As previous posts would indicate, I am wildly phobic about spending the holidays with my crazy-ass family.
Case in point, one recent Christmas I asked for a lovely flannel shirt that was also fleece-lined. The thing looked warm, snuggly, and most of all, like something that would be totally appropriate (if not particularly stylish) to be caught lounging around the house in on weekends and days off (buh-bye bathrobe days!). And in fact, on a cold wintery day it would be the ideal jacket-substitute to run out of the house in, on the chance of an unexpected emergency.
My sister purchased it for me, and I initially (and stupidly) thought it was confirmation of what a great gift idea it was. Uh, no. It quickly became obvious it was just an opportunity for her to mock me mercilessly.
What? Are you going to be a farmer now? No one TOLD me you were moving out of the city to become a farmer.
At our big meal for the day: Did you grow this corn organically? . . . Did this turkey come fresh from your farm? . . . Don’t worry, Farmer Frist here’ll take care of the carving for us.
In the evening: Don’t you need to go out and feed the cows before bed?
It went on and on endlessly. I bore it as best I could, but the whole ordeal was very irksome. By the end of my visit, I was shooting her death looks every time she turned on me. But, this is my crazy family, and so wouldn’t you know it? That bitch asked for one for herself the very next year.
I heart family.