National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is my favorite Christmas movie. There’s a reason it endures: it’s classic, timeless, and painfully relatable.

And honestly, the older I get, the more it feels like a documentary.

Take Thanksgiving. I hosted for eight. For me, it’s the almost-holiday—wedged between the October birthday-palooza, Halloween candy avalanches, and the looming pressure of Christmas stocking stuffers for five people (3 of my own, 2 who are my Jewish niece and nephew…I know, I blame myself.)

Meal planning? Picture me in a control tower with a headset on.

• Red sauce? No—heartburn.
  
• Carbs? Not for her—watching sugar.
  
• Protein? He’s on a weight-loss med—barely eats.
  
• Heavy food? Absolutely not—we’re already flirting with turkey-induced comas.
  

Was it always this complicated? Probably. But when I was younger, I was too busy living in my own sparkly holiday bubble to notice.

Now I’m living that “sandwich generation” life—raising kids while also Googling things about back pain for my dad. Meanwhile my sister is expecting a baby, so we are covering literally all life stages in one room.

Cue the Christmas Vacation flashbacks.

The doorbell scene. The slow zoom on the front door as the ringing grows more ominous and the voices outside get louder.
Yeah. When our doorbell rang? Not a single person moved. We all played dead.

Then there’s Ellen telling Audrey, “I don’t know what to say, except it’s Christmas, and we’re all in misery.”
Felt that in my soul.  But don’t worry—I smiled through it.

And the moment everyone left? I channeled peak Clark Griswold energy—slamming the metaphorical door behind the last guest and declaring triumphantly:

“Gone!”

And then: blessed, beautiful peace.

After I cleaned the kitchen and dining room floors, of course.

If you also survived hosting this year, drop your funniest moment below. Misery may love company, but I prefer company that brings pie.