And God Bless Us, Everyone!

Merry F'n Christmas from Kathy the Cake Eater

Hi there, my very few devoted Cake Eater Llamabutcher's readers. It is I, Kath the Absentee Cake Eater. I'm sure the newbies in the audience are wondering who the hell I am, while the few longtime readers Robbo and Steve-o have managed to keep over the years are disgruntedly muttering, "What the hell is she doing over here?" Well, to kill the proverbial two birds: I'm a pal of the boys from waaaaay back, and Robbo has graciously allowed me to throw up one post about the hell that is soon to be my Christmas holidays with my in-laws You see, normally I would post about this over at my blog, but since the husband told the in-laws where to find said blog, that avenue of angst-removal has been removed. So, it's either get it out over here, or I'll be forced to go and buy copious amounts of liquor (they're teetotalers, so I'd have to buy it for myself) and get drunk while visiting so I can tell them what I really think of their hospitality.

I think we can all see where it would be wiser to bore you to death with a blog post, eh, my devoted Llamabutcher readers?

Anyway, you'll have gathered that I don't have the best of relations with my husband's parents. While they're good people at heart, I just don't get them. I don't get their behavior, or how they prioritize their values. I don't get how they manage to live their life wrapped snugly in bubble wrap, the world outside their door never penetrating past the strapping tape. I don't get how judgmental they can be, and how holier-than-thou they are when viewing other people's lives. And I really don't get why my mother-in-law hasn't jettisoned her circa-1973 living room furniture, or at least had it reupholstered to something that would have been fashionable in the mid-90's. After twelve years of marriage, I've given up on getting them. It's simply not worth my time to come to some understanding of them. I've tried and I've failed. I don't really have a problem with this and the husband is smart enough not to push it. We somehow manage to coexist peaceably, our mutual love of their son keeping things on the polite side of the equation...except when we have to visit. Then, it becomes a matter where my tongue bleeds from biting it to keep the peace. I'm always glad when we leave. Life can return to normal, and where I can have my usual two glasses of Chardonnay in the evening and not be accused of "having a drinking problem."

We're flying out to visit them later this evening, and there is already one matter on which I've been told to keep my big fat mouth shut and that is Christmas Dinner.

To attempt to make a long story short: the mother-in-law's immediate family lives near to their southern Arizona location. Ever since the in-laws moved to the great southwest six years ago, her family has volubly rejoiced that they can stop freeloading off their parents (for whom they are waiting to die, so they can cash in) and can now start freeloading off the in-laws. (This move is meant to keep their parents from disinheriting them for being freeloaders, or so I'm told.) This hasn't made my father-in-law very happy over the years, but the mother-in-law thought she couldn't say 'no.'

Until now.

Apparently, she decided not to cook a traditional Christmas dinner this year to make her point. I'm actually pretty proud of her for growing a spine in the face of her two brothers' abject and well-documented worthlessness. BUT...I'm not exactly pleased that she chose our visit to make this point. Why? Because she's serving SLOPPY-FREAKIN'-JOE'S for Christmas dinner.

Yes, you read that right: she's killing the fatted can of Manwich for her son's visit.

When we heard this we were, understandably, torn. The mother-in-law rarely stands up for herself, and we think this is good in the scheme of things. But, the thought of eating freakin' Sloppy Joe's for Christmas (CHRISTMAS!!!) dinner kind of pissed us (read me) off. We offered to pay for and cook Christmas dinner. She, of course, refused, mainly because she hates us puttering around in her kitchen, not because of any further spine-growing on her part.

So, when families across America will be sitting down to a Turkey dinner with all the trimmings, we shall be sitting down to (paper) plates of Soppy Joe's, replete with chips and apple slices. While this will undoubtedly be good for my waistline, it makes me feel very much like Scrooge, wondering what, precisely, is the point of "celebrating" Christmas without the turkey and enjoying the tryptophan coma that follows? If you're going to do it, do it right. That's always been my motto and serving Sloppy Joe's for Christmas dinner is not doing it right in my book.

Hell, even Scrooge had turkey for Christmas dinner. The bugger's one up on me this year.

Ah, well. C'est la vie, no? I sincerely hope I can keep my chardonnay away from the freeloaders and that my consumption doesn't go through the roof in the meantime.

Have a very merry Christmas, my fellow Llamabutcher readers, and if you're having turkey for Christmas dinner, have a drumstick for me.

YIPS from Steve-O: The Return of Kath the Cake-Eater for the traditional airing of grievances? It's a Festivus Miracle!

12/25 UPDATE or the "IT'S OVER WITH, THANK FREAKIN' GOD, IT'S OVER WITH" UPDATE

So, I'm down here in southern Arizona, about ten miles from the Mexico border, where freeway signs listing distances are denoted in kilometers, not miles. Mass last night was in English, but all three masses this morning were in Spanish. I had tamales for lunch yesterday and later in the afternoon, the cashier at the grocery store looked at me oddly when it became apparent that I had no working knowledge of Spanish. (And here I thought that "Do you take Visa?" was universal. Not so. It really isn't everywhere you want to be. Now point me to a lawyer so I can sue them for false advertising.)

Yet, despite all that, today we still managed to have a typical midwestern meal, with typical midwestern folk.

Hell, we even managed it twice.

The same meal that is. My mother-in-law's now infamous Sloppy Joe's were served to us not once today, but twice.

Today, I have come to the conclusion that I have no need for Dante to come back from the dead so he might muster all his creative forces to imagine a new circle of hell for me; I simply needed to visit my in-laws for Christmas. Where Sloppy Joe's were served for the noon meal, which most people call "lunch" but which the average midwestern retired farmer (aka the husband's grandfather) calls "dinner." The leftovers from this lunch were served for "supper" at five-thirty this afternoon.

Over chat about cockroaches and cow pies with the occasional racist epithet thrown in for spice.

My mantra for the day was "Chardonnay and Marlboros are your friends." And believe you me, I spent as much time with my "friends" as I possibly could today.

So, suffice it to say, I hope you all had a very merry and gastronomically satisfying Christmas.

Because I sure as hell didn't.