Death by burger - or maybe not

Most kids rebel against their parents by running away from home, or by doing drugs or by getting drunk on bottles of cider. It’s understandable, the need for self-destruction, especially because by destroying yourself, you destroy what your parents had borne and nurtured. But because I’m a frigging good girl and have still have some sense of self-preservation, I rebel by scoffing burgers.

Burgers? What’s so rebellious about that, you say? Food, and who feeds you is control. Any anorexic will tell you that. And my mother is the ultimate food Nazi. McDonald’s is anathema to her. Even before organic became trendy, she was ordering boxes of organic vegetables from a supplier in Cameron Highlands. She only buys free range and will spend RM30 for one free-range, organic chicken. Everything has to be low-salt, low-fat, preservative-free, unbleached etc. She reads numerous health magazines and knows more about nutrition than I do. So you see, when it comes to rebelling, swallowing a Big Mac is as bad as it can be.

Things got so bad at one point that I vowed that I would eat at all four major fast-food outlets in one day. That mission ended in failure because I only managed to eat two burgers a day before giving up and having to start all over again the next day. Even my little sister, who could be relied on to support any rebel causes, was appalled at my lardy ambition. I think Super Size Me has had an effect on her.

The problem comes when you rebel without a cause. When your mum says you can have a meal at A&W while waiting for her to finish class, suddenly a Double Double Cheeseburger smuggled into the house doesn’t seem so dangerous anymore. Or when she gives you the keys to the house so that you don’t have to yell for someone to open the door every time you come home.

This is decidedly strange. It’s not turning out to be the protracted battle I thought it would be. Maybe my oldest sister’s previous screaming matches with my mother over curfews when she found herself living back home with the parents has paved the way for me. Or maybe it was me going the crazy the last time I was home. Maybe my mother is tired of arguing.

Maybe she thinks I am right. Haw haw.

Whatever it is, we’re getting along better now. I’ve re-learnt that giving in to the small things that my mum wants equals trust and the keys to the car. And I think that my mum’s learnt that sometimes I need my own space and want to do things my way.

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I’ve had a few friends tell me that I shouldn’t be too harsh when judging people and that I should make more time to get to know people better before denouncing them as fools, dunces and all-round wankers. All very sound and sage advice. Trouble is, I’m too stubborn, hard-hearted and impatient to deal with people who I believe to be wasting my time. Also, I’ve developed a very short fuse nowadays, especially with morons, so I try to avoid situations where I will explode and say something I will seriously regret later. I might also add that most of the time I trust my first instincts about a person and so when I know I’m right, there’s very little that can change my mind. Have I said that I’m stubborn?

So my moron radar was alerted last night when I answered the house phone. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hello
Middle-aged sounding man: (Pause with heavy breathing) Aaaahh……is your dad still in Brunei?
Me: Um….ye-as.
MASM: Ah, who is this? Is that Maryam?
Me: No, it’s Kere.
MASM: Oh, Kere, you’re home. Which one are you? The one in Australia?
Me: No, the one in England.
MASM: Ahah, the one in Liverpool.
Me: Ya. Can I know who’s speaking please?
MASM: (Ignores my question) Why are you back? Cuti ke?
Me: Tak, balik for good.
MASM: Hah, tu nak kawin la tu.
Me: (I faked a laugh because this guy is obviously my dad’s acquaintance and telling him to fuck off for insinuating that I came home to find a husband is clearly the wrong thing to do)
MASM: Hah? Betul ke nak kawin?
Me: Tak.
MASM: Oh.
Me: Who is this again?
MASM: Can I speak to your mother?
Me: Who is this?
MASM: Izzudin.

Oh, hello. Wanker.

When I was a kid, I got an earful from my parents if my friends called the house and never introduced themselves or asked to speak to me properly. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one with friends who aren’t aware of correct phone etiquette. And this man is fifty-plus, so what’s his excuse?

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The signs have been everywhere but what with my erratic sleeping pattern, I forgot that yesterday was Valentine’s Day until I saw some poor schmuck standing outside the girls’ school gates near my house with a bunch of flowers and a pack of Ferrero Rocher. He looked about fifteen and had this lovelorn look on his face. My mother and I had a good laugh as we drove by. Of course we can laugh about it because one is a woman married for 33 years who knows all about love and its ups and downs, while the other is a cynic who has never been in love. Both of us have no illusions about the big L.

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I keep telling my sister – we need to go to Vancouver. I know Dean Winchester doesn’t exist but the closest I can get to him is to see the guy who plays him and that guy is Jensen Ackles, who films mainly in Vancouver. I have seen him in interviews and behind-the-scenes featurettes. He is very good-looking but not as forward or caustic as Dean Winchester, but hey, he’ll do. In real life, no one can be that perfect. Anyone who looks that good physically has to have something wrong with them somewhere. Maybe Jensen Ackles has knobbly knees or something. A little balancing on God’s part I think. Although some of us seem unlucky enough to be both ugly and have zero personality.

I need to go to Vancouver.