I am so sick. I finally broke down and got adult cold medicine. For those of you who remember, adult cold medicine and I do not mix without involving rocking horse people eating marshmallow pies, if you know what I’m saying.
So I got Triaminic. And it did nothing.
So I got Tylenol day and night cold formula. The Heffalumps and Woozles agree with me, this stuff is faaaaabulous. I think that my cold will leave soon. I can only handle leprechauns for a few hours at a time, anyway.
…I grit them too much.
Sunday night was spent with Athena and Sophie making Koulourakia, Greek coffee cookies, for the reception. We made about a billion of the little buggers, and I was exhausted and frustrated by the end of the evening.
I’m making a concerted effort to not let Sophie get on my nerves. I’m making a concerted effort not to over-interpret her actions. It’s so hard.
It’s hard to not take it personally when she tosses my cookies (hah!) back into the dough bowl for not “looking right” when they look the bloody same as Athena’s. It’s hard to hear her phone conversations with Dimitri when she’s a) shocked that I am home in the evening and b) amazed that I cooked dinner. Of course, as soon as Dimitri tells her that we’re in the middle of dinner, rather than say “let me call you later, sorry to interrupt,” she asks him “is it any good?”
*sigh*
Last night was one my few off nights. I had planned a home-cooked meal and some home-cookin’, if you know what I mean. Sophie had told me on Sunday that she was spending Monday evening with Athena shopping for clothes to wear to the wedding, and like a damned fool I invited them over to dinner. Sophie asked if I could hold off dinner until eight, and I said yes.
Yesterday morning it occurred to me that in the ten years I have known Dimitri, I have never cooked for Sophie. Even at large family meal gatherings like Thanksgiving I am relegated to gravy or salad duty. I admitted to Dimitri that I was a little nervous about Her coming to dinner to eat my cooking. Dim said “She won’t say anything that I wouldn’t say about your cooking.”
Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Sophie has, like most Greek mothers, taken it upon Herself to become the Greatest Cook in the World. On nights that I work, Dim will call Her up around dinner time and ask what Her dinner plans are. Immediately, a pork roast, garden-grown salad, and piping hot vegetables appear on Her table, waiting for Her HGS (hungry Greek son) to partake.I can’t compete with that shit. That’s why the “any good?” comments on the phone stab at my fragile culinary ego.
Why did I offer to cook Her dinner? Am I some sort of glutton for punishment?
I spent the morning scrubbing the house from top to bottom, knowing that She will be inspecting from the second She gets in the house. Bathrooms sparkle. Dishes are done. Unidentified refrigerator orphans are thrown away. The lint trap in the dryer is devoid of fuzz (you never know, you know?) I’m going to impress this woman if it kills me, I think to myself, understanding that both elements of that conditional may be necessary to achieve the desired effect.*
I became a model of preparation: the salad greens were ready, the pancetta topping was already prepared, the chicken was marinating, the avocado and tomato salsa for the chicken was happily chilling in the fridge, and the veggies were in the microwave ready to steam. All pots and pans were scrubbed and put away. All that needed to happen was the arrival of Sophie and Athena and firing up the grill outside. Everything was in place and ready at 7:30, just in case She wanted to pop in early.
I needn’t have worried. 8:00 came and went with little fanfare. So did 8:10. And 8:20.
I mentioned to Dim that I thought it rather rude that a dinner guest a) move the dinner time to accommodate Her own schedule and then b) be hideously late for it without so much as a phone call. At 8:30, Dim called Sophie to see what the holdup was. She was still shopping, and would be there as soon as it was convenient for Her. She asked that the phone be handed to me. Good, I thought, She wants to do the right thing and apologize for being late.
Fat chance.
As soon as I’m on the phone, she says: “You had better not be pissed at me, because if you are, I won’t come to dinner.” I’m confused…is that a threat or a peace offering? “Sophie, I don’t think pissed is the right word.” Belittled. Marginalized. Furious. But pissed, not so much. “Good, then we’ll be there when we get there. *click*”
(Insert teeth grinding here)
Dim notices my clenched jaw and without needing me to relay Her side of the phone conversation says “you know, I’ve never known her to apologize for anything. It’s not in her nature.”
She traipses in at 9:10 and says hello and moves straight to inspecting the refrigerator, commenting on my lack of olives for Her martini. Hello Sophie, so glad you could make it.
Dim grills the chicken, we eat at 9:30, and She actually compliments my cooking. I tell Her that really means a lot to me, coming from Her. However, the two words I need her to say, She never says. The two words that were totally appropriate and totally deserved She won’t say.
(Insert teeth grinding here)
My parents raised a polite daughter. I never take the last portion of food without offering it to the group, and I never point out when someone’s behavior is particularly egregious, lest I make her feel uncomfortable about her making me feel uncomfortable. I continue to smile and be gracious and grind another layer of enamel off of my teeth.
This woman is driving me slowly insane.
Oh, and the home-cookin' never happened. I was too stressed out. Poor Dim.
*Actually, to be fair, the woman does not want me dead. But I have always suspected that she wanted someone better for her HGS.