Y'all remember the notebook, right? The handy dandy, my-entire-life-is-in-this-notebook, notebook? From graduation? And it has my 2010 goals in it and all that other jazz? Well, I had to dig it out the other day - I needed to make a list - a new list - and I noticed my last entry in it was dated 5/28/10. What.the.fuck. There was a time when I relied so heavily on that notebook that not having it at my fingertips for even an hour threw me into a major panic. And here it was - not used for several weeks. But now - - - a new event is impending and I must return to my safe place - the notebook.
The brothers-in-law are coming to visit this weekend. They haven't been to our place for two years and we haven't seen them since we visited them last summer. So this is a big.fucking.deal. Not as big as the health care reform act, mind you - but kind of like that. So many things to do - so much shit to buy. So many plans to be made, lists to be written. And my mind is just reeling. As the 4th of July celebration rapidly grows from an intimate family party to a full blown fucking kegger. (I'm not really buying a keg - but it might be cheaper - but it gives me a horrible headache - so no. I'm not going there). It's hard to be popular and in demand at times. When people ask what we're doing for the 4th - "We're having a party!" Which must be, obviously, immediately followed with, "you should come over!" It will be fun! I'm looking forward to. But I admit - I am currently having my normal guest anxiety - the stuff where I run through my mind how all these different people from different walks of life converge together on my deck. Ultimately - I'm just worried that they all have fun and enjoy themselves. And for some strange reason - I own that responsibility. When in reality - it's THEIR responsibility to engage with others and make their own fun. But alas, I feel as though it's my job to ensure a good time is had by all.
And therein lies the root of my stress. And need to make lists. Lists that include tasks that involve making other lists. Tasks like: Menu. Grocery List. You know- in case I was too stupid to remember that determining the menu would then require a grocery list. Thank GOD I have it written down so I don't forget it all. Then there are the things like - where will they sleep? Do we have a decent set of towels? Pillows? And the laundry - the sheets and pillows and blankets must all smell like downy fresh bliss because when the brothers pass out after a long day of drinking in the sun - this shit really fucking matters. It does. On the list it says: DO NOT DRINK TOO MUCH. I hope to fuck someone pins that on my chest or tattoos it on my wrist so I can continually be reminded of that throughout the day. And then there's the other list - the one the husband makes: Trim trees. Yeh. I'm pretty fucking concerned about the trees right now. And the arguments that lead up to the party - WHAT TO EAT? The mother-in-law decided on tacos. Cheap. Easy. Make ahead. Eat when you want, as many times as you want. The husband cries. He wants grilled food. But he'll get to drinking and playing and forget to grill the food so someone else will have to do it. Or he'll start the food on the grill and get busy drinking and playing and burn the shit out of the food. He always wants something that requires I spend 90% of my day in the kitchen prepping or cooking the food. Fuck it. We're having TACOS. Case closed.
I will spend Friday cleaning that fucking hell hole of a house of mine. And he will meander around outside - tyring to look busy. Doing things like changing out the nails on a board because he didn't like the way those other nails were looking. And by the time the brothers arrive - we will be close to killing each other. It's how it works. I'm used to it. I know what to expect. But it will ALL be NEW to him - he will act as if we've never gone through this before. And I will have to explain it all to him AGAIN. And he will nod. And agree. And then cuss me as I leave the room.
LET THE FUN BEGIN!!!!
UPDATE: OH - and would it be possible to have ONE complete conversation with the husband without an interruption from his fucking cell phone ringing and him answering it? Jesus Christ. He's worse than an old woman on the gossip chain.