My mother is an interesting character, but so far she hasn’t really received much of a spotlight on this blog. This is about to change.
At one point in my life, my mother looked like she raided her adolescent daughter’s closet, and sometimes that was actually the case (except she didn’t raid it so much as she wore my cast-offs). Things like corset-inspired lacing, bell sleeves, obscene colours and animal print were not out of the question during this period of my mothers life that I attribute to her denial that she was aging.
Recently however, (as in over the last year or so) my mother has really grown into her age as a classy older woman. She dresses way more elegantly than I do on a regular basis, and often way more fashionably as well. She even recently acquired a pair of over-the-knee boots. Even I don’t have over-the-knee boots but somehow my mom manages to pull if off looking like a stylish older woman instead of Stripperella or some creepy cougar looking for dinner.
But every now and then, I reassured that my mother is still the same woman that I grew up with. Tonight was such as case. I’ve recently returned home after spending some time in Ontario for school and so I have been going through the slow and laborious process of purging items in my childhood room. My mom fell back into her old habit of salvaging through my purged articles and walked away with claim to some goodies.
As I walked downstairs to make myself some tea, I overheard my parent’s conversation about one of the items that my mom rescued from my bag of donations. It was……..an old Halloween witch’s hat. She was telling my dad what a good sun hat it would be for when she’s walking outdoors (my mother, like any good Asian, has an extreme aversion to the sun. Maybe she’s also a closet vampire in addition to a closet witch). My dad replied that people would think she was crazy wearing a witch’s hat out in public but she said that it was fine, she’ll just cut the top off of it. She was particularly impressed by the hat’s wide brim and ability to easily collapse and reform its shape.
This is what the hat looked like before my mother’s craftiness was applied. It’s not so accurate because she cut it all up before I had a chance to take a photo. My mother also doesn’t want to be identified on the internet so I manipulated the photo a bit but now her face just looks completely terrifying so I added some random eerie background for dramatic effect.
Not wanting my mother to look like a total weirdo in public, I offered my adorable sun hat that I bought (overpriced) in Chicago. Look at how cute it is! It is so cute.
Every time I wear this hat (which has been a grand total of something like 3 times) I feel the urge to go for a picnic or pick some berries or run around in some prairie field singing “the hills are alive with the sound of music”. Anyway, my mother, if you can believe it, didn’t want my hat! She said that she liked the witch hat more because it a) had a wider brim and b) was able to collapse more (even though my sun hat is completely collapsible as well).
I am bewildered that my mother would rather wear some old cut up witch hat than my adorable sun hat. The only explanation I can offer is that a) my mother is harbouring closet Wiccan tendencies or b) she’s a total, complete weirdo.
This is what the hat looks like now (bear with me, the detail is a bit small but you get the gist of it anyway right?):
Doesn’t she totally fit in?
(also, I know that you’re all super jealous of my questionable and shaky-hand skills on Photoshop. Somebody should buy me a tablet for my next birthday. Really. I can’t keep going on like this)
(n. & v.) See Conge, Conge.
(n.) Boiled rice; rice gruel.
(n.) A jail; a lockup.
Wow…to take one’s leave and also a jail or a lockup. Growing up as a Chinese Canadian, I always just knew congee (or “jook” as I pronounce it in my heavily accented Cantonese) as the rice gruel that I grew up hating (out of principle because my parents made me eat it), but now as an adult can find myself enjoying a bowl here and there. But only with lots of white pepper powder and my mother’s green onion pancakes). Also I am not talking about white pepper as in the album White Pepper by Ween.
You might be wondering where I’m going with this. I thought this was a blog about your parents you’re saying to yourself. Calm yourselves dear readers (ie. no readers because I don’t think anybody knows about this blog including my own family. Although I did tell my dad that I started a blog about him, but he didn’t seem to care or maybe he didn’t hear. I think he should be interested that I started a “blob” about him, because that’s how he pronounces the word blog).
Yesterday I sat my annual Christmas dinner with my immediate family (sans seestur as she’s off yoga adventuring in Mexico. Hopefully she doesn’t bring the swine back with her, but I don’t think that’s really a threat anymore right?) and the only extended family of mine who is in Calgary. In case you’re wondering, I’ve recently (as in I’ve been here 2 and some days) moved back home with my parents so I can freeload off of them whilst I search for a job in vain but secretly hold 100% desire to become a circus performer and 0% desire to hold a real job.
Anyway, we are sitting at the dinner table at some obscenely loud Chinese restaurant. If you’ve ever been in a Chinese restaurant, especially during some special event like Chinese New Year, weddings or Mid-Autumn Festival, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I think it’s a national past-time of China to see who can be the loudest at the dinner-table and somehow that practice carried over to all parts of the world when Chinese people started taking over the world immigrating all over the world. The loud-Chinese-people-practice is pretty much spot on in this portrayal:
My family starts talking about congee. I know, real conversation starter right? Never underestimate the power of conversation amongst Chinese people if the topic at hand is about food, specifically some sort of Chinese food (but not dog or cat because contrary to popular belief, not all Chinese people eat dog or cat…or rats). My uncle Peter and my father start to (seriously) have debate about who loves congee more. This is how the conversation seriously went (translated into English of course, by yours truly…badly I might add. This conversation may or may not be accurate but you get the gist):
Dad: I really love congee
Uncle Peter: I don’t know, I really love congee too
Dad: No, when I’m in Hong Kong I’ll ask everybody about the best congee places and I make sure I go to all of them
Being the ever loyal daughter, I felt like I needed to help my dad in this competition of who-loves-congee-more. So I turn to my mother and remark about the time my dad missed my birth because he was out having a bowl of wontons congee (for several years I thought it was wontons. It was not).
That’s right. You read right. My dad missed the birth of his second daughter because he was out having a bowl of congee. So my dad recounts the story. It goes something like this: the hospital called my dad at home around 9:30 am and told him that his wife was in labour (I can only assume that maybe my mom was out at work, or with a friend and that’s why my dad wasn’t the one to take her to the hospital but who knows my dad is an odd character). They told my fajah that the expected time of my birth was around 12:30 pm. So, that was 3 hours in between right? So of course my dad did what any dad would do (or not) – he went out for a bowl of congee. As he recounts, he thought he had a lot of time to kill and at the time that this happened, nobody really had cell phones – but it you did, it probably looked like this:
As a side note, could you imagine living in that era with “mobile” phones that big? It really begs the question, where did people put their “mobiles”? I mean, I put mine in my handbag, or sometimes in the back pocket of my jeans. I don’t think any of my handbags or jeans-back-pockets have the capacity to hold something of that…size. But I’m digressing again.
So my dad recounts that nobody had cell phones in those days so when you left the house, you really left the house! Nobody was going to be able to get in touch with you. So after my dad leaves the house I can only assume he probably drives to Chinatown to enjoy himself a steaming hot bowl of congee, probably with century egg – you know that egg thing that they had on an episode of Fear Factor once and a girl actually opted to eat live ants instead of a century egg? I mean c’mon, I have never really liked century egg either and growing up my mother would have to lecture me about how after I died, everything I never finished eating in during my life I would have to eat forever in my death. Also if I didn’t eat it, someone would have hit me with the feather duster (the Chinese parent’s disciplining weapon of choice). This is what a century egg looks like by the way:
I’m digressing again, bear with me. So anyway, my dad apparently arrives at the hospital around 10:30 am and some hospital representative tells him “congratulations, you have a daughter” and its at this point I think that my dad realizes “uh oh” he missed the birth of his daughter. I’m not sure how angry my mother was at the time, yesterday recounting the story she was laughing but I’m pretty sure 23 years ago she was probably having a fit. Oh wait, she did mention in yesterday’s storytelling time that she kept asking the doctors and nurses where her husband was and they said that he was coming, but they neglected to mention that he had to satiate his appetite for congee first.
I think the worst part of the story isn’t that my dad missed my birth, but that he didn’t even have the foresight to get my mother takeout congee so that she could also enjoy the pleasure that is thin rice gruel that really tastes like not much unless you dump a lot lot of white pepper power in it.
I can’t help but think what a gender injustice it is that men get to have the option of missing their child’s birth for a bowl of congee while a woman cannot since she’s the one who is going to be pushing a baby out of her vagina. I think I would take a bowl of congee over the miracle that is birth anyday myself as well…so I side with my dad on this one.
In any case, I have to leave now as I’ve got to start writing my essay on inclusionary housing now for this City of New York internship so that I can get out of po-dunk Calgary but I’ll leave you with this shamazin’ song (which is currently number 1 on my circus training playlist. Yes…I have a circus training playlist)
An American, a Dutchman and a Chinese strand after a shipwreck on an uninhabited island.
The American says: “I’ve been in the army for many years, I know how to survive. So if you guys don’t mind, I’ll give the orders”. The Dutchman and Chinese find it very well. The American goes further: “Ok, each of us will will have to search for something. You, Chinese guy, take care of the supplies. Dutch guy, you take care of the food, and I’ll take care of the wood. In two hours we’ll meet back here.” Everyone finds it a good plan and they go their own ways.
After 2 hours the American and the Dutchman are on the agreed spot. The Chinese is, however, nowhere in sight. They wait still a couple of hours and as the Chinese still doesn’t arrive, they get worried. They decide to search for him. Some hours later they have combed the complete island, but no Chinese found.
Thinking that he might have been eaten by a wild animal, they sadly decide to go back. Arrived at the spot, they sit down, looking despondently at their stuff, as suddenly the Chinese jumps from the shrubs and calls: “Supplies!!!”
Disclaimer: I heard this joke a while back when I was younger. If anybody finds it offensive, I apologize. Though I am Chinese and I still manage to find a chuckle out of it.
So, being the ever good husband that my father is – my mother has house trained him many years ago to sit on the toilet seat when doing his business instead of standing. I feel like this trained habit of his is the explanation for another one of his habits.
When I’m in Calgary, I share a bathroom with my parents. My parents like to take baths instead of showers. My father, in particular, likes to sit on the toilet seat after his bath to dry himself off. This particular bathroom has those energy efficient lights that takes about 10 minutes to actually get bright, so when you first flick them on it looks like mood lighting.
This has been something that happened many a time in my life. Father takes bath. Father dries himself off of toilet after bath. Father leaves bathroom. Daughter goes to use bathroom. Daughter sits on toilet seat. Daughter gets wet bottom. Supplies.
It’s been years, but one never gets over the feeling of sitting on a wet toilet seat. Bleh!
This is what comes up when you image google “internal hemmorhaging”. I don’t know…don’t look at me like that.
Anyway, this is the Genesis of…Stories about my parents. How did it begin? I was at a potluck at a friends place regaling people about awkward and hilarious stories about my parents and somebody said that I should write a book about it.
I never really thought about. I don’t think that my family is so unusual. We are your run-of-the-mill Chinese-Canadian family. My parents immigrated to Canada some 30 years ago and for some reason, of all cities to choose, they choose to immigrate to Calgary Alberta. Don’t get me wrong, I like Calgary a lot and enjoyed my time there, but I always just find it odd that they did not choose Vancouver or Toronto or even Montreal, despite the fact that my parents don’t speak French. They just seem like 30 years ago, they would have been much more cosmopolitan than Calgary and seeing how my parents are from the huge metropolis that is Hong Kong that they would have preferred something akin to that.
But maybe that’s why they choose Calgary. I grew up in your typical Calgarian suburb where I was 1 of something like 10 Asian kids in my grade up until I graduated from high school. Now I live primarily in Toronto on my own, when I am not in school in Waterloo so my interaction with my parents is limited. Now that I have been given this new independence from my parents, I can’t help but always think back to my childhood and time in Calgary and think of how funny certain things were.
So here it starts. Story number 1: Internal Hemmoraging
This story begins sometime in the late 1990s or the early 2000s, I can’t remember. I was in either late junior high or early high school and my father had been suffering from gallstones for several months. He was put on a healthcare waiting list to get them removed and lived in pain for several months. One day, he got this minor surgery, and I’m not sure for what none of my parents told me what it was for.
Anyway, the next day or maybe the day after the next day I came home from school alone, as was customary. I think about my childhood sometimes and wonder if I was something of a latchkey child. Probably not though. I think suburban lifestyle is too luxurious to ever really be a latchkey child. You can’t really suffer from loneliness or boredom when you have an array of things like computers and videogames to distract you.
But I digress. So I came home from school alone and went to the kitchen. It was customary in my family to leave messages for one another on a pad of paper on the kitchen counter. I use “pad of paper” really loosely actually. It wasn’t so much of an actual, legitimate pad of paper that you might buy at a stationary store, or even at your local office ware store, as it was a bunch of irregularly shaped, scissored or torn scrap papers bunched together and attached with a bullclip. Sometimes they were various colours, sometimes they had Chinese characters printed from a computer on the back of them.
That particular day, when I came home this was what the message on the pad of paper on the kitchen counter read in my father’s distinctive scrawl:
Internal hemorrhaging. Went to hospital.
Internal hemorrhaging…went to hospital. That’s it. Imagine, I’m something like maybe 13 or 14 and this is what I came home to. No explanation. No details about which hospital, or what time he left, or how he left. Was this several hours ago? Did he call an ambulance? Questions raced through my head.
I quickly ran to the garage to check whether or not my father was passed out on the stairs on his way to the car. I saw that my father’s car and my mother’s car were both missing. My mom was at work…so that made sense, I didn’t have to worry about her internally hemorrhaging somewhere in the city. My father on the other head had decided to drive himself to the hospital while simultaneously internally hemorrhaging…probably all over the car seat.
I don’t really remember how I felt other than freaked out. I think I called my mom at work, asking for the Estee Lauder counter and frantically telling her that dad was internally hemorrhaging and that he had driven himself to the hospital. Which hospital, my mom probably asked. I don’t know, he didn’t say! What time she probably asked as well. I don’t know, he didn’t say that either!
My sister came home from school or university eventually, I can’t remember whether she was in high school or university at the time. I showed her the note, and for the next hour or so we proceeded to call every hospital in the city seeing if “Esmond Mak” had checked in for internal hemorrhaging. My mother also eventually came home and joined in on the hospital-calling party. Whoo, what a party. It was so much fun while we worried about our father and husband internally hemorrhaging somewhere in the city.
I can’t remember if we had tried calling my dad’s mobile, or if he even had a mobile at the time. Even if he did, my dad has this irritating habit of not actually turning on his mobile so it just automatically defaults to some message about how the customer is currently not available which completely defeats the purpose of having a mobile in the first place. Also I’m pretty sure mobiles are supposed to be turned off in a hospital. But it didn’t matter because we didn’t know what hospital he was at.
Eventually, something like a few hours later, I can’t remember we managed to touch base with our father. I don’t remember if we finally contacted the right hospital at the right time, or he finally called us to explain his ominous kitchen-counter message or the hospital called us back after we requested that if an Esmond Mak comes to please tell us. He had apparently gone to the bathroom, discovered blood and was concerned considering his minor surgery the day before. So instead of calling an ambulance, probably because it costs money and my dad is the cheapest man you’ll ever meet, he drove himself. We live in the Northwest end of Calgary and we have a couple of hospitals that are relatively close to us. But he drove himself to the Peter Lougheed hospital…it’s a hospital on the other side of the city. I don’t know how long the drive is, but it’s certainly longer than the Foothills hospital which is at least in the same quadrant of the city!
But alas, we found out where our father/husband was. He was okay and he had apparently driven himself so the edges of the earth because that’s where his surgeon who performed his surgery was. I don’t know about you, but if I found out that I was internally hemorrhaging I think that I would be so shocked and scared that I would take myself to the nearest ER not one across the city. But that’s my father for you. He does things that are beyond my comprehension sometimes.
