Avoiding Bride Shopping v2009

It’s like a biological clock that mothers have. Though most women have their brains wired up quite loosely and everything is interconnected (and I am probably the only male like that), all women are born with an agenda that they stick to, regardless of everything. Items on the agenda include, but are not limited to:

  • dreaming of the Big Day with the White Dress
  • driving all guys insane until Mr. Right comes along
  • driving Mr. Right into financial/mental crisis
  • having kids from said man (career women can donate children to Brangelina)
  • tormenting kids through emotional blackmail throughout their lives

Now, I am not saying mom is a horrible person. Indeed she isn’t. Like all mothers, she is the best cook in the world, and the best mom in the world. And like all mothers, she wants to have her son married. Now.


Two years ago I avoided this bride shopping business by claiming that I just started my “career” path (which led me to the Forgotten Chapters of the Abnormal Psychology textbook) and that all the girls I knew were either hitched or a bit too young for me.

Last year, mom didn’t have the time to open the topic – to my surprise – though she repeatedly hinted through the mention of grandchildren or moving into a bigger apartment when I get married or, most importantly, growing up (ie getting rid of Moogle and my Xbox).

Mom was here (woohoo!) and that was the topic I dreaded most. Now that I don’t have a girlfriend it was quite a ripe moment to open the marriage topic. As usual I had to be eating first.

“Mama,” she said, “I need to talk to you… something serious.”

She caught me off-guard, with two weeks without her opening the topic, I thought it was something to do with dad’s diabetes or some terminal disease I have had since childhood. Reluctantly I swallowed what could be my last meal and gave her all my attention (that’s 5% brain capacity, 95% daydreaming of my funeral).


never discuss marriage over kibbeh

“I am just worried about you,” she said in a sombre tone. This was it. I must have been born with a pacemaker of a discontinued model and which batteries were obsolete. My 25th birthday was in a month. It was just like the manual said.

“Lifetime warranty” except that by lifetime they mean the product’s lifetime, not yours. This device’s lifetime was linked to mine and unless I am Iron Man with an extra pacemaker lying in a vacuum chamber somewhere there was no way out of my deathbed.

I shouldn’t have broken up with my girlfriend. At least she made my heart beat!

“Yes mom, everyone is worried about me,” I replied. I wasn’t lying – since I got unemployed everyone was worried about me. Oh dear, all my friends and family and acquaintances knew I was dying in a month and they were worried the post-getting-fired depression (which I didn’t have until everyone’s worrying rubbed off on me) would just stop my heart completely.

That also explained why my trainer did not want me to do lots of cardio. Even HE knew!

This must all be dad’s work. I dunno why or how but I need someone to blame and since my sis didn’t contribute to my birth, dad’s just easier to blame than mom.

“Yes well, I wanted to talk about your love life… are you still with that girl?”

She could have said “Are you still on life support?”

“No, we broke it off…” I gulped. Memories of the breakup rushed back. You know that site, Fuck My Life? If you read it you probably came across an entry that read “Today, my boyfriend called me to celebrate my birthday. Turned out he called to dump me. FML”. That was probably my ex right there posting it.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” mom said, “well that puts you in a tough situation…”

I’m dead anyways, what do I care? Right? Let me enjoy this last month of my life and let me be!

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Hmm, well, see, now that you are jobless,” she started, “no girl will ever consider you.” Then she gave me the Traditional Look of Exasperated Mothers. The one which says I cooked for you and raised you all these years so you can be jobless and unmarried!

“huh?” no this isn’t happening! Not again!

“I think you need a job. So we can find you a nice girl to get you married to.” She was quite enthusiastic at this point, equating job with marriage. I thought marriage is a job. Something to add on your CV. Marital status: Single (ie independent, confident); Marital status: Married (ie walkover, may ask for more money constantly to please woman).

“Look at you! You’re handsome, successful, charming, witty, weird, and intelligent. WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!”


“Well anyway it’s something for you to consider. You should get married as soon as possible, like in two years or so.”

“Well mom,” I said, nonchalantly I might add, “that’s just brilliant, as I would have justfinished my Masters and would qualify for a better job, ergo, I would qualify for better girls.”

“Oh wonderful! It’s all settled then. Looks like I forgot to add black pepper to the kibbeh, I am so sorry! Is it OK? Should I do another batch for you? I need to freeze for you some. How does it taste like?”


“Oh, and, of course this is between you and me. Nothing on the internet like last time.”

“Of course!”