want |wänt; wônt|
1 [ trans. ] have a desire to possess or do (something); wish for : I want an apple | [with infinitive ] we want to go to the beach | [ trans. ] she wanted me to go to her room | [ intrans. ] I’ll give you a lift into town if you want.
• desire (someone) sexually : I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you.
1 chiefly archaic; a lack or deficiency of something: Victorian houses which are in want of repair | it won’t be through want of trying.
• the state of being poor and in need of essentials; poverty : freedom from want.
2 a desire for something : the expression of our wants and desires.
Ever heard of California Chicken Cafe? It’s a restaurant chain here in Southern Cali. Most everything on the menu involves chicken, and, rest assured, the items that don’t contain chicken contain avocado. You can also add chicken to any non-chicken item for $1.75.
You don’t know what you’re missing. Really. ::Cough::
California Chicken Cafe is a popular lunch option at the office where I work. I, myself, rarely participate in the California Chicken Cafe extravaganzas. No, I don’t think I’m better than everyone, I just can’t be spendin’ money on shit that doesn’t bring me immense joy. Plus, I spent all my money on baked clams and cannoli last week at San Gennaro in New York City.
I regret nothing.
Today, a co-worker was about to make a chicken run when he suddenly cried out, “Anybody else want anything from California?”
There was a pause, and then I asked, “From California?”
I thought for a moment, and then said, “I want a house near the ocean.”
My co-worker laughed.
“No, no, as in, do you want anything from California Chicken Cafe.”
I didn’t want any damn chicken. I did, however, proceed to ramble about some of the things I do, in fact, want. When it was time for me to shut up and get back to work, the rambling continued in my head.
I now present to you Ten Random Things I Want. Some of them are unique to California, and some of them…well…
Ten Random Things I Want
by Stephanie Callas
I want a house near the ocean. I will live there by my damn self until I decide I want company. I have not yet decided the exact location of this house, but I know it will be North of Pismo. It will be impeccably decorated, and feature a killer sound system.
I want my car to be paid the Hell off. No more monthly car payments. None.
I want a bulldog. An English Bulldog. I will name him Brando and he will be my buddy. He will be a healthy boy, with no respiratory problems or hip dysplasia, and he will not die of heatstroke like so many English Bulldogs tend to do. He will be chubby and cute and he will love The Godfather as much as I do.
I want to know how to program computer viruses. Ya never know when ya may need to rip someone off.
I want the cryogenically frozen body of Walt Disney. People will come from all over the world just to get a glimpse of it, and I will charge admission based on my personal prejudices. 60-year-old man in an Armani suit with a 23-year-old socialite on his arm? $10,000. Cute hippie-boy with a beard and a beanie who wants to stop and see The Walt on his way to Mexico? Admission is free! (This is, of course, not including the food and wine he will inevitably purchase in his effort to seduce me).
I want to be able to travel. I’m talkin’ far and wide. I want to wake up, decide that I should spend the weekend in Barcelona drinking from a wine skin and speaking in an English accent and introducing myself as Brett, and then go do it.
I want to be friends with John Waters. I want to be on a first name basis with him. When he’s not visiting me in my fabulous house by the ocean, he will be sending me funny text messages and buying me semi-perverted presents. We will Skype every Monday morning while we’re having our coffee. He will say things like, “Mondays are just such a DRAG,” and I will say, “Honey, you WISH you were a DRAG,” and he will say, “Honey, the world couldn’t HANDLE all THIS in DRAG,” and I will say, “Honey, you WISH the world couldn’t handle YOU in DRAG”…
I want to speak fluent French. I will go to Farmer’s Markets all over the world and ONLY speak French.
I want a box of cannoli from Ferrara’s bakery to be delivered to my door every Friday night. FRESH. I want them to be all different varieties — regular, chocolate, Nutella, pistachio — and they will all have perfect shells and perfect filling. I will serve the cannoli to all of my fabulous dinner guests. Some parties will be small, and others will put Woodstock to shame. Brando will be everyone’s favorite couch companion, and John Waters will bring out everyone’s inner freak. Tom Waits will be playing the piano and Patti Smith will be playing the clarinet. Peter O’Toole will be serving champagne and Leonard Cohen will be handing out white lilies. Nick Cave and Barbara Streisand will perform duets that bring the guests to their knees in cathartic abandon. My parents will be excited to be out of the house and my brothers will be happy to be away from school and work, even though school and work is treating them just fine. All my friends will bring fabulous dates — no assholes, no losers, no fuddy-duddies — and those who do not will be more than thrilled to spend an evening unattached and irresponsible. No one will get drunk, and everyone will get happy. The next morning, I won’t have to do one bit of cleaning. While everyone is driving home, not one person will be thinking about work problems or school problems or money problems or family problems or marriage problems or credit card problems or plumbing problems or love problems. No one will think, “I should have just stayed home and studied,” or, “I should have stayed in and searched for a new job,” or, “I wish that guy had called me back,” or, “I wish that girl hadn’t been there.” All they will be thinking is, “I can’t believe I got a picture with the cryogenically frozen body of Walt Disney.”
I guess it goes without say that I want World Peace, so fuck it — I want Don Draper.