July 30, 2006

I got my apartment broken into today.

But it’s not what you think. My own fine parents broke into my apartment. This is how it happened.

I had been refusing to get up this morning, partly due to the bottle of white wine I singlehandedly downed last night, and partly due to the fact that I had nothing planned this particular Saturday save for an evening of fireworks in Asakusa with my friend Ali. Besides, moping around in bed (even if single) is one of the best ways to spend a weekend.

Around 1:30PM, my cell phone started trembling in fear. (I had it set in silent mode.) Then my home phone started ringing nonstop. Then, the door bell rang. Again, and again.
Who the hell comes to a girl’s apartment unannounced? Could it be the ex-fiance trying to evacuate his stuff out of my apartment? I tiptoed to the front door and peered through the peephole, only to find my mother pacing impatiently outside.

This was very bad news. Just two days ago, my mother had called me at work and managed to phrase things in a way that ripped open my heart’s wound. I subsequently had a nervous breakdown at work. I consequently had to explain to my female coworkers about the jerk who dumped me — which actually flourished into a liberating discussion on the shortcomings of husbands and almost-husbands.

Anyway, I decided I’d have nothing to do with my mother for at least a week. From where her conversation was leading the last time we talked, it was clear that she wanted me to get back together with my ex. But why in the world would you want to feed your daughter alive to a narcissist who wants only to succeed at work and doesn’t give a damn about family life? Obviously, this mother saw that his credentials were more important than his personality. Or, lack thereof.

So I kept on ignoring my mother. The calls, the rings, and the knocks on my door continued. I even received an email saying something to the effect of “I’ll be back, I know you’re there.” Then she really did leave. I gleefully went upstairs to the loft and practiced my mid-day Ashtanga yoga. An hour later, while I lay blissfully in shavasana position, the calls, door bell, and incessant banging on the door returned to haunt me.

I decided — and this was my BIG mistake — to ignore everything. I went back to bed for another nap. I couldn’t dare take a shower or open the fridge and take out my chilled bottle of water, in fear they will find me out.

Before I knew it, I heard bewildering shouts below my living room window. Then, the sharp sound of a window being opened in haste. And then — sounds of someone trying to crawl in through my living room window. Oh, the utter terror of knowing that someone is violating your private, sacred space — someone with dirty shoes, a crow bar, and of unknown identity! Meanwhile, I was still in bed and dressed rather skimpily. I didn’t budge. I didn’t dare make any sound. The guy went straight for the front door. God forbid, is he letting his buddies in?

Yes. My parents, actually.

I couldn’t even look at them, I was so raving mad. What were they thinking!? Are daughters’ apartments property upon which parents claim unlimited access to? What if this hired professional “key opener” guy returns in the cloak of night to rob me stiff? The worst part is, they brought along my ex. Apparently they were all quite chummy. They had formed a secret coalition against my imperfections, against every little thing I did wrong in my life — and they were there to point fingers at me.

Wait just a minute here. Were I the one who got dumped? Were I the one whose apartment got broken into by some stranger hired by my own parents?? Am I insane to think I have a right to be upset?

And of course, my ex added to the damage by calling my landlord and telling on him. Oh, great. Wonderful. Now my landlord thinks I’m some kind of psycho who loves to scare the pants off of family and friends. Just fabulous.

I remained cynical for the rest of the afternoon. I actually chuckled to myself when I witnessed my ex explaining to my father about why he decided to leave me. In all seriousness and dolour, he was explaining about the magic little chair that flew. My dad, similarly dead-serious, was nodding in agreement and saying, “Uh-huh. The chair. Terrible.” They could have been discussing business for all I know. Men are so pretentious sometimes.

Overall, a surreal afternoon. I had to miss the Asakusa fireworks. Afterwards I drank too much coffee to assuage my anger, and here I am writing my bloody little blog at 4 in the friggin’ morning. I absolutely refuse to acknowledge that half my weekend had already gone.


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