(no subject)
I just made cookies for Felice Family Christmas(tm). The ones with the red and green M&Ms are still in the oven, but the chocolate chip ones are on a plate, waiting to be wrapped up. They're just Pillsbury, not home-made, but the Felice family doesn't care. At least, they'll say they don't care and then they'll talk about me for a month after; how lazy I am. My cousin C., closest to me in age, knows, because this morning we had our yearly, "What are you wearing?" phone conference. She was annoyed at me, but I always feel badly showing up to Christmas empty handed. I really don't see anyone for the rest of the year, and then I show up at Christmas for presents. Seems sort of . . .I don't know. I just hate it.
So, C. and I are dressing up this year, because she's got a pair of "holiday" pants that she feels she has to wear. I, on the other hand, do not have "holiday pants" that are not my jeans, so I now have to wear a dress. This wouldn't be so bad, I love the dress I'm going to wear, only I'm bloated. This is never good when you're wearing a dress, and though I could wear body armor under my dress, why bother? It's just my family, and I'm going to get the "You're looking chubby this year" comments anyway. I'm the only one who does. Maybe I'll find a skirt in my closet that magically has an elastic waist that I don't hate? I won't hold my breath.
Aunt D. is picking me up at 1:45 from the 179th Street/Jamaica Avenue station on the F train. I double checked to make sure it was running, but when C. was on the phone, I said, "How long is this whole thing going to last? Seriously. 1:45?" Neither one of us thinks that we'll be out on Staten Island for too long, probably not past 11, but when you get somewhere at 3:30, and you're surrounded by your family, anything past 7:15 is too long. . .at least, for me.
I tend to take the most abuse. Aunt D. and Uncle P. tend to try and deflect the abuse that Aunt G. hurls my way, but often they're off talking to other people, and I get cornered trying to pour myself a hefty dose of scotch. After a few years, it gets old.
Ahh, optimism. I just reread that last paragraph, and thought, "Well, at least it's good scotch!"
Hopefully I'll make it through this evening without raising my voice (there was one Thanksgiving that I didn't make it, and I haven't been back for that holiday since). Maybe Aunt G. will be nice to me, but likely she'll start off nice and then move on to the "I can't believe Jenna's gone" track. Last time she started this, I actually said to her, "I don't know why you care, she didn't like you very much." It only shut her up temporarily, but I think that maybe she's realising that I won't just meekly answer her questions anymore. When I was a kid, she scared me. She never really loved me, I think it was more out of obligation to my dad than anything else that she took me in. And now, raised away from the family, I have too many ideas and thoughts that are different, and this is her way of trying to bring me down.
I will always be the White Sheep of the Felice Family. I'm pretty proud of that. And now I'm going to go and take the cookies out of the oven before they burn. It's my good-faith effort, because every Felice Family Christmas(tm) seems to be theirs. . .