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.