potlucky charms
Every weekend, I drive forty miles eastward to see my parents and effectively do my laundry on their dime and watch their TV. While there, I also spend time with my sisters. My youngest sister (let's call her The Shrimp) lives at home. My middle sister (let's call her Meow Mix) stays the hell away because she's too cool for flannel pajama pants and watching SNL, but comes home when sibling bondage is necessary. Her scarcity may be because she suffers a lot of goading by The Shrimp and me. We share the same wretched sense of humor. It's bad. Were I to put myself in Meow Mix's bowl, I probably wouldn't go home much either, laundry be damned. However, I enjoy the goading and the quarter-less laundry machine.
This weekend, my parents have been invited to a potluck. My mother called me mid-week to ask if I would attend. "We're going to Kitty's house." Kitty is the name of a woman whose home is frequented by a hapless cast of characters. My parents joined the circle late as Kitty and her entourage of middle-aged, Cantonese-speaking, Hong Kong native couples have been associating for years. Kitty's house, with its convenient and centralized location, its open kitchen/family room and its separate karaoke lounge make it the ideal venue for suburban weekend gatherings. My parents know the bouncer, Kitty's husband. To give an indication of the interest level buzzing at our house, The Shrimp's RSVP was something along the lines of "I'm only going if Katie goes." Meow Mix refused to pick up her phone.
"No" is the cop-out answer. "No" would mean that I didn't care about saving face for my parents' sake. "No" is too easy because let me explain something about these people my parents call their friends. They are good, kind, unassuming people. They are oblivious and smiley. Previous dinners have been cordial, enjoyble even with plenty of food and lovely conversation peppered with compliments to my parents like "Wow, your daughters are so tall!" It's not that I don't want to go. It's that I want to go too much.
These people, in a word, are FUCKING HYSTERICAL. They just don't know it. The mere thought of them, the motley crew of mah-jong demons and laughter begins tugging at my intestines with a childish insistence. LOL bubbles forth from deep within my stomach when I think about their collective and ridiculous taste in fashion, their purported singing prowess and their inspiring sentence structures, a mix of English and Cantonese.
Do you remember before DVDs there were these super DVDs that were almost as big as vinyl records? Well, Elsa has the most extensive collection of old-school karaoke DVDs which she will proudly haul to every get-together. Generous, yes. But she will swear up and down and sideways that she lent one to someone who hasn't returned it and will spend the entire evening rifling through her enormous stack looking for the missing disc, her acrylic nails worn down to crimson nubs from the constant flipping. The men, my father included, will acknowledge and at the same time ignore her, settling for a castoff disc to satisfy their American Idol proclivities. They sing Chinese songs, old and new and for some reason unbeknownst to SoundScan or anyone with hearing in the range below canines, their idea of a smooth crooner's voice involves garbling the words, throwing diction to the wind. To add to the cacophony, the volume is two notches from concert level. The men howl like coyotes on the hunt while in the other room, the ladies have unfolded the card table and are ramming mah-jong tiles together, a sound akin to hail falling on a marble floor. It is the melody of sleepless nights as children, when we still lived at home and our parents refused to give up their dreams of singer stardom and gambling riches.
No stranger to a fashion faux-pas is the hostess Kitty. But a faux-pas to us may be couture to her because afterall, it's not what you wear, it's how you wear it. Kitty wears black pants that are faux-leather on the front and denim in the back to which my father concludes that "both sides leather would be too hot." Too hot for whom? I darenot think my father an adulterer and I'm absolutely certain that's not what he meant but, it would be a fair assumption that anyone who would wear half-leather half-denim pants is just a seam or two away from stripper heels and infidelity. She wouldn't even need to change her name. Monisa, however, would DEFINITELY require a little spice. Monisa is by far the sweetest woman of the bunch. But she is also the one who knows very little about very little and is content muddling through her day bumping into furniture and cooking bland, tasteless, burnt meals for her family. Monisa calls my mother often to ask her simple questions like "How should I get rid of moths?" or "Where is Texas?" We like Monisa very much.
The master of linguistic delights is Bernard. An introduction to Bernard yields the following: "I am" (in Cantonese) "Bernard" (in English, obviously) which translates phonetically to "Gno hai Ben'aaaah." This is the result when worlds collide; when the gutteral, exasperated tones of Cantonese are inflicted on the hard consonants and soft vowels of English. Let it be known that for many weeks after first meeting Bernard, the phrase "Gno hai Ben'aaah" became as common a phrase in our household as the ever popular "No, YOU go clean up the dog shit!" But what makes Bernard our favorite is his devil may care regard for style conventions. Rappers have throwback jerseys, a nod to traditions passed. Bernard has throwback suits. Navy suits, double breasted with gleaming gold buttons, emblazoned with anchors swirled by nautical rope. Aye, aye Captain Ben'aaaah! This along with a perpetually limp wrist have led The Shrimp and I to suspect that Bernard is gay, despite being married to Pauline. My parents shun the thought. They call us judgemental. I call us right.
It may be hard to decipher the dilemma hidden within the enticing evening ahead. But The Shrimp and I have spent so much time laughing at these poor, unsuspecting friends of our parents for so long that I no longer view them with the same innocent annoyance. I am afraid, truly, that once I set foot in the door of Kitty's litterbox, I will succumb to uncontrollable laughter which will seem rude and mean. This is about saving face for my parents. We are supposed to show their friends that we are good children, who obey and accompany. We are not snide brats who harass and tease behind their friends' backs. Blogs notwithstanding. To be fair, after illuminating such a flavorful soiree, I would be a fool to not attend. A damn fool.
Find out how foolish I am in my next post. CHEERS!
This weekend, my parents have been invited to a potluck. My mother called me mid-week to ask if I would attend. "We're going to Kitty's house." Kitty is the name of a woman whose home is frequented by a hapless cast of characters. My parents joined the circle late as Kitty and her entourage of middle-aged, Cantonese-speaking, Hong Kong native couples have been associating for years. Kitty's house, with its convenient and centralized location, its open kitchen/family room and its separate karaoke lounge make it the ideal venue for suburban weekend gatherings. My parents know the bouncer, Kitty's husband. To give an indication of the interest level buzzing at our house, The Shrimp's RSVP was something along the lines of "I'm only going if Katie goes." Meow Mix refused to pick up her phone.
"No" is the cop-out answer. "No" would mean that I didn't care about saving face for my parents' sake. "No" is too easy because let me explain something about these people my parents call their friends. They are good, kind, unassuming people. They are oblivious and smiley. Previous dinners have been cordial, enjoyble even with plenty of food and lovely conversation peppered with compliments to my parents like "Wow, your daughters are so tall!" It's not that I don't want to go. It's that I want to go too much.
These people, in a word, are FUCKING HYSTERICAL. They just don't know it. The mere thought of them, the motley crew of mah-jong demons and laughter begins tugging at my intestines with a childish insistence. LOL bubbles forth from deep within my stomach when I think about their collective and ridiculous taste in fashion, their purported singing prowess and their inspiring sentence structures, a mix of English and Cantonese.
Do you remember before DVDs there were these super DVDs that were almost as big as vinyl records? Well, Elsa has the most extensive collection of old-school karaoke DVDs which she will proudly haul to every get-together. Generous, yes. But she will swear up and down and sideways that she lent one to someone who hasn't returned it and will spend the entire evening rifling through her enormous stack looking for the missing disc, her acrylic nails worn down to crimson nubs from the constant flipping. The men, my father included, will acknowledge and at the same time ignore her, settling for a castoff disc to satisfy their American Idol proclivities. They sing Chinese songs, old and new and for some reason unbeknownst to SoundScan or anyone with hearing in the range below canines, their idea of a smooth crooner's voice involves garbling the words, throwing diction to the wind. To add to the cacophony, the volume is two notches from concert level. The men howl like coyotes on the hunt while in the other room, the ladies have unfolded the card table and are ramming mah-jong tiles together, a sound akin to hail falling on a marble floor. It is the melody of sleepless nights as children, when we still lived at home and our parents refused to give up their dreams of singer stardom and gambling riches.
No stranger to a fashion faux-pas is the hostess Kitty. But a faux-pas to us may be couture to her because afterall, it's not what you wear, it's how you wear it. Kitty wears black pants that are faux-leather on the front and denim in the back to which my father concludes that "both sides leather would be too hot." Too hot for whom? I darenot think my father an adulterer and I'm absolutely certain that's not what he meant but, it would be a fair assumption that anyone who would wear half-leather half-denim pants is just a seam or two away from stripper heels and infidelity. She wouldn't even need to change her name. Monisa, however, would DEFINITELY require a little spice. Monisa is by far the sweetest woman of the bunch. But she is also the one who knows very little about very little and is content muddling through her day bumping into furniture and cooking bland, tasteless, burnt meals for her family. Monisa calls my mother often to ask her simple questions like "How should I get rid of moths?" or "Where is Texas?" We like Monisa very much.
The master of linguistic delights is Bernard. An introduction to Bernard yields the following: "I am" (in Cantonese) "Bernard" (in English, obviously) which translates phonetically to "Gno hai Ben'aaaah." This is the result when worlds collide; when the gutteral, exasperated tones of Cantonese are inflicted on the hard consonants and soft vowels of English. Let it be known that for many weeks after first meeting Bernard, the phrase "Gno hai Ben'aaah" became as common a phrase in our household as the ever popular "No, YOU go clean up the dog shit!" But what makes Bernard our favorite is his devil may care regard for style conventions. Rappers have throwback jerseys, a nod to traditions passed. Bernard has throwback suits. Navy suits, double breasted with gleaming gold buttons, emblazoned with anchors swirled by nautical rope. Aye, aye Captain Ben'aaaah! This along with a perpetually limp wrist have led The Shrimp and I to suspect that Bernard is gay, despite being married to Pauline. My parents shun the thought. They call us judgemental. I call us right.
It may be hard to decipher the dilemma hidden within the enticing evening ahead. But The Shrimp and I have spent so much time laughing at these poor, unsuspecting friends of our parents for so long that I no longer view them with the same innocent annoyance. I am afraid, truly, that once I set foot in the door of Kitty's litterbox, I will succumb to uncontrollable laughter which will seem rude and mean. This is about saving face for my parents. We are supposed to show their friends that we are good children, who obey and accompany. We are not snide brats who harass and tease behind their friends' backs. Blogs notwithstanding. To be fair, after illuminating such a flavorful soiree, I would be a fool to not attend. A damn fool.
Find out how foolish I am in my next post. CHEERS!
posted by Katie at 6:12 PM
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