I Like Nice Things

Yesterday my mother, Max and I went shopping for a new human being. Apparently my cousin's lady companion had her baby three days ago so my mother wanted us to buy her a gift. I feel like babies' gifts should be welcome-to-the-world survival kits with clothes, rations, toiletries, a small knife and flint, pretty much anything you need to survive. My mentality for buying practical gifts is, "Will this help Tom Hanks on the island after the plane crashes?" We ended up buying tiny, new-human-sized clothes and socks for baby Tom Hanks. She will be well equipped for this coming winter unless she balloons to Da Vinci Code-sized Tom Hanks.

While browsing the baby section at Target, I realized that I really wanted all of these products. The onesies, the padded cribs, super-soft blankets, and butter-yellow apparel beyond my wildest dreams. Do I have "baby fever?" Have I reached that age where I want to settle down and start a family? FUCK NO! I want all this shit for myself! Why would I buy all these things for a baby? What have babies ever done for me? I need these things to better my life. I propose that the baby section be renamed the Luxury Goods section and have everything made in adult sizes because this stuff is too nice for children.

I saw so many things that I needed just as much, if not more, than a baby does. I found a tiny pair of crocheted socks that were so soft, I imagined wearing them would be like walking on air. Why the hell do they think adults don't want these? My feet are all mangled and crumbling to pieces from stomping around in these stripper heels. I need crocheted socks! Babies can't appreciate luxury socks that feel like you're walking on air because those fools can't even walk yet. I also sampled the bumper pads that are supposed to go around the bed to prevent those clumsy oafs from bumping their heads. Clearly, these should be a safety standard for all citizens, like the airbag or seatbelt. I don't know how many times I've bumped my head against the wall, the bed, or other furniture. One time I even shut the car door on my own head. Where was my padded bumper then? Some dribbly baby was using it while I got my head smashed by my Acura Legend! I took a hit for that baby, and I didn't even get a thank you.

I am also disappointed that I can't purchase an adult-sized pram, or as I like to call it, a Luxury Wheelchair. I could be tired from a long day at the office or injured from a nasty tumble due to my penchant for bargain stripper heels. Either way, it would be nice to lay in a softly padded Luxury Wheelchair while someone pushes me around. I don't like the sun or bright lightbulbs so the ones with the pop-up hood would be mandatory for me. I would also like one with the big sturdy wheels so my designated Luxury Wheelchair driver and I can do some sweet jumps. While I'm injured, it would also be nice to go home to a nursing chair, or shall we say, a Luxury Recliner. I almost rocked myself to sleep sitting on that display chair. The smooth forward and back motion reminded me of the log ride at the carnival and soon I was in a blissfully calm state dreaming of smoked turkey legs.

I've been an adult for a few months now, and it would be a hell of a lot nicer if I could upgrade these amenities. I don't want to drink coffee, listen to podcasts, worry about my metabolism, and talk about taxes. I'm not asking for much. I just want to go to bed without fear of my head smashing a hole in the wall. Excuse me for being excited about bedtime! I want to wake up and swat at various dangling objects that hang overhead while soft music plays. I want my padded Luxury Wheelchair with the pop-up hood and all-terrain wheels with Hugh Jackman pulling me across short distances. Most of all, I want to wear a butter yellow onesie, sit in my Luxury Recliner and think "Yes, I am a baby Tom Hanks."

Target

I love Target. I do. I love it so much. Anytime is a good time to go to Target. Bored? Go wander around Target. Nervous? Target sells wine and beer. Heartbroken, because Darrel is sleeping with some bitch named Deltrese? Target sells matches, lighter fluid, and delicious snacks by Archer Farms. I myself have even ended up at Target on numerous date nights, because hey, I'm a classy dame, and my wife knows how to treat a lady. I know I'm headed for a good time when I see that red circle with the red dot in it. It's like the eye of Sauron. One does not simply walk into Mordor just as one does not simply walk into Target; it is recommended that one, rush, charge, scramble, or in my case, sashay into Target. There is no telling what fun fruit flavors and mysterious treasures I may find at every visit. By treasures, I mean things I do not need but gleefully purchase at unbeatable prices.

The Target symbol is indeed like Sauron's all-seeing eye. It looks into my soul and telepathically tells me, "You need this raincoat. Sometimes, it does rain in Texas. Buy this raincoat on Temporary Price Cut for only $20.88. What are you waiting for? They might run out. You can be the first in the Express Checkout line if you hurry." Suddenly I find myself with a raincoat on a hot, sunny day in the middle of Texas. I am also now hauling home a load of glitter-encrusted shoes, a gallon of shampoo, ice cream, booty shorts, General Tso's flavored potato chips, make-up, a flashlight, Bananagrams, and a box of cookies. I'm a monster.

I am indeed Frodo Baggins sashaying into Mordor. I always leave my home with a mission in mind. "I need to buy milk and bread. That is all. Just milk and bread." I enter Target, and suddenly I am unable to throw the ring into the fire from whence it was forged. I am hypnotized and believe that I don't just need bread, but I need bagels as well. And bagels are never complete without cream cheese. Oh hey, Target is having a special on cream cheese, so I should try chocolate and salmon flavor in addition to original. Hey, how about that milk? Organic is the way to go, but look at all these organic selections! Do I want low-fat? Am I a growing baby and need DHA Omega-3 in my milk? Well look, I can get low-fat milk with added DHA Omega-4 all in one carton! I deserve a prize for my wise decision. Hey, since I'm going to be so slim and sexy drinking this low-fat DHA Omega-3 milk, I should get myself a cookie to balance it out. Wow, would you look at this fucking cookie selection! You can smack my ass and call me Sally because Target is serving some Mrs. Fields realness up in here! I don't know what flavor to get so I'll just get a couple of each. I'm going to share them with friends. Yes, I'll share them. Bitches love cookies!

Several bouts of grabby-hands later, I find myself wondering what witchcraft has willed me to becoming the proud new owner of Sham-Wows. Where is Gollum when I need him? When I am reaching for that winter coat on clearance because it is the beginning of summer, I need Gollum to jump on my back and bite my finger off. It's the only way. I can't turn away from unnecessary items at reasonable prices. A day may come when I can enter Target and purchase only the items I need, but it is not this day. An hour of remorse and weathered credit cards when my bank statement comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day I shop! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, patron of Target.

'Tis The Season For Prom

I never went to my high school prom. I never wore my dream dress, danced arms-out robotically with some dude named Chad, and cried in the bathroom when Chad looked in the general direction of some skank named Amanda. In retrospect, I wonder if I cheated myself by opting to stay at home and watching Memoirs Of A Geisha with my mother instead of having that pivotal princess night. What's a princess night? I've never had a Bat Mitzvah, or Quinceañera, or Sweet Sixteen. Sweet Sixteen? Chinese people don't have those. We have No-Sweets-If-You-No-Get-1600-On-SATs. Perhaps I missed out on some life-changing experience that forever altered the course of events that would have led me to becoming a more complete person, kind of like how my mom didn't breastfeed me as a baby and caused me to have poor sense of direction. Yes, this is why I get lost all the time, I am sure.

Now that I think about it, no one even asked me to prom. Not a single person. In the words of Cee Lo Green, "Well ain't that some shit." This may come as a shock, but I was not always the magnificent creature you see today. Instead of turning heads with my high-end prostitute face and commanding a room with this ass that won't quit, I was a dumb teenager doing silly things like thinking, reading, and community enrichment projects. Those days are behind me now. I'm an adult and have my priorities in order. I have since blossomed into a stunning specimen with sophistication and charisma. I'm like a Chinese version of Paz de la Huerta but with a dash of Michelle Obama and the voice of Bruno Mars. Fuck you, Chad! I didn't want to stay at the Super Jumbo Deluxe Hotel with you anyway! Call me.

However, as I am still a struggling graphic designer, albeit a devastatingly handsome one, I have come to realize that my adult shortcomings stem from my lack of prom experience. Something magical happened that  night to all the happy shiny kids who went on to become happy shiny adults. Since I missed out on prom, I see it is only fitting that I recover what was lost. I must have my prom night so that I can be a complete person. Luckily, my sister Jenna's wedding is next week. That'll do. As maid of honor, I've already bought my ravishingly gorgeous dress and tailored it to a modest just-cover-the-ass length. There will be a DJ providing a magical soundtrack for the night so I can pretend to be Kevin Bacon and angry-dance all over the warehouse, er, I mean the country club. There are five groomsmen to the five bridesmaids for me to take my standard line-up-on-the-stairs photograph. I'm counting on  someone to put a hover-hand at my waist. My best friends will be present at the wedding so I can call Theresa a slut for getting to third base with her boyfriend while Jie cockblocks Chad all night. Of course my parents will be present because no prom night is complete without me crying a river of makeup down my face while screaming "But Daddy I love him!" I believe in my case I will yell, "Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!" because Chinese is a very delicate and subtle language. It will be a night to remember, my long awaited coming of age. I will wake up the next day optimistic, healthy, employed, and with chiseled side-abs. I will finally be a fully realized adult.

I Do Not Trust My Underwear

Last night I decided to go for a run. The weather was cool, and I had the Hanna soundtrack on my ipod for mood music; I tend to run faster and for longer when I think Cate Blanchett is behind me with a gun. I had also been staring at the computer screen for several hours by then with my eyes in a flurry of Photoshop layers and my brain turned to mush by html codes. Stepping out into the night air was like entering Narnia. The natural world without a/c and streaming videos is so jarring.

I started off at a brisk jog, allowing my lungs to adapt to physical activity and unfiltered air. Before long I broke into a sprint because I remembered that Cate still wanted to kill me. I dodged a couple of imaginary bullets and pulled an Uncle Vernon move, veering suddenly off the path and going the other way. Shake 'em off! I was having a pretty good time until I got a creeping feeling.

On my butt. My underwear had started slowly sliding down my ass, and my thick track pants certainly were not helping the matter. I tried my best to avoid getting shot by Cate whilst constantly pulling at my waistband every few strides. How in pluperfect Hell is anyone supposed to fight evil CIA officers and run all the way to Germany while wearing the most impractical pair of underpants imaginable? Underpants have one function: keep your junk in check. It's a fairly simple concept. With death drawing nearer, I began rethinking my life and the choices I'd made. What possessed me to purchase underwear with a waistband constructed entirely of lace? It is the weakest of all fabrics! What little stretch it allows will never retract back to its original shape after you put it on. Come to think of it, the jeans I wore earlier had been acting like support beams keeping the collapsible panties in an upright position. In that moment the entire population of fancy underwear became my enemy. It's a sham. It's a scandal. The empire that is Victoria' Secret is selling me nonfunctioning underwear. This supposed delicate lace feature is meant to make my ass look flirty and cute when in fact it is going to get my ass killed by Cate Blanchett. I own a plethora of various underpants guaranteed to attract wandering eyes, but instead, the garment itself is doing the wandering. Up my butt. I do not appreciate marketing of faulty products, and Victoria's Secret has made a fortune selling useless underwear. Perhaps that has been the secret all along. All of us have just been too stupid to realize because we've been distracted, dazzled by the prospect of having our butts encrusted with diamonds. For the record, those hurt when you sit on something without a cushion.

I had barely run half a mile before I decided to call it quits and go home because I was damn near ready to pull a Hansel and rip my trifling underwear off through my pants. That night before I hopped into the shower, I liberated my butt from its incommodious cotton stockade, my hand pulling the garment off in a flourishing gesture of glory. With scorn, I cast my enemy into the trash bin and savored the righteousness of my action.

Birds of a Feather Flock Behind the Counter

Today while I was slowly decaying into the inevitable husk of my former self behind the restaurant counter, I looked out the window and saw an impressive flock of birds descend upon our shopping center. Hundreds of black bodies in spectacular formation maneuvered themselves like a blanket, settling in trees and scattering over the concrete lot. As usual when my mind feebly fights mental stagnation, I began to wonder.

Today is a great day to be a bird. As much as I enjoy and would like to travel, airfare, bus fare, life not being fair, and the trivial obstacles like responsibility and guilt have stopped my dreams from coming into fruition. This would not be so if I were a bird though! If a bird needs a round trip to Las Vegas, he can just up and leave. Literally, his body goes in the direction up, and he is on his way, without the faintest bother of boarding passes, arriving an hour before departure, or lurking the Ortbitz website with the dedication of Captain Ahab himself waiting for that sweet deal (word on the street is, Mondays!) Birds are terribly lucky having never known the financial perils that only we more evolved creatures have the luxury to suffer.

So Mr. Bird has embarked on his trip to Las Vegas. Let's call him Bernard. Bernard will fly for a few hours until he eventually needs to pull over to refuel. No gas station or diner for twenty miles? Please, he's a goddamn bird. The very earth is a traveling buffet: a Golden Corral so vast that God herself hasn't sampled every variation of cheese sauce yet. I believe that douchenozzle Ernest Hemingway so eloquently stated that "Paris is a moveable feast." Well eat my dust bins, Ernie, because I'm a goddamn bird; the world is my feast, and I'm the only thing moving. Whether Bernard is the healthy organic type and eats nuts, berries, and creatures from the Earth itself, or he follows his human foodies for deep-fried, over-processed sustenance, there is not shortage of food. What modern humans enjoy doing more than eating food, is throwing it away. For instance, I am such a modern, hip and happening lady of civilized society that I once dumped two containers of curly fries out by a pond and watched voyeuristically as the ducks consumed every last deep fried morsel. Trust me, food is not a problem for birds.

After dinner, Bernie will feel a bit sleepy, as buffets tend to have that effect. As any wary traveler, he'd rather not seek refuge in a hotel (motel?) with any form of the words "Value" or "Super" in the name, lest he become the latest on a long list of local birds gone missing. For the unbeatable price of $0.00, he can stay in the upper level suite of the nearest tree. Perhaps no trees are available in the concrete jungle of a cityscape. The nooks and crannies of buildings new and old alike are perfect abodes for Bernard. Having visited quite a few cities in my day, I can attest to the amount of shit I've seen; literally, buildings and vehicles covered in bird fecal matter. For that I must tip my hat to Bernard and his friends for having the audacity to defile our most sacred monuments and getting away with it. On that matter, rest stops are never a problem for a bird on a long trip. I'm sure the avian version of Mr. Hemingway would say, "The world, is a moveable toilet... and a feast." Oh that  Er. Nest Heningway and his irony. Fucking hipster.

Suffice to say that being a bird does have its perks when it comes to travel plans. Cost is virtually nothing, and... well, I can't think of any other advantage to flying to Vegas as a bird. That is pretty much the only reason I am envying those flying rodents out there. While Bernard has probably contracted a slew of disease and has a laundry list of mortal enemies ranging from hawks to Windex, he still has the luxury of not spending hours on end behind a counter. Also, if Bernard makes it to Vegas in one piece, the money saved on travel fare will cover the costs of all the staple activities of Vegas. He can blow as much as he wants on gambling, strippers, and well, blow. It's the perfect plan! Why has no one else thought to become a bird and go to Vegas before??? Oh, Bernard is still a goddamn bird, that's why. What the fuck is he doing in a casino?

In suit of many great literary geniuses before me, what I have written is an allegory to my own life right now. There is no Bernard. My sister Jenna is Bernard but without the diseases. She also doesn't shit on public edifices, at least not that I know of. Bernard is also a little bit of me, seeing as to how I am the one living behind a counter fantasizing about tree room service. And I too shit on public monuments, especially those memorial ones. Jenna and her troop of bridesmaids are on a quest to the Holy Land to seek the Holy Grail. And by "Holy Land," I mean Las Vegas. And by "Holy Grail," I mean Thunder from Down Under. We the Knights of Dancing on Tables want to cover her costs of reaching the Holy Land and delivering her to Salvation and Australian men in g-strings. We shall succeed. History may not remember us, but for that weekend in January, neither will we.