Carole’s Neighborhood

6 weeks to 37 weeks gestation
Originally uploaded by sarahsflickr.

You're invited to a Baby Shower!!!

For Sarah
on Saturday, February 3rd
at 12:30 pm., Tucson, Arizona time.

To attend, please:
1) Create a gmail account if you don’t already have one.
2) Send your gmail address to Ron at: ron@stamant.org
3) On Saturday, log on to gmail chat and Ron will invite you to our new blog pals chat room. If you have any questions on how this works, email Ron.

Don’t know what time it is in Arizona? Try this link: http://www.timezoneconverter.com/ and look for America/Phoenix.

Sarah and Baby are registered here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/registry/wishlist/15WLPJG8Y8EEP/ref=wl_web/

Pumpkin Shell Pirates
Originally uploaded by Life in the Pumpkin Shell.

Don't make me get Pi-RATE!
hahahahahahaha

(Ignore me. I'm drunk.)
((No she isn't.))
(Shut up, Sybil.)

Scroll down for Secret Santa info.
And don't forget to send me your family photos!
That is all.

What a great intro to my latest rant:

Wife Dreads Annual Tension of Holiday Family Gathering

DEAR DREADING CHRISTMAS: You have to compromise because, when you married your wonderful husband, you blended your family with his -- obnoxious and pretentious as they may be. You compromise because marriage IS compromise. Keep the spirits bright by keeping the atmosphere as light as possible -- and your in-laws separate from your parents. And remember that the illusion of the "perfect family" is just that -- an illusion.

Bah Humbug! What crap! Keep things light? How? A game of Twister? Caroles and Cool Whip? What's the secret recipe for keeping things light over the holidays? That IS the whole bloody problem, is it not?
And keep the in-laws separate?
"Yeah, come at 8, but leave by 2. We've got the second shift coming in and you just don't play well with others."

These in-laws come to this poor woman's house every year because the OTHER sibling refuses to have them. "Obnoxious and pretentious as they may be," so why do THEY get all the compromise? Tell me. Tell me why obnoxious people always get what they want over the holidays?
TELL ME!!
Nah, Abby. I'd tell this woman that her "wonderful" husband should suggest that his parents split the years to every other, and if that means the folks sit alone bitching at each other on the even years because the other sib respects the feelings of his wife, then perhaps that would be good for them.
It worked for Scrooge (sort of).

My rant:

Once upon a time, I loved the holiday feasts like everyone else. But since then, a matriarch and patriarch have died, and the new holiday traditions have yet to be set. I’m most willing to figure something reasonable out, but damned if I’m gonna be Sarah Jessica Parker's character in The Family Stone the rest of my life.

Some people get the flag. If you're flagged, you know what I'm saying. Those who get assigned deviled eggs and pie if they're lucky, but arrive (Late. Tsk tsk. Because dinner's at 1 and you live two and a half hours away, with two children to juggle, three pets to handle, and a husband who always knows how to shower and shave and be standing at the door with a confused 'Why aren't you ready?' look on his face)...you arrive with pie in hand, only to see six other 'just couldn't help myself' pies lined up, each one monogrammed for each male's particular favorite.

"I used egg whites to make the crust glisten. I pinched every pinch with a heart full of love, anticipating my family gathered around my table..."

There is, of course, no pie with your initial on it if you’re flagged.
Who gives a shit what your favorite pie is? And if you're used to a particular dish for the holidays, TOO BAD. Get up at 5 am and make your own scalloped corn in the special heirloom dish, travel it two hours in the backseat with the dogs (put them in the kennel, then!), or shut up and deal with what you get. Which I do. Just saying. When the, “I made your favorite” gets going, there ain’t nothing on the table that says, “Like Grandma used to make,” to me.

Boys don't notice shit like that. When the women they love get the feminine snub.
They're so easily manipulated by their stomachs, and say things like, "Pecan pie?? Do I have to wait?” Sniff sniff. Drool drool.
Giggles. Smack with the dish towel.
"Oh, Silly. You have to save room for your favorite!"
"TURKEY AND NOODLES!?!"

sigh. big effing deal. damn Pavlov.

Second string pie gets put behind the others on the counter, no neon displays, no basting sauce or hand tooth picked smiley face. Just a goddamn boring ass pie.

Your pathetic pie is second pie. ‘The pie that goes home with the baker’ pie. The 'Thanks, but no thanks' pie for women who don't yet have a spot in the kitchen.

Or worse, it's the pity pie.
"Look! No one ate a piece of Ange's pie! Someone come eat a piece of this Ange pie. Nobody?  Tom? It's a rule you HAVE to eat your wife's pie. You're stuffed?? Well, understandable since you made mince-meat of my mince-meat." Tee hee. Har har.
Pat on my shoulder. The, 'It's just not your thing,' pat pat.

I was baking when I was seven so I burnt out on baking for love a long time ago.
It's just not my thing to go waving my pie in everybody else's faces. Men eat the pies that are screaming out, "Eat me so my baker knows you LOVE ME!" And that's fine. Eat my pie or don't.

I’ll stop with the pies.

If you're flagged, you offer to help and get told in front of everyone else that there is absolutely nothing left to do (except everything). Maybe you get a bone of, "Set the table." The big kid job.
*An aside here.
She was a bridesmaid in MY wedding.  My job for hers was to hand out bubbles with the ten-year-old flower girl.
Sure, yeah, this woman respects me.

Moving on.

After setting the table, you linger, getting the occasional butt bump, slam of oven door, panicked expression of, "Just clear the room right now! It's GO time!"
You try one last time with something you know they want; "You must be so tired."
One quick hint of 'FINALLY,' then, "Been up since 3 am two days ago," curt response and a 'talk to the back' turn because the yeast risen rolls just dinged in the 'no place for non-bloods' kitchen.

You shrug, having tried your best, and start talking to other beloved guests. You forget your place and enjoy catching up, which leads to the side glance glare of, 'must be nice not having to cook.' Especially if you’re talking to men and the men are laughing. The hostess's husband is laughing. That’s always just a no-no.

You try one more time to involve yourself in the kitchen conversation using the under cover glug glug tune of the 2 liter. Then you realize it's a topic by which you don't stand a chance; "I thought I'd use that passage for the Sunday school class this week, but in the meantime I'm finishing my quilt for the elderly couple on Elm Street."
"Old Man Figgery just loves your almond macaroons."
Waiting for the opening...and..."That's so nice of you to do so many things for other people," you say.
Staged look of, 'That's what Christians DO!'
Pause in conversation.
Ange grabs a handful of ice and starts hoping for the sound of a child in need.
"So how's work?" Uh-huh. Twenty minutes of boring detail, stretched out to sound like the hardest job on the planet.
"How's YOUR work?" Another twenty minutes of blah blah blah.

You've nearly snuck out the door, unnoticed, pretending you must grab a mixed nut off the sitting room table. It’s coming and you know it.

"Angie, how's TOM's work?"

Tom can't answer for himself because he's hidden outside in a man huddle talking about cars and incomes and whatever happened to so-n-so?

"He seems to like it," then extended discussion of info retrieved from lunch break conversations on his cell phone spanning the last nine months.
I'm no longer needed to fill in on how Tom is doing.
They just didn't want to be rude and not ask how my life is, but realizing I have no life, tossed Tom's life in there as consolation, see?

I can stand the heat, but I still get out of the kitchen before I end up saying something irreversible.
Because whenever I say something, it's somehow always so much nastier and unforgivable.
Truth be told, I've never said something too severe in this crowd.  Never-the-less, the bar is ever so much higher for me.

I once left the table during an anti-homosexual rant.
This caused confusion. I mean, how rude? Leaving the table, that is. But because they have Jesus in their hearts, they chose to forgive me.

There was wine this time, but I know better than to get started on wine.
Consumption is all right for the menfolk, and ladies with two day old pit marks streaking down on their 'Real women cook with love' apron.
But if you're an out-law dropping in with deviled eggs and you pick up a glass of wine (which is only useful after three) then proof is delivered.
"She's a lazy no-job alcoholic who can't cook. Poor Tom."

That's when you just want to strip down to nearly naked and announce, "It's time, Tom. Let's get it over with. It's my only real job, after all."

(I'm never ever getting an invite ever again to anywhere.)
Of course I’ve exaggerated, but that's only because I can't write about the real stuff.

Ever.

But knowing I’m flagged is still true. Knowing I’m an alien to the family traditions, and my involvement will never be required. I could try harder, but I’d have to convert to Methodist, lose several I.Q. points and surrender my self esteem. Even still, I’d still only be setting the table.

*I started this dang post at 7am. It's now 3, 5, 8, 9:17 pm, 10:24. Ugh.