The previous post merits a sequel, packed with as much piss and vinegar as the original. Like many final installments, Part II packs little punch. Much to my relief there is nothing eventful to report.

There was no crying, no charred remains destined for the dinner table, no broken plates, and arguments …There was a telephone discussion the evening before Mister Hombre returned. We talked about preparations, traffic, and last minute errands. The Mister sheepishly apologized. I asked if things would be handled differently next time. After he assured me it would be, I accepted his apology and dropped the matter.

The hardest part in accepting an apology is not reliving the moment that brought you to the confrontation. Accepting remorse and walking away from the moment requires utter forgiveness or complete restraint. I’ll leave it up to you to decide which coping mechanism should go to my credit.

Next year is supposed to different. If it isn’t, you’ll hear from me.

A few tidbits from the holiday celebrations:

• I spent more time than I care to in the kitchen. I was not alone. The Mister assisted.
• Baby Girl picked up the One Eyes and delivered them to our house. She was half an hour late. She is rarely on time. To her credit, she was late enough to allow me enough time to mix a pitcher of mojitos which I stashed in the laundry room.
• The One Eyes seemed happy about visiting. They were in good spirits and did not complain as much as they usually do. Sadly, they were not as alert or as sharp as they are on their good days.
• Mister Hombre brought trays of sweets to the One Eyes before dinner. For all practical purposes, they were in sugar comas before the evenings pork loin was removed from the grill.
• We met with my family the day following Christmas. The Mister commented spending time with my family was more fun than spending time with his. I responded, spending time with my family was much like attending a fraternity party without the alcohol. It’s an unrefined, rambunctious affair.
• As of December 26th, I own four obnoxious Christmas mugs, three pounds of french roast coffee, a snazzy wristwatch, and fifty rubber ducks (yes, really)

I hope the holidays have been kind to you and yours, and may peace keep you company throughout the new year.

To see this year’s Christmas card, click here

So the suspense is killing you, right? Christmas plans. Well, the suspense is killing me too.

Last year, I asked the Mister weeks in advance (and multiple times) what we were doing for Christmas with his family. It was of little use, he refused to consider until days before the appointed celebration. This year I asked once, because I suspected the results would be no different, and was correct. Mister Hombre decided on the 20th, we should PROBABLY prepare dinner for his parents (duh!) and invite the kids. FIne. He left for work on the 21st not to return until late on Christmas Eve. Insert a lesser refined F-word here.

Then began the effort to accommodate the kid’s schedules. Both live out of town, and have to visit their mother and extended family, as well as friends. I’ve forfeited spending time with my family, because getting together on “the day” was of more importance to the Mister’s mother, than my own.

So it’s the twenty-third and we will prepare dinner for 5 or 8*, but don’t have the final number. Girl child is perpetually late, so she should arrive, but when, as always, is questionable. The mister’s son had a snag at work, and doesn’t know if they will be able to make it. Not his fault. Even if he had known for certain it wouldn’t have mattered. The Mister refuses to think ahead. Which is fine when the Mister is the only one who suffers from his action, or should I say inaction.

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A week ago, the Mister asked me what we did for Christmas last year. Huh? So, it seems all the last minute preparations he burdened me with last year didn’t actually matter. At least not enough for him to remember. Who knew validation was so humbling?

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So, I guess you’re probably waiting for me to bring up my in-laws. I’m not concerned about them. I am concerned about them in the context of health, safety, and well being but not in the context of Christmas dinner. The One Eyes will be who they are. They will either be on their best behavior or not. They will either like their Christmas presents, or not. They will probably complain about not being at their house, and so many other things that don’t suit them, but I have chosen not to worry about it. They are older, their quality of life is diminishing, and they are unhappy. I feel sorry for them, but that doesn’t make me responsible for their happiness.

I just want a final count for dinner, so I can have most of the food prepared, and the house clean before guests arrive. I don’t want the One Eyes hanging out in the kitchen while I cook (Ole One Eye will sample directly from pots on the stove using serving utensils, or his fingers. He has hygiene issues, and I will not subject myself or other guests to his rude grazing.) I do want Mister Hombre to be a courteous host and entertain his family before dinner is ready. He WANTED to host and they are HIS family.

I want a dinner that appears easy and trouble free, so guests don’t worry, as Mrs. One Eye often does. I don’t want to fight for space in my own kitchen to finish preparations or wash the dishes. I don’t want anyone to be frustrated about food, or constantly running from the kitchen to the table. If I want it to look easy, I have to plan ahead.

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Having been inspired by the movie, Superbad, and an empty bottle of wash detergent. Hey, don’t judge, I only paid a dollar for admission, and I have beat, or should I say whacked, my inner fifteen-year-old-boy into submission for at least two years. I suggested to the Mister, we might want to have adult beverages concealed in the laundry room during Christmas dinner (his parents are tee-totalers, and pass judgement on all who do not believe as they do. The Mister will hide all the wine under the bar sink before they arrive. As if the wine glasses DON’T give it away. I WILL not hide the wine. I am not ashamed.). He replied, “You want to drink warm soapy beer on Christmas Day?”. I replied, “No, not really, but since you don’t object, I assume it will be okay with you if I chill a pitcher of mojitos in the garage.”

I don’t need a pitcher of mojitos to survive a family dinner, but it will do wonders for my self esteem if I feel like I contributed something to the holiday feast, that wasn’t pre-approved for consumption by the Mister’s family.

The actual menu: Cranberry Pomegranite Marinated pork loin, white acre peas, baked sweet potatoes, pole beans, and french bread. Sweet offerings: Cranberry Orange cookie bars, peppermint bark, chocolate-dipped strawberries.

My fantasy menu: italian bread with oil and dipping spices, caesar salad, shrimp pesto pasta, and cheesecake.

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This was printed on the packaging for the jigger. What purpose do they think alcohol really serves if not to medicate?

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In spite of the bitchy overtone this post carries, I don’t feel all that bitchy. This is mild compared to what some of my friends go through during the holidays. I know I’m lucky. I’m venting because I can, and because you guys are such awesome listeners.

*Final count for dinner is now five.

Meno, mentioned this before I was cognizant of it being one of my issues; disrupting the peacefulness of the home. I don’t care much for “commotion”. Like all preferences, there are exceptions, but suffice it to say I am spoiled by quiet time. I like white noise, I prefer the absence of television, I like hearing birds chirp outside the kitchen window. I also like having the Mister around, but having him home means forfeiting the quiet which soothes THIS savage beast.

I’ve spent more time than usual with the Mister the past two months, hence my noticeable absence from this blog, as well as, yours. These days are marked by sleeping late, eating late, and planning nothing. The blathering of those horrible news channels echo the same non-news story three times an hour, and replace my beloved white noise. The conversation is dominated by rhetorical questions, real questions (he suffers from CRS), and statements about the obvious (not to belittle his observation skills, when you spend as much time alone as I do, you resent unnecessary spoken words while simultaneously feeling starved for adult conversation. I’m bitch that way.). My personal favorite, is being summoned across the house with a yell proclaiming, “you need to come and see this”. As luck would have it, “this” is typically of a nature that requires me to fake interest, an interest typically shared by another middle class white male of the same age. The Mister really needs a boyfriend.

Yeah, I go along, listen, feign interest, ask questions (all without rolling my eyes in his presence) then return to the laundry. The entire time I’m playing along, I’m preoccupied by the notion, of whether or not he would return the favor of listening to my excitement about some mundane topic of no interest to him.

Yeah, I came to that conclusion too.He’s accustomed to be being listened to, but doesn’t always reciprocate. In his profession, he holds a position of authority and prestige. In this society, this southern society, his maleness has earned him a pedestal position in the eyes of women, of a certain age, specifically my mother’s age. I can make a true statement to my mother, which she will quickly dismiss because clearly I am a girl, her youngest child, a total void of credibility. When Mister Hombre offers the same explanation, she reacts as if his words appeared at the bottom of one of the stone tablets Moses is alleged to have received from the hand of God. ‘Scuze me? And she wonders why Dad never picked his socks up off the floor. I don’t hold the Mister responsible, for my mother’s hero worship. In this instance, she has excellent taste. I wouldn’t be with him if he weren’t a good, kind man, but it does wear a chic down when isn’t take seriously because she can’t pee standing up.

I’m accustomed to being ignored. I don’t share common interests with my family, and there is fierce competition to be heard. If you don’t talk loudly, or interrupt, you won’t get the opportunity to speak. As for listening, they aren’t good at it. I used to compete, but as I get older, I just don’t care anymore. Why bother to set the record straight, when people don’t care about the truth?Family gatherings often result in being on answering twenty questions from siblings. I’ve noticed if I don’t answer, it doesn’t matter, because they seldom notice, and change topics. Requisite formality to pass the time, and camouflage indifference? No thank you, I don’t need that kind of favor. I would rather not be inquired than be ignored, if the answer is of so little interest. Typically, they misread my silence as captivation, when it is nothing more than a patient attempt to wait my turn. I can’t will my family to listen, nor can I compete with their lives, but being the designated listener challenges my capacity to be polite.

I met Mister Hombre, his brother, and Ole One Eye for lunch last week. I tried to engage Ole One Eye in conversation, but he wasn’t interested in exchanging words, only in giving a soliloquy. He quickly dismissed and ignored me (typical patriarchal egotistical entitlement). I withdrew my attention, and read the ingredients on an artificial sweetener packet. Mister Hombre was trying to tell his brother and Ole One Eye a story about the cat. His brother, clearly uninterested, starts ANOTHER story about a lake in Siberia. Ole One Eye, uninterested in listening, starts talking about the Dead Sea. All three are talking over one another, about three DIFFERENT subjects. Dejected, Mister Hombre gives up and abandons his story about Patches. Brother and Ole One Eye are still competing for center stage about two different lakes with no relationship to one another. All three refused to believe no one was listening. Later I learned, Mister Hombre had no idea they were talking about two different lakes, and he was indignant no one care to hear about our beloved house cat. Poetic justice, but the lesson was wasted.

I don’t fault the Mister for having a voice, but I am jealous. I’m tired of competing to be heard, and consequently I don’t feel my presence should be required in situations in which my voice isn’t permitted to break the silence. I’d rather be absent than decorative.

The Mister isn’t used to being ignored, and I accept it as inevitable. I would prefer not to consider it an all or nothing proposition, but I wonder…

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned, I’m stubborn. Very stubborn. It isn’t always a bad stubborn, sometimes it’s suitable arm candy for determination. Other times well, if you wish to hear about other times, you’ll have to wait for Mister Hombre to start his own, damn blog. I’m not so stubborn, that I am incapable of admitting when I’m wrong. Don’t hold your breath, this post isn’t about that, it’s about my being proud and pragmatic.

Possibly the most constructive aspect of being obstinate lies in my DIY gene. I prefer to think of it as disease, but I suspect I’m just another helpless insect attempting to do the backstroke through the gene pool. Because I have the luxury of time, I feel compelled to research, how to. How to: replace the toilet flapper, install tile, cut and install crown molding, repair rotten window sashes, install a wireless router, reformat the hard drive, and make pesto from scratch. I am not of the opinion that everyone should share my desire to learn new things. I support your decision to pursue tasks, you are comfortable pursuing. Period.

DIY is responsible for the tradition of creating my own holiday cards. This year’s design is more complicated than the previous years’ attempts. Nonetheless, each year raises the bar, and complicates the construction process. After four prototypes and gratuitous swearing, I decided upon a design and began cutting down the paper. Six hundred cuts with an xacto knife, two hundred scores, and lots of gluing. Tedious work, but I only do this once a year.

All was going well, slowly, but according to plan, when the cutting knife slipped. Yeah. Go ahead and say the f-word. I assure you I said the f-word, several times. It wasn’t terribly gruesome. The blade followed the nail of my index finger and went an additional half inch or so. I can’t tell how deep, because I’m trying to keep the gash sealed. I’ll spare you any more details. I managed to dash to the bathroom before “dripping” on the coveted holiday paper, but my wound dressing skills leave much to be desired.

Yup, that’s toilet paper and painter’s tape, because I felt driven to complete the task of cutting paper for the cards. (And what you can’t see in the photo is the sterile bandage next to the wound, which helped keep the gash closed, but not so much on absorbing the red stuff.) After completing the cutting duties, I evaluated my error in judgement and doused it in hydrogen peroxide, ’cause I’m pretty sure Reagan was in office the last time I had a tetanus shot. Damn thing was still bleeding….And now it’s throbbing.

The worst part about this, is Mister Hombre will roll in from work tomorrow and totally treat me like a petulant child with a milk mustache, ’cause I nicked my finger. He’s such a mother hen about my handling knives. For goodness sakes, I made over six hundred cuts today, and only one of them was bad. I’ll take those odds, and look, Ma, no stitches!

On a side note, seven years ago, I shaved off an eighth of an inch of my index finger with an xacto. It throbbed like a mother. On the same day, I also had the misfortune of suffering through a root canal. The dental work wasn’t nearly as painful as the finger decapitation. The dentist was generous and gave me a prescription for pain meds after the procedure. My tooth never bothered me, but that night when I rolled over in bed on to the wounded finger, I woke up with a throbbing pain so strong, I had to dig into the root canal pain meds. Nice!

The throbbing is impairing my typing, I hear a glass of red, and a tuxedo cat calling my name. Hopefully, I won’t toss and turn tonight.