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.


  1. Whew, you answered my biggest question, "How will you be the Oprah Book Club Pick if no one can know you wrote it?" Because, really Oprah book club is the golden ticket for authors. I know you know this, but really, people who don't even read buy the Oprah Book Club books just so they can have it sitting on a shelf somewhere.

    I'll also say, if you don't eventually go public how will I invite you way down south for a Book Signing and Book Talk at my library system? How, how, how?

  2. Oh Bethany! I want to come to your library to talk! I do! I do!

  3. Consider yourself invited, just don't get too highfalutin with your expenses and speaker fees because library finances are in a crunch you know. But then again, maybe we can find a women's group to underwrite you. :)

  4. You mean people get PAID for that sort of thing?