absolutangel64

…At least it was. Now I’m not so sure.

Like I said, I got myself a Happy Meal the other day because I felt like appeasing the child in me (think Peter Pan Syndrome, not pregnancy).

But as I was about to get down with my Happy self, I was suddenly blinded by a horrific sight!

Did I find hair in my fries? Was was there a wad of chewed gum stuck to the bottom of my burger? No, what I got was much, much worse…

Instead of the typical small bag of French fries, there was a tiny pocket of, like, six fries. Okay, maybe it was more than six…it might have been seven. But whatever! There were far fewer fries in there than there should have been. I also received a bag of apple slices—which I know I didn’t ask for. “Did McDonald’s give me the apples because they ran out of French fries? ‘Cause that’s not even close to being an adequate substitution!“

I felt totally ripped off, and decided to call the McDonald’s that sold me this sad ass Happy Meal and complain. I went online to search for their phone number. One of the results I got back was a news headline: “Healthier McDonald’s Happy Meal debuts in SoCal.”

Healthier? McDonald’s? No, don’t tell me…no way…no…NOOOOOOO!

But it was true: “The new Happy Meal will automatically include both a quarter cup or half serving of apple slices and a new smaller 1.1 ounce side of fries.”

There wasn’t anything for me to complain about because according to the article, the French fry failure, the apple slices—none of it was the result someone’s ineptitude. No, they were there because they were supposed to be. This was Happy Meal…but I was anything but happy.

Although I couldn’t legitimately complain about McDonald’s messing up my order, that doesn’t mean I don’t have any complaints about it at all. This new Happy Meal—a.k.a., the Misery Meal—is a travesty of everything a child loves about Happy Meals. I mean, when I was a kid, the whole point of going to McDonald’s was to avoid eating healthy food. Perhaps it’s because my parents didn’t have the time or the budget back then, but most of our meals were eaten at home. And when we did go out to eat, it was usually at a Chinese restaurant. Going to McDonald’s and getting a Happy Meal was pretty much reserved for special occasions. So when we were there, I would try to stuff as many French fries and bites of hamburger into my stomach as I could because for all I knew, I never have another chance to get a Happy Meal again.

No matter how much I loved McDonald’s, or begged and pleaded my parents to take me, the times I got to eat there as a child were few and far between. And I think that might be a big reason why my sister and I didn’t have childhood obesity problems. Everything we ate–whether it was Hainan chicken or a Happy Meal–it all had to come from my parents before it ended up in my stomach. We didn’t have a choice, and we knew it. Everyone knows this: kids don’t control their own diets; their parents do. So why are fast food restaurants like McDonald’s getting crapped on? Because the food they serve—the food kids are able to eat only because their parents paid for it—is fatty? Hello! It’s fast food! That stuff has always been fatty—that’s why is so freaking good! If you are worried about your child getting bit by obesity, then don’t give them fast food! Is that really so difficult? Last I checked, kids weren’t exactly forcing their parents to get them Happy Meals:

Did I say “kids”? I meant “cats and kids.”

But is my sounding off limited to Happy Meals? No. This stuff applies to the entire fast food industry—an industry that has been trying to transition onto a path of healthier living. And I honestly don’t understand why it has to do that. Hamburgers, French fries, and all that other good stuff has always been synonymous with weight gain. Where do you think the term “fast food” came from anyway?

People who are health-conscious shouldn’t be getting pissy with McDonald’s or any other fast food restaurant. Sure, they make the food that makes you gain weight, but you’re the one who chooses to eat it. Obviously then, if you don’t want to gain weight, don’t eat fast food.

But that’s not what’s happening here. Some people are pointing their fingers at everything but themselves, and making places like McDonald’s throw apple slices into its Happy Meals. And why? So they can start a healthy-living regiment without giving up fast food?

It doesn’t work that way!

I’m not saying this as someone who is bragging about being employed, but as someone who had spent over a year trying to get into the legal profession without any success. Yes, I’d been pounding the pavement and mass mailing my resume the entire time, but all I got out of it was an ever growing list of bad first interviews and rejection letters.

It wasn’t as if I was surprised by how hard it would be to find a job. The market was already in the toilet when I graduated from law school, and I knew I would be spending at least a few months tearing through the classifieds. I just didn’t expect it to be as difficult as it turned out to be. I mean, I wasn’t just competing against my former classmates in this War for Work. I was also up against people who had degrees from better schools, got better grades, had more work experience, etc. All I had on my resume was a brief college internship at a tiny law firm, and some random research projects I did for other attorneys. The end. No, really, that’s all I have on my resume. And I’m pretty sure most of the employers only interviewed me because they wanted to see the loser who tried to get by on such crappy credentials. And let me tell you, I did not disappoint:

I eventually realized that the traditional resume/interview route wasn’t going to be enough, so I turned to networking in hopes that my bright personality and enthusiasm would make up for the things my resume lacked. Unfortunately, you can’t really impress people with personality traits you don’t have…but at least I did not disappoint:

Networking didn’t get me anywhere. Resumes and interviews didn’t get me anywhere. It was starting to look as if I was going to have to pack my things and move back home.

Before I could start throwing my stuff into trash bags and boxes, however, I had to go to an interview. It was for a job that had been posted on my school’s website, and I applied even though my chances were slim. But slim chances are still chances, and I ended up receiving an e-mail from the employer later that day, asking if I could go in for an interview the following afternoon. And of course I went because it wasn’t like I was busy or anything. And then the strangest thing happened. I got the job! No kidding! And when I told my new boss that I didn’t know much about the law he specialized in, he just said, “Well, the only way people learn things is by having someone teach them.” An employer who is willing to take the time to teach an employee something from scratch? OMG! They do exist!

Anyway, that’s why I’ve been a little busier than usual. I haven’t had an actual job in a quite some time, so my time management skills need a little work. But I’m getting better, I think. I mean, I managed to put this post together, right?

Thanks for putting up with me!

Who wouldn’t want the power to make wrinkly, creased up paper all flat and crisp?!

I’ve seen those commercials that show people using the medicine and then admiring their wart-free hands, but how do we get from flash freezing a piece of lumpy finger meat to perfectly manicured hands?

Don’t lie: you were curious about how this stuff worked too!

During the 4 years I was at USC, I had no idea how big the football program was. Seriously. I didn’t go to any games, I never watched it on television–the closest experience I had to attending an actual game was when I had, like, 7 football players in one of my classes.

I know, I know–it sounds impossible for me to have been that ignorant. Most of my friends, classmates, and professors were big fans, and the entire student body pretty much knew every detail of every game because the campus newspaper was always dedicating huge chunks of the sports section to the Trojan football team–but I thought that was a given. We were USC students, so of course we were going to be supportive of all things USC. Every school has such school spirit. I mean, go to any campus anywhere and you’ll find at least one student whose clothes all have his school’s name stitched somewhere on it, and who also has one of the sports team’s game schedules taped to his dorm wall.

So when people at USC went nuts over the football season, I just assumed it was typical school-related fandom limited to the boundaries of our campus…and people who went outside the area probably turned into Lakers fans.

Anyway, one day my sister gave me a USC sweater she purchased on impulse but never wore. I didn’t buy a sweater for myself when I was a student because they were kind of expensive, and was more than happy to finally get one free of charge. And this was right around winter time, so I was able to wear it right away. And I did. I wore that sweater every single day. It was so warm and comfortable–and it made getting ready to go out a lot easier. Forget changing out of my at-home lazy-ass clothes. I just threw that sweater on and left!

That USC sweater changed my life! Now I could be comfortably frumpy both indoors and out! I could run errands and go shopping without changing out of my raggedy sweats and giant sleep shirts. All I had to do was put on a sweater and be transformed from a dumpy mess into a relaxed-looking USC-er.

Everything was going so well! And then my sister gave me 2 more USC sweaters! OMG! My life was awesome!

*Sniff* *Sniff* What’s that stanky smell? Oh! It’s reality taking a sh*t on my face.

I will never forget that day. I was buying cat food and wearing my USC sweater because it was cold:

Out of nowhere the cashier suddenly started talking to me about USC football! Me–the last person you’d want to discuss football with. I have “football retard” written all over me–which I guess isn’t noticeable when I have a giant “USC” written across my chest.

And it didn’t stop with the cashier. I was getting football questions from random strangers all the damn time. One day it was the seafood guy at Ralph’s. Another day it was a man I walked past when I went to get my eyebrows done. It even came up when I was in the middle of taking the bar exam! I was taking the elevator to my testing room when an old guy stepped in and started talking to me:

I was like, “Are you serious?! I’m stressed out as it is, and now you want me to talk football with you?!”

But I was lucky that day. I’d heard bits and pieces of some USC football drama on the radio, and had a vague idea on how to respond. I didn’t know any specifics. I just knew it was bad news for USC, so I assumed that the reaction this old guy was expecting from me would be one of disappointment.

And I was just about to spew some crap about being sad that Pete Carroll left and was replaced by another coach when the old guy said:

Geez…

The topic sometimes came up even when I wasn’t wearing a USC sweater.

I always tried to give an answer that sounded like I knew what I was talking about, but it was tough. One day I didn’t feel like faking it and just responded honestly: “I don’t follow USC football.” That, however, turned out to be a major mistake because the guy I was answering totally went off on me: “How can you not know anything about Trojan football! You went there, didn’t you?! How can you pay that kind of money and not know anything?! You’ve got to be kidding me!” It was extremely traumatic, but it also made me realize that I had to make a choice: either give up my USC sweaters and be free from answering football questions, or follow the football games and be comfortably frumpy anywhere and everywhere. It was an easy decision for me: football for frump.

I haven’t had to read any sports pages yet because the weather here is still in the 80’s, so I don’t need to worry about staying warm. But the temperatures have been decreasing, and my sweaters are starting to ask if they can come out and play. And as much as I love cold weather, I really hope summer sticks around a little longer because I don’t want to follow football. It’s just so boring! You think I can get away with, “I don’t want to talk about it…it’s too sad”?

Older siblings are usually charged with teaching their younger sisters or brothers the ways of the world–and I should know: I, myself, am an older sister, and had taken on that great responsibility at a very early age.

Being almost 4 years older, I had accumulated a vast library of knowledge by the time my younger sister was born: Oreo cookies are best eaten when they’re soggy; “Sesame Street” is the best show ever; getting a time-out will ruin your life–things everyone must know in order to achieve success.

I also taught my sister important survival skills:

And kept her updated on the latest news:

By teaching my sister all that I knew, I was essentially giving her a head start on the competition. So when she entered preschool, she was already at college-level smartness while everyone else was still learning how to read. And when she was awarded all her academic scholarships and landed an amazing job, I knew without a doubt that her successes didn’t come because she worked really hard for many, many years. No, it was all thanks to me.

I took piano lessons for 10 years–pretty standard for an Asian, huh? Ask any of us whether we’ve ever taken music lessons, and you’re going to hear a “yes” for either piano or some string instrument (most likely the cello).

My sister and I had weekly lessons at our piano teacher’s house. Our mother would drop us off after school, and would return to pick us up after we were finished. Neither of us liked practicing, and we were often scolded for our poor performances. On days when we were particularly disappointing, our teacher would drag out our lessons from 45 minutes to an hour and a half. I was so bad I once had to sit there for almost 3 hours. My sister and I tried to find ways to cut our lessons short–like, if she was first to get her session over with, she would immediately call my mom and tell her to come pick us up. And then my mom would end up arriving 30 minutes into my lesson, and we would get to go home early.  It worked a few times, but after awhile my mom figured out what we were doing and stopped unknowingly helping us cut class. But we still kept the routine going just in case.

During one of our lessons, I had some sort of brain fart and did something really dumb. I’ve tried to find an explanation for this seemingly sudden onset of retardation, but ever after so many years, I still come up empty.

Here’s what happened: My sister was having her lesson, and I (after immediately calling my mom) was waiting to be picked up. To pass the time, I start flipping through a few of the “National Geographic” magazines my teacher had on her coffee table.

While looking for pictures of animals, a folded-up insert fell out of the magazine.

It turned out to be a diagram of Africa’s native animals.

That is such a sh*tty picture, I know. I tried to make it less sh*tty by using basic shapes to draw the animals, but I could only draw an elephant (yes, that’s supposed to be an elephant) and giraffe. Including any more animals would turn an already turdy picture into a massive mess of Paint waste.

I really wanted that diagram. It just looked so cool–with all the little animal pictures placed on the map according to their native regions. Why, if I had something like that, I’d tape it to my bedroom wall and look at it all the time!

And then, I had a brilliant idea!

Using the magazine as a cover, I took that folded-up diagram, slipped it under my shirt (I know I drew myself wearing a dress, but imagine it’s a T-shirt), and held it under my armpit so that it wouldn’t fall out when I moved. Mwahaha! That diagram was now mine! Mine! And now I’ll always know where most African crocodiles live, and which territories belong to lions and zebras!

I was so excited that I couldn’t contain my joy when my mom arrived.

And this is when I had that brain fart. For some reason, I thought I could show my mom the fruits of my labor–that she would see this diagram I freaking stole and wouldn’t be mad at all. In fact, I actually thought she’d find that little map of Africa and its animals so interesting she’d let the larceny slide.

But I was very, very mistaken.

And it wasn’t until seconds after I took the diagram out from under my shirt that I realized I had just told my mom I was a thief–a really stupid thief who shows off the stuff she steals to her own mother.

My stupidity was so embarrassing that I couldn’t bring myself to look at the map ever again. I think it’s still sitting in my piano bench, buried beneath piles of sheet music–a constant reminder of a random act of retardation that still haunts me.

My Facebook activity has been reduced from “slim-to-none” to just “none” ever since my first foreign exchange student intern went crazy after reading the many sh*tty status updates posted by the 3 Facebook Whores on my “friends” list. So I’ve been trying to find an intern this whole time, and was on the verge of completely giving up when I finally found someone who met all the requirements I was looking for. He had an impressive resume full of such glowing achievements like being a foreign exchange student that I immediately called him in for an interview.

Having gone through many job interviews in the past, I’ve learned that coolness is everything. Even if you’re hopelessly uncool, you should never let the person you’re interviewing know you as anything other than the coolest interviewer ever. Getting the interviewed person to believe you are way cooler than him will establish your position as his superior if he gets the job.

My method of accomplishing such extreme coolness is to have CNBC on in the background during the interview–because CNBC stands for “Cable Network that Boosts Coolness.” So of course I had it on during my interview with the potential candidate–which went well enough that I decided to give him the job. But before I put him to work, I wanted to tell him about the perks of being my new foreign-exchange student intern:

Thanks to my sudden ability to property think on my feed, I finally had a new intern who could check my Facebook for me–which I had him start on immediately.

Of course it’s busy. A news feed always is if you’re “friends” with Facebook Whores. Those freaks will go so far as post an update about blinking their eyes, so I braced myself for my intern’s report to be full of crap like, “X just woke up” or “Y is bored.”

A, B, and C? Who are they again? Oh! They must not be Facebook Whores! No wonder their updates didn’t give me that explosive-doot feeling!

It must’ve been my lucky day to have the report not start with something about X, Y, and Z, but I was sure the rest of the news feed would be all about them.

OMG! None of the updates were from the Facebook Whores! Not a single one! Everything posted on the news feed had something to do with how A, B, and C were planning their weddings. Did X, Y, and Z change their names? Were they dead? Was I in the Twilight Zone?

I realized the answer was “none of the above,” even though I had no idea how I knew this. There was just something about A, B, and C that sounded familiar to me for some reason…like I actually kind of, sort of knew them from somewhere, somehow.

And then it hit me!

That’s why I kind of, sort of recognized their names! I went to school with them, and they were always hanging out together with a few other girls. And suddenly their aggressive wedding-planning posts made sense:

Don’t laugh at my volcanoes. They were hard to draw.

Yes, A, B, and C were embroiled in a Wedding War, and were trying to kick the crap out of each other with their silly posts. What’s a “Wedding War” you ask? Hmm…well, it’s like when a kid wants an action figure—say, Leonardo from the “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles”—because the rest of his friends have one, and he doesn’t want to be left out. So his parents buy him a Leonardo and the kid is back to fitting in with his friends. But the harmony doesn’t last very long because the kids start realizing that they all have Leonardos—and you just can’t play “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” with four Leonardos. That obviously means 3 of the kids are going to have to turn their action figures into poor-man’s versions of Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo.

But how do you decide which kid’s Leonardo gets to be the actual Leonardo when they’re all the same? It’s simple: you have to make yours look better than everyone else’s, and you do that by getting your parents to buy additional accessories and action figures (but not those of the turtles because that’s what the other kids’ Leonardos are for). And then you bring your stockpile of “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” toys to the playground, and the other kids will suddenly figure out the message you’re sending: if they want to play with the Shredder or Master Splinter action figures or use the Turtlevan that opens up into a pizza parlor or whatever, they will have to let your Leonardo be the Leonardo.

A Wedding War is pretty much the same thing, except you’ve got a group of single, adult women instead of kids, and the battle is over who will have the better wedding instead of the better Leonardo action figure. And really, if you didn’t think A, B, and C’s Facebook antics were indicative of a Wedding War, then this will probably be enough to convince you: After her engagement, A changed her profile picture to this:

But after B announced she was engaged, A’s picture became this:

Isn’t that just so “I’m going to have a better wedding than you, b*tch!”? I bet she could’ve achieved greater subtlety if she simply took a dump on B’s face.

I get it: a wedding is a big deal for a girl. You get to wear the dress, carry the flowers, walk down the aisle—all while you’re the center of everyone’s world. It’s the moment you’ve been dreaming about for as long as you can remember, so of course you’re going to be jealous when you find out that it’s your friend—not you—who’s getting married first. That b*tch is totally stealing your moment from you! That’s just wrong, and you can’t let her get away with it! So you’re just going to have to get married too—and you know your wedding is going to be so much more impressive and memorable that your friend’s because weddings are your thing, not hers!

…Just kidding. I don’t get it. Who cares if your friend is getting married before you? Who cares if all of your friends get married before you? That’s not a reason to get married. And how does that make sense anyway? “I’m going to get married someday…someday being when my friends do.” Hello! That sh*t is expensive—and quite honestly, no one is going to remember your wedding besides you and your family. You might think you’re being original but trust me, you’re not. Your wedding is going to look like everyone else’s, so maybe you should just calm down and—I don’t know—get married because you actually want to.

I’m not against marriage or weddings. I just don’t understand why some girls go crazy when they find out their friends are getting hitched first. If you can see how stupid the kids were in wanting their own Leonardo, then how come you can’t see the same stupidity when we’re talking about weddings?