Day One-Fifty-One: Meet the parents

I remember now, more clearly than ever: I left home for a reason. Uuuuuuughhhhhh.

As you may recall, diary - I might not have been clear enough on the point last week - my parents have come to town. Robert invited them to share in my birthday. They were the 'surprise' he's been talking about for weeks. And it WAS a surprise… just… not one I ever would have wanted.

Ever.

I'll start with my mom. Mom is nice. Mom cares for me. Mom… mom tries to coddle me a little too much at times, and then she's critical at others. Stuff like "What's wrong with your hair, it didn't look like that as a child" and "What happened to your cute little voice" and "You got a little ugly since I last saw you, but that's part of growing up, and I still love you. I imagine living with somebody like this would make anybody a little ugly."

By which she meant Libby.

I have to give my wife credit, she's trying. She's trying awwwwwful hard. She hasn't once beat my mom to a pulp, which surprises me near to death, 'cause my mom doesn't make her dislike of Libby a secret at all. She's critiqued Libby's hair, her eyes, her clothes, her choice of work, and, uh, even her bust.

"A big bust is a sign of a slut, dear," my mom told me. "And your… wife… is entirely too large in that department. Why, when I was pregnant with both you and Robert, I never needed a change of clothing. No, I remained nice and small, let me tell you!"

How do you respond to that, diary? I have no clue.

My dad, on the other hand, likes Libby just fine. Maybe a little too much, 'cause he keeps making passes at her, and a few times I've caught him eying her butt. Dunno WHY people do that, but there you go, diary - I just know I don't like it.

Dad hasn't softened on me one bit, even if he approves of my wife. He hits me, he scolds me, he tells me I'm such a loser that I might as well come back to the farm and guard the eels. I'd do more good there than I ever have here. I haven't even tried to mention my writing, 'cause I'm afraid he might toss you in the moat or something, diary. (You've been hidden in my pants all day. Sorry 'bout that.)

Oh, and the worst part? They won't shut up about Robert. It's always Robert this, Robert that, Robert's done so well for himself, Robert tells us the king asks for his food personally, Robert was always such a talented boy, why aren't you as good at guarding as Robert is at cooking? Blah blah blah…

Things are bad enough that I enjoyed going to work today. Work is pleasantly quiet, and Barrel's been following me around. We're working on his flying. He does pretty good for a micro-dragon - I'd love to see him blasting around as a full-fledged adult again. Just have to make sure he doesn't get spotted by the folks… gods above only know what they'd say about THAT.

Gotta go, diary. We're all having dinner in the Beefiary tonight. I don't know if Robert is going to serve up his 'special birthday meal' or what, but, unfortunately, I think I have to endure two more days of torture.

Shoot me with a crossbow. Please.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Son