Fat Asian Baby

The Fat Asian Baby would personally like to thank the New York Times for printing this article about men's underwear. Their valiant effort to intellectualize and deconstruct our "cultural obsession with male genitalia" offers so many choice quotes, I hardly even know where to begin.

Apparently the Fat Asian Baby's parents are all in a tizzy because her return flight to the States gets in on Thursday evening. For all of you non-obsessive Democrats and (god I hope this is none of you) Republicans, that means that they may have to choose between watching John Kerry officially announce his candidacy at the Democratic Convention or picking up their cherished daughter at the airport and bringing her home. While I realize they just saw me like a month ago, I don't really think this should pose much of a dilemma. I mean, we all know John Kerry's the candidate and all. Sheesh.

Today the Fat Asian Baby, accompanied by the ever-faithful roommate D., decided to check out the Tour de France which was terminating by the Arc de Triomphe. Due to some miscommunications (some assholes, who will remain nameless, convinced us that the Tour finished, um, this morning), we spent more time in a large hostile, crowd of French people than was intended or recommended for any semi-rational person. Suffice it to say that there almost was a smackdown between FAB and two older, smackdown deserving, sour-faced, cornichons-eating, uptight French women. Well, that and I'm now really tan on one side of my body.

Yesterday I saw a Fat BLONDE Asian Baby.
Outstanding.

Today the Fat Asian Baby and Roommate D. decided to check out Paris Plage, this fake beach thing set up along the Seine. As I may have mentioned, D. and I have been resorting to rather mundane and bizarre means of entertaining ourselves. Apparently, as I also may have mentioned, the French don't seem to work very much, and this applies to dealers as well. I have tried making several phone calls in the past week and, believe it or not, everybody's dealer is on vacation. They're on fucking vacation. Fortunately, today D. and I made the acqaintance of two sketchy French dudes who were not only not on vacation and happy to offer us, um, help, they also provide a delivery service: a convenience that makes the Fat Asian Baby feel very much at home. Thank you Jesus.

Roommate D. has come to visit the Fat Asian Baby and bring her a piece of New York life, and let's just say, that's probably a bad thing.  It's amazing to discover the sorts of silly things you will resort to when you really really wanna do drugs and you don't have any.  I'm not sure exactly what happened last night after the consumption of much wine and the taking of several sleeping pills in new and inventive ways.  The last thing I remember clearly is watching several episodes of South Park on D.'s computer but this morning I discovered several mysterious bruises on my arms and D. has a big scrape on his face

A. sent me this text message the other day that struck me as charmingly amusing for some reason:
Ditch Bad Blokes!
These are pearls of wisdom, my dear.

Reading Midwestgrrl's recent post mentioning John Kerry just jogged my memory as to a most unpleasant dream I had last night in which the Presidential Candidate himself made me do some v. v. disgusting things to him. I think I'm going to go give myself a lobotomy.

Yesterday the Fat Asian Baby decided to cut and restyle her own bangs. Apparently, I'll never have a career as a hair stylist. Sigh.

In all the unpleasantness of the England trip, the Fat Asian Baby forgot about the rather cheesily exciting thing that happened before leaving Paris. When I arrived, the Eurostar waiting room at the Gare du Nord was already quite crowded. I did a quick survey of the room and, out of the corner of my eye, located a prized empty seat next to two guys who looked to be in my own age group. In order to avoid exposing that I had chosen the seat because of said guys, I did not look directly at either and quickly settled into the seat with nose buried in Vogue Paris. However, I was unable to make much progress in said magazine as the two chaps turned out to be British, and I was forced to eavesdrop on their conversation which included talking about me since they didn't know I was not a Frenchie. Anyway, dude next to me is clearly looking over my shoulder at magazine because he begins talking about Karl Lagerfeld, who was on the particular page I was pretending to read. Anyway, the conversation between the two took a turn towards designers and work and it soon became clear that they were both models. At this point, the Fat Asian Baby felt compelled to steal a glance, and lo and behold, I had hit the jackpot, not only were the guys my age, but they were fucking gorgeous. When one ran off to the bathroom for a moment, I took the opportunity to reveal my status as an English-speaker and struck up conversation. Turns out they both were with the same agency and had been in Paris for some show or something modelly related. The Fat Asian Baby tried to act all nonchalant but inside could not help being quite pleased with herself that she unintentionally had landed herself between two beautiful men with English accents who were both straight but could also appreciate fashion. Damn. Too bad that, by extension of FAB's Air Travel Theorem, I was forced to part ways with my potential husbands because we were not in the same train car.

The Fat Asian Baby has long been aware that her Rather Ungracious Host is not exactly a rocket scientist. The other day, when he asked me how to spell claustrophobia because he had no idea, I smirked but figured, not a speller either, are we? Although, to be honest, and as you may have noticed, the Fat Asian Baby isn't such a stellar speller herself and claustrophobia is a rather long word. However, this incident pales in comparison to last night's spelling SNAFU. While attempting to send a text message, my Rather Ungracious Host, basking in the blue glow of his cell phone display, actually asked me whether the word "of" had one "f" or two. (Perhaps I shouldn't be so mean; at least he knew it was spelled with an "f" at all. I remember, and not without great pain, a week-long brain fart during which time I entirely forgot how to spell the word "of" and was forced to write the phonetic "uv" in its stead even though I was aware that it was terribly wrong. I was utterly mortified and filled with shame when my teacher finally looked at one of my papers and gently crossed out "uv" and wrote "of" underneath. I don't think I had ever been so embarrassed before in my life. But then again, I was only six years old at the time)

The Fat Asian Baby should have known the trip was doomed when she first arrived in London and was forced out of the Underground several stops before her hotel due to security measures for the Formula One parade. Yes folks, an entire parade about, well, race car driving. Do not be fooled by the mullet, the Fat Asian Baby does not find the fact that cars go zoom exciting in the least and was dismayed to discover that she, with suitcase in tow, was trapped for several hours inside a ten block radius of parade route with what would seem to be the entire population of London. For the past four days, I have been in the company of a complete moron who can't spell (apparently, learning English not such a priority in England) and hadn't ever heard of Troy or Achilles before I so generously offered to see the Brad Pitt film because it's a stupid blockbuster movie and it's about war and stupid boys like war and blockbusters. The Fat Asian Baby never thought she'd complain about eating too much junk, but I haven't seen a whole vegetable since entering the fair island days ago, and, to add insult to injury, last night, some fool deep fried my veggie burger.