Fly or Die?

fly or die

Monday, January 03, 2005
Soap opera The turkey has been carved down to its bone, the gravy gone. Dinner safely in our tummies. Whatever said, Mom is a grand cook. She makes a mean Christmas meal, which makes coming home worth it all. Washing the dishes has always been my chore, while my younger brother does the drying. But since he married, he has relegated the task to my sister in law, Debbie. We were in the kitchen. I left Matt out there to swim with the sharks. Debbie is a sweet thing. An angel. My not so lil' brother, well, let's just call him Quasimodo, was her first boyfriend. They met at Form 4 and have been together since. They went for tuition classes together. She helped him learn his alphabets and times table (yes, he was a wee slow) and now she's preggie with Quasi Jr. If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would never have thought such a sickeningly saccharin love story could happen. Eww... My parents love Deb. In fact, she is more like the daughter they always wanted. Demure, well-bred, well-groomed. And given the fact that she adored Quasi, she endeared herself all the more to them. Don't get me wrong, I love Deb too. When they coined the term "your better half", Deb was the inspiration. "So, how did you two meet?" she asked, her cheeks rosy from trimester glow. "Oh, a mutual friend. I was conned into it." "He seem really nice." "Don't be fooled. This is just his mild-mannered alter-ego. You should watch him when he plays Street Fighter II." "I'm so happy for you." "Why? Did I strike 4-D or something?" I raise my brows to her. She whacks me with the drying cloth. "He is quite different ... " "True, true." I laugh. Just then Mom walks in with more dishes. She dumps them into the sink, mixing up my "soaped" and "unsoaped" dishes. I try hard to keep my eye balls from rolling. I steal a glance at Mom. She has her arms folded and has taken the position next to the fridge. Throughout my developing years, she always stood there, arms folded - while I was trapped by soap suds - telling me "some thing very important". "He's ... rather ... nice." She enunciates like Eliza Doolittle. I keep quiet. "Quite ... different." The same 2 words, now coming from Mom's mouth irritated me. "Oh no!" I gasp in horror. "You saw his 12 toes! Noooo!!!" Deb laughs. Mom ignores me. She never hears my best lines. "He's helping Dad set up the new DVD player Uncle Chua gave." "Oh, he's good with tech stuff. Comes with the toe thing, you know?" I say, nonchalant, suppressing a smile. I felt a wee puffy, like a strutting parent pointing out their kid performing on stage 'Atta boy!' "Nice ... you shouldn't keep him hanging." "Hanging?" "As usual." "As usual?" "Commitment phobia ..." "I what?" "Ah Girl, it's the right thing." "Mom..." "Don't wait too long." "Mom..." "Okay. I'll stop nagging." She walks out of the kitchen. Then, sticks her head in again. "New Year's Eve dinner. Make sure he comes." Atta boy! Pencil chewed at 7:47:00 pm //
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