It's been a little more than a year since I've moved into the gulag. I have come to find that ignorance doesn't seem to back down, so I've stopped protesting. All that's left for me to do is to voluntarily imprison myself in the room I'm bunking in and wait for the monthly trip to Bangkok where my parents and little brother now live courtesy of Como Hotels.
Proper to my grandmother is defined as coming home for dinner to appreciate her cooking. I have learned that so long as this is upheld, every other detriment becomes ommitted. However, this is not an easy task, thanks to my grandfather, who apparently plays the role of a hybrid between Hades and Jabba the Hutt.
He slurps everything, even the dry goods. He cleans his fork and spoon before scooping his every bite. With a clang. He chews with his mouth open. His eating habits can be heard even in Hard Rock Cafe (of which has been justified). He selects his dishes with his own cutlery instead of using the allocated spoon. After he's licked it. He clears his throat during meals. He dumps (literally) food he does not like on your plate without consideration of where it lands. Without prior permission nor a gentle gesture either. He indiscreetly cleans his teeth using his tongue sans closing his mouth, later gargling and swallowing the residue with water.
My mother blames this on his newly semi-deaf handicap. But the question is, since when does old age affect table manners?
Come today we have a new addition to the dining obstacle. My aunt's mother-in-law, not-so-fondly known as "Fatso" to my grandmother, has been taken in as a guest for the week. She masticates. Like a cow. Honestly. It's not that pleasant a sight.
So obviously I can't study just quite yet. It's not like I'm procrastinating or anything; I mean how on earth can I concentrate with the aftermath of a nightly horror as such?
