Biannual emotional blackmail japery commences!

In the post this morning was a large brown envelope containing two birthday cards from Mein Papa (or, more accurately, my stepmother). Naughtily, I opened them, wondering if any kind of a letter was within.
Card 1: Legend - To a wonderful Daughter. Containing a tenner. My father was so lazy he let my stepmother write the "To Jenny, happy birthday, lots of love from" before he deigned to put pen to paper to sign his name...then got carried away and wrote everybody else's too.
Card 2: Legend - Happy Birthday Sister! Neatly written by my little half sister L, signed by the half brothers J&J.
Coincidence that both cards draw attention to the familial relations? I think not. Basically, they're saying "Remember us? You're not doing your daughterly/sisterly duty, young lady!".
I await Thursday, 1 day pre birthday. I predict Mein papa will make L phone me to tell me that Daddy has told her that we will be meeting up on my birthday, and she's really looking forward to it. Then he'll come onto the phone and ask what I'm doing on my birthday, knowing full well by this stage I'm already planned up. Then he'll act all hurt and mention that L, J&J were really looking forward to it.
Why do I keep allowing people to emotionally blackmail me?

Philosophical thought of the day (sort of 'Chicken Soup for the Soul' but better, cause it's from my head)

Heartbreak never goes away. It may fade, but it never heals over properly, and has an immense half-life, like Uranium. And like background radiation, it can’t be healthy. Then again, it’s somewhat character-building, and I doubt it will lead to genetic deformity in one’s children.

My mother discussing morning glory - fun fun fun

Woken this morning by the sound of power tools. Again. Sleep wasn’t very restful due to bellyful of Thai food and nasty sciatica. Hassled yesterday over:
1) What do you want for your birthday? Tell me now now now.
2) What do you think of going away for Christmas? Tell me now now now.
3) What is the solution for increasing rates of teen pregnancy and STIs?
Any advice on the above gratefully accepted.
Number 3 was really because my mother was drinking for once and got started talking about Viagra, the conversation soon escalating to cover orgasms, sex education, etc. You’d think I’d get embarrassed, but I’m used to it by now, my family discussing such things loudly in the pub. However, my auntie, a liberal in most matters, is strangely mega-conservative about sex. She’s only ten years older than me, so I’d always turn to her as the Big Sister element, but when she found out I read Sugar and Bliss magazines at about 12 she went mad (for the record, the most sexual those magazines got was idiots who wrote into the problem page asking “isn’t it true you can’t get pregnant the first time?” and “what does a penis look like?”). She won’t have me even mention my dissertation in front of her, because it’s about pornography.
Last night her great solution to the great contraception debate was “I think we should only teach abstinence in schools. By giving kids condoms it makes them go and have sex.”
We suspect her of reading the Mail under plain covers.

Hooray for smuggling!

My sleep pattern problem is hopefully under control, thanks to the melatonin my mother brought me back from India. That and more Viagra (the Viagra isn't for me). So, I can tell you about the terrifying dream I had the other week. I mean terrifying. I woke up and was sick. And I'm not easily scared.
I was in my dad's old house. He was in the front room playing his instrument and generally ignoring us (me and my steps). It was all fun until a small child of about 3 wandered in in pyjamas looking for his mum. We didn't know what to do, and my dad wouldn't help, and we were thinking he must have wandered in off the street when another kid who looked like his brother (about 12) came in and took him out. I went into the hall to check the door was closed and heard noises from upstairs, so I went and asked the others if there was anyone else in the house.
Then another similar-looking kid (about 8) came in and ran straight back out, like he'd made a mistake, but this time I heard him go upstairs and into the room at the top of the stairs. So, indignant, I storm up, stand on the second step and push the door open. I see the 3 boys and an older boy, maybe 15. Their stuff is all over the room and they've obviously been squatting in my dad's house for a while. I shout "What are you doing here?!" and the little ones look scared and confused, and I wonder if they speak English. So I point to the ground and myself when I say "This is MY house!" and start to say "You shouldn't be here!" when I notice the older ones aren't scared, they're angry, and they have quite a few semi-automatic weapons, and the older one grabs one and shoots at me and as I slump forward I realise the bullet got me right in the throat.
The wound doesn't hurt so much as feel cold, I can feel the blood and air come flowing out. Then as I slide down the stairs (my chin ends up of the second stair down) I think, wow, that's it, all those things I wanted to do, should've done, and I notice - well not suddenly 'notice' but just 'have knowledge of' - that I'm not breathing or blinking and in fact I can't feel anything anymore, I'm just staring at the vertical section of the step. It's really calm and peaceful, even though I'm panicky and angry and upset that I'm dead it's all...muted.
Then I wake up. Incredibly grateful to be breathing.

I'm fairly certain it wasn't a dream

Was awoken this morning about 9.30 (my sleep patterns are utterly screwed at the moment) to a persistent knock at the door. Inital cave-woman grunting thought was "damn buildy men, forget damn key, i kill them". Squinting through the window, however, I saw their van wasn't there; but there was a delivery company van in the middle of the road. Cave-woman partially banished, I check that I am wearing clothes (tick) and i have specs on (tick) then leg it down two flights of stairs. Opening the door, I am, predictably, presented with clipboard by man in baseball cap.
"Sorry to wake you. Delivery for you love"
My blank look suggests that I'm not expecting anything. Plus he's trying to make me sign before he gets the package from the van, which I know is all wrong. But, I've not spoken yet today, so my vocabulary is still warming up. The delivery guy looks to his clipboard.
"It's for a Mr Mone...is that right? Mr Roger Mone."
Mouth kicks in. "Not here. Nobody called that lives here."
"It says so here" The delivery guy indicates the house number on his chitty. "37, that's right, isn't it?" I nod, but just to be sure he looks at the number by the door. "And this is [name of my street]?" Yep. " And this is the postcode for this house?"
"Yes"
The guy looks at me hopefully.
"Nobody called Mone lives here." I repeat.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I live here, and I know nobody called that lives here too. Nor have they lived here in the last 10 years"
Delivery guy shrugs "Can I take your name, then?"
I give it, he scribbles something which probably isn't right and starts to go back up the path. As he goes he says
"So nobody's ordered a computer, then?"

Issues raised:
1) Who is using my address?
2) Who is using such a bizarre pseudo-Carry On film name as Roger Mone (and does he have a daughter named Hor?)
3) What the hell?
4) Should I have just signed and claimed the free computer?
Bee-zare.

Yay me!

After consulting the board, I am officially NOT a cruel, cold, heartless uberbitch, and I am very far from insensitive. This is a relief for me, as I was unsure for a while. But those who know me have reassured me that all is good with me (except for I am often too nice and take things too personally) so some people's perceptions must be awry.