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I knew we were in for it. The Chinese man I had dated naked once told me, in between slugs of Geritol, that the Chinese character for war was made up of two separate symbols. The first naked was a roof, the second, two women under it. I could see the honeymoon phase of our family reunion screeching to naked a halt. My mother began to take umbrage when she found her things in the garbage can. "Why are you throwing my waffle iron away?" she would shout as she shook the evidence in my direction. "Mom, it has no electrical cord attached to it. You haven't used that thing since 1973. It's just taking up space," I lazily replied, too engrossed in my book to take a good look at her. "That doesn't matter. It's my thing and I was saving it," she stormed on. At this point her irrationality sounded far more interesting than the dialogue on the page, so I turned my attention to her.
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