The Joy of Spending Time with Family

Wouldn't you know it.

My last cousin just got a ring for Christmas. She is twenty one years old, and her fiance is an ass.

My ring finger may be bare, but at least I'm not engaged to an ass. Or so I tell myself to make the sideways glances sting a little bit less.

It's actually quite annoying that this is still such a huge issue for my family. It is the twenty first century! I am an independent woman perfectly capable of supporting myself! Of course, this argument would be more convincing were I not underemployed and living in the smallest, dingiest apartment Dreamwood Terrace has to offer. Oh well. It's the only argument I have left to make my mother shut up for all of two seconds, so I suppose it will have to do.

I begged out of the family festivities early Christmas afternoon to avoid the pointed comments about my biological clock ticking. I swear, it's like some of the incredibly well-brought up members of the Baker family have absolutely no filters. I should just start a relationship with a woman and adopt babies from foreign countries so they'll just disown me and get it over with.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. It seems that I have no filter as well.

Anyway, I drove back home at around 1:30 with a box full of gifts I had no use for. I trudged into my apartment, locked the door, and did not emerge until today. This probably isn't healthy.

I finally went out today because I completely ran out of food. Well, there was a piece of my aunt's casserole in the fridge, but let's be honest, I'm never going to be that hungry.

I walked back to Dreamwood Terrace with my bags from K. Roger's, pushing through the thick fog that seems to have been here since I arrived. I was so focused on the ground that I ran right into someone as they left the apartment building. My groceries crashed to the ground, eggs smashing, milk spilling, as I uttered a string of expletives that were entirely inappropriate for a lady. The person I had run into just chuckled. I looked up to see a guy I had never seen before, shaking his head.

"What?" I demanded, not un-huffily.

"Nothing", he replied. "I've just never heard those words used in such a combination before."

His name is Cole Harrison, and he turned out to be quite nice, actually. Apart from his snide comments about my language, that is. He helped me pick up the few groceries that had escaped destruction and carried them to my apartment with me. I was a bit distracted from the story he was telling me about moving here from Ireland by the impressive collection of red and purple bruises blooming across his face. I didn't want to ask and seem rude, however; he seemed like a very private person.

I like Cole Harrison. He is way nicer to me than any of my sub par family members.

I hope no one slips on the cracked egg slime outside our apartment building.

I've heard way too much tsk-ing in my last few days.

It's not proper for a young lady to live on her own in an apartment, you know.

I know my grandmother, and my mother, and my aunt are all disappointed with where I am in my life right now. I am too. I'm 29 years old and I'm not living in a big house with a white picket fence, a nice husband, and kids. And a dog. I want a dog.

I'm an outlier among the women in my family. My mother, grandmother, and aunt all got engaged during college and dropped out to get married. They all married wealthy men and had kids by the time they were twenty-three.

The closest I've ever gotten to having a kid was my ex-boyfriend Ted's dog. Ted and I lived together for four and a half years. I thought we would get married, but as usual I was wrong. The dog is the only thing I miss about that relationship now. He was a mutt, and he was great. But I had to leave him behind with his scumbag owner, unfortunately.

After I left, I couldn't find an apartment that would allow dogs. The only place I can afford right now is a tiny unit in Dreamwood Terrace, which is where I'm currently unpacking. One bedroom, one bathroom, and one combined living room/kitchen/dining room. The apartment still feels like it's filled with the sounds of disapproval coming from my family members as they came over to see my new place.

The only thing on my dingy white walls is my degree in Husband Hunting. Just kidding! I wouldn't have gotten a degree in Husband Hunting. I obviously failed at it. It's a B.A. in French Literature from the University of Virginia. I didn't think I would need a job when I picked my major, honestly. So now I'm a waitress.

This is not the way I thought my life would go.