Subtitled: The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

Well, everything’s falling apart over here, as usual. Out to dinner with Mr. Husband and his family last night and he casually mentions that he’s going to let his sister take my precious wee little Frenchy and her daughter and put them on some strange man’s lap and let a random photographer immortalize their fear and misery.

It was her idea, of course (Mr. Husband would never be that organized), but he is such a chicken that he only mentions it in the presence of his parents and in a restaurant where I can’t TEAR OUT HIS LIVER and eat it in front of him. I am very touchy about subjects regarding The Sister ever since she accused me of trying to ruin her wedding four years ago. I, Asshole have the memory of an elephant, as they say.

The Sister is not doing her daughter any favors with this stunt, either, since the child all ready looks like a Troll Doll on a good day. Put her next to Franny, who is frankly WB-ready, and some old guy dressed up as Santa, and KAPOW! the camera will crack with all the visual contradictions.

Mr. Husband’s sister is a big fan of the Importance of Traditions. I have seen the hallowed family album that features Mr. Husband and Sister on Santa’s lap, first as embryos and then as people old enough to put away a fifth of vodka apiece and remain standing. We must get together every year and BE HAPPY and CELEBRATE XMAS, which involves breaking the bank on escalatingly-extravagant gifts which everyone must open ONE AT A TIME, taking a minimum of four hours.

(Last year Mr. Husband and I tried to buck tradition and rip and shred and rejoice quickly, the way it’s meant to be. We were greeted with a cavalcade of dirty looks and everyone else just opened their presents extra slowly, to make up for our ridiculousness.)

The thing that is most worrisome is that Mr. Husband seems to be getting subsumed into all of this Hoo-hah. He says things like, “I don’t really care what happens, or what we do,” but I see him getting this dopey look on his face when his family makes sappy Christmas plans around him. This year he had the nerve to suggest that we purchase a Christmas tree.

“Hmm,” I said, as if I was actually considering it. “That’s sounds okay. I’ll make a list. Let’s see. A good tree will probably set us back…fifty. A tree that will be up for a couple of weeks. And we will need some ornaments. And some lights, and a tree topper. I don’t want an angel, so my vote is for a picture of Ayn Rand or Nietzsche. I’ll let you pick that one.

“We need something to hold up the tree, and to finish it off we need a tree skirt. I bet we can get away with spending about $150 or so.”

I smirked with satisfaction as Mr. Husband’s eyes bulged out.

“Huh. Maybe another time, then,” he conceded and went off to practice his horn.

I have learned that I never have to veto something outright, all I have to do is estimate the cost involved. Works every time.

“If you want that piney smell, burn some freaking candles,” my sister says.

Word to that.