Bindi

Eating dinner at my parent's house is like going to the dentist's office. I have to sit in the chair for an hour while somebody sticks uncomfortable things in my mouth, try not to say out loud how much this is pissing me off and I spit in the sink when it's over.

Last Tuesday was the first dinner I had with my parents in their new vegetarian phase of their slow waltz toward death.

"Are you still dating that snake charmer?" My mother kissed me dryly on the cheek.

"She's not a snake charmer. Hi Dad."

"Taste this rice, David. This is the crap your mother's making these days."

"But she does have that disgusting red pimple between her eyes"

"Not a pimple."

"There's no flavor!"

"Well I don't know what you call it."

"It's call--"

"Taste it."

"Get that out of my mouth."

"I don't see how you can not just stare at it."

"I think it's quite beautiful."

"Well stay away from the tofu."

"Beautiful?"

"She thinks tofu is the same as chicken."

"Drop it, mother."

"But it's not. Chicken's aren't made of soy beans."

"I just don't see it."

"What else is on the menu? I brought wine."

"God. Not the same as last week, David."

"I mean it's a stain on a face that needs as much help as it can get."

"No, this is a Cab."

"What's the alcohol content?"

"You don't buy wine for the alcohol content."

"What? Eleven percent? Hope you brought two bottles."

"Let's move to the kitchen."

"It's like a pimple she just keeps picking."

"I brought three."