Why I hate family bbqs.
Well it's Sunday afternoon, and I'm hiding out in my fortress of solitude (my room) with the cat.
It's my brother's fault that I'm here - he's the one who said that it'd be nice to have a bbq. Yeah fucking right. He invited people to turn up today, and I found out yesterday, through my grandmother, that they were coming.
So yesterday, I went to the store and bought meat and buns and stuff. I made a dessert. I made potato salad and deviled eggs. I made coleslaw. I cleaned the grill. I put charcoal in the bbq and I was just about to light it when my bossy mother swooped in and started carrying on about how the boys should be helping and yada yada yada.
The only thing I hate more than bbqing stuff myself is when my dad and brother are in charge. It makes me want to run away and join the foreign legion. "Where are the plates? I can't find the plates! Has anyone seen the plates? Why can't I find the plates? Why do we have the kitchen cupboards arranged in such a way that I don't know where the plates are? Somebody get me a plate! No - I need a bigger plate!"
Sheesh! They're in the same frigging place that they always are. I've tried leaving a stack of them next to the bbq, but my dad can't seem to see them.
As for my brother, my mother kicked him out of bed and told him to light the bbq. He said he didn't know how! Pul-eeze. It'd be so much easier if I could just to it all myself.
Anyway, Dad wouldn't light the bbq and my brother was insisting that he couldn't (which is a load of juicy bullshit) so I went out and did it anyway. Big. Mistake. My mother started carrying on that I was taking opportunities to learn to participate away from my dad and brother.
So here I am, holed up in my fortress, waiting for them to effing cook something so I can go and wash the dishes.