Last week, I was in Richmond, where everything is Asian. The idea was to go to karaoke, but on the way there we stopped for egg balls (which I think of as egg waffles, but sure, I guess they’re egg balls) and then walked past a lingerie shop.

I’ve been on the lookout for a slip, because I have two white dresses that are really sheer. Like, check out the moles on my chest sheer. This might work for some chicks, but not for me. I like to keep my ladyparts covered up when I’m out in public places.

There were no slips. Instead, the store was all about the push-up bra. Hundreds and hundreds of extremely ugly push-up bras that one associates with one’s grandmother.

I think I wasn’t quite awake or something, because suddenly, I found myself swarmed by the salesladies. One saleslady asked me if it was OK to measure for my size. I said yes, thinking that she was going to pull a measuring tape from her pocket.

I WAS WRONG.  She felt me up. Then sent me to a dressing room.

The miraculous thing is that she brought me the perfect fitting bra. She must have magic hands. She should patent her hands, because they are better than any tape measure on the market. After I strapped myself into a massive ugly peach lace bra, she taught me a Judy Blume-like “I must I must increase my bust” kind of exercise and tried to sell me a shoulder harness to move my back fats forward to my chest. The idea is back fats=boobs.

Asians are totes excellent at math, right? Back fats=boobs is the best equation ever. So is B cup=D cup. I might go back to school and major in bra architecture.

Annie is “going hiking” in a part of Canada that I’ve never visited, and likely will never visit. It is a place of cottages and Easterners. I get itchy just thinking of the mosquito bites. Lucky for me, Annie will be collecting the mosquito bites while I enjoy my West coast summer, which is like winter, except with less rain.

Anyhow, I spent all night wondering how I would “keep it in the pants,” yet write about Rain, the Justin Timberlake of Korea, not Vancouver’s main form of weather. I figured I’d get my mandatory Rain post out of the way on my first day in Annietown. Why? I want to win the love and affection of Anne-Mommy, whose adoration of Rain is greater than mine. And I want to stick to Annie’s Rules, because I like the way my neck works and really don’t need Annie to punch me when I next visit her.

So yeah. I’m writing about Rain…but I must “keep it in the pants.” This is hard. Things keep trying to leap out of my pants. I mean, look at him:

How am I supposed to “keep it in the pants”? I really don’t want to be punched in the neck or impeached or have loyal Annietown readers rip the special Annietown sash off me. I’m in a bind. Should I just comment on his dancing skills? Or on his much-improved wardrobe choices over the years?

I get it. This was a test from Annie. It was Annietown-style hazing. I think I passed. I kept it in my pants.

P.S. A big thank you to Nathan for fixing my tech issue! Otherwise, Annietown would have been a ghosttown all week and Annie would have punched me in the neck.

Two friends have sent me photos this past week that kicked me straight to the Days of Yore.

This is a picture of where I used to live in Berkeley, sent to me by my good friend Nathan who was up there for a wedding. I lived in a one bedroom apartment with 2 OTHER people, Rish and Chris, for a summer. I slept on a couch in the living room. Anyway it was a total shitbox of an apartment, though MUCH NICER than the one I live in now, which is sad. But the best part? It was next door to Top Dog, the hot dog place. It fucking REEKED like dogs in the apartment. We had to keep the windows closed and then it’d still stink up and we’d end up hotboxing ourselves in hot dogs. Top Dog is/was open late so there’d be insanely drunk people conversating and eating lips and assholes. And then in the morning, on ourway to work, we’d step in a half eaten hot dog or hot dog barf. Fun times.

This picture was taken by Erin. This is my arm about SIX years ago. My arm has not changed much. That watch, however, is dead. I mean I think it still works, it just needs batteries. I want to put it on Ebay since I don’t wear it anymore. Anyway that’s a hammock on the roof of my friends’ old apartment in Chinatown. Their apartment actually used to be a sweatshop and then turned into an illegal apartment. It was a seven story walk up and had no intercom/buzzer, so the roomies would just throw their keys down seven fucking floors to the street below and I always thought I’d get pegged in the head and bleed out. But that never happened because as soon as the key started falling I’d cry and flail my arms around and scream and run away like a big baby. There were also sweatshops still in the building in addition to a mahjong parlor. There was also a random cat that no one fed and the stairwell smelled like pee.

I am going to Canada on Saturday and will be gone for a bit. There will be trees. Some kind of lake. Many insects. There are talks about “canoeing” and “water skiing” and “going hiking” and “spending time outdoors.” I don’t know about any of that crap. I am more of a “sleeping” and “reading” and “eating” and “spending time indoors where there are no insects and dude is there wireless up there because it is the color of my needs” kind of person. However, I am looking forward to leaving the city. I am told there will be stars. I was like, stars? What’s that? Is that something I can roll into a fatty and smoke? No? Well then I am not interested. I AM NOT INTERESTED, NO SHUT UP. Also, I am told there will be no burritos. This is already the worst vacation ever. I will report more. Maybe I won’t report at all. I’ll be in Canada, I don’t think they have internet.

So instead of leaving Annietown a ghosttown while I am gone, if even just for a short while, Doretta will be GUEST BLOGGING. As many of you know, she is the Canadian Prime Minister of Annietown so it is only fitting that she blogs while I visit her country that has no internet. I don’t know how she’s going to fucking blog here considering Canada has no internet, but she’s smart. I trust her to figure it out. It will be nice to read my blog and not read stuff by me. Because quite frankly, being me is really difficult and sometimes I need a vacation from myself.

I have laid out careful rules for Doretta, which I shall share with you.

1. Do not mess with the site, or I will punch you in the neck.

2. Keep it “in the pants.”

3. You must have one post about Rain, the Justin Timberlake of Korea.

I feel that those rules are fair and just. Now, dear reader, Annietown is a democracy and there is a complicated system of checks and balances. This means that if Doretta violates any of the three rules, then you can impeach her. You do this by calling her horrible, awful names and punching her in the neck (see Rule 1). I will take back her Prime Minister sash. Yes, at Annietown the prime ministers wear sashes. Because it’s festive.

Just because I do not feel “connected” enough, I joined Twitter. (Or, I should say more accurately, Nathan and Micah pressured me into joining.) I think Twitter is for people who are too lazy even to blog. Like, god, screw blogging with all those SENTENCES and, good gravy, PARAGRAPHS, why don’t I just blog one line at a time? Anyway it’s a micro-blog which sounds silly. I prefer mini-blog because, as we all know, if it’s mini, it’s adorable. Like a donut, mmm ok that might be tasty, but a donette? HOLY CRAP ADORABLY DELICIOUS I WILL EAT A HUNDRED OF THESE BECAUSE THEY ARE SO PRECIOUS. So find my blogette on Twitter. Let’s be friends, etc.

I saw Battles this weekend at SummerStage in Central Park. They were rocking, but what struck me was that they all appeared to have day jobs and seemed like responsible guys that show up on time and, like, hold doors open for old ladies. Like the drummer was wearing khakis and the bassist had tucked IN his plaid shirt. They were so regular “I shop at the Gap” but then they played and it’ s like your earholes explode and bleed rock all over your face. It’s so nice to see a band that just looks normal but shreds. No guyliner, no nuthugging jeans, no attitude. They were gracious and down to business. Thank you, Battles. For being not-assholes. But you know what? Maybe they are total dicks. Hard to say, really.

So my good friends Marco and Lizzie totally have Olympic Fever. EXTREME OLYMPIC FEVER, they need to be medicated. I showed up at their apartment over the weekend and Marco opened the door wearing nylon sweats and a dirty white t-shirt and flip flops. I was like whoa, don’t get dressed up for me by any means, and then I walk into their place and they have digital cable and a projector TV going. Olympic swimming is covering the entire wall of their apartment. Marco plops down on the couch and is like MICHAEL PHELPS!!!! They had just gotten digital cable just for the Olympics. So, boys and girls, that is an important lesson. When you get cable, you really let yourself go. Seriously. I watched so much Olympic coverage on shit I don’t even CARE about. Beach volleyball? I mean really? It’s only on TV because they are wearing bikinis, it’s totally retarded. Plus the announcers totally had a boner for one of the girls, it was irritating. And then I think Bob Costas was weeping when Phelps won and all I could think was, dude, there are THREE OTHER GUYS ON HIS TEAM LET’S TALK ABOUT THEM FOR LIKE TWO SECONDS. And then I found myself rooting for Tunisia because I decided I didn’t like the Australian swimmer because he was a germophobe and didn’t touch handrails and stuff and kept on whining about his physical ailments. Even my grandma didn’t do that when she dropped a pot of boiling oil on her foot. I was like omg, get a grip. Go Tunisia. See? This is what happens when you catch the fever. Anyway, I want to see the sports where people shoot stuff. I want to see like kung fu, etc. OK fine kung fu isn’t a sport, but you see where I’m going with this.

In a horrible turn of events, I have songs from Aladdin stuck in my head. Selections include “Arabian Nights” (”Arabian nights/like Arabian days/something something/hotter than hot/in a lot of good ways”) and the one song where they are like all riding on the magic carpet and making out.

I feel shame. Deep, deep shame.

Do not ask me how this song got in my head. I just know that they are here, in my head, making me sad. I was even listening to something else and STILL SINGING THIS DAMN SONG in my head. It is like a medley, where I start with one and then somehow end up at the other song.

I am booing myself.

I got in late last night, special thanks to Roz and Chris for picking me up in beautiful Newark Liberty International Airport. On a side note, I love that Jersey tries to sneak in “liberty” wherever they can. Liberty! As in Statue of Liberty! Liberty Deli! Liberty Cafe! Like, dude, Statue of Liberty is ours! Technically Statue of Liberty doesn’t belong to either New York or New Jersey. But it’s in the New York Harbor so maybe Jersey gets annoyed that people associate it with New York and they get nothing but Atlantic City and, uh, Newark airport and the turnpike. Aw, Jersey.

Anyway on the flight back I was sitting behind this woman with three kids, in one row. So a baby was on her lap. One of the kids, maybe five, had a bottle of soda. And was shaking it. So the mom says, hey, don’t open that because it’ll get everywhere. What does the kid do?

He opens it.

Soda goes everywhere. I’m a sticky mess for four hours and it’s all over my computer and somehow soda gets inside my purse. Like I dunno how that managed to happen. I was like, filled with rage. First of all, why are you giving your KID SODA. It’s horrible for adults, even worse for children. And there’s nothing like getting a kid hopped up on sugar hooch on a four-hour flight. Yes that will make the flight totally awesome for you, for your kid, and for everyone on the plane. Second of all, if you see your kid shaking a bottle of soda, don’t you think you should, maybe, take it away from him? I mean she warned him so she did foresee at least something happening, right? Also, the kid was totally bored out of his mind. I mean it’s hard for adults to sit through a flight, but kids need like books and crayons and card games and all this stuff to keep them busy and have some fun. Clearly the kid was bored and was acting out, punching the seat in front of him and pushing every button. I mean the mom was trying and obviously had her hands full, so I felt sorry for her but the kid needed like stimulation. You cannot tell a kid to sit quietly for four hours. You can’t even tell me to do that. Ugh. Anyway it was an awful flight. The guy behind me was really into talking about how he was a magician and grew up in carnie sideshows. He had a handlebar moustache and smelled like sweaty pee. He had a little Barbie doll arm in his pocket and kept on holding it up and asking if people needed “a hand.” Which was funny, like, once. Anyway maybe I was grouchy but actually even if I was in the best mood ever I think I would’ve felt the same.

Also, another sidenote, a week ago I was going to yoga and hanging out in front of the building with a friend. And we are looking at the cutest dog ever, and then this other cute dog comes by with its owner and the dogs are playing around. Cuteness explosion. We are staring at the dogs and I look up at the owners and I realize one is Tony Soprano, i.e. James Gandalfini. And then the other dog mounts his dog and I’m like dude! OMG! Tony’s dog’s getting action in the back section! And then the owner of the other dog looks up and finally it dawns on her it’s Tony Soprano and she does this double-take and lunges for her dog and shoos him off. Pretty funny exchange I have to say. She apologizes and Gandalfini is like whatever. SO then, of course, as she’s walking away she busts out with her phone and starts texting furiously. Her dog just tried to get mad play with Tony Soprano’s dog. Dog’s gonna get whacked. A+

Thanks for all the well wishes and emails and IMs and texts and hugs and burritos. I have amazing friends and for this, I am very grateful. So thanks you guys, seriously. It makes the whole thing go down a lot easier.

Anyway, before she passed away, my grandma knitted me the ugliest vest I have ever seen. A sweater vest. It’s purple. Very purple. OK think of a muscle tank. And now make it purple and wool. And now give it a small boatneck collar. It’s very, uh, unflattering. I put it on and it looks like I got beatdown by Barney and Grimace. I don’t know how to knit, but I’d like to somehow reknit it into something else that I can use all the time, which would be kind of nice. She also knit a hat so big I can pull it down over my entire face. Hahaha I could like rob a bank. But I won’t, not because it’s illegal, but because who has time to rob a bank? I mean you go in there and you have to wait in line forever, it’s just not worth it.

In other family news: one of my younger cousins, 19, wants to BE A RAPPER!!!!!!! DUDE!!!!!!! He has a big fat diamond earring and everything. Cap turned to the side. I want to die. I’m like really? A rapper? I mean, I’m not saying you should be a doctor or a lawyer, but this is definitely one of those things where you should have a fallback career. Just saying. He was wandering around my grandma’s apartment with his iPod on and rapping and doing that rapper thing with the hands you know that karate chop thing. Dude. A rapper. FROM THE VALLEY. I mean the VALLEY. Look at this place. There are malls everywhere. Panda Express. CPK. You know what I mean? But, he apparently recorded a demo!!!! Dude, WTF is right! A RAPPER. Good times.

One of my cousins flew in from Seoul, and he’s the oldest. He’s awesome, one of my favorite people in the family. Anyway he has a ponytail now. A PONYTAIL. The man is like pushing 40. And he’s like yeah I just hadn’t had time to cut it. I’m like really? You didn’t have time in the past, oh I dunno, TWO YEARS it took to grow that beast? He said he’d cut his ponytail off and make soup out of it just for me. Speaking of food, his favorite game is this: “If I gave you a hundred bucks, would you eat that piece of beef?” “What if you ate that piece of pork right now? What would happen?” “OK how about TWO hundred. U.S. dollars.” And then everyone at the table shouts do it, do it, do it (including my parents). Seriously does this joke ever get old? Probably not. Anyway yesterday we went to INSANE KOREAN BBQ place. They brought out like gigantic platters of meat. Like a big meat pile. It doesn’t bother me I mean come on, it’s beef I have SEEN BEEF BEFORE OMG, but then everyone does the joke where when ever I’m about to eat something they say oh be careful, there’s beef in that and I actually stop to look because I can’t tell you how many times they’ve actually sneaked beef into my food, it’s ridiculous. And then they all laugh, like ha ha ha, made you look. It’s like being in junior high. I’m going to shove everyone in a locker.

So my grandmother passed away this morning. She was a good woman, a very good woman. She’s the one who knitted me the absolutely ridiculous Rastafarian cap last Christmas because “that is what all the kids are wearing” in her neighborhood (she lives/d in South Central, no joke) and when I was little she sewed overalls and a sweater set for my stuffed animals. In high school, she wanted me to get my eyebrow pierced because she thought it was kind of cool, but more importantly it would horrify my mother. She was also the best cook on the planet, and now that honor goes to my mother. I’m sad, but I’m OK. She led an amazing life, saw her first grandkid, etc. All the stuff people say about grandparents, you know, applies here. But I’d like to point out her last words to me, which I thought were very fitting for her. She had a heart attack on Sunday and I talked to her the next day while she was in the hospital. “Hi Annie, how are you? Eat well. Get married. Take a nap. I’m gonna go now.” That made me laugh. Like do it in that order, you know? Eat, marry, nap. So then my mom was like “So, did you HEAR THAT? Do you UNDERSTAND? Get on it!” Anyway, it’s not a bad swan song for my grandma.

So thanks, Grandma. I’ll miss you.

Ahoy!

This gave me a mind boner.