The other day, as I picked her up from work, I had a very interesting conversation with my mother. I had dropped her off earlier that morning so I could use the car during the day and had seen some of her coworkers walking toward the building. I had noticed that some of them were Indian. Their race, however, has little to do with the story.
In the car, my mom, who always drives due to her crippling fear of my driving, tells me about her coworker.
"So my Indian friend," she begins. Again, the race has nothing to do with the story, and I only mentioned it before to provide a context to her statement, I suppose.
"My Indian friend found her son looking at sex websites," she told me. That definitely got my attention. Why was she telling me this?
"And?" I replied, carefully and nonchalantly. I really hoped that she didn't ask about my personal viewpoints, even though I would probably tell her anyways.
"She said she caught her son looking at the websites, and she didn't know what to do about it," my mom continued.
"She doesn't have to do anything about it," I told her. "How old is her son?"
"He's a junior in high school," my mom replied.
"Oh," I said. "Then leave him alone. His hormones are raging and that's normal."
Of course, this begged the question, which I mentally begged her not to ask:
"Do you have that urge to look at those things?"
"No," I said (lying? haha). "I'm older now so I don't have those raging hormones anymore."
But no answer is ever enough for my ever-inquiring mother.
"Did you do it in high school?" she asked, to my chagrin.
Of course, it is these moments that I thank my quick wit.
"Of course not," I replied almost immediately. "I had a girlfriend."
My mom laughed, but I could tell it wasn't going to end.
"That's disgusting," she said.
"Tell your friend that she has to choose, right? It's either those websites or her son getting a girlfriend. I think from a parent's point of view, the choice is obvious."
"So you're saying you didn't look at those bad websites?" she asked.
My reply was again immediate.
"Why settle for digital when I can have the real thing?"
My mom paused.
"Don't tell those things. I think I'm going to vomit."
Ironically, if my mom told me that, I would feel the same way. Love your parents, guys. They're just like you, except older.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
A Single Child
I just watched A Single Man with Colin Firth and Julianne Moore. For all the high praise it got, I'm not too sure what I expected, but I was definitely less than satisfied when it ended. But I suppose the ending fit the general feel of the film. The whole affair is pretty pompous and melodramatic, not helped by its stringy and long-winded score. It's not a particularly poorly written soundtrack, nor a poor movie for that matter. It's just that I feel however poignant it gets, the build up takes too long to allow it an equal payoff.
That being said, it's a wonderfully stylish film. 2.5/4.
The other day my mom and dad and I were eating outside. It was dinner time, and my dad was on his laptop outside, as he usually is. Being summer, the sun had yet to set for a few more hours, and hunger struck our bellies like a lightning storm above a volcano. My brother was in Vietnam at the time, so he couldn't join us, naturally. My mom and I saw my dad outside and we decided to join his lonesome on the small table we have in the backyard next to my dad's makeshift hammock.
Our backyard was large, and where a patio could have been, we instead had cement laid out with a wooden roof I believe my dad made himself when we moved first arrived. We had two sliding doors on opposite ends of our house that led into the backyard. The roof covered the width of our house so no matter which door we slid open to enter, we'd be covered. One door was in the family room. When we first moved in, opening that door led to a clear view of the backyard. However, over the years a large ivy-like bush of flowers had extended from the ground to the room, providing shade onto the patio area. This was where the hammock was fastened, behind where the roof ended and covered by the big plant.
The other door, behind our kitchen, was opened and led right near a table where my dad was sitting. It was through this door that my mom and I exited to sit next to my dad.
"Who do you think is better-looking, bố?" I asked my dad during dinner. The sun was still up and the lack of humidity in the clear California weather was a blessing I never took for granted. The occasional breeze hugged my skin like a quiet lover, always gentle and soothing.
To his children, my dad is a generally reserved man. He projects the persona of the dominant male figure of the household and generally doesn't indulge us when we are silly. However, through the years, my brother and I have found that around his friends, he is extremely social and jovial, so we know that he can be very easygoing. Thus, unless he's giving us direct orders, we love joking around with him and being as ridiculous as possible.
"Me or you?" I clarified.
"Andrew, you can't be serious," my mom interjected. "Bố is much better looking, especially when he was younger. He was so handsome." She smiled.
My dad stared off, quietly, as he is apt to do. He spoke as if he wasn't really listening and answered as if he only heard the question in passing. It always seemed like he was thinking about something else, distracted even when talking to his children.
"Bố don't know. Probably you," he replied quietly before taking another chopstickful of rice.
I laughed.
"See?" I told my mom. "Even he admits I'm more handsome!" I told her jokingly.
"No. Definitely not," she said, looking at my father lovingly.
"Well," I said, thinking aloud to my dad, "who's better looking, bố? You or Matthew?"
There was less hesitation this time.
"Matthew," he said, more quickly, but still in his special reserved tone. "He's taller and has long eyelashes."
"Oh, Matthew is so handsome!" my mom said. "And he has those beautiful baby eyes!"
I thought about what she said for a second. It was then, I realized, that my mom thinks I'm the ugliest guy in our family.
Sad times.
That being said, it's a wonderfully stylish film. 2.5/4.
The other day my mom and dad and I were eating outside. It was dinner time, and my dad was on his laptop outside, as he usually is. Being summer, the sun had yet to set for a few more hours, and hunger struck our bellies like a lightning storm above a volcano. My brother was in Vietnam at the time, so he couldn't join us, naturally. My mom and I saw my dad outside and we decided to join his lonesome on the small table we have in the backyard next to my dad's makeshift hammock.
Our backyard was large, and where a patio could have been, we instead had cement laid out with a wooden roof I believe my dad made himself when we moved first arrived. We had two sliding doors on opposite ends of our house that led into the backyard. The roof covered the width of our house so no matter which door we slid open to enter, we'd be covered. One door was in the family room. When we first moved in, opening that door led to a clear view of the backyard. However, over the years a large ivy-like bush of flowers had extended from the ground to the room, providing shade onto the patio area. This was where the hammock was fastened, behind where the roof ended and covered by the big plant.
The other door, behind our kitchen, was opened and led right near a table where my dad was sitting. It was through this door that my mom and I exited to sit next to my dad.
"Who do you think is better-looking, bố?" I asked my dad during dinner. The sun was still up and the lack of humidity in the clear California weather was a blessing I never took for granted. The occasional breeze hugged my skin like a quiet lover, always gentle and soothing.
To his children, my dad is a generally reserved man. He projects the persona of the dominant male figure of the household and generally doesn't indulge us when we are silly. However, through the years, my brother and I have found that around his friends, he is extremely social and jovial, so we know that he can be very easygoing. Thus, unless he's giving us direct orders, we love joking around with him and being as ridiculous as possible.
"Me or you?" I clarified.
"Andrew, you can't be serious," my mom interjected. "Bố is much better looking, especially when he was younger. He was so handsome." She smiled.
My dad stared off, quietly, as he is apt to do. He spoke as if he wasn't really listening and answered as if he only heard the question in passing. It always seemed like he was thinking about something else, distracted even when talking to his children.
"Bố don't know. Probably you," he replied quietly before taking another chopstickful of rice.
I laughed.
"See?" I told my mom. "Even he admits I'm more handsome!" I told her jokingly.
"No. Definitely not," she said, looking at my father lovingly.
"Well," I said, thinking aloud to my dad, "who's better looking, bố? You or Matthew?"
There was less hesitation this time.
"Matthew," he said, more quickly, but still in his special reserved tone. "He's taller and has long eyelashes."
"Oh, Matthew is so handsome!" my mom said. "And he has those beautiful baby eyes!"
I thought about what she said for a second. It was then, I realized, that my mom thinks I'm the ugliest guy in our family.
Sad times.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Century Gothic
This is my 100th post on this blog. I don't know if that's a lot, or if it's one of those, I don't know, milestones waiting to happen. It's like driving 100,000 miles in your car. It's probably going to happen, but you take note of it anyways.
I wish I had a car, though.
Or maybe it's like reaching a certain age. Like when I turned 20. On that day, I noticed that I felt special, even though I had convinced myself that it was just another day and any uniqueness was simply a matter of perspective, that billions of others saw it as another day. Still, that day was unique to me, even if I publicly denied it.
Like New Year's. We have an arbitrary calendar, with an arbitrary beginning and end. So really, the beginning of the year could have started anytime. I guess we just need that day, a day to remind us that there's still hope for the future, that life isn't some unending and mundane linear progression, that if time can start afresh, so can we.
But look at me, running on with my sentences.
This is my 100th post. I should be writing about something profound! Something U-NEEK!
Or I could just sit here and stare blankly at my computer screen, switching my tab occasionally to Facebook, and continue my AIM conversations.
Or I could talk about what's on my mind. When your love life is this stagnant, sometimes writing about it is the only outlet. I don't know if I want to talk about my love life (or lack thereof) but I do want to talk about the perceptions of my relatives and their love lives, especially those Baby Boomers.
My Aunt Van has three kids, Henry, Bridgette and Christopher. Chris is in third grade so his time will come, but Henry is in his mid 20s (I'm being a bit generous, here) and Bridgette is a senior in high school. Naturally, my mom likes to talk about boys with her, and as anyone with a parent knows, talking to people who are 20 years older about relationships is not only a lost cause, but may incur permanent psychological damage.
Once, we started talking about how strict the family was, how only Vietnamese, Catholic options are allowed into the family. But my aunt wanted to clarify a bit further while still pretending to be opened minded.
My aunt says, "Bridgette, you can date anyone, as long as he's Vietnamese or Vietnamese and Catholic."
"So you're just saying she can date Vietnamese guys?" I ask.
"No," she replies. "Actually, she can date other Asian boys too."
We listened and she continued. "Japanese, okay. Korean...maybe. Indian, okay as long as he's rich. But no Chinese."
What?
"No Chinese, I said!"
Apparently, Vietnamese people are still mad at the Chinese trying to invade them 2000 years ago. My mom and my aunt then got into a big rant about how Chinese people always oppressed Vietnamese people. Talk about a grudge.
Recently, Bridgette visited the West Coast and Andy, aka Leroy (long story) took her on a tour of a few schools. My mom, being the classy matchmaker she is, suggested they get married. Pure tact.
But they were good sports about it...until we had our family reunion. We kept giving Bridgette a hard time about it and I think she was truly annoyed. But when has that ever stopped the ever-endearing Nguyen family?
We got to talking about couple names. Henry and his girlfriend Thu are HenThu, which I thought sounded like "hentai" (Mat: You've ruined their couple name forever Andrew. FOREVER.) and my grandparents' couple name is "Ong Ba." Yeah, we were really creative on that one.
But the best one would have been Leroy and Bridgette.
Ledgette.
I wish I had a car, though.
Or maybe it's like reaching a certain age. Like when I turned 20. On that day, I noticed that I felt special, even though I had convinced myself that it was just another day and any uniqueness was simply a matter of perspective, that billions of others saw it as another day. Still, that day was unique to me, even if I publicly denied it.
Like New Year's. We have an arbitrary calendar, with an arbitrary beginning and end. So really, the beginning of the year could have started anytime. I guess we just need that day, a day to remind us that there's still hope for the future, that life isn't some unending and mundane linear progression, that if time can start afresh, so can we.
But look at me, running on with my sentences.
This is my 100th post. I should be writing about something profound! Something U-NEEK!
Or I could just sit here and stare blankly at my computer screen, switching my tab occasionally to Facebook, and continue my AIM conversations.
Or I could talk about what's on my mind. When your love life is this stagnant, sometimes writing about it is the only outlet. I don't know if I want to talk about my love life (or lack thereof) but I do want to talk about the perceptions of my relatives and their love lives, especially those Baby Boomers.
My Aunt Van has three kids, Henry, Bridgette and Christopher. Chris is in third grade so his time will come, but Henry is in his mid 20s (I'm being a bit generous, here) and Bridgette is a senior in high school. Naturally, my mom likes to talk about boys with her, and as anyone with a parent knows, talking to people who are 20 years older about relationships is not only a lost cause, but may incur permanent psychological damage.
Once, we started talking about how strict the family was, how only Vietnamese, Catholic options are allowed into the family. But my aunt wanted to clarify a bit further while still pretending to be opened minded.
My aunt says, "Bridgette, you can date anyone, as long as he's Vietnamese or Vietnamese and Catholic."
"So you're just saying she can date Vietnamese guys?" I ask.
"No," she replies. "Actually, she can date other Asian boys too."
We listened and she continued. "Japanese, okay. Korean...maybe. Indian, okay as long as he's rich. But no Chinese."
What?
"No Chinese, I said!"
Apparently, Vietnamese people are still mad at the Chinese trying to invade them 2000 years ago. My mom and my aunt then got into a big rant about how Chinese people always oppressed Vietnamese people. Talk about a grudge.
Recently, Bridgette visited the West Coast and Andy, aka Leroy (long story) took her on a tour of a few schools. My mom, being the classy matchmaker she is, suggested they get married. Pure tact.
But they were good sports about it...until we had our family reunion. We kept giving Bridgette a hard time about it and I think she was truly annoyed. But when has that ever stopped the ever-endearing Nguyen family?
We got to talking about couple names. Henry and his girlfriend Thu are HenThu, which I thought sounded like "hentai" (Mat: You've ruined their couple name forever Andrew. FOREVER.) and my grandparents' couple name is "Ong Ba." Yeah, we were really creative on that one.
But the best one would have been Leroy and Bridgette.
Ledgette.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Coats
I have been at the receiving end of many a criticism regarding my choice of outer garment on days of questionable weather. Namely, I have been given incredulous looks when I wear coats on warm days. When I say warm, or when others think it's warm, I usually get these looks around 75 degrees Fahrenheit, when shorts and a t-shirt would more than suffice.
But I think that if the weather is below the 80 mark, a jacket or a long-sleeved article of clothing should at least be brought just in case you go somewhere cold. This has rarely failed me. Not since I was much younger did I find carrying a jacket or coat too inconvenient as to demerit a moment when I actually needed it. Many times I have been comfortable in colder-than-assumed conditions when others shiver.
A few months ago in Stockton, when the sun was happily shining around 75, I walked to the dining hall to eat with Sean and Eric (who happen to criticize me the most on this and give me often-to-the-point-of-you-should-know-me-by-now looks of question). I sit down and put my coat on the chair, Sean in a black tank top and Eric in a t-shirt. Well, soon after Eric left, it seemed to get a bit colder, so I put on my coat.
As I put it on, Sean says, "I'm cold too but I won't admit it because that would mean you're right."
Yesterday, on my way out of the house, I get in the car to go to church with my mom.
Says she, "Andrew, do you know how hot it is? Why are you wearing a jacket?"
"If you're shivering in church, mom," I replied, closing the door before we backed out of the driveway, "I'm not letting you borrow my jacket. You can freeze, and I'll be warm."
Sure enough, the fans of St. John the Baptist Church made it colder than usual and when my mom asked to borrow my jacket, chuckling as she did so, I chuckled with equal hilarity and shook my head while pretending to pray.
To those of you who argue that it's not worth carrying around, I have only to tell you that a jacket can easily be left in a car or hung on a chair, and it's worth it to have in case of those moments when you wish you had brought it.
Just a tip in case summer isn't as hot as you thought it would be, as is sometimes the case in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley.
Happy beaching!
But I think that if the weather is below the 80 mark, a jacket or a long-sleeved article of clothing should at least be brought just in case you go somewhere cold. This has rarely failed me. Not since I was much younger did I find carrying a jacket or coat too inconvenient as to demerit a moment when I actually needed it. Many times I have been comfortable in colder-than-assumed conditions when others shiver.
A few months ago in Stockton, when the sun was happily shining around 75, I walked to the dining hall to eat with Sean and Eric (who happen to criticize me the most on this and give me often-to-the-point-of-you-should-know-me-by-now looks of question). I sit down and put my coat on the chair, Sean in a black tank top and Eric in a t-shirt. Well, soon after Eric left, it seemed to get a bit colder, so I put on my coat.
As I put it on, Sean says, "I'm cold too but I won't admit it because that would mean you're right."
Yesterday, on my way out of the house, I get in the car to go to church with my mom.
Says she, "Andrew, do you know how hot it is? Why are you wearing a jacket?"
"If you're shivering in church, mom," I replied, closing the door before we backed out of the driveway, "I'm not letting you borrow my jacket. You can freeze, and I'll be warm."
Sure enough, the fans of St. John the Baptist Church made it colder than usual and when my mom asked to borrow my jacket, chuckling as she did so, I chuckled with equal hilarity and shook my head while pretending to pray.
To those of you who argue that it's not worth carrying around, I have only to tell you that a jacket can easily be left in a car or hung on a chair, and it's worth it to have in case of those moments when you wish you had brought it.
Just a tip in case summer isn't as hot as you thought it would be, as is sometimes the case in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley.
Happy beaching!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Secret Life of Daydreams 2
Everyone’s thought about running away before. Maybe after a long, drawn-out argument with your parents and/or siblings over something as mundane as school. Maybe after a particularly embarrassing moment at a party. Maybe even after a traumatic experience of abuse.
Regardless of the circumstances, countless of children and youngsters have contemplated half-seriously about packing their bags and leaving their family in search of a more immediate happiness.
I have done so a few times myself, but those are stories for another time.
For now, where would I go if I ran away? What would I do? How would I live? Certainly, my career goal as a dentist would be temporarily delayed, if not forever. I would probably live somewhere like Las Vegas, a city not too populous, but certainly a city in its own right. I would start by taking in tutoring jobs, maybe living poorly with a day and night job. I’d probably aspire to be a writer of some sort, or maybe a movie critic if I could manage it. I’d be free from the shackles of my parents.
I thought about it extensively today, my daily budget and schedule. I’d probably go into teaching at some elementary education, dealing with young kids. I’m pretty confident with my skill set that I’d find a few jobs, though obviously not high-paying, but well enough to put me above the poverty line.
I'd probably be able to spew out a few screenplays or novels, maybe contribute to a local newspaper.
Maybe I’ll get lucky somehow, strike it rich with a literary piece. I don’t know. I just wanna get outta here. I know I’d find something to do, living as free as I’d like, as happy as can be with my own choices. I know it’d be the perfect lifestyle, no one telling me what to do, what to eat, what to think.
I thought about it for almost an hour, uninterrupted.
Then my mom handed me my bowl of phở.
“I already put lemon in it,” she said as she poured me a cup of milk. “Just how you like it. If you want, there’s more over here. I have tuong (hoisin sauce). Also, if you can’t finish it, just leave it, and your dad can eat it.”
I blinked twice, initially angry at her for interrupting my daydream.
Then I looked at my home-cooked phở and dug in, all thoughts of running away immediately forgotten.
Mom: 1, Andrew: 0.
Regardless of the circumstances, countless of children and youngsters have contemplated half-seriously about packing their bags and leaving their family in search of a more immediate happiness.
I have done so a few times myself, but those are stories for another time.
For now, where would I go if I ran away? What would I do? How would I live? Certainly, my career goal as a dentist would be temporarily delayed, if not forever. I would probably live somewhere like Las Vegas, a city not too populous, but certainly a city in its own right. I would start by taking in tutoring jobs, maybe living poorly with a day and night job. I’d probably aspire to be a writer of some sort, or maybe a movie critic if I could manage it. I’d be free from the shackles of my parents.
I thought about it extensively today, my daily budget and schedule. I’d probably go into teaching at some elementary education, dealing with young kids. I’m pretty confident with my skill set that I’d find a few jobs, though obviously not high-paying, but well enough to put me above the poverty line.
I'd probably be able to spew out a few screenplays or novels, maybe contribute to a local newspaper.
Maybe I’ll get lucky somehow, strike it rich with a literary piece. I don’t know. I just wanna get outta here. I know I’d find something to do, living as free as I’d like, as happy as can be with my own choices. I know it’d be the perfect lifestyle, no one telling me what to do, what to eat, what to think.
I thought about it for almost an hour, uninterrupted.
Then my mom handed me my bowl of phở.
“I already put lemon in it,” she said as she poured me a cup of milk. “Just how you like it. If you want, there’s more over here. I have tuong (hoisin sauce). Also, if you can’t finish it, just leave it, and your dad can eat it.”
I blinked twice, initially angry at her for interrupting my daydream.
Then I looked at my home-cooked phở and dug in, all thoughts of running away immediately forgotten.
Mom: 1, Andrew: 0.
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