I've gotten messages from some of you, words of reassurance, that the trip to Houston couldn't possibly be that bad. That it would go swimmingly, that everyone would get along, etc. etc. I appreciate these kind words, and hope that you're right. I would like to offer, in defense of my paranoia, the following conversation with my mother, verbatim:

"I'm making a list of the photos from when you were young that we're going to blow  up to life-size cardboard cutouts and put all over the house."

"Mom, you can not do that."

"Sure I can! Remember that photo of you with the chicken pox? That one's on the top."

"MOM! If you even seriously contemplate doing that I will NOT come."

"Oh stop! They're cute!"

::stim has mild heart attack::

Could she have been kidding? Oh it's possible. But even if she was -- that she would torture me with these sorts of horrible threats proves she has no understanding (or compassion) for my sense of humiliation.