And now Blog, meet the Neanderhobbit.

Yes. I said N.e.a.n.d.e.r.h.o.b.b.i.t. It’s a little word amalgamation I created to better describe my father-in-law the man that my husband’s mother is married to. You people have to know the Neanderhobbit so you’ll be ready for the reveal on Friday. The cliffhanger. Because if my pain isn’t funny to you people then I just don’t know what to do with you. This is a repost of a little something I wrote after our Christmas dinner last year.

So read on. Blog, meet the Neanderhobbit.

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I’m sorry did you just call me a Socialist AND fat?

People may wonder why oh why I would fight with my sweet husband about having dinner with his family for Christmas. Just because that whole trip to Jamaica was an elaborate plan to avoid any and all family time at Christmas. And even though it was well planned and nicely executed it ran the risk of the whole thing blowing up by a last minute invitation to dinner by his mother. I mean I know the poor guy lost his father this year. And his mother is cooking dinner. And all the players will be there: Scott’s mom and her husband, Scott’s sister and her husband Bubba, and their son Jordan. So why would I fight with him about going to one holiday dinner?

Yeah well…

I lost the fight so we went to dinner. But if you want to know why I waged the fight to begin with then read on.

The first thing you have to know about having dinner at my MIL’s house is that she smokes. I don’t mean she has a few cigarettes a day. I mean she’s a pseudo shut-in who’s been sitting at her spot on the couch chain smoking in that house for the past 17 years. The makeup of the air in that environment has been chemically altered. It’s thick. It burns your eyes and throat. When you leave her house the stink comes with you. Like Pigpen from the Peanuts. It sticks to the car seats. You have to wash your clothes. And take a shower before you go to bed. The cigarette smoke is an actual physical entity in the house. So there’s that. Which is nice.

Anyway, we get there and the girls will not pull their noses out of their respective Nintendo DS’s which is very rude and disrespectful and I don’t give a shit. Sure, I’ll have a beer. Wow, you don’t usually drink when you’re here. Yep, make it two. The girls are both sneezing from the smoke. My eyes are watering. My MIL lights up a fresh one.

My sister-in-law and her family show up and now the fun really begins. My SIL might be the sweetest person on the planet. It’s unconfirmed but I suspect it. She’s certainly the sweetest person in the room. Bubba, my infamous brother-in-law, walks in and immediately begins to show Tempel a series of pictures on his digital camera. Tempel is making a strange face. What are you showing her, Bubba? Oh. It’s a dear. In various dead poses being prepared to be mounted by the taxidermist. Great. This kid doesn’t want to kill a Christmas tree and you’re showing her the Faces of Death. Well played Bubba.

My 8 year old nephew is too excited to wait and tries to wrestle the camera away from his dad.

I wanna show em wh’I got!

You best git boy. Don’t go grabbin’ at m’camera! You’re like tuh break it. Here, now you cain show em.

Jordan shows the girls a photo of himself sitting on a four-wheeler. Tempel says, So you got a tractor?

No! Gah. Is’a fo’ wheeler!

Oh.

Scott is absolutely horrified. Mr. Safety is informing his sister that the four-wheeler is quite possibly the most dangerous thing they could have given to their son and that statistically they would have been better off giving the kid a chainsaw. This is not the last we’ll all be hearing about the four wheeler.

And dinner is served. Here’s another thing about eating at the MIL’s house. There’s never really enough food. She’s married to Michael. Who’s part German, part Hobbit. He’s a Neanderhobbit. It’s a rare and elusive breed. It eats a lot. It loves food. It takes pictures of food. There’s never enough food.

We get our small portions loaded up on our fine Chinette paper plates and our drinks in our large Styrofoam cups and squish together at the table. Paper plates. For Christmas dinner. Why.

The conversation was typical: I ain’t never seen people wearin’ tshirts uh’the president before. I’m sure this is being stated to give me proof that Obama is the anti-Christ since the anti-Christ is supposed to be such a popular fellow you know, before he leads us all to hell and damnation. Jordan is nodding along to whatever his parents say. You know Jordan, I voted for Obama. Blank stare. And now all of the rants he’s heard about his Aunt Carolyn being a wacko Socialist nutjob are confirmed. I ain’t never goin’ t’China. Why not Jordan? Cuz all them Chinese hate e’rybody and all they wanna do is shoot people. What are you talking about? Welp, them can make a folder for like 4 cents. I have no idea what the cheap cost of labor has to do with anything but you know the Chinese, most of them, are just like us. They don’t hate anybody. Blank stare. Why am I arguing with an 8 year old?

Read the following with an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent: Dem damn foreigners mit de fucking scarves und de fucking anti-Americans mit dat hate America. But Neanderhobbit Michael, just because someone is foreign, or Muslim, doesn’t mean they hate America. Dey shouldt become American or go back to deir where dey come from. But that’s the whole point of America is the freedom to believe what you choose without having to fear your government. Isn’t there room for everyone – and for tolerance – here of all places? But dey hate us and dey shouldt go away. Dere are stupid idiots everywier mit dem stupids. Now I’m arguing with a half drunk Neanderhobbit who keeps lapsing into German.

But the best part of my evening was when Bubba leaned across his Chinette and with a mouth full of food said in front of god and everyone, “So Carolyn. You gained what like ’bout ten pounds?”

Fa la la la laaaaaa