Concrete Facelift

It has been almost a month and soon, my newly renovated and refurbished house would be ready for my mum, Harold and me. Steve told me that the new house interior looks "smashing". He uses the word "smashing" to describe Kim Kardashian's ass so I'm not putting my hopes high up.

My mum though has been calling me incessantly, asking me whether I have seen the new interior or whether Steve have shown me any pictures of the newly renovated flat and it is really getting on my nerves.

"Have you seen the new interior? Is it nice? Is everything happening as per planned? Did he turn the balcony into a Balinese haven?" my mum chatted away on the phone two days ago.

"You're the one who left all the designing job to him and you personally asked him to keep it as as a secret and then tell you on the day itself and now this?" I replied condescendingly.

"I'm just too excited. I don't think I am capable of living anywhere else except my own home!" my mum wailed dramatically over the phone.

"Why? Is Aunt Sally feeding your dog food?" I joked.

"Worse! You know how she is a health freak and takes care of what she eats and her diet and she cooks nothing but bland soup day after day. I try my best not to eat outside or bringing food back home because I don't want to hurt her feelings or make her offended but I cannot take another dinner of tasteless chicken soup without thinking like I just had an appendix surgery," my mum continued.

"So drama," I whispered...audibly.

"Have you talked to Harold recently? I can't seem to contact home the past few days," my mum asked worriedly.

"I haven't, but I guess he's still alive so please don't worry," I replied.

"Everything is a joke to you! I got to go now, I'm making laksa today and before your Aunt Sally throws away my coconut milk and asks me to use low fat milk instead, I better get it done and settled before she comes back," my mum childishly groaned.

"What is wrong about eating healthily?" I asked.

"Why? You want to eat laksa with low fat milk?" my mum asked.

I kept quiet. In my family, there is no such thing as "eating healthily". My mum says that when we die, our deeds are not defined by the number of times we substitute coconut milk when making laksa gravy or using trans fat-free butter instead of Golden Churn Butter when making pineapple tarts so we don't need to go easy on the unhealthy stuff. That's the thing that makes food taste like...food. Once my mum substituted coconut milk for low fat milk when making curry.

That curry was untouched for the next three days.

"I would rather die instantly of a heart attack than dying a slow and painful death for not being able to eat what the hell I want," my mum would always say. Yes, my mum is THAT kind of mother who uses phrases such as "What the hell?" to her children. If she is hoping mad and you're in luck, you might hear, "What the fuck?!"

Thankfully though, we are all genetically slim and blessed with a high metabolism rate so our "unhealthy eating lifestyle" is not easily detected, at least by the naked eye. I know, our insides are probably going to fail on us any time during our next Carbonara dinner.

"And please show me anything that Steve shares with you," my mum reminded me before putting down the phone.

In all honesty though, all that talk about the newly renovated house with my mum have sort of rubbed on me. I find myself getting slightly excited about the prospect of unlocking the door to my flat and being surprised by the new facelift in interior.

I remembered clearly telling Steve a month ago that I had wanted my room to be spacious, modern with a hint of rustic. White walls, bare concrete flooring with wood furniture. Blinds (no curtains please) and huge spotlights. I'm certain Steve would do a great job but one can't help but anticipate in slight eagerness for the end result.

"Are you going to show me any pictures? May I see it, if there's any?" I asked Steve yesterday during dinner.

"Is your house a museum? Am I a tourist? Why the hell would I take pictures of it? I am an interior designer, not a Singaporean at Universal Studios," Steve replied, mouth full of pasta.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm snarky and razor sharp 24/7. it is because of people around me who are bona fide assholes.