Severe Torture Test

They've created this thing called (I am not sure how it pronounced exactly) a calendar. It is a fascinating device, designed to assist us in recognizing days of the week, weeks of the month and months of the year. Truly a useful device for those who want to utilize such a thing, but there are still individuals out there who refuse to give in to such modern technology.
Aparently, Kim is one of those who doesn't see the need to conform, and accepts the calendar as kitchen decor, but doesn't necessarily recognize the utilitarian nature of such a concept. We, in fact, have about five calendars in the house right now--our standard pepper kitchen calendar, a coca-cola commemorative calendar, the truly wonderful one that Hunter made for Kim for Christmas with all the months decorated with colorful construction paper and a couple of other assorted ones sprinkled about in a junk heap around the house. I believe that we are not unique in this array, as most people also have numerous calendars cluttering up the landscape of their homes.
The strangest thing is that over the holidays, one of the most popular gifts that Kim sends to her family members are pre-filled-out calendars. In other words, she writes in everybody's birthday and anniversary and sends them to her brothers, her father, meemaw, etc. so that they won't miss out on sending a card to one another. It is a very thoughtful thing to do, and what I have come to expect out of Kim. In this regard, Kim gets the whole concept that defines the calendar--important moments of the year placed conveniently on the day that they actually occur. If any of you can recall a time that Kim forgot a birthday or anniversary, I challenge you to come forward--I thought not.
But beyond the birthdays and anniversaries that create the backdrop, a calendar can also be used for appointments, trips, school holidays, vacations and so forth. Here is where the grey area occurs in our world. You see, if you read about our winter visitors from a couple of weeks ago, most people would assume that once we had the dates of our guests' arrival, we would put them down on the aforementioned calendar and provide that information to others if necessary. For example, if your brother in law was going to drop his three kids off at your house for a week while he and his wife ran off to Hawaii, you might want to have the dates for such a week clearly marked on the calendar (here is the utilitarian thing I was talking about earlier). By marking it down, you might prevent somebody else (let's just say for argument's sake, the benevolent, beloved, bedloving Grampa G) from booking his flight for the exact same week. Providing accurate information in this situation assists us in spreading out the torturous nature of houseguests. Not providing said information has the adverse effect and causes the houseguest torture quotient to increase exponentially.
So in about ten days, we will experience a confluence of human arrivals so rigorous and beyond comprehension that I am uncertain as to whether or not we will survive until all parties return to their homelands. Here is the current ensemble of visitors: Uncle Khris and Aunt Christy will arrive via Dodge Ram 1500 on Wednesday afternoon, February 1st. They depart the following day for Hawaii and Grampa G arrives at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport on an America West flight from Tampa at around 6pm. Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Superbowl Sunday, we have a 9-year-old girl, an 8-year-old boy (that one is ours), a 7-year-old boy, a 3-year-old girl (also ours), a six-MONTH-old girl, and a Grampa G (ageless one) that we are responsible for entertaining and feeding concurrently.
Allegedly, Dad is going to stay at Aunt Shari's, borrow the Opamobile for the week (I'll drive that thing with the Hemi) and come over here to spend time with the kids whenever possible. Hunter and Lauren will be trapped in the middle, trying to entertain the kids as best they can and still give Grampa G the attention that he needs at the same time. Most likely they will fail miserably in this endeavor, will offend somebody, and find themselves getting yelled at for no good reason other than our inability to read the calendar in the first place.
As far as my world goes, I am completely screwed regardless of what I do. This is a foregone reality and I will explain:

1. If by some miracle, I am able to get more than one or two days off during this time, I will either be spending too much time with Grampa G or not enough time with Grampa G (this of course is dependent upon the individual making the accusation, Shari, Kim or Grampa G himself)
2. If by some miracle, I am able to get more than one or two days off during this time, I will not be doing enough to take care of the five screaming children overwhelming my home. Kim will be absolutely ready to strangle anybody under five feet tall each day that I do get home from work, but realizing that killing one of your own might be construed as the "wrong thing to do," I will make sure to wear a couple of extra layers of collar, just in case she decides that I would be a convenient outlet for her newly discovered murderous tendancies.
3. Shari utilizes the weekends for sleeping. She tries to collect at least 60-70 hours of much needed rest from Thursday night until Monday morning. Having Grampa G there to interrupt this sleep pattern is a nuisance that she has no intention of allowing to interrupt her slumber. She will be ferreting him out the door in the early morning, encouraging him to spend the time with his grandchildren. By the time I get home in the early evenings, Kim will have had the additional joy of Grampa G in his black socks, tighty whities and wifebeater berating her parenting skills as she tries to navigate the five monkeys who have been climbing on her like a jungle gym for the past 10 hours of bliss. The "you are going to die a painful death" look that I will be receiving as I walk in the door to become the tackling dummy for the remainder of the evening will rip through me.
4. The weekend that this takes place is Superbowl Weekend. Now, many of you may not realize this, but I do enjoy football just a bit. Trying to find the opportunity to watch the big game may prove to be my final undoing--going to a Superbowl party (heaven forbid) would probably create a situation where I found myself locked out of my house when I returned. Actually, Kim is more clever than that--she would find a way to sucker me into going into the house with all of the houseguests and would lock us all in and escape herself. There is no way that she would let me get away from the torture chamber that easily.
5. This weekend also is the FBR/Phoenix Open golf tournament. Over the last four years, I have been stuck working all week during this weekend because we were the host hotel and golf course for the event. Now that I am working across town, I still have my connections at the other hotel, but don't have the obligation to be at work the entire time. In effect, I would have carte blanche at the golf tournament--free food and drink, clubhouse passes, interaction with the golfers, premium seating and so forth. Esch is probably coming down from Oregon for the weekend to enjoy the event the same way, but if I even mention wanting to get away for some golf (playing or viewing), I might as well donate my testicles to science because I would find them being removed with a butter knife later that evening by my doting and understanding wife.
6. If Esch does come to town and I don't get to play golf, view golf, watch the superbowl with friends, etc., I will no doubt turn into a whining little bitch myself and make everybody around me even more miserable than they already are. This is a sure recipe for disaster. Kim will be doing everything in her power to remain calm, friendly, accomodating, motherly and welcoming over the course of this loooooong weekend. Having a cranky jackass for a husband is probably not the smartest thing I can do to endear myself to her.

There are probably at least a dozen other things I can list here, but you get the point. The bottom line is that Grampa G will come in here with his own style and panache, thinking that mentioning how we screwed up the dates three or four thousand times will be really funny. Kim will act as nice as she can, laughing politely and taking the banter with all the goodwill she can muster. Each night, as Grampa G returns to Shari's and does his best not to interrupt her sleep, Kim will grab me by the face and say something sweet like, "If he (bleeping) tells me one more time that I need to learn how to read a (bleeping) calendar, I am going to crush his (bleeping) larynx. I swear to freaking God, that man is going to find himself buried deep beneath Gavilan Peak. How many (bleep--bleeep-bleeping) times do I need to hear about how I screwed up his weekend? Holy crap--does he think this is fun for me? When does he go home?"

"Um, today is Thursday, so we just have like four more days of this."

Good times, good times. So if nobody hears anything from me after February 4th, 2006, start the search for my remains in my backyard. Kim is suddenly fascinated with the art of composting, and I am fearing for my life.