Reader Mail

From a Wonder Killer (in Wonder Speed):

Hi, Pam–

According to Wikipedia, kolache fillings include fruit and cheeses, but not sausage. The correct name for what you made this morning is Klobasnek, which are sometimes mistakenly referred to as sausage kolaches. Just thought you might want to know.

Take care,

You know, I much prefer the smarty-pants email from people I haven’t met in real life, like this one, to the torrent of Jollibee hatemail (yep, still getting that) or the ones from the readers of a fetish site that I cannot find but must exist, with the story of me trying to find ski boots linked on some creepy forum somewhere because I STILL get email asking about my calves. Even today. Like, just now.

This Just In

Subject: your blog

You’re not funny. You are an intolerant, ignorant “ugly American,” and it’s people like you that give the rest of us a bad name. With loud-mouthed people like you, it’s no wonder so many foreigners can’t stand us.

Nice try with the observational humor, but you’re just plain not funny. Just long-winded and babbling. Please stop writing. For the love of God, please stop writing.[/readermail]

The first paragraph I can easily ignore, because that’s what Americans do when they feel uncomfortable.

But that second paragraph? I’ve been telling myself that one every day for years.

truth and consequences

Thursday night. My husband is screaming at the television screen: “Fuck you, Oprah. Fuck you!”

This is not good. This isn’t something I ever thought I’d have to handle. This goes against the core of me, and my instinct is to push him off the couch and make him stop bad-mouthing my Oprah. It’s like he looked at Dan and said, “I never liked your face.” It’s like he said Jollibee fucked my mom.

He’s upset. Lots of people are upset.

…About books. It’s fantastic. Continue reading

adventures with jollibee, continued.

Hi. I know some of you read this at work and would get in trouble for severe language, so don’t click the little “continue reading” after this sentence if you’re in (“urine!”) that kind of situation. I’m just going to post an email with some uniquely adult language.

Before I do, I should mention that I’ve been getting lots of nice email about Jollibee, its place in Filipino culture, why it’s better than McDonald’s (or McDo, as I’ve learned), and why it tasted so damn sweet. In fact, I’ve learned so much about the Philippines over the past week (including why I should be happy I didn’t have to try dinuguan or balut), that I’m really glad I had my Jollibee experience and wrote about it the way I did. Especially when I woke up this morning to find the following: Continue reading

the bevolution has arrived.

When men want attention from women who are complete strangers, they get a dog to walk, or borrow a baby to carry. If you’re a woman who would like to have random conversations with men you’ve never met before and will never see again, you might want to put some kind of Longhorn sticker on your car. For the past six months, that thing has been a dick magnet. Continue reading

Hipster Bars, Jollibee, and Casablanca.

See, just two days ago, on the flight home, we were discussing Ray.

We don’t see Ray enough.

Because he calls three minutes before he’s going somewhere to invite us to come with him. “Um… I’m going to this bar, on Santa Monica? There’s going to be a gospel band–”

“– and a chicken who plays checkers?”

“And there’s free drinks for fifteen minutes, so y’all should come.”

“I’ll put you on the door.”

And you’re like, “Ray. I’m at my wedding.”


I know. Still.
Continue reading