It's beginning to look a lot like ...

Yeah, I'm mired in the pre-holiday rush. It's not bad, though. All of the gifts are wrapped and ready. Well, except the few I'm still knitting. But that's fun. Much better than watching money take flight out of my wallet at the mall. The brisket for tomorrow's Christmas Eve dinner is ready (make-ahead = happy chef-type-person). There's still packing to be done and an errand to the pharmacy on my to-do list, but that's ok. I've got time to let the Allegra do its thing on my stuffy sinuses.

I have very little to say today, since I'm preoccupied with the impending holiday stuff. The three-hour drive tonight. Seeing my in-laws tomorrow.

Oh, my in-laws. I haven't told you much about them, have I?

If I were to be my most diplomatic, I'd say that I don't relate to them and they don't relate to me. We get along. There's never any arguing or fighting. There's just this ... gulch.

My in-laws are from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. It's a tiny area, surrounded by the Great Lakes, and filled with forests. Desolate, but beautiful. People from this part of the country call themselves Yoopers. Get it? U.P. Yooper. We realized a long while back that the main difference between a Yooper and a hillbilly is the accent.

The main difference between B.'s Yooper kin and my hillbilly kin, after the accent, is in our emotional responses to situations. More specifically, my hillbilly kin prefers to exhibit emotional responses. Often loudly, occasionally with firearms. B.'s Yooper kin tend to keep their emotions tightly under wraps, swathed in layers of small-talk chit-chat and prolific use of the adjective "nice".

Case in point: Shortly before our wedding, B's father underwent surgery for prostate cancer. He's fine now, 5+ years cancer-free. At the time of the wedding, though, he was undergoing hormone therapy that made him act and feel like a woman going through The Change. Personally, I found it refreshing, the wealth of emotions that came from my father-in-law. He even shed a few tears at our wedding.

On the way to the reception my mother-in-law pulled my mom aside. "I'm so, so sorry for G.'s outburst during the ceremony. I'm so embarrassed."

"What outburst?"

"He cried," gasped my appalled mother-in-law. "I'm so sorry."

"No, don't apologize," my mom said. "I couldn't hear him. Really. Not with all the sobbing and moaning and teeth-gnashing coming from the bride's side."

Not that my family was upset over the nuptuals. Hardly. We just sometimes get a little weepy and vocal in a joyful way. Sometimes that joy gets expressed by shooting firearms directly into the air with lots of hoopin' and hollerin'. See? The firearms aren't used just for the expression of negative emotions. Guns can be joyful, too.

My in-laws have met Clara Jane once, when she was a week old. Prior to her birth my mother-in-law let my mom in on a little secret: they were planning to pay us a surprise visit in the hospital.

Have I told you how much I fucking hate surprises? So does my mom, and she spilled the beans, knowing good and well that a surprise visit from my in-laws while I was at my most delicate and vulnerable might mean that I'd be forced to finish my hospital stay at a special hospital. A prison hospital.

B., who is a good son but an excellent husband, took necessary measures to ensure that G. and C. wouldn't be bursting into my hospital room during a catheter change.

Instead, they rearranged their vacation plans. Not to see us - oh, no. They just "happened" to move their vacation back a week at the demand of G.'s boss, and then just "happened" to be passing through St. Louis when Clara Jane was a week old.

They came all this way, just to tell us that our baby, their first grandchild, was, and I quote, "nice".

They stayed for a few hours, then claimed to head to their reserved room at the Super 8. We later learned that they spent the night with some friends of theirs who live here. Even had brunch with them before leaving town.

Now, I really didn't feel up to a visit with them, but come on.

They were supposed to visit us Memorial Day weekend, but cancelled a few weeks prior because of the skyrocketing gas prices.

I know my in-laws aren't rich. G.'s worked as an engineer for the same company since before B.'s birth. They've lived in the same little 3-bedroom ranch house since B. was little. They're not extravagant people. Far, far from it. Way far from it. So I don't quite understand how they couldn't afford to spend the extra $40 in gas to see their only grandchild. Nor do I understand how they were able to go on vacation to North Dakota in September if they couldn't afford the trip to St. Louis.

There are many things I don't understand about my in-laws. Many, many, many things. So many things that my skull threatens to burst if I even begin to contemplate all the things I don't understand about them.

So, they're coming for Christmas. My mom, bless her, invited them, so we'll all be in my hometown together. My parents get along with my in-laws, so having everyone together is good. I'm not left with trying to keep them entertained, which could be the task that might give me that final little nudge over the edge. I'm not sure why, because in the times when they've visited us, their favorite thing to do has involved watching our neighbors from the living room windows for hours on end. That's much better than going to the Missouri Botanical Gardens.

The Yoopers and the hillbillies, all together for Clara Jane's first Christmas. It's times like these that I wish alcohol was permitted at our family gatherings. I really, really do.