Mum announced over the weekend that she was hosting a barbecue lunch on Sunday at your house. I don’t know what is stranger within that sentence. Mum hosting a barbecue at your place or the fact that I am still referring this house as yours when it clearly is not. Well regardless she’s planning a barbecue for us and some old family friends and it is just the most mystifying scenario.
My parents inviting their friends for lunch, but at your place slash his home.
I can’t imagine him throwing a barbecue shindig for his friends let alone a bunch of oldies. I just can’t see it.
What I do see is mum and dad cooking away, talking and laughing with their friends on the outside lawn while he isolates himself away watching television. In fact I guarantee that kind of scenario plays right out.
It would make so much more sense for them to host this pointless soiree at their own home. And if they did I would be that much more inclined to attend. But hosting this lunch at his place, yeah I am not going.
I mean lets face it, he does not want me stepping foot in his domain.
I’ve let mum know my intentions of not showing up, making excuses for weekend plans etc. Trying futilely to plan a great escape. But she keeps on insisting I go, to turn up as a united front or some rubbish. I know she’s only concerned about appearances. How does it look that I don’t turn up and all, to not support them on that day. Honestly I could not care less. Then she used the ‘its a celebration’ line on me which left me silently fuming. It is not a celebration for me. There is nothing left for me to drink to unless you call the decimation of one of my greatest dreams and the defiling of Maria’s home with a mediocre renovation something to rejoice over. If this were my home, like I had planned and visualized for years, then I would have been glad to host such a get together. In fact I probably would have suggested such a thing before it dangled before her mind’s eye. I would have gone all Martha Stewart and decorated every inch with bohemian eccentricities. Set up an elaborate table setting in a clash of brights and florals; prints and hues that you once adored and surrounded yourself with. Then of course gone overboard on a desert menu then topped the lunch off with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
So to venture into a lion’s den? I don’t think so.
I don’t see my brother anymore, well actually I do. He comes over virtually every second day with a pile of laundry that mum insists upon washing for him. By the way his clothes get priority in this household now. She will not rest until they’re washed and ready for his collection. He also stays for dinner, another of mums requests. But the short hour he does spend here he refuses to breathe in my direction, avoiding me at all costs as per usual. I’ve wanted to join into their dinner table conversations but thought better of it, keeping my focus on The Simpsons playing on the television instead.
He chooses to ignore me at our parents home so I can’t imagine how welcome I’d be in his. He’d go well out-of-the-way to ignore and make me feel unwelcome and frankly I can’t take it anymore. Plus I’m sure I’ll also feel great embarrassment attending this farce, watching our family friends “oh” and “ah” over his so-called ‘achievements’. Not that I am at all jealous (well not too much) but because I just know my mind will beat me up on this, twisting their words to make weapons ready to pierce those tightly tucked away insecurities. It’ll also be a reminder of how much of a loser I am, older sibling still living at home while little brother thrives. I feel like in attending this I am just handing myself over freely to the slaughterhouse.
I am definitely set on not going. And very much intend not too until yesterday when mum brought it up again and I used the same tired old excuses of being hungover or something which didn’t work and I let slip that he did not want me there anyway. She was taken aback slightly but insisted he did. I laughed at that and reiterated my previous excuses but she kept bringing up that he would want me there. My main reason in not mentioning that was because I knew it would garner such a reaction. Both parents then insisted they’d ask him for me since they were planning on visiting him that evening, dad going that extra mile by saying he’s going to find out why we’re fighting. Well good luck with that one buddy, cos I have no idea what his beef is with me.
You know what, they came back and didn’t mention a thing to me. Which proved my point. He definitely did not want me there after all, and he let them know it. I could see their conversation clearly, standing around in that new kitchen while they had a very brief discussion.
“The barbecue on Sunday, (insert my name here) can come,” mum asks softly to him.
“Ahhh, nooo.” He replies sternly shaking his head.
“Come on, she’s your sister”
“I don’t want the fat one in my house,” he says matter-of-factly, silencing mum immediately. The decision made. I am not to set foot in his house. Ever.
So maybe I do have an excuse after all?