Outlaws

This one is going out to my dear sweet inlaws, or I should rather say outlaws.

How very nice of you, my dear sweet outlaws, to decide that your side of the family was going to have its Easter celebration on Palm Sunday. This in and of itself was not the problem, the idea being so that Daisy could celebrate before going off to her dad's for the holiday. The problem, oh outlaws, is that not a single one of you said Word. One. to Mr. Samoa. Didn't invite him, didn't advise him that it was going on, nothing. Just did it.

Oh, I'm not going to bother to call you on it to your faces. It's not worth my time, as you'll all adopt these hurt/innocent looks and go "Well, we thought you were going to the Cakes (my parents) for Easter!" And so we are. On Easter. Don't you think Mr. Samoa might have liked to see you on Palm Sunday? If you were worried about having the horror that is my presence inflicted upon you, believe me, I wouldn't have dreamed of subjecting you to it.

I know you all hate me, and I have no great love for y'all either, so I'm not the one bothered here. So, you can quit trying to stick it to Mr. Samoa for marrying me and not "making me get in line", because the only one you're hurting here is HIM. Your own relative. Who drops everything at the drop of a hat to go help your ungrateful asses. If it was me, I'd let you all stew, but he's too good of a person for that. Way to show you care.

Go commit indecent acts upon yourselves, with your rusty garden implement of choice.