Oranges and Lemons
Dad: You do NOT peel oranges like this while you are still living under my roof!!
Me: *eyebrow disappears into hairline and continues peeling in a manner similar to the one spotted on Ready Steady Cook*
Dad: I mean it. *releases menacing growl from lips set in a snarl*
Me: Oh dear. What's up with you today? Hormones?
Dad: Pfshh! *insert unoriginal expletives here* Get a plate. Stop butchering that poor orange.
Me: Don't worry. Maybe you have tinnitus. I don't hear it scream in pain *presses ear into orange*
Dad: *suddenly becomes athletic and sprightly for his old age, and attempts to orange-nap the orange from my hands.*
The war of the orange was definitely won by me. Beauty before age, and all that. Why does he have to be like that? I can eat an orange however I want; it's a free country. What's next? He'll tell me what I can and cannot wear? He will deem 11 PM an unsuitable hour for me to go to bed? I have my suspicions that he is regressing. Coping with two and a half teenagers is all too much for him. This is his own little way of showing us he needs a holiday.
This fracas was conducted to the background noise of my brother cackling "rights for women" repeatedly, in a voice he claims has broken, but which sounds to my (admittedly untrained) ear far, far squeakier than it did before.
Maybe, just maybe, I am the only sane person left. Which is why I am so often perceived as mad. I am a one-woman band; the misunderstood minority.
Or maybe they are all right and I am wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time…
Me: *eyebrow disappears into hairline and continues peeling in a manner similar to the one spotted on Ready Steady Cook*
Dad: I mean it. *releases menacing growl from lips set in a snarl*
Me: Oh dear. What's up with you today? Hormones?
Dad: Pfshh! *insert unoriginal expletives here* Get a plate. Stop butchering that poor orange.
Me: Don't worry. Maybe you have tinnitus. I don't hear it scream in pain *presses ear into orange*
Dad: *suddenly becomes athletic and sprightly for his old age, and attempts to orange-nap the orange from my hands.*
The war of the orange was definitely won by me. Beauty before age, and all that. Why does he have to be like that? I can eat an orange however I want; it's a free country. What's next? He'll tell me what I can and cannot wear? He will deem 11 PM an unsuitable hour for me to go to bed? I have my suspicions that he is regressing. Coping with two and a half teenagers is all too much for him. This is his own little way of showing us he needs a holiday.
This fracas was conducted to the background noise of my brother cackling "rights for women" repeatedly, in a voice he claims has broken, but which sounds to my (admittedly untrained) ear far, far squeakier than it did before.
Maybe, just maybe, I am the only sane person left. Which is why I am so often perceived as mad. I am a one-woman band; the misunderstood minority.
Or maybe they are all right and I am wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time…
kiwiqueen - 31. May, 22:24