The Most Conceited Woman In The World



This morning Autumn and I checked out of the Hilton hotel in Eagle then drove over to Dad’s house. Autumn had her appointment with my idiot father to take a road trip out of town. Dad wanted to show off his restored 1954 Chevy pick up truck to Autumn I guess. They were going on a long drive to get some lunch at a place up in the mountains. No doubt the two of them wanted time alone to talk. That was the part of the whole deal that bothered me the most. Really stressed me out. Nothing productive would come of it and I knew I’d probably be paying for it soon enough, somehow. Autumn disappointed me.

Left with the prospects of wandering around town alone all morning waiting for Autumn to return or spending a few hours with my sister I chose to take Brandy out to breakfast. That would kill some time. Afterward we could just hang out at Dad’s place and talk. I wasn’t looking forward to it actually. You see my younger sister doesn’t like me much. Never has. When we were still in high school I tried to be her friend, but she wasn’t having it. I was her dorky older brother, too uncool to be seen in public with. On her sixteenth birthday when she was given her first car it was almost like she disappeared into thin air. Brandy was scarcely around the house from then on. As we got older my sister’s selfishness and conceit reached such obnoxious levels that I could only handle being around her for short periods of time. Anything more than that was pure annoying torture. It was like she viewed herself as a famous rock star or an actress, jet-setting around the globe. Smug attitude and rude behavior oozed from every pore in her skin twenty four hours a day.

The fact is she’s a nobody nothing.

So we went to breakfast. There’s a popular greasy spoon diner not far from where Dad lives called The Express Cafe. The grub is always good, served up hot just the way you’d like it. The joint is constantly busy. Most of the time you have to wait in line to get a table or volunteer to take a seat at their tiny counter top bar. When Brandy and I walked through the front door it was obvious the restaurant was packed with hungry pancake crazed citizens. Neither one of us cared if we had a table or not and I spotted two empty seats at the bar which we snagged. After placing our orders with a waitress the two of us settled in with little to say to one another.

The wait staff at The Express Cafe are good people. All of them are constantly busy taking care of regular customers most of which they know on a first-name basis. Neighbors and coworkers bump into each other inside with friendly smiles and a few off-color jokes. It’s that kind of a place, where locals go to eat expecting to see at least someone they know personally. As Brandy and I sat there quietly watching the storm of breakfast dishes coming and going around us she decided to launch into a vocal diatribe about how much she hates people in Idaho. Most of the time when she opens her mouth I cringe. This was especially bad though because she was loud as she spoke. Everyone at the counter top area heard her bullshit including the waitresses and a couple of the guys cooking in the kitchen.

Brandy started jaw-jacking about the stupidity of Idaho people. In her opinion they were all uncultured, unsophisticated, podunk country dimwits. Little people who were far beneath her. She complained about how ignorant they seemed. They don’t drive worth a shit. She went on to tell me, “I can’t wait to get on a fucking plane out of here. I hate this.” While my sister kept running her mouth I caught a few people staring at her. She didn’t notice, too absorbed in herself and oblivious to realize she was making a total fool of herself in public. One of the waitresses overheard what she was saying and glared in her direction. I rolled my eyes and apologetically shrugged to the waitress as if I were to tell her, “Yeah that’s my little sister right there being a stupid bitch. Sorry ’bout that.”

I figured both of us would be eating some spit and maybe a few bugs with breakfast thanks to her condescending babble.

We ate. I paid the bill. We left. I was embarrassed and wanted to get the hell out of there, pronto.

Back at Dad’s place Brandy and I sat opposite each other in the living room. She began talking again, telling me random stuff about our parents. I didn’t catch it at first, but she kept saying it over and over again. Every time she spoke about our parents she referred to them as “My Mom” and “My Dad.” It was like I was not part of her family, someone she had just met on the street. A total stranger. I didn’t mention anything to her for a while about that. I just let her talk herself out and listened. The basic gist of her conversation was “Me me me me me me, I this, I that. My Mom, My Dad.” Referring to our parents as something exclusive to her began to grate on my nerves.

I stopped her mid-sentence. “Brandy, I know you don’t like me much and I am aware you don’t think of me as a friend or even as a family member. Whatever. I can deal with that. However one thing I find particularly offensive is your reference to our parents as specifically ‘your Mom’ or ‘your Dad.’ Let me remind you they are OUR parents. I’d appreciate it if you would knock that off. Okay?”

She looked at me with an expression of confusion in her eyes like she was a deer caught in headlights. Then she told me she wouldn’t talk that way anymore. She admitted that it was kinda wrong.

Not a minute later Brandy started speaking again and she started off with, “My Dad… blah blah blah…” Like nothing had happened.

I give up.


~ by factorypeasant on January 8, 2007.

6 Responses to “The Most Conceited Woman In The World”

  1. my wife and all of her sisters say My Dad and my mom too. For them it’s some kind of weird Mexican thing even though I never heard any other mexis say it… I think it’s pretty fucking weird.


    yeah, that’s a little strange but i can understand it a little better because after all, they’re your in-laws. it would be different if say your brother started referring to your parents as his exclusively like you were a step brother or some shit. my folks were married for over 30 years. my sister isn’t a stepchild or nuthin’. so her comments that day brought out something that was lying just underneath for many years. my sister never considered me even a part of her own family. probably the stress from dealing with our mother’s death that week brought it to the surface without her realizing it.

  3. All right Ben Lid. Factory Peasant says you’ll never cop to it, but are you Rutledge?

  4. silence equals guilt!

  5. Sorry, who is Rutledge cause it aint the KID.

  6. Well, that’s the question. We’ve been trying to figure it out for a while. Some of us are suspecting it’s you, some of us are suspecting it’s David Patrick Castro’s brother Bob (or something like that, starts with a ‘B’: Bill, Barney, something like that). He hasn’t shown his face for a while since Boomer 86’d the comments section on his blog. Inquiring minds want to know.

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