Wednesday, April 18, 2012

good luck, errebody else!

So, I had a first this past Monday: my first car wreck.

I was within 100 yards of my apartment building and was hit by a silver Corvette. This offended me on so many levels. Fortunately, it was the other driver’s fault, and he was nice, apologetic, and surprisingly not wearing a single article of Ed Hardy clothing.

Contrary to the belief/mostly true reality that most Asians drive like this:

I’m actually an impeccable driver. I have zero violations on my record, and as previously stated, have never been involved in an accident… unless you count barfing Red Bull vodkas out the passenger side of a Jeep Grand Cherokee while being driven home, then I retract that last statement.

So, my car’s a pretty big deal. It’s a 2001 Toyota Camry. It was my mom’s, and I still remember the day my parents brought it home. It was the first brand new car my family had ever owned, and it had power windows and keyless entry! I felt like the pretty Kardashian sister!

At fifteen, I felt like a real bad ass. When my parents were out of town, I would be out on the town driving between the two Sonics, aggressively jamming to Jessica Simpson’s “Irresistible”, and chain-smoking Kamel Red Lights with my girlfriends (meaning “HAAAY GIIIIRLFRIEND!”, not “let’s drink a 6-pack of Zima and explore each others' bodies” kind of girlfriend… just in case my listening to Jessica Simpson didn't already make that perfectly clear).

Little did I know, a decade and almost 180,000 miles later, I would still be doing this. As you can imagine, it is slightly less bad ass nowadays.

However, there are some HUGE benefits to driving a crappy car in a town like Dallas.

1)    I hate driving around the city. One way streets, slow-moving ethnic pedestrians, and the iPhone’s Maps app that is always out to get me face-raped in shady parts of town. But when you drive a vehicle that is basically being held together by dust and my nightly prayers, no one wants to take your car anywhere. EVER. Advantage: John.

2)    The few times I venture out in my car to meet friends for dinner, day drinking, or a good knitting marathon, inevitably there is always a “valet only” situation. Words cannot express how much I hate valet only establishments. But, when this happens, I like to think I’m giving the kind car runners a mild self-esteem boost. Instead of the usual black BMW 3 series or other typical fancy "status" car like a Kia Sorento, they get to judge me and the awesomeness of my 4-cylinder import. They’re all like, ‘I may park cars for meth money, but this car has one axle in the grave.’

3)    I usually almost always have the right of way. Not because I actually have it or know exactly what that means for that matter, but when you see a car with a dent or scratch of some kind on almost every panel, you assume they do NOT have insurance and usually avoid swapping paint with such a car. I should just slap a Piolín sticker on the bumper and really just lean into it.

This might be slightly racist, but if you've seen some of the rides
that sport this, you would agree they are not 'in good hands.'
4)    Also, being older and having its share of wear and tear, I don’t care (mainly because I don’t notice) if there is a door ding here or, you know, a missing panel there. Literally, the moment the car hit me, my first thought was about the eggs in my grocery sack in the back seat. For the record, three of them were broken. FML.

5)  Finally, have no car payment is the BEST thing of ever. So...

And, when you drive around in a car with a dent on the trunk where your mom backed into a tree branch, but looks like someone went Tonya Harding on, this sort of thing is really a non-event.

At least now most of the panels match.
PS - If you are reading this and are wealthy and don't want any sort of weird sex stuff in return, please buy me a new car or an ice cream attachment for my Kitchen-Aid mixer.

PPS - Let's be real, the weird sex stuff clause might be rescinded for the ice cream attachment alone!

Do want.

Monday, April 2, 2012

ladies' brunch

Last week I posted about being too hungover to cook Indian food... After three long days of working answering phones and watching other people drink wine at the salon and three 10-hour days of being trapped in women's prison (aka cosmetology school), I decided to spend my Saturday night in.

A friend came over and we drank wine, wore Snuggies, ate the world's most legit jelly beans ever created, watched the Taylor Swift Speak Now World Tour DVD, and sat around until we both got our periods. I went to bed at a respectable time and was so excited to sleep in and tackle a day of productivity sans hangover.

Turns out, my body needs the hangover to feel alive...

I rolled around my bed bouncing between my issues of Bon Appétit, my personal collection of my favorites recipes, and the interweb's best food bloggers. 

Yes, this is where the magic happens. And by 'magic', I mean
"the consumption of A LOT of Salt & Vinegar potato chips."

Still, I was helpless to decide what I wanted to make for my lunches for the week. My mind was completely foggy and my usual Sunday morning hungover stomach was craving nothing instead of its usual anything fried in mass quantities with a side of gravy the size of Carnie Wilson's pre-op stomach.

While I danced around to Florence + The Machine's 'Shake It Out' in an over-sized (and probably women's) t-shirt/concubine's dashiki, I was still torn on what to make. 

Then, out of nowhere a blessing came from above. Literally, as I decided to hang up my poly-blend gown, I looked up... From weeks ago, beautiful, delicious Girl Scout Cookies. I 'hid' these from myself to avoid going to bed with a box and waking up with peanut butter and chocolate all over my sheets. I then lounged around in my sleepies eating Tagalongs and waiting for culinary inspiration to strike.

Then another blessing came (via Twitter): an invitation for a lovely Sunday ladies' brunch from my friend/neighbor/occasional hair crash test dummy, Rebecca. Instantly, all of my ideas of cooking and being productive flew out the window.

We started the day at Dream Cafe. It's cute, simple, and there were one or two DILFs that caught our eye. In between Bloody Marys and people watching, we basically sent no fewer than a dozen tweets to one another over the course of the meal. Seriously, we could have eaten at separate restaurants and had the same experience.

Some legit chicken & waffles.
Luck should have it, I didn't need to be hungover to enjoyed this deliciously fried, gravy covered meal and a fun day of no responsibilites and the spending of the little expendable income I take home these days.

Here are just a few highlights of the day and more reasons why I love this girl.

Upon settling the bill for our hot homo mess of a waiter, I calculated what would be a little more than a 20% tip. Rebecca replied: "Was he/she that good?"

While driving to a do little shopping we saw this on the highway:

Rebecca: "I mean how you buy a yellow Scion with a straight face?"

While fighting with her GPS and my useless Siri to find a Sonic for the world's most legit Route 44 Powerade Slush (which she assures me is healthy 'because of all the electrolytes'), a number of amazing songs came on that we jammed out to.

Rebecca: "God! Why isn't this song cooler?!"

When the late Whitney Houston's 'I Wanna Dance With Somebody' came on, Rebecca formulated a Halloween costume she probably considers a tribute... that others might consider borderline racist. "I would have the curly hair, big bow, the tight dress, some dark make up, and a good spray tan!"

So as I finish this post, I am 1) back in my dashiki, 2) only planning on going to the store later for wine, and 3) still clueless on what I want to eat for lunches this week.

Mission: accomplished!