Hand to God, the first time I met Tim’s (Irish) father the very first words he said to me were, "Suzie P***, hmmm. That’s an English name, isn’t it?" And there you go. Even when I pointed out that my surname actually belies New England ancestry of the flee-England-prior-to-the-whole-Potato-Famine vintage, we were a no-go. A year or so later, he actually pulled me aside and threatened to hunt me down like a dog if I ever hurt his only son. He was deep in his cups at the time, and has since denied it, but it happened. I assure you, it happened.

After Tim’s mother passed away, his father up and moved to… Spain. He married a Spanish woman, and settled into a quasi-European existence. He shows up at our house for extended visits once or twice a year, because of course, if you visit from Spain you don’t stay for a weekend. We get along OK now, mostly because I do not hesitate to bring up the hunt me down like a dog incident to induce guilt and favors.

This year, he scheduled his visit to correspond with the weekend of his high school reunion and the world famous Ebensburg PotatoFest. (Mark your calendars, lest you miss next year’s festivities.) I’m luckier than most, because my father-in-law has a twin brother. Double your in-law fun!! After the thrills of the PotatoFest, I’m sure meeting his first grandchild was a little dull, but he managed to put on a convincing show of excitement. As noted, she was instantly dubbed "Princess Josephine" and squired about the house with great pomp. The little hambone eats this up, by the way. She can not stop smiling and cooing at her grandfather, and I can’t convince her to knock it off. The man does not yet have a return ticket to Spain! If she keeps up this act it is very likely out household population has grown by one. And I’m not sure how many "Has her Highness woken up from her royal nap?" queries I can take. They’ve charmed the socks right off each other.

Tim, of course, gets to go to work and leave me to the circus house. This morning the brothers were arguing over the toast.

Uncle Dave: It’s bulghur bread, it’s good!
Father-in-Law: Booger bread? BOOGER bread?
UD: BULGUR, BULGHUR! A priest in Ebensburg makes it. Bulghur!
FIL: I don’t care if it IS made by a priest. If it’s made out of boogers, I’m not eating it!

Yep. That’s my life now. Remember when I was a functioning member of society with a job and quiet, peaceful, empty house?

And, hello? The man does not yet have a return ticket to Spain!