Why does my mother do this?

My cousin will be moving back to Toronto after having lived in San Francisco for the last five years — and what does my mother do? She offers to let my cousin stay with me.

“Oh! She has room in her condo! She won’t mind! Besides, you young people will have a better time living together.”

I knew my cousin was moving back to Toronto — I’d been hearing about it for weeks actually. I just didn’t realize that my mother had solved the “problem” of where my cousin would stay.

While my cousin and I grew up together and used to be “friends” (in the way that people are “friends” because they’re always forced to hang out together when they’re kids), when we reached our teens, we couldn’t be more different.

My cousin has always been considered “pretty” (even though, if you ask me, I think her square chin and boxy face and thick hair put her at “plain” at the very best). She’s considered serene and zen, but I think she’s slow and plodding.

Me, on the other hand? Apparently, with my super short hair, I look like a teenaged boy. I’m considered harsh, judgmental and highly irritable. (But I guess you all gathered that from my posts, right?)

Anyways, when my mother blithely told me this over dim sum today (everybody’s off work because it’s Canada Day), my sister said it looked like my face just exploded.

I hate that about my face — I get all splotchy and red…as if the giant pores, freckles and old acne scars aren’t bad enough. (By the way, the cousin has soft, dewy pearl-like skin…which my mother and aunts are always praising…and trust me, they have no qualms whatsoever in telling me that my skin looks horrible. What can I say? That’s an old Chinese woman, for ya. No tact, no inner censor. Meanness under the guise of “love.”)

The shit part about all of this is I “can’t” tell my cousin that I don’t want her at my place for a couple of weeks while she looks for a place to stay. It’d make my mom look bad. (I’m laughing hysterically over this right now. It makes my mom look bad. Right.)

Anyways…this weekend is my childhood nemesis’ wedding.

Fuck, I hate weddings.

If you’re Asian, you know what a childhood nemesis is.

She’s the daughter of a family friend — usually, your mom’s childhood nemesis — who’s around the same age as you and who you get eternally compared to because being born around the same year is enough reason to compare two people.

The childhood nemesis is perfect in every single way. Perky, bright, pretty, cute, and successful. She’s a doctor and her fiance is, like, some goddamned lawyer who’s insanely good looking and fit. What’s even more nauseating is how in love they are. Like, at the last gathering we all happened to be at, he actually got up at the karaoke machine and sang (in tune) to her.

It was nauseating. Completely, totally nauseating.

So…you know…that should be fun. (Sarcasm…you get that, right?)

My mother has begged me not to wear something “weird.” (My sister and a couple of friends have, at various times, said I should be nominated for “What Not To Wear.” The former co-worker, Amelie, actually took me clothes shopping a couple of times, and while I have some nicer, pricier items, I find myself falling back to my “weird” clothes.)

I’m actually planning on wearing this burnt orange and brown tie-die maxi dress with these ankle-wrap sandals, but I might opt to go with my version of a little black dress — this tunic dress that’s baggy enough so I won’t feel overly conscious about my body.

I just don’t like form fitting stuff.