Goldilocks and the British Accent

04 | The Fault in our Cheerios.

Goldilocks🚺

My mom is popular for many things in Canadian politics, like the powerful inspiring speeches she gives and her active participation in feminist campaigns. She is known as one of the very few female politicians and as the only one of them to ever run for prime minister.

But the one thing that makes her so special, so different from other politicians is her wild and bizarre sense of fashion.

"What are you wearing?"

She rolls her eyes as she pours herself some green tea, "Wow, is that 'good morning' in some other language? Do tell, Sophia."

"Really, mom. What is this?" I prod, stepping into the kitchen to get a better view.

In all honesty, the dress is very hideous - more hideous than her usual abominations. The bust is small and strapless and the waistline is ridiculously high, as if she was trying to look like a mermaid but ended up looking like a dying walrus.

Her opponent, Rick O'Malley, has criticized her many times for her dressing. He even once wrote an article about her in The Watch newspaper and captioned it; "How can she manage a country when she can't manage her wardrobe?"

Of course, my mom simply scoffed when she saw the article and immediately responded with a tweet, telling the world how her dressing was some sort of 'feminist statement'.

"You know, it's so hurtful that my own daughter doesn't even support me," she drawls, wiping off fake tears. "It's a cocktail dress if you're wondering, custom made as usual. You should get dressed too. It's the Millers' anniversary today, we're going."

I sigh tiredly as I walk to the top cupboard, standing on my toes to reach the box of Frosties. "Fine. Even if we never discussed this, I'll go...as long as you change that joke of a dress."

"Soph dear, you have so much to learn." She shakes her head, walking up to me and replacing the Frosties in my hands with a yellow box of Cheerios. "The sugar's way too much, you need to cut it."

I huff in annoyance and open the box, pouring the tiny loops into a china bowl. "Mom, if you're going to be prime minister soon, you need to actually look like one. This...this doesn't make you look like a prime minister."

"Don't mind her, Mom," my twin brother, Celestine interrupts as he walks into the kitchen, picking a tangerine from the fruit bowl and then placing a light peck on her fore head. "You look awesome. Don't let this retard tell you otherwise."

I simply ignore the intended jab and grab the milk carton, emptying its content into the bowl.

"Celestine," mom whispers warningly. "This isn't the time."

"But there's no problem. She is retarded. Why else would you take her to that special school?"

"It's a special school alright," I say, focusing on the cereal as I stir it slowly. "For exceptionally intelligent people, you know, geniuses with their high IQs and all. You would have come with me, but you aren't exactly what anybody would call smart."

"Asshole, don't talk to me," he snarls viciously, glaring down at my small frame.

I scoff audibly, "I was only trying to clear things up for you. I'm sorry if I can't help it, but you're just so dumb sometimes."

"Both of you, stop it this instant," Mom says, sighing. "Whatever hate you have for each other, you'll have to keep it to yourselves. Today is an important event and both of you will behave. There will be absolutely no shouting or name calling whatsoever."