A Quick Note from Kuala Lumpur

1. We are all well and happy and overfed.
2. It is damnably hot.
3. It sucks to be a young Chinese kid.

For the first, oh, I don't know, seven years of my life, when our extended family got together on special occasions, I would be surrounded by a bewildering array of aunts, uncles, cousins (first, seconds, thirds) and godparents. The idea that each of these people had names was very nearly unbearable. After a couple of days in Malaysia, I'm feeling much better about my problems.

Here, of course, deciphering family relations is sort of like chanting the digits of pi: arcane, not at all worth doing and at the same time terribly important.

It's not enough to know that Khoo is your uncle. Saying "Uncle Khoo" is unattractive shorthand that, if it isn't out-right insulting, is awful darn close. The right name is something like: "Father's third youngest brother Khoo" or "Mother's second sister Lee" or "Mother's father's second wife who-had-two-boys." It's just wrong, I tell you. It was bad enough watching Mrs. Dr. X go through it (oh, no! don't you know better? I'm the second OLDEST brother's cousin!) but to seem them trying to inflict this nonsense on a two-year-old (Toddler X) was just unfair! I quickly formed a cabal with the sensible Singaporean Uncle ("Call me Steven" was his name, bless his heart!) in deciding that no names should have more than two parts and at least one of them should be in English. Or Approximately English.

Next stop, on to Palestine where I hope to put my brand of no-nonsense, screw-your-family-history, fie-on-5000-years-of-tradition clever problem-solving skills to good use. (Also, need to stock up on hyphens soon.)

Love,

Second-girl-fourth-from-the-top-later-wife-of-Madrona
and your