The turkey was in the oven. Why they were having turkey was beyond him. It was Christmas Eve, and everyone knew ham was the definitive Christmas meal. Not turkey.
Everyone except her.
She also didn’t know that the antipasto started at five, served properly – not buffet style, and dinner was at six. She had invited everyone over at noon, with plans for a turkey dinner at two. It was like she had never gotten the memo on how to be a good hostess.
But that was Sandra.
Everything her way because if she’s “doing all the cleaning, the shopping, the decorating, the cooking, and the invites,” then it’s going to be her way. If he wanted to throw a party his way, he could. He could do all of the prep work. The way she did all the prep work. Like she was a martyr. When really, she could have compromised. She could have taken my mother’s recipes – or Heaven-forbid her help – instead she just goes and does whatever she wants.
If I did whatever I wanted to, especially with our money she’d be pissed. She would tell me we could have talked it over and saved, budgeted accordingly. That if there was a plan we could have stayed within a reasonable amount, assuming that I would have splurged or spent more than necessary. Like there were limits.
Maybe I wouldn’t be so angry if she hadn’t taken the money out of our savings for her new kitchen. Sure, the stove had broken and half the fridge’s state of the art features from a dozen years ago didn’t work, but did she need to use every penny of it for the new kitchen? No, she didn’t. She swears she mentioned her plan, but she’s just covering her own ass. She keeps our books, manages her own accounts and the joint one, contributes more to the joint than I do but only from a ratio standpoint. But none of that makes hers, at least not hers alone. Even if she mentioned her plan, it wasn’t like there was a conversation about it.
Everyone thinks it’s so easy to live with a planner, a saver, someone so independent. It could drive a person crazy. Every time she assembles a piece of furniture or fixes anything around the house, she keeps the extra materials. Because they could serve a purpose one day. Sure, maybe if she’s planning on building a bomb.
She probably doesn’t even realize that I’m smart enough to make my own. Sure I’ve never done it, but literally anyone could. You just take a little of this and some of that, or is it. . . There’s a million videos on YouTube. I’m already half way through this one, already I can hear her in my head, “you know, if you just did this, it would probably work better.” Or my least favorite, “project! You want some help? I love to get my hands dirty,” with that over exaggerated wink. As if, Sandra.
I look down at what I’ve made. For a moment, I can’t believe I did it. I made a fucking bomb. It’s just sitting here in my hand. It’s like a child’s bomb. Nothing serious. I look up how to set it up to a timer. It’s pretty easy, and of course, my wife, the sound of it makes me gag, would have all the extra supplies I need. She’d probably explain how to make it a Big Boy bomb… at least it will scare the shit out of her when I’m at my mother’s for Christmas tomorrow, having an actual Christmas dinner with ham and cutlery.
“Honey, my parents are here. Whenever you’re done in the basement, come on up. I’m just going to show them the renovations I did on the guest bedroom!”
Her fucking parents. They’re cool, but they thinks she’s amazing for whatever reason.
Grabbing another beer from the basement fridge, along with the tinkerer’s toy I made, I head upstairs. I glide the device to the toe of the toe of the stocking, leaving it there in wait to be covered by chocolates in the morning before I leave.
“Putting something in Sandra’s stocking, are you?”
“Oh Gram, I didn’t realize you were here too,” I say as I turn around, now nose to chest with the face of future Sandra. I look down into her eyes, “How lovely,” I add. “Yeah, it’s sure to knock her socks off.”