SOME YOU WIN, DIM SUM YOU LOSE
Chicken fried rice.
The low sperm count of this blog is due to the massive radiation released by a series of unfortunate events (pace Lemony Snicket). You see, the crushing student debt I can handle; the agonizing search for employment I can endure; the abdication of my apartment-hunting partner I can accept; the sexual privation I can, well, you know the compensatory measures one can take. However, the ill-health and suffering of an immediate family member puts me into a wall punching, trash can kicking, ice pack applying rage (beware all inert, inanimate pieces of matter). Mumbling profanity in the street and giving cut-eye to God has hitherto been a better outlet for my frustration and sadness than blogging.
I won't go into any detail about the situation, not because I'm hesitant to share personal things on this site - veteran readers are certainly familiar with my straight-from-the-shoulder approach - but mainly because I don't want to have you folks wishing said relative the "best", and passing along encouraging sentiments etc. While undoubtedly sincere and well-intentioned, they will invariably come off as flat and disingenuous, not least of all because most of you have never met me nor the person in question.
In any case, I'm pretty much writing this because I don't want the people who know what happened today to said relative to think I'm a heartless jerk because of the jocular nature of the proceeding vignette.
When my brother visits from Vancouver it's always a pickle of a good time. If he were to read the previous sentence, he'd most probably call me gay and then attempt to inflict bodily harm on me. But he would fail miserably. You see, I'm bigger, taller and stronger than him now, simply by virtue of having grown up. So now his threats are merely that, chest pounding and posturing. My typical response now is a quick jab to the kidneys or chest, all depending on my mood that day - a far cry from my previous strategy of falling down into a fetal position and howling for my mom to come and get the gorilla off me. "Leave him alone," my mom would casually berate my brother, her eyes fixed on the simmering basmati rice as she made sure to sprinkle in
just enough salt.
Eight-years ago when I heard he and his wife were expecting a boy, I hoped and prayed my nephew would get his genes from my wonderful and sweet sister-in-law and not his papa. Well, there must have been some divine gene tampering because one nephew and niece later the entire family is blessed with two amazingly beautiful and smart kids. Don't tell my brother this, but he
may have contributed significantly to the the latter category.
Because of the hospitalisation of the above mentioned relative, we thought we'd break up the grey clouds looming over us by chow(mein)ing down some quality Chinese cuisine. The Pink Pearl was the destination and we speedily staked our claim around the largest table, my sister's and brother's kids in tow. Nephews to the left of me, nieces to the right, I was stuck in the middle with a wide variety of "fried" this and "cashew" that. Many a crustacean and other strange creatures were eaten quickly, on the advice that if we don't eat them right away they'll eat us.
The kids put their chopsticks to some very creative uses, almost all of which involved their nostrils. And of course, every request by my brother for the crab plate near me was prefaced with a not-so-nice moniker, spoken so as to be inaudible to the black-bean sauce covered kiddies.
Having sufficiently glutted ourselves, we posed for a picture around the table as one of the waiter's awkwardly aimed my brother's digital camera at us, stepping back and forth trying to get us all in the composition. After two serious pictures, and one involving all our heads being horned by v-shaped fingers, the waiter smilingly handed the camera to my brother's son. Trying to be kind, he asked him if the camera was his. My nephew nodded timidly and hid behind his dad's legs, grasping them so tightly you'd think he was afraid of being swept away by a strong current. The Chinese waiter, whom bore an uncanny resemblanceto Chairman Mao, chuckled and asked, "Can I have a camera like that too?"
If you've ever been around little kids or interacted with them, you know that you instinctively ask and say imbecilic things with a melodic pitch and slow and deliberate tempo, so I can't blame the waiter for asking such a stupid ass question in his attempt to be nice to my nephew. However, the other younger waiter, who was cleaning up our mess, paused and looked up.
" "Can I have a camera like that, too?" Ah...Of course you can, you can
buy it...from a
store," he snorted in the most ridiculously disdainful and sarcastic manner, its pungency heightened by his Chinese accent, which was as thick as the lemon chicken sauce hanging off his wiping cloth, slowly losing its battle against gravity.
His fellow waiter responded somewhat angrily in Chinese. Although I don't know exactly what he said, his tone and gesturing suggested something along the lines of "What the hell is your problem, I'm just trying to be nice to the kid!"
The waiter scoffed at his response and walked into the kitchen. The older one followed. Yelling in Chinese ensued.
When we waddled out of the restaurant, one of my nephews asked me, "Are they going to kill each other?"
"Probably," I replied. Then he softly poked me in the belly with his chop stick, and I obediently "who-whoed," a la the Pillsbury Dough Boy. He put his arms around me, and affectionately, but unknowingly, wiped the black-bean sauce smattered on his cheeks onto my shirt.
And so the gloomy clouds were displaced, for the time being.
