The Swede’s father and his wife are coming down from Falkenberg to stay with us this weekend, and despite coming up with what I thought was a fool-proof game plan, it appears I’ve already lost the battle to be a proper host.
Dr. Darling: I just got off the phone with Dad, and he’s insisting that they will bring food and cook dinner here on Saturday night.
Me: Did you tell him we were planning to take them out to eat in the “Big City”?
Dr. D: Yes. But he said that wasn’t necessary.
Me: Did you explain how we thought this would give us more visiting time since nobody would have to spend time cooking or cleaning up?
Dr. D: Sort of…but he said we didn’t need to spend the money.
Me: That’s not the point. Besides, we can easily afford it.
Dr. D: I definitely told him that.
Me: Did you mention that we feel kind of insulted when they won’t at least let us feed them while they’re staying here?
Dr. D: I tried, but I don’t think he gets it.
Me: Does this mean they’re bringing their own sheets, too?
Dr. D: Probably.
Me: Gaaaaaahhhhh!!! This is ridiculous! So besides your getting a spine, what’s it going to take to get them to stop this routine?
Dr. D: Oh thanks a lot. Making fun of me isn’t going to help.
Me: Sure it is. Because now the next time they visit, you’ll be able to say that their unwillingness to let us act as hosts in our own home pisses me off to the point that we end up fighting about it, you big weenie.
Dr. D: So this name-calling is just you laying the groundwork for their future visits, then?
Me: Well, I know how much you hate to lie, buttmunch.
Dr. D: That’s Dr. Buttmunch, to you.