“No no no,” I say to Jen. “She’s a news anchor here in LA. She’s Asian I THINK… in her 40s… blonde Soccer Mom hair… I think she wears shoulder pads.”
Jen asks wisely, “Mia Lee?”
I respond to this by googling “Mia Lee,” only to find this person–
–who by all appearances is a fair-haired, red-plastic-cup wielding, Cancun-loving sorority girl barely dancing into her twenties. I assume that the “Lee” of her surname would be “Lee” like General Robert E. Lee, and not Bruce Lee.
“She has a face like a hexagon,” I persist. “She looks like one of those Japanese moms that highlights her hair and always offers you hamburgers after school instead of sushi, even though you’d really like to get her take on a cucumber roll. She’s 40, 45. I see her picture on the side of the studio every time I drive down Sunset.”
“Are you sure it’s not Mia Lee?”
I proceed to check every local news channel for a woman that fits my description. No such woman exists. She becomes a mythical, wonderful creature–not unlike the unicorn or the jackalope or the domesticated pudu deer–in my mind of longing. I know she lives and breathes. But where did she go?
And then, I find her.
She looks like this.
What. The. Hell.
Whatever anti-aging cream this white girl uses, SEND IT TO ME!!!
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