worst smells I have ever come across. Seriously. It was silent. And deadly. And totally caught me off-guard. The stench was so bad, I vomited in my mouth a little bit. No joke. I actually had to excuse myself, saying that I needed to get more supplies, because tears were starting to flow down my face. I ran out of the room, took a few minutes to breathe in take gasps of clean fresh air, and forced myself to go back in and finish the unpleasant task. I went back into the pungent room with a mask on my face since I was determined not to get blindsided a second time, and finished the dressing change in record time.

Anyway, I've unintentionally gone off course here. Going back to my original point, guess what I saw on my face when I woke up today. A freaking pimple! A HUGE FART-INDUCED PIMPLE on my freaking face! I should've known this would happen.

So based on the evidentiary information I have presented, my theory is clearly founded on scientific facts. Obviously.

Teens and oily-faced adults the world over can now give a collective sigh of relief because of this scientific breakthrough.

I have singlehandedly obliterated teenage angst and adult low self-esteem.

Just avoid getting fart-faced. It's that simple.

I should get a Nobel Prize for this, I swear.

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this post from Classy in Philadephia made me re-think about what i really want in life.

oh so serious.

but oh so true.

p.s. i have got to get out of this funk. *sigh*

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I'm feeling miserable today.

I can't explain why it hurts to be rejected by someone I didn't even like.

Or someone I didn't even know, for that matter.

Worse even to be rejected by someone I know and do like.

When it rains, it definitely pours.

Now, I just need to have enough heart to wait out the storm so I can see my rainbow.

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I finally went out with Mr. Hapa last night. Erm . . . how do I describe the date . . . Let me see . . .

It was . . . not good.

Worse than not good.

First of all, he was 30 minutes late. Which is fine really because I'm almost always late so I don't really have issues with someone being late but dude, it's our first date. I was hoping he'd be a little bit more prepared but whatever. I could deal with that.

But then he got there . . . and everything just got worse . . . and worse . . . and I'm not even kidding because it totally wasn't funny.

So, I already had an idea that Mr. Hapa might be kind of on the short side. I mean that literally so get your mind off the gutter. I don't mean short like a little person, which wouldn't be an issue if he was because I think little people are fascinating but that's not the point I'm trying to make. Mr. Hapa's profile on Match indicated that he was 5'6". Umm, really? Because he might have over-estimated his height a little bit. It seemed like he was more like 5'5" and some change. I mean, 5'6" isn't really short in Asian terms but I prefer my men to be a little bit taller than that. You know, so I can wear heels and not feel guilty about it. And so I don't have to lean down when kissing him. And so I don't feel like Katie Holmes with Tom Cruise. Or Nicole Kidman with Tom Cruise. Or any normal-sized woman with Tom Cruise because I really do not like that dude. But seriously, the height difference wasn't really even that big of a deal. Not really. I mean, it would've been preferable if he was taller but I could've lived with having a not-so-tall boyfriend. Totally.

Thing is, it wasn't just the height. I was slightly perplexed by what he was wearing, too. Okay, so yesterday was a very nice sunny day in Southern California. I was wearing a cute white top with black abstract markings, nice dark jeans and sexy gold fuck-me heels. Thing is, I think the fashion gods might have thought it funny to finally get payback for all my past fashion faux pas because Mr. Hapa didn't look very . . . put together. First of all, he was wearing sneakers. I mean, who the heck wears sneakers on a date? What is he, like, seventeen? Plus, his jeans were slightly oh-so-tight which is almost always a fashion don't on heterosexual men. But no, the worst part of the entire outfit was his turtleneck sweater. Yes, Mr. Hapa was wearing a freaking turtleneck sweater . . . in 70-degree weather! This honestly led to some moments during the date where I would zone out because I was trying to figure out how his armpits could possibly not be sweating in the heat. Seriously, I was wearing a thin shirt and I was feeling a bit damp so I have no idea how he couldn't have been. But okay, fine, I could let this one slide, too. I mean if we ever got together, I figured I could always accidentally shrink all most of his clothes and blame the dryer, right? So see, I'm not entirely shallow. I do know how to compromise.

So yea, I was fine with the height thing. And the clothes thing. I could be un-judgey when I want to be. Besides, he seemed like a really nice guy so I put on my brightest smile and decided to continue on with our date. I should've probably listened to my gut. Because the next thing I knew, Mr. Hapa brings me over to the food court to have dinner. Yes, you heard me. He took me and my new cute first-date outfit and my sexy heels and my pretty hair TO A FREAKING FOOD COURT! WHAT. THE. FUCK.

I was seriously super majorly over-the-top horrified, not to mention humiliated. I didn't even have time to do the "reach for my purse and offer to pay for half" thing because I was too busy weaving in and out of the line for the cashier and trying not to fall flat on my face in my fuck-me heels. And if that wasn't bad enough, it felt like the entire food court crowd was looking at us because I was dressed to the nines and he was dressed like he just came home from grocery shopping. Oy.

So yea, you could say our first date didn't turn out so well.

A second date is definitely out of the question.

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Just saw this in the comments sections of Lilu's blog and ohmagawd . . . BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Just had to repost it. Thanks for the laughs, Maxie (Lilu's commenter). You made my day!

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So, remember my first post about Mr. Hapa? Well, things are going pretty great. I don't want to get ahead of myself but so far, things are awesome. We've been talking on the phone and texting like crazy, it feels like I'm in high school all over again. So far, so good.

Mr. Hapa and I are planning on meeting in person for the first time this weekend, and I'm feeling a little nauseous about it. Like I said before, I give a bad first impression. I do. I stutter and get shifty-eye syndrome. Worse, I get verbal diarrhea when I'm nervous where sh*t basically comes out of my mouth. Not literally because that would be really gross. And I don't mean sh*t like I become a potty mouth (which btw, I am but he still doesn't know about it). I mean I talk about stuff I probably shouldn't be telling someone I just met. Like how I get major diarrhea when I eat anything with lactose. Or how my necklace looks like a vagina.

Now that I think about it, I've mentioned both things to Mr. Hapa before . . . and he still wants to meet up . . . Huh.

Theoretically, the first impression phase was done after our first 2-hour phone convo last Sunday but still. HE HASN'T SEEN ME YET. And like all girls, I'm kinda-sorta-only slightly freaking out about it.

Should I run out and get some cute outfit? Or should I just dress the way I normally would (jeans + nice top)? Should I get a mani/pedi and a haircut? What about an eyebrow wax? Ugggh.

And ohmygawd, what is considered correct first date etiquette? Do I offer to pay? Do I not offer to pay? Because I remember Ted from How I Met Your Mother having an issue with one girl who didn't at least do the "reach for the purse" move when the bill came. And I probably shouldn't order pasta or noodles. Or anything that can potentially get stuck in between my teeth. Or anything that could give me bad breath in case we kiss. Sh*t. Does kissing on a first date make me slutty-ish? What about hugging? Or kisses on the cheek? Or holding hands? Seriously, who the hell knows the rules? Is there a number I can call? And please don't say Dr. Phil or I'll stab you. I obviously need help. So many dilemmas, I tell you.

I hate being a girl. I'm so nervous that this could turn out to be one of the worst nights ever.

Actually, I take that back.

Being a girl rocks because I get to go out on dates with guys who could potentially be a potential. And this might just turn out to be a great first date that Mr. Hapa and I will both talk about for a long long time.

We'll see where it goes. I'll let you know what happens.

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So last night, I was talking on the phone with a guy I met online and we totally hit it off. I'll call him Mr. Hapa (a new word I learned from him which means half-and-half) since he's 50% Asian, 50% white and 100% cute. Like I said, Mr. Hapa and I hit if off. Well, I think we did. I mean, it was a 2-hour phone call that ended only because he had to wake up early today. Psssh.

Anyway, our getting-to-know-you convo suddenly veered towards dealbreakers. This might sound entirely bizarre but it was a very enlightening experience for me. No, it wasn't because of Mr. Hapa's answers (which were awesome btw) but more so because of mine. Maybe I'm just slightly self-absorbed like that. *snicker*

Moving on, so I was telling Mr. Hapa about my dealbreakers. Mine were the following:

1) Not being a gentleman. Major MAJOR pet peeve. Prime example: walking through a door and not looking to check if someone's behind you so the door ends up slamming in the girl's face. I mean, that's not even being a gentleman. That's being a decent human being! Obviously, I feel strongly about this issue. Yes, I'm talking to you, caveman-like-douche-i-went-out-with-that-one-time! Learn to open doors for ladies, especially ones you're out on a date with! And while you're at it, buy yourself some sense of humor . . . which totally brings me to my next dealbreaker.

2) No sense of humor. I love sense of humor. We're chummy chums, sense of humor and I. Sometimes he's slapstick, oftentimes he's sarcastic, sometimes he's bad, oftentimes he's really really good. I don't care in what size, shape or form sense of humor comes in, I like them all.

3) Bad personal hygiene. Seriously, is it so hard to take a shower, brush your teeth, cut your nails and clean your nose/ears/in between your toes?! I don't get what the deal is. You see, I have an issue with smell. Mr. Hapa thinks this is weird since I'm a nurse and I deal with super stinky stuff on a daily basis. That's not the point, Mr. Hapa. I don't date my patients so that doesn't count. Pffft. Anyway, if the guy I'm dating has bad breath, stinky feet and general BO, I'm not giving him a sponge bath. I'm kicking him to the curb.

4) Not wanting kids. I love kids. I do. I love kids so much I want to be a pediatric nurse one day. 'Nuff said.

5) Not having a good relationship with his family. This is a grey area for me. I can't generalize and say that all men with family issues are not going to be great boyfriends/husbands. I do know that there are some great guys out there who, through no fault of their own, just got unlucky with the family they were born into. Maybe the stork made a mistake. Or got lost. Or was drunk. Anyhoo, I also know that there are guys out there who were brought up in wonderful families, but turned out to be world-class jerks. So yea, this isn't a clean-cut issue. I'll be honest, though, the guys I know who grew up in loving families are some of the nicest, most genuine people I know.

So there you have it. My top 5 dealbreakers.

Wow. I never thought I'd take Mr. Hapa's question so seriously. Funny. Maybe it was something I ate last night.

Anyhoo, I woke up this morning and texted a few more dealbreakers to Mr. Hapa since the 5 I mentioned obviously don't cut it.

1) Mullets and Combovers. Making people ugly since the dawn of time.

 

2) Fanny Packs. Real men DON'T wear fanny packs. In fact, nobody should wear fanny packs. EVER.

3) Fishnet/mesh shirts, mankinis and tighty whities. Do I seriously need to explain why this is so so wrong?

Then again, if you looked like this in tighty whities then maybe.

4) Unibrows, crooked/broken teeth, hairy chests and porno moustache. Just like Burt Reynolds. Except he doesn't have crooked teeth.

5) Not knowing the difference between "your" and "you're". And "lose" or "loose". And don't get me started on spelling "must've" as "must of". Must've = must have. Must of = just doesn't make sense.

So far, Mr. Hapa says he's passed all of my "pre-requisites". Awesome. Guess the deal isn't broken yet.

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I saw this video over at the bloggess' blog, and it made me realize that being part of a flash mob should definitely go on my bucket list.



It looks silly-fun, doesn't it?! And I know I could totally do those dance moves. Well, probably. After all, I am an awesome dancer, if I do say so myself. But someone will have to show it to me a couple a few about 527 times and then I'll get it. It'll be perfect!

Not to brag or anything but there are a number of dance steps that I was able to do right on the get-go. Okay, maybe not right away but definitely before the 527th try. If I were in charge of picking dance moves that should make a comeback, those would definitely be on top of the list. On a totally random note, wouldn't that be the coolest job ever?

Anyhoo, I found this video which showcases EVERY SINGLE ONE of my famous dance moves. Have a look-see.



Awesomesauce.

But back to the topic at hand, maybe I should just go do a flash mob thing on my own, like this guy. Though I doubt mall security would appreciate my explanation of why I was acting like a crazy person at the mall. They're not very sharp, those guys.

Anyway, I should probably get off the interwebs now and start forcing blackmailing asking people to be part of my flashers. I'm sure they'd be happy to do it.

HAPPY DANCING, Y'ALL.

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this is soooooo ADORABLE!

i can't believe i'm jealous of otters.

i have now sunk to a new low.

pssssh. 

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Seriously, how are these guys still single?! Not that I know that for sure. They look like it, though.

But they're totally awesome.

And a little bit weird. 

Guess that answers my question.

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Ohmygawd, I have no words.



BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

No wonder my patients come back from the MRI looking traumatized.

Wait, let me watch it again . . .

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

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Not that that's a real word or anything. But don't you think it's the coolest word ever?

*crickets chirping*

And speaking of redinky-donky, I think this vid I saw in CollegeHumor.com is ridinky-donky to the nth power.

I present to you: Web Site Story.

I told you. Totally redinky-donky.

I'll never get tired of saying that. Redinky-donky.

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What a crazy random happenstance.

So, I read about this mini-online series online (obviously) and my curiousity was instantly piqued as to why so many people were foaming-at-the-mouth crazy about it. Why not? It's a Josh Whedon creation after all. And what is Josh Whedon, if not pure genius?

Anyhoo, I now think everyone should watch Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. It is abso-fucking-lutely over-the-top ri-donk-culously fantastic! No, really.

And since I'm also abso-fucking-lutely over-the-top ri-donk-culously fantastic, I'm adding these to my post so you don't have to go searching for it online.

Act 1, Part 1

Act 1, Scene 2

Act 2, Scene 1

Act 2, Scene 2

Act 3, Scene 1

Act 3, Scene 2

You're welcome.

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Possibly more grossed out than confused.



Is this for real???

People, it's obviously not the blanket that's the problem.

Think about it.

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So my nursing bestie forced talked me into joining this online dating website. She says one of her good girlfriends, who isn't really pretty but is one of the nicest girls I've ever met, met her true love online. Seeing as how I haven't had luck finding Mr. Right, I decided to give it a go. What have I got to lose, anyway?

Apparently, you could lose a lil bit of self-esteem, that's what. I definitely did.

You see, the online dating site I mentioned has this thing where you can "wink" at a person to get their attention. Since I'm chicken-shit new to this and all, I figured winking is way better than sending an email to a guy who seems somewhat interesting. After all, what the heck-a-loo do you say to someone you know nothing about, right? Nothing except for the mumbo-jumbo they wrote (and probably made up) on their profile page. Besides, I am bad at writing letters AND I give a horrible first impression. People need to be with me for at least 2 hours before they love me, and then they realize I'm the best thing since frozen yogurt. Seriously, having my wink ignored is better than a blatant rejection of my email . . . I think.

No, you know what, I take that back. I actually got a rejection letter for one of my winks from this one guy. Yea, he was sorta cute and all but it wasn't like I was really into him. What's weird is that his rejection did hurt a little bit. Maybe I should say my pride got hurt. It got gutted out of my chest, ripped into shreds, and then fed to piranhas, which are like the scariest creatures ever. Just look at it's eyes.

I guess I now know what the 7 guys whose winks I rejected feel like. I wish someone would've told me beforehand to just ignore the unwanted winks I get. That would've saved me from lame emails saying "I wasn't really interested in you anyway" or annoying ones saying "YOU rejected me???". Uh yes, douchebag, I rejected your ass. Deal with it.

And please, for the love of God, stop posting naked or half-naked pictures of yourselves. NOT. SEXY. not at all. Especially when it's done in front of a mirror in the bathroom.

Tell me, does online dating really work? Seriously?

Because since I joined 2 days ago, all I've gotten are creepy winks from 50-year old guys who live in another frakking state or irritating emails from 200-lb men calling me sweetie. Uggh.

Seriously, I AM NOT INTERESTED.

No, I'm not agist or weight-ist (Is that what you call it?).

You're just not my type.

Or if that's too harsh, fine. It's not you, it's me.

Sigh.

I can be a real witch sometimes.

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Not that anyone cares really but I'd like to tell you the story of how I met Mr. Whatever. I call him that because he is seriously "whatever" about everything. It's annoying, really. Amusing. But more annoying than funny.

Anyway . . .

My sissy HH and bro-in-law Illini live in a sweet lil suburb about 20 minutes away from downtown Chi-town. Hence, I am there every few months. That is, if my perpetual status as a princess on a budget permits. So, that's where we first met.

I met Mr. Whatever last September when Madear and I were renting a car to drive to Mizzou to see Sissy MD. He got assigned to pick us up from Sissy HH's house and drove us to the rental car office. Honestly, I didn't even notice that he was cute at first. To tell you the truth, I thought he was kinda a little bit weird because he kept interrupting my conversation with my mom (random insert: He says it's because he thought I was talking to him but hello, I was kinda talking in Tagalog which he, obviously, doesn't understand. Psssh.) To top it off, while he was processing my papers he mentions that he thought I lived on a mountain or something. Ummm, okaaaay. No idea where he got that from. Not that I have anything against mountain dwellers. I think it's really cool how . . . free . . . they are about nudity but I'd rather have my lady bits covered. Especially in public. I nicely informed him that Filipinos don't live in the mountains. And we do wear clothes and have internet. Srsly, what a weirdo.

i would so rock this outfit. maybe if i was drunk enough.

Anyhoo, on the way to Mizzou (oh, it rhymes!) my mom suddenly says to me in the car . . .

Madear: He was cute.
Me: (bobbing my head to Gaga) Po-po-po-poker face. Wha? Huh? Who are you talking about?!
Madear: That guy who picked us up. He was cute.
Me: The weird rental dude?
Madear: Yep. That one.

You see, one thing about my mom . . . she NEVER says stuff like that. She practically single-handedly destroyed the self-esteem of many of my boyfriends with her passive-aggressive insinuations about how un-cute they were, which may or may not be true. Yes, mom, I stand by what I said when I was a naive teenager bent on breaking the rules: HE WASN'T THAT BAD. Which basically translates into "He looks really gross but I would rather hang myself first before admitting that to my mom but seriously, what the f*ck did I see in him?!". Not that my mom's mean-spirited or anything. She didn't actually say it straight to their face. Just to my face. Which isn't really a nice thing, either.

But truthfully, my mom's a sweetheart. She just has high standards when it comes to how her future grandchildren will look, so she never fails to remind us to marry, or at least go out with, just good-looking men. Oh, mother, always looking out for me.

i wonder if my mother will approve of this one. yum.

Back to what I was saying, she thought Mr. Whatever was cute. Not that I could do anything about it, but I filed away this tidbit for future reference.

So, Madear and I spent a week in Mizzou with sissy MD. . . blah blah blah . . .

When we got back to Chicago, I was secretly hoping Mr. Whatever would be at the rental car place when I came to return the car so I could see for myself what Madear was talking about. I guess the fates decided that I've been behaving myself because not only was he there, his boss asked him to drive me back to my sissy's place after I had paid an exorbitant amount for their crappy car signed all the papers. And yes, Madear was right. Mr. Whatever was definitely a cutie patootie.

So there we were in the car, talking about random things like Manny Pacquiao (a Filipino boxer who is really popular right now and who, Mr. Whatever assumes, every Filipino knows or knows of) when he suddenly mentions out of the blue that he really likes this Filipino candy that his co-worker let him try one time. He said it was called Botan Rice Candy or something like that. I told him I grew up in the Philippines and I've never heard of said candy, but I said I'd look it up.

So I did.

And it was a Japanese candy.

Wow.

This guy not only insulted me by calling me a Yeti, he also obviously can't distinguish one Asian race from the other. Yowza.

Don't ask me why but this totally got me more interested. Yup, I'm weird like that. And since I was feeling a little bold at the time, I ordered a few boxes of the candy online and sent it to him at work with the note: "Yummy but definitely not Filipino."

I mean, what did I have to lose, right?  He'd find it cute or creepy. Either way, I was never seeing him again. It would just be that thing I did that one time that was totally out of character.

I guess he found it cute because he looked my number up in their system (which, by the way, is totes illegal) and called me when he got the package. I was already back in LA by then and was busy studying for my board exam so I wasn't able to answer the phone. He left a message saying, and I quote, "That was the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me" and that I should call him next time I was in town.

So, since I went back to Chicago in November for Thanksgiving, I gave him a call.

And we went out a few times. And made out a few times. And talked on the phone a lot of times.

I've been back once and we hung out again. And made out again.

And talked on the phone a lot again.

And here we are, 6 months later, still friends.

Or maybe more than that.

Don't ask me because I really wouldn't know.

Because like I mentioned earlier, he's Mr. Whatever.

We'll see where this goes. Whatever.

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