the only time I'll put 'Dad' and 'Drama' at the same sentence.
well, up-to-date confession: I've been trying to stay mad at my Dad.
this dates back to more than a week ago,
more precisely on the 8th of July 2010.
on this particular sunny Thursday morning,
I went to a competition held by a college
(to know my article for this competition, click here).
anyways, I won second and was in a particularly good mood,
despite not winning top prize when we were originally leading.
( Prize money was RM 750 and in my team there were five people,
hence RM 150 for each one of us. And you wonder why I was in good mood.
When it's money, it's money. Teenagers are always strap for cash.)
When I got back home ( and missed the ice-cream celebration; oh well),
I excitedly told my Dad the news.
(We did not even bother to prepare, maybe a few scenarios
I copied and paste from the internet but that was pretty much it.)
His reaction : why didn't you get first? Getting second is hardly anything.
Ouch.
I was genuinely happy and grateful we won.
But that just threw it out the window.
In addition to this 'average use of a parent' comment,
I was having 'my time of month' and my hormones
were, as usual as women describe it: unstable.
(It is also mixed with a feeling of guilt because
somehow at every competition I entered, I would
never, I repeat, never won first. So I was facing that
'low self-esteem' issues which I hardly get because
I am a hot-dang of an auspicious optimist.)
Admittedly, I bawled my eyes out.
A few days after that mishap,
I became a stubborn hermit in my room
that to go out to the living room (with my Dad present),
I would just sit down on the sofa,
head-straight to the TV only
with a sour face on and not talk.
Even my Dad, oblivious to my inner emotion
(he is a man. What are you going to do?),
had remark on this as I grudgingly walked away
from the living room on one of the days:
Why Is Everybody So Miserable?
I wonder why.
But after a week passes,
I don't think the message came across to him.
At all.
I can really understand the Daughter-Father Conflict now.
Why can't you tell that I am very upset with you?
Two days after that,
I threw my silver medal in the thrash bin.
I mean: why keep it when it means nothing, right?
And still. He did not understand.
Also, my brothers kept on bothering me on
why did I threw it in the rubbish bin in the first place.
My sister helpfully took it out for me
and puts in the medal case.
( Which was a good decision, because I'll be needing
it for school assembly on Monday. Haha. I can't tell my teacher
that I threw it in the thrash bin---even though it's true.)
See? At least a woman understands me.
The following week, I kept my communication
with my Dad as minimal as possible.
Answer if questioned only.
But the Cold Shoulder is proving to be not that effective.
List of Things On Why My Dad Thinks I'm Not Mad At Him:
1. I still speak to him. Whoaa, BIG mistake.
2. He may presume that locking myself in the room all the time is a Normal Teenage Thing---which is always true in the Parent's Guide Book to Teenage Habits.
3. When he wants his evening Milo, I make it for him and place it in front of him on the glass coster. Note: without a word.
4. When he wants crackers with his evening Milo, I find it in the container and give it to him. Note: without a word and unopened.
Either my Dad is clueless (which he is mostly not,
he is quite a perceptive person but then again, he doesn't have
a lot of experience---in my knowledge---on Teenage Angst because
my sister and I are quite properly raised)
or
I am really bad at acting mad Z:/
Because it is in not my nature and character
to stay mad at someone for a long time.
So this goes in Ashiqin's Book of Records.
Fast forward to a almost a week later,
my Dad bought Mangosteen.
Not just a market-plastic size mangosteen;
but oversized-thrash-bag worth of mangosteen.
Oooouuuuuhh.
He bought the mangosteen during his afternoon lunch break.
(He works with the government but he has suspiciously long lunch breaks
to come back home from work, change, eat lunch, sleep and change again for work,
which I question silently from time to time.)
Anyways, when he changed back from work, he spotted me eating some
in the living room while my brother was watching TV.
Confused on how to respond, I grinned at him with my mouth still full with
the white flesh of the mangosteen.
"Hmmph," my Dad harrumphed (his signature trademark), "Sombong."
(Which means : Proud.)
I don't know what he was on about:
My Cold Shoulder method (which I embarassingly caved in at the sight
of some local tropical fruits) or my cheeky grin.
Either of which, I don't know.
But I guess, from that day on
(dubbed The Day Of Mangosteen),
my Dad and I are cool.
Another interesting occurence:
On Saturday, I heard we
(minus Mum, she was having her Monthly Closing Sale that day),
are going out to eat dinner.
Firstly, I just heard from my Youngest Brother
that we were picking my sister up from the Score A SPM Lecture.
I said I passed. But he said if I wanted to eat, I should come.
So I changed.
When I went to the living room,
my Dad was musing on a list that my youngest brother made
(comprises of DraWing BLock, CRayonS and, solar power light )
He was stuck at the unreadable end part of it that when
he asked my brother about what it was, he dodged shyly
and jumped up hesitantly around him.
Then, he looked up to me and said:
Shiqin, go and change. Do you want to eat?
Matter-of-factly, I answered, "Yeah."
Then come with us. We're going out for dinner.
Wow. An actual invitation.
I already changed actually but my Dad's Rule on Going Out is:
If You Are Dressed, We Go.
But to have an invitation from my Dad
(well, he said it in a very Daddy-like manner that makes,
even I that gets 'wow, your Dad is so cool'
stated to me by my friends, astounded. And slighty chary.)
We went.
The sky was completely dark when we got to a Stationary Store.
We picked my sister up and had our dinner (at 6 p.m.)
and so we were finding for stuffs we need to supply.
On our way, we were having some conversations and
shared some jokes. Then, we started to complain about
my Oldest Young Brother's writing skills.
Then my Middle Young Brother told us about a writing exercise his
English Teacher gave them.
He assigned the class to make a scary sentence out of the following:
Ali-walking-home-saw-dead man
Typically, most of the class pretty much had the same line:
While Ali was walking home, he saw a dead man.
But one boy wrote:
Ali saw a dead man walking home.
I applauded.
"Now that's creative," I said.
"You also so creative, Shiqin," Dad intervened, "I read
your writing in the computer."
My computer? When did he read from my laptop?
Oh, wait. There was a note I wrote when I was desperately lonely
at home, titled 'The Mindful Mind of Ashiqin Alone with Her Mindful Mind Part One.'
that was in the boys' computer. Ohh...
"You like to muse on things. Veeeery creative."
My reaction: Um. Okay. That was creepy. Rare but creepy.
A compliment from father was so rare that I thought he was sarcastic.
Was he? I don't know. I'm not so sure...
(I'd post this article in a later post for those curious enough to check.)
Anyways, on our way to the Stationary Store...
Note: I have a love/hate affairs with Stationary Stores.
I love it because they are so many things I want to buy from there
and I hate it because they are so many useless things I want to buy from there.
We found the things in my brother's list.
The crayon and the solar power light that he was so bashful to purchase.
The last item was the drawing block and we were having some difficult time
to locate where exactly was it. We had been there before and are slightly
familiar with the location of...everything. But they apparently had reorganized everything
and were scouring the aisles three times for any sight of drawing blocks.
Finally, my brothers found it.
It was in the middle aisle of the shop (it use to be on the end of the right side
so the middle part was absolutely the last place we would search).
I am particularly helping to find for self-indulgent reason: I would like a sketchbook.
Not a large one which I have three of (two of them have no empty paper left) but a small one.
Like notebook size. My brother found his desired drawing block and I inquired if there
was sketch book at the other side of the aisle. My Oldest Young Brother said 'Yeah!'
and pointed just to his right. I went there and found the same larger brand of sketchbooks
that I saw from visiting this store before.
My eyes fell on a black spiral notebook and I automatically flipped one open.
Gasp!
It has NO LINES.
This is a sketchbook.
A hard-cover sketchbook.
I WANT.
"What's that, Shiqin?" My Dad asked, "Whatever you want, I'll buy it."
I felt flattered by that (any woman would) and just said, "This."
The spiral black sketchbooks had three sizes :
notebook-small, examination pad-average, drawing block-large.
"Why won't you take the big one?" my Dad asked reasonably.
"I want one that I can carry around easily," I said.
I have been finding for those types of sketchbooks for ages.
"Okay."
Pleased, I carry it all the way to the counter.
---My siblings and I had a short interlude of aww-ing
at a collection of pens that looked like black and white chocolate.
I can't believe I didn't catch a photo. But there was an employer
nearby and I have a warning at another stationary store before about 'No Photo, Please.'
No offense, but the stationeries are not really Taylor Lautners or Heidi Klums, you know.
Plus, free advertisement.
Back home, I realized something (or perhaps, I am a little over my head, but):
the Cold Shoulder worked!
I could not process that. It actually worked.
I actually got results.
Call the Department of Women and Family Affairs;
I have evidence that this method is a success.
Hahaha.
Truth is, I'm not so sure if it worked myself.
Perhaps it's just me.
It did goes to show that:
My Dad wants me to be happy
even if
I am seriously angry,
or more accurately, as the teen-slang goes:
pissed
at him.
And whether he knows it or not.
my new sketchbook :)
