New Chapter to an Old Story

I have a horrible habit of letting blogs die. In my defense, there has always been a good reason. Mostly a life-changing, impulsive and poorly thought out decision that has rendered the "theme" of a blog moot. I don't even know what "moot" means, but I assume it makes me sound smarter. Like that is a moot point I wouldn't even bother bringing up in moot court.

This blog drifted off and died when I stopped my fabulous travels. I thought of resurrecting the beast, but that "determination" lasted two entries. Recently, I've thought about a new blog and I've come to the conclusion that I might as well continue this one. Mainly because I couldn't think of a cleverer blog URL than winnie.gets.around.

And now that I'm gainfully employed, names and locations may be changed to protect the not-so-innocent (namely me). Any resemblance to any real life incident is pure coincidence.

Right.

"You look like a whore."

NOVA (the rugby team) held a fundraiser at a local bar last night. The theme was 80s (as it usually is with this group). My sister was home for a couple of days, so she said she'd "Madonna" my outfit. I ended up looking more like Peg Bundy from Married With Children. My mother took one look at me and said, "You look... like... a woman... who, you know, walks the street and gets paid money to get into men's cars." Then she said it would probably be a good idea if I covered up because I looked like someone the police would arrest for soliciting.

I get to the bar at around 9:55, 5 minutes before I start my stint as guest bartender. Problem: I only know how to make Jack and coke. I figured I could flirt my way out of trouble, wink a little, perhaps play on some creepy people's Asian fetishes.

NO. Did not happen like that. At all. Instead, I wandered around, trying to make drinks. This one guy watched me make a screwdriver and told me that was the worst mixing he's ever seen in his life (and he totally looked like someone who has had his fair share of bar experience). It's pretty sad because the drink is just OJ and vodka.

I also think living at Casa Coaches has ruined my ability to judge alcohol. If I learned anything from living with Doctor and Comiqua, it's that no drink is "too strong." That, in addition to my poor vision/inability to see in dark places, led to a lot of drinks where I would run out of room for the mixer. Whoops. Don't care.

My whore outfit didn't help me out one bit. Not only was my drink knowledge completed pulled out of my ass, but my heels kept getting stuck in the rubber mat and I'd drag it with me while running around or trip and throw alcohol all over the people at the bar.

The worst part of the evening is that I didn't have time to invent my "yello fever" shot, a drink I had been advertising all week. Instead, the drink I made up was brown, which is sad because all the liquor in it was clear.

The upside is I did get many compliments on my outfit:

"You look like Mr. T's wife."
"You should wax your lip."
"Didn't have time to wash your hair?"
"Were you alive in the 80s?"
"Are you wearing make up? It looks like you got punched in the face."

I'm in love with a stripper

I have failed in so many aspects.

Updating this blog after Vegas: F
Not selling out: F

But on the upside, I have continued to succeed where it matters. I'm still often confused as a lady who will "play" for pay. It doesn't help that in the past week alone, I've somehow found myself in the company of stripper poles and naked women.

There's a bar/restaurant that has great happy hour deals a block from where I work. I met a friend there for drinks and dinner after work. We were catching up when the the lights dimmed and loud, awful music (read: Avril) started to blast. A man in a suit came over to our table and, very politely, told us that at 8, the bar/restaurant became a gentlemen's club.

As we were finishing up and waiting for the check, the ladies started to come in. I have never seen a more diverse group of women. I saw ladies dressed as a cowboy, a cop, a hobo, etc. It really showed me that my gender doesn't limit me, and if I put my mind to it, I can be anything I want to be.

Then last night, in an effort to help NOVA fundraise, I was coerced into visiting a "restaurant" to ask for a raffle donation. This time, the ladies weren't dressed as anything. In fact, many of them weren't dressed at all. One was even making out with herself in the mirror. I mean, I understand if you find yourself attractive, but making out with your reflection is one step below making out with your hand (which I totally stopped doing sophomore year of college*). I didn't get the donation and I'm pretty sure he wanted to offer me a job. Thank goodness the muscle I brought along took care of that.






*by "sophomore year of college" I actually mean "last year, when I graduated"

I now pronounce you...

Thanks to The Washington Post Magazine and Google, I am now an ordained minister.

I can legally perform marriages, Baptisms, and supposedly absolve sins (though the last one seems a little questionable).

If you are interested in any of the above, please let me know.

I definitely should've gotten this done before Vegas.

Drag Queens and giant pizza

The Friday night before I left for Vegas, my friend Joanna (pronounced "Ho-anna" or "Whore-anna" - don't worry about it, she's foreign) were planning on meeting other friends in DC for a night of rabblerousing fun. As a sidenote, I'm not quite sure what rabblerousing means, but I couldn't think of another word to describe drag queens and giant pizza.

There was a rumored drag show in Dupont Circle, which I recently learned is oftentimes referred to as the "Fruit Loop." While in DC, I suggested we descend upon the infamous Pizza Mart and claim ourselves a giant slice of pizza. I can't describe how big this pizza is. Only that it has about 1400 calories per slice.

This is not Joanna. Nor is it me. Or anyone I know, for that matter. It's a picture I googled to emphasize how GIANT this slice of pizza is. And how enticingly delicious. If you look really closely, you can see lakes of grease.

Unfortunately, my dreams of giant pizza and men showboating in dresses was not to be realized this night. Instead, Joanna and I went to watch Hamlet 2 and eat at a late night bakery-diner.

Hamlet 2. What can I say about this movie? It is probably one of the most confusing, disturbing, bizarre, and offensive movies I've seen in my life. And it's nowhere near as entertaining as Superbad. The best part of the movie is the musical performance of "Rock Me Sexy Jesus."

Rock me rock me rock me sexy Jesus. As sung by Phoebe Strole, who at one point in time was part of the cast of Broadway's "Spring Awakening."

When the credits finally rolled, Joanna and I sat in a morbid silence. We slowly made our way out of the theater, trying to fill the awkward silence with small talk. Small talk that ended with the consensus that we were going to Amphora to get fries and pie. I had mentally prepared my body for the prospect of consuming an extra 1400 calories. One way or another, I was going to get that 1400 calories.

The diner is open 24 hours, and when we arrived, there was a good number of people enjoying their fine dining experience. We sat down and were handed these gargantuan menus. Please note the salt shaker for comparison. There was an entire page dedicated to desserts and pies.

My first round was coffee and blueberry pie. When he tried to take my menu, I told him to wait because there'd be plenty more coming. Joanna ordered a side of fries. Please note that she said a "side" of fries and not an "entree" of fries.

Before and after pictures of our delicious first round
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Delicious. Joanna felt sick midway through eating the fries, but I convinced her that it's what her body wanted... no, what her body needed. After thoroughly salting and peppering her plate (would you like a side of potato with your seasoning), she finished.

PIE THAT WAS DELICIOUS.










I would be lying to you if I said that pie wasn't delicious. And I know my blueberry pie. I've feasted on many a pie from the Charlottesville farmer's market (a good portion of those were purchased out of guilt and/or fear) and from a nearby county fair (purchased for similar reasons, except instead of Mennonites staring at me with judging eyes, I bought pie from gun-toting-confederate-flag-wearing-Bible-quoting-Republican-voting ladies. I know this for a fact because their booth advertised all of the above), and this pie was amazing. The crust was perfect. It was soft with a little bit of a flake to it and the blueberries were sweet and good. A lot of pies have a very syrupy filling, one that tastes like you're eating candy because it has too much sugar and too few berries. No, this pie was just... good.

So good that a drunk girl stumbling in for a late night snack with her posse leaned over our table and almost fingered my pie, asking if it was any good. As her blurry eyes rolled towards the back of her head, I stared and shoveled more pie in my mouth. My concern wasn't that she might throw up on me or hit me or something. I was worried she was going to fight me for that pie.

She drifted off, I licked my plate, and all was good in the world.

Round 2 involved an order of hot wings. Half of them regular spicy and the other half hotter than licking the sun. When it comes to spice, I go above and beyond. A large part of it being that, as an Asian, I feel like I'm socially obligated to uphold the stereotype that we can handle our spice. At Thai 99, I would order thai spicy and eat everything without taking a sip of water, knowing that the thai personnel were watching me... judging my spice tolerance. The same at Wild Wing Cafe. One of their spiciest wing flavors is "China Syndrome." Coincidence? I think not.

The two piles represent the two distinct levels of spicy. The moment the plate was set down, Joanna's eyes watered and she claimed the scent had burned away her ability to smell. I blocked out the world and focused. If I learned anything from torturing my body with spicy food for an illogical and irrational fear of failing the Asian race, it's that speed is key. The moment you stop to breathe is the moment your brain finally registers your face is on fire.

I tucked a napkin into my shirt collar (because I am classy, after all), and dug in. Joanna gingerly took one and picked it apart with her knife and fork. By the time she had finished one and a half, I had plowed my way through 6 and my face was smeared with burning sauce.

Joanna finished 2, maybe 3. She then told me it was my responsibility and duty to finish the rest. I wouldn't be able to tell you how they tasted. Hot? I'm not quite sure. The aftertaste was pie. Because I brilliantly figured that coconut cream pie would cure any sort of burning in my mouth/stomach.

Joanna ordered a raspberry chocolate cake next. It was rich, thick, creamy, and incredibly decadent. More brownie than cake. There were layers of chocolate "cake" and chocolate raspberry mousse, covered in thick chocolate delicious. If you were to die by chocolate (and I don't even like chocolate), this would be the way to go.

OMG. There is no baked good this diner can't make. The coconut cream pie was dreamy. The crust was a little overdone, but the filling was light and fluffy and just like cool whip. The coconut is an immediate taste and it lingers ever so slightly, but I definitely wouldn't describe it as "strong." The piece they gave me was gigantic. I ate the whole thing.

Since I had already consumed my daily 5-6 meals, this additional indulgence can be considered "training" and "practice" for my competitive eating.

When I told my parents about my pie eating, my dad said to watch out for diabetes, but not to worry about putting on weight. Good news: I'm genetically above things like weight gain (hypothetical and possibly a horrible misinterpretation of what my dad was trying to say). Bad news: I might have a tape worm (according to House, M.D.).

Google Yourself

I googled myself and died a little on the inside for a number of reasons:

1. According to linkedin, there is another individual with my name. An amazing individual. A woman who has held executive merchandising and product positions in the following companies: Kate Spade, Burberry, Polo Ralph Lauren, Gap, Martha Stewart, Macy's. Hello classy professional lady who I now consider my alternate self.

2. However, I know this relationship between Glam-Winnie and me-Winnie can never exist. We are on opposite ends of the spectrum. She is in charge of buying fancy things. I am training to be a competitive eater. She has people calling her all the time for fashion advice. I have people calling me from passing cars because they think I'm a prostitute.

3. Depressed, I thought of ways to cheer myself up. Mainly reading my old columns and reminding myself that I am so clever and smart and pretty and brilliant and great and clever. Unfortunately, the only thing the "Pavalier Waily" had going for it (my archived columns) is lost in cyberspace. The "newspaper," and I use the term loosely, has updated its webpage. Since my archived page no longer exists, I am refusing to visit the site again.

4. Thus, Pavalier Waily, your website's daily visits count has lost my 200 daily visits.

5. No, I don't regret burning bridges when I left. Especially my swan song, where I insulted the editors, the quality of the paper, and its random choices for censorship. Whoops.

6. Haha! I was also apparently a cheerleader when I was in high school. Fab-u-lous.

Dear Vegas

Dear Vegas,

Remember when you stole my heart and eloped with it in a sketchy run down wedding chapel? And remember how it was officiated by an Elvis impersonator and a Cher female impersonator?

I love you, Vegas.