On Thanksgiving Seating Charts

My husband and I are hosting Thanksgiving for the very first time next week.  He says we should make a seating chart.  I disagree.  Are you pro-seating chart?  Janice, Star Valley, Wyoming

Janice, I used to hate Thanksgiving seating charts.   The less government, the better, right?       

But four years ago, Secretary of Labor Hilda Solis started showing up to my place for Thanksgiving. 

This woman ruins my Thanksgivings.

I never invited her.  Neither did my wife.  She just shows up and is – as Howard Dean puts it – batshit insane. 

I am 10,000% serious.  Hand to God, Janice.   

First off, she always shows up early.  Dinner is at 4 p.m.   No one shows up until 3 p.m., not even my kids.  Hilda is at our place by 2 p.m.  My wife Jill is still doing her makeup, or I’m vacuuming.  But Hilda doesn’t mind NOT KNOCKING ON THE DOOR and just PLOPPING ON THE COUCH. 

Does she offer to help with anything?  No.  Hilda watches Judge Judy and tries to guess the verdicts.  And she drinks my good vodka.    

Plus, we have to hear about her timeshare in Key West.  “It’s sooooo pretty.  You guys really have to come with me sometime, Joe.”  I shine her on, but get the message, lady: I’M NEVER GOING TO KEY WEST WITH YOUR CRAZY ASS.        

Then there’s her perfume.  It’s so damn strong that I get a headache.  Every year, I politely pull my wife into our kitchen and ask, “Can you please wipe her down with an old rag or a Brillo pad or something?” 

Jill always says, “She is our guest.  I can’t do that.”

I say, “Yes, you can!  No one invited her!”

By now, at least two of our kids are also in the kitchen laughing at me, because they think the whole thing is hysterical.  So now I’m telling my kids to go f*** off, and then Jill’s mad at me.  ME!  I flip my kids the bird and they laugh even harder. 

And my head is still throbbing from whatever combination of potpourri and elephant-turd essence that Hilda’s wearing. 

And you know what’s worse?  She has to translate grace into Spanish AS I’M GIVING IT.  Do I have a problem with the Spanish language or Latinos?  Good lord, no.  Viva la Raza.  But no one in my family speaks Spanish.  And HILDA SPEAKS PERFECT ENGLISH.   

Here’s how it goes:

ME:  Dear heavenly Father.

HILDA: What I just said, but in Spanish.

ME: Thank you for the food we are about to enjoy together as a family.

HILDA: What I just said, but in Spanish.

Then there’s total silence for ten seconds while I try not to go insane.

ME: Thank you, Amen.

HILDA: What I just said, but in Spanish.        

Make the chart, Janice.  And guess which Vice President will eat Thanksgiving dinner alone in his garage this year.