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.

I am a twinkie. There. I said it. For obvious reasons, I don’t dwell on it. May December relationships inaugurate men as heroes and brand their playthings as twinkies. Unless of course the older is the women, then she’s called cougar. WTF? So we’re either nutrition deficit snack cakes or sexual predators. Nice.

The Mister is twenty-two years my senior. When I met him, I wasn’t thinking, “Cool, I’m going to bag an older guy who is more settled in his life.” I actually thought, “Cool, here is a guy who likes to screw with people’s heads as much as I do, maybe we can have a little fun together.” It never occurred to me, we would date, much less get married. I’ve have had plenty of successful, platonic relationships with men, so I honestly believed this relationship would be the same.

When I was still a twenty-something, I used to joke I didn’t want kids of my own, I just wanted to adopt a thirty-year-old to take care of me when I needed assistance changing my own diaper. Little did I know…

I fell for the Mister, and he had kids. When we started dating his kids were seventeen and twenty-one, and I was on the bleeding edge of twenty-five. Are you uncomfortable yet? I assure you, I was. It wasn’t what I bargained for, but I was was falling in love with a person who is considerate, compassionate, witty, and vibrant.

I didn’t meet his kids (is it really proper to use the word, “kids” when referring to peers?) until seven moths later. I didn’t push introductions, knowing it would be better when it was their idea. I wasn’t as concerned about the oldest, Big Brother, as he was beginning to establish his own life outside the family, but Baby Girl was still very close to Daddy.

The cliff’s notes version of the transition, is the Mister’s kids controlled the nature of the relationship (mine with them) from start to finish. It’s not easy handing over the power. From the beginning, I have made it a point to be available IF they needed me. I never crowded, or interfered (of course there have been a few times when I would have liked to). I gambled, and allowed them to establish the parameters of our relationship. I know it could have backfired, but nobody gives you a syllabus on managing this kind of crap. I believe relationships should be fluid, not fabricated or molested.

Here’s an explanation of the peculiar balance of our evolving relationship. A few months ago, the Mister and I had lunch with Big Brother and his Fiance. Fiance answered a phone call while we were waiting for our food to arrive. She was explaining to the other party that she was having lunch with Big Brother, Big Brother’s Father, and Big Brother’s step mother. Big Brother, Mister Hombre and myself took turns exchanging glances. The title of stepmother prompted it. In all the time I have been with the Mister, that phrase has never been uttered. I have always been referred to as Daddy’s wife or Ms Chica. The term, stepmother, didn’t fit our situation. Fiance noticed all of the glances being exchanged and got a little defensive about it, saying something along the lines of, “it doesn’t matter, I’m only talking to my sister.” The rest of us were chuckling at the awkwardness the concept.

After five years of marriage, I feel lucky to have relationships that aren’t antagonistic, don’t include yelling, don’t pivot upon being confrontational, and don’t make me feel like a twinkie.

Baby Girl is in love. She has been for a while. It was a hard won relationship, I won’t bore you with the history leading up to this moment, I don’t have enough wine, but there was a brief moment when I thought my heart might break too.

After month of fruitless labor, we managed to arrange dinner so Mister Hombre could meet The Suitor. Baby Girl was noticeably nervous. Two of the most important men in her life were about to meet for the first time…what if?

What if, proved to be the non-event. No awkward silences, no absurd attacks of foot and mouth disease. The Mister asked The Suitor lots of questions. Thankfully none were of the, “And just what are your intentions variety?”. They were mostly questions about The Suitor’s job, its long hours, and being on call.

After dinner, when we were preparing to leave, the Mister and Baby Girl excused themselves to visit the restroom. I waited with The Suitor and continued the small talk in the absence of the principles. When the Mister returned I excused myself. My motives were strictly practical (we had a two drive ahead of us). When I entered the restroom, Baby Girl was standing in front of the vanity. I told her The Suitor was great. Her face was flush, whether it was from excitement, wine, or amour, I couldn’t say.

She asked, me if I REALLY liked him. I assured her I did. Next she said something that completely surprised me. She told me what I thought really mattered to her. I felt humbled and speechless. The speechless part didn’t last very long. It’s odd describing how welcome I felt at that moment, because clearly the moment was hers. She was experiencing the same desire I felt in those early days dating her father. I told her it is important to me that both she and her brother are happy in their relationships.

We continued talking about The Suitor, Mister Hombre, the bliss of new love, and then she shocked me again. She told me it made her happy to see how happy her dad is with me. Wow. I know better than to look for validation. I don’t know if I can describe how awestruck I was to be hit between the eyes with it. It as a like that scene in As Good as it Gets when Jack Nicholson tells Helen Hunt, “You make me want to be a better man.” All this time, I felt like my relationship with his kids would be successful, if I was just tolerated.

Now I understand why women pee in pairs.

It is more enjoyable spending time outside when the temperature drops and the air isn’t saturated with humidity. The stickiness is nothing more than a tease, magnified by the falling water table and the rainfall deficit. It hardly seems fair for such diametrically opposed conditions to coexist, but life doesn’t always function in absolutes.

I was cutting the grass and thinking about the willdfires. While I absolutely detest mowing, weeding and trimming shrubs, I was acutely aware that I was damn lucky to have the burden. When compared to camping at Qualcomm Stadium and not knowing if your home was pile of ashes, pushing a mower seems rather benign.

I considered the people in California who will be starting over after the embers have smoldered, and tried placing myself in their shoes. I’ve accumulated a lifetime’s worth of stuff. What if I only had the clothes on my back and a few mementos from the past? I wonder, if I were relieved physical possessions, would I evolve into a better person?

Things distort our view of the world. Few in American society are immune to materialism. If I were less obsessed with technological conveniences, would I better appreciate the world around me? Mankind functioned for centuries without SUVs, cell phones, hell, even shoes, why can’t I allow two days to pass without checking my e-mail, or relying upon my microwave?

Simplicity. The years following college, I lived in an old duplex. The only grounded outlet was in the bathroom. My decorating style resembled refugee/garage sale. The furniture was either hand-me-down or reclaimed. Most of the time, I didn’t have a working television. I kept a broken one in my living room so friends wouldn’t pity me. I only had to track five bills a month. I never suffered from lack. All my needs were met. I appreciated what I had.

There’s a fine line, a place where stuff makes things easier and improves the quality of life, and on the other side, a darker place, in which we collect so much we no longer appreciate, much less, enjoy the things we have. Accumulation may elevate our status in terms of society’s class system, but do things really make us happier?

I’m not likely to abandon to all my possessions because I’m overcome by the weight of decadence, but I am trying to streamline my need for things. Consideration is given to things that no longer make my life easier and more fulfilling. Perhaps they will fill a void in someone else’s life, someone who needs, or enjoys the item for its function. If it becomes a status symbol collecting dust in their closet, so be it, I’ve no interest in judging them, only coming to terms with what I can live with in my own life.

I hope I haven’t left the impression that I believe those starting over after the wild fires will have it easier, having been stripped of the burden of things. I don’t believe it for a moment. An insurance check is hardly a suitable substitute for a house full of memories, photo albums, a bed room suit passed down from great grandmother, and the daunting task of starting over.

If you’re interested in more information about the fire locations and their status, here is an interesting resource.