I share a birthday with Auntie Jaguar, Mr. Husband’s sister (Frannie named her, not me). I cannot stop myself from saying rude things to her. I’m sure she thinks I’m the rudest, most immature twat who ever drew breath. I have a theory that we all have this person. The person who never sees us being smart and warm and funny (without being scathing, anyway). The person who wasn’t there when we spent all night with our crying friend who just got dumped. They will always think you are the Devil and a two-year-old rolled into one ugly package. It is even worse if you are married to a member of their family.
We were out at Wasabi! last night, eating sushi, and I was on my third foo-foo drink, a mango kamakaze, when Mr. Husband’s father pulled his cell phone out. Finally, it came around to me after everyone else had talked to her, and I wished Auntie Jaguar “happy birthday” and she did the same in return. She tried to launch into conversation with me and I brought her up short. The restaurant was noisy and I just felt like a tool.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m going to have to talk to you later. I feel like a jerk talking on a cell phone in a restaurant.” And then I said goodbye and handed the phone back to Mr. Father-in-Law.
“Hmm,” Mr. Father-in-Law said into the phone. “I guess we are being rude.” He wrapped it up after that and dinner went on just fine.
Only I could wreck a thirty-second telephone call with Auntie Jaguar. We take three steps forward and two steps back every time we talk.