Little Sister is three years my junior. Because she considers herself more worldly (having always been more popular than I) and she's married, she seems to think this entitles her to airing her grievances/delivering the catalog of my sins whenever she's feeling peckish over the holidays. The air of superiority is thick enough to set one's teeth immediately on edge.
She cornered me Christmas morning in our bathroom at Chez Airedaleparent. Yet again, she's declared herself my editor-slash-censor; I received the Canonical List of Those Things About Which I Shall Not Write in the coming year due to her opinion of their relative levels of egregiousness.
In the fine old tradition of older siblings, naturally, I'm ignoring it. Since I was standing there applying my makeup, there was no chance I could cut and run during this little diatribe. She concluded with all the offenses I've committed toward our parents, including a little gracenote about how I'd offended our father by posting a Facebook status a week or so ago that he was sick. I finally lost my temper about halfway through that particularly stinging insult and said, without turning toward her or altering my facial expression, "Of course I didn't know. He's only my father." With that, I threw the last item back into my makeup bag, zipped it, and walked out the door.
The night before, I mentioned that Hopkins' younger sister was worried about the condition of the roads and its effect on her travel plans for the holidays, and she snapped at me, apropos of nothing, "You need to not worry about his family. Stop talking about her. Now. I don't want to hear it." Oh, if I really felt like slinging dirt here, I could, but I was so taken aback that I pulled up short. I was just so angry and exhausted that I let her flay me alive.
Seriously, though, whaaaat? When is this her business? It was an aside that I'd picked up from my Facebook feed. I was equally glad that Wayne didn't have to work on Christmas, because he's in satellite TV installation and frankly, we'd had about three inches of snow when this conversation took place (we've had probably seven or eight inches altogether, but it's warmed up twice and melted the bottom layers, making the total depth less than that). I stood there, gritting my teeth, sincerely wishing I'd picked Wayne for smalltalk instead.
FTR, last I noticed, R. and her children had crossed the state line safely today and were en route to Smalltownland, a remaining distance of roughly sixty miles, give or take. Perhaps in Little Sister's estimation, I shouldn't give a $#*!, but I do. I've liked the girl ever since she was roughly the same age as her youngest is now. Whatever my sister's logic for cutting me up over it, I'm damned if I let her dictate about what or whom I care.
Since it was snowing again today, I didn't dare depart the Chez for my house, lest my mother have the proverbial conniption. I'm going tomorrow come Hell or high water, but by God I'm hiding from the Nearest and Dearest until I can make good my escape...before anybody else tries to tell me what to think, say, or do. You'd think they'd have figured out exactly how useless that is by now, though, wouldn't you?