Dearest P,
I know this Christmas journey was my idea. Or rather hubby's grand plan, which I supported in the interests of avoiding the holiday at home. Escape all that fa la la la la nonsense and such. But here we are, back at the lovely resort we visited in March and I feel much like Bill Murray must have in his break-out role in Groundhog Day. Rise and shine, breakfast, exercise, sun oneself, cocktails by 11(am–oops that's my new routine starting today), etc. etc. etc. Who else but moi would ungratefully accept the hospitality of two nannies, fabulous scuba for the teens and a cleaning crew to get me through the day? So, in no particular order are my list of teeny tiny little grievances:
1) No hot water. Assume no further explanation required.
2) Allergic reaction causing face to swell like a balloon and noticed by no one else–apparently my family thinks I look like this all the time? Mega doses of allegra and prednisone seem to alleviate a few symptoms but fear my dry scaly face may now join the rest of my bloated outer self for all eternity;
3) Activities director WAAAY too enthusiastic about possibility that I will know answers to trivia questions. Already managed to lift his bottle of rum so have no need whatsoever for his presence in my life;
4) Too many pre-teen girls reading novels called "Model," while I grieve their lost youth and my own ancient feminist leanings;
5) Several families here for the 7th time extolling the virtues of Groundhog Day and explaining how content their children, spouses and annoyingly perkey selves are to be here;
My only hope is that I can help with your recent SOS. Seems to me the only mistake your are making in battling the Oldballandchain about who does the dishes dishes is in degrees of subtly. If I may be so bold as to suggest you simply need to take your battle underground to drive the OBC fucking crazy, I sincerely believe the children need not wake up crying about Mommy and Daddy fighting again in the middle of the night.
First, and this is a trick, you should briefly overwhelm your own darling cherubs with attention–what do they want to do, eat, play etc. Don't worry, it shouldn't last more than a few hours before they tire of you as they are so completely unused to this behavior. In the meantime, do nothing overtly concerning the OBC's bad behavior–simply ignore him. When he suggests a problem, muster all the self-righteousness you can manage (and I know it's a lot) and inform him that you are simply tending the needs of the family. Later, when asked about dinner, laugh sweetly and mention your plans for heading out–with the children if it comes to that. A single day of this, my sweet, and the man will be begging to scrub out your sink, I promise. I fear the OBC has you in such a state b/c he knows you ultimately seek to please–a quite nice trait in a friend but deadly in a marriage. Startle him out of this routine and I trust his most precious parts will soon be back in your clutches–to be stored in your purse or the refrigerator as you see fit.
Off to find that activities director. Fear my greatest pleasure this week may be hiding his props while taking swigs from that bottle I mentioned. Fa la la la la la la la la.
C.
