pasta is better than karaoke

I’m going to my aunt’s birthday dinner tonight. It’s a small affair, and it includes only my immediate family. We’re going to a local Italian place, where I will most definitely stuff myself with inordinate amounts of pasta. It will be glorious.

It will also be way, WAY more appealing than the last “grown-up birthday party” I attended, which was for my mom’s second cousin’s fiftieth birthday. She had a crazy huge ballroom full of people with a formal dress code and a catered twelve-dish banquet with a VIP procession and lots of photographers documenting the whole thing. I think she had a sparkly silver evening gown and a tiara. And there was karaoke. So much karaoke. All in Chinese (I think it was Mandarin), all at top volume—I couldn’t even hear my cousin speaking beside me. It was nightmarish. It also kind of reminded me of a cartoonish rendition of what I imagine a spoiled debutante’s sweet sixteen celebration would look like. But anyway, I got through it. I’ve also been permanently turned off of drunken Chinese karaoke. (I feel the need to state that I am, myself, a full-blooded Chinese girl in order to avoid sounding really racist and insensitive here. But trust me, most kinds of drunken karaoke are pretty bad.)

I remember that last party because of both the mind-shattering karaoke that lasted for five hours and the fact that in order to attend that function I had to miss one my best friend’s birthday parties. It was the last year we were friends, and I kind of regret never having attended the one and only special celebratory event she held during the entire course of our friendship. But (as the chipper wintery princesses of Frozen tell me) the past is in the past. In any case, the details of that painful breakup (although it was a breaking up of friends, it was probably just as painful as I imagine a romantic breakup would be) are for another post. And it’s time for me to go eat some pasta.

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Victoria

Writes words mostly on the go. Lentils are life.

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