In which I tell Primo I won't talk about Sly and Doris on my blog

September 2008 We are stilll in the pre-wedding drama of Sly and Doris threatening not to come to the wedding because they are so mad, so traumatized by my statement on my blog about my concern about seating three "vocal atheists" at the wedding supper.

Primo says they are insulted that I think they might not know how to behave in public.

I know they don't know how to behave in private. Mean, vicious gossip about their own family to strangers. Foul language. And that's sober. Drunk, they are even worse.

I have seen them since behaving not so great in public, either. At least, I have seen Sly behave rudely. Last December, we were at a restaurant. When the waiter brought our food, Sly told the waiter that my broccoli casserole didn't look nearly as "disgusting" as he thought it would.

That, after telling me the night before that he has always treated waiters well, but that was in reference to tax fraud, not to being polite. Sly always tips in cash so the waiter doesn't have to declare the tips on his taxes. Sly is very proud of this and sees no problem with what he does, although I pointed out that I have to pay taxes on the money I earn so why shouldn't a waiter?

Back to the wedding Drama. I tell Primo his parents are over-reacting and he agrees, but whatever. I have atheist friends and relatives who would not concern me at all. I would put them next to my mother, Father T and Pastor G on a trans-Atlantic flight and not worry that there would be a single problem. Not all atheists are obnoxious. Not all obnoxious persons are atheists. It just happens in this case that the atheists in question are slightly belligerent in their views and have belligerent personalities. Well, one of them does, for sure. A volatile combination and one that has me worried because it's my party.

But the main thing Sly and Doris are mad about is that I wrote about this on my blog. Because the whole world reads my blog.*

Really, the only people who read this who know Sly and Doris are 1. Sly and Doris, 2. Primo, 3. Me.

So what's the problem exactly? Yes, my mother read it, but she doesn't know Sly and Doris, although she is going to meet them. So big deal. My mother reads on my blog that I am worried about three un-named "vocal atheists."

This from the people who, within an hour of meeting me, were trash talking Stephanie, my sister in law, and then moving on to Ted and Jack, Sly's other two sons and Primo's half brothers. Yes. They are concerned about propriety and decorum and not airing dirty laundry. At least I am using fake names on this blog, as I did on my other blog.

I tell Primo fine. "Tell your mom and dad that I will never, I mean NEVER again talk about them on my blog. Ever."

"Never?" he asks.

"NEVer," I say.

"What about when we visit?" he asks.

I think, "Well, we don't have to visit, you know," but I say, "I just won't blog while we're there."

"But they'll wonder why you're not writing about it. You blog every day."

"Tell them out of respect for their wishes, I am no longer mentioning them on my blog."

"But they'll be insulted if you don't mention them in that way."

"Too bad. Tell them live by the sword, die by the sword."

"They'll be upset."

"Like I care. They can't have it both ways."

Primo sighs. "They're not going to be happy."

"I don't care. Don't tell them anything. You don't have to put yourself in the middle of this. Just don't mention it. But I won't ever mention them again on my blog. I am done with them. Done."

And I haven't. When we go on our forced march to visit them once a year, I don't blog. Or I blog, but I leave them out of it. Unless I am going to make a leetle joke with them as the punchline. Let them find insult where they may. Yes. I am that petty. Sue me.


* Ha. As if.

In which we get married and Sly and Doris get drunk

September 2008 and yes, it is 2008, not 2007, as I had been posting. We got married in 2008. 2008. I am not a details person. I know that. That's why when I was working, I always made sure to put a details person on my team. I hate the small stuff. Let someone else deal with it.

Primo was incredulous yesterday when I called upstairs* to ask him what year we had married. How could I not know? But my brain is full of more important things, like why the concept of limited government is important, why we need to keep the electoral college instead of going to a popular vote and what's the frozen custard flavor today at Kopp's. Besides, I don't need to remember the little things. I am married to him. The Rememberer.

OK. I'll tell you a quick story. Then we'll get back to our wedding and I promise today will be a happy post because yesterday's was a bit of a downer. A few years ago when Alberto Gonzales was being questioned about things that had happened six months prior, I commented that who could remember what had happened that long ago?

Primo said, "I know what I was doing six months ago."

I said, "OK. What were you doing on November 21?"

Primo said, "I was in Cedar Rapids with a customer. Rockwell Collins. It was a Thursday."

I said, "You're making that up."

So he pulled up the calendar on his computer and darned if he wasn't right.

Still, I think that's a waste of brainpower. Does he know what shoes** I was wearing when we met? Ha. Now that's an important thing to remember.

Back to our wedding. It's Thursday. My sister is the first one to arrive. I pick her up at the airport and we goof off all morning. Freedom! She has not been to our city as an adult. We drive along the waterfront, stop at a coffeeshop. I tell her about the miscarriage because I HAVE TO TELL SOMEBODY. Plus, she's a nurse practitioner and just in case I pass out or start to hemorrhage, it would be a good idea for someone else to know what's going on.

I realize that the "Don't tell anyone you're pregnant before 12 weeks" rule is just stupid. Anyone who's reading this who is pregnant and hasn't told, TELL. Or at least tell your mom and your sister and your best friend. Because if you have a miscarriage, you are going to tell them about it and then all you get is the crummy part about telling about the miscarriage but you miss the fun part about telling about the pregnancy. The rule is STUPID. Yeah, don't tell the whole world. But tell your close friends so at least you get the joy to balance what might be the crap.

Then she takes me to get a manicure. After that, we have to go back to the house. Ick. But at least I have company. I have not told her about Sly and Doris' shenanigans, not because I want them to be protected but because I know my sister would scratch their eyes out and I don't need life complicated that way.

We have more buffers. Primo picks up my brother and his brother Ted, who is a good distraction for Sly and Doris. I like Ted. Again, proof that genetics are not destiny. How Sly managed to produce decent children I do not know. Sly and Doris would have you believe that Ted is a pompous bag of wind (pot, kettle), but I like him. I also like the fact that although Ted has a retarded son who will never live on his own, you don't hear him complain or whine about how unfair life is to him. Ted has always been cheerful and positive when I've been around him.

My mother and Dr J arrive. They have driven from Dr J's home in the northern part of the state.

With all these people around as protection against Sly, Doris is happy. She likes people. Sly bullies her and keeps her isolated. I don't know why she lets him get away with it. It's not as if she doesn't have anything he wants. As in - and you might want to avert your eyes here - Sly bragged to Primo about his cialis prescription. Why Sly thought that Primo would want to know that information about his father I do not know. Why Sly thought that was appropriate information to share with his child, albeit an adult child, I do not know. Why Sly has apparently never heard of the word "boundary" I do not know. He was an English professor. Surely that word has crossed his vocabulary.

But Doris is smiling. She is laughing. Wow. I have never seen her like this before. It's amazing what she can be like without someone bullying her. Amazing.

So. We are having fun. We are ignoring Sly's pontifications and pronouncements and arrogance and he is bewildered that We Don't Care about his Obvious Superiority, although Dr J is so gracious and sweet that he will listen to Sly without complaint. Sly is comforted that At Last, here is someone who is his Intellectual Equal.***

Claudia and Chloe, Primo's stepdaughters from his marriage to Isabel, arrive Friday morning.

We get married Friday afternoon in a quick Lutheran ceremony with Father T, a Catholic priest, in attendance to give it the imprimatur of the Catholic Church. He and Pastor G share the service. When Father T says something about "unit," Primo and I look at each other and think, "He said 'unit!'" Then we have to look away from each other so we don't burst out laughing.

After the service, my mom talks with Pastor G about Norwegian immigrant life on the prairie and family history research and Lutherans, of which my mom's father was one. Ted talks to Father T. Everyone has fun.

Ted takes Sly and Doris back to the house so they can drink. The rest of us go to the lake so we can take more photos, photos that do not contain Sly and Doris and that they subsequently whine about not containing them. Whatever, Sly and Doris.

We meet at the restaurant for our wedding supper. Primo and I get there first. I wonder where everyone will sit. I do not want to sit by Sly and Doris. I don't want to. Why should I have to? I have had to eat with them five nights already. It is my wedding supper. I have not been a demanding bride. I have not asked for much for my wedding. But dammit, I do not want to have to eat with Sly and Doris for my wedding supper. Is that too much to ask? Is that too mean? Is that too selfish?

So as soon as Chloe and Claudia walk in, I grab them. "Sit here," I say. "We've hardly had a chance to see you!" I do the same with my brother and sister. There. Now I am surrounded by people I like. I feel bad for throwing my mom and Dr J to the wolves, but they are taking one for the team. It is their wedding present to me.

There is a lot of drinking going on at that end. Not my mom. Not Dr J. Not Pastor G. Not Ted. But Sly and Doris. After Sly's toast in which he does not mention my name once, I walk over to make an obligatory hostess pass. Not that it's so horrible because I like Pastor G and my mom and Dr J and Ted. But when Doris pats the seat next to her and indicates she wants me to sit, I roll my eyes. Oh good grief. Now what?

I sit. She is weepy.

Why? Why is she sad? This is a wedding. Be happy, dammit.

How can she be this far in her cups? We allowed one cocktail before supper and brought a limited amount of wine. We did not want this supper to turn into a drunkfest. We were very careful about how much liquor was served.

Ah. But the pre-supper drinking at the house.

She is weeping and telling me how Primo is her Only Joy. How his toddler years were the Happiest Time of Her Life. I have heard this line before. Yeah. Whatever. I pretend to be nice. Smile. Pat her hand. Think, Lady, this is MY WEDDING. MINE. Could you please just let THIS be about ME for ONE SECOND? PLEASE?

I put on a convincing act but I am a little ticked off. We couldn't go one night without Drama? It's not like I haven't sucked it up for Doris and Sly all week: given them our bedroom, gotten them a newspaper every morning, bought them Lactaid because they are lactose intolerant except for our expensive Carr Valley cheese that they eat instead of lunch, set up a stereo in the living room, made a full supper every night, etc, etc.

Can't she suck it up for three hours? Would it kill her? It's NOT ABOUT YOU, DORIS. IT'S NOT.

But it is. It's always about her. Even the onion rings I didn't eat are about her.

Whatever.

I say something nice, extricate myself and see to my other guests. Who, except for Sly, are all happy. Having fun. Real fun, not drunk fun.

That night is when Primo promises me that Sly and Doris will never live with us. I love Primo. And he lives in the same house as I do and Sly and Doris live 1,000 miles away, so I guess it's OK.





* Oh like you don't call rather than walk up a flight of stairs. Please.

** My gorgeous red snakeskin high heels.

*** I would say that a cardiologist outranks an English professor. Indeed, Sly is probably hoist on his own petard here, for just last Christmas, Sly was complaining about his former colleague who had an EdD but insisted on being called "Doctor." When I asked what an "e d d" was, Sly told me it was a doctorate in education. "So he was a doctor," I said. "Yes," Sly sniffed, "but it's a lesser degree."

In which our wedding week turns into a medical drama and a test of my acting ability

September 2008 Thursday night before the Saturday when Sly and Doris arrive. I am still pregnant. But. I notice some bleeding. Which is not a good thing when you are pregnant, regardless of what the internet tells you.

I call my doctor's office Friday morning and they tell me come in. I come. They take my blood. Listen for a heartbeat, which should be audible. None. Doc tells me to come back on Monday for more blood tests. He calls me Saturday to give me the results of Friday's blood test: not good.

Sly and Doris arrive Saturday night. They are whiney. So what else is new? They say nothing about the pregnancy because they are not supposed to know because I am not supposed to know that they told Primo they were not coming to the wedding. Do you need a scorecard yet?

I go back to my doctor on Monday. I do not tell Sly and Doris where I am going. I just tell them I am going to the gym, which is true, and that I have a few quick errands to run after class. Primo is taking the day off anyhow, so he can entertain them, as they are completely incapable of entertaining themselves if they are out of their environment.

The doc takes more blood. I wait for the results. Oh they are worse. Dr B, who is the sweetest, nicest man in the world, is so sad. He tells me to keep the ultrasound appointment I had already scheduled for the next day. It was going to be our first look at the baby ultrasound, but now it's going to be the make sure the baby is dead before we do a D&C ultrasound.

After I pick up a newspaper for Sly and Doris, I go home and roast a chicken for supper while Sly, apparently, nurses a grudge that I did not offer him oatmeal to go with his Cheerios that morning. After Primo and I sit through an interminable supper and clean the kitchen, I excuse myself to go to bed.

Sly and Doris complain that I do not socialize with them.

On Tuesday, I go to the gym in the morning. As I sit on the bench waiting for class to start, another woman in class comes over to me. "Are you OK?" she asks. "You look so sad. Is something wrong?"

I can barely answer her. "I can't talk about it," I say. "I'm sorry."

"OK," she answers. "It's just that you're usually so happy and smiling."

I return home with a newspaper for Sly and Doris, who ask Primo to move the stereo into the living room. I tell them I have a doctor's appointment that afternoon that I had scheduled months ago and that I had been unable to reschedule. I give them my apologies and leave.

The ultrasound confirms that the baby is dead. I explain the situation to the ultrasound doc: what drugs can he give me to deal with Sly and Doris?

He thinks for a while, then answers. "Vodka," he says. "I recommend vodka. Lots of vodka."

We schedule the D&C for Wednesday morning. I dress as if I am going to the gym, but go to the hospital instead. I want Primo with me, but we do not want to tell Sly and Doris. I will be damned if they are going to know about this. It is not theirs. I will not allow them to share our grief. IT IS NOT THEIRS. They do not get to have this. I will not let them be part of this private mourning.

I go alone. When I return, I go into Primo's office, close the door and we cry together.

That night, Sly and Doris take us out to eat. I am drugged. Numb. Lots of vicodin. I yell at Sly. Not as much as I want to. I want to slap his hand when he grabs a piece of bread from the basket on our table, drops it, and takes another instead.

"Were you raised in a barn?" I want to ask. Instead, I just make sure not to take that piece. But I do yell at him when he refuses to listen to Primo sing when we take them to karaoke after. Jerkjerkjerkjerk. He just can't stand not to be the center of attention. And the idea that somebody else might be as good as or better than him? Oh he can't bear it.

Primo waits until he is driving them to the airport on Sunday to tell them about the miscarriage.

They have never said a word about it to me. Never.

In which Sly and Doris almost don't leave after the wedding

September 2008 Our wedding week. So yeah, they come. And some crummy stuff happens and I'll tell you about it but I suck it up and take lots of drugs and try to ignore Sly and Doris because I'm marrying Primo and he's wonderful and incredible and no matter how awful Sly and Doris are, they did do one thing right in their life and that was make Primo, so I have to thank them for that.

It's Sunday morning after the wedding. Primo is getting ready to drive Sly and Doris the 90 miles to the airport. Why yes of course there is an airport in our city! But if Sly and Doris flew out of our city, then they would have to change planes on their way home and that would be difficult for them. They do have many physical problems. So Primo is going way out of his way to make his parents comfortable and take them to a larger city and a direct flight. I don't think they appreciate the sacrifices he makes on their behalf.

I consult my project plan. Sly and Doris out of the house, Dr J (my mother's gentleman caller), my brother and sister into the house (from the hotel). Ted left last night. Claudia and Chloe are leaving today as well. Primo will drop them off at our airport this morning as he takes his parents out of town.

As soon as he pulls out of the driveway, I need to strip Sly and Doris' bed (aka Primo and my bed), put on clean sheets for my mother and Dr J,* change the guest room bed so Primo and I can move upstairs from the basement, change the basement bed for my brother, set up the inflatable for my sister. Wash sheets, clean the bathroom that Sly and Doris have been using for NINEDAYS because if you want to make me betray my country, put me in a shower that someone I don't like has been using. Start preparing the 12-person supper we are having tonight for my family and my dad's aunt and uncle and two cousins.

Fortunately, I can put my family to work, but still.

It is not until they get into the car that Doris realizes she has lost her wallet.

Which, of course, includes her ID.

Lord have mercy I do not need this now.

There is a mad scramble back into the house to look for it.

Panic.

With Primo's family, panic is the new normal.

I can't stand it.

I am getting scared that they won't leave. They are saying things like, "We can't leave! We can't go through security! They won't let us through! We'll just have to reschedule our flight!"

That is not an option. They are not staying a second longer. I have put up with them long enough. Ya basta. Begone! It is time for the nightmare to be over.

I almost shove them into the car.

"Go!" I say. "You just have to go through extra screening. This happened with a friend of mine last month. But you'll need extra time. Go!"

As they leave, Doris is still rifling through her purse.

Four days later, after my mother, brother and sister have left and I have regained my sanity, I call every place we went on their visit and ask if they have her wallet. The place that does have it (where they took us out to supper and yes, alcohol was involved in losing it) is the place that is, of course, the furthest from our house. It takes me an hour to get it and then Primo sends it to her FedEx.

They don't bother to reimburse us.

Dr J forgets some pants and a sweater. I mail them to him by the US mail. My mother sends us a check for the postage.



* Oh yeah that was awkward. My mom was in the guest room and Dr J was in a hotel. She asked if he could move into the house, which was fine, but logistics demanded that they share a room, even though they are not married. And good Catholics. She hesitated. I told her if she and Dr J really wanted separate rooms, that was fine, I would arrange it, but it would make my life a gajillion times easier if they would share.

In which Sly and Doris threaten to boycott the wedding

I tell Primo I am writing about the Wedding Boycott and he says that his parents never really meant it and that maybe he shouldn't have told me about it.

"What do you mean, they didn't mean it?"

"They were just blowing off steam," he answers.

"That's crap," I argue. "It took you over a week to convince them to come. I wish you'd called their bluff and said, 'I'm sorry you feel that way. I'll miss having you. Have a nice life.'"

"No, it's my job to fix everything in my family," he says. "I'm the one who has to cajole and convince and make everything better."

We argue about this for a while. He maintains that his parents never meant that they weren't coming. I say that makes it even worse: what kind of parents make the empty threat that they are not coming to a child's wedding?

Primo says that his parents say things like that all the time. It's just their way, he explains. It's because of how exhausted they are from Nancy, his mentally ill heroin addict sister, who had borderline personality disorder, and who was horribly abusive to Sly and Doris.

"That may be the case," I admit, "but that does not give them an excuse to treat you badly. What have you ever done to them?"

"They have been good parents to me," he says firmly. "They do love me."

I fall silent, but I still think it is a crappy, horrible, mean, manipulative thing for a parent to tell a child that he is not coming to the child's wedding, even if he doesn't mean it.

Especially if he doesn't mean it and if it's all part of a game where the child is then supposed to coax the parent out of the parent's hurt feelings. Give me a break. I was in your standard what am I doing wrong in my relationships here's a spreadsheet of all my boyfriends fix me in two sessions because I don't have money and time to waste please therapy. The mother and father are supposed to parent the child, not the other way around. Boundaries, Sly and Doris. Boundaries.

So what is this horrible thing I did to warrant a wedding boycott and the admonishment that Primo not marry me?

A few weeks before our wedding, I wrote something in my old blog - the one Sly and Doris read, alas - about how I was getting a bit stressed planning our wedding event. We were going to have houseguests for 14 days and I had written a four-page project plan detailing meals, airport pickups, hotels, guest room linen changes, and transportation plans. We had two 12-person sit-down meals at our house. A wedding supper at a restaurant. All meals with two truly lactose-intolerant eaters plus two fakers, one person with hemochromatosis and hence no red meat, etc, etc.

I wrote about this in a blog post.

I wrote about worrying about getting it all right and keeping my guests comfortable.

I also wrote about our wedding supper at the restaurant and how to seat the pastor, the priest and three vocal atheists, one of those atheists being Sly, who is not shy about his opinion about how stupid believers are, another being Ted and another being my brother, who has almost made my mother cry in some of his atheist arguments.

I was pretty sure that the pastor and the priest could hold their own against the atheists, but I did not want them to be in that position. I wanted our evening to be pleasant and free from tension. I was pretty sure my brother would behave, but I had never seen Sly in a public setting and I also knew he would be well lubricated, if you know what I mean.

So yes. I was worried.

But my exact line is just about how to seat three vocal atheists and the pastor and the priest. Nothing else. I do not write anything else in my old blog.

Sly and Doris take great offense. They assume I am talking about them and Ted. They assume that I am worried about their offending the pastors and not about the pastors offending them. Of course, they are correct, but there is another way to interpret it. Their first thought is always to assume they are the injured party. Always.

They take enough offense that they call Primo and tell him they aren't coming to the wedding and that he shouldn't marry me.

After making sure that I am not around, of course, and that they are speaking to him privately.

Because this is a secret he'll be able to keep from me. I sure won't notice if they don't show up.

Primo is crushed. Who wouldn't be? His own parents, telling him they won't be coming to his wedding? He tries to explain I was also including my brother and Ted. He tells them they are over-reacting.

They are unswayed. They call him repeatedly, including at work, while he is with a customer. They are still furious. He tries to calm them.

I tell him to tell them not to let the door hit them where the good Lord split them. Honestly. How much nicer will it be if they aren't there? I know my wedding day and wedding week will be easier without them. I also know Primo will be unhappy at his parents' betrayal.

But Primo is truly distressed. Truly. I do not buy his argument that they never meant it. Because he spends a week trying to convince them to come.

He tries everything. Everything.

They are unmoved.

He finally uses his last weapon.

He tells them that I am pregnant.

And if they ever want to be allowed to see their grandchild, they will come to his wedding.

In which Sly gets mad that I didn't offer oatmeal

November 2009 I know. Yet another post about my failings as a hostess/human being/daughter in law. Same old same old. But I can't cut straight to the chase. You know. Their threatening not to come to the wedding. I have to work in some more background material about how awful they are. More character development, although I think you guys probably have gotten the picture by now. But really - there is more!

I am trying to figure out how to plot this thing. One of the purposes of this blog, other than to give me a Whining Forum, is for me to lay out what I hope will become the book that permits Primo quit his job and allows us to have a winter place on Key Biscayne.* A place that we will not tell Sly and Doris about. Thank God for cellphones, hey?

Sly and Doris cannot know about the book.** If they did, they would never talk to Primo again.

Which would be fine with me.

There are days when it would be fine with Primo. Those days are becoming more and more.

They definitely do not know about this blog. They may or may not know about my other, everyday blog. Primo and I negotiated for a long time about this blog. One of the conditions of this double-secret probation blog was that I not link from here to my regular blog - where Doris and Sly are never mentioned - or vice versa, just in case they googled my blog name and found the blogspot version of the journalspace blog that blew up last year. Primo gave them a vague answer when they asked if I was still blogging. "Oh, that site isn't working any more," he said.

Which is true. But didn't really answer the question.

But back to the post du jour. I apologize for skipping around and writing things out of order, but now you understand why. I am writing from notes and events as they come to mind. Once I am done getting everything on electrons, I will start shuffling and figure out what the order needs to be.

So. Where were we?

Ah. It's November of 2009. And Sly, as usual, is complaining about me to Primo. No, it does not bother me any more. It used to, until I realized he is just an irrational, bitter man who has decided not to like me for reasons that have nothing to do with me. (Bacon? Really? He doesn't like how I eat bacon?) Now, he is just a source of material for the book that is going to set us free. Hahahahaha. Keep talking, old man. I'm taking notes.

He tells Primo indignantly that when they were here for our wedding and stayed with us for NINEDAYSNINEDAYSNINEDAYS that I did not offer him oatmeal for breakfast.

Dear reader. Other than pointing out the obvious that Sly is complaining to Primo about something that happened OVER A YEAR AGO, may I offer my side of the story?

Suppose you are a guest in my home. On Sunday night, I show you where things are in the kitchen. You have arrived on Saturday, but on Sunday we make omelettes for breakfast and eat together, much to my misery. Well, if it were you, I wouldn't mind, but Sly and Doris. Shudder.

Sunday night, I show you the cold cereal, the Lactaid I have purchased for you because you are lactose intolerant for milk but not for $25/lb Carr Valley cheese (is it just me or does this cheese get more expensive every time I tell the story?), the eggs, the bacon, the bread, the butter, the jam, the bananas, the oatmeal, the pots, the pans, the coffee maker. Actually, we set up the coffee maker especially for you because at this point, Primo and I are not coffee drinkers.

I show you everything you might want to eat for breakfast because you, who are sleeping in the master bedroom (our bedroom, the one that does not require you to take stairs) next to the kitchen, might be getting up before I do and I do not want you to feel that you have to wait for me before you eat. You probably will be getting up earlier because you have come from an earlier time zone and your body clock will be getting you up sooner.

When I come down from the upstairs guest bedroom, I find you in the kitchen.

You are eating breakfast.

You are eating cold cereal with Lactaid.

You knew where the oatmeal was, where the pots were, where the stove was. You chose cold cereal.

I make myself some oatmeal.

Tell me, dear reader. Should I ask you if you want some oatmeal in addition to your cold cereal? Or should I assume that you have already breakfasted sufficiently?

On whom should the burden of the oatmeal be?

In version 2 of this story, if you want oatmeal the next morning but do not feel comfortable cooking in someone else's kitchen, should you 1) wait for the same scenario to repeat itself or 2) say, "That Woman, would you mind making some oatmeal for me tomorrow morning when you make yours?" Or should you just file this incident in your mind and sulk about it for 14 months?




* OK. I would settle for Primo just being able to take a sabbatical and a week at the beach.

** That doesn't mean I can't go on Oprah. They wouldn't be caught dead watching Oprah.

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.

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.