So here’s the deal. You know those super cute Easter cookies I had posted about earlier? I purchased those from a friend, had them customized and shipped. I made special packaging for them. I spent an hour of my precious daylight hours (did I mention I work nights? Like real nights. 10pm to 7am.) packaging every one of those little shits. Went straight from work on Easter to church and then straight out to my family’s Easter get-together without any sleep. Trudged my 6-month-old and exhausted husband (also working nights) out as well. Brought my home-made ridiculously awesome dark chocolate/thin mint cupcakes with a light fluffy milk-chocolate frosting with little sugar bunnies on top. Wrestled a carseat, cupcake container, diaper bag AND box of perfect little individually wrapped Easter cookies into my Grandfather’s house. Presented my offerings to the room at large and do you know what the response was?
“Those look too perfect.”
“Yeah. They look like they came out of a machine.” Sneer.
My inner monologue: BITCH, DO YOU WANT TO DIE!
My big girl words: “No. No machines.”
Now. The person who spoke those ill-chosen words to my sleep-deprived self, was my cousin. My cousin is about 7 years older than me. He has two children. Makes ridiculous amounts of money. Lives in a very large house with his skinny wife, their children, their housekeeper and all their very expensive crap. They also have no pictures of their children on their walls. Their home is uncluttered and cold. When they host the family, they do not cook. They have things catered. His wife quit her job to make babies. She swore she was done with babies and when her husband brought up going back into the work world…she began wanting babies again.
My cousin has never particularly liked me. Ever since I scored higher than him on my ACT’s when I was in 7th grade and he was…graduating from high school. Hey! I get that! Life’s a bitch! But that doesn’t mean 15 years later you still have to be one!
But since that particular Middle School incident, life has been a constant competition for him and I. He went to college to play baseball. I was offered a swimming scholarship and turned it down for a full ride academic scholarship. He married his college sweatheart. I married some guy I met as an adult. He made two babies right away. I didn’t want babies right away and yet have a perfect one. His wife is skinny. I’m busty. He makes a crap ton of money. My husband and I make just as much…combined. Oh and wait, here’s the kicker, his wife can’t cook, can’t clean, doesn’t do shit. She works out. Socializes. Shops. Very Real Housewives of the Midwest.
I cook, clean, work full time, have an online business, have a baby, socialize and solve crime by night (serious on that last one). But that has never mattered to me. Honestly. And yet it feels like here we are. Grown adults. Comparing dick size.
Having worked in a male-dominated workplace for the last 5 years, I am used to the dick comparisons. I have basically grown my own. I can talk shit, puff my chest and bitch out any egomaniac you throw my way. But my cousin…he’s too pretty. He’s too metro. He’s just…a mouthy little shit. The guys I work with would eat him alive. Hell, I deal with killers, rapists, gang bangers, meth heads and bed bugs on a nightly basis. I could eat him alive. But I don’t…because he’s my cousin. And I wish him success. I wish his family all the happiness in the world. I don’t know what he wishes on us and I probably don’t want to know.
So when I presented his kids with my perfect little cookies and they seemed excited, my cousin seemed irritated. When I caught his skinny little wife demolishing two of my perfect cupcakes, she complained about the little bunny on top.
Whatever, sirs. Whatever. In the immortal words of Sweet Brown, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
I bid you, adieu.