Thursday, May 15, 2014

Not Just My Name

   My name in German, when translated is: 

  1. The egg cell is the female haploid reproductive cell in oogamous organisms.  

    My name means egg. It's pretty rad.  For something my dad made up or at least I think he did, it's pretty amazing.  The fact is that I love eggs.  I love them any way you cook them, I will pretty much eat them.  My favorite Saturday morning treat my bother and I loved to make was  instant ramen with egg cooked into it.  Sometime we would boil the egg right into the 2 cups of boiling water, sous vide style before it was ever in style.  Then consume while watching Marsupilami. Yeah, I went there.

    Eggs in my house are consumed every morning with toast if we are lazy and with potatoes or  Tapsilog, because I am that Filipino.  I have an egg tattoo that has been parked on my arm for over 5 years.  My favorite way to eat them is over easy.   When asked, "which came first, the chicken or the egg?" My answer, always, is egg. Why, because God wanted to create something tasty from start to finish. 

Monday, May 12, 2014

Have You Ever Seen a Dog Eat?

When I put something in my work fridge, I expect it to not be fucked with. Take this as a warning to all who cross my path. 

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

That Time I Turned 30 and Puked in my Bed


Turning 30 is as important as turning 16 and I can't see why people make such a big deal.  But I bought into it, I had a party. But I did it on my terms. I made a bunch of sandwiches, had people over, but I had the dignity to not call it, "My Dirty 30," because, seriously fuck that.

I'm going to brag about my spread because, I'm really proud of what I did. I had lists, did the proper prep and made all the sandwiches before the guests arrived.  I had a grown up cocktail bar, I cleaned my apartment, I had paper straws, REAL flowers and mason jar cups.  My friends bought presents and we had adult conversations.  The playlist was a curated 90's hip hop bump and grind, feel a poke coming through kind of playlist.  Turning 30 was changing me, or so I thought.    

Three Old Fashions later combined with Washington Apple shots and coconut vodka with soda water equals Hammered Montana, my drunk alter ego.  Let's just say this bitch loves to party and she knew it was my birthday.   The last thing I remember saying was, " Washington Apple Shots!!!" Famous last words. 

Then my husband and friends dragged, what was probably a lifeless body, home and placed me in my comfort zone.  I was so comfortable, my husband had to dig my contacts out of my eyes. I was so comfortable that I couldn't even get up to puke in the toilet. Yes my friends, I puked in my bed like a teenage girl who drank too much on prom night, no Sadie Hawkins, because turning thirty is as relevant as the Sadie Hawkins dance.