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.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
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!”
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
In which I realize I should have been my usual interfering, bossy, know-it-all self even though it probably wouldn't have made any difference
Rule #1 for getting a divorce: Get a lawyer, get a lawyer, get a lawyer.
Rule #2: Get a lawyer.
Rule #3: Get a lawyer.
Do not do a mediated divorce. A mediated divorce is when a lawyer says, "I'll draw up the papers once you two reasonable adults who both want a divorce agree on what you want." The lawyer will not advise you in any way. The lawyer will not look out for your interests. Will not say, "By statute, this is how much alimony your ex-wife should get. This is how the assets should be split."
Get a lawyer. Get the meanest lawyer you can find. Do not try to be nice.
There is no such thing as "two reasonable adults" in a divorce. No such thing.
One of you wants a divorce, the other one does not.
If only one of you (Primo) wants a divorce, the other one (Isabel) has nothing to gain by agreeing to the divorce.
See the problem?
Primo files for divorce. He moves out three years before I meet him. I am not a homewrecker thankyouverymuch.
Isabel ignores him. She doesn't want this divorce. Primo is ruiningherlife. And she wants to stay on his health insurance. She would have to pay for health insurance* ($150/month for a $5,000 deductible) if she agreed to divorce. Or get a job.
Rule #4 for getting a divorce: No wxyz until he has actually finalized the divorce because otherwise he is not at all motivated to get it done. Really. I tell him no divorce, no wxyz.
I think, "This will motivate him to get this divorce done."
I also think, "How can I wxyz with a married man? That goes against all my morals!"
Yes, my morals are already shot to heck with pre-marital wxyz with other men (two), but I have to draw the line somewhere.
Apparently, my line can be erased, because Primo is a really good kisser and hey, he has filed and he has been separated for three years and it's not like they're living together or have kids together or anything.
A year after we meet, Primo and Isabel are still not divorced. Isabel is "not ready." I bite my tongue. I remind myself that this is Noneofmydamnbusiness. And really, it is not. Primo and I have not yet decided to marry. Sure, we have talked about it. He told me within six weeks of meeting me that he was in love with me and was Serious About Me.
I wasn't so sure. I was not ready to give up my independence. I like my space. I had to be convinced. But I do have that effect on men, you know.
So I stay out of it. It's not until spring of 2007 that Primo really starts to push Isabel. He and I are serious marriage talking and we need to get this done, especially as we have discovered that we will have to wait six months after the divorce is final to marry. Stupid stupid state law. No, there is no way around it. We have looked.
Isabel has no reason to sign. He has already given her their house. He is sending her money. He has been paying for her health insurance. He flies to where she lives and pretty much stands over her until she agrees to sign the papers. "I'll do it, I'll do it!" she says.
And then she says - cough! cough! - "I don't feel well!"
She goes to the doctor. "I can't sign papers and go to the doctor at the same time!"
Wants to wait for some labwork. "I can't sign papers and wait for labwork at the same time!"
Guess what?
She has cancer.
This weird cancer. A cancer that is not staged, will not put her in the hospital at all, and if you can call a cancer a mild cancer,** then this is it.
Now she really doesn't want to sign. So Primo re-works the agreement and offers her more money because why on earth would she sign a divorce agreement when she has cancer?
Sure, Primo could re-file, get a lawyer and take her to court, but how would that look? A man divorcing his cancer-stricken wife? Can you say John Edwards but without the hair, the illegitimate baby and the used-car salesman sleaziness? Did you know there are lawyers who specialize in cancer divorces? We couldn't take that chance.
So we're stuck. We're stuck paying way more alimony than we ever would have had to pay by statute. We have a bitter ex-wife who asks for more money at tax time*** and when her cat is sick.****
All for the want of a good lawyer. And an interfering, nagging girlfriend.
* Kind of like what I am doing.
** I know I am coming off as an unsympathetic you know what here, but my dad died of non-Hodgkins lymphoma. It was eight months from diagnosis to death and I was with him most of that time. I saw what a painful in-hospital, on morphine drip, spread to the lungs and spine, lose half your weight, wearing diapers cancer death looks like. Isabel has had her cancer since 2007. She has not been hospitalized once. She pitched a fit, played the cancer card and kept Primo from walking Claudia down the aisle at Claudia's wedding - from even attending the wedding. She has to wear a wig. Sue me.
*** We say no, honey, you're an honors grad from a top university that Primo paid for. Read the divorce decree
**** Primo is a sucker for that one because it's his cat, too. Isabel got custody. I say Isabel can get a job.
Rule #2: Get a lawyer.
Rule #3: Get a lawyer.
Do not do a mediated divorce. A mediated divorce is when a lawyer says, "I'll draw up the papers once you two reasonable adults who both want a divorce agree on what you want." The lawyer will not advise you in any way. The lawyer will not look out for your interests. Will not say, "By statute, this is how much alimony your ex-wife should get. This is how the assets should be split."
Get a lawyer. Get the meanest lawyer you can find. Do not try to be nice.
There is no such thing as "two reasonable adults" in a divorce. No such thing.
One of you wants a divorce, the other one does not.
If only one of you (Primo) wants a divorce, the other one (Isabel) has nothing to gain by agreeing to the divorce.
See the problem?
Primo files for divorce. He moves out three years before I meet him. I am not a homewrecker thankyouverymuch.
Isabel ignores him. She doesn't want this divorce. Primo is ruiningherlife. And she wants to stay on his health insurance. She would have to pay for health insurance* ($150/month for a $5,000 deductible) if she agreed to divorce. Or get a job.
Rule #4 for getting a divorce: No wxyz until he has actually finalized the divorce because otherwise he is not at all motivated to get it done. Really. I tell him no divorce, no wxyz.
I think, "This will motivate him to get this divorce done."
I also think, "How can I wxyz with a married man? That goes against all my morals!"
Yes, my morals are already shot to heck with pre-marital wxyz with other men (two), but I have to draw the line somewhere.
Apparently, my line can be erased, because Primo is a really good kisser and hey, he has filed and he has been separated for three years and it's not like they're living together or have kids together or anything.
A year after we meet, Primo and Isabel are still not divorced. Isabel is "not ready." I bite my tongue. I remind myself that this is Noneofmydamnbusiness. And really, it is not. Primo and I have not yet decided to marry. Sure, we have talked about it. He told me within six weeks of meeting me that he was in love with me and was Serious About Me.
I wasn't so sure. I was not ready to give up my independence. I like my space. I had to be convinced. But I do have that effect on men, you know.
So I stay out of it. It's not until spring of 2007 that Primo really starts to push Isabel. He and I are serious marriage talking and we need to get this done, especially as we have discovered that we will have to wait six months after the divorce is final to marry. Stupid stupid state law. No, there is no way around it. We have looked.
Isabel has no reason to sign. He has already given her their house. He is sending her money. He has been paying for her health insurance. He flies to where she lives and pretty much stands over her until she agrees to sign the papers. "I'll do it, I'll do it!" she says.
And then she says - cough! cough! - "I don't feel well!"
She goes to the doctor. "I can't sign papers and go to the doctor at the same time!"
Wants to wait for some labwork. "I can't sign papers and wait for labwork at the same time!"
Guess what?
She has cancer.
This weird cancer. A cancer that is not staged, will not put her in the hospital at all, and if you can call a cancer a mild cancer,** then this is it.
Now she really doesn't want to sign. So Primo re-works the agreement and offers her more money because why on earth would she sign a divorce agreement when she has cancer?
Sure, Primo could re-file, get a lawyer and take her to court, but how would that look? A man divorcing his cancer-stricken wife? Can you say John Edwards but without the hair, the illegitimate baby and the used-car salesman sleaziness? Did you know there are lawyers who specialize in cancer divorces? We couldn't take that chance.
So we're stuck. We're stuck paying way more alimony than we ever would have had to pay by statute. We have a bitter ex-wife who asks for more money at tax time*** and when her cat is sick.****
All for the want of a good lawyer. And an interfering, nagging girlfriend.
* Kind of like what I am doing.
** I know I am coming off as an unsympathetic you know what here, but my dad died of non-Hodgkins lymphoma. It was eight months from diagnosis to death and I was with him most of that time. I saw what a painful in-hospital, on morphine drip, spread to the lungs and spine, lose half your weight, wearing diapers cancer death looks like. Isabel has had her cancer since 2007. She has not been hospitalized once. She pitched a fit, played the cancer card and kept Primo from walking Claudia down the aisle at Claudia's wedding - from even attending the wedding. She has to wear a wig. Sue me.
*** We say no, honey, you're an honors grad from a top university that Primo paid for. Read the divorce decree
**** Primo is a sucker for that one because it's his cat, too. Isabel got custody. I say Isabel can get a job.
In which Primo promises me that his parents will never live with us
September 2008. Our wedding week. Our wedding night. Sly and Doris have been at our house for a week. Is that right? They arrived on Saturday. It's Friday. Yes, we marry on a Friday. It's a lot easier to get the pastor and the priest on Friday afternoon, especially when you have inadvertently requested a high-demand priest.
And we don't care about a big shindig. Primo's already been there and done that and paid for it all and then realized ooops! Shouldn't have done that!
I've never cared about having a big deal wedding, although I love attending them. My friend the pediatrician had a particularly fine wedding I must say, and so did my Alabama Belle. I have nothing against them - I just never wanted one for myself.
But yes - we have a low-key ceremony with family only. We have had houseguests for a week. Yes, I was insane. Actually, I was not insane. I was ignorant and spoiled by my friends and family, who are all extraordinarily well behaved and wonderful houseguests who do not expect me to be their maid, on-demand chef, and entertainer. I've always thought that the houseguest's responsibility was to fit into the rhythm of the household and accomodate herself to the host's schedule and habits. I didn't realize it was the host's responsibility to cater to the guest's every whim.
But that's how it's been with Sly and Doris. Primo spends Sunday and Monday entertaining them. He told them before they set their travel dates that he had to work Tuesday and Wednesday so he could take Monday, Thursday and Friday off. Yet they whine and complain on those days that they are sooo bored. Our TV is in the basement, so they can't watch TV. Soooo bored. Considering I have gone most of my life without TV, I am not sympathetic with two highly educated, self-proclaimed intellectuals who cannot go two days without television.
We have been in the house only a few months, so have not finished unpacking.* Which means we (=Primo) do not have a stereo set up yet. Primo hauls a stereo up from the basement and sets it up in the living room so his mom and dad can listen to something so they won't be booooooooored.
They are staying in our bedroom because they cannot take stairs. Our room is the only one on the first floor. I can't complain too much about that one. When we gave them a tour of the house upon arrival, they did struggle up to the second floor. On her way back down, Doris fell down the last two stairs. My horrible thought was, "Oh no! What if she broke her hip and has to stay here for six months?" Yes. Shameful, I know.
They demand a newspaper every morning. Well, not demand, exactly, but kind of whine about it. Why don't we get a newspaper? Because we only get the weekend issue and read the rest online. Fine. I get them a paper copy every morning.
They demand attention. I cook a full meal every night, which is not our usual habit. Then I sit there while they eat it. Slowly. Excruciating. Then Primo and I clean the kitchen. Well, Primo loads the dishwasher and does almost all the work, but I spend as much time as possible in the kitchen because I do not want to be with them. Then they want to socialize some more. Alcohol is involved in all of this. After I excuse myself to go to bed, they complain to Primo that I do not spend enough time with them.
On Thursday, my mother, my mother's gentleman caller, my brother and sister, Primo's stepdaughters, Claudia and Chloe, and Primo's brother Ted arrive. I am picking people up from the airport. I am cooking. I am taking people to hotels. I am cooking. I am changing sheets in the upstairs guest room so my mom can sleep there. Primo and I shift to the pullout bed in the basement. I cook more.
Yes. I am insane. I should have told people to find their own food, but even if my family and the stepdaughters had fended for themselves, Sly and Doris would have expected to be fed, even though they don't eat lunch, as we all know. So as long as I was cooking for them anyhow, I might as well cook for everyone.
I should have told people to rent cars, but it seemed so wasteful. I can't stand for someone to have to spend money on something like that when it's not necessary.
So I turn myself into an innkeeper/driver/chef for a week. The week of my wedding.
How dumb was that?
It wouldn't have been so bad with my own family, Ted, Claudia and Chloe because they are the kind of houseguests I have known: they help. They make life easier. They see what needs to be done and they do it. If the dishes are dirty, they wash them. If the table needs to be set, they set it. If there is a meal that needs to be prepared, they cook or get takeout.
But Sly and Doris create work. They demand. They whine.
And by Friday night, I have had enough.
And so has Primo.
On our wedding night, as we lie in our pullout sofabed in the basement, the sofabed that we have discovered is not the most comfortable bed in the world and for which we owe an apology to our friends who've had to sleep on it, exhausted not only from a long day but from a week of dealing with Sly and Doris, he turns to me and gives me the best present he has ever given to me and ever will give to me.
"They will never live with us," he tells me. "Never."
* May I note for the record that I am finished unpacking. Primo is not finished unpacking. As the daughter of a career air force officer, I have moved about 40 gajillion times in my life, including maybe 20 times since college. I know how to move.
And we don't care about a big shindig. Primo's already been there and done that and paid for it all and then realized ooops! Shouldn't have done that!
I've never cared about having a big deal wedding, although I love attending them. My friend the pediatrician had a particularly fine wedding I must say, and so did my Alabama Belle. I have nothing against them - I just never wanted one for myself.
But yes - we have a low-key ceremony with family only. We have had houseguests for a week. Yes, I was insane. Actually, I was not insane. I was ignorant and spoiled by my friends and family, who are all extraordinarily well behaved and wonderful houseguests who do not expect me to be their maid, on-demand chef, and entertainer. I've always thought that the houseguest's responsibility was to fit into the rhythm of the household and accomodate herself to the host's schedule and habits. I didn't realize it was the host's responsibility to cater to the guest's every whim.
But that's how it's been with Sly and Doris. Primo spends Sunday and Monday entertaining them. He told them before they set their travel dates that he had to work Tuesday and Wednesday so he could take Monday, Thursday and Friday off. Yet they whine and complain on those days that they are sooo bored. Our TV is in the basement, so they can't watch TV. Soooo bored. Considering I have gone most of my life without TV, I am not sympathetic with two highly educated, self-proclaimed intellectuals who cannot go two days without television.
We have been in the house only a few months, so have not finished unpacking.* Which means we (=Primo) do not have a stereo set up yet. Primo hauls a stereo up from the basement and sets it up in the living room so his mom and dad can listen to something so they won't be booooooooored.
They are staying in our bedroom because they cannot take stairs. Our room is the only one on the first floor. I can't complain too much about that one. When we gave them a tour of the house upon arrival, they did struggle up to the second floor. On her way back down, Doris fell down the last two stairs. My horrible thought was, "Oh no! What if she broke her hip and has to stay here for six months?" Yes. Shameful, I know.
They demand a newspaper every morning. Well, not demand, exactly, but kind of whine about it. Why don't we get a newspaper? Because we only get the weekend issue and read the rest online. Fine. I get them a paper copy every morning.
They demand attention. I cook a full meal every night, which is not our usual habit. Then I sit there while they eat it. Slowly. Excruciating. Then Primo and I clean the kitchen. Well, Primo loads the dishwasher and does almost all the work, but I spend as much time as possible in the kitchen because I do not want to be with them. Then they want to socialize some more. Alcohol is involved in all of this. After I excuse myself to go to bed, they complain to Primo that I do not spend enough time with them.
On Thursday, my mother, my mother's gentleman caller, my brother and sister, Primo's stepdaughters, Claudia and Chloe, and Primo's brother Ted arrive. I am picking people up from the airport. I am cooking. I am taking people to hotels. I am cooking. I am changing sheets in the upstairs guest room so my mom can sleep there. Primo and I shift to the pullout bed in the basement. I cook more.
Yes. I am insane. I should have told people to find their own food, but even if my family and the stepdaughters had fended for themselves, Sly and Doris would have expected to be fed, even though they don't eat lunch, as we all know. So as long as I was cooking for them anyhow, I might as well cook for everyone.
I should have told people to rent cars, but it seemed so wasteful. I can't stand for someone to have to spend money on something like that when it's not necessary.
So I turn myself into an innkeeper/driver/chef for a week. The week of my wedding.
How dumb was that?
It wouldn't have been so bad with my own family, Ted, Claudia and Chloe because they are the kind of houseguests I have known: they help. They make life easier. They see what needs to be done and they do it. If the dishes are dirty, they wash them. If the table needs to be set, they set it. If there is a meal that needs to be prepared, they cook or get takeout.
But Sly and Doris create work. They demand. They whine.
And by Friday night, I have had enough.
And so has Primo.
On our wedding night, as we lie in our pullout sofabed in the basement, the sofabed that we have discovered is not the most comfortable bed in the world and for which we owe an apology to our friends who've had to sleep on it, exhausted not only from a long day but from a week of dealing with Sly and Doris, he turns to me and gives me the best present he has ever given to me and ever will give to me.
"They will never live with us," he tells me. "Never."
* May I note for the record that I am finished unpacking. Primo is not finished unpacking. As the daughter of a career air force officer, I have moved about 40 gajillion times in my life, including maybe 20 times since college. I know how to move.
In which Doris is upset that I didn't eat the onion rings and I am a bad onion ring eater
January 2010 Primo and I have returned from his parents, have been to see my mom. All our family duties discharged, in a ratio of about 40 to 1, his parents to my mother. Well, not that bad. More like - well, whatever. I don't feel like doing the math, but we've been to his mom and dad's at least once a year, plus he goes on his own, and he and I have been to my mom's twice.
He points out that my mom visits us and his parents do not.
Thank God for small miracles.
When my mom visits, it is a pleasure. Well, it is for us, anyhow. When she came last summer, she arrived the night before our basement flooded, so she got to spend the next day helping us dry the carpet. She might not be so eager to come again next year. But even when she would visit me in my old house, she would arrive with tools and gardening supplies. She would do a preliminary inspection of the house and yard in the evening and the next day, she would get to work.
My mother is not one to sit around doing nothing.
Am I complaining?
Nope. I have my grandmother's irises in my flowerbeds now thanks to my mom. And, of course, we saved the TV room carpet.
The one time his mom and dad were here - for the wedding they threatened to boycott - they had to be entertained. Primo took off the Monday, but had to work that Tuesday and Wednesday before my family arrived. They could not figure what to do with themselves without a TV. (Our TV is in the basement and they can't take the stairs.) I find it amazing that two intellectuals couldn't just spend a day reading. But no.
Anyhow. I am drifting off topic, as I am wont to do. We are back home. Three weeks after leaving Sly and Doris. Primo has his regular mandated phone call. He gets off the phone, comes downstairs.
"My mom was upset that you didn't eat her onion rings at supper."
"What are you talking about?"
"When we were there."
"She said something?"
"Yes."
"The onion rings I made so she wouldn't have to stand there for half an hour?"
"Yes."
"She's been stressing about this for three weeks?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"She thinks you didn't like them."
"So what?"
"She says she is reaching out to you and you keep rejecting her."
"Because I didn't eat her onion rings?"
Primo shrugs.
"Do you think maybe your mom is just a little bit self centered?"
He sighs. He's the one who is actually related to them. I have the luxury of getting to be dramatic, loud and indignant. I have told him that one of the reasons I think he likes me is I am allowed to say a lot of the things he thinks and feels.
"Is it possible that one, I ate a whole bunch of onion rings while I was frying them or two, I just wasn't that hungry because I am taking migraine drugs that kill my appetite? Or three, maybe I don't like onion rings and if I don't SO WHAT? And guess what? None of these possibilities have anything to do with your mother! None of them! Why is she trying to make this about her? It's not always about her!"
Yes, I am over-reacting.
But so is Doris.
So there.
You may have noticed that this is a common theme with Sly and Doris: the delayed, petulant reaction to a seemingly innocuous event that could have been addressed at the time.
But rather than say something at the table like, "That Woman, would you like some onion rings?" thus giving me the chance to answer with, "No thank you, Doris, I'm already full from stuffing myself while I was frying them" or "No thank you, Doris, my medication kills my appetite," or even a simple, "No thank you, Doris," Doris waits three weeks to complain.
I can't even say, "No thank you, Doris." A "No thank you" is considered by most to be a sufficient, polite response that does not permit further pressing. Some people consider it rude to comment on what someone eats or does not eat.
But then, some people consider it rude not to provide lunch for their guests.
I am living in an alternative universe.
He points out that my mom visits us and his parents do not.
Thank God for small miracles.
When my mom visits, it is a pleasure. Well, it is for us, anyhow. When she came last summer, she arrived the night before our basement flooded, so she got to spend the next day helping us dry the carpet. She might not be so eager to come again next year. But even when she would visit me in my old house, she would arrive with tools and gardening supplies. She would do a preliminary inspection of the house and yard in the evening and the next day, she would get to work.
My mother is not one to sit around doing nothing.
Am I complaining?
Nope. I have my grandmother's irises in my flowerbeds now thanks to my mom. And, of course, we saved the TV room carpet.
The one time his mom and dad were here - for the wedding they threatened to boycott - they had to be entertained. Primo took off the Monday, but had to work that Tuesday and Wednesday before my family arrived. They could not figure what to do with themselves without a TV. (Our TV is in the basement and they can't take the stairs.) I find it amazing that two intellectuals couldn't just spend a day reading. But no.
Anyhow. I am drifting off topic, as I am wont to do. We are back home. Three weeks after leaving Sly and Doris. Primo has his regular mandated phone call. He gets off the phone, comes downstairs.
"My mom was upset that you didn't eat her onion rings at supper."
"What are you talking about?"
"When we were there."
"She said something?"
"Yes."
"The onion rings I made so she wouldn't have to stand there for half an hour?"
"Yes."
"She's been stressing about this for three weeks?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"She thinks you didn't like them."
"So what?"
"She says she is reaching out to you and you keep rejecting her."
"Because I didn't eat her onion rings?"
Primo shrugs.
"Do you think maybe your mom is just a little bit self centered?"
He sighs. He's the one who is actually related to them. I have the luxury of getting to be dramatic, loud and indignant. I have told him that one of the reasons I think he likes me is I am allowed to say a lot of the things he thinks and feels.
"Is it possible that one, I ate a whole bunch of onion rings while I was frying them or two, I just wasn't that hungry because I am taking migraine drugs that kill my appetite? Or three, maybe I don't like onion rings and if I don't SO WHAT? And guess what? None of these possibilities have anything to do with your mother! None of them! Why is she trying to make this about her? It's not always about her!"
Yes, I am over-reacting.
But so is Doris.
So there.
You may have noticed that this is a common theme with Sly and Doris: the delayed, petulant reaction to a seemingly innocuous event that could have been addressed at the time.
But rather than say something at the table like, "That Woman, would you like some onion rings?" thus giving me the chance to answer with, "No thank you, Doris, I'm already full from stuffing myself while I was frying them" or "No thank you, Doris, my medication kills my appetite," or even a simple, "No thank you, Doris," Doris waits three weeks to complain.
I can't even say, "No thank you, Doris." A "No thank you" is considered by most to be a sufficient, polite response that does not permit further pressing. Some people consider it rude to comment on what someone eats or does not eat.
But then, some people consider it rude not to provide lunch for their guests.
I am living in an alternative universe.
In which I tell my mother I have broken up with the Moroccan millionaire Muslim and am dating a Lutheran
December 2005. Primo and I have been dating less than two months. We met at our 20-year college reunion. We did not know each other in college, although we had a mutual friend, Sam, Primo's roommate and best friend, who worked with me at the faculty club. Our paths did not cross in college because I had a boyfriend and Primo had beer.
When I meet Primo at the reunion at the beginning of November, I have just been laid off from my job of eight years. I am unemployed. Unmarried. Childless.
I have nothing.
Wait!
I went to Morocco to see my friends Norah and Henry. While I was there, I met a Moroccan millionaire with a PhD in economics who was an advisor to the World Bank. He hit on me hard. Too hard, but I was blinded by the glamor of it all. He was rich and good-looking in a Gomez Addams sort of way. Indeed, that is what we shall call him: Gomez. He pursued me hard and I, flattered and unaccustomed to how Arab men do business, fell for it. We even met for a week in Paris.
Granted, this trip to Paris consisted of Gomez drinking a bottle of wine at lunch, changing into his Frette pajamas* and napping all afternoon, then drinking another bottle of wine at supper and going to sleep. All of this in his cousin's tiny apartment. Oh, sure, we might go out. To The Gap. Or to his bank. Maybe to the Ferrari dealer where he and the salesman talked about cars. We did go to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré one morning so he could shop. That's a very fancy, expensive street. He bought a sport coat. Just like the one he was already wearing. For $1,200. Cash.
That's as much as I paid for my first car.
But this was not my idea of a good time in Paris.
Still, I was stuck at the reunion. Unemployed,** unmarried, childless.
Tell me you wouldn't have bragged about your rich Moroccan boyfriend. Oh yes you would have. Don't lie to me.
Then I meet Primo.
Sam and his wife walk in the door with Primo and I wave at them.
Primo waves back.
"Oh," I say, with my infinite tact. "I wasn't waving at you. I was waving at Sam and Nadine."
Yes, I find Primo the next day to apologize. I mean, how tacky was I? How rude was I? My mother did raise me better than that, so don't blame her.
We talk the rest of the evening. I think he's cute and interesting, but he lives 500 miles away from me. Oh well.
He knows I have a Rich Moroccan Boyfriend. Everyone does. I've been bragging, remember?
He gets my email from Sam and emails me on Monday, two days after we meet.
Soon, we're emailing every day.
Yes, I am still officially dating the Rich Moroccan Boyfriend.
Who, conveniently, lives on another continent, so our relationship consists of skype calls to my office. (Gomez does not email.) As I no longer have an office because my loser boss let someone kick us out of our 8th floor HQ offices into cubicles in a converted warehouse, I have to speak French*** so my colleagues don't overhear me, which means I don't have a lot to say to Gomez. Gomez doesn't care because Gomez really is not that interested in what I think.
In the meantime, Primo, who is a fabulous writer and full of things to say, emails me almost constantly.
He arranges a long layover in my city so he can have lunch with me. Changes a flight so he can have a long layover on the way back. Spends a weekend with me in December. Flies me to see him. The Millionaire didn't pay for my ticket to Paris. Just saying.
I realize I have broken up with Gomez. Gomez doesn't know this but we have not spoken in three weeks. Maybe he's figured it out. Maybe he should email once in a while.
My sister and I go to my mom's for Christmas. I hand my mom, who lived in Saudi Arabia for five years, a note. "This is your Christmas present," I say.
The note says,
Dear Mom: I've broken up with the Muslim and am dating a nice Lutheran boy. Love, That Woman.
"Oh!" she says. "Well. That's nice." She smiles, puts the note down, gives me a hug. That's it. She wants to know about Primo, but she doesn't say anything like, Whew! is she relieved I'm not dating a Muslim any more because she saw how much drama there could be after living in Saudi Arabia all that time and seeing what happens when there are those cultural and religious clashes.
I know she's excited, though, because when her friend Pat comes over later, the first thing she does is hand the note to her. Pat, a Catholic lady, reads it and says, "Oh! We know a lot of nice Lutherans, don't we!"
I tell this story when Doris and Sly are here. "Didn't you say anything to her when she was dating the Moroccan?" Doris asks my mom.
I did not tell anyone in my family about Sly and Doris threatening not to come to the wedding. I didn't want to poison the atmosphere. My mother's answer was completely unprompted.
"No," my mom says. "I always thought it best not to interfere in my children's love lives."
Doris hesitates, takes a breath. "That's probably a good idea."
* I had never heard of this brand before but upon subsequent research I discovered it is fancy.
** I've been told about the layoff, but it doesn't happen until December 31, so I am still working.
*** My French doesn't march much these days and it didn't then, either.
When I meet Primo at the reunion at the beginning of November, I have just been laid off from my job of eight years. I am unemployed. Unmarried. Childless.
I have nothing.
Wait!
I went to Morocco to see my friends Norah and Henry. While I was there, I met a Moroccan millionaire with a PhD in economics who was an advisor to the World Bank. He hit on me hard. Too hard, but I was blinded by the glamor of it all. He was rich and good-looking in a Gomez Addams sort of way. Indeed, that is what we shall call him: Gomez. He pursued me hard and I, flattered and unaccustomed to how Arab men do business, fell for it. We even met for a week in Paris.
Granted, this trip to Paris consisted of Gomez drinking a bottle of wine at lunch, changing into his Frette pajamas* and napping all afternoon, then drinking another bottle of wine at supper and going to sleep. All of this in his cousin's tiny apartment. Oh, sure, we might go out. To The Gap. Or to his bank. Maybe to the Ferrari dealer where he and the salesman talked about cars. We did go to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré one morning so he could shop. That's a very fancy, expensive street. He bought a sport coat. Just like the one he was already wearing. For $1,200. Cash.
That's as much as I paid for my first car.
But this was not my idea of a good time in Paris.
Still, I was stuck at the reunion. Unemployed,** unmarried, childless.
Tell me you wouldn't have bragged about your rich Moroccan boyfriend. Oh yes you would have. Don't lie to me.
Then I meet Primo.
Sam and his wife walk in the door with Primo and I wave at them.
Primo waves back.
"Oh," I say, with my infinite tact. "I wasn't waving at you. I was waving at Sam and Nadine."
Yes, I find Primo the next day to apologize. I mean, how tacky was I? How rude was I? My mother did raise me better than that, so don't blame her.
We talk the rest of the evening. I think he's cute and interesting, but he lives 500 miles away from me. Oh well.
He knows I have a Rich Moroccan Boyfriend. Everyone does. I've been bragging, remember?
He gets my email from Sam and emails me on Monday, two days after we meet.
Soon, we're emailing every day.
Yes, I am still officially dating the Rich Moroccan Boyfriend.
Who, conveniently, lives on another continent, so our relationship consists of skype calls to my office. (Gomez does not email.) As I no longer have an office because my loser boss let someone kick us out of our 8th floor HQ offices into cubicles in a converted warehouse, I have to speak French*** so my colleagues don't overhear me, which means I don't have a lot to say to Gomez. Gomez doesn't care because Gomez really is not that interested in what I think.
In the meantime, Primo, who is a fabulous writer and full of things to say, emails me almost constantly.
He arranges a long layover in my city so he can have lunch with me. Changes a flight so he can have a long layover on the way back. Spends a weekend with me in December. Flies me to see him. The Millionaire didn't pay for my ticket to Paris. Just saying.
I realize I have broken up with Gomez. Gomez doesn't know this but we have not spoken in three weeks. Maybe he's figured it out. Maybe he should email once in a while.
My sister and I go to my mom's for Christmas. I hand my mom, who lived in Saudi Arabia for five years, a note. "This is your Christmas present," I say.
The note says,
Dear Mom: I've broken up with the Muslim and am dating a nice Lutheran boy. Love, That Woman.
"Oh!" she says. "Well. That's nice." She smiles, puts the note down, gives me a hug. That's it. She wants to know about Primo, but she doesn't say anything like, Whew! is she relieved I'm not dating a Muslim any more because she saw how much drama there could be after living in Saudi Arabia all that time and seeing what happens when there are those cultural and religious clashes.
I know she's excited, though, because when her friend Pat comes over later, the first thing she does is hand the note to her. Pat, a Catholic lady, reads it and says, "Oh! We know a lot of nice Lutherans, don't we!"
I tell this story when Doris and Sly are here. "Didn't you say anything to her when she was dating the Moroccan?" Doris asks my mom.
I did not tell anyone in my family about Sly and Doris threatening not to come to the wedding. I didn't want to poison the atmosphere. My mother's answer was completely unprompted.
"No," my mom says. "I always thought it best not to interfere in my children's love lives."
Doris hesitates, takes a breath. "That's probably a good idea."
* I had never heard of this brand before but upon subsequent research I discovered it is fancy.
** I've been told about the layoff, but it doesn't happen until December 31, so I am still working.
*** My French doesn't march much these days and it didn't then, either.
In which I have a miscarriage
Primo's divorce was final in December 2007. Finally. Although we could not get married until he had been divorced for six months (dumb nanny state law), he could add me to his company's health insurance plan as a domestic partner, which seemed silly to me. That option should be available only to gay couples because straight couples can get married and I don't see why any company or government should subsidize straight folks who just want to shack up, but in this case, it worked to our advantage so whatever. At least this wasn't out of anyone's tax money. He signed me up, I cancelled my individual health insurance with the $5,000 deductible, and I threw away the birth control pills.
Not that I was optimistic because I was already 44 and that is kind of old. But my grandmother had twins at 42 and my great grandmother had her last child at 48. She lost seven children to diptheria in six days and then had eight more. Vaccines are good.
I did talk to a fertility doc to see if there was any kind of magic get pregnant right away pill I could take. The middle-aged equivalent of climbing into the back seat of a car with a six pack. Not that I have gone my whole life about to die to have a baby, but Primo really wanted one and I've always thought it would be nice to have adult children someday, although I am not sure about the steps you have to take to get there. The whole baby/toddler/childhood thing seemed kind of time-consuming to me.
The doctor was candid. We could do all kinds of diagnostic procedures on Primo and me (if I could not get pregnant), but they are invasive and expensive and what do we do with the information once we have it? Plus I was old. Biology. There is not much you can do about it once your eggs get past their sell-by date.
I shrugged, went home and Primo and I talked about getting cats.
Then came a month (I'm not going to tell you when because it is important to the plot but you will find out eventually) when I was nauseated all day long.
I never get sick.
My skin was broken out.
And I was late.
That kind of Late.
I told Primo that I thought I was finally starting menopause. Great. Early menopause. And I was still getting acne. All the disadvantages of age with all the disadvantages of youth.
"I think you might be pregnant," he says.
So I pee on the stick.
I am pregnant.
Not what I am expecting. I am thrilled but terrified. Like getting an 18-year prison sentence.*
We don't tell anyone. Because you don't tell anyone until 12 weeks. That's the rule. Miscarriages are most common before 12 weeks, so you don't tell because you don't want to untell. For ten weeks, I have all-day morning sickness. I never get a bosom, which annoys me to no end. Where are my breasts? All my life, I've wanted a bosom. Don't I get a chest? If I have to feel nauseated and tired all day long, don't I get the C, B or even full A-cups to go with it?
Nope.
Then one night, I notice some blood. This is not good.
I call my doctor. Go in the next day. He tries to find a heartbeat. None. I have a blood test. Results bad. Go back in three days for another blood test. Results worse.
Go back the next day for an ultrasound. Results awful.
My options are to wait for everything to come out naturally in a day or in two weeks or whenever or to have the doctor take care of it. I opt to have the doctor take care of it.
It doesn't occur to me until after it is all over to ask the nurse, who has held my hand throughout the entire procedure, if there is a possibility that everyone was wrong and the baby could still have been alive.
"No," she says, stroking my hand. "No, honey, I'm so sorry. There is nothing anyone could have done."
* "No," said my mother. "It's more like a life sentence."
Not that I was optimistic because I was already 44 and that is kind of old. But my grandmother had twins at 42 and my great grandmother had her last child at 48. She lost seven children to diptheria in six days and then had eight more. Vaccines are good.
I did talk to a fertility doc to see if there was any kind of magic get pregnant right away pill I could take. The middle-aged equivalent of climbing into the back seat of a car with a six pack. Not that I have gone my whole life about to die to have a baby, but Primo really wanted one and I've always thought it would be nice to have adult children someday, although I am not sure about the steps you have to take to get there. The whole baby/toddler/childhood thing seemed kind of time-consuming to me.
The doctor was candid. We could do all kinds of diagnostic procedures on Primo and me (if I could not get pregnant), but they are invasive and expensive and what do we do with the information once we have it? Plus I was old. Biology. There is not much you can do about it once your eggs get past their sell-by date.
I shrugged, went home and Primo and I talked about getting cats.
Then came a month (I'm not going to tell you when because it is important to the plot but you will find out eventually) when I was nauseated all day long.
I never get sick.
My skin was broken out.
And I was late.
That kind of Late.
I told Primo that I thought I was finally starting menopause. Great. Early menopause. And I was still getting acne. All the disadvantages of age with all the disadvantages of youth.
"I think you might be pregnant," he says.
So I pee on the stick.
I am pregnant.
Not what I am expecting. I am thrilled but terrified. Like getting an 18-year prison sentence.*
We don't tell anyone. Because you don't tell anyone until 12 weeks. That's the rule. Miscarriages are most common before 12 weeks, so you don't tell because you don't want to untell. For ten weeks, I have all-day morning sickness. I never get a bosom, which annoys me to no end. Where are my breasts? All my life, I've wanted a bosom. Don't I get a chest? If I have to feel nauseated and tired all day long, don't I get the C, B or even full A-cups to go with it?
Nope.
Then one night, I notice some blood. This is not good.
I call my doctor. Go in the next day. He tries to find a heartbeat. None. I have a blood test. Results bad. Go back in three days for another blood test. Results worse.
Go back the next day for an ultrasound. Results awful.
My options are to wait for everything to come out naturally in a day or in two weeks or whenever or to have the doctor take care of it. I opt to have the doctor take care of it.
It doesn't occur to me until after it is all over to ask the nurse, who has held my hand throughout the entire procedure, if there is a possibility that everyone was wrong and the baby could still have been alive.
"No," she says, stroking my hand. "No, honey, I'm so sorry. There is nothing anyone could have done."
* "No," said my mother. "It's more like a life sentence."
Monday, February 8, 2010
In which we buy our own lunch
December 2009 We are between the airport and Sly and Doris' house. Primo has some deal with his Amex card where he has to spend money at six merchants and he'll get a $30 credit blah blah blah. He still needs to buy something from Whole Foods, which is not a place we usually shop because they are outrageously expensive, although I am happy to take the sample cruise.
He calls his dad to see if they need anything from the store. They have bread. Good. I have no interest in spending six dollars on a loaf of bread. Even the Good Flour doesn't cost that much for five pounds and you can make a lot of bread with five pounds of flour. Primo asks if they have stuff for lunch.
Of course they don't.
Because. They. Don't. Eat. Lunch.
What are the rules on this? My dad gave me a stern talking to once because I didn't have coffee. "But Dad!" I whined. "I don't drink coffee!"
"Yes, but you might have guests who want coffee," he answered. "Like me."
Oh. Right. So I bought coffee and my little Cuban coffee maker thingy and there you go. I also developed the habit, especially when I lived in Miami, where I seemed to have an awful lot of company, especially in the winter, of stocking my fridge with orange juice and yogurt and cold cereal, all foods that I usually do not consume but are considered traditional breakfast fare by most. I did not want to force my guests to eat oatmeal, which was my breakfast of choice.
So yeah. When you have guests, you provide the basics for them: breakfast, LUNCH, and supper.*
Sly and Doris don't need anything, but I do. I eat lunch because if I don't keep my blood sugar up, I get a headache and I've already had a headache for 12 days straight and that's an awful lot of imitrex to use plus I turn kind of bitchy when I have a headache and I'm already bitchy about having to visit Sly and Doris and Primo really doesn't need the additional stress of my bitchiness when he already has the stress of his parents expecting him to Make Them Happy.
Plus I get hungry. Doesn't everyone?
So we go to Whole Foods to buy some lunch meat. I do not want a repeat of last year. Last year, there was no lunch.** Nothing. Oh sure there was some rancid generic peanut butter and a bunch of Cracker Barrel cheese (see: "We're lactose intolerant except for Primo and That Woman's $24/lb Carr Valley cheese, cream cheese, and Kopps frozen custard") and crackers, but I did not want to eat cheese and crackers for lunch five days in a row, so after I got back from the Y in the morning and then spent a couple of hours working the yard, I would go to the grocery store and buy myself something, muttering bitterly to myself the entire time. I bought a supply of almonds to keep in the bedroom so I would have emergency protein.
There was no fruit in the house. Yes, I could have bought fruit. But I didn't want to. I shouldn't have had to. Produce is horribly expensive where they live. Horribly. It takes a few days to ripen. I was ticked off enough that I was buying my own darn lunch. We had flown them to our house two months earlier. We had fed them for NINE DAYS. We had bought their damn Lactaid. They couldn't feed me lunch? They couldn't buy a few pears?***
I was in a very, very bad mood.
Because here is one of My Things:
I hate wasting calories on crappy food.
I have been a Fat Chick. I work hard to stay at a weight I like or at least don't hate. If I am going to eat something, I want it to be really, really good. I resent, I bitterly resent, having to eat bad food, as in processed, crummy, lousy-tasting food, just because I have to get something in my stomach. I am a really good cook. One of Primo's main [fake] complaints about our marriage is that we don't go out to eat enough. But really - why bother to go out if we can cook just as well or better at home?
So having to eat crackers (salt, salt, salt) and low-end cheese for lunch or something off the processed food shelf at the grocery store or something from a fast-food restaurant is not my idea of honoring the temple that is my body or my taste buds.
I was ticked.
I complained to Primo. "What is wrong with them?" I hissed.
"They're not hungry," he said.
In retrospect, I should have just eaten the supper leftovers. I should have. Then when supper came around and there was nothing there, I could have just said, "That wasn't lunch? But I was so hungry after spending three hours clearing out all the weeds in the back yard/cleaning the mildew off the front door/cleaning out the garage/etc, etc, etc."
But I didn't. I was an idiot.
Back to Whole Foods. Primo and I buy some turkey and some roast beef. We arrive chez Sly and Doris with our own lunch meat. Yes. We come with our own food after having spent $500 to fly there and having rented (well, used Hertz miles) a car.
We come bringing our own food.
If I had a guest show up compelled to bring his own food, I would be mortified. Drop-dead shamed mortified.
Sly and Doris don't seem bothered in the least. I guess they have a different standard of what it means to be a good host.
* My mother was emailing a month before we visited her this year to find out what Primo likes and what she could bake and cook for him. When I took my vegetarian boyfriend Sean to visit my mother, she made sure that every single meal was vegetarian friendly, even to the point of having another dessert when she made mincemeat pie.
** We left the day after Thanksgiving. So there would have been leftovers the day after Thanksgiving, but by then, it was too late.
*** In their defense, I do have to say that they did have diet Dr Pepper waiting for me. I am going to whine, though, and point out that it was the soda in the two-liter bottles, which everyone knows is inferior because it loses its fizz over time, and not the canned soda. "Oh, they only had the 24-pack at the store," they said, "and you were only going to be here for a few days." So? Like you drank all the Lactaid? Like it would have killed you to spend $4.99 on me? You spend more than that every afternoon on booze.
He calls his dad to see if they need anything from the store. They have bread. Good. I have no interest in spending six dollars on a loaf of bread. Even the Good Flour doesn't cost that much for five pounds and you can make a lot of bread with five pounds of flour. Primo asks if they have stuff for lunch.
Of course they don't.
Because. They. Don't. Eat. Lunch.
What are the rules on this? My dad gave me a stern talking to once because I didn't have coffee. "But Dad!" I whined. "I don't drink coffee!"
"Yes, but you might have guests who want coffee," he answered. "Like me."
Oh. Right. So I bought coffee and my little Cuban coffee maker thingy and there you go. I also developed the habit, especially when I lived in Miami, where I seemed to have an awful lot of company, especially in the winter, of stocking my fridge with orange juice and yogurt and cold cereal, all foods that I usually do not consume but are considered traditional breakfast fare by most. I did not want to force my guests to eat oatmeal, which was my breakfast of choice.
So yeah. When you have guests, you provide the basics for them: breakfast, LUNCH, and supper.*
Sly and Doris don't need anything, but I do. I eat lunch because if I don't keep my blood sugar up, I get a headache and I've already had a headache for 12 days straight and that's an awful lot of imitrex to use plus I turn kind of bitchy when I have a headache and I'm already bitchy about having to visit Sly and Doris and Primo really doesn't need the additional stress of my bitchiness when he already has the stress of his parents expecting him to Make Them Happy.
Plus I get hungry. Doesn't everyone?
So we go to Whole Foods to buy some lunch meat. I do not want a repeat of last year. Last year, there was no lunch.** Nothing. Oh sure there was some rancid generic peanut butter and a bunch of Cracker Barrel cheese (see: "We're lactose intolerant except for Primo and That Woman's $24/lb Carr Valley cheese, cream cheese, and Kopps frozen custard") and crackers, but I did not want to eat cheese and crackers for lunch five days in a row, so after I got back from the Y in the morning and then spent a couple of hours working the yard, I would go to the grocery store and buy myself something, muttering bitterly to myself the entire time. I bought a supply of almonds to keep in the bedroom so I would have emergency protein.
There was no fruit in the house. Yes, I could have bought fruit. But I didn't want to. I shouldn't have had to. Produce is horribly expensive where they live. Horribly. It takes a few days to ripen. I was ticked off enough that I was buying my own darn lunch. We had flown them to our house two months earlier. We had fed them for NINE DAYS. We had bought their damn Lactaid. They couldn't feed me lunch? They couldn't buy a few pears?***
I was in a very, very bad mood.
Because here is one of My Things:
I hate wasting calories on crappy food.
I have been a Fat Chick. I work hard to stay at a weight I like or at least don't hate. If I am going to eat something, I want it to be really, really good. I resent, I bitterly resent, having to eat bad food, as in processed, crummy, lousy-tasting food, just because I have to get something in my stomach. I am a really good cook. One of Primo's main [fake] complaints about our marriage is that we don't go out to eat enough. But really - why bother to go out if we can cook just as well or better at home?
So having to eat crackers (salt, salt, salt) and low-end cheese for lunch or something off the processed food shelf at the grocery store or something from a fast-food restaurant is not my idea of honoring the temple that is my body or my taste buds.
I was ticked.
I complained to Primo. "What is wrong with them?" I hissed.
"They're not hungry," he said.
In retrospect, I should have just eaten the supper leftovers. I should have. Then when supper came around and there was nothing there, I could have just said, "That wasn't lunch? But I was so hungry after spending three hours clearing out all the weeds in the back yard/cleaning the mildew off the front door/cleaning out the garage/etc, etc, etc."
But I didn't. I was an idiot.
Back to Whole Foods. Primo and I buy some turkey and some roast beef. We arrive chez Sly and Doris with our own lunch meat. Yes. We come with our own food after having spent $500 to fly there and having rented (well, used Hertz miles) a car.
We come bringing our own food.
If I had a guest show up compelled to bring his own food, I would be mortified. Drop-dead shamed mortified.
Sly and Doris don't seem bothered in the least. I guess they have a different standard of what it means to be a good host.
* My mother was emailing a month before we visited her this year to find out what Primo likes and what she could bake and cook for him. When I took my vegetarian boyfriend Sean to visit my mother, she made sure that every single meal was vegetarian friendly, even to the point of having another dessert when she made mincemeat pie.
** We left the day after Thanksgiving. So there would have been leftovers the day after Thanksgiving, but by then, it was too late.
*** In their defense, I do have to say that they did have diet Dr Pepper waiting for me. I am going to whine, though, and point out that it was the soda in the two-liter bottles, which everyone knows is inferior because it loses its fizz over time, and not the canned soda. "Oh, they only had the 24-pack at the store," they said, "and you were only going to be here for a few days." So? Like you drank all the Lactaid? Like it would have killed you to spend $4.99 on me? You spend more than that every afternoon on booze.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
In which Sly refuses to listen to Primo sing
September 2008 Our wedding week. Sly and Doris are here; my family has not arrived. They have taken us out to eat. Very nice of them. Primo wants them to hear him sing. Sly and Doris met when they were both singing in a church choir. Not a church where they were congregants. Just a church where they were singers. Sly was married at the time, Doris was I believe a voice student at the music school.
Anyhow. Primo is excited. He wants to show his mom and dad that he shares their passion and their talent. Doris, who is lonely and likes to be around people, agrees eagerly, Sly, reluctantly. We drive to the American Legion. It's a Wednesday night. It won't be too crowded, too noisy, too smokey. Sly shouldn't have too many things to complain about. Always we are on eggshells with Sly. Always.
We get there. Hardly anyone in the club. Primo buys beer for everyone but me. Just what Sly needs: more booze. Doris sits, looks around, smiles, talks to me, to Primo. Happy to be out, out! In the world! This is what it's like not to be trapped in her house with nobody but a grouch for company.
Doris sparkles when she is away from Sly.
Sly finds something to criticize immediately. "Too loud in here! Too loud!"
We move to a different table further from the speakers. Always we must satisfy Sly.
He doesn't like the singer. Bad, bad singer. Well, yes, Sly. Most singers are not to your level. This is a karaoke bar. People here sing for fun. You were a semi-professional singer of classical music. She is a middle-aged bar patron singing a pop tune on a karaoke sound system in a basement bar. No, she is not a trained musician with your talent. Cut her some slack. Aren't you one of the Tolerant ones?
No. I guess not.
Primo puts his name on the list.
Sly goes to the bathroom.
Primo is called to sing while Sly is gone.
He is singing when Sly returns. He is standing four feet away from Sly when Sly begins to rage. "It's too loud in here! I can't stand it! I can't stand it! I'm leaving!"
I, who am drugged with vicodin, have had enough, and say something I might not otherwise have said. "Damnit, Sly! You will listen to your son sing! Shut up! Shut up and listen! What is wrong with you?"
Sly yells, "I can't see him! I'm leaving!"
I scream. "He's right in front of you!"
Sly stomps out.
Doris puts her face in her hands.
Primo watches his father walk away while he sings.
My feelings for Sly solidify.
I will not forget. Or forgive.
Anyhow. Primo is excited. He wants to show his mom and dad that he shares their passion and their talent. Doris, who is lonely and likes to be around people, agrees eagerly, Sly, reluctantly. We drive to the American Legion. It's a Wednesday night. It won't be too crowded, too noisy, too smokey. Sly shouldn't have too many things to complain about. Always we are on eggshells with Sly. Always.
We get there. Hardly anyone in the club. Primo buys beer for everyone but me. Just what Sly needs: more booze. Doris sits, looks around, smiles, talks to me, to Primo. Happy to be out, out! In the world! This is what it's like not to be trapped in her house with nobody but a grouch for company.
Doris sparkles when she is away from Sly.
Sly finds something to criticize immediately. "Too loud in here! Too loud!"
We move to a different table further from the speakers. Always we must satisfy Sly.
He doesn't like the singer. Bad, bad singer. Well, yes, Sly. Most singers are not to your level. This is a karaoke bar. People here sing for fun. You were a semi-professional singer of classical music. She is a middle-aged bar patron singing a pop tune on a karaoke sound system in a basement bar. No, she is not a trained musician with your talent. Cut her some slack. Aren't you one of the Tolerant ones?
No. I guess not.
Primo puts his name on the list.
Sly goes to the bathroom.
Primo is called to sing while Sly is gone.
He is singing when Sly returns. He is standing four feet away from Sly when Sly begins to rage. "It's too loud in here! I can't stand it! I can't stand it! I'm leaving!"
I, who am drugged with vicodin, have had enough, and say something I might not otherwise have said. "Damnit, Sly! You will listen to your son sing! Shut up! Shut up and listen! What is wrong with you?"
Sly yells, "I can't see him! I'm leaving!"
I scream. "He's right in front of you!"
Sly stomps out.
Doris puts her face in her hands.
Primo watches his father walk away while he sings.
My feelings for Sly solidify.
I will not forget. Or forgive.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
In which Sly and Doris warn Primo that I am a Gold Digger
Summer 2008 Primo talks to the man and woman who gave him life and want Nothing But The Best For You, Honey. You're The Light Of Our Lives. Are you sure That Woman is not just after your money? Because you know, That Woman was laid off and hasn't found a new job. Maybe she's just LAZY and is marrying you so she doesn't have to work.
Sure. Because there is nothing more appealing to an unemployed 44 year old woman than a divorced, alimony and cobra-paying mid-career, no patents, no stock options engineer. Who did not have a mean lawyer.* Who gave the house to Isabel and is paying for the storage unit where Isabel keeps her wine not because that is in the divorce decree but because it's on Primo's credit card as an auto-bill and he just hasn't noticed and it's not like Isabel is going to tell him because Isabel is many things but she is not stupid.
But who kisses great if you know what I mean. And is a wonderful companion. When we are not talking** about politics.
Primo tells me that according to Sly and Doris, I am a gold digger.
Why his parents think that everything they say to Primo is under the seal of some kind of parent-child confessional, I do not understand. Do they really think that what they say to him about me stops with him? No, he is a conduit. A one-way conduit, because his first loyalty is to me. I would not have married him otherwise.
I snort.
"Oh really? I'm marrying you for your money? What? Because I turned down all my other marriage proposals*** because I was waiting for a divorced middle-aged engineer?" [Smack! Love ya, honey! You know I do! But your parents make me NUTS!]
"Do they know that I am bringing the assets into this marriage? Do they know that the 50% down payment on our house - the house we wouldn't be able to afford otherwise - comes from me from the house I sold in Memphis that was within $300 of being paid off when I sold it?"****
He rolls his eyes. "You know how they are."
"Do they know I was proposed to by an actual millionaire? And that I was dating the Moroccan millionaire when I met you? That I broke up with him to date you? I could have married a millionaire."
Well. He said he was a millionaire. I never saw any evidence of that. Yves was French. I met him through work. We traveled through the south of France together and split the expenses. He kept notes, then as soon as we got to his place in Paris, made a spreadsheet so we could settle up. I just cared about the major expenses, but wasn't too worried if my spending six francs on a loaf of bread didn't make it to the list.
He lived in a tiny two bedroom place with one of those dorm refrigerators. He didn't even have a washing machine. Washed his clothes by hand in the sink. Maybe that's just standard European millionaire fare. I don't know. Maybe he was a miser. Or maybe he was a liar.
We dated long distance for months, then he broke up with me after sending me an e-card for my birthday. This was after I had done the research and gone all over Miami to find a special boutique bourbon to take to him but whatever.
Nine months later, he came to the US for work. Wanted to see me. Took me to lunch. I found the most expensive restaurant in town. He told me he was getting married. "That's great, Yves!" I said. "I'm really happy for you." And I was. I was over him.
"Who is she?" I asked.
"Oh, you know her," he answered mysteriously.
"I do?" I couldn't think of anyone I knew in Paris. Maybe he'd met someone else at work.
"It's you!" He beamed.
I blinked and shook my head. "No. No!"
"But I need an heir!"
"No!"
He sat back and stiffened.
“I’ll put half my money in your name.” (A big deal for him – I told you he was a miser.) “We can live wherever you want. You can work or not work, but if you want to live in London, I might have to keep working.”
I kept shaking my head.
“Why would any woman turn this down?” he asked in disbelief. And he really couldn’t understand why.
I tell Primo the story about Yves. He already knows about the Moroccan millionaire, Gomez, because I wasn't exactly - um - done dating Gomez when I started dating Primo and it took me a while to tell Gomez that we were over, but in my defense, I didn't want to break up by email because I think that's tacky and I kept waiting for Gomez to call me and he didn't and didn't and I was hoping that maybe he just never would and he would forget about me and I wouldn't have to deal with the situation. Oh don't judge me. You've done the same thing yourself.
He skyped, BTW, which honestly, if you're a millionaire, don't you have the money to make a decent phone call? Or is that how you become a millionaire - by not wasting money when you don't have to? Actually, Gomez became a millionaire the old-fashioned way - by being born into money in a third-world country.
But anyhow. I tell Primo to tell Sly and Doris that they can kiss my butt. Oh, I'd love for that to happen! But of course he would never do that and neither would I. And actually, I don't want him to tell them anything. Let them think what they want. Our finances are none of their darn business. Let them think that I sit on the sofa eating bon-bons and watching soap operas all day long. It will drive them crazy trying to figure out how to re-write their will so that Primo gets their money but I don't.
* More about that later. [Rolling my eyes.]
** "Talking" = Primo is ranting and I am waiting for him to stop so I can get back to blogging.
*** Well yes I did as a matter of fact. I was engaged after college, then had a few boyfriends who wanted to get married and one who said he would convert from Islam to Christianity for me so we could marry, which taught me not to use religion as an excuse to break up with someone. You just have to say you don't love him any more. It seems mean, but it lets him get on with his life.
**** Oh yes it's true. I come from Thrifty Folk. I owned that house eight years and I owned it.
Sure. Because there is nothing more appealing to an unemployed 44 year old woman than a divorced, alimony and cobra-paying mid-career, no patents, no stock options engineer. Who did not have a mean lawyer.* Who gave the house to Isabel and is paying for the storage unit where Isabel keeps her wine not because that is in the divorce decree but because it's on Primo's credit card as an auto-bill and he just hasn't noticed and it's not like Isabel is going to tell him because Isabel is many things but she is not stupid.
But who kisses great if you know what I mean. And is a wonderful companion. When we are not talking** about politics.
Primo tells me that according to Sly and Doris, I am a gold digger.
Why his parents think that everything they say to Primo is under the seal of some kind of parent-child confessional, I do not understand. Do they really think that what they say to him about me stops with him? No, he is a conduit. A one-way conduit, because his first loyalty is to me. I would not have married him otherwise.
I snort.
"Oh really? I'm marrying you for your money? What? Because I turned down all my other marriage proposals*** because I was waiting for a divorced middle-aged engineer?" [Smack! Love ya, honey! You know I do! But your parents make me NUTS!]
"Do they know that I am bringing the assets into this marriage? Do they know that the 50% down payment on our house - the house we wouldn't be able to afford otherwise - comes from me from the house I sold in Memphis that was within $300 of being paid off when I sold it?"****
He rolls his eyes. "You know how they are."
"Do they know I was proposed to by an actual millionaire? And that I was dating the Moroccan millionaire when I met you? That I broke up with him to date you? I could have married a millionaire."
Well. He said he was a millionaire. I never saw any evidence of that. Yves was French. I met him through work. We traveled through the south of France together and split the expenses. He kept notes, then as soon as we got to his place in Paris, made a spreadsheet so we could settle up. I just cared about the major expenses, but wasn't too worried if my spending six francs on a loaf of bread didn't make it to the list.
He lived in a tiny two bedroom place with one of those dorm refrigerators. He didn't even have a washing machine. Washed his clothes by hand in the sink. Maybe that's just standard European millionaire fare. I don't know. Maybe he was a miser. Or maybe he was a liar.
We dated long distance for months, then he broke up with me after sending me an e-card for my birthday. This was after I had done the research and gone all over Miami to find a special boutique bourbon to take to him but whatever.
Nine months later, he came to the US for work. Wanted to see me. Took me to lunch. I found the most expensive restaurant in town. He told me he was getting married. "That's great, Yves!" I said. "I'm really happy for you." And I was. I was over him.
"Who is she?" I asked.
"Oh, you know her," he answered mysteriously.
"I do?" I couldn't think of anyone I knew in Paris. Maybe he'd met someone else at work.
"It's you!" He beamed.
I blinked and shook my head. "No. No!"
"But I need an heir!"
"No!"
He sat back and stiffened.
“I’ll put half my money in your name.” (A big deal for him – I told you he was a miser.) “We can live wherever you want. You can work or not work, but if you want to live in London, I might have to keep working.”
I kept shaking my head.
“Why would any woman turn this down?” he asked in disbelief. And he really couldn’t understand why.
I tell Primo the story about Yves. He already knows about the Moroccan millionaire, Gomez, because I wasn't exactly - um - done dating Gomez when I started dating Primo and it took me a while to tell Gomez that we were over, but in my defense, I didn't want to break up by email because I think that's tacky and I kept waiting for Gomez to call me and he didn't and didn't and I was hoping that maybe he just never would and he would forget about me and I wouldn't have to deal with the situation. Oh don't judge me. You've done the same thing yourself.
He skyped, BTW, which honestly, if you're a millionaire, don't you have the money to make a decent phone call? Or is that how you become a millionaire - by not wasting money when you don't have to? Actually, Gomez became a millionaire the old-fashioned way - by being born into money in a third-world country.
But anyhow. I tell Primo to tell Sly and Doris that they can kiss my butt. Oh, I'd love for that to happen! But of course he would never do that and neither would I. And actually, I don't want him to tell them anything. Let them think what they want. Our finances are none of their darn business. Let them think that I sit on the sofa eating bon-bons and watching soap operas all day long. It will drive them crazy trying to figure out how to re-write their will so that Primo gets their money but I don't.
* More about that later. [Rolling my eyes.]
** "Talking" = Primo is ranting and I am waiting for him to stop so I can get back to blogging.
*** Well yes I did as a matter of fact. I was engaged after college, then had a few boyfriends who wanted to get married and one who said he would convert from Islam to Christianity for me so we could marry, which taught me not to use religion as an excuse to break up with someone. You just have to say you don't love him any more. It seems mean, but it lets him get on with his life.
**** Oh yes it's true. I come from Thrifty Folk. I owned that house eight years and I owned it.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
In which I plan Primo's funeral
Oh like you don't think about this sort of thing. Or maybe you don't. Maybe you don't have a "be ready for the worst possible situation" mentality as I do. I've always planned for the worst. Well, maybe not always, but not being able to find a job for almost two years when I returned from my two-year stint with the Peace Corps,* watching my otherwise healthy father be diagnosed with cancer and die within eight months,** then being laid off after eight years with my job has instilled in me a waiting for the next shoe to fall attitude. If nothing else, I am always wearing clean underwear. They will not be laughing at me in the ambulance. No sir.
Anyhow. Yes. I lie awake in bed at night thinking of what I need to do if Primo dies in a plane crash. It's always a plane crash. He doesn't drive that much, being that he works from home and all and is unlikely to die from a fall as he walks down to the basement to get the Pringles Dill Pickle potato chips he has hidden from himself. But he does fly a lot in his work travels, so a plane crash is more likely than a car crash just because he flies more. Yes. I know plane travel is statistically safer than car travel. Although have they considered how many drunk drivers there are in our state where drunk driving is the state sport?
There are the obvious things: throw away all the boxes of junk in the basement that he moved here after he split with Isabel and has not opened in ten years, with stuff like Claudia's tuition receipts. (I have opened the boxes.) Claudia is married, expecting a baby. Claudia graduated from college over ten years ago. It's safe to throw those papers away. Really.
We can also toss the calendars from 1990 that Primo saw the other day when he was moving boxes so the plumber could get to something. Primo didn't throw them away because 1. it wasn't in the scope of the move the boxes project and 2. the calendars had trains on them.
The big things: Sell this house and move back to someplace warm. I love Primo and mostly like living here but I hate the winter weather.
Then the immediate death details. Do I make Isabel file for her life insurance (part of the divorce settlement) on her own or do I do it for her, knowing that she is lazy and incompetent and just wouldn't do it?*** Do I take the high road? Oh heck I take the high road. I don't need that on my conscience. She would lose her house without the alimony payment, which of course I would not make, so she would have to have the insurance fast. I am a gossipy, spiteful person, but I am not that mean. I'll let someone else handle vengeance.
Do I have a funeral? Primo's really good friends live far from here. Do I make them travel? Yes. Yes. I think I do. We would have one heck of a wake. Have I mentioned there are over 300 bottles of wine in the basement and that I am a fabulous cook? They come here for the funeral, stay at the house, and we send Primo off in style. We mourn, but we mourn with good food and drink.
Now to the main part. Sly and Doris.
I never have to talk to them again. That's the one good thing about Primo being dead.
Well, that and I get to get all his crap out of the basement.
Primo asked if I wouldn't even send them a Christmas card.
I don't send them one now,**** but OK. I'll send them a card. Fine. If he wants me to send them a Christmas card after he is dead, I will do it.
But I don't have to talk to them. If they call, I don't have to answer the phone. If they email, I can just hit delete.
I would miss Primo so much that I wouldn't be able to stand it. We broke up once for a month and I was miserable. His death would crater me. But there would be a tiny, very thin silver lining to that enormous black cloud.
* Mind you, I had an MBA from a top-20 school with a 4.0 GPA with five years work experience at a Fortune 100 company in addition to the Peace Corps experience, so it wasn't as if I was some slacker who had spent my time in the Peace Corps getting high on nutmeg.
** He thought he'd pulled a muscle running a 10K. The good part is the cancer and my unemployment happened at the same time.
*** She didn't fight for child support even before she married Primo - when it really would have been in her financial interests.
**** Primo is in charge of his parents' birthdays, of Mother's Day, Father's Day, and of their Christmas. His parents, his responsibility.
Anyhow. Yes. I lie awake in bed at night thinking of what I need to do if Primo dies in a plane crash. It's always a plane crash. He doesn't drive that much, being that he works from home and all and is unlikely to die from a fall as he walks down to the basement to get the Pringles Dill Pickle potato chips he has hidden from himself. But he does fly a lot in his work travels, so a plane crash is more likely than a car crash just because he flies more. Yes. I know plane travel is statistically safer than car travel. Although have they considered how many drunk drivers there are in our state where drunk driving is the state sport?
There are the obvious things: throw away all the boxes of junk in the basement that he moved here after he split with Isabel and has not opened in ten years, with stuff like Claudia's tuition receipts. (I have opened the boxes.) Claudia is married, expecting a baby. Claudia graduated from college over ten years ago. It's safe to throw those papers away. Really.
We can also toss the calendars from 1990 that Primo saw the other day when he was moving boxes so the plumber could get to something. Primo didn't throw them away because 1. it wasn't in the scope of the move the boxes project and 2. the calendars had trains on them.
The big things: Sell this house and move back to someplace warm. I love Primo and mostly like living here but I hate the winter weather.
Then the immediate death details. Do I make Isabel file for her life insurance (part of the divorce settlement) on her own or do I do it for her, knowing that she is lazy and incompetent and just wouldn't do it?*** Do I take the high road? Oh heck I take the high road. I don't need that on my conscience. She would lose her house without the alimony payment, which of course I would not make, so she would have to have the insurance fast. I am a gossipy, spiteful person, but I am not that mean. I'll let someone else handle vengeance.
Do I have a funeral? Primo's really good friends live far from here. Do I make them travel? Yes. Yes. I think I do. We would have one heck of a wake. Have I mentioned there are over 300 bottles of wine in the basement and that I am a fabulous cook? They come here for the funeral, stay at the house, and we send Primo off in style. We mourn, but we mourn with good food and drink.
Now to the main part. Sly and Doris.
I never have to talk to them again. That's the one good thing about Primo being dead.
Well, that and I get to get all his crap out of the basement.
Primo asked if I wouldn't even send them a Christmas card.
I don't send them one now,**** but OK. I'll send them a card. Fine. If he wants me to send them a Christmas card after he is dead, I will do it.
But I don't have to talk to them. If they call, I don't have to answer the phone. If they email, I can just hit delete.
I would miss Primo so much that I wouldn't be able to stand it. We broke up once for a month and I was miserable. His death would crater me. But there would be a tiny, very thin silver lining to that enormous black cloud.
* Mind you, I had an MBA from a top-20 school with a 4.0 GPA with five years work experience at a Fortune 100 company in addition to the Peace Corps experience, so it wasn't as if I was some slacker who had spent my time in the Peace Corps getting high on nutmeg.
** He thought he'd pulled a muscle running a 10K. The good part is the cancer and my unemployment happened at the same time.
*** She didn't fight for child support even before she married Primo - when it really would have been in her financial interests.
**** Primo is in charge of his parents' birthdays, of Mother's Day, Father's Day, and of their Christmas. His parents, his responsibility.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
In which Doris complains I didn't spend enough time with her
December 2009 Yes, we are back near Christmas time. We have done our filial and filial in law duty of making the trek to chez Sly and Doris. We have cleaned their house and garage. Eaten with them. Primo has played cards with them. Watched football with them.
I did not watch football with them. I had a headache; I do not care about watching football; and I thought they might enjoy some time with Primo alone. I made a mistake, though, when I slipped into the bedroom - I did not excuse myself. I did not say, "I'm going to go into the bedroom and read. I have a bit of a headache."
They assumed I didn't want to be with them.
Which was true.
But I should have anticipated the situation and at least gone through the formality of making an excuse. Because who wouldn't want to sit in a living room with three other people and watch TV? When she does not give a darn about what is on said TV?
But I should have said something. They complained to Primo, Primo came in to get me, I ended up sitting out there having to endure a stupid football game. All because I did not strategize properly.
Anyhow.
Two weeks after we return, when Primo has his command call, Doris tells him that I did not talk to her about her gardening magazine.
"What gardening magazine?"
Primo shrugs. "I don't know."
"She never mentioned it. I never saw it."
"She says you didn't spend enough time with her."
I drop my head back and roll my eyes. "I was with your mother every single waking hour we were there except for the two hours early that I went to Stephanie's the night we had supper over there, the couple of hours you took the kids bowling and I hung out with Stephanie and her dad, and when you and I played tennis. Other than that, I was with your mom. That wasn't enough for her?"
"She says she is trying to reach out to you and you're pushing her away."
Well. There might be something to that. But the woman looks for insult.
Last summer, when my grandmother died, Doris emailed me a condolence note, which was very sweet. I responded. Doris wrote back. Something about memories about her own grandparents. She gets very emotional. I did not want to get into that level of communication with her, but felt stuck. Yes, I know that makes me sound very cold and mean, but there is more to this story.
I replied to the email in a friendly, but not intimate way. She wrote back again. I answered. I did not want to be dismissive, but I did not want to encourage a deep outpouring on her part.
Doris complained to Primo that I had not answered her emails properly.
I showed the whole shebang to Primo.
He sighed and said, "I don't know what she's talking about. Your answers look just fine to me."
Back to December. Doris is complaining that I did not spend enough time with her. I cite chapter and verse of the hours and minutes I spent with Doris. I recount the conversations.
Primo says, "She says she's reaching out to you and you're rejecting her."
I say, "Did you remind her about the part where they told you not to marry me?"
He answers, "They* think you should be over that."
I'm not. I won't be. I don't think I should have to be.
* They have not only never apologized to us for telling Primo not to marry me but have never even mentioned the incident because you know, they didn't really mean it, so it's OK to say that sort of thing to their Only Joy two weeks before his wedding, causing him horrible stress.
I did not watch football with them. I had a headache; I do not care about watching football; and I thought they might enjoy some time with Primo alone. I made a mistake, though, when I slipped into the bedroom - I did not excuse myself. I did not say, "I'm going to go into the bedroom and read. I have a bit of a headache."
They assumed I didn't want to be with them.
Which was true.
But I should have anticipated the situation and at least gone through the formality of making an excuse. Because who wouldn't want to sit in a living room with three other people and watch TV? When she does not give a darn about what is on said TV?
But I should have said something. They complained to Primo, Primo came in to get me, I ended up sitting out there having to endure a stupid football game. All because I did not strategize properly.
Anyhow.
Two weeks after we return, when Primo has his command call, Doris tells him that I did not talk to her about her gardening magazine.
"What gardening magazine?"
Primo shrugs. "I don't know."
"She never mentioned it. I never saw it."
"She says you didn't spend enough time with her."
I drop my head back and roll my eyes. "I was with your mother every single waking hour we were there except for the two hours early that I went to Stephanie's the night we had supper over there, the couple of hours you took the kids bowling and I hung out with Stephanie and her dad, and when you and I played tennis. Other than that, I was with your mom. That wasn't enough for her?"
"She says she is trying to reach out to you and you're pushing her away."
Well. There might be something to that. But the woman looks for insult.
Last summer, when my grandmother died, Doris emailed me a condolence note, which was very sweet. I responded. Doris wrote back. Something about memories about her own grandparents. She gets very emotional. I did not want to get into that level of communication with her, but felt stuck. Yes, I know that makes me sound very cold and mean, but there is more to this story.
I replied to the email in a friendly, but not intimate way. She wrote back again. I answered. I did not want to be dismissive, but I did not want to encourage a deep outpouring on her part.
Doris complained to Primo that I had not answered her emails properly.
I showed the whole shebang to Primo.
He sighed and said, "I don't know what she's talking about. Your answers look just fine to me."
Back to December. Doris is complaining that I did not spend enough time with her. I cite chapter and verse of the hours and minutes I spent with Doris. I recount the conversations.
Primo says, "She says she's reaching out to you and you're rejecting her."
I say, "Did you remind her about the part where they told you not to marry me?"
He answers, "They* think you should be over that."
I'm not. I won't be. I don't think I should have to be.
* They have not only never apologized to us for telling Primo not to marry me but have never even mentioned the incident because you know, they didn't really mean it, so it's OK to say that sort of thing to their Only Joy two weeks before his wedding, causing him horrible stress.
Monday, February 1, 2010
In which Sly discusses his old-age plans with Primo
Thanksgiving 2008 We are at Sly and Doris', going through the usual. Cleaning their garage. Patching the hole in the patio screen. Scraping the mildew off the front door. Taking everything out of the refrigerator and washing the crud off the shelves, throwing away the rotting food. Dusting the ceiling fans. Vacuuming the closets. Cleaning the cat poop off the floor around the cat box. Pulling all the weeds out of the very neglected garden. Repairing the garbage disposal.
Of course these are things that two older people in poor health cannot do.
Of course.
The question to ask is why are they things that 1. the gardener cannot do, 2. the cleaning lady cannot do, 3. the grandchildren who want to earn money cannot do, or 4. the son who lives one hour away cannot do?
Primo repairs the garbage disposal the day before Thanksgiving. We haven't tested it. Thanksgiving, after we have eaten, as Stephanie starts to do the dishes (Sly mutters something about how she doesn't know how to load a dishwasher) and is scraping food into the trash, Sly tells her just to put the scraps into the disposal.
"No, don't!" I tell her. "The disposal hasn't been working."
"Go ahead," Sly tells her as he glares at me.
"What if it breaks again?" I ask. "We'll never get a plumber out on Thanksgiving afternoon."
Sly looks at me as if I've sprouted horns. Who would do something so whacky as to call a plumber? "Primo can fix it," he announces. Because that's why Primo exists: to serve the needs of Sly and Doris.
"Oh that's just how I want my husband to spend his Thanksgiving," I mutter to Jack, who looks like he'd rather be having his fingernails extracted one by one than be sitting in the room with Sly.
Sly and Doris bought this house a few years ago. It is a big house on a big lot. They pay someone else to cut the grass. Sly can barely take out the trash.
"What were they thinking?" I ask Primo. "Why didn't they just buy a little condo on the beach? Their health was bad already when they bought this place."
"They thought they would get better," he answers.
"Ha! Nobody gets stronger at the age of 70! Does your dad really think that he alone defies the laws of aging? Sheesh. Even I knew enough to look for a small yard when we bought our house and we're way better off than they are. What is their plan? They can hardly take care of themselves. What is their plan for the future because they're sure not moving in with us."
I do some research, find the county services for the aged in about three minutes, find some good retirement communities. There are some decent options. Sly and Doris have money*. They can afford help. All they have to do is pick up the phone and ask for it.
Primo talks to his dad. Asks him - what are you going to do? How do you plan to handle this? "This" being code for "your deteriorating health and inability to do basic household tasks that used to be so easy for you, who used to be so strong."
Sly's answer to Primo: "Well, your mother and I plan to have you come down here at least twice a year to help us out."
My answer to Primo: "That is not an acceptable solution."
My anwer to Primo: "This is not China. This is not India. They don't get to make bad decisions about their retirement and expect you to bail them out. It is not acceptable for them to expect you to spend your precious vacation time and our money to do their chores. It is reasonable for them to expect you to visit, but your visits should be visits, not work sessions."
Primo is not happy about the situation, either. He has a conversation with them a few months later about this issue. Doris emails: "I know you resent coming here and doing our chores."
Gee, Doris. You think?
I overheard a woman complaining about her daughter in law keeping her son away from her. I wanted to tell her that maybe she is the one keeping the son away - that maybe if she made if pleasant for the son and DIL to visit, they might want to come.
What would it be like to visit and just visit? Not work. Not be tiptoeing on eggshells wondering when Sly is going to explode. Not wondering what infraction I am going to commit: - bad bacon eating, Sly correcting, not oatmeal offering - that Sly will later complain to Primo about.
Ah. That's crazy talk. We'll never know.
* My philosophy is that if you can afford cable, internet, a maid, a gardener, and booze, there is probably room in your budget for Meals on Wheels and some extra household help. Am I right? Oh. And for a cast-iron cat and $100 pressed wood hummingbird tables, bless Doris' heart.
Of course these are things that two older people in poor health cannot do.
Of course.
The question to ask is why are they things that 1. the gardener cannot do, 2. the cleaning lady cannot do, 3. the grandchildren who want to earn money cannot do, or 4. the son who lives one hour away cannot do?
Primo repairs the garbage disposal the day before Thanksgiving. We haven't tested it. Thanksgiving, after we have eaten, as Stephanie starts to do the dishes (Sly mutters something about how she doesn't know how to load a dishwasher) and is scraping food into the trash, Sly tells her just to put the scraps into the disposal.
"No, don't!" I tell her. "The disposal hasn't been working."
"Go ahead," Sly tells her as he glares at me.
"What if it breaks again?" I ask. "We'll never get a plumber out on Thanksgiving afternoon."
Sly looks at me as if I've sprouted horns. Who would do something so whacky as to call a plumber? "Primo can fix it," he announces. Because that's why Primo exists: to serve the needs of Sly and Doris.
"Oh that's just how I want my husband to spend his Thanksgiving," I mutter to Jack, who looks like he'd rather be having his fingernails extracted one by one than be sitting in the room with Sly.
Sly and Doris bought this house a few years ago. It is a big house on a big lot. They pay someone else to cut the grass. Sly can barely take out the trash.
"What were they thinking?" I ask Primo. "Why didn't they just buy a little condo on the beach? Their health was bad already when they bought this place."
"They thought they would get better," he answers.
"Ha! Nobody gets stronger at the age of 70! Does your dad really think that he alone defies the laws of aging? Sheesh. Even I knew enough to look for a small yard when we bought our house and we're way better off than they are. What is their plan? They can hardly take care of themselves. What is their plan for the future because they're sure not moving in with us."
I do some research, find the county services for the aged in about three minutes, find some good retirement communities. There are some decent options. Sly and Doris have money*. They can afford help. All they have to do is pick up the phone and ask for it.
Primo talks to his dad. Asks him - what are you going to do? How do you plan to handle this? "This" being code for "your deteriorating health and inability to do basic household tasks that used to be so easy for you, who used to be so strong."
Sly's answer to Primo: "Well, your mother and I plan to have you come down here at least twice a year to help us out."
My answer to Primo: "That is not an acceptable solution."
My anwer to Primo: "This is not China. This is not India. They don't get to make bad decisions about their retirement and expect you to bail them out. It is not acceptable for them to expect you to spend your precious vacation time and our money to do their chores. It is reasonable for them to expect you to visit, but your visits should be visits, not work sessions."
Primo is not happy about the situation, either. He has a conversation with them a few months later about this issue. Doris emails: "I know you resent coming here and doing our chores."
Gee, Doris. You think?
I overheard a woman complaining about her daughter in law keeping her son away from her. I wanted to tell her that maybe she is the one keeping the son away - that maybe if she made if pleasant for the son and DIL to visit, they might want to come.
What would it be like to visit and just visit? Not work. Not be tiptoeing on eggshells wondering when Sly is going to explode. Not wondering what infraction I am going to commit: - bad bacon eating, Sly correcting, not oatmeal offering - that Sly will later complain to Primo about.
Ah. That's crazy talk. We'll never know.
* My philosophy is that if you can afford cable, internet, a maid, a gardener, and booze, there is probably room in your budget for Meals on Wheels and some extra household help. Am I right? Oh. And for a cast-iron cat and $100 pressed wood hummingbird tables, bless Doris' heart.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
In which Sly and Doris make up a little bit for eating all the Good Cheese, but only a little, because they still drink all our bourbon
September 2008 Sly and Doris have arrived for our wedding. The wedding they were going to boycott. Yes, I intend to tell you the story. I am getting there. This blog has a plot.
Primo picks them up at the airport 90 miles away. He has them fly there - on his frequent flyer miles - so they can take a direct non-stop flight. He didn't want them to have to change planes. He drives the hour and a half rather than have them fly into the airport 16 miles from our house. All so they don't have to change planes.
(But they will not pick us up when we visit them. That would be inconvenient.)
They come in on Saturday. They will be with us for nine days. NINE DAYS. NINEDAYSNINEDAYSNINEDAYS.
Primo is a big wine and beer drinker. If he could change anything about me, he would change my drinking habits.* He would have me be a wine drinker before he would change my politics, although he would be very happy if I would come over to his side.
But he is not much for hard liquor and neither am I.
Still, we have rum and scotch and whiskey and bourbon and other good stuff because we like to offer it to our guests. We have really nice liquor, our philosophy being that we drink so little of it, we might as well have the Good Stuff. As in, we might open the door to the liquor cabinet twice a year if you don't count my getting sherry to make my Cuban pork and okra stew. Or rum for rum balls at Christmas.
Before Sly and Doris arrive, Primo and I have A Conversation about The Liquor.
"Are we supposed to supply your parents' bourbon?" I ask. As a hostess, I expect to feed, shelter and otherwise provide for my guests. It is what a host does.
But am I supposed to buy their booze if they drink a lot of bourbon every night? As in, how much above basic need am I supposed to supply? I already bought the Lactaid, which wouldn't bother me if they were truly lactose intolerant, but they are just being faddish and that's what ticks me off so much. And then they eat all my cheese because they are hungry. Just eat lunch like normal people!
I don't expect my host to supply me with me diet cherry Dr Pepper. Really. I don't. I will eat and drink whatever is available chez vous. And liquor is not a necessity. So what is the protocol here?
Primo doesn't know what will happen. But we don't run to the liquor store to stock up. We decide if they run us out of booze, they can figure out a solution.
They arrive on Saturday, go to bed.** On Sunday, the first thing they want to do is not have a quick tour of our beautiful lakefront. It's not hear about our wedding plans. It's not lounge around and read the paper. It's not go to a museum. Or tour a brewery. Or play a game of Monopoly.
The first thing Sly and Doris want to do is go to the liquor store.
(Good thing we don't live in Texas.***)
Which is fine, because after six days, they have finished the half gallon of bourbon and the half gallon of brandy that they buy. Plus the wine that accompanies supper every night. That gives them less time to finish Primo's Good Bourbon. Which they still do. Because they are here for NINEDAYS, remember?
Oh yes. There is Drama.
* Having his parents in our house for NINEDAYS might be enough to turn me into a drinker.
** In our bedroom because they can't take stairs and the guest bedroom is upstairs, so that's fair.
*** For purposes of being able to buy liquor on Sunday only. Otherwise, I would be thrilled to live in Texas. Primo, not so much. Again: bacon, the only thing we have in common.
Primo picks them up at the airport 90 miles away. He has them fly there - on his frequent flyer miles - so they can take a direct non-stop flight. He didn't want them to have to change planes. He drives the hour and a half rather than have them fly into the airport 16 miles from our house. All so they don't have to change planes.
(But they will not pick us up when we visit them. That would be inconvenient.)
They come in on Saturday. They will be with us for nine days. NINE DAYS. NINEDAYSNINEDAYSNINEDAYS.
Primo is a big wine and beer drinker. If he could change anything about me, he would change my drinking habits.* He would have me be a wine drinker before he would change my politics, although he would be very happy if I would come over to his side.
But he is not much for hard liquor and neither am I.
Still, we have rum and scotch and whiskey and bourbon and other good stuff because we like to offer it to our guests. We have really nice liquor, our philosophy being that we drink so little of it, we might as well have the Good Stuff. As in, we might open the door to the liquor cabinet twice a year if you don't count my getting sherry to make my Cuban pork and okra stew. Or rum for rum balls at Christmas.
Before Sly and Doris arrive, Primo and I have A Conversation about The Liquor.
"Are we supposed to supply your parents' bourbon?" I ask. As a hostess, I expect to feed, shelter and otherwise provide for my guests. It is what a host does.
But am I supposed to buy their booze if they drink a lot of bourbon every night? As in, how much above basic need am I supposed to supply? I already bought the Lactaid, which wouldn't bother me if they were truly lactose intolerant, but they are just being faddish and that's what ticks me off so much. And then they eat all my cheese because they are hungry. Just eat lunch like normal people!
I don't expect my host to supply me with me diet cherry Dr Pepper. Really. I don't. I will eat and drink whatever is available chez vous. And liquor is not a necessity. So what is the protocol here?
Primo doesn't know what will happen. But we don't run to the liquor store to stock up. We decide if they run us out of booze, they can figure out a solution.
They arrive on Saturday, go to bed.** On Sunday, the first thing they want to do is not have a quick tour of our beautiful lakefront. It's not hear about our wedding plans. It's not lounge around and read the paper. It's not go to a museum. Or tour a brewery. Or play a game of Monopoly.
The first thing Sly and Doris want to do is go to the liquor store.
(Good thing we don't live in Texas.***)
Which is fine, because after six days, they have finished the half gallon of bourbon and the half gallon of brandy that they buy. Plus the wine that accompanies supper every night. That gives them less time to finish Primo's Good Bourbon. Which they still do. Because they are here for NINEDAYS, remember?
Oh yes. There is Drama.
* Having his parents in our house for NINEDAYS might be enough to turn me into a drinker.
** In our bedroom because they can't take stairs and the guest bedroom is upstairs, so that's fair.
*** For purposes of being able to buy liquor on Sunday only. Otherwise, I would be thrilled to live in Texas. Primo, not so much. Again: bacon, the only thing we have in common.
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