Why am I here today?
Yep. Back to work. For two days. Stupid. But, I suppose it's nice to get back to the routine...even if it's only for a couple of days.
Let's talk about tolerance.
I'm now convinced I have become "The 30 year old, unmarried, eccentric daughter/granddaughter/sister/niece" of my family. Where once my quirks and expressions of self were "Charming" and "neat", they are now becoming "weird" and cause to ask "why isn't she married yet and when will she stop this nonsense and get her shit together?"
Case in point. Remember the awesome gift from Artgrl? The Indian outfit? Well, I wore it to Christmas dinner. Uck. Big mistake. Let me back up.
My aunt. My mother's sister. We've always had a kind of love-hate relationship. Well, more hate, I think. Here's my theory as to why. My aunt kind of hates my mother. I remind her of my mother, therefore, she sort of hates me. Also, my grandmother (in the past) spoiled the shit out of me. I was "her rosebud". My aunt has always been closer to her mom than her dad, and I think she resented the attention I got. It's ridiculous and childish. But whatever.
Anyway, at Christmas, it often becomes a duel between my mother and aunt. Who can talk the loudest. I usually end the evening with a blinding headache because my aunt has no inside voice.
She's also the queen of beating a dead horse to a bloody pulp, running it over with a car, burying it, realizing she's still not done with it, exhuming the corpse and beating it some more with a stick.
Horse of choice at Christmas 2004? My outfit.
Biggest (and most intolerant) jab of the evening:
"What 7-11 are you working at?"
And then everytime I opened a gift
"Sorry it's not Indian"
HAHAHAHAHAA! Yeah, that stopped being funny shortly after I walked in the door. Now I just want to punch you in the face.
Then my grandfather chided me for "talking to my aunt that way."
Yeah. Awesome.
Supposedly I'm supposed to have thick skin in this family.
Um. Hello? I'm MEDICATED. Clearly I don't.
I love when my mother's family treats me with such respect. It's awesome. My favorite.
Let's talk about tolerance.
I'm now convinced I have become "The 30 year old, unmarried, eccentric daughter/granddaughter/sister/niece" of my family. Where once my quirks and expressions of self were "Charming" and "neat", they are now becoming "weird" and cause to ask "why isn't she married yet and when will she stop this nonsense and get her shit together?"
Case in point. Remember the awesome gift from Artgrl? The Indian outfit? Well, I wore it to Christmas dinner. Uck. Big mistake. Let me back up.
My aunt. My mother's sister. We've always had a kind of love-hate relationship. Well, more hate, I think. Here's my theory as to why. My aunt kind of hates my mother. I remind her of my mother, therefore, she sort of hates me. Also, my grandmother (in the past) spoiled the shit out of me. I was "her rosebud". My aunt has always been closer to her mom than her dad, and I think she resented the attention I got. It's ridiculous and childish. But whatever.
Anyway, at Christmas, it often becomes a duel between my mother and aunt. Who can talk the loudest. I usually end the evening with a blinding headache because my aunt has no inside voice.
She's also the queen of beating a dead horse to a bloody pulp, running it over with a car, burying it, realizing she's still not done with it, exhuming the corpse and beating it some more with a stick.
Horse of choice at Christmas 2004? My outfit.
Biggest (and most intolerant) jab of the evening:
"What 7-11 are you working at?"
And then everytime I opened a gift
"Sorry it's not Indian"
HAHAHAHAHAA! Yeah, that stopped being funny shortly after I walked in the door. Now I just want to punch you in the face.
Then my grandfather chided me for "talking to my aunt that way."
Yeah. Awesome.
Supposedly I'm supposed to have thick skin in this family.
Um. Hello? I'm MEDICATED. Clearly I don't.
I love when my mother's family treats me with such respect. It's awesome. My favorite.
posted by LC Greenwood at 9:08 AM
1 Comments:
That’s why I love you — for the liquid steel coursing through your veins. What I need, is a transfusion of it. And, Friday night, please wear the Indian thing.
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