Watch out! Fucking Fireball

Today I spent a wonderful day at Cherry Beach to celebrate my friend's birthday. It was a terrific day to go to the beach, to hang out and catch up with friends, not to mention eating some delicious bbq. However, if I knew the fucking hell that was waiting for me when I got home, I think I would have stayed at the beach at the request of Thom and spent the rest of the evening listening to the water, sitting around and enjoying the outdoors.

I rushed home as fast as I could to help my sister out with a delicious Greek style dinner she was planning. Souvlaki was on the menu. All week she had been telling my parents that she wanted to bbq. Not a single word of agreement or disagreement from my parents. So while my sister and I were tag teaming with the final food prep I went out to prepare the barbecue. Not too difficult I thought but naive little me didn't realize what my dad meant by "cleaning". To me it was just cleaning the webs, cleaning the grill and heating it up to clean up the remaining grease. Has it never occurred to him to speak more than a few words before getting bloody frustrated? How am I supposed to know why that vein in my dad's forehead is bulging out for? So cleaning the barbecue for the first time of the season encompasses checking all of the lines, removing all the coals, cleaning the grill and all the other things I still don't know how to do.

So when I thought I had finished "cleaning" the grill, I turned the gas to the max and proceeded to light the coals only to find the biggest fucking flames you've ever seen shoot out from every open inch of the barbecue. I was still wearing my beach-ish clothing (nice airy loose shirt) that nearly caught on fire. After that it was non-stop yelling and bitching. My mother rushed to ask "it's not working is it?" [that to me was a direct translation from Chinese]. Yeah, no shit it's not working. I nearly set myself on fire.

Yes so I am a bitch, I do admit that. Can you blame me when everything I hear seems to be negative? Or it always goes back to dating; "Oh, did you meet anyone 'special' at your friends party?" Yes, I met a lot of special people who were really quite lovely but I'm sure the thought of me bringing home a brown person would have convinced her to commit Hari Kari.

Sometimes when I'm at home, I feel like I want to shoot myself. Only figuratively of course, but it pains me even more when I log on to MSN and see my brother's updated nickname telling everyone where he's planning on heading out to party. Good grief, like why haven't I left yet? Why won't my parents subsidize my party life downtown? Instead I'm at home wanting to shoot myself. It's like every time I want to enjoy life, it's a struggle. It always ends in an argument, a heart attack, and sheer frustration because with my parents the simplest things ALWAYS become more complicated than it should. Even something even as simple as a godforsaken barbecue.