We arrive in The City where Sam and Nadine live and where Sly and Doris lived until they moved a few years ago. I like The City. I would live there. It's a mid-size city with a lot to offer: pretty neighborhoods, good food, and good friends. Primo even considered moving there after he left Isabel, but Sly and Doris were still there, along with his mentally-ill drug addict sister, Nancy, and he did not want to get caught up in The Drama. His parents had already said they were moving away, but Primo was pretty sure that if he told them he was moving back to The City, they would have stayed there. I don't think I could have married him if his parents had lived in the same city. Five states away is not far enough.
So. We are in TC. Sam, Primo and I have left the memorial service in Sam's car. Nadine and the kids are in another car. We drive past Primo's old house. The one his parents, who are against school vouchers, bought because it was in the school district they liked for Primo. The house after they sued to get him in another school district because theirs did not offer the programs they wanted for Primo. But heaven forbid someone with less money to buy in a better district, without the education to know to sue, have access to better opportunities for his children. Let them move house, Sly and Doris would say.
I digress.
Sam has known Sly almost as long as he has known Primo. He met Primo on the plane to their freshman year of college. We are talking about Sly and how he is different from Sam's dad. Sam's dad was gruff, but nice underneath. Sly is not like that.
Primo tells the story of the watercolor cartoon he found and bought for Sly several years ago.
"It's just like my dad," he says. "The guy has his nose in the air and is looking down. The caption says, 'I'm not arrogant. I just happen to be right.' When my dad saw it, he got really mad. Really mad. My mom had to change the caption to 'We're not arrogant. We just happen to be right.'"
Sam says, "Your dad needs to get a sense of humor. I hate it when people can't laugh at themselves."
Laughing at himself would not be one of Sly's core competencies.
Later that evening, Primo asks me if I think 80 people would show up for his dad's memorial service like showed up for Sam's dad.
I say carefully, "Your dad doesn't live here any more."
Primo agrees, but we both know that even if he did, Sly would not get that kind of turnout.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
In which the maid leaves flowers for us
December 2009 We are at Sly and Doris' for our forced visit. Yay. When we walk into the guest room, I notice a flower in a vase on the dresser. Wow. Doris has never put out flowers for us before. I might have to re-think my attitude about her hospitality, with my attitudes being formed by having to bring our own lunch and their unwillingness to buy the canned diet Dr Pepper, which they did not do because they didn't want all the leftover cans after we were gone.
Kind of like I did not want all that leftover Lactaid. Just saying.
Anyhow. Flowers. Nice! I have done many things in my life that I am ashamed of. In high school, I was mean to Kelly C. after Sally D. decided that we were no longer going to be friends with Kelly. I wanted Sally's approval more than I cared about Kelly's feelings, so I was mean to Kelly. A year later, Sally decided she wasn't going to be friends with me, so there I was, hoist on my own petard or whatever. What goes around. You know. In my defense, I will say that I sought Kelly out at our 20-year high school reunion and apologized to her. She, graciously, denied remembering a thing. But I would remember if someone had been mean to me like that.
I have also eaten leftovers in the fridge at work. Yes. Awful. But on those nights that I had to work late and that white styrofoam container with restaurant leftovers had been in the fridge for three days, I figured the original owner had forgotten about it. I did this twice and am now mortified that I ever thought it was OK. Shame, shame, shame. Shame!
But one thing I do pride myself on, rightly or wrongly, is that I am usually a decent hostess. I provide my houseguests with a comfortable, clean place to stay and feed them well. I try to do the little things that make the room even nicer: I put out bottled water and chocolate. I put out current magazines. I keep shampoo in the shower and those little hotel soaps because really, doesn't it gross you out just a little bit to use soap that someone else has used? I am not usually squeamish, but that's one of my Things. The soap. Yes, I usually rinse it and it's OK, but for guests who share my delicate sensibilities, I like to offer them an option.
And in the summer, I cut flowers from my garden and put them in the guest room and the guest bathroom. It's nice. It costs nothing and makes the place nice.
So I am so pleased to see that Doris has finally started thinking of us as guests and not as an unpaid maid and garage cleaning service. She cuts a hibiscus from the bush in her front yard, sticks it in a vase, and puts it in our room. I am impressed.
And I comment so to Doris. How sweet it is of her to put the flower there.
Oh, she tells me. The cleaning lady did that.
Of course.
Kind of like I did not want all that leftover Lactaid. Just saying.
Anyhow. Flowers. Nice! I have done many things in my life that I am ashamed of. In high school, I was mean to Kelly C. after Sally D. decided that we were no longer going to be friends with Kelly. I wanted Sally's approval more than I cared about Kelly's feelings, so I was mean to Kelly. A year later, Sally decided she wasn't going to be friends with me, so there I was, hoist on my own petard or whatever. What goes around. You know. In my defense, I will say that I sought Kelly out at our 20-year high school reunion and apologized to her. She, graciously, denied remembering a thing. But I would remember if someone had been mean to me like that.
I have also eaten leftovers in the fridge at work. Yes. Awful. But on those nights that I had to work late and that white styrofoam container with restaurant leftovers had been in the fridge for three days, I figured the original owner had forgotten about it. I did this twice and am now mortified that I ever thought it was OK. Shame, shame, shame. Shame!
But one thing I do pride myself on, rightly or wrongly, is that I am usually a decent hostess. I provide my houseguests with a comfortable, clean place to stay and feed them well. I try to do the little things that make the room even nicer: I put out bottled water and chocolate. I put out current magazines. I keep shampoo in the shower and those little hotel soaps because really, doesn't it gross you out just a little bit to use soap that someone else has used? I am not usually squeamish, but that's one of my Things. The soap. Yes, I usually rinse it and it's OK, but for guests who share my delicate sensibilities, I like to offer them an option.
And in the summer, I cut flowers from my garden and put them in the guest room and the guest bathroom. It's nice. It costs nothing and makes the place nice.
So I am so pleased to see that Doris has finally started thinking of us as guests and not as an unpaid maid and garage cleaning service. She cuts a hibiscus from the bush in her front yard, sticks it in a vase, and puts it in our room. I am impressed.
And I comment so to Doris. How sweet it is of her to put the flower there.
Oh, she tells me. The cleaning lady did that.
Of course.
Monday, March 8, 2010
In which Sly and Doris get upset (maybe) that Primo is going to Sam's dad's memorial service
March 2010 Primo's best friend and college roommate, who sort of introduced us or is at least responsible for our meeting so I blame him, is Sam. Last month, Sam's dad died suddenly. He was out shoveling snow. Came back inside. Died. Mr. Sam's Dad (Mr SD) had heart problems, but still. To drop dead after shoveling snow? So sad.
Primo had known Mr SD since college and we have seen Mr SD every time we have visited Sam and Nadine. Mr SD was a nice man. A little gruff, but nice. I would sit by Mr SD at Sam and Nadine's big party and listen to him talk about books. He was Sam's father and when your best friend's father dies and you can go to the memorial service, you do.
Sam and Nadine plan the service for mid-March. Turns out Primo is going to be around and that it will work for us to go. We get our tickets. I mention something right after Mr SD dies to my sister in law Stephanie, who lives 15 minutes from Sly and Doris, that we might go to the memorial service but we don't know yet.
We know now. We have our tickets. We leave in a few days.
Primo decides not to mention anything to his parents in his weekly status update phone call because he is worried that they might be upset that he protested against going to his uncle's funeral last summer but is now willingly going to Mr SD's service.
Some key differences between his uncle's funeral and Mr SD's service:
1. Primo actually knew Mr SD. He did not see him once at his other uncle's funeral two years ago and then 30 years ago on a family trip. Primo does not know his cousins or the rest of his family. He knew Mr SD and knows Sam and Sam's brother.
2. Sam and Nadine are picking us up at the airport. We are staying at their house. We do not have to rent a car. We do not have to stay in a hotel. This trip is costing us some frequent flier miles plus Primo's cheap ticket so he can get his status miles. It is not costing us $500 to attend this funeral. It is costing $150 plus we get to spend the weekend with friends.
3. Primo made the decision about Mr SD's service. Sly told his sister that Primo would be going to his uncle's service before he ever got a confirmation from Primo. Oh yes. Sly promised Primo would attend even though Primo did not know yet if he could because of work or if he even intended to spend the money.
Got the picture? We're going to a memorial service. Primo has not mentioned it to his parents.
I get an email from my sister in law Stephanie. She asks when we are going to the service. I tell her, then ask her not to mention it to Sly and Doris.
Ooops.
Too late.
She asked Doris about it the other day after Doris told her that she had talked to Primo. Just asked Doris when Primo and I were going to the service.
Crap.
There will be Drama. Why does Stephanie know more about our plans than Sly and Doris do? Why didn't Primo tell them about our trip? What are we hiding? Why won't Primo tell them everything? ? Don’t they deserve to know all the details of Primo’s life? Doris wrote recently that she feels so “disconnected” from Primo. We are mean, mean, mean not to give them every single detail.
Can we wait this out and hope that Sly and Doris will let it slide? Or will they send an angry email about how betrayed they feel? Should Primo try to cut them off at the pass and somehow work the trip into a new conversation?
I suggest that he tell them to go to hell if they complain, but he says that that is not an option. Then I suggest that he lie. If they bring it up, he should just tell them that we were thinking of going but it didn't work out.
He tells me that won't work.
I don't know why. It's not like they can prove that we are lying on this (love those cellphones with local numbers) and frankly, a little lie to prevent a lot of drama seems like a good tradeoff to me. The lesser of two evils. If Sly and Doris were rational, it wouldn't be necessary, but when Primo's first reaction to the news that Stephanie mentioned something to Doris is to moan, "Oh no!" and get horribly stressed, maybe lying isn't so bad.
For now, we wait for the other shoe to drop.
Primo had known Mr SD since college and we have seen Mr SD every time we have visited Sam and Nadine. Mr SD was a nice man. A little gruff, but nice. I would sit by Mr SD at Sam and Nadine's big party and listen to him talk about books. He was Sam's father and when your best friend's father dies and you can go to the memorial service, you do.
Sam and Nadine plan the service for mid-March. Turns out Primo is going to be around and that it will work for us to go. We get our tickets. I mention something right after Mr SD dies to my sister in law Stephanie, who lives 15 minutes from Sly and Doris, that we might go to the memorial service but we don't know yet.
We know now. We have our tickets. We leave in a few days.
Primo decides not to mention anything to his parents in his weekly status update phone call because he is worried that they might be upset that he protested against going to his uncle's funeral last summer but is now willingly going to Mr SD's service.
Some key differences between his uncle's funeral and Mr SD's service:
1. Primo actually knew Mr SD. He did not see him once at his other uncle's funeral two years ago and then 30 years ago on a family trip. Primo does not know his cousins or the rest of his family. He knew Mr SD and knows Sam and Sam's brother.
2. Sam and Nadine are picking us up at the airport. We are staying at their house. We do not have to rent a car. We do not have to stay in a hotel. This trip is costing us some frequent flier miles plus Primo's cheap ticket so he can get his status miles. It is not costing us $500 to attend this funeral. It is costing $150 plus we get to spend the weekend with friends.
3. Primo made the decision about Mr SD's service. Sly told his sister that Primo would be going to his uncle's service before he ever got a confirmation from Primo. Oh yes. Sly promised Primo would attend even though Primo did not know yet if he could because of work or if he even intended to spend the money.
Got the picture? We're going to a memorial service. Primo has not mentioned it to his parents.
I get an email from my sister in law Stephanie. She asks when we are going to the service. I tell her, then ask her not to mention it to Sly and Doris.
Ooops.
Too late.
She asked Doris about it the other day after Doris told her that she had talked to Primo. Just asked Doris when Primo and I were going to the service.
Crap.
There will be Drama. Why does Stephanie know more about our plans than Sly and Doris do? Why didn't Primo tell them about our trip? What are we hiding? Why won't Primo tell them everything? ? Don’t they deserve to know all the details of Primo’s life? Doris wrote recently that she feels so “disconnected” from Primo. We are mean, mean, mean not to give them every single detail.
Can we wait this out and hope that Sly and Doris will let it slide? Or will they send an angry email about how betrayed they feel? Should Primo try to cut them off at the pass and somehow work the trip into a new conversation?
I suggest that he tell them to go to hell if they complain, but he says that that is not an option. Then I suggest that he lie. If they bring it up, he should just tell them that we were thinking of going but it didn't work out.
He tells me that won't work.
I don't know why. It's not like they can prove that we are lying on this (love those cellphones with local numbers) and frankly, a little lie to prevent a lot of drama seems like a good tradeoff to me. The lesser of two evils. If Sly and Doris were rational, it wouldn't be necessary, but when Primo's first reaction to the news that Stephanie mentioned something to Doris is to moan, "Oh no!" and get horribly stressed, maybe lying isn't so bad.
For now, we wait for the other shoe to drop.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
In which my family listens to Primo sing
September 2008 The Sunday after our wedding. Primo's mom and dad are gone. His brother and his stepdaughters have left. It's just my mom, Dr J, her gentleman caller, and my brother and my sister. We have finished our big family meal with my dad's aunt and uncle and cousins. They have gone home. But the night? She is still young.
We need to go out and do something fun.
"Let's go to karaoke," someone - me? Primo? suggests.
We don't invite my mom because we're so sure she won't want to go. After all, Sly didn't want to hear Primo sing. He threw a big hissy fit and walked out of the bar while Primo was singing. I don't doubt my mom would want to hear Primo, but she is not a late-night bar kind of person. (Nor am I. But I am married to one.)
Mom is insulted. She wants to go! She wants to hear Primo. Well, great. But we're going to be out for a while. Is she sure?
Yes. She is sure. She wants to hear him sing one song, then leave. She and Dr J will go in his car, Primo, my brother, my sister and I will go in our car. Perfect.
We get to the bar and surprise - it is horribly smoky. Awful. One of the main reasons I don't like to go out with Primo. I hate cigarette smoke. At least, I hate stale cigarette smoke inside an unventilated building. I love fresh cigarette smoke in the fresh air and fully intend to start smoking when I am 70. My grandmother's life* was cruelly cut short by smoking when she was 96. Alas.
Mom and Dr J take one step inside the bar, smile bravely, and say that maybe they'll just wait in the car until it's Primo's turn to sing. That's OK. I understand. I tell them I will come get them.
The bar is not very busy and the guy who is running the karaoke starts to hit on my sister almost immediately. The story of my life. My sister came to get me at work once for us to go to lunch and my boss and a co-worker drooled. "Your sister oozes sensuality," my boss said. "Yeah, you guys are exact opposites," the co-worker told me. Thanks, guys. She got the accessorizing and makeup gene, the bosom and the hotness. I know. Thanks for reminding me again that I am the Smart One.**
Not being busy + a hot sister = Primo gets to sing right away. I summon my mom and Dr J.
Oh my he sings beautifully! my mom swoons. She swoons over everything Primo does. He can do no wrong. As far as she is concerned, he hung the moon and the stars. She is delighted that he is part of our family now.
I expect them to leave now that they've heard the one song they said they would listen to, but mom asks Primo if he'll sing something else. Dr J gets a round of beers. The tattooed Indian guys in the Harley hats playing pool next to us hit on my sister.
Primo sings again. My mom is drinking a beer. My mother! My sister sings. She's not bad.
My mom is now flipping through the songbook, taking notes. She has a list of songs for Primo to sing. Oh heck - she's decided she is going to sing herself. She pulls Dr J arm and takes him to the mike. They sing, "When I'm 64." That ship has sailed, but it's still sweet. She has Primo and my brother sing with them.
This is my mother. Who was going to stay for one song, then leave.
But she enjoys listening to Primo so much and is having so much fun that she and Dr J don't leave until 1:15 a.m.
She never does throw that hissy fit.
* This is the grandmother they tried to bury in pale pink lipstick. Please. She was always in dark red lipstick. Always. Fortunately, we rectified the situation. My friend I., who came to the funeral with me, had some red lipstick in her purse and she graciously applied it to my dead grandmother's lips. "Otherwise," my mom said, "Grampa A. won't recognize her when she gets to heaven." Yes, not theologically sound, but a mitvah nonetheless.
** Except my sister is also smart. Good thing she's nice or I would have to smother her.
We need to go out and do something fun.
"Let's go to karaoke," someone - me? Primo? suggests.
We don't invite my mom because we're so sure she won't want to go. After all, Sly didn't want to hear Primo sing. He threw a big hissy fit and walked out of the bar while Primo was singing. I don't doubt my mom would want to hear Primo, but she is not a late-night bar kind of person. (Nor am I. But I am married to one.)
Mom is insulted. She wants to go! She wants to hear Primo. Well, great. But we're going to be out for a while. Is she sure?
Yes. She is sure. She wants to hear him sing one song, then leave. She and Dr J will go in his car, Primo, my brother, my sister and I will go in our car. Perfect.
We get to the bar and surprise - it is horribly smoky. Awful. One of the main reasons I don't like to go out with Primo. I hate cigarette smoke. At least, I hate stale cigarette smoke inside an unventilated building. I love fresh cigarette smoke in the fresh air and fully intend to start smoking when I am 70. My grandmother's life* was cruelly cut short by smoking when she was 96. Alas.
Mom and Dr J take one step inside the bar, smile bravely, and say that maybe they'll just wait in the car until it's Primo's turn to sing. That's OK. I understand. I tell them I will come get them.
The bar is not very busy and the guy who is running the karaoke starts to hit on my sister almost immediately. The story of my life. My sister came to get me at work once for us to go to lunch and my boss and a co-worker drooled. "Your sister oozes sensuality," my boss said. "Yeah, you guys are exact opposites," the co-worker told me. Thanks, guys. She got the accessorizing and makeup gene, the bosom and the hotness. I know. Thanks for reminding me again that I am the Smart One.**
Not being busy + a hot sister = Primo gets to sing right away. I summon my mom and Dr J.
Oh my he sings beautifully! my mom swoons. She swoons over everything Primo does. He can do no wrong. As far as she is concerned, he hung the moon and the stars. She is delighted that he is part of our family now.
I expect them to leave now that they've heard the one song they said they would listen to, but mom asks Primo if he'll sing something else. Dr J gets a round of beers. The tattooed Indian guys in the Harley hats playing pool next to us hit on my sister.
Primo sings again. My mom is drinking a beer. My mother! My sister sings. She's not bad.
My mom is now flipping through the songbook, taking notes. She has a list of songs for Primo to sing. Oh heck - she's decided she is going to sing herself. She pulls Dr J arm and takes him to the mike. They sing, "When I'm 64." That ship has sailed, but it's still sweet. She has Primo and my brother sing with them.
This is my mother. Who was going to stay for one song, then leave.
But she enjoys listening to Primo so much and is having so much fun that she and Dr J don't leave until 1:15 a.m.
She never does throw that hissy fit.
* This is the grandmother they tried to bury in pale pink lipstick. Please. She was always in dark red lipstick. Always. Fortunately, we rectified the situation. My friend I., who came to the funeral with me, had some red lipstick in her purse and she graciously applied it to my dead grandmother's lips. "Otherwise," my mom said, "Grampa A. won't recognize her when she gets to heaven." Yes, not theologically sound, but a mitvah nonetheless.
** Except my sister is also smart. Good thing she's nice or I would have to smother her.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
In which Sly and Doris buy us a wedding present
September 2008 I'm going to tell you flat out that I am an ingrate. And that I myself am a bad wedding present giver. So if you want to stop reading, go ahead. I am going to whine even though I do not have a leg to stand on here.
Consider yourself warned.
Let me explain. I am a bad wedding present giver because when my friend Rebecca got married three weeks before I went into the Peace Corps and one year after I finished grad school, I gave her socks. (I sent her the socks once I got to my Peace Corps country.)
Yes. Socks.
Granted, they were cool socks made in my Peace Corps country by marginalized illiterate indigenous women with organic handspun wool, but they were still. Socks.
So it's not like I can point fingers here.
And as far as being an ingrate?
Sly and Doris are under no obligation whatsoever to buy us a present. None. It is gracious of them to even consider it, especially as this is Primo's second marriage and really, do you need to buy a present for someone's second wedding if you bought something for his first one? I would say no. Really. I would. My motto is one wedding present per lifetime per person.
There. Now that we have dispensed with the obligatory pleasantries, let's move on, shall we?
Sly and Doris have decided to get us a present. That is indeed lovely. We have told our families that we don't really need anything, which is true. We are merging two complete households and I am trying to get rid of stuff, which is not easy because Primo is very attached to things. Like ten year old phone bills. And 20 year old calendars. And benefits schedules and open enrollment information from companies he worked at in 1993. I have been trying to throw such things away, but have not been having much luck.
I have also been trying to get rid of duplicate kitchen items and furniture. That's been a little easier because I have been able to appeal to the Good Liberal in Primo. "It's the Right Thing To Do," I say earnestly. "What about The Poor?" I'm not sure The Poor want the cheap knives that Primo bought when he moved here, but my knives won and I suppose cheap knives are better than no knives at all.
Although we don't need any household items, we still love getting presents. I have been touched that friends and family have sent us gifts. Friends and family who have not even been invited to the wedding. Several of my aunts and uncles have sent us very generous checks. Very generous. Wow. And friends have sent great gifts. My college roommate sends tulip bulbs. Perfect! I am a competitive gardener and what a great idea for a new house.
My mom asks if she can finally get me that KitchenAid stand mixer I have been coveting but never had the room for before. Yes! Now is the time.
Sly and Doris decide we need a lamp for the living room. Well. Yes, we do. Doris wants to go with me to get one NOW.
Now? She wants to go shopping now? Now is not a good time. Not that any time would be a good time. 1. I do not enjoy shopping. 2. I do not enjoy spending time with Doris. 3. I have like a gajillion other things to do to get ready for having an additional seven guests arriving soon.
Plus I do not pay retail. My way is to go to estate sales or junk shops and find beat-up pieces that I refinish and restore to their previous glory.
At the moment, I am working on an end table that I got at Salvation Army for $5. It is covered with gloppy yellow paint, but it is hardwood underneath, with dovetailed joints. When I am through stripping and refinishing, it is gorgeous. My friend Bruce, who has an estate sale business and who is a certified appraiser, tells me it is maple and that he would price it at at least $150.
But I am spending someone else's money so I guess I will go. Primo does not go because he is working. Lucky duck.
We go to the fancy lamp shop by our house.
Holy smoke. Lamps are $300 and up. I know this is what lamps can cost because after I was laid off from my corporate job, I helped my friend Laurel, who is a decorator, with her invoicing and estimating. I am not surprised, but still.
I do not want to make a $300 decision in one hour. I do not want to spend $300 on a lamp, period. What I want to do and YES I KNOW THIS IS TACKY and NO MY MOTHER DID NOT RAISE ME THIS WAY is ask for the cash. I want the cash so I can find a cool lampstand at an antique shop that I will re-wire myself and then I'll get a new shade somewhere* and I'll spend just $50 and then have $250 for something else.
I don't, though. I don't ask for the cash. I just want to. Yes. Yes, I know this is gauche. I know it, OK?
And guess what?
It is pretty clear that Doris does not want to spend $300, either.
Which annoys me just a little bit because she is the one who offered. It was her idea in the first place. What, were we supposed to go to Target and spend $20? Not that I have anything against Target lamps - we have some and they have been good to us - but before you tell us you want to buy us a lamp, shouldn't you have an idea of what kind of money you're talking about? And if y0u didn't know, shouldn't you just have said, "Here's $50. Go buy a lamp?"
And then I would have thought, "$50? That's it? That's all they're giving us for a wedding present?"
Which yes I know is tacky but a nice lamp costs more than that and if they have been eating the expensive cheese for several days and have already spent more than $50 on booze, then shouldn't they spend more than that on a wedding present?
But that didn't happen so I didn't have to have socially unacceptable thoughts about how much money someone was spending on a present she wasn't even obligated to give.
We go home and tell Primo that there wasn't anything I fell in love with, which isn't exactly true, but I just can't bear to spend that much money on a lamp when I know I have better options. I am always looking for the arbitrage opportunity.
Instead, we order a cheap-ass Chinese lamp from overstock.com that arrives broken, so Sly and Doris get a refund from UPS. I hate cheap-ass Chinese products, although it didn't look that bad on the website, but we should have known. It's not too broken to repair and if UPS had actually come to inspect, they could have taken it back. We just filed the claim because it was broken. I would have been happy to return it, but UPS said, "Eh. Whatever. Keep it." So we did and we fixed it and it's in the basement where it's not that bright and you can't see that it's a cheap-ass Chinese lamp made by political prisoners who work as slaves so that we might have cheap consumer products here.
Not that I have an opinion on that.
We should have gotten the expensive lamp.
Except in the end, what they do pay for is to frame the oil paintings that we buy on our honeymoon in Spain. And they spend almost as much money - maybe even more - for that as they would have for the lamp. I am not involved in those negotiations, but apparently, they are a bit grouchy about it.
By now, I am less sympathetic to their financial situation, especially after we have flown them to our wedding using Primo's frequent flier miles, even though they have their own frequent flier miles (Primo says they are saving them for Sly's sisters' funerals, but how much do you want to bet they will ask Primo to attend those funerals instead?), picked them up at an airport 90 miles away, and fed them our $400/lb Carr Valley cheese, even though they are lactose intolerant.
Buy nice or spend even more is what I say.
* Which is what I end up doing, only I get a faulty socket and it exploded and set the shade on fire right before book club a few weeks ago. So now I have to re-wire.
Consider yourself warned.
Let me explain. I am a bad wedding present giver because when my friend Rebecca got married three weeks before I went into the Peace Corps and one year after I finished grad school, I gave her socks. (I sent her the socks once I got to my Peace Corps country.)
Yes. Socks.
Granted, they were cool socks made in my Peace Corps country by marginalized illiterate indigenous women with organic handspun wool, but they were still. Socks.
So it's not like I can point fingers here.
And as far as being an ingrate?
Sly and Doris are under no obligation whatsoever to buy us a present. None. It is gracious of them to even consider it, especially as this is Primo's second marriage and really, do you need to buy a present for someone's second wedding if you bought something for his first one? I would say no. Really. I would. My motto is one wedding present per lifetime per person.
There. Now that we have dispensed with the obligatory pleasantries, let's move on, shall we?
Sly and Doris have decided to get us a present. That is indeed lovely. We have told our families that we don't really need anything, which is true. We are merging two complete households and I am trying to get rid of stuff, which is not easy because Primo is very attached to things. Like ten year old phone bills. And 20 year old calendars. And benefits schedules and open enrollment information from companies he worked at in 1993. I have been trying to throw such things away, but have not been having much luck.
I have also been trying to get rid of duplicate kitchen items and furniture. That's been a little easier because I have been able to appeal to the Good Liberal in Primo. "It's the Right Thing To Do," I say earnestly. "What about The Poor?" I'm not sure The Poor want the cheap knives that Primo bought when he moved here, but my knives won and I suppose cheap knives are better than no knives at all.
Although we don't need any household items, we still love getting presents. I have been touched that friends and family have sent us gifts. Friends and family who have not even been invited to the wedding. Several of my aunts and uncles have sent us very generous checks. Very generous. Wow. And friends have sent great gifts. My college roommate sends tulip bulbs. Perfect! I am a competitive gardener and what a great idea for a new house.
My mom asks if she can finally get me that KitchenAid stand mixer I have been coveting but never had the room for before. Yes! Now is the time.
Sly and Doris decide we need a lamp for the living room. Well. Yes, we do. Doris wants to go with me to get one NOW.
Now? She wants to go shopping now? Now is not a good time. Not that any time would be a good time. 1. I do not enjoy shopping. 2. I do not enjoy spending time with Doris. 3. I have like a gajillion other things to do to get ready for having an additional seven guests arriving soon.
Plus I do not pay retail. My way is to go to estate sales or junk shops and find beat-up pieces that I refinish and restore to their previous glory.
At the moment, I am working on an end table that I got at Salvation Army for $5. It is covered with gloppy yellow paint, but it is hardwood underneath, with dovetailed joints. When I am through stripping and refinishing, it is gorgeous. My friend Bruce, who has an estate sale business and who is a certified appraiser, tells me it is maple and that he would price it at at least $150.
But I am spending someone else's money so I guess I will go. Primo does not go because he is working. Lucky duck.
We go to the fancy lamp shop by our house.
Holy smoke. Lamps are $300 and up. I know this is what lamps can cost because after I was laid off from my corporate job, I helped my friend Laurel, who is a decorator, with her invoicing and estimating. I am not surprised, but still.
I do not want to make a $300 decision in one hour. I do not want to spend $300 on a lamp, period. What I want to do and YES I KNOW THIS IS TACKY and NO MY MOTHER DID NOT RAISE ME THIS WAY is ask for the cash. I want the cash so I can find a cool lampstand at an antique shop that I will re-wire myself and then I'll get a new shade somewhere* and I'll spend just $50 and then have $250 for something else.
I don't, though. I don't ask for the cash. I just want to. Yes. Yes, I know this is gauche. I know it, OK?
And guess what?
It is pretty clear that Doris does not want to spend $300, either.
Which annoys me just a little bit because she is the one who offered. It was her idea in the first place. What, were we supposed to go to Target and spend $20? Not that I have anything against Target lamps - we have some and they have been good to us - but before you tell us you want to buy us a lamp, shouldn't you have an idea of what kind of money you're talking about? And if y0u didn't know, shouldn't you just have said, "Here's $50. Go buy a lamp?"
And then I would have thought, "$50? That's it? That's all they're giving us for a wedding present?"
Which yes I know is tacky but a nice lamp costs more than that and if they have been eating the expensive cheese for several days and have already spent more than $50 on booze, then shouldn't they spend more than that on a wedding present?
But that didn't happen so I didn't have to have socially unacceptable thoughts about how much money someone was spending on a present she wasn't even obligated to give.
We go home and tell Primo that there wasn't anything I fell in love with, which isn't exactly true, but I just can't bear to spend that much money on a lamp when I know I have better options. I am always looking for the arbitrage opportunity.
Instead, we order a cheap-ass Chinese lamp from overstock.com that arrives broken, so Sly and Doris get a refund from UPS. I hate cheap-ass Chinese products, although it didn't look that bad on the website, but we should have known. It's not too broken to repair and if UPS had actually come to inspect, they could have taken it back. We just filed the claim because it was broken. I would have been happy to return it, but UPS said, "Eh. Whatever. Keep it." So we did and we fixed it and it's in the basement where it's not that bright and you can't see that it's a cheap-ass Chinese lamp made by political prisoners who work as slaves so that we might have cheap consumer products here.
Not that I have an opinion on that.
We should have gotten the expensive lamp.
Except in the end, what they do pay for is to frame the oil paintings that we buy on our honeymoon in Spain. And they spend almost as much money - maybe even more - for that as they would have for the lamp. I am not involved in those negotiations, but apparently, they are a bit grouchy about it.
By now, I am less sympathetic to their financial situation, especially after we have flown them to our wedding using Primo's frequent flier miles, even though they have their own frequent flier miles (Primo says they are saving them for Sly's sisters' funerals, but how much do you want to bet they will ask Primo to attend those funerals instead?), picked them up at an airport 90 miles away, and fed them our $400/lb Carr Valley cheese, even though they are lactose intolerant.
Buy nice or spend even more is what I say.
* Which is what I end up doing, only I get a faulty socket and it exploded and set the shade on fire right before book club a few weeks ago. So now I have to re-wire.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
In which Primo almost divorces me within 48 hours of marriage
Is it just me or is this becoming the all-whining, all the time blog? I like a good whine as much as the next person, but it needs to be tempered with humor. I don't want to give anyone the impression that it is all gloom and doom chez Digger. That is indeed not the case. We have a good life here and Sly and Doris are merely grist for my writing mill.* I like to gripe about them, but I get it out here and then I am done. Although that is not to say that I have not fantasized about their being tucked away in an assisted living facility someplace without access to a phone.
I joke! I joke!
The Sunday after we get married. Primo is taking his parents to the airport 90 miles away so they will not have to change planes. He drops Claudia and Chloe off at our airport on the way. My sister and I get to work changing sheets, doing laundry, cleaning the bathroom, whatever.
I don't care about the housework because I am free. They are GONE! They will never come to our house again. Never. Well, probably never.
The next item on the agenda is supper. I invited my dad's aunt and uncle and two of his cousins over. They haven't seen my mom in years. This will be a good chance for the family to be together. Primo is not thrilled about having yet another event, but seeing as his parents have been in our house for NINEDAYS, I don't think it's unreasonable for me to have my family over for supper for one evening.
Only Primo is delayed taking his parents to the airport because his mother has lost her wallet and we have all the crazy looking for it. So they don't get to stop for breakfast as they had planned, which stresses him out, because even though Primo is a last-minute kind of guy, it is last-minute on his terms and having the terms change throws him into an "I'm an engineer and this is Not In The Plan" tizzy.
And then there is traffic on the way back. And then Claudia and Chloe take their first flight out and then find that their connecting flight is canceled, so he is trying to arrange new flights for them because we brought them in on frequent flier miles - Claudia as her wedding present, Chloe as her I don't remember present - and he has premium status so it's easier for him to do it than for them.
By the time he gets home, he is frazzled and wants nothing more than a beer and a nap.
But my relatives are here.
They are early.
Of course they are early.
Bless their hearts.
The one cousin is the same guy - let's call him Glen - who came over for lunch a few months ago. I had told him 1:00 or "even closer to 1:30 so I can be sure to be home from the gym and showered."
This whole thing was supposed to be just a casual, come over for a sandwich or a bratwurst the next time you have to go to the VA deal, not a formal lunch. You know - call me the night before and see if I'm home, we'll eat in the kitchen.
But it somehow became a sit-down, dining room lunch for Glen, his wife who does not get out much, Primo, and me. On a workday.
Yes. It was all my fault. I admit it. But I did not know I was inviting his wife. I thought he was just coming over after going to the VA. That's how the whole thing started.
But fine. They're old. They're sweet. It won't kill us. I even tell Primo he doesn't have to join us, he can stay upstairs in his office, but he says that would be rude.
This is the lunch. Primo has not showered. I have just stepped out of the shower. I am naked. It is 12:30. 12:30, y'all. I said 1:00, 1:30.
The doorbell rings.
Lord have mercy.
I throw on my robe and open the door.
It is Glen and his wife.
I should have known.
This is [the part of the country where people show up early].** This is the place where I have had to tell repairmen, "I swear you better not show up one minute early or my husband will kill you" and they still show up before 8:00 a.m. Seriously. What is up with that?
Basically the same thing happens for the supper. Everyone shows up early. Primo gets home from all the airport drama and finds his house full of people, including my new relatives, to whom I have offered beer and because I know nothing about beer, I have unknowingly offered them the Good Beer, which upsets him even more.
He forces a smile, says hello, excuses himself, and stomps upstairs, where he sulks. He has not even had a chance to shower today. I try to cheer him up and wonder if my constant bitching about his parents stresses him out the way his sulking about having to entertain for one evening is stressing me out.
Nope.
My bitching has got to be worse.
The good thing about Primo is he does not hold a grudge. He is like our cat that way: he gets it out of his system and then it's done. I take him a beer,*** rub his back, listen to him tell me about the hassles of the day, and then it's over.
He takes a shower and when he comes back downstairs, he is a new man. He is his usual gracious host self and becomes even better once he learns that the Good Beer was not wasted. It's not that he minds sharing the Good Beer, it's that he doesn't want to share it with guests who don't appreciate it. But my dad's cousins are also Good Beer drinkers who discuss beer knowledgeably with Primo. Then he learns that they are also engineers, so the three of them are off and running. It only seals their fate when Primo finds out that Glen has brought two boxes of produce from his garden and the other cousin has brought a bottle of wine.
We have a lovely evening made all the better because it ends early. People who show up early also leave early.
* As is Primo for my other blog. He just rolls his eyes every time he reads it. "I should know better than to open my mouth," he says. "Everything I say ends up on your blog." I shrug. "It's all material," I tell him. "You are my straight man." And then I kiss him and promise him some wxyz and we are cool. Primo is a hottie. It's not like wxyz is a sacrifice.
** As if Sly and Doris would not recognize themselves and these situations if they were to stumble across this blog. But yes - fake names, undisclosed locations.
*** My sister tells me I need to "Take care of him." I'm like, "What? I'm taking him a beer." And she's like, "You know!" And I'm like, "No. I don't." And she sighs and says, "Go make him happy, you idiot. Nobody will miss you for half an hour." And I get it and I say, "But we can't do anything for two weeks" and she says, "Oh there are things you can do for him so get out of here."
I joke! I joke!
The Sunday after we get married. Primo is taking his parents to the airport 90 miles away so they will not have to change planes. He drops Claudia and Chloe off at our airport on the way. My sister and I get to work changing sheets, doing laundry, cleaning the bathroom, whatever.
I don't care about the housework because I am free. They are GONE! They will never come to our house again. Never. Well, probably never.
The next item on the agenda is supper. I invited my dad's aunt and uncle and two of his cousins over. They haven't seen my mom in years. This will be a good chance for the family to be together. Primo is not thrilled about having yet another event, but seeing as his parents have been in our house for NINEDAYS, I don't think it's unreasonable for me to have my family over for supper for one evening.
Only Primo is delayed taking his parents to the airport because his mother has lost her wallet and we have all the crazy looking for it. So they don't get to stop for breakfast as they had planned, which stresses him out, because even though Primo is a last-minute kind of guy, it is last-minute on his terms and having the terms change throws him into an "I'm an engineer and this is Not In The Plan" tizzy.
And then there is traffic on the way back. And then Claudia and Chloe take their first flight out and then find that their connecting flight is canceled, so he is trying to arrange new flights for them because we brought them in on frequent flier miles - Claudia as her wedding present, Chloe as her I don't remember present - and he has premium status so it's easier for him to do it than for them.
By the time he gets home, he is frazzled and wants nothing more than a beer and a nap.
But my relatives are here.
They are early.
Of course they are early.
Bless their hearts.
The one cousin is the same guy - let's call him Glen - who came over for lunch a few months ago. I had told him 1:00 or "even closer to 1:30 so I can be sure to be home from the gym and showered."
This whole thing was supposed to be just a casual, come over for a sandwich or a bratwurst the next time you have to go to the VA deal, not a formal lunch. You know - call me the night before and see if I'm home, we'll eat in the kitchen.
But it somehow became a sit-down, dining room lunch for Glen, his wife who does not get out much, Primo, and me. On a workday.
Yes. It was all my fault. I admit it. But I did not know I was inviting his wife. I thought he was just coming over after going to the VA. That's how the whole thing started.
But fine. They're old. They're sweet. It won't kill us. I even tell Primo he doesn't have to join us, he can stay upstairs in his office, but he says that would be rude.
This is the lunch. Primo has not showered. I have just stepped out of the shower. I am naked. It is 12:30. 12:30, y'all. I said 1:00, 1:30.
The doorbell rings.
Lord have mercy.
I throw on my robe and open the door.
It is Glen and his wife.
I should have known.
This is [the part of the country where people show up early].** This is the place where I have had to tell repairmen, "I swear you better not show up one minute early or my husband will kill you" and they still show up before 8:00 a.m. Seriously. What is up with that?
Basically the same thing happens for the supper. Everyone shows up early. Primo gets home from all the airport drama and finds his house full of people, including my new relatives, to whom I have offered beer and because I know nothing about beer, I have unknowingly offered them the Good Beer, which upsets him even more.
He forces a smile, says hello, excuses himself, and stomps upstairs, where he sulks. He has not even had a chance to shower today. I try to cheer him up and wonder if my constant bitching about his parents stresses him out the way his sulking about having to entertain for one evening is stressing me out.
Nope.
My bitching has got to be worse.
The good thing about Primo is he does not hold a grudge. He is like our cat that way: he gets it out of his system and then it's done. I take him a beer,*** rub his back, listen to him tell me about the hassles of the day, and then it's over.
He takes a shower and when he comes back downstairs, he is a new man. He is his usual gracious host self and becomes even better once he learns that the Good Beer was not wasted. It's not that he minds sharing the Good Beer, it's that he doesn't want to share it with guests who don't appreciate it. But my dad's cousins are also Good Beer drinkers who discuss beer knowledgeably with Primo. Then he learns that they are also engineers, so the three of them are off and running. It only seals their fate when Primo finds out that Glen has brought two boxes of produce from his garden and the other cousin has brought a bottle of wine.
We have a lovely evening made all the better because it ends early. People who show up early also leave early.
* As is Primo for my other blog. He just rolls his eyes every time he reads it. "I should know better than to open my mouth," he says. "Everything I say ends up on your blog." I shrug. "It's all material," I tell him. "You are my straight man." And then I kiss him and promise him some wxyz and we are cool. Primo is a hottie. It's not like wxyz is a sacrifice.
** As if Sly and Doris would not recognize themselves and these situations if they were to stumble across this blog. But yes - fake names, undisclosed locations.
*** My sister tells me I need to "Take care of him." I'm like, "What? I'm taking him a beer." And she's like, "You know!" And I'm like, "No. I don't." And she sighs and says, "Go make him happy, you idiot. Nobody will miss you for half an hour." And I get it and I say, "But we can't do anything for two weeks" and she says, "Oh there are things you can do for him so get out of here."
Monday, March 1, 2010
In which Doris makes an apple pie and I pretend to be nice but I am NOT NICE ON THE INSIDE
September 2008 and others. Doris always makes an apple pie for Primo. Apple pie and onion rings. Those are her things for Primo and it is sweet.
In a way.
You know I'm going to get snarky with this. But I will acknowledge a mother's love and give Doris her due. Mother's love. Check. Wanting to show that love through preparing special food. Check and duly acknowledged.
Now here's what really happens.
Doris, bless her heart, is in horrible physical condition. She has COPD or whatever it is that you need one of those oxygen thingies to breathe at night. Years of smoking when she was younger - she has since quit - have taken their toll. She has had that aneurysm surgery - triple A, I think it's called - and has bad arthritis. She is not even an old lady. She's only 70 or 71. She is old before her time and it frustrates the heck out of her. Nothing wrong with her mind, but her body is falling apart.
What this means in practical terms is that she cannot 1. stand for a long time, i.e., more than two or three minutes and 2. she cannot easily do things involving her hands, i.e., peeling or chopping.
All of this would be fine - well, not fine, really, but just a fact - except she still wants to make that apple pie for Primo.
Which she cannot do because of See 1. and 2. above.
So what happens is that I become the chief cook and bottle washer only I am not the chief, I am the sous chef and although I will suck it up and pretend to be nice and be the sous chef when I am visiting Sly and Doris, I do not want to be sous chef IN MY OWN KITCHEN.
Little aside here: When we visit, not only do I become the sous chef but really the main chef because I refuse to watch an arthritic, can barely stand and hardly breathe old lady working in the kitchen, I do so with inferior tools, which is why last December, we bought Sly and Doris a new set of knives. I was sick and darn tired of using their 30 year old knives that hadn't been sharpened in that long.
I also took a potato peeler with me because Sly and Doris want everything peeled: apples, potatoes, pears. (Yes, pears. I don't know why.) Primo and I are of the leave the peels on school for everything because darnit, we like the peels and my mother was right, that is where the vitamins are and plus we are just lazy. But Sly and Doris want everything peeled BUT THEY DON'T HAVE A POTATO PEELER. They peel everything with a small, dull paring knife and if that's not a recipe for slitting your wrists, I don't know what is.
So. It is the Sunday before our wedding. I am making a big meal. Primo is going to grill steaks. I am making dinner rolls from scratch. Yeah. For dumb. I am an idiot.
Doris wants to make an apple pie for Primo. Oh man.
Fine. I have everything we need to make an apple pie because my kitchen is stocked for the apocalypse. I'm like that. Got it from my mother. If you're worried about being in the right place when they drop the Big One, be at my mom's or at our house. Probably our house, because we have over 300 bottles of wine in the basement, but my mom is better organized, just because she doesn't have to argue with Primo about what crap to keep and what to discard. That's what being a widow means: control over the basement.
Doris starts to peel the apples, even though I point out that Primo prefers his apples unpeeled. Oh no. They must be peeled. OK.
She can peel only one. I take over. Oh. Like I'm going to make her peel all of them? "You started this project, missy, now you're going to finish it?"
I am faking being nice to her. Inside, I am seething. I do not want to spend my Sunday afternoon baking an apple pie with Doris. Last thing I want to do. But I pretend.
Then she starts on the crust. Is explaining pie crust to me! To ME!
Primo tells me she wants to teach me to make an apple pie.*
I hiss that I know how to make a pie, thankyouverymuch, that my mother and my grandmother taught me to make a pie when I was a little girl and that I do not need to be taught how to make a pie at the age of 44.
But she cannot stand at the counter to finish the crust and must sit at the kitchen table while I take over. She instructs me from her seat. I clench my teeth as I do as she directs. I know how to make a pie. I do not need her to tell me what to do.
Oh I am so mad. I cannot believe that I am having to take pie-making instruction from someone who is not even, as far as I am concerned, a good cook. She fed Primo store-bought cookies when he was a boy. Yes. Store bought. And sorry, Primo, but I have eaten at your mom's house and her cooking is not All That. Maybe she was better when she wasn't arthritic, but I am not seeing any big pie secrets in this pie. As a matter of fact, she's not even putting anything in the filling to soak up the juice and keep it from burning, so I already know more than she does.
But I keep my mouth shut. And pretend to be nice. But I'm not being Real Nice. It's Fake Nice. Nice on the outside but not on the inside, so it doesn't count but I don't care. Insincere Nice.
I do the same when we mention something about line drying our laundry and Primo says that he likes the way the clothes smell but he prefers how the towels get fluffy in the dryer and Doris tells me I should dry the towels in the dryer for Primo. I think, "Don't tell me how to run my house, lady, and hey aren't you the environmental activist? Shouldn't you be in favor of line drying over machine drying?" But I say nothing, just grit my teeth because 1. she is a guest in my home and 2. she is Primo's mother.
And we have an entire week of that: of Fake, Insincere Nice. The kind of nice you are on the outside when you don't like someone so you try extra hard to be nice to her so she doesn't know you don't like her because how awful would it be for someone you DON'T LIKE to think badly of you especially when she has already said that she is not coming to your wedding. Yeah I know it's crazy.
* Doris did not say she wanted to teach me to make a pie. In her defense - and it pains me to say this because I want to be the hero and them to be the Bad Guys - I might have said something to her about, "Oh you have to tell me you secret for apple pie because Primo is always raving about it!"
But I didn't mean it. As in, I didn't want her to actually make a pie. Just say something like, "Oh, I use this secret spice," and I would have nodded thoughtfully and said, "Well I'll have to ty that the next time I make a pie," and we would have been done with it and everyone would have been satisfied.
In a way.
You know I'm going to get snarky with this. But I will acknowledge a mother's love and give Doris her due. Mother's love. Check. Wanting to show that love through preparing special food. Check and duly acknowledged.
Now here's what really happens.
Doris, bless her heart, is in horrible physical condition. She has COPD or whatever it is that you need one of those oxygen thingies to breathe at night. Years of smoking when she was younger - she has since quit - have taken their toll. She has had that aneurysm surgery - triple A, I think it's called - and has bad arthritis. She is not even an old lady. She's only 70 or 71. She is old before her time and it frustrates the heck out of her. Nothing wrong with her mind, but her body is falling apart.
What this means in practical terms is that she cannot 1. stand for a long time, i.e., more than two or three minutes and 2. she cannot easily do things involving her hands, i.e., peeling or chopping.
All of this would be fine - well, not fine, really, but just a fact - except she still wants to make that apple pie for Primo.
Which she cannot do because of See 1. and 2. above.
So what happens is that I become the chief cook and bottle washer only I am not the chief, I am the sous chef and although I will suck it up and pretend to be nice and be the sous chef when I am visiting Sly and Doris, I do not want to be sous chef IN MY OWN KITCHEN.
Little aside here: When we visit, not only do I become the sous chef but really the main chef because I refuse to watch an arthritic, can barely stand and hardly breathe old lady working in the kitchen, I do so with inferior tools, which is why last December, we bought Sly and Doris a new set of knives. I was sick and darn tired of using their 30 year old knives that hadn't been sharpened in that long.
I also took a potato peeler with me because Sly and Doris want everything peeled: apples, potatoes, pears. (Yes, pears. I don't know why.) Primo and I are of the leave the peels on school for everything because darnit, we like the peels and my mother was right, that is where the vitamins are and plus we are just lazy. But Sly and Doris want everything peeled BUT THEY DON'T HAVE A POTATO PEELER. They peel everything with a small, dull paring knife and if that's not a recipe for slitting your wrists, I don't know what is.
So. It is the Sunday before our wedding. I am making a big meal. Primo is going to grill steaks. I am making dinner rolls from scratch. Yeah. For dumb. I am an idiot.
Doris wants to make an apple pie for Primo. Oh man.
Fine. I have everything we need to make an apple pie because my kitchen is stocked for the apocalypse. I'm like that. Got it from my mother. If you're worried about being in the right place when they drop the Big One, be at my mom's or at our house. Probably our house, because we have over 300 bottles of wine in the basement, but my mom is better organized, just because she doesn't have to argue with Primo about what crap to keep and what to discard. That's what being a widow means: control over the basement.
Doris starts to peel the apples, even though I point out that Primo prefers his apples unpeeled. Oh no. They must be peeled. OK.
She can peel only one. I take over. Oh. Like I'm going to make her peel all of them? "You started this project, missy, now you're going to finish it?"
I am faking being nice to her. Inside, I am seething. I do not want to spend my Sunday afternoon baking an apple pie with Doris. Last thing I want to do. But I pretend.
Then she starts on the crust. Is explaining pie crust to me! To ME!
Primo tells me she wants to teach me to make an apple pie.*
I hiss that I know how to make a pie, thankyouverymuch, that my mother and my grandmother taught me to make a pie when I was a little girl and that I do not need to be taught how to make a pie at the age of 44.
But she cannot stand at the counter to finish the crust and must sit at the kitchen table while I take over. She instructs me from her seat. I clench my teeth as I do as she directs. I know how to make a pie. I do not need her to tell me what to do.
Oh I am so mad. I cannot believe that I am having to take pie-making instruction from someone who is not even, as far as I am concerned, a good cook. She fed Primo store-bought cookies when he was a boy. Yes. Store bought. And sorry, Primo, but I have eaten at your mom's house and her cooking is not All That. Maybe she was better when she wasn't arthritic, but I am not seeing any big pie secrets in this pie. As a matter of fact, she's not even putting anything in the filling to soak up the juice and keep it from burning, so I already know more than she does.
But I keep my mouth shut. And pretend to be nice. But I'm not being Real Nice. It's Fake Nice. Nice on the outside but not on the inside, so it doesn't count but I don't care. Insincere Nice.
I do the same when we mention something about line drying our laundry and Primo says that he likes the way the clothes smell but he prefers how the towels get fluffy in the dryer and Doris tells me I should dry the towels in the dryer for Primo. I think, "Don't tell me how to run my house, lady, and hey aren't you the environmental activist? Shouldn't you be in favor of line drying over machine drying?" But I say nothing, just grit my teeth because 1. she is a guest in my home and 2. she is Primo's mother.
And we have an entire week of that: of Fake, Insincere Nice. The kind of nice you are on the outside when you don't like someone so you try extra hard to be nice to her so she doesn't know you don't like her because how awful would it be for someone you DON'T LIKE to think badly of you especially when she has already said that she is not coming to your wedding. Yeah I know it's crazy.
* Doris did not say she wanted to teach me to make a pie. In her defense - and it pains me to say this because I want to be the hero and them to be the Bad Guys - I might have said something to her about, "Oh you have to tell me you secret for apple pie because Primo is always raving about it!"
But I didn't mean it. As in, I didn't want her to actually make a pie. Just say something like, "Oh, I use this secret spice," and I would have nodded thoughtfully and said, "Well I'll have to ty that the next time I make a pie," and we would have been done with it and everyone would have been satisfied.
In which I tell Primo I won't talk about Sly and Doris on my blog
September 2008 We are stilll in the pre-wedding drama of Sly and Doris threatening not to come to the wedding because they are so mad, so traumatized by my statement on my blog about my concern about seating three "vocal atheists" at the wedding supper.
Primo says they are insulted that I think they might not know how to behave in public.
I know they don't know how to behave in private. Mean, vicious gossip about their own family to strangers. Foul language. And that's sober. Drunk, they are even worse.
I have seen them since behaving not so great in public, either. At least, I have seen Sly behave rudely. Last December, we were at a restaurant. When the waiter brought our food, Sly told the waiter that my broccoli casserole didn't look nearly as "disgusting" as he thought it would.
That, after telling me the night before that he has always treated waiters well, but that was in reference to tax fraud, not to being polite. Sly always tips in cash so the waiter doesn't have to declare the tips on his taxes. Sly is very proud of this and sees no problem with what he does, although I pointed out that I have to pay taxes on the money I earn so why shouldn't a waiter?
Back to the wedding Drama. I tell Primo his parents are over-reacting and he agrees, but whatever. I have atheist friends and relatives who would not concern me at all. I would put them next to my mother, Father T and Pastor G on a trans-Atlantic flight and not worry that there would be a single problem. Not all atheists are obnoxious. Not all obnoxious persons are atheists. It just happens in this case that the atheists in question are slightly belligerent in their views and have belligerent personalities. Well, one of them does, for sure. A volatile combination and one that has me worried because it's my party.
But the main thing Sly and Doris are mad about is that I wrote about this on my blog. Because the whole world reads my blog.*
Really, the only people who read this who know Sly and Doris are 1. Sly and Doris, 2. Primo, 3. Me.
So what's the problem exactly? Yes, my mother read it, but she doesn't know Sly and Doris, although she is going to meet them. So big deal. My mother reads on my blog that I am worried about three un-named "vocal atheists."
This from the people who, within an hour of meeting me, were trash talking Stephanie, my sister in law, and then moving on to Ted and Jack, Sly's other two sons and Primo's half brothers. Yes. They are concerned about propriety and decorum and not airing dirty laundry. At least I am using fake names on this blog, as I did on my other blog.
I tell Primo fine. "Tell your mom and dad that I will never, I mean NEVER again talk about them on my blog. Ever."
"Never?" he asks.
"NEVer," I say.
"What about when we visit?" he asks.
I think, "Well, we don't have to visit, you know," but I say, "I just won't blog while we're there."
"But they'll wonder why you're not writing about it. You blog every day."
"Tell them out of respect for their wishes, I am no longer mentioning them on my blog."
"But they'll be insulted if you don't mention them in that way."
"Too bad. Tell them live by the sword, die by the sword."
"They'll be upset."
"Like I care. They can't have it both ways."
Primo sighs. "They're not going to be happy."
"I don't care. Don't tell them anything. You don't have to put yourself in the middle of this. Just don't mention it. But I won't ever mention them again on my blog. I am done with them. Done."
And I haven't. When we go on our forced march to visit them once a year, I don't blog. Or I blog, but I leave them out of it. Unless I am going to make a leetle joke with them as the punchline. Let them find insult where they may. Yes. I am that petty. Sue me.
* Ha. As if.
Primo says they are insulted that I think they might not know how to behave in public.
I know they don't know how to behave in private. Mean, vicious gossip about their own family to strangers. Foul language. And that's sober. Drunk, they are even worse.
I have seen them since behaving not so great in public, either. At least, I have seen Sly behave rudely. Last December, we were at a restaurant. When the waiter brought our food, Sly told the waiter that my broccoli casserole didn't look nearly as "disgusting" as he thought it would.
That, after telling me the night before that he has always treated waiters well, but that was in reference to tax fraud, not to being polite. Sly always tips in cash so the waiter doesn't have to declare the tips on his taxes. Sly is very proud of this and sees no problem with what he does, although I pointed out that I have to pay taxes on the money I earn so why shouldn't a waiter?
Back to the wedding Drama. I tell Primo his parents are over-reacting and he agrees, but whatever. I have atheist friends and relatives who would not concern me at all. I would put them next to my mother, Father T and Pastor G on a trans-Atlantic flight and not worry that there would be a single problem. Not all atheists are obnoxious. Not all obnoxious persons are atheists. It just happens in this case that the atheists in question are slightly belligerent in their views and have belligerent personalities. Well, one of them does, for sure. A volatile combination and one that has me worried because it's my party.
But the main thing Sly and Doris are mad about is that I wrote about this on my blog. Because the whole world reads my blog.*
Really, the only people who read this who know Sly and Doris are 1. Sly and Doris, 2. Primo, 3. Me.
So what's the problem exactly? Yes, my mother read it, but she doesn't know Sly and Doris, although she is going to meet them. So big deal. My mother reads on my blog that I am worried about three un-named "vocal atheists."
This from the people who, within an hour of meeting me, were trash talking Stephanie, my sister in law, and then moving on to Ted and Jack, Sly's other two sons and Primo's half brothers. Yes. They are concerned about propriety and decorum and not airing dirty laundry. At least I am using fake names on this blog, as I did on my other blog.
I tell Primo fine. "Tell your mom and dad that I will never, I mean NEVER again talk about them on my blog. Ever."
"Never?" he asks.
"NEVer," I say.
"What about when we visit?" he asks.
I think, "Well, we don't have to visit, you know," but I say, "I just won't blog while we're there."
"But they'll wonder why you're not writing about it. You blog every day."
"Tell them out of respect for their wishes, I am no longer mentioning them on my blog."
"But they'll be insulted if you don't mention them in that way."
"Too bad. Tell them live by the sword, die by the sword."
"They'll be upset."
"Like I care. They can't have it both ways."
Primo sighs. "They're not going to be happy."
"I don't care. Don't tell them anything. You don't have to put yourself in the middle of this. Just don't mention it. But I won't ever mention them again on my blog. I am done with them. Done."
And I haven't. When we go on our forced march to visit them once a year, I don't blog. Or I blog, but I leave them out of it. Unless I am going to make a leetle joke with them as the punchline. Let them find insult where they may. Yes. I am that petty. Sue me.
* Ha. As if.
Friday, February 26, 2010
In which we get married and Sly and Doris get drunk
September 2008 and yes, it is 2008, not 2007, as I had been posting. We got married in 2008. 2008. I am not a details person. I know that. That's why when I was working, I always made sure to put a details person on my team. I hate the small stuff. Let someone else deal with it.
Primo was incredulous yesterday when I called upstairs* to ask him what year we had married. How could I not know? But my brain is full of more important things, like why the concept of limited government is important, why we need to keep the electoral college instead of going to a popular vote and what's the frozen custard flavor today at Kopp's. Besides, I don't need to remember the little things. I am married to him. The Rememberer.
OK. I'll tell you a quick story. Then we'll get back to our wedding and I promise today will be a happy post because yesterday's was a bit of a downer. A few years ago when Alberto Gonzales was being questioned about things that had happened six months prior, I commented that who could remember what had happened that long ago?
Primo said, "I know what I was doing six months ago."
I said, "OK. What were you doing on November 21?"
Primo said, "I was in Cedar Rapids with a customer. Rockwell Collins. It was a Thursday."
I said, "You're making that up."
So he pulled up the calendar on his computer and darned if he wasn't right.
Still, I think that's a waste of brainpower. Does he know what shoes** I was wearing when we met? Ha. Now that's an important thing to remember.
Back to our wedding. It's Thursday. My sister is the first one to arrive. I pick her up at the airport and we goof off all morning. Freedom! She has not been to our city as an adult. We drive along the waterfront, stop at a coffeeshop. I tell her about the miscarriage because I HAVE TO TELL SOMEBODY. Plus, she's a nurse practitioner and just in case I pass out or start to hemorrhage, it would be a good idea for someone else to know what's going on.
I realize that the "Don't tell anyone you're pregnant before 12 weeks" rule is just stupid. Anyone who's reading this who is pregnant and hasn't told, TELL. Or at least tell your mom and your sister and your best friend. Because if you have a miscarriage, you are going to tell them about it and then all you get is the crummy part about telling about the miscarriage but you miss the fun part about telling about the pregnancy. The rule is STUPID. Yeah, don't tell the whole world. But tell your close friends so at least you get the joy to balance what might be the crap.
Then she takes me to get a manicure. After that, we have to go back to the house. Ick. But at least I have company. I have not told her about Sly and Doris' shenanigans, not because I want them to be protected but because I know my sister would scratch their eyes out and I don't need life complicated that way.
We have more buffers. Primo picks up my brother and his brother Ted, who is a good distraction for Sly and Doris. I like Ted. Again, proof that genetics are not destiny. How Sly managed to produce decent children I do not know. Sly and Doris would have you believe that Ted is a pompous bag of wind (pot, kettle), but I like him. I also like the fact that although Ted has a retarded son who will never live on his own, you don't hear him complain or whine about how unfair life is to him. Ted has always been cheerful and positive when I've been around him.
My mother and Dr J arrive. They have driven from Dr J's home in the northern part of the state.
With all these people around as protection against Sly, Doris is happy. She likes people. Sly bullies her and keeps her isolated. I don't know why she lets him get away with it. It's not as if she doesn't have anything he wants. As in - and you might want to avert your eyes here - Sly bragged to Primo about his cialis prescription. Why Sly thought that Primo would want to know that information about his father I do not know. Why Sly thought that was appropriate information to share with his child, albeit an adult child, I do not know. Why Sly has apparently never heard of the word "boundary" I do not know. He was an English professor. Surely that word has crossed his vocabulary.
But Doris is smiling. She is laughing. Wow. I have never seen her like this before. It's amazing what she can be like without someone bullying her. Amazing.
So. We are having fun. We are ignoring Sly's pontifications and pronouncements and arrogance and he is bewildered that We Don't Care about his Obvious Superiority, although Dr J is so gracious and sweet that he will listen to Sly without complaint. Sly is comforted that At Last, here is someone who is his Intellectual Equal.***
Claudia and Chloe, Primo's stepdaughters from his marriage to Isabel, arrive Friday morning.
We get married Friday afternoon in a quick Lutheran ceremony with Father T, a Catholic priest, in attendance to give it the imprimatur of the Catholic Church. He and Pastor G share the service. When Father T says something about "unit," Primo and I look at each other and think, "He said 'unit!'" Then we have to look away from each other so we don't burst out laughing.
After the service, my mom talks with Pastor G about Norwegian immigrant life on the prairie and family history research and Lutherans, of which my mom's father was one. Ted talks to Father T. Everyone has fun.
Ted takes Sly and Doris back to the house so they can drink. The rest of us go to the lake so we can take more photos, photos that do not contain Sly and Doris and that they subsequently whine about not containing them. Whatever, Sly and Doris.
We meet at the restaurant for our wedding supper. Primo and I get there first. I wonder where everyone will sit. I do not want to sit by Sly and Doris. I don't want to. Why should I have to? I have had to eat with them five nights already. It is my wedding supper. I have not been a demanding bride. I have not asked for much for my wedding. But dammit, I do not want to have to eat with Sly and Doris for my wedding supper. Is that too much to ask? Is that too mean? Is that too selfish?
So as soon as Chloe and Claudia walk in, I grab them. "Sit here," I say. "We've hardly had a chance to see you!" I do the same with my brother and sister. There. Now I am surrounded by people I like. I feel bad for throwing my mom and Dr J to the wolves, but they are taking one for the team. It is their wedding present to me.
There is a lot of drinking going on at that end. Not my mom. Not Dr J. Not Pastor G. Not Ted. But Sly and Doris. After Sly's toast in which he does not mention my name once, I walk over to make an obligatory hostess pass. Not that it's so horrible because I like Pastor G and my mom and Dr J and Ted. But when Doris pats the seat next to her and indicates she wants me to sit, I roll my eyes. Oh good grief. Now what?
I sit. She is weepy.
Why? Why is she sad? This is a wedding. Be happy, dammit.
How can she be this far in her cups? We allowed one cocktail before supper and brought a limited amount of wine. We did not want this supper to turn into a drunkfest. We were very careful about how much liquor was served.
Ah. But the pre-supper drinking at the house.
She is weeping and telling me how Primo is her Only Joy. How his toddler years were the Happiest Time of Her Life. I have heard this line before. Yeah. Whatever. I pretend to be nice. Smile. Pat her hand. Think, Lady, this is MY WEDDING. MINE. Could you please just let THIS be about ME for ONE SECOND? PLEASE?
I put on a convincing act but I am a little ticked off. We couldn't go one night without Drama? It's not like I haven't sucked it up for Doris and Sly all week: given them our bedroom, gotten them a newspaper every morning, bought them Lactaid because they are lactose intolerant except for our expensive Carr Valley cheese that they eat instead of lunch, set up a stereo in the living room, made a full supper every night, etc, etc.
Can't she suck it up for three hours? Would it kill her? It's NOT ABOUT YOU, DORIS. IT'S NOT.
But it is. It's always about her. Even the onion rings I didn't eat are about her.
Whatever.
I say something nice, extricate myself and see to my other guests. Who, except for Sly, are all happy. Having fun. Real fun, not drunk fun.
That night is when Primo promises me that Sly and Doris will never live with us. I love Primo. And he lives in the same house as I do and Sly and Doris live 1,000 miles away, so I guess it's OK.
* Oh like you don't call rather than walk up a flight of stairs. Please.
** My gorgeous red snakeskin high heels.
*** I would say that a cardiologist outranks an English professor. Indeed, Sly is probably hoist on his own petard here, for just last Christmas, Sly was complaining about his former colleague who had an EdD but insisted on being called "Doctor." When I asked what an "e d d" was, Sly told me it was a doctorate in education. "So he was a doctor," I said. "Yes," Sly sniffed, "but it's a lesser degree."
Primo was incredulous yesterday when I called upstairs* to ask him what year we had married. How could I not know? But my brain is full of more important things, like why the concept of limited government is important, why we need to keep the electoral college instead of going to a popular vote and what's the frozen custard flavor today at Kopp's. Besides, I don't need to remember the little things. I am married to him. The Rememberer.
OK. I'll tell you a quick story. Then we'll get back to our wedding and I promise today will be a happy post because yesterday's was a bit of a downer. A few years ago when Alberto Gonzales was being questioned about things that had happened six months prior, I commented that who could remember what had happened that long ago?
Primo said, "I know what I was doing six months ago."
I said, "OK. What were you doing on November 21?"
Primo said, "I was in Cedar Rapids with a customer. Rockwell Collins. It was a Thursday."
I said, "You're making that up."
So he pulled up the calendar on his computer and darned if he wasn't right.
Still, I think that's a waste of brainpower. Does he know what shoes** I was wearing when we met? Ha. Now that's an important thing to remember.
Back to our wedding. It's Thursday. My sister is the first one to arrive. I pick her up at the airport and we goof off all morning. Freedom! She has not been to our city as an adult. We drive along the waterfront, stop at a coffeeshop. I tell her about the miscarriage because I HAVE TO TELL SOMEBODY. Plus, she's a nurse practitioner and just in case I pass out or start to hemorrhage, it would be a good idea for someone else to know what's going on.
I realize that the "Don't tell anyone you're pregnant before 12 weeks" rule is just stupid. Anyone who's reading this who is pregnant and hasn't told, TELL. Or at least tell your mom and your sister and your best friend. Because if you have a miscarriage, you are going to tell them about it and then all you get is the crummy part about telling about the miscarriage but you miss the fun part about telling about the pregnancy. The rule is STUPID. Yeah, don't tell the whole world. But tell your close friends so at least you get the joy to balance what might be the crap.
Then she takes me to get a manicure. After that, we have to go back to the house. Ick. But at least I have company. I have not told her about Sly and Doris' shenanigans, not because I want them to be protected but because I know my sister would scratch their eyes out and I don't need life complicated that way.
We have more buffers. Primo picks up my brother and his brother Ted, who is a good distraction for Sly and Doris. I like Ted. Again, proof that genetics are not destiny. How Sly managed to produce decent children I do not know. Sly and Doris would have you believe that Ted is a pompous bag of wind (pot, kettle), but I like him. I also like the fact that although Ted has a retarded son who will never live on his own, you don't hear him complain or whine about how unfair life is to him. Ted has always been cheerful and positive when I've been around him.
My mother and Dr J arrive. They have driven from Dr J's home in the northern part of the state.
With all these people around as protection against Sly, Doris is happy. She likes people. Sly bullies her and keeps her isolated. I don't know why she lets him get away with it. It's not as if she doesn't have anything he wants. As in - and you might want to avert your eyes here - Sly bragged to Primo about his cialis prescription. Why Sly thought that Primo would want to know that information about his father I do not know. Why Sly thought that was appropriate information to share with his child, albeit an adult child, I do not know. Why Sly has apparently never heard of the word "boundary" I do not know. He was an English professor. Surely that word has crossed his vocabulary.
But Doris is smiling. She is laughing. Wow. I have never seen her like this before. It's amazing what she can be like without someone bullying her. Amazing.
So. We are having fun. We are ignoring Sly's pontifications and pronouncements and arrogance and he is bewildered that We Don't Care about his Obvious Superiority, although Dr J is so gracious and sweet that he will listen to Sly without complaint. Sly is comforted that At Last, here is someone who is his Intellectual Equal.***
Claudia and Chloe, Primo's stepdaughters from his marriage to Isabel, arrive Friday morning.
We get married Friday afternoon in a quick Lutheran ceremony with Father T, a Catholic priest, in attendance to give it the imprimatur of the Catholic Church. He and Pastor G share the service. When Father T says something about "unit," Primo and I look at each other and think, "He said 'unit!'" Then we have to look away from each other so we don't burst out laughing.
After the service, my mom talks with Pastor G about Norwegian immigrant life on the prairie and family history research and Lutherans, of which my mom's father was one. Ted talks to Father T. Everyone has fun.
Ted takes Sly and Doris back to the house so they can drink. The rest of us go to the lake so we can take more photos, photos that do not contain Sly and Doris and that they subsequently whine about not containing them. Whatever, Sly and Doris.
We meet at the restaurant for our wedding supper. Primo and I get there first. I wonder where everyone will sit. I do not want to sit by Sly and Doris. I don't want to. Why should I have to? I have had to eat with them five nights already. It is my wedding supper. I have not been a demanding bride. I have not asked for much for my wedding. But dammit, I do not want to have to eat with Sly and Doris for my wedding supper. Is that too much to ask? Is that too mean? Is that too selfish?
So as soon as Chloe and Claudia walk in, I grab them. "Sit here," I say. "We've hardly had a chance to see you!" I do the same with my brother and sister. There. Now I am surrounded by people I like. I feel bad for throwing my mom and Dr J to the wolves, but they are taking one for the team. It is their wedding present to me.
There is a lot of drinking going on at that end. Not my mom. Not Dr J. Not Pastor G. Not Ted. But Sly and Doris. After Sly's toast in which he does not mention my name once, I walk over to make an obligatory hostess pass. Not that it's so horrible because I like Pastor G and my mom and Dr J and Ted. But when Doris pats the seat next to her and indicates she wants me to sit, I roll my eyes. Oh good grief. Now what?
I sit. She is weepy.
Why? Why is she sad? This is a wedding. Be happy, dammit.
How can she be this far in her cups? We allowed one cocktail before supper and brought a limited amount of wine. We did not want this supper to turn into a drunkfest. We were very careful about how much liquor was served.
Ah. But the pre-supper drinking at the house.
She is weeping and telling me how Primo is her Only Joy. How his toddler years were the Happiest Time of Her Life. I have heard this line before. Yeah. Whatever. I pretend to be nice. Smile. Pat her hand. Think, Lady, this is MY WEDDING. MINE. Could you please just let THIS be about ME for ONE SECOND? PLEASE?
I put on a convincing act but I am a little ticked off. We couldn't go one night without Drama? It's not like I haven't sucked it up for Doris and Sly all week: given them our bedroom, gotten them a newspaper every morning, bought them Lactaid because they are lactose intolerant except for our expensive Carr Valley cheese that they eat instead of lunch, set up a stereo in the living room, made a full supper every night, etc, etc.
Can't she suck it up for three hours? Would it kill her? It's NOT ABOUT YOU, DORIS. IT'S NOT.
But it is. It's always about her. Even the onion rings I didn't eat are about her.
Whatever.
I say something nice, extricate myself and see to my other guests. Who, except for Sly, are all happy. Having fun. Real fun, not drunk fun.
That night is when Primo promises me that Sly and Doris will never live with us. I love Primo. And he lives in the same house as I do and Sly and Doris live 1,000 miles away, so I guess it's OK.
* Oh like you don't call rather than walk up a flight of stairs. Please.
** My gorgeous red snakeskin high heels.
*** I would say that a cardiologist outranks an English professor. Indeed, Sly is probably hoist on his own petard here, for just last Christmas, Sly was complaining about his former colleague who had an EdD but insisted on being called "Doctor." When I asked what an "e d d" was, Sly told me it was a doctorate in education. "So he was a doctor," I said. "Yes," Sly sniffed, "but it's a lesser degree."
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
In which our wedding week turns into a medical drama and a test of my acting ability
September 2008 Thursday night before the Saturday when Sly and Doris arrive. I am still pregnant. But. I notice some bleeding. Which is not a good thing when you are pregnant, regardless of what the internet tells you.
I call my doctor's office Friday morning and they tell me come in. I come. They take my blood. Listen for a heartbeat, which should be audible. None. Doc tells me to come back on Monday for more blood tests. He calls me Saturday to give me the results of Friday's blood test: not good.
Sly and Doris arrive Saturday night. They are whiney. So what else is new? They say nothing about the pregnancy because they are not supposed to know because I am not supposed to know that they told Primo they were not coming to the wedding. Do you need a scorecard yet?
I go back to my doctor on Monday. I do not tell Sly and Doris where I am going. I just tell them I am going to the gym, which is true, and that I have a few quick errands to run after class. Primo is taking the day off anyhow, so he can entertain them, as they are completely incapable of entertaining themselves if they are out of their environment.
The doc takes more blood. I wait for the results. Oh they are worse. Dr B, who is the sweetest, nicest man in the world, is so sad. He tells me to keep the ultrasound appointment I had already scheduled for the next day. It was going to be our first look at the baby ultrasound, but now it's going to be the make sure the baby is dead before we do a D&C ultrasound.
After I pick up a newspaper for Sly and Doris, I go home and roast a chicken for supper while Sly, apparently, nurses a grudge that I did not offer him oatmeal to go with his Cheerios that morning. After Primo and I sit through an interminable supper and clean the kitchen, I excuse myself to go to bed.
Sly and Doris complain that I do not socialize with them.
On Tuesday, I go to the gym in the morning. As I sit on the bench waiting for class to start, another woman in class comes over to me. "Are you OK?" she asks. "You look so sad. Is something wrong?"
I can barely answer her. "I can't talk about it," I say. "I'm sorry."
"OK," she answers. "It's just that you're usually so happy and smiling."
I return home with a newspaper for Sly and Doris, who ask Primo to move the stereo into the living room. I tell them I have a doctor's appointment that afternoon that I had scheduled months ago and that I had been unable to reschedule. I give them my apologies and leave.
The ultrasound confirms that the baby is dead. I explain the situation to the ultrasound doc: what drugs can he give me to deal with Sly and Doris?
He thinks for a while, then answers. "Vodka," he says. "I recommend vodka. Lots of vodka."
We schedule the D&C for Wednesday morning. I dress as if I am going to the gym, but go to the hospital instead. I want Primo with me, but we do not want to tell Sly and Doris. I will be damned if they are going to know about this. It is not theirs. I will not allow them to share our grief. IT IS NOT THEIRS. They do not get to have this. I will not let them be part of this private mourning.
I go alone. When I return, I go into Primo's office, close the door and we cry together.
That night, Sly and Doris take us out to eat. I am drugged. Numb. Lots of vicodin. I yell at Sly. Not as much as I want to. I want to slap his hand when he grabs a piece of bread from the basket on our table, drops it, and takes another instead.
"Were you raised in a barn?" I want to ask. Instead, I just make sure not to take that piece. But I do yell at him when he refuses to listen to Primo sing when we take them to karaoke after. Jerkjerkjerkjerk. He just can't stand not to be the center of attention. And the idea that somebody else might be as good as or better than him? Oh he can't bear it.
Primo waits until he is driving them to the airport on Sunday to tell them about the miscarriage.
They have never said a word about it to me. Never.
I call my doctor's office Friday morning and they tell me come in. I come. They take my blood. Listen for a heartbeat, which should be audible. None. Doc tells me to come back on Monday for more blood tests. He calls me Saturday to give me the results of Friday's blood test: not good.
Sly and Doris arrive Saturday night. They are whiney. So what else is new? They say nothing about the pregnancy because they are not supposed to know because I am not supposed to know that they told Primo they were not coming to the wedding. Do you need a scorecard yet?
I go back to my doctor on Monday. I do not tell Sly and Doris where I am going. I just tell them I am going to the gym, which is true, and that I have a few quick errands to run after class. Primo is taking the day off anyhow, so he can entertain them, as they are completely incapable of entertaining themselves if they are out of their environment.
The doc takes more blood. I wait for the results. Oh they are worse. Dr B, who is the sweetest, nicest man in the world, is so sad. He tells me to keep the ultrasound appointment I had already scheduled for the next day. It was going to be our first look at the baby ultrasound, but now it's going to be the make sure the baby is dead before we do a D&C ultrasound.
After I pick up a newspaper for Sly and Doris, I go home and roast a chicken for supper while Sly, apparently, nurses a grudge that I did not offer him oatmeal to go with his Cheerios that morning. After Primo and I sit through an interminable supper and clean the kitchen, I excuse myself to go to bed.
Sly and Doris complain that I do not socialize with them.
On Tuesday, I go to the gym in the morning. As I sit on the bench waiting for class to start, another woman in class comes over to me. "Are you OK?" she asks. "You look so sad. Is something wrong?"
I can barely answer her. "I can't talk about it," I say. "I'm sorry."
"OK," she answers. "It's just that you're usually so happy and smiling."
I return home with a newspaper for Sly and Doris, who ask Primo to move the stereo into the living room. I tell them I have a doctor's appointment that afternoon that I had scheduled months ago and that I had been unable to reschedule. I give them my apologies and leave.
The ultrasound confirms that the baby is dead. I explain the situation to the ultrasound doc: what drugs can he give me to deal with Sly and Doris?
He thinks for a while, then answers. "Vodka," he says. "I recommend vodka. Lots of vodka."
We schedule the D&C for Wednesday morning. I dress as if I am going to the gym, but go to the hospital instead. I want Primo with me, but we do not want to tell Sly and Doris. I will be damned if they are going to know about this. It is not theirs. I will not allow them to share our grief. IT IS NOT THEIRS. They do not get to have this. I will not let them be part of this private mourning.
I go alone. When I return, I go into Primo's office, close the door and we cry together.
That night, Sly and Doris take us out to eat. I am drugged. Numb. Lots of vicodin. I yell at Sly. Not as much as I want to. I want to slap his hand when he grabs a piece of bread from the basket on our table, drops it, and takes another instead.
"Were you raised in a barn?" I want to ask. Instead, I just make sure not to take that piece. But I do yell at him when he refuses to listen to Primo sing when we take them to karaoke after. Jerkjerkjerkjerk. He just can't stand not to be the center of attention. And the idea that somebody else might be as good as or better than him? Oh he can't bear it.
Primo waits until he is driving them to the airport on Sunday to tell them about the miscarriage.
They have never said a word about it to me. Never.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
In which Sly and Doris almost don't leave after the wedding
September 2008 Our wedding week. So yeah, they come. And some crummy stuff happens and I'll tell you about it but I suck it up and take lots of drugs and try to ignore Sly and Doris because I'm marrying Primo and he's wonderful and incredible and no matter how awful Sly and Doris are, they did do one thing right in their life and that was make Primo, so I have to thank them for that.
It's Sunday morning after the wedding. Primo is getting ready to drive Sly and Doris the 90 miles to the airport. Why yes of course there is an airport in our city! But if Sly and Doris flew out of our city, then they would have to change planes on their way home and that would be difficult for them. They do have many physical problems. So Primo is going way out of his way to make his parents comfortable and take them to a larger city and a direct flight. I don't think they appreciate the sacrifices he makes on their behalf.
I consult my project plan. Sly and Doris out of the house, Dr J (my mother's gentleman caller), my brother and sister into the house (from the hotel). Ted left last night. Claudia and Chloe are leaving today as well. Primo will drop them off at our airport this morning as he takes his parents out of town.
As soon as he pulls out of the driveway, I need to strip Sly and Doris' bed (aka Primo and my bed), put on clean sheets for my mother and Dr J,* change the guest room bed so Primo and I can move upstairs from the basement, change the basement bed for my brother, set up the inflatable for my sister. Wash sheets, clean the bathroom that Sly and Doris have been using for NINEDAYS because if you want to make me betray my country, put me in a shower that someone I don't like has been using. Start preparing the 12-person supper we are having tonight for my family and my dad's aunt and uncle and two cousins.
Fortunately, I can put my family to work, but still.
It is not until they get into the car that Doris realizes she has lost her wallet.
Which, of course, includes her ID.
Lord have mercy I do not need this now.
There is a mad scramble back into the house to look for it.
Panic.
With Primo's family, panic is the new normal.
I can't stand it.
I am getting scared that they won't leave. They are saying things like, "We can't leave! We can't go through security! They won't let us through! We'll just have to reschedule our flight!"
That is not an option. They are not staying a second longer. I have put up with them long enough. Ya basta. Begone! It is time for the nightmare to be over.
I almost shove them into the car.
"Go!" I say. "You just have to go through extra screening. This happened with a friend of mine last month. But you'll need extra time. Go!"
As they leave, Doris is still rifling through her purse.
Four days later, after my mother, brother and sister have left and I have regained my sanity, I call every place we went on their visit and ask if they have her wallet. The place that does have it (where they took us out to supper and yes, alcohol was involved in losing it) is the place that is, of course, the furthest from our house. It takes me an hour to get it and then Primo sends it to her FedEx.
They don't bother to reimburse us.
Dr J forgets some pants and a sweater. I mail them to him by the US mail. My mother sends us a check for the postage.
* Oh yeah that was awkward. My mom was in the guest room and Dr J was in a hotel. She asked if he could move into the house, which was fine, but logistics demanded that they share a room, even though they are not married. And good Catholics. She hesitated. I told her if she and Dr J really wanted separate rooms, that was fine, I would arrange it, but it would make my life a gajillion times easier if they would share.
It's Sunday morning after the wedding. Primo is getting ready to drive Sly and Doris the 90 miles to the airport. Why yes of course there is an airport in our city! But if Sly and Doris flew out of our city, then they would have to change planes on their way home and that would be difficult for them. They do have many physical problems. So Primo is going way out of his way to make his parents comfortable and take them to a larger city and a direct flight. I don't think they appreciate the sacrifices he makes on their behalf.
I consult my project plan. Sly and Doris out of the house, Dr J (my mother's gentleman caller), my brother and sister into the house (from the hotel). Ted left last night. Claudia and Chloe are leaving today as well. Primo will drop them off at our airport this morning as he takes his parents out of town.
As soon as he pulls out of the driveway, I need to strip Sly and Doris' bed (aka Primo and my bed), put on clean sheets for my mother and Dr J,* change the guest room bed so Primo and I can move upstairs from the basement, change the basement bed for my brother, set up the inflatable for my sister. Wash sheets, clean the bathroom that Sly and Doris have been using for NINEDAYS because if you want to make me betray my country, put me in a shower that someone I don't like has been using. Start preparing the 12-person supper we are having tonight for my family and my dad's aunt and uncle and two cousins.
Fortunately, I can put my family to work, but still.
It is not until they get into the car that Doris realizes she has lost her wallet.
Which, of course, includes her ID.
Lord have mercy I do not need this now.
There is a mad scramble back into the house to look for it.
Panic.
With Primo's family, panic is the new normal.
I can't stand it.
I am getting scared that they won't leave. They are saying things like, "We can't leave! We can't go through security! They won't let us through! We'll just have to reschedule our flight!"
That is not an option. They are not staying a second longer. I have put up with them long enough. Ya basta. Begone! It is time for the nightmare to be over.
I almost shove them into the car.
"Go!" I say. "You just have to go through extra screening. This happened with a friend of mine last month. But you'll need extra time. Go!"
As they leave, Doris is still rifling through her purse.
Four days later, after my mother, brother and sister have left and I have regained my sanity, I call every place we went on their visit and ask if they have her wallet. The place that does have it (where they took us out to supper and yes, alcohol was involved in losing it) is the place that is, of course, the furthest from our house. It takes me an hour to get it and then Primo sends it to her FedEx.
They don't bother to reimburse us.
Dr J forgets some pants and a sweater. I mail them to him by the US mail. My mother sends us a check for the postage.
* Oh yeah that was awkward. My mom was in the guest room and Dr J was in a hotel. She asked if he could move into the house, which was fine, but logistics demanded that they share a room, even though they are not married. And good Catholics. She hesitated. I told her if she and Dr J really wanted separate rooms, that was fine, I would arrange it, but it would make my life a gajillion times easier if they would share.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
In which Sly and Doris threaten to boycott the wedding
I tell Primo I am writing about the Wedding Boycott and he says that his parents never really meant it and that maybe he shouldn't have told me about it.
"What do you mean, they didn't mean it?"
"They were just blowing off steam," he answers.
"That's crap," I argue. "It took you over a week to convince them to come. I wish you'd called their bluff and said, 'I'm sorry you feel that way. I'll miss having you. Have a nice life.'"
"No, it's my job to fix everything in my family," he says. "I'm the one who has to cajole and convince and make everything better."
We argue about this for a while. He maintains that his parents never meant that they weren't coming. I say that makes it even worse: what kind of parents make the empty threat that they are not coming to a child's wedding?
Primo says that his parents say things like that all the time. It's just their way, he explains. It's because of how exhausted they are from Nancy, his mentally ill heroin addict sister, who had borderline personality disorder, and who was horribly abusive to Sly and Doris.
"That may be the case," I admit, "but that does not give them an excuse to treat you badly. What have you ever done to them?"
"They have been good parents to me," he says firmly. "They do love me."
I fall silent, but I still think it is a crappy, horrible, mean, manipulative thing for a parent to tell a child that he is not coming to the child's wedding, even if he doesn't mean it.
Especially if he doesn't mean it and if it's all part of a game where the child is then supposed to coax the parent out of the parent's hurt feelings. Give me a break. I was in your standard what am I doing wrong in my relationships here's a spreadsheet of all my boyfriends fix me in two sessions because I don't have money and time to waste please therapy. The mother and father are supposed to parent the child, not the other way around. Boundaries, Sly and Doris. Boundaries.
So what is this horrible thing I did to warrant a wedding boycott and the admonishment that Primo not marry me?
A few weeks before our wedding, I wrote something in my old blog - the one Sly and Doris read, alas - about how I was getting a bit stressed planning our wedding event. We were going to have houseguests for 14 days and I had written a four-page project plan detailing meals, airport pickups, hotels, guest room linen changes, and transportation plans. We had two 12-person sit-down meals at our house. A wedding supper at a restaurant. All meals with two truly lactose-intolerant eaters plus two fakers, one person with hemochromatosis and hence no red meat, etc, etc.
I wrote about this in a blog post.
I wrote about worrying about getting it all right and keeping my guests comfortable.
I also wrote about our wedding supper at the restaurant and how to seat the pastor, the priest and three vocal atheists, one of those atheists being Sly, who is not shy about his opinion about how stupid believers are, another being Ted and another being my brother, who has almost made my mother cry in some of his atheist arguments.
I was pretty sure that the pastor and the priest could hold their own against the atheists, but I did not want them to be in that position. I wanted our evening to be pleasant and free from tension. I was pretty sure my brother would behave, but I had never seen Sly in a public setting and I also knew he would be well lubricated, if you know what I mean.
So yes. I was worried.
But my exact line is just about how to seat three vocal atheists and the pastor and the priest. Nothing else. I do not write anything else in my old blog.
Sly and Doris take great offense. They assume I am talking about them and Ted. They assume that I am worried about their offending the pastors and not about the pastors offending them. Of course, they are correct, but there is another way to interpret it. Their first thought is always to assume they are the injured party. Always.
They take enough offense that they call Primo and tell him they aren't coming to the wedding and that he shouldn't marry me.
After making sure that I am not around, of course, and that they are speaking to him privately.
Because this is a secret he'll be able to keep from me. I sure won't notice if they don't show up.
Primo is crushed. Who wouldn't be? His own parents, telling him they won't be coming to his wedding? He tries to explain I was also including my brother and Ted. He tells them they are over-reacting.
They are unswayed. They call him repeatedly, including at work, while he is with a customer. They are still furious. He tries to calm them.
I tell him to tell them not to let the door hit them where the good Lord split them. Honestly. How much nicer will it be if they aren't there? I know my wedding day and wedding week will be easier without them. I also know Primo will be unhappy at his parents' betrayal.
But Primo is truly distressed. Truly. I do not buy his argument that they never meant it. Because he spends a week trying to convince them to come.
He tries everything. Everything.
They are unmoved.
He finally uses his last weapon.
He tells them that I am pregnant.
And if they ever want to be allowed to see their grandchild, they will come to his wedding.
"What do you mean, they didn't mean it?"
"They were just blowing off steam," he answers.
"That's crap," I argue. "It took you over a week to convince them to come. I wish you'd called their bluff and said, 'I'm sorry you feel that way. I'll miss having you. Have a nice life.'"
"No, it's my job to fix everything in my family," he says. "I'm the one who has to cajole and convince and make everything better."
We argue about this for a while. He maintains that his parents never meant that they weren't coming. I say that makes it even worse: what kind of parents make the empty threat that they are not coming to a child's wedding?
Primo says that his parents say things like that all the time. It's just their way, he explains. It's because of how exhausted they are from Nancy, his mentally ill heroin addict sister, who had borderline personality disorder, and who was horribly abusive to Sly and Doris.
"That may be the case," I admit, "but that does not give them an excuse to treat you badly. What have you ever done to them?"
"They have been good parents to me," he says firmly. "They do love me."
I fall silent, but I still think it is a crappy, horrible, mean, manipulative thing for a parent to tell a child that he is not coming to the child's wedding, even if he doesn't mean it.
Especially if he doesn't mean it and if it's all part of a game where the child is then supposed to coax the parent out of the parent's hurt feelings. Give me a break. I was in your standard what am I doing wrong in my relationships here's a spreadsheet of all my boyfriends fix me in two sessions because I don't have money and time to waste please therapy. The mother and father are supposed to parent the child, not the other way around. Boundaries, Sly and Doris. Boundaries.
So what is this horrible thing I did to warrant a wedding boycott and the admonishment that Primo not marry me?
A few weeks before our wedding, I wrote something in my old blog - the one Sly and Doris read, alas - about how I was getting a bit stressed planning our wedding event. We were going to have houseguests for 14 days and I had written a four-page project plan detailing meals, airport pickups, hotels, guest room linen changes, and transportation plans. We had two 12-person sit-down meals at our house. A wedding supper at a restaurant. All meals with two truly lactose-intolerant eaters plus two fakers, one person with hemochromatosis and hence no red meat, etc, etc.
I wrote about this in a blog post.
I wrote about worrying about getting it all right and keeping my guests comfortable.
I also wrote about our wedding supper at the restaurant and how to seat the pastor, the priest and three vocal atheists, one of those atheists being Sly, who is not shy about his opinion about how stupid believers are, another being Ted and another being my brother, who has almost made my mother cry in some of his atheist arguments.
I was pretty sure that the pastor and the priest could hold their own against the atheists, but I did not want them to be in that position. I wanted our evening to be pleasant and free from tension. I was pretty sure my brother would behave, but I had never seen Sly in a public setting and I also knew he would be well lubricated, if you know what I mean.
So yes. I was worried.
But my exact line is just about how to seat three vocal atheists and the pastor and the priest. Nothing else. I do not write anything else in my old blog.
Sly and Doris take great offense. They assume I am talking about them and Ted. They assume that I am worried about their offending the pastors and not about the pastors offending them. Of course, they are correct, but there is another way to interpret it. Their first thought is always to assume they are the injured party. Always.
They take enough offense that they call Primo and tell him they aren't coming to the wedding and that he shouldn't marry me.
After making sure that I am not around, of course, and that they are speaking to him privately.
Because this is a secret he'll be able to keep from me. I sure won't notice if they don't show up.
Primo is crushed. Who wouldn't be? His own parents, telling him they won't be coming to his wedding? He tries to explain I was also including my brother and Ted. He tells them they are over-reacting.
They are unswayed. They call him repeatedly, including at work, while he is with a customer. They are still furious. He tries to calm them.
I tell him to tell them not to let the door hit them where the good Lord split them. Honestly. How much nicer will it be if they aren't there? I know my wedding day and wedding week will be easier without them. I also know Primo will be unhappy at his parents' betrayal.
But Primo is truly distressed. Truly. I do not buy his argument that they never meant it. Because he spends a week trying to convince them to come.
He tries everything. Everything.
They are unmoved.
He finally uses his last weapon.
He tells them that I am pregnant.
And if they ever want to be allowed to see their grandchild, they will come to his wedding.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
In which Sly gets mad that I didn't offer oatmeal
November 2009 I know. Yet another post about my failings as a hostess/human being/daughter in law. Same old same old. But I can't cut straight to the chase. You know. Their threatening not to come to the wedding. I have to work in some more background material about how awful they are. More character development, although I think you guys probably have gotten the picture by now. But really - there is more!
I am trying to figure out how to plot this thing. One of the purposes of this blog, other than to give me a Whining Forum, is for me to lay out what I hope will become the book that permits Primo quit his job and allows us to have a winter place on Key Biscayne.* A place that we will not tell Sly and Doris about. Thank God for cellphones, hey?
Sly and Doris cannot know about the book.** If they did, they would never talk to Primo again.
Which would be fine with me.
There are days when it would be fine with Primo. Those days are becoming more and more.
They definitely do not know about this blog. They may or may not know about my other, everyday blog. Primo and I negotiated for a long time about this blog. One of the conditions of this double-secret probation blog was that I not link from here to my regular blog - where Doris and Sly are never mentioned - or vice versa, just in case they googled my blog name and found the blogspot version of the journalspace blog that blew up last year. Primo gave them a vague answer when they asked if I was still blogging. "Oh, that site isn't working any more," he said.
Which is true. But didn't really answer the question.
But back to the post du jour. I apologize for skipping around and writing things out of order, but now you understand why. I am writing from notes and events as they come to mind. Once I am done getting everything on electrons, I will start shuffling and figure out what the order needs to be.
So. Where were we?
Ah. It's November of 2009. And Sly, as usual, is complaining about me to Primo. No, it does not bother me any more. It used to, until I realized he is just an irrational, bitter man who has decided not to like me for reasons that have nothing to do with me. (Bacon? Really? He doesn't like how I eat bacon?) Now, he is just a source of material for the book that is going to set us free. Hahahahaha. Keep talking, old man. I'm taking notes.
He tells Primo indignantly that when they were here for our wedding and stayed with us for NINEDAYSNINEDAYSNINEDAYS that I did not offer him oatmeal for breakfast.
Dear reader. Other than pointing out the obvious that Sly is complaining to Primo about something that happened OVER A YEAR AGO, may I offer my side of the story?
Suppose you are a guest in my home. On Sunday night, I show you where things are in the kitchen. You have arrived on Saturday, but on Sunday we make omelettes for breakfast and eat together, much to my misery. Well, if it were you, I wouldn't mind, but Sly and Doris. Shudder.
Sunday night, I show you the cold cereal, the Lactaid I have purchased for you because you are lactose intolerant for milk but not for $25/lb Carr Valley cheese (is it just me or does this cheese get more expensive every time I tell the story?), the eggs, the bacon, the bread, the butter, the jam, the bananas, the oatmeal, the pots, the pans, the coffee maker. Actually, we set up the coffee maker especially for you because at this point, Primo and I are not coffee drinkers.
I show you everything you might want to eat for breakfast because you, who are sleeping in the master bedroom (our bedroom, the one that does not require you to take stairs) next to the kitchen, might be getting up before I do and I do not want you to feel that you have to wait for me before you eat. You probably will be getting up earlier because you have come from an earlier time zone and your body clock will be getting you up sooner.
When I come down from the upstairs guest bedroom, I find you in the kitchen.
You are eating breakfast.
You are eating cold cereal with Lactaid.
You knew where the oatmeal was, where the pots were, where the stove was. You chose cold cereal.
I make myself some oatmeal.
Tell me, dear reader. Should I ask you if you want some oatmeal in addition to your cold cereal? Or should I assume that you have already breakfasted sufficiently?
On whom should the burden of the oatmeal be?
In version 2 of this story, if you want oatmeal the next morning but do not feel comfortable cooking in someone else's kitchen, should you 1) wait for the same scenario to repeat itself or 2) say, "That Woman, would you mind making some oatmeal for me tomorrow morning when you make yours?" Or should you just file this incident in your mind and sulk about it for 14 months?
* OK. I would settle for Primo just being able to take a sabbatical and a week at the beach.
** That doesn't mean I can't go on Oprah. They wouldn't be caught dead watching Oprah.
I am trying to figure out how to plot this thing. One of the purposes of this blog, other than to give me a Whining Forum, is for me to lay out what I hope will become the book that permits Primo quit his job and allows us to have a winter place on Key Biscayne.* A place that we will not tell Sly and Doris about. Thank God for cellphones, hey?
Sly and Doris cannot know about the book.** If they did, they would never talk to Primo again.
Which would be fine with me.
There are days when it would be fine with Primo. Those days are becoming more and more.
They definitely do not know about this blog. They may or may not know about my other, everyday blog. Primo and I negotiated for a long time about this blog. One of the conditions of this double-secret probation blog was that I not link from here to my regular blog - where Doris and Sly are never mentioned - or vice versa, just in case they googled my blog name and found the blogspot version of the journalspace blog that blew up last year. Primo gave them a vague answer when they asked if I was still blogging. "Oh, that site isn't working any more," he said.
Which is true. But didn't really answer the question.
But back to the post du jour. I apologize for skipping around and writing things out of order, but now you understand why. I am writing from notes and events as they come to mind. Once I am done getting everything on electrons, I will start shuffling and figure out what the order needs to be.
So. Where were we?
Ah. It's November of 2009. And Sly, as usual, is complaining about me to Primo. No, it does not bother me any more. It used to, until I realized he is just an irrational, bitter man who has decided not to like me for reasons that have nothing to do with me. (Bacon? Really? He doesn't like how I eat bacon?) Now, he is just a source of material for the book that is going to set us free. Hahahahaha. Keep talking, old man. I'm taking notes.
He tells Primo indignantly that when they were here for our wedding and stayed with us for NINEDAYSNINEDAYSNINEDAYS that I did not offer him oatmeal for breakfast.
Dear reader. Other than pointing out the obvious that Sly is complaining to Primo about something that happened OVER A YEAR AGO, may I offer my side of the story?
Suppose you are a guest in my home. On Sunday night, I show you where things are in the kitchen. You have arrived on Saturday, but on Sunday we make omelettes for breakfast and eat together, much to my misery. Well, if it were you, I wouldn't mind, but Sly and Doris. Shudder.
Sunday night, I show you the cold cereal, the Lactaid I have purchased for you because you are lactose intolerant for milk but not for $25/lb Carr Valley cheese (is it just me or does this cheese get more expensive every time I tell the story?), the eggs, the bacon, the bread, the butter, the jam, the bananas, the oatmeal, the pots, the pans, the coffee maker. Actually, we set up the coffee maker especially for you because at this point, Primo and I are not coffee drinkers.
I show you everything you might want to eat for breakfast because you, who are sleeping in the master bedroom (our bedroom, the one that does not require you to take stairs) next to the kitchen, might be getting up before I do and I do not want you to feel that you have to wait for me before you eat. You probably will be getting up earlier because you have come from an earlier time zone and your body clock will be getting you up sooner.
When I come down from the upstairs guest bedroom, I find you in the kitchen.
You are eating breakfast.
You are eating cold cereal with Lactaid.
You knew where the oatmeal was, where the pots were, where the stove was. You chose cold cereal.
I make myself some oatmeal.
Tell me, dear reader. Should I ask you if you want some oatmeal in addition to your cold cereal? Or should I assume that you have already breakfasted sufficiently?
On whom should the burden of the oatmeal be?
In version 2 of this story, if you want oatmeal the next morning but do not feel comfortable cooking in someone else's kitchen, should you 1) wait for the same scenario to repeat itself or 2) say, "That Woman, would you mind making some oatmeal for me tomorrow morning when you make yours?" Or should you just file this incident in your mind and sulk about it for 14 months?
* OK. I would settle for Primo just being able to take a sabbatical and a week at the beach.
** That doesn't mean I can't go on Oprah. They wouldn't be caught dead watching Oprah.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
In which Sly assumes I read Primo's mail and also assumes Primo keeps Big Secrets from me
September 2008. Two weeks before our wedding.
Primo and I are driving back from a long weekend with friends. His phone rings. It's Sly. Primo tells Sly that we are in the car. Oh. Sly is surprised that I am present. He can't have the conversation that he wants to have with Primo.
Well, then. He asks Primo if Primo's email is "secure."
Huh? What does he mean by that?
Oh. Do I read Primo's email?
Of course not. First of all, we don't share an email address, unlike Sly and Doris, who, in an effort to save money, have a joint email account.
I joke.
But what is up with married couples who will not get their own email addresses? They are free, people. Freeeeeeeeee.
One friend said what did it matter that she and her husband shared an email, she told her husband everything anyhow. Gee thanks, I said. I had no idea you were passing all my personal confidences on to your husband. I will be sure to censor everything I tell you in the future. Like I need your husband to know about my Female Problems? Yes, women do talk about these things. No I do not your husband to know and guess what he does not want to know either.
Not that I think there should necessarily be secrets between spouses, but some things are None Of Primo's Business. For example, if a friend told me she was pregnant but swore me to secrecy because she had just found out and had not even told her mother, I would respect that. That secret would have nothing to do with Primo. I would never keep anything from him that had to do with him, but things that are none of his business are none of his business. By the same token, I do not expect him to share with me things his friends tell him in confidence.
Back to the "secure" email. No, I do not read Primo's email, even though I have been tempted. Sure, I've been in Primo's office and his email has been open and I've seen email from Isabel in the inbox. But I do not open it. I am not a snoop.
Well. Unless it is important. When I was in the Peace Corps, I had met this US embassy guy and gone out with him a few times. He was 32 and Had Not Yet Known Woman, if you know what I mean. I was in the capital and staying with him for two nights. He slept in his room, I slept in the guest room. He had gone to work and I was curious to know just what he thought might transpire that night.
So yeah, I looked in his nightstand.
Oh like you wouldn't.
In the top drawer there were three condoms.
Optimist.
On top of a towel that hid some skanky porn magazines that he must have brought from the US because they were in English, not in the local language. I didn't know why he thought he needed to hide the magazines.
What he thought might happen did not happen. After a few more dates, we did not go out any more, either. Nice guy, but we just weren't that into each other.
Primo and I can't figure out what Sly might want to discuss with him without my hearing.
"Maybe what they should get us for a wedding present?" Primo suggests.
Because Sly has to know that no matter what he tells Primo, eventually I will hear it. Primo's first loyalty is to me. Primo will not keep a secret about me from me. The only thing that Primo would keep a secret from me would be something that would benefit me in some way, like a present or a surprise party.
We speculate for a while. What kind of cool present might they be planning to get us? We've already told our families that we don't need anything, which is true. We are merging two complete households, but that doesn't mean we wouldn't like something neat, like a gift certificate to a restaurant we wouldn't otherwise consider or a season's subscription to the theater.
When we get home and Primo talks to his dad, we find out that no, it's not about a wedding present.
We find out that Sly and Doris are mad about something I wrote in my old blog.
We find out they aren't coming to the wedding.
Primo and I are driving back from a long weekend with friends. His phone rings. It's Sly. Primo tells Sly that we are in the car. Oh. Sly is surprised that I am present. He can't have the conversation that he wants to have with Primo.
Well, then. He asks Primo if Primo's email is "secure."
Huh? What does he mean by that?
Oh. Do I read Primo's email?
Of course not. First of all, we don't share an email address, unlike Sly and Doris, who, in an effort to save money, have a joint email account.
I joke.
But what is up with married couples who will not get their own email addresses? They are free, people. Freeeeeeeeee.
One friend said what did it matter that she and her husband shared an email, she told her husband everything anyhow. Gee thanks, I said. I had no idea you were passing all my personal confidences on to your husband. I will be sure to censor everything I tell you in the future. Like I need your husband to know about my Female Problems? Yes, women do talk about these things. No I do not your husband to know and guess what he does not want to know either.
Not that I think there should necessarily be secrets between spouses, but some things are None Of Primo's Business. For example, if a friend told me she was pregnant but swore me to secrecy because she had just found out and had not even told her mother, I would respect that. That secret would have nothing to do with Primo. I would never keep anything from him that had to do with him, but things that are none of his business are none of his business. By the same token, I do not expect him to share with me things his friends tell him in confidence.
Back to the "secure" email. No, I do not read Primo's email, even though I have been tempted. Sure, I've been in Primo's office and his email has been open and I've seen email from Isabel in the inbox. But I do not open it. I am not a snoop.
Well. Unless it is important. When I was in the Peace Corps, I had met this US embassy guy and gone out with him a few times. He was 32 and Had Not Yet Known Woman, if you know what I mean. I was in the capital and staying with him for two nights. He slept in his room, I slept in the guest room. He had gone to work and I was curious to know just what he thought might transpire that night.
So yeah, I looked in his nightstand.
Oh like you wouldn't.
In the top drawer there were three condoms.
Optimist.
On top of a towel that hid some skanky porn magazines that he must have brought from the US because they were in English, not in the local language. I didn't know why he thought he needed to hide the magazines.
What he thought might happen did not happen. After a few more dates, we did not go out any more, either. Nice guy, but we just weren't that into each other.
Primo and I can't figure out what Sly might want to discuss with him without my hearing.
"Maybe what they should get us for a wedding present?" Primo suggests.
Because Sly has to know that no matter what he tells Primo, eventually I will hear it. Primo's first loyalty is to me. Primo will not keep a secret about me from me. The only thing that Primo would keep a secret from me would be something that would benefit me in some way, like a present or a surprise party.
We speculate for a while. What kind of cool present might they be planning to get us? We've already told our families that we don't need anything, which is true. We are merging two complete households, but that doesn't mean we wouldn't like something neat, like a gift certificate to a restaurant we wouldn't otherwise consider or a season's subscription to the theater.
When we get home and Primo talks to his dad, we find out that no, it's not about a wedding present.
We find out that Sly and Doris are mad about something I wrote in my old blog.
We find out they aren't coming to the wedding.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
In which we go to pre-marital counseling
January 2008 The real rules of divorce are to make sure you marry the right person in the first place. That way, you never need to follow Rule #1 of Divorce, which is to hire a lawyer. So maybe the real Rule #1 of Divorce should be Go to Premarital Counseling and that will help you Marry The Right Person.
Well. Premarital counseling won't help you marry the right person, but it sure will help you weed out the wrong one.
Oh how I wish this were a gossip site because y'all, the stories I could tell you about marriages I knew would fail.
The couples didn't go to pre-marital counseling.
I was all, "I CANNOT BELIEVE the pastor is marrying them. This one WILL NOT LAST."
And boy was I right. Didn't last two years.
But they are not my stories to tell.
Sorry.
Anyhow.
After his starter marriage to Berthawhomhenevershouldhavemarriedinthefirstplace, Primo is a bit skittish. As well he should be. Because he blew it with her, both in the marriage and the divorce. Sorry, honey, but you know it's true. You're man enough to admit it and that's one of the things I love about you.
We decide to go to pre-marital counseling.
"Decide" is perhaps not the best verb to use. It is decided for us, as we (="I") want a Catholic marriage and the Catholic Church requires pre-marital counseling. Say what you will about the Church and organized religion, but there are worse things than a church trying to ensure that a marriage is undertaken on solid ground. Primo's Lutheran pastor also requires it, but she doesn't make us undergo extra counseling with her.
Our friends Norah and Henry saw Father Joe for their pre-marital counseling and recommend him. "He doesn't make you go to the whole six-weekend thing," they say.
Not that I have anything against the diocese's full-blown counseling, but it is geared toward 20somethings. They put together budgets, talk about who will take out the trash, who will do the cooking, whether they will have children, who will stay home with the kids: all issues Primo and I have already discussed ad nauseum because I am a worst-case scenario person and have to have a plan. I would not have agreed to marry Primo, sell my house, move to another city, and spend the rest of my life with him unless we shared the same values and goals and I understood where we were financially.
But I absolutely support this kind of discussion for anyone who is getting married because money AND IN-LAWS are the things that married couples fight about the most. In my experience, anyhow.
We make an appointment with Fr Joe (I've been going to his church for a few years), one of the sweetest priests in the world. He was a prisoner in a Vietnamese concentration camp, then escaped somehow. He is a rabid anti-communist and gives a great Fourth of July sermon about how the United States is basically the land of milk and honey. It is a little difficult to understand his accent, but with some concentration, it's possible.
He gives us a guide of things to discuss - questions about how we were raised, how things were in our families growing up, what our parents' relationships were like - that Primo and I have taken on long car trips. It is an interesting book that has led to some good talks between the two of us.
But we don't talk about the book with Fr Joe. He gives us three key pieces of advice. Be nice. Don't interrupt. Don't get complacent and fall into a rut.
It's working so far.
1. Husband and wife supposed to try to make each other happy. If wife say, “I have head-aitch,” husband say, “Why you tell me?! Go get Tylenol on shelf.”
Is it not better when husband say, “Oh! You have head-aitch. Here two tablets and glass of water.” That how husband and wife supposed to be.
2. The wife should not interrupt the husband during the basketball game.
3. Father Joe: We live in community. Six priests. Five nationalities: Vietnam, Korea, African-American, Philippines, Poland. We cook. Different food every day.
Me: Wow! That sounds great!
Father Joe: Ahhhh! Korea food very spicy! Very spicy! And how can someone eat kim chee every day?
4. Man and woman alone – no good! Remember, nobody perfect! Everyone need help. If you perfect, then you God and don’t need help.
5. This Vietnamese woman tell me, “I don’t like cheese! I don’t like sandwich!” Then she marry American man. She study many cookbook so she can prepare him the food he like. After two years, she say, “Now I like cheese. There many different kinds of cheese. I did not know!”
Well. Premarital counseling won't help you marry the right person, but it sure will help you weed out the wrong one.
Oh how I wish this were a gossip site because y'all, the stories I could tell you about marriages I knew would fail.
The couples didn't go to pre-marital counseling.
I was all, "I CANNOT BELIEVE the pastor is marrying them. This one WILL NOT LAST."
And boy was I right. Didn't last two years.
But they are not my stories to tell.
Sorry.
Anyhow.
After his starter marriage to Berthawhomhenevershouldhavemarriedinthefirstplace, Primo is a bit skittish. As well he should be. Because he blew it with her, both in the marriage and the divorce. Sorry, honey, but you know it's true. You're man enough to admit it and that's one of the things I love about you.
We decide to go to pre-marital counseling.
"Decide" is perhaps not the best verb to use. It is decided for us, as we (="I") want a Catholic marriage and the Catholic Church requires pre-marital counseling. Say what you will about the Church and organized religion, but there are worse things than a church trying to ensure that a marriage is undertaken on solid ground. Primo's Lutheran pastor also requires it, but she doesn't make us undergo extra counseling with her.
Our friends Norah and Henry saw Father Joe for their pre-marital counseling and recommend him. "He doesn't make you go to the whole six-weekend thing," they say.
Not that I have anything against the diocese's full-blown counseling, but it is geared toward 20somethings. They put together budgets, talk about who will take out the trash, who will do the cooking, whether they will have children, who will stay home with the kids: all issues Primo and I have already discussed ad nauseum because I am a worst-case scenario person and have to have a plan. I would not have agreed to marry Primo, sell my house, move to another city, and spend the rest of my life with him unless we shared the same values and goals and I understood where we were financially.
But I absolutely support this kind of discussion for anyone who is getting married because money AND IN-LAWS are the things that married couples fight about the most. In my experience, anyhow.
We make an appointment with Fr Joe (I've been going to his church for a few years), one of the sweetest priests in the world. He was a prisoner in a Vietnamese concentration camp, then escaped somehow. He is a rabid anti-communist and gives a great Fourth of July sermon about how the United States is basically the land of milk and honey. It is a little difficult to understand his accent, but with some concentration, it's possible.
He gives us a guide of things to discuss - questions about how we were raised, how things were in our families growing up, what our parents' relationships were like - that Primo and I have taken on long car trips. It is an interesting book that has led to some good talks between the two of us.
But we don't talk about the book with Fr Joe. He gives us three key pieces of advice. Be nice. Don't interrupt. Don't get complacent and fall into a rut.
It's working so far.
1. Husband and wife supposed to try to make each other happy. If wife say, “I have head-aitch,” husband say, “Why you tell me?! Go get Tylenol on shelf.”
Is it not better when husband say, “Oh! You have head-aitch. Here two tablets and glass of water.” That how husband and wife supposed to be.
2. The wife should not interrupt the husband during the basketball game.
3. Father Joe: We live in community. Six priests. Five nationalities: Vietnam, Korea, African-American, Philippines, Poland. We cook. Different food every day.
Me: Wow! That sounds great!
Father Joe: Ahhhh! Korea food very spicy! Very spicy! And how can someone eat kim chee every day?
4. Man and woman alone – no good! Remember, nobody perfect! Everyone need help. If you perfect, then you God and don’t need help.
5. This Vietnamese woman tell me, “I don’t like cheese! I don’t like sandwich!” Then she marry American man. She study many cookbook so she can prepare him the food he like. After two years, she say, “Now I like cheese. There many different kinds of cheese. I did not know!”
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