Check My Vitals

Where do adult women go to buy their bras (like, real bras, not the ones that appear on supermodels in a pink catalogue but that everyone knows were stitched together by, uh, tiny hands)? Not looking for anything fancy (or $6,000) – just something that helps my degenerative arthritis and doesn’t make me feel like an orangutan. Please and thank you.

It has been one month since my return from the holy Motherland, and, IDK, you tell me how I’m doing.

Immediate observation: the squad is NOT looking solid right now. In fact, ’tis a bit haggard, methinks. And by “squad” I mean me and my mythical entourage.

Thursday, March 1:

Work meeting. I need to stop being the only non-white person in the room. Debrief with my sister after I divulged a painfully racist episode had transpired:

Sister: Can they not read the room?!
Me: YEA THE ROOM WAS ALL WHITE AND THEN ME
Sister: When your egg game is *100 emoji* *emoji of eggs frying in a pan*

(Technically, children, an egg is a white person who wishes they were Asian. But my sister has vestiges of FOB, so, in this context, she’s implying that I perform whiteness well enough where white people can say racist shit around me. This is partly really true.)

Wednesday, March 7:

Am I disgusting? I don’t think I’m disgusting. I think I’m REAL. REAL TIRED. OF YOUR BULLSHIT.

I just ate 5 string cheeses, 6 buns of King’s Hawaiian Bread, one slice of mozzarella cheese, and 3,000 pork pot stickers from Trader Joe’s. Why? Because my boyfriend isn’t home to make me dinner. Ere go, we’re back on the 28 Days Later zombie-apocalypse-survival diet of eat-everything-you-can-find-because-the-horrific-death-that-awaits-you-is-imminent.

I’m also watching Mulan, because sometimes you need to see your likeness doing bad-ass shit you’re too fat and lazy to do. Sure, she’s Chinese, but if you asked Disney circa 1999 to draw a Vietnamese person, they’d probably just copy-and-paste Mulan and say “THERE YA GO.” Touché, Disney.

Saturday, March 10:

I saw some derpy-looking Persian cat for adoption on PetFinder.com back in January and enquired via email. Finally, two months later, an adoption assistant responds and invites me to apply for her in person. I go only to find myself pinned against the kitty-kennels, surrounded by a gang of career-cat ladies who interrogate me over what kind of food I plan to feed her and whether I prefer wet or dry food (apparently, there is a right answer to one’s preference).

It is A SCENE. I am INCENSED. You’re wearing a vest and you’re gonna come after me?! Why, because you would feed your 6,000 cats more than 6 oz. a day, you sad bitch?

Needless to say I did not get the cat. Instead, I went home and thanked Jesus God that I have the perfect dog, the perfect fat-bitch turtle (who ate her last goldfish friend), and the perfect gecko-baby (who now looks perpetually pregnant).

Friday, March 16:

My first-ever LinkedIn “courtship request.” OF COURSE IT’S FROM SOME VIETNAMESE DUDE IN INDIANA. Writing to me in Vietglish, he tells me that, apparently, my profile “caught his attention.” I’m sure, dude. I’m sure.

Saturday, March 17:

I give Leo a bath, towel-dry him, blow-dry his fur, and spend the rest of the day petting him. Whatever chemical-stripping shit my cousin recommended for shampoo really does work like magic on this guy. He feels like a stuffed animal from FAO Schwarz. I should know. I had two life-sized pandas from them that I kept up until I was 16.

I’m obsessed with petting him. He’s a white dog, so blemishes show easily if you don’t keep him—as my neighbor once remarked—cocaine-white. I inspect his fur meticulously. He’s uncomfortable. Boyfriend is uncomfortable. Everyone is uncomfortable, but me. Cleanliness is next to godliness. Especially when he was rolling around in horse shit only hours before this moment.

Monday, March 19:

I have the longest phone conversation with my mother on record: 40 minutes. She reluctantly tells me about her life, but very liberally tells me about how she has very vibrant and politically-active Facebook and Twitter avatars—on platforms she’s blocked me on because apparently my life is so boring that my own mother lost interest. Let that sink in. She admitted to first creating a Facebook account so that she could “keep an eye on me” when I was in college. Somewhere down the line, though, she decided that she had to save one of us. Guess who she chose. Every time she comes up as ‘People You May Know,’ I die a little inside.

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Time for another vacation. Or an exorcist.

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