(no subject)
Height Advantage
I know, I know. I'll probably be smacked upside the face with a sock full of coal this season, or batteries if I'm in prison by then, what with the gross neglect of the eljay. I won't bore you with my excuses for not having written lately. I will, however, bore you with the stories that accompany them.
After the quarter wrapped up at school, I went down to Orange County ("the OC," for those of who you learn your geography from Fox) with my good friend Mike to spend some time with him and his family, as well as visit my one true love: South Coast Plaza.
However, shopping would have to wait. As I've learned, Vietnamese custom dictates that in order of importance, the family precedes most things - even those you would never suspect, like the holiday sale at Banana Republic. So Mike and I remained a captive audience to his parents while they regaled us with his sister's wedding video and hearty servings of bun bo hue, a Vietnamese soup which I think roughly translates to "unidentified fish parts and rice noodles."
During the drive to the restaurant, Mike's mom turned around and fulfilled another time-honored custom: telling the white kid some of the things he does wrong.
"Chris, image is very important, now that you're gonna be done with college soon. And how you look, very important, if you want a job that brings you lots of money. This is why you and Michael, you both need to be taller now."
Mike and I looked at each other, knowing full well that with finals and our deplorable eating habits, the only growing we had done in the past few months was outward, not upward.
"You need to drink more milk. Milk, that will make you grow taller," she said authoritatively. There was, of course, no milk in the back seat, so I wasn't exactly sure what she wanted me to do about it at the moment.
"Yes, milk!" she spat accusatorily, as though we had argued and said that no, fish parts made you the most tallest, and milk was but a distant fifth.
"I regret that I never made Michael drink milk when he was a little boy, never. And now, look at him! He is so short, like you Chris!"
We exchanged glances, I stifling my laughter and Mike rolling his eyes. He attempted to counter her, but she continued, "Yes, the other day I was in the market and when I saw the milk aisle, I just started to cry, thinking about how short you were."
Poor Mike, having to deal with this every time he comes home. Like me, Mike doesn't even like milk. And I doubt it'd make him taller, even if he drank a glass a day. If milk really did anything, Santa Claus would be several thousand feet tall. And every time a carton of two-percent falls in the line of sight, mom busts open like a Mexican dam? That must take its toll on the psyche. Either he'll eventually learn to resent his mother, or he'll end up a guy with one of those enormous trucks you need a sherpa to enter.
"And Chris," she explained, "you need to eat more, too. You are so skinny, that is unlucky! You look unhealthy. You will eat more tonight, so you look healthier."
"My mom says healthy because she thinks we're doing drugs," whispered Mike, "or like, throwing up our food. Doesn't she know who I am?"
"Yeah," I answered back, "who's she calling skinny? I suppose if carbs were drugs, I'd be the equivalent of Sid Vicious around the holidays. I'd take fudge intravenously if I could. But everyone knows the drugs we do aren't the slimming type!"
At the restaurant, as usual, Mike's mother offered to order for me, but they all took much more pleasure in watching me hazard an order in Vietnamese. I wasn't all that hungry, but it turns out the meal I got was enormous. It was a huge, simmering bowl of "maybe" beef, vegetables, and about an inch-thick layer of scalding liquid fat which, assuming it was broth, I sipped heartily until dim realization set in and I lost all feeling in my tongue. Gaaaah gah gah, it's like licking an oven. Did I just feel my esophagus drop into my colon?
"Look, Chris, your cheeks already look redder and fuller!"
Little did she know that was likely just my face melting.
I figure she's right, though - image is everything. But gaining weight would only be good if I planned to work in Vietnam. But I'm no good at carrying those buckets of water on my shoulders, so I'll likely be working in LA, instead. And no one looks healthy in LA!
As for the weight, there's only one job that calls for having a "bowl full of jelly" instead of sizzling, rock-hard abs, and that position requires extensive travel and relocation, so it's not really up my alley. But height is important, to me. With luck, my job will involve ruthless expansionism and corporate devilry - look at Napoleon's success, and he was much shorter than me!
But, just in case, I'll be drinking a little milk, because I don't want to end up dancing around in jingle-shoes as the mall elf. Milk - it has to do somebody good.
I know, I know. I'll probably be smacked upside the face with a sock full of coal this season, or batteries if I'm in prison by then, what with the gross neglect of the eljay. I won't bore you with my excuses for not having written lately. I will, however, bore you with the stories that accompany them.
After the quarter wrapped up at school, I went down to Orange County ("the OC," for those of who you learn your geography from Fox) with my good friend Mike to spend some time with him and his family, as well as visit my one true love: South Coast Plaza.
However, shopping would have to wait. As I've learned, Vietnamese custom dictates that in order of importance, the family precedes most things - even those you would never suspect, like the holiday sale at Banana Republic. So Mike and I remained a captive audience to his parents while they regaled us with his sister's wedding video and hearty servings of bun bo hue, a Vietnamese soup which I think roughly translates to "unidentified fish parts and rice noodles."
During the drive to the restaurant, Mike's mom turned around and fulfilled another time-honored custom: telling the white kid some of the things he does wrong.
"Chris, image is very important, now that you're gonna be done with college soon. And how you look, very important, if you want a job that brings you lots of money. This is why you and Michael, you both need to be taller now."
Mike and I looked at each other, knowing full well that with finals and our deplorable eating habits, the only growing we had done in the past few months was outward, not upward.
"You need to drink more milk. Milk, that will make you grow taller," she said authoritatively. There was, of course, no milk in the back seat, so I wasn't exactly sure what she wanted me to do about it at the moment.
"Yes, milk!" she spat accusatorily, as though we had argued and said that no, fish parts made you the most tallest, and milk was but a distant fifth.
"I regret that I never made Michael drink milk when he was a little boy, never. And now, look at him! He is so short, like you Chris!"
We exchanged glances, I stifling my laughter and Mike rolling his eyes. He attempted to counter her, but she continued, "Yes, the other day I was in the market and when I saw the milk aisle, I just started to cry, thinking about how short you were."
Poor Mike, having to deal with this every time he comes home. Like me, Mike doesn't even like milk. And I doubt it'd make him taller, even if he drank a glass a day. If milk really did anything, Santa Claus would be several thousand feet tall. And every time a carton of two-percent falls in the line of sight, mom busts open like a Mexican dam? That must take its toll on the psyche. Either he'll eventually learn to resent his mother, or he'll end up a guy with one of those enormous trucks you need a sherpa to enter.
"And Chris," she explained, "you need to eat more, too. You are so skinny, that is unlucky! You look unhealthy. You will eat more tonight, so you look healthier."
"My mom says healthy because she thinks we're doing drugs," whispered Mike, "or like, throwing up our food. Doesn't she know who I am?"
"Yeah," I answered back, "who's she calling skinny? I suppose if carbs were drugs, I'd be the equivalent of Sid Vicious around the holidays. I'd take fudge intravenously if I could. But everyone knows the drugs we do aren't the slimming type!"
At the restaurant, as usual, Mike's mother offered to order for me, but they all took much more pleasure in watching me hazard an order in Vietnamese. I wasn't all that hungry, but it turns out the meal I got was enormous. It was a huge, simmering bowl of "maybe" beef, vegetables, and about an inch-thick layer of scalding liquid fat which, assuming it was broth, I sipped heartily until dim realization set in and I lost all feeling in my tongue. Gaaaah gah gah, it's like licking an oven. Did I just feel my esophagus drop into my colon?
"Look, Chris, your cheeks already look redder and fuller!"
Little did she know that was likely just my face melting.
I figure she's right, though - image is everything. But gaining weight would only be good if I planned to work in Vietnam. But I'm no good at carrying those buckets of water on my shoulders, so I'll likely be working in LA, instead. And no one looks healthy in LA!
As for the weight, there's only one job that calls for having a "bowl full of jelly" instead of sizzling, rock-hard abs, and that position requires extensive travel and relocation, so it's not really up my alley. But height is important, to me. With luck, my job will involve ruthless expansionism and corporate devilry - look at Napoleon's success, and he was much shorter than me!
But, just in case, I'll be drinking a little milk, because I don't want to end up dancing around in jingle-shoes as the mall elf. Milk - it has to do somebody good.