Don't Bring That Heffa To My House

Can we get real about the holidays right quick?  And I aint talking about who cooking, who making the mac and cheese or if we should fry the bird!!  I’m talking about straight up peace and how that means if your plus one going to work my nerves, you and that heffa need to stay home and eat that dry ass Bob Evans!!  Catch that shade if you must.  I’m protecting my inner peace.

Every November, really October we start meticulously planning what we going to eat but we should start with who gets a seat at the table.  Because we all know who is guaranteed to bring a whole wagonload of stress and entitlement.  Group chat start going off as soon as they pull in the driveway. 

Take a shot cause it’s about to get rough.  But let’s be specific, because the universe always finds a way to test your boundaries with one specific, unavoidable human being. For me, it’s my sister-in-law.

She’s not the conflict starter Uncle I had to ban; she’s the silent judge. The one who manages to critique your whole life with just a slow blink and a gentle adjustment of her fake-expensive scarf. The one who compliments your beautiful home by asking, "Oh, is this a rental?"

Bih…

We gotta stop confusing blood relation with a security clearance for some backhanded compliment.

Thanksgiving attendance is not a mandatory family reunion; it is a meticulously curated atmosphere of big backs, take home containers, and plans for leftovers.  It's supposed to be laughs, capping, and threats (no real action here), potentially some weed smoke if y'all do that. If someone actively and consistently violates that atmosphere, they lose their privileges! If inviting them means you have to get coaching on how to make it through… then they failed the vibe check.  Stay home!

And when they ask why…The Simple Script: F— Em!

The beauty of Thanksgiving is that it's your house, your rules, and your electric bill. Or my mama’s or Akira’s house… but I digress.  And you don’t have to invite people who will jeopardize your peace. 

And don’t worry about the fallout. The phone calls, the passive-aggressive text messages. I ain't hardly worried about having to explain why I chose peace.  You don’t owe them a dissertation. You need a simple, polite, but final, "F— em." (If your peeps get mad, say that part in your head, and keep the out loud part nice like : Maybe next year.)

Matter of fact here are your approved, drama-free exit lines for November:

So, I drew a blank.  But oh well… don’t bring that heffa to my house.

Let them be mad. They'll have a whole year to get over it. You deserve a smooth, drama-free slice of pie. Now go get it!