Criminey!

Having passed a good portion of my trip home for a week of well-deserved relaxation, both mental as well as physical, and altogether far too much good food, I am proud to report that much to my surprise, as well as comfort, very little has changed in my absence. For instance, I can feel secure in knowing that no matter how times change, there is always Old Lady Music, specifically in the form of Dvorak's horrid Humoresque spewing forth torturedly from the grand piano in our living room (as we all know, the piano is an instrument standardly found in the homes of any good Chinese persons with overachieving Chinese children). Those of you who have been unfortunate enough to have heard, or worse, played this particularly malignant melody are already aware of the role it plays in the arcane hazing ritual used to initiate poor unsuspecting students unto their aural doom by crotchety old piano teachers around the world, as the tune incites urges of seppuku no matter how well it is played. However, despite the fact that I find myself resisting the urge to puncture my own eardrums to spare myself the audio monstrosity, upon merely hearing the first several bars of said tune, I seem to find comfort in reassuring myself that the piano teacher consipiracy is alive and well and continuing through generations, as my brother claims that he has already been assigned two different versions of said song to play. Considering this all-around feeling of mental contentedness combined with the comforts of an overabundance of delicious, quality, fresh Californian produce and dishes, as well as the means with which to satisfy my closeted Jerry Springer addiction, one might say that I am, indeed, having quite a pleasant time with my family this week.

Yet perhaps the thing in which I take most comfort is the fact that in this environment, I can even predict and control the general discomforts that I will be subjected to. Case in point, I am referring to today's charming dim sum lunch with The Aunt, The Uncle, and The Cousin.

My longtime plague-ies will recall said Aunt, Uncle, and Cousin of The Summer at Maxim lore, as some of the best entries ever to meet the pages of the Bubonic Plague Luncheonette were conceived and written whilst spending a summer in their household (for those of you who are new to the Plague who wish to catch up on said fabled entries, search the archives for "An Ominous Beginning" and proceed from there). As such, I felt nearly 100% prepared for the aggravating and uncomfortable conversations I knew were going to take place today over pork buns and tea. It is thus that I offer you the "highlights" of this morning's "special" lunch with my relatives:

Perhaps the exchange that wins overall "best of" this morning occurred when The Aunt stated "Hey Kimberly, can I ask you a question?" to which, of course, the table responded with an uncomfortable silence, and I responded "sure."
"Are you... dating right now?"
"Oh, yeah, sure I am."
"Is it the same guy that you were dating before?"
"No," I replied between mouthfuls of noodles, "he turned out to be a douche."
"Oh..." responded The Aunt, with a certain sense of dissatisfaction lingering in the bowels of her mind. "May I ask about... uh... what nationality is your new boyfriend?"
As I began to respond, my brother began to grin, both amused that he had predicted that was exactly what was coming, as well as the fact that I probably had some smarty-ass answer prepared in advance. While I often gloat at the frequency with which my brother is wrong, he was not wrong on either accounts.
"Oh!" exclaimed The Aunt upon noticing, "he knows something! He's seen him before, hasn't he?"
"No..." hesitated my brother as I launched into action.
"Hmm... let's see, he's 1/2, no... 1/4 Mongolian - he's as close to Asian as you're going to get out of me. And he's 1/4 eye-talian, and 1/2 Scottish."
"That may be the best!" suggested The Aunt (with the same stumbling one finds oneself doing when confronted with the task of complimenting the parents of a seriously ugly newborn), "the best of all parts!"
"Well, no, actually," I continued, "he's got that eye-talian back hair, and the mongolian part of him is probably what gives him that Cro-Magnon brow of his. Hell, when he was a kid he used to jump off roofs, and one time he hit his head on a granite wall and broke the wall..."
One of these days, perhaps The Aunt will finally come upon the epiphany in her thick Cro-Magnon brow that she should probably give up on trying to see me with a "nice Chinese boy."

Second place for "best conversation" was taken by a conversation held between The Aunt and my brother.
"So, Robert, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
"A hunter-gatherer! And a cartographer!"
"For which magazine?" inquired The Uncle.
"... oh my god..." mumbled my brother.
"Ai-ya," exclaimed The Aunt to my mother, "you don't need to send him to private school for that, then. Public school is fine!"
"Uh..." I interjected, "I may be wrong here, but I do believe he's bullshitting you. Now I could be wrong, but thought I detected a tone of bullshittery in his voice."
"Do journalism instead!" suggested The Uncle in earnest.

A close third came the conversation over the Toxic Order:
"I'll have the Pear Rose tea," said my brother to the waitress at the chinese bakery, ever the intrepid culinary adventurer.
"I'll have the honeydew with pearl" followed The Cousin.
"Ai-ya! Why don't you be adventurous like Robert? That's why you're unsuccessful in life!" exclaimed The Aunt. "Order something new!"
As it turned out, my brother's order resembled nothing so much as a tall plastic stein of tea with pear slices sunk at the bottom and tiny, fragrant, bath-quality, dried rosebuds soggening at the top. I told him I could have taken a bath in that for all he knew. He got ill on the BART ride home.

Another quality conversation revolved around the Chinese obsession with the bathroom:
"Okay," said my mother upon returning from her foray into the restaurant bathroom, "you go to the bathroom before we go. This one's clean."
"But I don't need to go," replied my brother.
"Ai-ya!" she exclaimed. "Go to the bathroom! This one's clean! I don't want to be walking all over Chinatown when you have to pee!"
"I'll just use the gutter..." said my brother.
"GO!"
"Fine..."
"What about you?" inquired my mother as The Aunt, The Cousin, and my brother all made a mass exodus for the bathroom.
"Oh, I don't need to go," I said.
"Okay."

Needless to say, I was the one who ended up having to hold it all up and down Grant Ave. rather than asking to find a toilet.

Further bulletins as events warrant.