You Want A Menu? Here's Your Fucking Menu.
Mood:
loud
Topic: Rants
I have concluded that the holidays, my mother-in-law, and the first trimester of pregnancy are not at all a good, peaceful mix. People, if I make it through to Saturday afternoon, I am going to deserve a fucking Nobel Peace Prize.
(You don't really think of a mommy blog as a place you're likely to hear much of the "F" word, do you? Well, you're EXTREMELY likely to hear it in this one. And I am here to tell you that if you had to deal with my mother-in-law, you'd be saying plenty more than just the "F" word. My mother-in-law is a woman so infuriating that she could make St. Francis of Assisi kick babies.)A few weeks ago, when the Christmas discussions opened, MIL floated the idea that since her husband, Ben's stepfather, was in general against Christmas, we probably wouldn't see them Christmas weekend at all. Fine with me. We'd see them the weekend before, or the weekend after.
Sometime around last weekend, it then transpired that she wanted to come see us Christmas weekend. Fine. Christmas Eve, December 26, whatever. Okay with me.
During last week, it changed again -- she wanted to come on Christmas Day. I went slightly ballistic.
Now she suddenly decides this? I ranted and raved for an evening, then relented. Fine. Let her come Christmas Day. I will cook a turkey or a ham. Fine. Whatever. No sense fighting a woman whose will is like a bulldozer combined with several forces of Nature.
Over this past weekend, the final straw: She ANNOUNCED (no one invited her, of course) that she was coming down the day of Christmas Eve, SPENDING THE NIGHT, waking up with us on Christmas morning, and then going home during the day. Do you see how bad this is? This is bad because (1) our spare bedroom is being used for storage, she expects to sleep there, and we are going to have to spend HOURS OF TIME which WE DO NOT HAVE to clean it out before Friday; and (2) this is a woman who expects everyone, even family, to spend an hour showering and dressing before they appear each morning. And guess what? WE ARE GOING TO HAVE CHRISTMAS MORNING LIKE A NORMAL FAMILY WITH CHILDREN, which means the kids are going to get us up at daybreak, and we will all go downstairs forthwith, and we will not even have brushed our teeth, and my hair will be sticking up everywhere and I will not be wearing a bra, and NO WE ARE NOT GOING TO STOP AND BREW A POT OF TEA AND PULL OUT LITTLE FUCKING CHINA CUPS AND SAUCERS BEFORE THE KIDS OPEN THEIR PRESENTS. You hear that? A normal family. Disheveled, happy, in our pajamas. Whether she likes it or not.
So we pretty much got past all that. I informed Ben that clearly his umbilical cord was not yet cut, and it was clear who the female head of household was at our house, and it certainly wasn't ME, and if he moved any of the outgrown baby clothes, which I had yet to sort, out of the spare room and put them in THAT FILTHY GARAGE WHERE I WOULD NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN, I was going to strangle him with my bare hands. Loving talk like that. Finally we ironed it out, and I hissed through my teeth that
Yes, darling mumsie can spend Christmas Eve, damn it all to hell and back again.Is that all? That is not all. Last night Ben told me, "Mom wants me to call her tomorrow to
discuss the menu."
The MENU?
THE FUCKING MENU? Does this woman know nothing about me, or indeed about her son? We are the last people in the world who are going to PREPARE A MENU. She does, though. When we came over for Thanksgiving dinner, there it was, carefully handwritten out and magneted to the fridge: "Menu." And it listed everything, from the fucking hors d'oeuvres and cocktails right down through dessert and "choice of coffee or tea." Hello? WE HAVE TWO FULL-TIME CAREERS AND TWO FULL-TIME CHILDREN. MENUS ARE FOR PEOPLE WHO, I DON'T KNOW, DO NOT WORK AND HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO THAN SIT AROUND FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK PLANNING A SINGLE MEAL. MY FAMILY DOES NOT HAVE MENUS. MY FAMILY IS LUCKY IF THERE ARE CLEAN SOCKS.
I very sweetly told Ben that (1) the menu is WE DON'T KNOW YET, (2) she will NOT take over my house, plant her wrinkly ass in my kitchen, and start cooking from some insidious menu
she has prepared (the woman has no concept of CHILDREN and will attempt to serve some elaborate seven-course meal which is always on the table two hours late while the kids are expected to SIT STILL), and (3) she will eat what is put in front of her.
Don't you just love someone who expects you to change around your entire life and transform it into hers for 24 hours? Christ, and I can't even have any wine, which is usually essential for holidays with MIL. Merry Fucking Christmas. Holy shit.
Posted by Gretchen
at 9:34 AM PST