The Chantastic Blog

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been asked by three different people whether I’ve lost weight. Honestly, I have no idea because I never weigh myself. However, it does make sense because my pants have been rather loose. Of course, my infamous refusal to wear belts is making things rather awkward, as that leaves me hiking my pants up all the time. If I’m walking around with my hands in my pocket, it’s not because I want to - it’s because I’m using my hands to keep my pants up.

A four week stint in Edmonton eating my mom’s famous home cookin’ should fatten me up pretty good, however.

Speaking of which, I’ve been told by my friends Maritimes and Pussycats that they’ve enjoyed the recent Betty stories. Here’s another classic Betty anecdote:

My mom, being a typical mom, always asks me what I want to eat when I go home to visit, knowing that I haven’t eaten her cookin’ for a while. The other day, as part of my classic procrastination during exams, I decided to e-mail her a list of things I wanted her to cook for me (by the way, it’s not really being spoiled when I know I’m being spoiled and appreciate that fact - this is what I’ve convinced myself, anyway). But me being the idiot that I am and looking for ways to avoid studying, I also included a list of things I didn’t want to eat, a list of things for her to do (including fixing the broken zipper on my pants), and a list of things I want her to buy so I can bring them back to Toronto.

For some reason, I forgot that this was Betty I was dealing with. Her response to my e-mail? To send me a list of tasks that she wanted me to do when I came back to Edmonton, which wound up being about twice as long as my list.

I can’t act like I didn’t deserve it, because I totally did. Well played, Betty, well played.

Yet another e-mail exchange with my mom. This time, I ask her to book an appointment with my dentist for me when I return home for the holidays. As you’ll see below, I’m not exactly a morning person, which everyone who has ever dealt with me knows.

This joke that my mom uses never gets old - here’s an actual screenshot from an e-mail that I received after no contact with her for a week:

Betty never fails to amuse me.

My cousin recently got married, but I was unable to attend because it was in Mexico and I couldn’t justify skipping school to go (which I now regret, for the record). Naturally, my cousin just sent out an e-mail with a link to her wedding pictures. All 375 of them. My initial reaction?

“Nice! I didn’t plan on having an impromptu procrastination session from studying right now, but I’m always flexible.”

On a side note, there are waaaaay too many Facebook pictures of the wedding where my mom is either doing shots or dancing.

Middle-aged Asian moms love me. I’m not joking. Apparently, I have this reputation among my mom’s friends - and perhaps throughout the Chinese community in Edmonton and beyond - as the nice, quiet, polite, reliable son of nice, quiet Betty Chan.

How do they get this opinion of me?

Because whenever they meet me, I’m with my mom (there’s not a chance in hell you can come up with a scenario where I would be stuck talking to middle-aged Asian moms without my mom acting as a buffer), who does most of the talking while I sit quietly.

Because I look the part of a nice, quiet, polite, reliable guy - I’m clean cut, I don’t have earrings, I don’t have dyed hair, and I wear t-shirts and khakis literally 95% of the time. I swear this is what Asian moms look for.

Because the Chinese community gossips and talks - my goodness, do they talk - so they hear about my reputation from other middle-aged Asian moms, and it becomes the self-perpetuating Chantastic legend of the nice, quiet, polite, reliable guy.

Here’s the thing - it’s all perception. If you know me at all, you know I’m not quiet. If anything, I’m the exact opposite of quiet. The only reason why I’m quiet around middle-aged Asian women is because they’re busy talking to my mom, I have nothing in common with them, and I literally don’t understand what they’re saying half the time. So I just sit there and hope that they’ll leave me alone. The way I do it, though, apparently comes off as quiet and polite. Right.

The best part is when they make subtle hints about setting me up with their daughters. Um, not a chance in hell, but hey, thanks for asking.

It’s great to be loved and all, but there’s one small problem, and I’ll even use the fancy MBA lingo that I’ve learned over the past year. The perception of my brand is targeting the wrong market segment. I mean, if I’m looking for someone to crash a Toyota Camry, I’m set, but otherwise, I’m screwed.

I made a return trip to the infamous Wednesday Aveda warehouse sale last week because it was my last Wednesday at my summer internship, and my mom e-mailed me a list of things she wanted me to buy for her.

As I stood around like a deer in the headlights, a girl entered and saw the wall of items for sale. She then exclaimed, “Oh my God! This place is AMAZING!”

My co-worker, who was also acting as my purchasing consultant, replied to her, “It’s your first time here, eh? You get total ADD because you don’t know where to start. It’s great.”

On Sunday, I had never seen my fridge so full before.

On Monday, I missed by bus to work for the very first time.

On a completely unrelated note, on Saturday, my mom flew back home to Edmonton.