you could write a book about us

Serves me right.

First I insisted dad get an internet connection at home. Then I taught him skype.

Now he’s on facebook. And has sent me a friend request.

I accepted. Reluctantly. Because I can imagine my parents lovingly scanning my page, reading into every comment made there, looking at all my photos and then analysing all my status updates.

Actually my dad isn’t the problem.

My mom is. She thinks privacy is a white woman who lives in another continent.

I remember hurling accusations at her as an infuriated teenager, after discovering she had read a letter that got home before I did.

“You have no right to read my letters.”

Her reply was always one of the following.

“I have every right, I am your mother.”

“Your letters? Remember, I am your mother.

“Don’t make those ugly faces and yell at me, I am your mother.”

How do you win a battle like that?

By learning to be sneaky. I remember a school crush sending me twenty four love letters on valentine’s day. I remember the number not because they were sweet or so well-written, but because I had to tear all twenty four into tiny shreds and flush them down the toilet bowl, while my mother banged at the bathroom door and yelled, “What are you doing inside for so long? Open the door, I’m your mother.”

She still tries it. Like if I’m changing, and she refuses to leave the room. She’ll stare at me, then I’ll stare at her, rather pointedly.

“Do you mind, I’d like to change.”

“So...I’m your mother...you can change in front of me.”

No, I can’t. Because you are checking me out with microscopic laser vision. What underwear am I wearing? Does my bra have underwire? And of course, is it washed properly?

Now she’s going to be on facebook, courtesy dad.

I’m already thinking of the possible scenarios.

“ Why are you wearing that awful silver hair?

“Because i like it. And I think it looks fun.”

Fun? You look like a clown. Don’t your friends tell you that?”

“NO”

“Well, then take it from me, and I’m your mother, and I’m telling you: you look like a clown.”

Gosh. Dreadbook is an idea I might be able to live without.