When Dad meets Mom

“When did you meet my mom, dad?”

I asked the question out of pure curiosity—and sheer boredom caused by the noisy yet meaningless soup opera. It seemed that my father only noticed the first part of my emotion. “Well,” obviously he was happy that I dragged him out of the exhausting watch-the-show-with-your-wife process, “we met at high school, an afternoon, when your mom was learning to ride an old bike and successfully ran into me—”

“No, I didn’t. YOU were the one sitting there like an idiot without finding the right time to get your long legs off my way.” I KNEW it. How on earth could my dear mother miss a chance of entering a family conversation? I kind of looked forward to it, to be honest.

“Hey, that is NOT fair. My legs are long for sure, but YOU were the one riding that squawking thing, the brake of which didn’t even work!”

“At least I DID shouted to you to move, didn’t I?”

“You mean laughed out loud in a manner that made me think you were crying?”

“Now you are being sarcastic! I couldn’t believe that I chose to marry you! Seriously, what do I like about you anyway?”

“See who’s talking! I was the one who carried you, and the bike, to the campus hospital. Using these long arms and legs!”

“As if I hadn’t invited you to my house for a thank-you dinner!”

What could I say? The drama in front of me was much funnier that some shoddy TV shows. All I lacked was a box of popcorns. With coke, please.


Oh, and still, they go out to supermarkets like THIS:

IMG_1447
[taken in Wuhan, China, on August 10th 2014]
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