My Sister Gave Me the Finger Seven Times Last Night
My sister has graduated to giving me the finger multiple times during the evening to express her anger and displeasure with my presence. She did it no less than seven times last night, and these were the events that seemed to spur the adolescent behavior, although I'm not sure why she does what she does at any particular moment in time:
1) After I had emptied the clean dishes from the dishwasher, she expressed dismay at the way I had "rearranged" (as if it were some nefarious plot to upset the order she supposedly has established in storage areas) the cabinet where most of our pyrex and rubbermaid containers go. I didn't rearrange anything, I simply put the stuff away in the cabinet, which involved having to nest similar containers of certain sizes into one another so they all fit (which is in no way a new system of organization for that cabinet, that's how they were doing things when I got here). So she proceeded to pull things out of the cabinet and slam them down on the table, and demand I identify certain items. She pulled a bag of my tea out of the area where all the tea is stored, and demanded I tell her what it was.
Me: "Look at it, sis, it says right there on the front what it is"
Denise: "I DON'T WANT TO READ IT, I WANT YOU TO TELL ME".
Me: "It's tea, Denise. It says right there on the front on the label, Rishi Tea."
Denise: "Yes, BUT I TOLD YOU TO TELL ME WHAT IT IS."
Me: "OK, now you know. In the future, feel free to just look at the label to determine what something sitting there with all the rest of the tea is."
Denise: [finger]
She continued to root through the cabinet, accusing me of having taken or wrongfully placed things.
Denise: "WHERE IS MY VITAMIN CONTAINER???"
Diane: "You're what?"
Denise: "MY VITAMIN CONTAINER. I KEEP MY VITAMINS IN A CONTAINER, AND I DON'T SEE IT HERE. WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT?"
Diane: "Denise, this is like the fifth time since I got here that either you or Mom has accused me of messing with your vitamins. I don't use vitamins, I haven't touched your vitamins, perhaps each of you is moving the other person's vitamins around. Stop asking me about your vitamins. I had no idea you even have a 'vitamin container'."
Denise: "I CAN'T FIND MY VITAMIN CONTAINER! YOU MUST HAVE MOVED IT!" [finger]
Denise then started to dig into my mother, who had pointed out that Denise had defrosted raw chicken that morning, left it on the kitchen counter all day, announcing she was making dinner that evening (Mom had, a few moments earlier, asked me if she should go ahead and cook the chicken, as it probably shouldn't remain there another day). Denise had even made a special run to the grocery store to buy the shape of pasta she wanted (we had elbow and penne, she wanted spaghetti), despite the fact that she has repeatedly told me that household groceries are only to be purchased once a the month, at the beginning of each month, when Mom receives her social-security check. Denise had just woken up from a 5-hour nap, and declared it was "too late" and she was "too tired" to cook the chicken. Um, we whispered to ourselves, no problem, as I had already prepared some salad with feta and olives and had some cooked shrimp in the freezer. Denise then proceeded to order delivery from a local Italian restaurant, and neglected to ask us if we wanted to order anything, so it was a bit of a surprise when the food arrived, and she skirted it downstairs to keep to herself and her fiancée, Tony. "That's pretty rude," I thought to myself, and, as she headed down the stairs.
Diane: "Oh, did you get pizza?"
Denise: "NO." (turned out they had gotten ravioli and meatballs, and something that was in a pizza box but perhaps was not pizza)
Diane: "Ah, well, um, bon appetit!"
Denise: [finger]
After feasting on her exclusive dinner and several glasses of the wine I had bought and put in the Designated Wine-Storage Area, she stomped back up the stairs, threw the dishes in the sink, and then came out to the living room to lecture Mom about how Mom leaves raw chicken in the refrigerator for days all the time. She then glares at me, I suppose expecting me to chime in to agree that Mom does this, even though I have no idea if she does.
Denise: "I'm COOKING the CHICKEN TOMORROW!"
Diane: [shrugs] "Um, OK, sure."
Denise: "TOMORROW! IT'S TOO LATE NOW TO COOK THE CHICKEN."
Diane: "Ok, Denise, cook the chicken whenever you see fit to cook the chicken. Don't worry about me, I'm not big on chicken in any case."
Denise: [finger]
She then stomps into the bathroom. I had lit a candle in there, as the area was smelling less-than-fresh.
Denise: "There's a lit candle in here!'
Diane: "Yes, I lit it after the last time I was in there."
Denise: "YOU SHOULD PUT IT OUT NOW."
Diane: "Sure, I'll make sure to put it out."
Denise: "PUT IT OUT NOW."
Diane: [no reaction]
Denise: "I'M GOING TO PUT THIS CANDLE OUT RIGHT NOW."
Diane: "Knock yourself out, Big Sis."
Denise: [finger]
By this time, I had resorted to watching TV on my laptop with my earbuds in, because she kept stomping around, talking to herself, but clearly with the intention of making me listen to her complaints about me on an endless loop without taking the time to confront me directly. She kept pacing around, picking things up and slamming them down, and exclaiming, in a Tourette's-style manner, "Rearranging!" {mumble mumble mumble}"Consignment! (for some reason, my efforts to sell my wedding gown is bothering her, I think because I had previously recommended when I was still in California that she could try selling it to raise some funds for the household, which she eschewed)" {mumble mumble mumble, "Candles!" {mumble mumble mumble} "Chicken!" {growl}
She stomped back downstairs, and started to tear into Tony. Now, I don't make a point of attempting to overhear their conversations, but it is inevitable that much of their conversation wafts upstairs, and a lot of times, Denise is nagging the guy, and Tony inevitably says, "You're being mean." So, a couple of times in the past day or so, whenever she starts yelling at me, I say, "You're being mean," in an effort to help her realize she needs to dial the Anger-Meter down a few notches. You know the saying, I think it goes something like this, "If one person calls you a horse's ass, you thank them. If 10 people call you a horse's ass, it's time to get yourself a saddle." She stomps back up, and starts barking at me, at which point I remove my earbuds to try to listen to her, because she seemed genuinely in need to engage with me again at THAT VERY MINUTE.
Denise: "WE STAGE CONVERSATIONS."
Diane: "Um, what?"
Denise: "WE STAGE CONVERSATIONS, JUST TO TEST YOU, TO SEE IF YOU ARE SPYING ON OUR CONVERSATIONS."
Diane: "Denise, I'm not snooping. I just inevitably hear them if I'm sitting in the living room and I don't have earbuds in."
Denise: "WE KNOW YOU ARE LISTENING TO US, SO WE STAGE CONVERSATIONS, TO TEST YOU."
Diane: [looks at Mom quizzically, looks back at Sister] "Um, Denise, I'm not sure what you are asking or telling me to do here. Do you want me to try to listen and tell you if I can hear?"
Mom: [pointing her finger at me] "SHE'S TRYING TO TRICK YOU!"
Diane: "What? Ok, I'm really confused. Denise, am I supposed to repeat to you what I hear? Because, believe me, I'd rather not be hearing, that's why I have these earbuds in."
Denise: [stomps back down stairs raising and waving around her Finger-sporting hand]
Diane: [turns to Mom] Is this normal behavior for her? She's been giving me the finger all night now. What are we, like, 12? Does Denise realize she's 51 years old?"
Mom: [waves her arms wildly, shushing me]
Denise: [stomps back up to top of stairs so that her hand is visible, with, you guessed it, middle finger raised]
Now, I fully admit that, at this point, I've begun to hit back at her with sarcasm and passive-aggressive remarks, which may be fueling the fire, but it really is in an attempt to tire her out. When I keep myself open and genuine, say, I'm about to put something away, and ask her if I'm putting it away in the Designated Place For That Thing, she'll agree, thank me, and then a few hours later, move it and demand That Thing Goes Over There. I think humoring her and not insisting on any boundaries regarding what I'll put up with will encourage her to continue steamrolling.
1) After I had emptied the clean dishes from the dishwasher, she expressed dismay at the way I had "rearranged" (as if it were some nefarious plot to upset the order she supposedly has established in storage areas) the cabinet where most of our pyrex and rubbermaid containers go. I didn't rearrange anything, I simply put the stuff away in the cabinet, which involved having to nest similar containers of certain sizes into one another so they all fit (which is in no way a new system of organization for that cabinet, that's how they were doing things when I got here). So she proceeded to pull things out of the cabinet and slam them down on the table, and demand I identify certain items. She pulled a bag of my tea out of the area where all the tea is stored, and demanded I tell her what it was.
Me: "Look at it, sis, it says right there on the front what it is"
Denise: "I DON'T WANT TO READ IT, I WANT YOU TO TELL ME".
Me: "It's tea, Denise. It says right there on the front on the label, Rishi Tea."
Denise: "Yes, BUT I TOLD YOU TO TELL ME WHAT IT IS."
Me: "OK, now you know. In the future, feel free to just look at the label to determine what something sitting there with all the rest of the tea is."
Denise: [finger]
She continued to root through the cabinet, accusing me of having taken or wrongfully placed things.
Denise: "WHERE IS MY VITAMIN CONTAINER???"
Diane: "You're what?"
Denise: "MY VITAMIN CONTAINER. I KEEP MY VITAMINS IN A CONTAINER, AND I DON'T SEE IT HERE. WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT?"
Diane: "Denise, this is like the fifth time since I got here that either you or Mom has accused me of messing with your vitamins. I don't use vitamins, I haven't touched your vitamins, perhaps each of you is moving the other person's vitamins around. Stop asking me about your vitamins. I had no idea you even have a 'vitamin container'."
Denise: "I CAN'T FIND MY VITAMIN CONTAINER! YOU MUST HAVE MOVED IT!" [finger]
Denise then started to dig into my mother, who had pointed out that Denise had defrosted raw chicken that morning, left it on the kitchen counter all day, announcing she was making dinner that evening (Mom had, a few moments earlier, asked me if she should go ahead and cook the chicken, as it probably shouldn't remain there another day). Denise had even made a special run to the grocery store to buy the shape of pasta she wanted (we had elbow and penne, she wanted spaghetti), despite the fact that she has repeatedly told me that household groceries are only to be purchased once a the month, at the beginning of each month, when Mom receives her social-security check. Denise had just woken up from a 5-hour nap, and declared it was "too late" and she was "too tired" to cook the chicken. Um, we whispered to ourselves, no problem, as I had already prepared some salad with feta and olives and had some cooked shrimp in the freezer. Denise then proceeded to order delivery from a local Italian restaurant, and neglected to ask us if we wanted to order anything, so it was a bit of a surprise when the food arrived, and she skirted it downstairs to keep to herself and her fiancée, Tony. "That's pretty rude," I thought to myself, and, as she headed down the stairs.
Diane: "Oh, did you get pizza?"
Denise: "NO." (turned out they had gotten ravioli and meatballs, and something that was in a pizza box but perhaps was not pizza)
Diane: "Ah, well, um, bon appetit!"
Denise: [finger]
After feasting on her exclusive dinner and several glasses of the wine I had bought and put in the Designated Wine-Storage Area, she stomped back up the stairs, threw the dishes in the sink, and then came out to the living room to lecture Mom about how Mom leaves raw chicken in the refrigerator for days all the time. She then glares at me, I suppose expecting me to chime in to agree that Mom does this, even though I have no idea if she does.
Denise: "I'm COOKING the CHICKEN TOMORROW!"
Diane: [shrugs] "Um, OK, sure."
Denise: "TOMORROW! IT'S TOO LATE NOW TO COOK THE CHICKEN."
Diane: "Ok, Denise, cook the chicken whenever you see fit to cook the chicken. Don't worry about me, I'm not big on chicken in any case."
Denise: [finger]
She then stomps into the bathroom. I had lit a candle in there, as the area was smelling less-than-fresh.
Denise: "There's a lit candle in here!'
Diane: "Yes, I lit it after the last time I was in there."
Denise: "YOU SHOULD PUT IT OUT NOW."
Diane: "Sure, I'll make sure to put it out."
Denise: "PUT IT OUT NOW."
Diane: [no reaction]
Denise: "I'M GOING TO PUT THIS CANDLE OUT RIGHT NOW."
Diane: "Knock yourself out, Big Sis."
Denise: [finger]
By this time, I had resorted to watching TV on my laptop with my earbuds in, because she kept stomping around, talking to herself, but clearly with the intention of making me listen to her complaints about me on an endless loop without taking the time to confront me directly. She kept pacing around, picking things up and slamming them down, and exclaiming, in a Tourette's-style manner, "Rearranging!" {mumble mumble mumble}
She stomped back downstairs, and started to tear into Tony. Now, I don't make a point of attempting to overhear their conversations, but it is inevitable that much of their conversation wafts upstairs, and a lot of times, Denise is nagging the guy, and Tony inevitably says, "You're being mean." So, a couple of times in the past day or so, whenever she starts yelling at me, I say, "You're being mean," in an effort to help her realize she needs to dial the Anger-Meter down a few notches. You know the saying, I think it goes something like this, "If one person calls you a horse's ass, you thank them. If 10 people call you a horse's ass, it's time to get yourself a saddle." She stomps back up, and starts barking at me, at which point I remove my earbuds to try to listen to her, because she seemed genuinely in need to engage with me again at THAT VERY MINUTE.
Denise: "WE STAGE CONVERSATIONS."
Diane: "Um, what?"
Denise: "WE STAGE CONVERSATIONS, JUST TO TEST YOU, TO SEE IF YOU ARE SPYING ON OUR CONVERSATIONS."
Diane: "Denise, I'm not snooping. I just inevitably hear them if I'm sitting in the living room and I don't have earbuds in."
Denise: "WE KNOW YOU ARE LISTENING TO US, SO WE STAGE CONVERSATIONS, TO TEST YOU."
Diane: [looks at Mom quizzically, looks back at Sister] "Um, Denise, I'm not sure what you are asking or telling me to do here. Do you want me to try to listen and tell you if I can hear?"
Mom: [pointing her finger at me] "SHE'S TRYING TO TRICK YOU!"
Diane: "What? Ok, I'm really confused. Denise, am I supposed to repeat to you what I hear? Because, believe me, I'd rather not be hearing, that's why I have these earbuds in."
Denise: [stomps back down stairs raising and waving around her Finger-sporting hand]
Diane: [turns to Mom] Is this normal behavior for her? She's been giving me the finger all night now. What are we, like, 12? Does Denise realize she's 51 years old?"
Mom: [waves her arms wildly, shushing me]
Denise: [stomps back up to top of stairs so that her hand is visible, with, you guessed it, middle finger raised]
Now, I fully admit that, at this point, I've begun to hit back at her with sarcasm and passive-aggressive remarks, which may be fueling the fire, but it really is in an attempt to tire her out. When I keep myself open and genuine, say, I'm about to put something away, and ask her if I'm putting it away in the Designated Place For That Thing, she'll agree, thank me, and then a few hours later, move it and demand That Thing Goes Over There. I think humoring her and not insisting on any boundaries regarding what I'll put up with will encourage her to continue steamrolling.
posted by Clown Hair at
1:18 PM
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