I was reading Mindy Kaling's memoir Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) on my phone (thank you, Google Play Books!). I was in bed on a fine Saturday morning while Ricky was beside me, watching American Dad on Netflix. Usually, I would either sleep in or roll around and nuzzle against Ricky like a Siamese cat in heat, but I was determined to reach my week's quota of five books a week. Goodreads does that to a bookworm. And Mindy's book was going to be my fifth.

I was on the chapter where Mindy (I'm calling her Mindy because she is going to be my future best friend) was explaining to me how she was in a clique during middle school and high school, and mentioned that middle school was only two years. Since I did not grow up in an American school setting, I turned to my all-American(?) boyfriend.

"Middle school is two years?" I asked for confirmation. "How does that work? Explain things!"

"Well," he starts, shifting so he was more comfortable on the bed, "Middle school is a way to help elementary school kids acclimate to a high school setting."

I nodded, signaling for him to press on.

"We start with elementary school, which is one through six. Then middle school, which is two years. Then high school for four years," he said.

"Yeah? What's the difference?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Elementary school is one classroom and one teacher all day--"

I held up my hand to stop him. "One teacher all day? No switching teachers for different subjects?" He shook his head. "That's weird. In elementary school and high school, we did one classroom all day, but different teachers for different subjects."

He nodded. "That's what middle school is for. And that's two years. Then high school is multi-classrooms and different teachers."

"So...your high school is like college. Students go to a different classroom for the next class?"

He nodded again. Then he asked, "How many years is high school in your country?"

"Four in high school. And six years elementary school before that. No middle school. So we start college around sixteen or seventeen years old," I told him.

Ricky grinned. "We don't go to college until we're eighteen. That probably explains why Americans are smarter than you Asians."

I sat up so quick that I gave myself whiplash. "Excuse me, bitch," holding one hand up as the universal sign for hold-the-fuck-up, "but when something technologically or physically amazing happens, the memes you see will have the caption that reads 'Level: Asian'. You don't see 'Level: American' anywhere."

Ricky starts laughing and slapping his hand on his thigh like a sea lion.

This ho thought I was done. He was wrong. "The highest level you Americans get is 'White Girl Wasted'," I finished.

This sent him into a laughing frenzy that bordered into indignation. "I made you pancakes!" he said, as if that was going to help the Americans' case against the White Girl Wasted epidemic. But he did make me a plate-sized fluffy pancake smothered in syrup and butter for breakfast that day. It had crusty sides and was very delicious. I almost threw it up because he had started to tickle me viciously.

"Americans did not invent the pancake!" I wheezed as I dodged his tickle fingers.

"Yes, we did," he insisted. He finally stopped tickling me long enough for me to grab my phone.

"I'm going to ask my friend Google," I told him. My attempts at using the voice-activated Google Now was a bust, so I had to manually type in my question. (If a Google employee and/or Samsung Galaxy S5 employee is reading this, you might want to look that up. Also, I would like to be able to access Google Now from [1] any screen besides the home one, and [2] while locked, but have it respond only to my voice. Like the Moto X. Make it happen.)

I scrolled past the pancake recipes on the Google results page in search for the Wikipedia page. "I think the Greeks invented pancakes," I declared as we waited for the page to load.

I would have said the Chinese did, since Asian countries came up with a shit ton of useful things back in the day. Gunpowder, flip-flops, the Great Wall, sushi, hentai... Why not pancakes? But pancakes seemed more like a Greek thing than Asian, mainly because I just could not picture pancakes being picked up by chopsticks.

"Hah! North American!" Ricky exclaims upon seeing the pictures of a pancake with a caption underneath it that described it as North American.

"Slow down, bro," I said, scrolling down to the History section. Literally, the first three words were "The Ancient Greeks...." I pumped my fist into the air in triumph. Ricky dissolved into a puddle of goo.

I think I celebrated my victory way too hard because later that night when Ricky called me from work, I told him that I was sorry I missed the first call because I was napping. "But my body forced me to nap. I hate midday naps; it feels like I got hit by a truck. So it's safe to say I may have passed out."