I wonder if consumers would have remained optimistic about the mortgage boom if they had consulted with this lender? The housing industry is a mess.

Our home has been on the market for two weeks. It’s been shown four times. THe feedback has been positive so far, unfortunately these buyers were deterred by the second story. Our agent is optimistic. I am indifferent, but mostly because I need to direct my focus elsewhere. There are friends to see and boxes to pack.

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The Mister is in the process of passing financial management responsibility for his parents to his younger brother. It isn’t rocket science, but it can be confusing until you have month of experience. His brother is overwhelmed and intimidated.

Monday morning the guys were supposed to meet and discuss the financial obligations. Younger Brother set up the time and then promptly rescheduled twice. The guys eventually met and went over some details, but weren’t able to finish.

Mister Hombre: When do you want to meet and finish? I go back to work Sunday.

Younger Brother: As soon as possible.

Mister Hombre: Okay. How about early tomorrow morning?

Younger Brother: That sounds good, I’ll meet you then.

This morning, I’m eating breakfast with the Mister and we’re talking about our day’s appointments when the phone rings. It’s Younger Brother canceling the appointment that was made to accommodate HIM. Apparently, he can’t come because he has to pay property taxes. WTF? Property taxes and he didn’t know this in advance because…..I’m drawing a blank here. Anyone? And does it take ALL day to pay property tax….mmmm let me think about that. Maybe if you’re Fred Flintstone with cerebral palsy and you have trouble chiseling out the check.

Fine. Reschedule for two days later morning to accommodate Younger Brother a third fourth time. Not only does he not understand the meaning of ASAP, he’s immune to the reality of common courtesy. Obviously the world is meaningless when compared to his poorly managed personal life.

************

Stray Comment from the Mister: I should probably spend as much time as I can stand to with my folks before we move. sigh

Me: snicker

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The neighbors are more interested in us now that we are relocating. I’m not complaining. I’ve never been the gregarious, block party, neighborhood watch type. My home is my safe place, my refuse from the bullshit and pettiness that life dumps on you. I’ve lived here for almost five years and I know six families by name. There are at least a hundred houses. I watch for strange cars, and I look out for roaming kids, but I do not interfere in anyone’s personal business without an invitation.

I think the nosy neighbors have a “stick with the devil you know” approach to me and the Mister. We keep our yard, and our property hasn’t lowered the value of the neighborhood, and it’s been at least two years since we made loud construction noises before nine AM on a Saturday.

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So far I’ve used 450 feet of bubble wrap, and nineteen rolls of packing tape. Two words. Framed Art.

When I was young, my father was an absentee parent. His job required extensive travel, leaving my mother with all the responsibility. I adapted to his absence, and accepted the normality of it. It’s true, you can get used to almost anything.

The year my sister left for college, is the first time I remember feeling abandoned. In spite our seven year age difference, we very involved in each other’s lives. It wasn’t simply her departure. It was the bomb she dropped before she left and the realization there were no buffers between me and my mom. What can I say? Puberty is Hell.

In college, relationships were forged, as we stayed up late enveloped in our newly acquired superiority and solved the world’s problems. Graduation. Then, one by one, everyone moved away. Finally I left too, but returned and fell in love.

I fell for the one who would leave me behind frequently, but always return.

For me, it’s easier to be the one who leaves. Leaving is active, you are moving towards something and often have a purpose that distracts you from the realization of deserting someone. Having spent so much of my life being the one left, I know the void that erupts the moment the the door closes.

Tuesday, I left first. The Mister was still sleeping quietly when I leaned in to kiss him good bye. It was o’fuck thirty and I chose not linger, hoping he would drift back to sleep. It was strange leaving him behind, while I drove to the airport, but my thoughts quickly shifted to the day ahead.

I’ve flown many times, but rarely has anyone been awaiting my arrival. It’s different than someone waiting for you to pull into the driveway. It feels more personal, the waiting is participatory. You feel wanted.

Departing at an airport…is harder.

I returned home and found this note from Mister Hombre. I hadn’t anticipated my return to be welcome per se, but finding the note was much like being greeted at the door.

Friday, he will return from work and be equally welcome home. Next week, we will return our routine and once again he will be doing the leaving.

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.

As an adult, holidays have evolved into seasonal events I tolerate on behalf of others, my obligatory concession to family. Long jaded by consumerism, I try putting up a brave front so my family and the Mister’s, can have “their” celebration the way they desire it. Ironically, after all the hoop jumping, they are seldom happy with the results.

What I have difficulty justifying, are all the stress-inducing obligations executed under the guise of celebration. Many, I’m obligated to celebrate with, have a talent for placing more emphasis on the ritual than the meaning. Why exalt stress and place it on a pedestal with a ten page credit card statement and a bottle of xanax? Because we’ve always done it that way. We obsess over cumbersome traditions, and abandon the most rewarding aspect of celebration, appreciation.

On the surface, I might seem ungrateful. I’m not. I appreciate everyone who has ever hosted a gathering and included me at their table. What I don’t enjoy are loud crowds, poor planning, having to carry on when the self-appointed hostess losses her shit, watching the Host’s husband drink pot liquor from the serving dish with the serving spoon, my father-in-law snatching turkey off my plate and drinking from my glass, the hosting couple exchanging loud insults at the dinner table, one person being burdened with all the preparations because they won’t allow others to help, and spending four hours commuting between two locations with equally unpleasant circumstances, and tiptoeing around pre-approved topics of conversation (weather, football, fishing, boy scouts).

Prior to this year, the most enjoyable Thanksgiving I had celebrated as an adult doesn’t qualify as much of a Thanksgiving at all. Mister Hombre had to work, and invited me to travel with him. We walked along Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco and watched the sea lions sunbathe. We ate non-traditional fare and explored the hills and squares of one of my favorite cities. That trip raised the bar for holidays. After that, I hoped he would have to work Thanksgiving regularly (my unpleasant selfishness makes itself known).

The following year, he was home, and we took his parents out for Thanksgiving. It went as expected. Lots of complaints about the food (Justified, I’m afraid. The turkey was truly awful.) Complaints about the lack of family present, complaints about health, complaints, complaints, complaints…

I didn’t discuss Thanksgiving with the Mister this year. I hoped he would be working, but it didn’t seem right to ask. I thought he still enjoyed the holidays. We didn’t discuss Thanksgiving until two weeks ago. I knew I could handle the truth, but I didn’t want to marinate in it. I didn’t want to determine the outcome before the event arrived, as I am prone. The Mister gave me his schedule, and he would be working six days across Thanksgiving. I felt guilty and excited. Guilty he would be away from his family and it was what I wanted, and excited because I could travel with him.

Last week, I asked if he tried to get Thanksgiving off. His responded that he ignored the holiday when he was bidding for his schedule. I feel bad for him, because until now, he has enjoyed the holidays, warts and all. I think the pressure of being everything to everyone is weighing him down. Parents, kids. job, and wife pulling in different directions. Especially parents. I long for him to enjoy the holidays, the way he did when our relationship was new, even if I don’t feel the same, it isn’t always about me. Some of us learn sooner than others, you never really can go home again.

This year, we spent Thanksgiving in Munich, with a table full of other Americans away from their families. We ate traditional German food, and there was no shortage of laughter. Thankful me. There are things I still enjoy about the holidays, like watching kids consumed by excitement, hearing my grandmother say, “shit”, spending casual time with friends, and saying thank you, for being you. But, seriously why should I wait for the holidays to enjoy those things, I should appreciate what I have daily, wherever I happen to be.