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.


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."

1 comment:

  1. You scared me with the title. He's too smart to divorce you EVER!