teresa hsiao

Mom, here it is.  I’m going to address the one topic that you keep bringing up, week after week, day after day, in your most innocuous, grandchild-seeking voice.  Why am I single?  Why haven’t I found a yin for my yang, a Romeo for my Juliet, a chewtoy for my cynical, frowny-faced bulldog?  Sure, I’m only 26, but you’re right: the mere fact that I’m not married/engaged/in a serious relationship indicates that there is something deeply wrong with me, possibly pathological, definitely egregious, and I must figure it out now or live the rest of my life alone, in a dank crawl space where every unmarried woman goes to die.

So, why haven’t I found a man with whom I’ll fall in blissful, romantic, crazy, stupid love?…

BLAME IT ON ME

I was not molested as a child.  In fact, as you know, I had a rather idyllic and uneventful upbringing.   But, perhaps the absence of suffering can explain why I became such an unlovable, cold-hearted adult.  Instead of growing up with a natural enemy (Focus all your hate on your molester! On your parents! On that oddly-fat, muffin-topped bully!), I imposed my wrath across all walks of life. So if you stole my candy, I would spear you in the head with a pencil (sorry, Nick).  If you copied off my test, I would knee you in the balls (sorry, Greg).  And if you just happened to catch me on a bad day, I would tell everyone that you peed in the middle of the locker room (really, really, sorry, Nacie).  So, why am I single?  Well, I guess it’s because I am an irredeemable bitch.

As a child, I was never broken down or kicked in the face, even when I should have been.  Thus, I emerged from adolescence with an unhealthy, enduring narcissism: I am a 10. Everyone else is a 6.  And as an adult, most kindhearted 6s don’t want to deal with pretentious jerkface not-really-10s.  So, Mom, if you’re wondering why I’m still single, this is one reason.  When your daughter was acting like a prissy little shit, you should’ve just left her with a recently-divorced uncle and not asked too many questions.*

BLAME IT ON THE BOYS

OK, Mom, perhaps it’s not just bitchy me. Maybe the guys have something to do with it as well.  I’ve never had a great track record with los hombres.  It started out okay: my middle school boyfriend once gave me a heart necklace from K-Mart.  But since then, I’ve been on a string of terrible “relationship experiences”.  I’ve gone on first dates to awful places like Wendy’s, the New York City Bodies exhibit, and a guy’s office Halloween party where I saw three mimes and his friend in blackface. I’ve met a weirdo who only wanted to play “the Dictionary game”, which involves picking a word from the dictionary and guessing its definition. I once went on a date with a guy who strangely insisted on sticking his tongue down my ear; I lost an earring in his futon.  So even if there is something wrong with me, it appears that everyone else is damaged too.  Maybe the entire single male population is just a cesspool of mediocrity and creepiness.  Just last month, my kind, sweet, middle school boyfriend robbed a Hollister store at gunpoint and went on the run.  He’s facing armed robbery and assault charges now, but word on the street is that he’s single… yup, I’m on it.

BLAME IT ON THE ORANGE SHAG CARPET

Fine, Mom.  You say that no, it can’t just be my terrible personality or an overarching “men are bad” excuse.  Well, then, perhaps I’m single because I simply have bad taste.  If Patti Stanger from Millionaire Matchmaker were to give her analysis, she’d say my “picker’s” off (if I were a guy, she’d also say my pecker shouldn’t be the picker).  But if that’s the case, then my picker has been steered awry from the get-go.  Remember our first house, with the bright orange shag carpet and the blue, plaid checkered couches?  Remember how I loved wearing sweaters with poofs, neon scrunchies, and oversize, ill-fitting Orlando Magic t-shirts?  I’ve had horrific, vomit-inducing taste my whole life.  My picker has always been off.  If my picker were a pecker, it’d be all bent and mutilated and probably diseased.  So if this is really it, then maybe I’m not meant to find someone at all.  Maybe I’m destined to be the orange shag carpet that will clash with everything and match with nothing.  Maybe I’m Craig Sager’s suit?

I don’t know, Mom.  I guess all I can say is that even though there is nobody significant in my life right now, it doesn’t mean that it won’t happen in the future. Perhaps one day I will meet a nice guy who can deliver your blessed grandchildren (because, of course, he will be a doctor too).  But also know that I don’t necessarily have to be married to give you grandchildren, and constantly nagging me about getting a boyfriend may drive me into the arms of some incredibly-fertile, economically-unstable miscreant with whom I’ll have a really ugly, really stupid, four-legged heathen baby, so let’s all just take a deep breath and remember I’m still young and don’t need to be tied down right now, okay?, okay?, and yes I know that writing this was a huge waste of time that I could’ve spent on finding a boyfriend but it’s also possible that there is someone out there who, upon reading this, will say, “She’s the one!” and decide to find me, hunt down my address online, secretly follow me to learn my likes and dislikes, and then, armed with that information, sweep me off my feet so that we can live happily ever after for the rest of eternity because by then technology will be so advanced that everyone lives forever.

Hey, a girl can dream.

 ——-

^{* No, I really don’t think I should’ve gotten molested (or that anyone should get molested) — this was just a cheap hook so that you’d keep reading. And aren’t you glad you did?!?}

Dear Facebook Friends:

Hi.  How is everyone doing?

I’m writing this letter to all of you, my 645 closest, bestest, most wonderful friends in the world.  For some of you, I still don’t remember who you are, but I’m sure we shared an unmistakable bond that led us to become Facebook friends in the first place.  Bret, are you the guy from the “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” bar?  If so, please confirm.  Chris, I think I threw up in your car once.  I’m sorry.  And lastly, Miguel… I do not know you, but you are my only friend named Miguel, so you are staying.  Yay, FRIENDS!

Now that we’re nearing the end of 2011, I feel that I should pull a Hilary Duff and “come clean”¹ about my utter failure on Facebook this year.  I’ve been a terrible Facebook friend to most of you, and you don’t deserve that.  You deserve more.  Much more.  Especially you, Miguel.  So, I am writing to apologize to everyone that I have virtually neglected this year.  In particular, I deeply regret the following:

MISSING BIRTHDAYS

I apologize to all my friends whose birthdays I’ve missed this year.  I know that you were just waiting for me to post a thoughtful message on your wall, indicating to you that a) I was on Facebook that day, and b)… Well, that I was on Facebook that day.  So for all the walls I didn’t write on, the birthdays I didn’t acknowledge, and the friendships I inevitably ruined, this is what I would have written:  “Happy birthday!!”   See?  There.  The double exclamation mark is what really sells it, telling you that I was truly excited, that I was pumped, that I knew it wasn’t just an ordinary day, but the actual anniversary of your birth!

(Of course, for my fundamentalist Christian/anti-abortion friends, you know that life begins way before birth.  So, please give me the date of your conception so I can wish you a Happy Conceptionday! instead.  Yay, LIFE!!)

NOT COMMENTING ON YOUR MOMENTOUS LIFE OCCASIONS RE:BABIES/MARRIAGES/ENGAGEMENTS

To all my friends who got engaged, married, or knocked up this year, here is my heartfelt message: “Sooooo happy for you!!!”  And really, I am happy, thrilled, over the moon, jumping for joy, doing heel clicks down the street, shouting to the sky, arms wide, eyes closed, big grin, feeling all rainbows and butterflies and sun and smiles, so freaking happy for your happiness and blah blah blah get a room.  So of course, I won’t write that your new fiancé is, at best, a 3 to your 7.  And I won’t mention that your new baby’s limbs look like overcooked sausage links strewn together on a human body. And I certainly won’t tell you that your new wife’s nickname in college was Slutney McFetus.  Instead, I will look through the 150 photos of your atrocious sausage baby spitting up in a onesie and be soooooo happy for you.  Yay, ACQUIRING DEPENDENTS AND THEREFORE TAX BREAKS!

UN-TAGGING MYSELF IN PHOTOS

I feel terrible when I un-tag myself from photos.  I know that it took you not an insignificant amount of time² to save, upload, and tag these photos.  I know that your intentions were only good.  And I know that you didn’t mean to include this horrid picture of me and publicize it for everyone to see.

I realize that yes, I probably look like this (fat face) most of the time, and yes, I shouldn’t care that my 645 best friends see me like this (fat face), because they will love me no matter what I look like (fat face).  However, you may have underestimated my incredible vanity and desire to have an acceptable photo for the news if I’m ever sensationally murdered.  So, the delusional perfectionist inside me demands a picture-perfect, scrubbed-clean, virtual representation of myself which will ensure that the news outlets make my headline, “Friendly, Respectable Woman Brutally Killed” and not, “Half-Naked Asian Chick Bites It”. So that is why I un-tag myself in most photos: it’s not you, it’s me.  Me and TMZ.  Yay, NORTH KOREAN-STYLE CENSORSHIP!

GENERAL STALKING

Finally, I just want to issue a blanket apology for generally being a creep on Facebook.  I don’t like to admit it, but I have spent countless hours ghosting around like some kind of internet predator, checking people out, going through photo albums, looking up friends I haven’t talked to in years and trying to catch up on their lives without actually interacting with them at all.  It is shameful, embarrassing, and cowardly, and I can only take solace in the hope that everyone else does it too.³  But if you must know some of my observations from such stalking (really, sociological research), these are my takeaways:

1. Most everyone is getting fat.
2. My friends from elementary school have either gotten pregnant or arrested.
3. Everyone who drives a nice car has a picture of their car on Facebook.
4. People who have a profile picture of themselves in a bathing suit are terrorists.
5. 60% of my friends have developed bone spurs or know someone who has.

So, this is it.  My dear Facebook friends, lovers, colleagues, and randoms (that’s you, Miguel!) I have enjoyed all the time we did not spend together in 2011.  Let’s make sure to keep this up in 2012.

Love,

T

We’ve always known that human beings are superficial.  In today’s photo-centric world, we value men who are cut, women who are svelte.  Everyone else–the lumpy, chubby, tubby, saggy–just don’t fit into the frame.

But there’s an evolutionary fallacy in our love for all humans thin and tall.  We might prefer for people to be skinny, but we love wild animals that are atrociously fat.

For example, everyone loves bears. Polar bears, panda bears, black bears, you name it.  Bears have become so cuddly and lovable that if I were ever to encounter a bear, I’d half expect it to come bearing Coca-Cola and a good forest fire story.  Same thing with penguins.  While I generally hate all other birds, I love penguins: mainly because they’re fat and furry and they’re featured in almost every single animated movie out there (we even saw penguins in Madagascar… really?).

Honestly, our love for blimp-like animals doesn’t make sense.  I could sit at the zoo for hours, watching hungry, hungry hippos chew on grass.  Yet, if I were to see some obese human being sitting with a pile of ribs, I’d probably have a gag reflex.  If I were to meet a furry, plump, waddling man, I would not wish to see him on the movie screen.  And if a group of dancing, naked, fat guys tried to sell me Charmin toilet paper, I would almost prefer just to air dry. (Almost.)

Our human superficiality is counter-intuitive, especially when seen from a Darwinian lens.  Why would we, as human beings, favor small people and big animals?  It’s clearly easier for a giant bear to eat you when you’re a tiny person, versus when you’re the size of a tugboat.

So, I’d like to change the current paradigm of our superficial human nature.  Instead of looking down on them, we should just start embracing fat people.  The fatter, the better.  Our fellow corpulent friends are just trying to correct for the thinness of our voluntarily-starved populace, where a strong wind in Hollywood could blow a starlet away, right into the open jaws of Smokey the Carnivorous Bear.  Fat humans are doing us all a great service: intimidating animals to think that people, too, can be large and in charge.

Of course, if you can’t stomach the idea of fitting your arms around your neighborhood chub, then perhaps you could go the other way too… Start spreading the love to skinny animals.

So maybe it’s just me, but I don’t understand why Americans have to wear clothes.  I think clothing is incredibly inefficient.  Every morning, I stare blankly into the mirror for at least fifteen minutes, wondering what to wear.  Whatever I choose, I still end up looking like a children’s model from a J.C. Penney catalog.  Thus, I really don’t see the point.  I could save so much time if it were socially acceptable to roll out of bed naked and head off to work.

To me, wearing clothes is like putting ornaments on a tree.  It’s pretty much unnecessary, except that some people think the tree looks better if it’s draped in glitter.  But, it’s not as if we need clothing in order to live.  Animals don’t wear clothes, and they do just fine.  If you watch Animal Planet, you’ll see that all the animals are perfectly comfortable in their own skin.  And if grizzly bears can survive in the winter without a bubble vest, I’m sure that hairy, obese people could survive too.  Maybe the rest of us would die, but hey, it’s called evolution. 

If I had to find legitimate reasons for wearing clothes, there are only three scenarios where it makes sense to me: 1) Protection.  2) Camouflage.  3) Pockets.  Protection is only necessary to cover all the open orifices of our body that are susceptible to disease — I’m definitely not sitting commando on the NYC subway.  (This is probably why Native Americans used to wear the flaps.)  Camouflage is pretty self-explanatory too, since our stalker nation would be deterred if we were easily detected when hiding out in trees.  And lastly, pockets are useful for carrying cell phones, keys, and concealed weapons – though, at the same time, fanny packs could be a suitable alternative.

I can sympathize with those who argue that clothing is a way for us to showcase our individuality.  Indeed, clothes allow businessmen to show off how much money they have, and it can serve as an outlet for teenagers to rebel by wearing black leather and chains.  Unfortunately, it’s also a means of social stratification.  Back in elementary school, all the cool kids owned a Starter jacket with light-up sneakers, No Fear t-shirts, and Adidas tear-aways.  But if you couldn’t afford these brands, it immediately signaled that you lived in a trailer and had a head full of lice.  Clothes make kids cruel.

Today, there are hundreds of cultures where clothing is a choice, not a requirement.  So, why can’t we signal our American individuality by wearing nothing at all?  Those who wish to cover up their bodies may still do so.  But those who wish to go au naturale shouldn’t be deterred.  Nakedness is more efficient and less exclusive.  We’re just taking our cues from Adam and Eve, Michelangelo’s David, and brave, pants-less Donald Duck.  

Instead of hiding from nakedness, let’s celebrate it.  And even though we may see some terrifying examples of the hairy and obese, perhaps this could inspire new programming for Animal Planet.

Whenever friends ask me for advice, I often find myself giving them wonderfully canned responses, like “Hang in there,” and “You’ll get ‘em next time.”  Even though I actively try to resist repeating things like “Keep at it,” I inevitably end up reciting the same cheery platitudes over and over again.  Some of my most-used phrases are entirely meaningless, although they look great when written in big, capital letters against a starry banner: “Make it Happen!”  “Life is Good!”  “Happy Face!”  It’s like I’ve been infected by Oprah’s word diarrhea, and I can’t get these nuggets of forced inspiration out of my head.

I’ve never stopped to realize just how ridiculous some of our motivational sayings are.  Take, for instance, “Make a Difference!”  It can sound really upbeat and positive (make a difference, change a life!), but you can also take it the wrong way.  If I shot my friend Tony in the leg, I’d be making a difference and changing his life…  But I doubt that one-legged Tony would thank me for my contribution.  In fact, he’d probably want to make a difference in my life, and shoot me back.  (I am pretty confident that this is how wars are started.)

The worst part is, we’re inundated with clichés mostly when we’re young, when our brains are still gooey.  Therefore, these platitudes become entrenched in our impressionable, developing minds.  In my elementary school, our class slogan was “Reach for the Stars.”  Now, besides being a mediocre S Club 7 song, “reach for the stars” is a terrible message for kids.  Hey kids, aspire to do something that is utterly out of your grasp.  Yeah, try to reach for a giant ball of fire in the sky.  Real smart.  So, not only are we setting kids up for failure, we don’t even want them to succeed.  If they ever did succeed, well, it’s “Hey Mommy, I reached for a star and caught it!  Now I’m an exploding mass of plasma orbiting the sun.  See you in a billion years!”

So, for all my friends, if you ever come to me again for advice, I will save you the trouble of listening to my babble of thoughtless idioms.  Instead, I will hand you a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul, and hopefully you can figure it out for yourself.

A week before Christmas, my cell phone died.  Understandably, I had a mini panic attack.  Without my phone, I couldn’t wish my friends “Happy Holidays” with a thoughtful mass text.  I couldn’t ignore strangers on the subway by playing BrickBreaker to pass the time.  Sans phone, I didn’t even know what time it was.

Personally, my cell phone has often caused me tremendous stress (dropping calls) and bouts of uncontrollable rage (dropping dead).  While being wireless-less is terrifying, having a cell phone is also a chore.  With web-enabled phones hooking us up to Twitter and Facebook, there is always the expectation that we need to start sharing.  Back in the old days (as in, the 19th century), we’d only have to answer the dreaded trilogy of questions once (“Where are you?  What are you doing?  How was your day?”), when we got home from plowing the fields or mining for gold.  Now, we must answer those questions every time we pick up the freaking phone.

Digital cameras are just as bad.  We have all become compelled to capture every second of the day on camera.  Even insignificant moments are saved in perpetuity: I probably have several hundred pictures of strangers, unknown places, and unflattering close-ups of my face.  Taking terrible photos (and deleting them) occupies an incredible amount of time and energy.  Can you imagine if we had this photo-mania in the old days?  “Let’s sit for an oil painting in front of your dorm!” [two hours later] “Now, let’s sit for an oil painting with these cute squirrels!” [two hours later] “Come on, let’s get an oil painting of you with all these people you don’t know.  Squeeze in, real tight, like you’re all friends.  Stay there for two hours now, and smile!”

Back in the old days, things were so simple.  We didn’t have to worry about cell phone radiation or parental paparazzi-induced blindness.  We weren’t playing Oregon Trail; we were living it.  Back then, we only captured memories of things that were important.  We actually had to make an effort to reach out to our friends (real friends, not Facebook friends).  “Mother, I am taking the horse and buggy to Josiah’s… I need to return a poke.  Be back in four days.”

Albert Einstein once said, “It is appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.”  With our voyeuristic, snap-happy, poke-slutty ways, I believe his quote is rather appropriate.  Of course, he was talking about atomic bombs, not cell phones and cameras… But, if the shoe fits…

At some point in your life, you will be asked to name your favorite holiday.  Don’t take this question lightly, because you’ll inevitably be judged on your answer.  My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving, so you can wisely assume that I enjoy stuffing my face with starched vegetables and fowl.  If you answer ‘Christmas,’ this means you’re either a) very spoiled, b) very Christian, or c) not interesting enough to come up with a less obvious holiday.  In addition, ‘St. Patrick’s Day’ means you’re an alcoholic, ‘Valentine’s Day’ means you’re engaged or newly married, and ‘Columbus Day’ means you hate Native Americans.  See?  It’s a loaded question.

This past week, I was at a Christmas party when a family friend mentioned that her favorite holiday was, without a doubt, New Years.  Hmm… New Years.  It’s an interesting choice, especially since New Years is like Rudolph amongst all the other holiday reindeer: that is, it’s different.  On New Years, we don’t celebrate anything constant, like other holidays with their tributes to baby Jesus, St. Patrick, or Chris Columbus.  Even our worst holiday (Presidents’ Day) is in honor of George Washington’s birthday, which doesn’t change.  Meanwhile, what do we celebrate on New Years?  The future?  The past?  Or is it our annual ability to drop a giant lighted ball in New York City without electrical malfunction?

Even though the target of our celebration is always changing, we have developed wonderful traditions for celebrating January 1st.  In the days before, we endure a painstaking year-in-review, where we curl up with our diaries and reflect on the past year.  (Gag.)  We then get to watch numerous TV retrospectives on people who died during the past year.  (Uplifting!)  And we prepare our New Year’s resolutions, which always include “Get in shape” and “Drink less.”   (Although we naturally expect to get fat and drunk on New Year’s Eve itself.)

Ah yes, New Year’s Eve is our opportunity to party like it’s [insert-new-year-here].  We dance, we pop champagne, and we leave kids wondering why the grown-ups are all so thirsty (along with, “Wow!  This is what midnight is like!”).  For grown-ups, NYE is also the kickoff to mating season.  You need to find someone to kiss once the clock strikes twelve.  Who will it be?  Mr. Shady in the corner?  Ms. Already lost her purse and it’s 8 PM?  Or Mr(s). Ambiguously gendered person and you’re just curious to find out?

As such, New Years is full of wholesome, Jesus-like traditions.  And it’s also an anniversary of sorts, for all the great New Years we’ve had in the past (Personally, my favorite New Years was 2000, when Y2K didn’t blow up the world).

But again, unlike other holidays that simply come and go, New Years leaves us with a bitter aftertaste: An expensive and rarely utilized gym membership… An inability to accurately date checks until it’s well into March… And if you went for Mr. Shady in the corner, a risk of catching oral herpes.

So, I’m not judging*, but I really can’t see how New Years could be anyone’s favorite holiday… except for Mr. Shady, I guess.  It’s definitely his favorite.

^{* Yeah right. I’m totally judging.}