I'll take mine on the rocks, please...

What would you do ...

... if ---

every time you visited the in-laws, your MIL spent entire days in the kitchen?

Like all day Saturday, preparing dinner for the whole clan.

And then again on Sunday, preparing a second dinner for the whole clan.

Because I'm the only family member (read: female) who's present during these elaborate preparations, I either spend my whole day in the kitchen -- "helping" -- or feeling like a lazy slob if I stay out of her way.

I don't mind cooking. Sometimes, I rather like mucking about in the kitchen, experimenting with new recipes. Most days, however, I would liken my efficiency in the kitchen to that practiced by women -- compared to men -- in the bathroom.

We go in when we have to go. If we don't need to go, we get off the toilet and exit.

Hubs, on the other hand, has read entire novels in the bathroom. He completes crossword puzzles. Contemplates world peace.

Which is we have the same argument every morning.

"Are you done in there yet?"

"Noooooo..."

"OK, either you have to go or you don't. So finish already!"

Which is wanted I wanted to yell on Sunday afternoon as MIL continued to labor in the kitchen. I wanted to wave the --- hey, what sort of kitchen tool am I allegedly using here? -- and yell, "Please, for the love of God, just finish already!!"

She starts puttering right after breakfast. We don't have lunch, because MIL is cooking and we are having a BIG dinner.

By 3 p.m., she's still going, muttering that if BIL and his wife, Perfect Linda, are late again, everything will be cold.

4 p.m. Still cooking. Still no BIL and clan.

By this time, chances are good she will have given me some task that involves sharp implements. She has clearly forgotten my amusing story about how I sliced off the tip of my finger while using a cheese grater just before a friend's baby shower. (I bled all over the hor'dourves.)

5 p.m. Still cooking. Still no BIL and clan. (But no blood.)

6 p.m. BIL and Perfect Linda arrive, along with two or three of her kids, BIL's four kids and two of his grandbabies.

Perfect Linda has it made She shows up with with macaroni and dessert -- and two babies -- and MIL fawns all over her.

They're three hours late? No problem.

By this time, I've spent the whole day drifting in and out of the kitchen, trying to decide if I'm of any use whatsoever or just a nuisance.

But back to Perfect Linda.

She's good. Real good. I remain in awe of her ability to deal with the in-laws. (I mean this in a complimentary way.)

For months after Perfect Linda and BIL married, I marveled at her serene demeanor each time they came over to the in-laws.

I mean -- hello?! Six kids and two grandchildren in tow! Is she popping Valium? Did BIL bring her back from Stepford? WTF?

Then I caught her adding bourbon to a fast-food Styrofoam cup she'd brought with her and all became clear.

Why do I admire this tactic?

Well, because MIL doesn't drink. And she doesn't really approve of other people drinking. Especially women.

Still, each night, around 8 p.m., the men -- Hubs, the two BILs and their dad -- mix up bourbon & cokes. Usually, Hubs smuggles me a glass and I sip on it discreetly, hoping MIL will think it's just plain coke.

Once, however, I made the mistake of asking younger BIL to make me a drink.

"You like bourbon?" he asked incredulously. "I don't know any women who drink bourbon."

I found BIL's amazement to be both sexist and expressed too loudly.

I refrained from telling him to use his Inside Voice.

I refrained from mentioning that time I caught Perfect Linda pouring a splash of bourbon -- OK, more like a freaking waterfall -- into the Styrofoam cup.

I refrained from mentioning that Perfect Linda waits til no one's looking and then sneaks sips, looooonng, deeeeeep sips, from older BIL's drink.

Instead, feeling the curious stares of the clan members, I simply nodded.

That's when Hubs chimed in. "Oh, yeah, she makes drinks stronger than I do."

That Hubs lived to make another visit to his mother's house is truly a testament to my self-restraint.

This weekend, after the men made their drinks, I just went and fixed my own. I figured since I'd already spent the whole damn day wandering in and out of the kitchen, no one would notice.

Unless I managed to wound myself with the ice pick.