5:00 pm
So I’m lugging this pot of soup. It’s fucking huge. My dad’s carrying a few smaller pots, and my mom’s holding a grocery bag full of Tupperware containers.
The first rule of an Asian party is that all the guests shall bring enough food to feed an army. Or Mainland China.
6:00 pm
There were three of us.
On the left couch sat the brother, a 15 year old suitably mature for his age. Spikey hair and glasses, he was still going through that whole awkward stage of high school. On the right couch sat the sister, a 19 year old student from the University of Ottawa in biology. She was tiny in size – ‘pocketable’ I had told her, long black hair, and cute, I guess, though definitely not my type.
There were three of us. And we sat there in silence.
6:05 pm
“So uh…how long do you figure?” I ask, glancing at the kitchen where crowds of adult women were simultaneously giggling and preparing the meal. Then I turned my gaze towards the TV room, where the men were knocking back beers and being unbearably rowdy. “I’m hoping 6 hours.”
“Are you kidding?” says the brother.
“By 12, they’ll only have taken out the karaoke”, confirms the sister.
7:00 pm
The second rule of an Asian parties is that the men and women shall remain separate. The women crowd in one room and talk. The men crowd in another and talk. The women eat in the dining room. The men eat outside.
I guess it could also be a symptom of married life, though it would be a real bitch if one of the men had the hots for one of the women – there goes all possibility of making an inconspicuous move, buddy.
Then again, everybody in this goddamn house is married. Except for me. What a bummer.
10:30 pm
Much to my delight, I begin to hear the rhythmic thumping of a subwoofer and Asian pop music begins to waft up from the basement. Like busy bees to honey, the women all head down to the basement.
Curiously enough, the men are still cheering in the adjacent room, oblivious to the disappearance of their wives.
11:00 pm
The men begin headng down to the basement where I can already hear the horrendous off-key crooning of many Asian females, tipsy enough to be oblivious to the boredom of the three young adults they’ve held hostage in the upstairs living room.
The third rule of an Asian party is that the only way to unite both males and females at such a gathering is by plopping them in front of a large television, slipping in a DVD of some infamous Asian pop sensation called Nan Quan Ma Ma, Fly to the Sky, Shinwa, or whatever, then handing them a microphone so they can sing their heart out while the others watch on with a mixture of glee and shameful amusement.
12:45 am
“Do you want to go?” asks my mum.
Do I want to go? Hot damn! Was Weierstrass ever ugly? In reply, I bounded to my feet, grabbed my keys, and stood by the door…
1:30 am
The forth and final rule of an Asian party is that the guests will stand by the door and talk their assses off for half a fucking hour before parting company.
During this precious time, the mothers go around and gushed at how good looking you are (what else are they going to say, really? “What happen to ya, son? Looks like you got hit with the ugly stick, fell outta the ugly tree, and got hit by every goddamn branch on your way down”).
Then the men go around and I FUCKING KID YOU NOT, feel your arms, and go, “Ooh. Check out his arms. Do you work out, son?” Well big surprise if I don’t seem like the typical malnourished Vietnamese lad eating a bowl of rice while plowing the wheat fields back home.
And worse, much worse, are the drunken ones who love to draw comparisons between you and (once) famous celebrities. I’ve heard it all: Asian pop stars, Tom Cruise (What the fuck? Do you see me jumping on any couches?), and this time by a very confused man, Richard Gere. How much booze do you need to draw a link between myself and a greying white actor? Really, how much?
But whatever. It’s over. Thank GOD. The next time I attend an Asian party, I’m bringing y’all with me for backup. But at least you’ll know how it’s going to play out.