ICE QUEEN

This falls under the category of not proud of it but, damn, it felt so good: I snubbed my sister-in-law at a family gathering. And not just any family gathering. But on Easter. A major commercial holiday.

Said sister-in-law is the one who allowed her crude children to utter a vile string of homophobisms in my presence at a Christmas dinner. My brother was present at said dinner. But I hold him less accountable, because I have no expectation of decency from him. I didn't get a chance to snub him at Easter because he quite simply doesn't have the good manners to proffer a greeting that could be snubbed. He could say the same of me, but he won't because he's too dumb to think of it.

I didn't plan on snubbing her. I didn't think about it. I just did it. The moment arose and I simply acted the way I felt inside. When she approached me all bubbly and asked, "Hey, how are you doing?" I felt a sudden revulsion and turned away. It wasn't a proper snubbing, though. I did mutter a morose "fine," as I averted my eyes. To cut someone dead with real style, say like Bette Davis, you have to be properly attired. You have to have a highball in hand and a warm circle of socialites for whom you icily forsake the snubbed individual. If you are dressed in jeans and sitting alone at a table with a Dixie cup of lemonade, as I was yesterday, the snub is not nearly as effective, I find.

Tant pis, as the French say. She got the message.

I mean, I hope she got the message. When one opts for the passive-aggressive route, though — letting hostile gestures take the place of direct words — there's always the danger of being misunderstood. Oh, she's upset about Grandpa. Oh, she has PMS. Whatever.

So, to be sure my meaning was clear, I snubbed her a second time. When she came around with a tray of cookies, squeezed my shoulder and asked how I was doing, I squirmed tangibly under her touch and muttered a "fine" even more morose and dark, if possible, than the first. It was sensationally effective, I thought. I was emanating pure frost. The temperature in the room must have fallen 10 degrees. I thought I saw my mom shiver. Then my sister-in-law plopped down in the chair next to me and started blathering, “What’s going on in Lawrence? How was Nashville? Did you see a show?" Blah blah blah.

So I drop the passive-aggression in favor of pure aggression, which suits me better anyway. “Bitch,” I said, “I just snubbed you, not once but twice. Surely you noticed that?”

I must not have said that out loud, though, because the bitch kept smiling and talking. Blah blah blah. I nodded in disbelief for a moment, thinking witty, mature thoughts like “Aren’t you afraid you’re going to get my gay cooties sitting so close to me? Aren’t you afraid your kids might think being gay is normal if they see you jollying with me? Don’t you think your grotesquely huge boob-job looks ridiculous at your age? At any age? Don’t you think it’s vulgar to display four inches of cleavage and two inches of nipple at 3 in the afternoon on Easter at a family gathering?”

OK, my thoughts were getting a little off-topic. It was time to cut her dead again, and this time I would do it in style. “I have to use the bathroom,” I announced with an Arctic chill in my voice. But that was not all. When I came back into the room, I purposely struck up a conversation with someone else so that she would get the message loud and clear. And she would have gotten it, too, if the group of properly attired women warmly encircling her, highballs in hand, hadn’t obscured me from her view.