Labor of love?

Labor Day is over in Thousand Oaks, and I'm in the dead bug position. Pooped under one sorry oak. And gosh, the pay is lousy: buns, beer and brats.

Back in 1882, the Central Labor Union of New York City created Labor Day as a "day off for the working man." It seems the Central Labor Union of New York City didn't consult their mothers before creating such a plan.

What the law doesn't say is that everyone in the family with a day off is going to land at the old broad's house for a celebration of frivolity and leisure. Granny's garage. Mom's mess hall. Tootie's tavern. You get the idea. Wherever food and service are generously dispensed—for no charge to the customer as long as they share the same genetic footprint.

They arrive in clumps, fully vaccinated. Of course, they're never empty-handed. They bring warm tidings of love and babies who need formula and college tuition. They bring kids with bad hair and tattoos. They bring food allergies and addictions to Scooby-Doo Band-Aids. They bring compromised digestive tracts and cravings for gnocchi. They bring bodies that take root on the couch.

And they bring urges for expensive stuff like . . . baked brie and lobster.

Do I look like I know what to do with a lobster? This is Thousand Oaks, guys, not Bangor, Maine.

So it goes on Labor Day. Buy it. Clean it. Bake it. Peel it. Blend it. Grill it. Burn it. Toss it. Set it. Serve it. Get it. Clean it. Store it. Give it. Toss it.

That's 15 steps. With only 12 steps to serenity, just keep going and you'll find insanity. Or calamity at my house, the old broad's house with the good stuff. You know me. I love to cook. My hormones come in a bottle, and I keep inviting the barbarian hordes over despite my better judgment.

Hey . . . any margaritas left?

That's the routine for Labor Day, Christmas, Easter, Groundhog Day, I Found a Green Hot Dog Day and Dad's Got the Gout Day. Any day that's fit to celebrate, we blend, stir, peel and sift till the sun sets and we drag our sorry butts into bed.

Some wise guy wrote, "Before the reward there must be labor. You plant before you harvest. You sow in tears before you reap joy."

Well, if that's the case, I'm in for a bunch o' joy. It must be ready to greet me just around the corner because my stock is up and I'm ready to cash in my pita chips and hummus. That last tomatillo sauce I made guarantees it. Throw in the tableside guacamole and my number is up for joy. I'm listening. Bring it on, baby.

Over the years, my husband and I have escaped a few holidays by going to the Concert in the Park series. And on those furtive occasions, as we crept quietly down Dover and Hendrix, we held to the sacred four: Buy it, Schlep it, Pour it and Discard it.

Sure, deep down in my mentalpausal brain, I like being Queen of Holiday Chaos. It's a labor of love shared by millions of great gals, overlooked by Jimmy Hoffa and all those labor bosses with great mothers at home baking birthday cakes and stirring the sauce while they busted kneecaps.

Love the family and all their flavors, but I'm waiting for the second string on the bench to say, "Gimme the ball!" Right now, the signals from the sidelines are telling me to tape myself up and stay in the game.

Up next? Trash Pickup Day. You won't want to miss it.

Reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.