My father married this...woman a long time ago. For years, I've referred to her as the Step-Monster because she can be a complete and utter bitch at times and did her best to make most of my teens and twenties miserable.
I was summoned to the Manor for Father's Day and we made the trip out there. My dad had this huge cut on his head and we all fell to talking about injuries. I was telling this story about how I fell over the winter, landing on an ice-covered rail road tie, giving myself a massive, black, blue, purple and green bruise that encompassed my entire ass cheek. Step-Monster said "Gee, I thought your ass would be too big to fit on a rail road tie."
I just stood there gaping. My father said "That wasn't very nice," and everyone else found other things to look at.
This is the same woman who, every year for Christmas, has given me a light or low fat or Atkins cook book. Every year. For, like, 10 or 15 years. Because I need reminding that I need to lose weight. Because that's what you say to someone after they tell you they've been going to the gym every day for the last few months. I needed to hear just how fat, exactly, my ass is. Again. Because I don't have enough image problems. I'm not quite insecure enough. '
So this? This is for you, my darling Step-Monster.
And to think, I get to spend next weekend with this woman, too. Fanfuckingtastic.