I’m hosting Xmas dinner this year. By my count, there will be 11 of us. In my house. All at once.
Yesterday, I hit that point where I wondered what I was smoking when I came up with this idea. The cooking is one thing. I still have to make my kitchen timeline and oven schedule, but it’s doable. Totally. It’s the cleaning. That’s the part that sucks.
People tell you when you have young kids that you have to “let the unimportant things go.” For many of us, that means the house. Sure, you vacuum/sweep floors and wipe down counters like Daniel-san on crack. You don’t want your home to look like it belongs on Hoarders. You pick up toys to avoid broken toes/ankles/hips. But the finer points of housework? That’s where the system breaks down. To me, that qualifies as “unimportant” in my day-to-day life, behind such things as keeping my family fed, clothed, and reasonably clean, and paying bills. Clean baseboards < cooking dinner, you know?
Until something like this happens. Then the veil is lifted and I suddenly realize how awful my house is. So I swept and I mopped and I scraped up cat vomit – loads of it. The bastards must be eating tree needles, as their oral excretions have increased exponentially since the holiday season kicked off. I cleaned bathrooms. I got out the Magic Eraser and scrubbed the fronts of cabinets, baseboards, the walls. There was a random handprint on the wall in the hallway. It looked like grape jelly. WTF? I blame Felix. It corresponds to his height. Then again, it could be a relic from Stella.
I think in my mind I accept the patina of kid filth with the logic that once they hit a certain age, we can simply nuke the place, repaint, acquire more adult furniture, and move on with life as if this Grunge Age never happened. But it’s getting ridiculous. It’s getting old. Santa, I need a Roomba, a case of Magic Erasers, and about 6 more hours in a day, s’il vous plait.
We did bake cookies. We cheated even harder this year, and Crispi got some pre-made dough which was already rolled out into sheets for you. Think of what sugar-flavored wax would taste like and there you have it. Still, our cookies actually looked like cookies this year vs tumors. Maybe next year we can make actual dough. I guess that will all depend on my baseboards and the prevalence of jelly handprints.