Beware of the Chinese Mama:
Novel Excerpts About the Chinese Mama-fioso
By Melissa Yuan-Innes
Copyright Melissa Yuan-Innes 2011
Published by Olo Books
Smashwords Edition
In association with Windtree Press
Cover photo © Ribkov Dagim
Cover fonts Bloody & Chow Fun
Introduction
"Why don't you write about your mother? That's what I like when I read Amy Tan," said a friend.
I completely understood. That was the main reason why I chortled along with Amy Tan, Margaret Cho, and David Sedaris, or replayed the movies My Big Fat Greek Wedding and Mambo Italiano: there's something about ethnic families that is at once horribly and wonderfully familiar after growing up in one.
Especially the mother.
But at the time, I was writing about everything from vampire school girls to bonobo-human hybrids. I was writing to escape my life, including my Chinese-Canadian mama.
So I told my friend, "Because I don't want to," I said, and she accepted it with good grace.
I also didn't write about my mother for the same reason that I mostly didn't write about medicine and my burgeoning career as an emergency doctor: it was predictable.
"Why don't you write about the emergency room? You could be the next Michael Crichton!" people would enthuse, while my eyes glazed over.
But you know, if you write 2000 words a day, real life creeps into fiction. For example, my vampire schoolgirl heroine was a "friable little girl" with Hemophilia B (Christmas Disease). A few years later, I wrote the Hope Sze medical thrillers and a version of my family snuck onto the pages. And now, I am a Chinese/Canadian/doctor/mother myself.
For my friend, and for anyone else who likes, or fears, or is a Chinese Mama, I have collected excerpts from my novels in this little sampler. So you can laugh and shudder and maybe love her a little too.
A book about three belly-dancing friends, their men, their woman, and yep, their mothers.
When the phone rang at 7 a.m., Kate Zhao dove for it and breathed a carefree "Hello?", but it was wasted on her mother, Carol. "I made the silken tofu drink."
"That's good," said Kate, thumping a pillow into place on her bed.
"Do you want me to bring some over?"
"No, thanks." Kate tightened the sheet.
"Why? Are you busy?"
"I just don't need it, Mom."
"Were you sleeping? Your father and I have been up since five. We were watering the garden. Well, he was watering and I was weeding. You know how hard it is..."
By the time Kate got rid of her, it was 7:09. Nine precious minutes wasted and her mother still brought the tofu drink over within the hour.
"You don't eat enough healthy food," said Carol, cramming Tupperware into Kate's fridge. "I made pork chops, fried rice, and vichyssoise. The leeks were so fresh. I went to Cosco last week."
As usual, her mother made no sense. Those dishes weren't necessarily healthy, and leeks from last week would be old, but Carol did manage to irritate Kate away from thoughts of Jay.
Carol tried another tack. "You look skinny."
"Thanks, Mom." Kate knew where this was going. Breathe.
"No, it's not good. Some people look good when they're skinny, but you just look old. You're not getting any younger."
Kate eyed her notoriously bird-boned mother, whose dyed black hair and silver eye shadow didn't make her any more girlish. Kate could handle the most irate, racist, recalcitrant clients, but no one could get to her like dear old mom. She kept breathing and remembered Gavriella's last advice about her own mother: "I go nuclear on her regularly. Doesn't do any good. Lately, I've been trying to keep her eating or drinking so her mouth is full."
Kate forced a smile. "Could I get you something to drink, Mom?"
Carol patted her waist. "Oh, you're just trying to fatten me up."
"I have water."
"No, thank you. Tell me about work. Have you gotten a raise yet?"
"Not since the last one. I get reviewed in September."
"So, no." Carol shook her head.
Kate poured herself some water, wishing it were vodka. Carol demanded she drink the silken tofu smoothie instead. By the time Carol finally left, Kate practically felt like she'd doubled her dress size and had a frontal lobotomy. And Jay still hadn't called.
Just to be sure, she checked her phones: cell, land, and the Blackberry she used for work.
She checked her e-mail.
She checked Facebook. Jay had not updated his profile or his status since "Jay is stoked on his way to Montreal."
It made her smile to see that.
She called him again and hung up after five rings, even though she knew he'd just recognize her number.
Why was dithering an essential part of every woman's handiwork? Why, in the twenty-first century, did she still feel like she had to wait for him to call?
"Because you done him wrong, you dipwad," she said aloud as she flipped through her iPod. Nothing sounded right.
She scoured the kitchen counter, scrubbed the bathtub and toilet, and started a second load of laundry. At least she could be a clean dipwad. And then she'd go to work and take another run. If she was awake and useless, she might as well fatten her bank account or cut her thighs while she was at it.
As she tossed a light blue T-shirt in with the whites—hey, live dangerously—the phone rang. She ran for it. "Hello?"
"Kate the Great, please."
She relaxed as soon as she heard his light, amused voice. "I'm afraid she's not in right now. If she ever was. However, Kate the Repentant is standing by. Would you like to speak to her?"
Jay laughed. "I don't know if I've ever met Repentant Kate. Does she say a lot of Hail Marys?"
"She could."
His voice dropped lower. "Does she spend a lot of time on her knees?"
Kate giggled and balanced on one foot. "As much as is required."
"I think I'll have to meet her as soon as possible."
"Our operators are standing by."
"At your apartment?"
"Yes."
"I'll be there as soon as I can to place my order."
After kicking her ne'er-do-well husband to the curb, Oona Mak resorts to her list. The list of all the guys she loved and lost or never got to try in the first place—until now.
But first she has to break the un-marriage news to her parents. Technically, Oona's mama's ancestry is Ghanaian, but her attitude is Chinese all the way. Plus you get to meet Oona's Chinese papa.
Within minutes of locking the door on Craig, I could already hear my mother lecturing me. "Never marry a guy who's prettier than you. Or has smaller thighs than you. Or a smaller bank account—"