Why I Don't Drink Wine Wednesday #7 - Xmas Edition

When Greg and I moved to Ontario from out west we stayed with his parents for a while…..a long while. Ladies and Gentlemen, hold onto your seats for this little factoid:

I lived with my Mother-in-Law for TWO YEARS!

When we arrived here we had three things. A sixteen month old baby, an SUV we were trying to unload and a mountain of debt. The following is a list of what we did not have:

1)      Jobs

2)      Any semblance of household goods

3)      A Home

4)      Money

5)      Patience

6)      A plan

Someday I will tell you all about driving across the country alone to get here, someday.

Anyhoooooooo…..it is our Christmas tradition to spend Xmas Eve with Greg’s clan. Every year I get my marching orders from my beloved MIL, Wanda. You heard me, her name is Wanda. Wanda is the most giving, caring woman but there is one little thing about Wanda that is accepted by her family and has come to be accepted by us out-laws as well. Wanda is a CONTROL FREAK. Not as in, would like things her way, I mean demands that things are done in her time, on her schedule to her specifications and yes, they will be inspected. God help you if they don’t measure up. She also thinks that every other human being on the planet is completely mentally challenged and needs her help and guidance.

Cue Xmas Eve 2003. Dharma is told to bring scalloped potatoes. Not boxed, homemade. With 3 kinds of melted cheese. At least a large roasting pans worth. Lightly peppered and with coarse salt (not fine). I KID NOT.

She phoned me everyday for at least a week. Reminders of directions, questions on how I was coming along……”Did you buy Yukon Gold potatoes today?” The more she called, the more I seethed. I worked until noon that Xmas Eve and ran home already sweating about getting those potatoes into the oven. I had prepared them the night before layering them to Wanda’s instruction, I peppered lightly, I used the kosher rock salt, I grated 3 kinds of cheese….

As I toiled over them Xmas Eve afternoon and then while I waited for them to cook I started to drink a bottle of wine I had gotten as a gift at work. By 4 pm I had finished off the bottle, bitching about Greg’s mother to Greg the whole time. I was mad. I wrapped up the roaster in a bath towel (as instructed) and we bundled up the boys to go to Gramma’s place.

When we entered, she immediately swooped down upon me like waiting carrion. “So? So? How did they turn out? They’re not burnt are they? Did you set the timer like I told you?”

Seated in the kitchen were the great grandparents, little children spilling out over the kitchen nook and all my inlaws. I looked her dead in the eye (full of grape induced  courage) and said….

“I did exactly as instructed, since I’ve had nothing but INSTRUCTION since last Friday, Wanda. Here’s your FUCKIN’ potatoes”!!!!!!

 To this day, I have to bring the “fuckin’ potatoes every year. They were amazing. God damn it. 

Merry Xmas everyone.