Drama Mama.

(My, what a busy day it's been for my blog.)

I got tired of the office early and left work at 6.30pm today, skipped the gym and headed for home hoping for some productive time to get some work done. As is my usual practice before 10pm, I give my parents a call to find out if they could give me a ride home from the train station (I live about 30 - 40 min away from it). They're both retired and had agreed to this sort of arrangement when I suggested that I might move out to somewhere closer to work and further from the-middle-of-nowhere. But good Asian girls aren't supposed to move out until they're married (and rental prices here are sky high).

I hadn't the slightest inkling of the histrionics that would ensue.

That didn't last long though as my dad decided to tell me unequivocally the moment I got into his car never ever to ask for ride home between 7pm and 8pm because that's when he's praying and stuff. Alright, so I overlooked that, but instead of getting all worked up about it just TELL me over the phone and I'll catch a cab home instead. It's not like that's never happened before and I never kicked up a fuss when it did. I'm quite happy to take cabs and I only ask for a ride because (i) it's cheaper and (ii) my parents are constantly telling me off for spending too much.

But of course I didn't say any of that as it would only provoke more ire and leave me stranded at the side of the road. So silence hung over us like an evil miasma all the way home.

Home was where the real drama happened. One look at my mother's face and I knew that she'd had an argument with my dad before he left the house. And that she wasn't about to let it end at that.

The words tumbled out of her like a derailed train off its tracks, exploding into huge balls of flame as it rushed its target. My dad would not stand down, coolly delivering his deliberately pointed salvos like jet-powered fighters with a single-minded focus. My mother grasped at her hair in despair, as she called the wrath of God upon my dad.

I fed the cat and quietly retired to my room.

I could hear my mother coming up the stairs spewing forth vitriol all the way to her bedroom. After a few moments of wondering if my closed door would be perceived as another slight to her being, I decided to leave it open instead. Not long after my mother appeared in my doorway, wailing and clutching at her abdomen complaining of a sharp unbearable pain deep inside. I head to the kitchen, past the trenches that my dad has quickly dug up for himself, to get some warm water and lots of painkillers for my mother.

I fed the cat again (what a porker) and went back upstairs.

My mother is sat cross-legged on the floor, clutching at her stomach, complaining of the pain she couldn't take anymore, swaying back and forth, asking whoever would listen how my dad could have said such things to her and how would she ever be able to forget those words. I ask her to get off the floor and lie down on the bed, the pain is from the stress and if she relaxed it would get better. Look here I have some warm water and painkillers and all you have to do is take a couple and you'll fall asleep and forget everything and tomorrow everything will be ok again.

My mother says she needs a shower so she goes to her bathroom and I stand around with a mug of warm water and painkillers in my hands. My cat starts to wail for me and I head past the trenches again (where my dad is watching the football) to pick the fat critter up and bring him upstairs to my room away from all the madness.

My mother is out of the bathroom and sat on her bed looking lost and rueing the day she married my dad and oh the pain it's deep inside where does it come from I can't take it. I coax her into taking some painkillers and she does. I switch the ceiling fan on for her and she tells me to switch it off because she's cold. She complains that she's warm so I switch it back on again. She switches on the air-conditioning and I switch the fan back off again. I tell her to lie down and sleep it will take the pain away and she doesn't listen. I ask her if she wants more water and she says no. I take the pills and leave her room, closing the door behind me. I'm in my room now (the cat is cleaning himself).

How did I end up so emotionless?

I felt so awkward dealing with my mother and was more comfortable in the icy silence of my dad's fortress. I was almost tempted to roll my eyes on several occasions during my mother's dramatic displays of pain and distress and victimisation.

I mean, each argument had a point. My dad said that my mother has no right of accusing him of treating her like a slave, and I can't argue with that. My mother has been financially supported by my dad since they got married, my dad has always helped out around the house, the kids cleaned up after themselves most of the time. Of course my dad really shouldn't have gone that step further by then accusing my mother of being lazy and doing nothing at all, when that's clearly not true. (My mother retorted that she'd been working hard taking care of my dad's products - that would be me and my brothers - and that she'd only quit her job because he told her too, blah blah blah.)

And all they had to do was tell me to take a cab instead (the cat is asleep now).

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I'm never having kids. Or getting married. All this madness might be hereditary, you never know.