Christmas Eve

Is there anything in life quite as awkward as a holiday spent with someone else’s relatives? If so, don’t put my name on the list of participants. I’ve had my share of awkward for this season.

The original plan was that the Professor’s grandmother would be making dinner Christmas Eve, which Daughters #1 and #2 would attend with their partners, and we would then exchange gifts after the meal. When we arrived at Chez Grandparents, however, we learned that plans had changed. The Prof’s Grandmother didn’t feel up to cooking. Colonel Grandfather had immediately taken over in grand ex-Marine style though, and had already made reservations at a local restaurant for 19:00. The Daughters had been called and informed of the schedule changes, and told to report to barracks at 18:00 so we could all leave for the mess hall together.

At 6:30, sorry, I mean 18:30 no one had yet arrived at the house. The phone rang, with daughter #1 at the other end. She and her husband had reported to the restaurant as ordered at 18:00 hours … where was everyone else? Colonel Grandfather immediately marshaled the troops at hand (with Grandmother bowing out at the last minute, saying she didn’t feel like going to the restaurant either) and we double-timed it over the restaurant, which was only a few minutes away.

We arrived to find Daughter #1 and husband seated at a table set for eight. Daughter #1’s spousal unit looked quite under the weather. Discussion immediately commenced as to who had said what about when and where. There was no sign of Daughter #2 and her boyfriend, which according to everyone was no great surprise, although the reasoning as to why she was not there differed according to whom was asked. (Colonel Grandfather said it was because she was following instructions and knew that reservations weren’t till 19:00, Daughter #1 said it was because Daughter #2 was always late to everything.) Bickering stopped long enough to allow for meals to be ordered, and then recommenced.

Shortly after meals were ordered, Daughter #2 and boyfriend appeared. They confirmed the story that instructions were to report the restaurant at 18:00 hours, and that they were just running late (apparently because they believed everyone else was going to be late). A check with the waitress confirmed that reservations were on the book for our party for 6:00 p.m. (the restaurant not being an advocate of military time). Daughter #1’s husband (who is apparently a bit of a gourmet) roused himself from his flu-induced stupor long enough to complain that he didn’t like this restaurant anyway, and then fell back into his coma.

Indeed, the restaurant was little more than a glorified diner and I don’t think anyone (except for possibly the Professor) left very satisfied with their meal. When we were finished, we left en masse to return to Chez Grandparents for the gift opening. The great debate as to what the original instructions were and who did or did not follow these instructions was never resolved.

Back at the barracks Colonel Grandfather was truly at peak form. Presents were campaigns to be fought and won as quickly as possible. He oversaw package distribution, ensuring rapid deployment and efficient coverage of the battlefield. After the blitzkrieg was completed, a search and destroy mission for wrapping paper and ribbons was begun. The philosophy behind Christmas at the Professor’s was apparently “take no prisoners”. The happiest participant was the Grandparents’ dog, who received a green stuffed frog that ribbetted when chewed on. They have told me this dog is some sort of breed of Chihuahua, but it really looks more like a cross between a Corgi and a shoebox to me.

It wasn’t long until everyone had departed with booty in tow to their respective abodes, and The Professor and I were left behind to help with what little clean up remained. Pressure was again applied for us to cancel our room at the motel and stay at the house, which the Professor professionally dodged without ever really replying to.

I’m thinking that next Christmas might be fun to spend in a predominantly non-Christian country. Preferably, one that isn’t at war.