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brigdh: (OMGWTF)
Skanky Race Issues )

I'm not sure why I feel the need to post about this, except that it makes me feel better to rage.
brigdh: (trust no one)

I am glad that I have been home for barely two weeks, and yet my reflexes have already hit the level of being ready for anything. Case in point: my brother comes home from being out with friends, and sits right next to me, fidgeting and obviously proud/excited/planning something. Not to encourage him, I ignore him until the point when he pulls a gun out of his jacket*, at which I merely roll my eyes and say wearily, "Where do you get these things?"

My, it will be nice to be back in New York where I won't have to worry about crazy people attacking me.

*It turned out to be some sort of air gun that was only designed to look exactly like a 9mm, but I feel my point stands.
brigdh: (Christmas)
My brother: I don't know what I'm going to major in.
My cousin the idiot slut (star of other stories, which I would link to if I wasn't being lazy): You should be a doctor! We need to have at least one doctor in the family.
Me: Uh, hello? I'm in the family. I'm getting a doctorate.
My cousin the idiot slut: No, I mean a handsome male doctor. Like McDreamy!
My brother and me: ...
My brother: And you think I'm the person to fill this role?


My cousin the idiot slut (who, to make this story better, had a George Bush life-size cardboard figure at her graduation party a few years ago): I'm fine with it. I like Will & Grace. I am down with the rainbow!


My mother: *in regards to one of my little cousins being in a pageant* And she was shoving all the other angels around, telling them where to go. It was just like Brigdh-
Me: This is the sixth time you have told this story. Stop telling this story.
My mother: You always had to be in charge, directing everyone...
Me: It is not my fault if other people are incompetent!


My brother: Let's go to Walmart.
Me: No.
My brother: Why not? One-stop shopping: get everything you need.
Me: Except for your soul.
My brother: Damn you and your morals! You're the least ethical person I know, but you're going to take a stand on where you shop?
Me: How am I the least ethical person you know?
My brother: Wait.
*ten minutes later*
My brother: *standing innocently nearby*
Me: *spills food on new shirt* Damn. You know, when mom walks over here, I think I'll tell her this is your fault, to see if she yells at you.
My brother: See? No ethics! All evil!
Me: Only for you, dear-heart.


My brother: *punches me in the stomach*
Me: *slaps him in the head*
My brother: *stomps on my foot*
Me: *kicks his knee in*
My brother: *attempts to slam me into the wall*
My mother: Hey! Stop that!
Me and my brother: *separate*
My mother: This is why she doesn't like boys.
My brother: Oh, now it's my fault?
Me: He turned me gay.


Feb. 5th, 2006 10:28 pm
brigdh: (I'll say it to his face. Swear to god.)
Ughh, I do not want to write about how "the specific world area and language training is related to your academic and career goals". Is this why I have put off doing anything about it until the night before the fellowship application is due? Quite possibly!

At least this is the last of the applications I have to do. Once I send this email in, I'm done.

Anyway, for the moment I'm going to rant instead. I got a card from my grandmother today (although I suppose technically it came yesterday, since there's no mail on Sundays, but since I'm the only one capable of checking our mailbox*, if I don't get around to bringing the mail in, it just sits there till the next day), which makes two in about a week. I loathe getting cards from my grandmother; I resent their false sense of familial tenderness. They inevitably have some archeology article she clipped out of a newspaper- and anything about archeology which gets printed in a newspaper is 1. years out of date, 2. written to be read by the lowest common denominator, and 3. has nothing at all to do with my topics of study, somewhat similar to sending an article about a breakthrough in cancer research to a podiatrist. Of course, she would be aware of these things if she ever bothered to ask, but she doesn't really care. She doesn't send these things for my benefit; it's part of some mental checklist of "being a good person" she has: write cards, visit, ask after people's well-being. Actual feelings of affection or caring are irrelevant. Which annoys me more than anything. I'm not an adornment, none of my accomplishments are hers, and if she doesn't want anything more than something to list when she talks to her friends, she can leave me well the fuck alone.

God. I swear that I am normally a very nice person, but being around my grandmother for any length of time transforms me into a smirking, arrogant mass of malevolence. Like, to the point where other people notice and, apparently, gossip about it, which I know because people who were not even present on particularly bad occassions are very well-informed about them. The most famous of which seems to be the time when she asked my little brother- who was only 13 at the time- whether he'd danced with any "black girls" at the party his school had had a few days before, which was just really the straw that broke the camel's back, because I refused to allow him to answer and screamed at her for several minutes about bringing her fucking insipid racism into my city, my house, my family.

And seriously, when do I scream at anyone? When do I do things like announce, "Please, we're trying not to encourage her" as snarkily as possible when the 'her' is present in the room? When do I do get the point that my father (who for the record, would probably be more concerned if I started wearing dresses than if I got into a fistfight) will actually track how annoyed I get so that I can be safely shuttled into another room before things get bad?

Blah, whatever. I hate her, I hate who I am when I'm around her, and I hate the presence of her "Look What a Wonderful Grandmother I Am!" cards in my mail.

* That's not sarcasm. The mailboxes in our building have locks that require the delicacy of a master spy to open, and I am apparently the only one of the four of us who has the touch. Seriously, not even the people who work at the desk can open the things most of the time.
brigdh: (*glomps*)
My family's conversation, as we pulled into the church's parking lot on Christmas morning:

Me: Um, there's no one here.
My Brother: Why are there no cars in the parking lot?
Mom: Maybe it's a 12:30 mass instead of 12:00? Go run up to the door and see if they have their hours posted.
My Brother: But even the lights are turned off.
Me: Even if it was 12:30, there'd still be a few people here by now. Like... the priest.
Dad: I think we missed it.
Mom: Um, whoops?
Me:...WHOOOOOO! Best Present Yet!
My Brother: It's a Christmas miracle!
Mom: It is so not fair that Brigdh is the only one who got her prayers granted.

And then we went home and watched The 40-Year-Old Virgin, because if there's a movie that more accurately portrays Christmas morning family togetherness, I don't know what it is.

My tradition of getting out of attending church by bizarre events, such as major ice-storms and electricity black-outs, continues unbroken.


brigdh: (Default)

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