Defcon II in the lexicon of squabble*
Gargh! Talking to mom's so bleedin' frustrating. Every single conversation is always the same. It's all my fault I'm alone, I haven't tried hard enough, I have to have some hobby, etc. I don't think she ever really listens to me.
Also, Toronto's Costco doesn't a) recognize my latest prescription, which some underling said was a-ok this past Christmas and b) won't hand over contacts without a pokey-poke at my eyeballs anyway. Meaning there's no bloody way my parents can buy my contacts. Mom was so peeved at this because Coscto-contacts are nice and cheap for people who's salary's paid in dollars, as opposed to Europe-bought contacts for people who's parents are paid in dollars. She bloody ranted about how, "Had we only known, we would've stocked up over the holidays, and now it's going to cost us extra!" (Yeah, ze bling, it cometh not from trees.) My argument of, "But we didn't know! And we didn't do it! So we can't do anything about it!" was met with, "Oh, that's alright for you, isn't it? Not like money's worth anything to you, is it?" *fail-flail*
But the other consequence is just- *flail* Now I have to figure out how to find and contact an ophthalmologist here. (And I don't think it's covered by my student health insurance.) Then I have to find where to buy the bloody contacts. Do I need a General Doctor first? But they don't usually take new patients! Much less international students. Oh sweet gods... Where's The Doctor when you need 'im?
Feh. Now that I've been all roughed up by parental conversation, I'm going to crash on the sofa. And you know what I'm going to watch? (Not Lost, nor Ashes to Ashes - stupid time zones.) I'm going to watch John Simm, drug-adled, naked and handcuffed to the bed, being ridden by a trashy sucubus. Life on Mars, 1x04. Gotta love 'em.
(ETA: When I was telling mom that things weren't all peachy she actually said that she'd be perfectly happy if I just quit and got a job! And this isn't the, "Oh, that's alright love," sort of deal, it's back to the, "We're not made of money, y'know. Self-suficient and independent, that's what you ought to be." Gah!)
* Witches Abroad, TPratchett
Also, Toronto's Costco doesn't a) recognize my latest prescription, which some underling said was a-ok this past Christmas and b) won't hand over contacts without a pokey-poke at my eyeballs anyway. Meaning there's no bloody way my parents can buy my contacts. Mom was so peeved at this because Coscto-contacts are nice and cheap for people who's salary's paid in dollars, as opposed to Europe-bought contacts for people who's parents are paid in dollars. She bloody ranted about how, "Had we only known, we would've stocked up over the holidays, and now it's going to cost us extra!" (Yeah, ze bling, it cometh not from trees.) My argument of, "But we didn't know! And we didn't do it! So we can't do anything about it!" was met with, "Oh, that's alright for you, isn't it? Not like money's worth anything to you, is it?" *fail-flail*
But the other consequence is just- *flail* Now I have to figure out how to find and contact an ophthalmologist here. (And I don't think it's covered by my student health insurance.) Then I have to find where to buy the bloody contacts. Do I need a General Doctor first? But they don't usually take new patients! Much less international students. Oh sweet gods... Where's The Doctor when you need 'im?
Feh. Now that I've been all roughed up by parental conversation, I'm going to crash on the sofa. And you know what I'm going to watch? (Not Lost, nor Ashes to Ashes - stupid time zones.) I'm going to watch John Simm, drug-adled, naked and handcuffed to the bed, being ridden by a trashy sucubus. Life on Mars, 1x04. Gotta love 'em.
(ETA: When I was telling mom that things weren't all peachy she actually said that she'd be perfectly happy if I just quit and got a job! And this isn't the, "Oh, that's alright love," sort of deal, it's back to the, "We're not made of money, y'know. Self-suficient and independent, that's what you ought to be." Gah!)
* Witches Abroad, TPratchett