In which Doris' present becomes a further burden

Rember that stupid Meyer lemon tree that Doris sent us as an anniversary present a few years ago? She was nice to send us a present and she was very nice to send us an anniversary present - as far as I am concerned, the only two people who have to acknowledge an anniversary are the people inside the marriage. Primo and I celebrate our anniversary by exchanging greeting cards with kittens or penguins on them and by going out to a nice dinner - the kind where you don't wear jeans. But other than that, we don't do much because 1. we don't need more stuff and 2. we are trying to save money.

So Doris sent us this plant which wouldn't be such a bad thing except

1. A Meyer lemon tree (a little wee baby one, about ten inches high) is a tropical plant.

We do not live in the tropics. We do not have ten hours of warm sun a day for the plant to bask in.

We live in a cold climate where the sun disappears for days in the winter. We live in a house that was built in 1928, which, to anyone else who lives in a cold climate knows, means a house that leaks heat and money in the winter. It means unless you want to spend over $400 a month on heating in January, you close off half your house, turn the heat way down, and wear lots of clothes.

A Meyer lemon tree is not supposed to live in the cold and the dark. I googled "Meyer lemon tree care" and got lots of information about "Florida" and Meyer lemon trees.

We are not in Florida.

(Thank goodness, although I would happily move to Miami again. No snow there! Cuban food! What's not to like?)

2. I do not like houseplants. I had no houseplants until the lemon tree. Now I have one. Which is one more than I want. Houseplants are way too much responsibility.

Wait. I have two, if you count the kitty grass that we keep for the cats so they don't get (it doesn't work) hairballs in the winter. They still get hairballs, but they happily graze on the small pot of grass that lives in the kitchen window. Which is not a place where the lemon tree could live because it gets too cold in that window and it certainly does not get ten hours of sun every day, not even in the summer.

The kitty grass is easy: it lives above the kitchen sink, so I remember to water it. If it dies, oh well.

But the lemon tree.

My gosh she might as well have given us a puppy. A potted lemon tree cannot be ignored.

So for the past few years, I have moved that darn tree in and out of the house, depending on the season. In and out of the kitchen and the stairwell, depending on where the sun is. Watered when I remembered. Which is infrequently.

I put it outside once the weather started getting nice and hoped I could forget about it for a few months.

That was not to be the case.

There was a huge windstorm the other night.

The only thing that was damaged at our house was the lemon tree. It blew over and the pot broke.

Now, I am not sad about the possibility of losing the tree, but the fall did not kill it. Which means I have to try to save it. Which meant that last night, rather than goofing off and reading my book in peace because Primo is on a work trip so I have the house all to myself with nobody bothering me, I had to glue that darn pot back together. Of course the first tube of glue was completely dried out, so I had to go back to the basement to look for more glue. I wanted to throw away the dried-out glue, but didn't feel like arguing with Primo upon his return and his eventual discovery that the glue was gone.

The man has a photographic memory for things like that, but if I ask him to do one tiny thing like print something for me next week, he will tell me there is no way he can be expected to remember something like that.

I think he remembers what is convenient for him.

Anyhow, I promised him years ago that I would not throw away any of his crap without his permission and I have tried to stick to that, although I was sorely tempted when I was in his office last night and saw the raffle tickets we bought in March still sitting on his desk.

We did not win that raffle, which happened in March.

Yet the tickets rest on his desk still.

I itched, I itched, I tell you, to throw them away.

But I promised.

Primo would be hard pressed to find anything of mine to throw away. Sure, I still have some old address books and calendars, but I have two boxes of stuff compared to his office full and basement full of crap. Phone bills from 1997? Employee manuals from 1992? He's got them.

I don't want him dead, but I have thought that if he did have a car accident, the first thing I would do, after tearing down and burning the protest signs in his office and the framed photo of themselves that Sly and Doris gave us for Christmas a few years ago, would be to throw away all of his boxed stuff in the basement without even looking at it. My theory is that if he brought that stuff with him when he moved here from California eight years ago and hasn't opened it since, it is nothing necessary for life.

I put the dried-up glue back and found another tube. Glued the pot back together, cursing the stupid plant the entire time. Tonight, I will repot it. And wonder why it continues to survive despite the neglect.

In which Primo and I negotiate over the terms of his possibly quitting his well-paying job that puts a roof over our heads and food on our table

You guys know that Primo wants to quit his job and do something more meaningful, which is completely understandable: the alimony ended last year and I have a job and we have a little more financial freedom plus he has been doing the same kind of work for a long time.

He is bored. He has ennui. And he wants to do something with purpose.

If we had children, he might not feel this way, as rearing children is a ton of work and you get to see results of that work and then one day, have grandchildren so all you have is the fun with none of the crap. But we do not have children and we don't have grandchildren to look forward to. Well, not grandchildren we can see frequently. Primo's two stepdaughters have three children between them, one of them brand new, and they are the cutest kids in the world but they are on the other side of the country so it's not like we get to be a part of their everyday lives.

I understand the desire for meaning and the desire to leave one's mark on the world.

And I want Primo to have this.

But I want something out of this.

As in, we have been negotiating.

So far, I have gotten an agreement that I would not face any opposition to changing my name back to my maiden name, which yes yes yes I know is as patriarchal as taking my husband's name - what's the difference between a father's name and a husband's name? - but I am not trying to make a statement against The Patriarchy or The Man. I just want my name back and I don't want to share a name with Sly and Doris.

Yes I am that petty. If you want a blog written by someone who is nice and who doesn't wish her in-laws dead (not enough to take out a contract on them - that would be wrong - but enough to wish they would either become nice or just disappear so Primo wouldn't be subject to their meanness), then you'll have to find somewhere else. There are a lot of nice bloggers out there.

(My friends' parents are starting to die. Nice parents are dying. The mean parents endure.)

I have also tried to get Primo to agree that we would never have a political conversation again. I have not had as much luck with that.

Primo has also offered to

1. paint the garage
2. paint the windowsills

I have informed him that if he becomes the stay-at-home person, he will be in charge of all the housework and the cooking.

Me: And you can't buy beer.

Primo: But that's one of the purposes of my quitting - to get to relax more!

In which a rose by any other name is a darn weed

Remember how Doris didn't like how I addressed the letter to her? And how she queried Primo about why I used my maiden name on the return address? Hadn't I changed my name?

Primo told her that I had changed it but only used it in legal circumstances - socially, I prefer to use my maiden name.

So. Now. A week or two later. She sends me a letter.

Addressed to "Gold Drunk" and not "Gold Digger."

I write back to her. Put a very pointed return address of "DIGGER." Get the point, lady! I write "Mrs Sly Drunk" for her because she told Primo that's how she wants to be addressed.

She writes back again. Addresses the letter to "Gold Drunk."

This is war.

I put a post on facebook:

My husband's mother insists on addressing her letters to me as "Gold Drunk," even though my return address on letters I send to her is "Gold Digger" and even though she asked Primo why I wasn't going by "Drunk." 1. She is an ardent liberal. 2. You'd think she would know why I don't want anything to do with her name.

Susan That's not even passive aggressive; it's full on aggressive aggressive.

Yesterday at 11:27am · Like

Maggie Not to mention she wishes you weren't married to her son.

Yesterday at 1:29pm via mobile · Like

I will write to her again. I will continue to put "Digger" as my return address. Maybe I should write, "Return to sender" on the letters addressed to "Gold Drunk." Except that is my legal name. Rats.

In which presents come and we wonder if they could be from -- Satan?

Primo's birthday approaches.

You all know how fraught gift-giving events are with Sly and Doris.

I would rather get nothing at all than get something crummy for which I need to fake gratitude.

Primo is in a tougher position, as Sly and Doris are his parents and will bug him for feedback. Did he like it, did he like it?

I never talk to them, so I just have to write a brief, courteous thank-you note.

Primo's birthday.

Here's what my mom will do: She will send us a check for $100 so we can go out for a nice dinner.

Which we will happily use, as we have a hard time spending that much of our money on a meal. But gift money? That's OK.

We would love another $100 check. There are always concerts and plays and nice dinners that seem too splurgy with our own money but are tailor-made for gift money.

Today, three large envelopes - 11x17" - came in the mail.

Primo waited until I got home from work to open them.

He opened envelope number 1. Slit the letter opener carefully along the edge. Slid out the contents.

An 11x17" photo of a sea turtle.

You guys, I could not make this stuff up if I tried.

An 11x17" photo of a sea turtle. And a certificate of adoption. And a 2013 calendar.

Just what he's always wanted.

He opened the second envelope.

Slid out the contents.

An 11x17" photo of a wolf. And a certificate of adoption. And a 2013 calendar.

But wait there's more.

He opened the third envelope.

An 11x17" photo of a panther. And a certificate of adoption. And a 2013 calendar.

Primo is a new father.

"Why can't your parents just send normal gifts?" I asked. "Why can't they just send a check? Or something you want?"

"We don't know that it's from them," he answered.

"It could be from my mom," I suggested.

Primo rolled his eyes. "Your mom sends us cash. Your sister sends weird stuff, but it's weird stuff she thinks we'll like, like that sampler pack from the bacon place.*"

"Oh right," I said. "It's not like she was trying to impose her beliefs on us. It's not like she sent it to vegetarians."


* It included eight kinds of bacon salt, so we are good on salt for the rest of our lives or at least until we are both on AARP.

In which Doris sends Primo a drunken email because she is ticked off that I have not responded to her letter

Doris sent me a letter and I guess I didn't hop to it quickly enough. Here's the email she sent Primo:

I am at a total loss on why you haven't responded to my query about my letter to Goldy. I guess I flunked, and, if so, don't ask me to try again.  I dumped the longer response with multiple explanations and disappointments in our relationship to her.  I decided to use the carrot and discard the sticks.  I guess it didn't work. Primo, your workload and other obligations can't possibly explain not sending me a one or two sentence answer. Love,  Mom

1. Aren't you dying to know what the stick would have looked like? If the letter she did send was the carrot, then the stick must have been something else!

2. Primo is Bad! He doesn't drop everything to answer Doris!

3. No passive aggressiveness in this note.

Primo answered. He was far nicer than I thought Doris deserved and far nicer than his mood would have indicated. When he got her email, he stomped downstairs and stormed into the bedroom. He was furious at her. I was too.

"If is was so important," he seethed, "why didn't she pick up the phone and call me?"

"Because you are supposed to call them," I said. They never call Primo. Never. Part of it is they don't have long distance on their regular phone, but they do have a cellphone. They almost never use the cellphone, though. Maybe because they can't find it in all the junk in their house.

But if they don't want to use their minutes, they could call Primo with the cellphone and ask him to call them back. We do have long distance on our phone.

They probably can't afford long distance because of all the money they spend on booze.

Mom,

I am sorry about my lack of response to your e-mail.

You wrote:

> Primo, your workload and other obligations can't possibly explain not sending me a one or two sentence answer.

Yes, my workload and other obligations certainly can explain why I haven't responded.  I am busier in my job than I have been for at least four or five years.  It seems that most of the people I work with and most of the customers I work with have asked for help within the last 2-3 weeks.  I am exhausted.  I never sleep enough.  I'm still trying to be politically active; I went to political events or neighborhood meetings every evening this week from Monday through Thursday.  Today is the first day that I've not gone anywhere.

I really don't understand why you get so upset because of a simple lack of response to an e-mail.  I receive dozens of e-mails every day in my personal account (most of them political), and messages quickly get "buried" if I don't get to them within a few hours.  I guess we have very different ideas about how important e-mail is.  My average response time to personal e-mail is measured in days, not hours.  If you want to ask me a question and get an answer right away, you can always call.  If I can't answer the phone, I will call back.  Until/unless I become significantly less busy (or decide that I don't care at all about politics any more), your expectation when sending me an e-mail during the week -- specifically, one which doesn't explicitly define something as "urgent" or mention something like a serious health problem -- should be that I will probably respond during the weekend.

Your letter did arrive this week, and Goldy mentioned that it was "very nice."  I meant to write a one- or two-sentence response to your e-mail from Wednesday.  I thought about it yesterday and then today, but I remained very busy with work and didn't get around to it.  I also dared to take a little bit of a break today to pay attention to the NCAA tournament.

I will call you tomorrow.

Love,
Primo

In which I get a response back from Doris

The letter from Doris arrived. Below are selected quotations and my commentary. A week after she sent the letter, she sent me a gardening catalogue and a National Geographic magazine.

No. I do not know why she did that.

I think we need to start anew after I offer our read on how the tensions began. You should tell us your recollections.

Right. Because my telling them all the reasons I don't like them would be soooo productive. They would understand everything, agree, and apologize. Then they would change their behavior.

The most significant factor in our initial qualms was reading your blog. We were probably too quick to form judgments before we even met you.

You think? (PS It wasn't this blog.)

I know from Primo that you were very upset about our negative advice to him about marrying you-your likes, politics, and religious views seemed so divergent from his. Plus we know that Primo was often an easy mark. His marriage to Isabel (which we STRONGLY opposed) turned out to be what we had feared...

No apology for telling him not to marry me. No "we were wrong." Just "we know you were upset."

Sly, of course, wouldn't listen to advice on not marrying his first wife. He was but 19 and Melinda was 23...She even bought the engagement ring! It took me a long time to build a relationship with some of Sly's relatives and the initiative was all mine.

That is, screw you. I had to suck up to them so by God, you'll do it to me.

We would be happy to thaw the ice that has separated us and develop a friendlier relationship. We doubt that we could ever agree on what seem to be some of your world-views.

Well, I demand that everyone share my opinion on things, so I guess this is not going to work.

When we were together, you always appeared chilly, guarded, and rather judgmental. 

Maybe because they were trash-talking everyone else in the family?

We don't know if you found us welcoming open, rigid, or just old fogies. 

How about mean, vicious, drunk?

We've always felt that you were worried about Primo having responsibilities to us in our dotage. 

That is correct. My concern is that they have failed to act and Primo will be stuck with doing everything. So far, my concerns have been valid.

In which I send a letter to Sly and Doris

OK. Here's the note I mailed to Sly and Doris. I did not send them an email because

1. I wanted it to take longer for them to respond because I really truly do not want to deal with this and
2. I know how they like to forward emails to everyone and BCC everyone on everything. I don't need everyone else to be in my business. Except for you guys, of course.

Dear Sly and Doris,

It really bothers me that we have such a horrible relationship. I had always envisioned being close to my husband's family. This is not how I wanted things to work out. I don't want to be estranged from my husband's parents. It's a loss for me and it's hard on Primo - he's caught in the middle and it causes him a lot of pain.

I don't know how we got off on the wrong foot. I wish we hadn't. I am truly sorry for anything I might have done to cause this rift. 

The three of us have something in common: we love Primo and we want him to be happy. What can I do to repair our relationship?

Goldy

This letter is completely true. It does bother me. I do wish I had a better relationship with my in-laws. What I did not say but what of course you guys all know is that I want in-laws who are nice, reasonable people. I don't want nasty drunks. They are the problem here, I think, not me. I have always gotten along with my boyfriends' families. Sly and Doris are the first ones to hate me. They hated Isabel, Primo's first wife. And they're the first ones I have disliked. So who's the X here?

I wrote this to get them off Primo's back. If I have to write a letter twice a month to them to get them to stop complaining to Primo about me, that's fine. I'll do it.

In which Primo commits to raising $1,000 for a judicial candidate but then can't

Primo still wants to be in politics. He wants to quit his job and get a political job, which he cannot do until I get a job that pays more than the job I had, which is going to be easier said than done.

For him to get a job in politics, he has to become a networker. He has a great network of engineers if he ever wants another engineering job, but he doesn't even want the engineering job he has, much less another one.

Which stinks for me, because it's hard to find people to do what he does and the pricing reflects that. Politics, on the other hand, has very low barriers to entry. (Obviously.) And when there is a high supply of potential employees and a low supply of jobs, economics works and the prices for labor are low.

Which is why I need to get a different job.

Back to his networking. Networking for politics means volunteering on other campaigns. It means helping candidates raise money.

Primo decided he didn't want to do doors for this guy who's running for judge. Let's call the guy Benito. Not his name and I'll probably forget it by my next post and I'll call him something else, but it doesn't really matter. Benito is not essential to the plot.

So he agreed to raise $1,000 for Benito's campaign.

He agreed to this six weeks before the election.

Then he started calling people to donate.

And realized that almost everyone who had donated to his campaign was a friend or family member who couldn't care less if Benito were elected.

Which meant he didn't have people to call to donate.

It's all a pyramid scheme, really, and it works only if the fundraiser is willing to twist arms and use his connections for the benefit of someone else.

He raised $75 from a local friend who had also donated to Primo's campaign. Only $925 to go.

Then he found out he had to go on a business trip for a week. He spent the weekend preparing for the trip rather than fundraising.

He also spent the weekend worrying that he wasn't going to be able to raise the money.

On Wednesday, he called me. He was worried that he wasn't going to have time to raise the money. "I might have to come back here next week," he said.

He was upset that he had made a commitment that he wasn't going to be able to meet.

I got a $100 bonus at work that day. I also found out that I got a raise that, after taxes, was going to yield us the princely sum of another $900 for the year.

I sighed. I hated that he was worrying. There aren't many problems that you can make go away with money. Not that I don't want to have money, but a lot of the big problems, at least in our life, have nothing to do with money. They have to do with Sly and Doris and there is not enough money in the world to make that problem go away.

Our furnace broke and had to be replaced. That's a money problem.

Isabel needs some money to pay her 2012 income taxes. That's a money problem. Isabel has terminal cancer. Not a money problem.

Primo is unhappy in his job. Not a money problem.

The muscles in my face are starting to sag and I am showing my age. Not a money problem.

We are very fortunate that we have the money to solve the existing money problems in our life.

"We can give the $1,000," I said. "But you have to keep my name out of it because I do not support your candidate."

Primo was silent.

"I mean it. We can afford this. If it takes $1,000 for this to go away, let's just do it. It's one less thing to worry about."

Primo sighed. "I never should have agreed to do this," he said.

"Nope," I answered. "It was a really dumb idea."

"I'll never do it again," he promised.

"You'd better not," I said. "There is only one get out of jail free card on this."

When he returned from the trip, there were only two weeks to the election.

I sighed, thinking of how I would rather have used that money. Shoes. Paying down the mortgage. A new purse. (Not the used Bottega Veneta I saw on eBay for $27,000. It wasn't even pretty. As one friend said, "They should throw in a car for that price.")

Help Isabel with her taxes. Give it to the homeless shelter. Give it to the hospice where my dad died.

There are a lot of things we could have done. But I had suggested it and Primo was relieved and all I want is peace in my house.

A few days after he returned, Primo talked to the chair of the Polka Dot party, the one whom he had told he would raise the money. I heard him upstairs on the phone, but it wasn't his Sly and Doris voice (strained, unhappy) or his Sam voice (happy, light). It was a voice I don't know.

Turns out it was his political/huge relief voice.

He came downstairs. "I told [whatever his name is] that I hadn't had a chance to raise the money  but that we were prepared to donate it ourselves."

Deep sigh from me. Bye bye money.

He continued. "He says that we don't need to do that."

I sat up straight. My eyes opened wide.

"But maybe we shoul-"

"No! No! If he's not going to hold you to it, I vote no! This is great news!"

Primo was doubtful. "But I said-"

I shook my head. "Nope. We're done. We are out of the fundraising business. We can give the money to Isabel for her taxes. I'd rather help her than Benito any day. This is great news."

It wasn't too hard to talk Primo into agreeing. And now we close the fundraising chapter of our lives. Good riddance.

In which we discover that Samantha is running for office

Did I tell you that Samantha is running for office?

She is!

Can you believe it?!!!

We can't.

Primo has not spoken to Samantha in months.

She has not spoken to him.

She's probably ashamed. Ashamed that she took our hard-earned money and didn't do anything for it.

Primo went out last night with Ralph and Potsie. They are encouraging Primo to do what I've been nagging him to do for months, which is to ask her to account for her time on the contract. Our lawyer friend Sam, Primo's best friend, whom we visited over New Year's Eve, said that we should write a letter and ask for a detailed listing of her activities. The money was a retainer to be applied to the hours that she worked, so we should ask her for a list.

If I had been running this thing from the beginning, I would have demanded that.

Primo is not a manager of people.

I am not either, but I at least have managed people informally, on teams I have put together. I am good at holding people accountable, but only when I am the person in charge of the project. With the campaign, Primo was in charge and I didn't think it was my business plus I didn't want to be involved but man I should have been.

Anyhow.

Samantha is running for school board.

And she is having a fundraiser.

At a yoga studio.

She wrote, "Join us for yoga, Ayurvedic refreshments, sustainability and fun."

She'll have to get all new people because everyone who's worked with her already knows what she is like. She de-friended Ralph and Potsie on facebook. Who else has she ticked off?

In which Primo and I try to figure out how I should address my groveling letter to Sly and Doris

Wait! Did I tell you guys that Sly and Doris were really ticked off at the way I addressed my thank-you note to them for the Christmas present they sent me that I didn't even want and Lordhavemercy we have tried and tried to stop the presents arms race because

1. we don't need anything
2. Sly and Doris don't need anything
3. whatever Sly and Doris ask us to get for them is just going to be more tacky crap we will have to get rid of when they die and we are stuck cleaning out their house because we know there is no way they will ever start cutting down the clutter
4. Even if we did need something, Sly and Doris wouldn't get it because they would rather get us crap from the Femilist catalogue or from the place that sells the horrible Chinese pressed wood tables with hummingbirds painted on them where you can't get a cash refund if you are a gift recipient but have to exchange instead. But all their items are horrible Chinese pressed wood painted with hummingbirds!

So anyway. They sent me a book, which was a nice thought - that they would want to give me a present, but they already know that I don't buy books because hello I go to the library all the time. Primo bought them a toaster oven and spent Lord knows how much money flying there and renting a car the weekend before Christmas.

But it was a book I didn't want. So I returned it. Got my $14 credit at amazon.com.

Primo was horrified. "What if they find out?" he gasped.

"They won't," I assured him. "I asked."

"But what about when they ask me if you liked it?" he asked.

"Tell them yes," I answered, shrugging. Honestly. The guy was Phi Beta Kappa and he has to ask me how to handle this situation?

"But what if they want to know specifics?"

Lord. "You mean if they give you a pop quiz?" Because it's not like they would be talking to me about it. I can't remember the last time I spoke to them. It would have been the last time I visited them, which was what - three years ago?

Doris and I do not chat on the phone.

I sighed. "I'll get it from the library and read enough that you can give them a report, OK?"

Of course I wrote a thank-you note. Of course.

I addressed it to "Drunk" instead of "Mr and Mrs S. T. Drunk."

For the return address, I wrote, "Digger" and not "Gold Digger Drunk."

They were ticked. Raged to Primo that I don't know how to address a letter.

Well of course I do.

They raged that I was being disrespectful.

"Tell them to blow me," I told Primo. "I address letters to my mother that way and I love my mother. I don't even like your parents. I was not singling them out in any way."

So now the debate is how do I address the groveling note that I am sending to Sly and Doris? I could just email the note to them, but then they might email back immediately. Plus there is no guarantee - indeed, it is highly likely that this would be the outcome - that they wouldn't immediately forward it to Ted and Jack, crowing that Ha! It's about TIME! that that BITCH finally CAME AROUND!

Primo has suggested that I address it to Mr and Mrs S.T. Drunk. I pointed out that I am not even supposed to know what they tell him, as their weekly mandatory conversations carry the seal of the confessional on them.

Primo said, "That's for most things. But for things where I am supposed to correct you, then I have to tell you. My dad even said on this one that I am supposed to keep you in line."

Well OK. Draw me that line.

In which Primo tries to get me to agree to another campaign

After Primo has spent 20 minutes going through everything in the freezer to figure out what we have and what  we don't. I keep a spreadsheet, but apparently, I haven't been keeping up with it, as the Usinger's back bacon was nowhere to be found. Primo gets all verklumpt if I try to find something down there, as he has A System for storage. He does not like me to mess with his System.

His System for his office is Stacks of Paper.

He has a Leaning Tower of Visa, with all his credit card receipts for the past decade.

What we discovered as he was pulling everything out, inspecting it, and putting it back - despite my protests that he should toss out the smoked turkey skin from his friend D's party THREE YEARS AGO - "I have to look at it!" he protested.

"Look at it now!" I said. He had it IN HIS HAND. Look! Look!

"Not now," he said. "Later."

Later  never comes.

Anyhow - we found a bunch of sausage that we got from the Klement's bargain table WITH A GROUPON - so double savings. I knew the sausage was in there because it was in my spreadsheet.

I also knew that I didn't like it.

Sorry Klement's.

They might actually be relations. My mom saw that my dad's grandmother's sister married a Klement but we don't know if it's the same Klement. It looks like it is, though. Not that it would be a big deal. I am already related to a sausagemaker - my uncle Larry - and his sausage has spoiled me for all other sausage. His is so yummy and lean that I can't stomach commercial sausage.

And blesstheirhearts, Klement's makes commercial sausage. So even though we got a deal on all the sausage, it's not a deal if you don't like it.

I suggested to Primo that we could give the sausage away.

He was doubtful. "Where do you donate sausage?" he asked.

I didn't know.

Then he had an idea. "We could serve it at a campaign event!"

"Great idea!" I said.

"But that would mean I would have to run again."

"Not a chance."

So we're stuck with the sausage.

In which politics rears its ugly head again

So I thought that once the election was over and Primo went back to work and I worked and we had no more alimony payments to Imelda that our life would return to normal and I would not have to think about politics ever again.

I was so wrong.

Primo still spends his free time going to meetings with His People.

I do not join him.

This is not how I want to spend my free time.

I have already saved the world. I am done.

Primo claims that I joined the Peace Corps for adventure, not to save the world.

Tomato, tomahto.

My key learning from my two years in the Corps is that the world? It does not want to be saved.

Or, at least, it does not want to be saved by the nice white lady from the US. People want to save themselves. They don't need do-gooders meddling in their affairs.

Primo has not had that experience and he is in the full clutches of a mid-life existential crisis.

Plus his mom and dad are driving him crazy.

So he still wants to be involved politically. Only now that he lost the election, he will have to be involved in another way.

Which is fine with me, but he would like this involvement to be full time.

As in, he would quit his job.

The very idea of which makes me sick to my stomach.

Once he quits that job, there is no going back. I don't know if I can get back to the salary I was making a few years ago. My salary now is not enough to sustain us. Well, it is enough to sustain us, but it is not enough for us to save for retirement or buy a new furnace (which we need) or put a new roof on the house (which I hope we don't need but it's coming).

He has promised he will not quit without discussing it with me first, but now he is discussing it every day.

Which again, makes me sick to my stomach. I just want a year of throwing some money in the bank.

I would also like a year without politics.

That, too, is not to be.

I came home from work a few weeks ago to find a political sign in the yard.

Lordhavemercy are we not done with elections in this state?

Primo decided to support a certain candidate in the judicial primary.

Are there any elections people care about less than local judicial races?

Maybe dogcatcher.

Anyhow, Primo is supporting this guy.

And he wants to have a fundraiser. At our house.

I shook my head. "No, no, no, no. No."

"But it would help me get some visibility," he protested.

I shook my head even more strongly. "No!"

"Please," he pleaded. "This will help me."

"Why?" I asked. "Why does it have to be here? Why?"

"I need to network," he said. "This will get my name out and it will help the candidate."

Like I care about helping the candidate.

"I don't want to!"

"But wasn't the fundraiser we had for my campaign fun? That was probably the only fun thing about my campaign. It was the only relaxed evening we had."

Note that it was fun and relaxing for Primo. I did all the cooking and the cleaning and the pre- and post-work.

"Fine," I said. "Go ahead. But leave me out of it. You have to clean the living room and the bathroom and you have to do all the setup and you have to do all the cooking. I am not doing this. I've done it already. That was our deal. I worked on your campaign but you promised I would not have to ever talk about politics again and I include putting together a party for someone else as 'talking about politics.'"

"I'll do the cleaning," he said, "and I'll just get volunteers to bring food. But -" He paused.

"What?" I asked impatiently.

"Could you -?"

"Just say it!"

"Would you maybe make that Memphis Junior League onion dip? That's so good."

"Maybe. If you're nice to me. And don't try to start any political conversations."

I hate politics. I hate it. I wish all politicians and their minions would drop dead.

In which I attempt to ingratiate myself with Sly and Doris

Did I tell you guys that at Christmas, Sly and Doris went off into a drunken tirade about me and threatened to disinherit Primo and I thought, Please, please do it! Please just get out of our lives! Please leave Primo alone and don't bother him with your threats of suicide and your talk of despair and your pressure that he is the only thing that makes you happy. Please stop telling him what a horrible person I am because I don't eat bacon right/don't address thank-you notes right/don't grovel. Please. Do it.

But they won't. Then they wouldn't have Primo to torment any more.

I asked Primo if I should write a note expressing my penitence.

He said it couldn't hurt.

I said that it would put the ball in their court. "They'll just use it as ammunition against me."

He agreed. But pointed out it would give me more blog material.

Now that the election is over, I can use more material. (Although I still have political material, as running for office did not get it out of Primo's system, as I had hoped. Now that he has tasted freedom - his sabbatical in 2011 and the leave of absence in 2012, he wants more. And he wants to quit his job. His job that pays him nicely. We are not rich, but his salary, especially now that the alimony is over, is enough that we do not have to worry about replacing the furnace or getting the car repaired. I like not worrying about those things and am not a fan of this proposal that he quit his job. But more about that later.)

(That's called foreshadowing. Or maybe it's a teaser. I can't remember. But the idea is to keep you reading. Will it work? Only time will tell.)

So. I said I would write a letter.

But I have delayed and delayed because really, who wants to write a letter like that? If the letter were honest, it would say,

Dear Sly and Doris,

I am sorry that you are such jerks that we have never gotten along. I have never said or done anything to you to deserve the way you treat me. Primo has never said or done anything to you to deserve the way you treat him. You are mean and spiteful and backbiting and gossipy and it's no wonder you have no friends. 

You are angry at Stephanie for "cutting you off?" Did you ever consider that perhaps you had something to do with that? You never say anything nice to her or about her. You insult her and me by wondering in disdain how the two of us could possibly be friends. The fact that we are both Catholic (i.e., that we are stupid morons who believe in God and therefore not worthy of any respect from you) is not the reason that we are friends. And yes - I am well aware that Stephanie did not go to college. I choose to be her friend anyhow because guess what? It doesn't matter to me that she hasn't been to college! I don't require a BA from my friends. As far as that goes, your son has a BS and I have a master's degree. Does that mean I shouldn't have married him? Wait. Don't answer that.

You are unpleasant to be around. You are unwelcoming. You are hateful. You have nothing nice to say about anyone. You start drinking at 4:00 p.m. every day and then you get worse. You have said mean things about my mother. You have never shown any interest in me. You have implied that there is something wrong with my family - we are not "close," which is why Primo should spend all holidays with you (including Christmas and Easter, even though you are strong atheists) instead of with me and possibly my family. 

You will probably die even more lonely than you are now. If you lived up north, nobody would shovel your sidewalk for you because you're too mean. 

I have no interest in trying to ingratiate myself with you. I just want to stay away and I want to keep Primo away. 

But I can't write that.

Here's what I wrote and sent to Primo for his input:

Dear Sly and Doris,

It really bothers me that we have such a horrible relationship. I had always envisioned being close to my husband's family. This is not how I wanted things to work out. I don't want to be estranged from my husband's parents. It's a loss for me and it's hard on my husband - he's caught in the middle and it causes him a lot of pain.

I don't know how we got off on the wrong foot. I wish we hadn't. I am truly sorry for anything I might have done to cause this rift. 

The three of us have something in common: we love Primo and we want him to be happy. What can I do to repair our relationship?

Now, this is all true. I am bothered by this relationship. Ideally, I would have nice inlaws. I would have inlaws I want to see.

I am not bothered that I stay away from Sly and Doris. I have a policy in my life that I do not spend time with toxic people. They are toxic. But I wish I had nice inlaws.

Primo answered.

Sweetie,

Maybe something short is good.

I know how we all got off on the wrong foot:  because I gave them the address of your blog, and because of that they disliked you before you even set foot in their house for the first time.  The negative feelings were started by them, not you -- but of course you won't be writing anything about that.  Still, I wonder about their reaction to a sentence like "I don't know how we got off on the wrong foot."

They seem to believe that it's the job of a future daughter-in-law (or even a girlfriend) to honor her elders and work hard to earn the respect (and, if she's really lucky, the love) of her partner's parents.  My mother apparently had to do that with my dad's parents, perhaps because they thought she was a homewrecker.  (My dad certainly didn't have to do that with my mom's parents.  He always criticized them, but I doubt that any negativity started with them.)

I would also replace "my husband" with "Primo" in the sentence that begins "It's a loss for me and it's hard on my husband."  The use of "my husband" in the previous sentence is effective.

You might also want to write "What can I do to begin repairing our relationship?" instead of "What can I do to repair our relationship?"  Thinking about full "repair" without qualifiers seems awfully optimistic!

How much does it really bother you to have a bad relationship with my parents?  Does that bother you on its own, or is it only the effect of that bad relationship on me that bothers you?

Primo and I messaged on FB last night about strategy.

when should I send the email to your mom and dad?

Or should I write a note by hand?

and send it to "Drunks?"

5:56pm

Primo

And sign it "Digger."

5:57pm

Gold Digger

absolutely

5:57pm

Primo

You can write "Dear Sly and Doris," but the envelope should be addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. S. Drunks" or "S. and Doris Drunks."

5:58pm

Gold Digger

How about, "their majesties Mr. and Mrs. S. Drunks?"

5:58pm

Primo

I was thinking of e-mail, but maybe a handwritten note would be better. I wasn't expecting you to do that.

Yes, that would be even better!

5:59pm

Gold Digger

And sign it, "Not worthy to be in your presence, not even worthy to be spit on by you"

6:00pm

Primo

How about "Reverently"?

6:00pm

Gold Digger

Humbly

6:01pm

Primo

"Humbly and reverently, Gold."

6:01pm

Gold Digger

Beggingly

Imploringly

"Not worthy of the name 'Drunk'"

6:04pm

Primo

Shamefully?

6:04pm

Gold Digger

"Head hung low in shame"

6:04pm

Primo

Maybe after this exercise you will finally be worthy of the name!

6:04pm

Gold Digger

Dear mighty superior beings whose toes I am not worthy to lick

So. I will let you know what happens.

In which Sly and Ted talk about sex in inappropriate ways

Last night, Primo and I actually went to bed together, a rare event in our house and one that does not help me sleep at all, as I am still, even after four and a half years of marriage, accustomed to going to bed alone and not having someone else's breathing to listen to. I have to swat the cats if they start bathing as I fall asleep - Primo's breathing, which turns quickly into snoring, is not a sleep aid.

But - it is nice to go to bed together because we have a chance to talk without any distractions and usually, Primo does not bring up politics, which is my Least Favorite Subject in the World.

Lots of times, we talk about whatever craziness Sly and Doris are up to, which usually ends well if we focus on the truly inane: how I address an envelope, how I eat bacon, if I sent enough of those Christmas cookies that they didn't even like, how I use cabbage.

Last night, we talked about Sly and sex and Ted. Which produces an image that makes me shudder with disgust. I don't even want to visualize attractive, nice people having sex. I certainly don't want to think about mean drunks. And yet, Sly persists in discussing the subject with Primo, complaining that since Doris broke her wrist or elbow or whatever it was that he has not been getting what is due to him as a  husband.

People. The man is 79 years old. Could he give his poor wife a break while her broken bones heal?

This is the conversation Primo and I had.

Primo: You know how on facebook, you can see when one of your friends comments on something, even if you don't know the other person?

Me: Yes. [I think that is a bad feature, by the way, although it does help keep me from going off the deep end by reminding me that nothing I write on facebook is private in any way. That's why I limit my posts to comments about the weather or food. Nothing about my co-workers or other people I know.]

Primo: Ted [Primo's half brother who asked how stupid I was and had I actually met Ted Kennedy when I said that Kennedy had used his political influence to avoid the consequences of having driven a car into the water and left a woman there to die] commented on something a friend of his wrote. Some guy from college and then someone else chimed in who had also gone to the same college. Ted didn't know the commenter, but recognized her name. He asked her who she was and they were bantering - almost flirting! [Ted is married]. She mentioned several other women and Ted wrote, "I never slept with any of them."

Me: He said what?

Primo: That he had never slept with any of these women.

Me: On facebook.

Primo: Yes. In public.

Me: Wow. That's so crude.

Primo: Yep.

Me: Tacky!

Primo: He gets it from my dad. My dad is always telling me how he's not getting enough and telling me about his cialis --

Me: How much is enough?

Primo: He says they do it three times a week.

Me: I don't believe that.

Primo: That's more than we do it.

Me: We both have jobs. Your parents don't do anything but drink. Which is one of the reasons I don't believe that three times a week. Alcohol is not an aid to this kind of thing.

Primo: That's what he tells me. And he always tells me about all the women who used to come on to him when he was still teaching.

Me: Yeah, right.

Primo: That's what he says. That's never happened to me.

Me: You are much more of a hottie than your dad ever was and you are a nice person, besides. You do not give off the "Of course I would cheat on my wife" vibe. Maybe your dad did. Besides, you have never had the power to change someone's grade. Maybe - if all these passes really happened - that's why. They were students who didn't like their grade.

Primo: Maybe.

Me: I cannot believe he talks like that to you.

Primo: I guess I come from a long line of hypersexual men.

Me: No, you come from a long line of men who have no boundaries and no sense of propriety. I am glad that you did not inherit those qualities. You are not like your dad, you know. [Thank God.]

In which Sly and Doris are baffled, BAFFLED by my relationship with Stephanie

In her email to Primo, Doris also wrote this:

Stephanie has for all purposes severed ties with us.  We hear from her about once in two weeks. We always were available to take Maria and Michael for various events when they were in high school and did so frequently.  She said recently that Pia's needs haven't required our help.  So just in case the Gold Digger is hearing other stories from Stephanie, I ask you to keep our discussions here to yourself.  I have NEVER understood GD's linkage to Stephanie.  It appears to stem from her rejection of us and a potential connection to Stephanie to confirm "our" sins.  Primo, I have spent much time trying to understand the depth of GD's rejection of us. Until I have a clearer head toward my recovery, I choose not to dwell on this enigma.  

So much material here. So rich.

Sly and Doris just cannot understand why Stephanie and I are friends.

"They think it's because you're both Catholic," Primo said. "Because you know - that's the only thing you have in common. After all, Stephanie's not an intellectual. How could you possibly be friends with someone who didn't graduate from college?"

I sighed. "I know. I need to quit associating with my relatives because they didn't go to college. They are not worthy of my attention. My mom! My mom didn't graduate. How can I stand to spend time with her?"

I talk to Stephanie frequently. I like her. She's nice. I like my nieces and nephew. I like to know what's going on in their lives.

Stephanie has cut Sly and Doris off because she is tired of being gossiped about and treated meanly. Doris will call her, drunk, and accuse her of things, then not remember the call. They complain that Stephanie doesn't help them enough but they give Jack, who is Sly's son and one would think, more responsible for helping than their ex-daughter in law, a pass.

Stephanie's tired of it.

I don't blame her. I think she's been a saint. If I lived 15 minutes away from Sly and Doris, they would not know it. They would not see me or hear from me because I do not want to be around people who are mean to me and who gossip about me.

Stephanie and I are not simply united by a common enemy, although that is part of it. Stephanie does understand why I might not want to spend time with Sly and Doris. She gets that if someone tells your fiance' not to marry you and that they are boycotting the wedding, that you don't just get over it, as Sly and Doris suggest. Yes, they know that is one of the reasons I don't like them, but they have told Primo that I should be over that by now.

No, they have never apologized.

I tell Primo that I really don't care any more about what Sly and Doris think about me  - which I mostly don't because who cares about the ravings of two mean drunks? - but I do care about how they treat him. They owe him an apology about the wedding fracas. And the emails where they've told him he's a "bad son" for not spending Christmas with them. And for the constant ravings against me.

So there's your enigma: Stephanie and I are friends and there is no solid reason why.