Ch 12 Jenny gives me makeover, which is fitting because she has the hair, makeup, and accessorizing gene that I did not get

Jenny knocks on the door of the guest room, where I am getting dressed. She hands me a box. “Open it,” she urges.

It contains a pair of lacy blue silk underwear. “That’s your something new and your something blue,” she says. “I thought about wearing them once to make them old, but there are too many bad memories with those days.”

She is referring to our childhood, when I would accuse her of wearing my underwear. She probably didn’t and if she did, it was by accident. We shared a room and a dresser. It is possible our mom put the wrong underwear in the wrong drawer. Why a mother should even have to put clothes in her children’s drawers I don’t know. If a kid is old enough to dress herself, she is old enough to put her own clothes away. My mom figured that out pretty quickly and soon got to the point where she left the clean clothes on our beds.

And yes, we knew where our own clothes went.

We even know where bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen linens were stored. We knew all this even though neither of us had a PhD in English.

“Let me do your hair and makeup,” she says. “You need to look good.”

Not that this sexpot even needs lipstick.

She opens her bag, removes makeup, a hairdryer, a curling iron, and various potions, and gets busy. She puts some magic potion on my hair, then dries it while she pulled it out with a round brush.

I don’t even own a round brush.

She plugs in the hot iron, then runs it through my hair several times.

“Don’t move!” she snaps as I lean into the hot wand. A little burn on the neck to celebrate the wedding.

She plucks my eyebrows, which I have never done.

She strokes foundation on my skin, blending it quickly and decisively. The few times in my life that I have tried to apply foundation, I have ended up looking like a kabuki dancer.

She applies eyeliner, a skill I have never mastered, then eye shadow. Three colors. All blended together. I’ve seen it done in magazines but have never been brave enough to try it on myself. Mascara. Then lipstick. I have never been good with lipstick. Putting it on seems easy enough, but I have never figured out how to pick the right color. I don’t own any. I just get the chapstick from my dentist – it’s what he gives out instead of lollipops – twice a year and that’s enough lip adornment for me.

Let me tell you about my sister and her mad makeup and accessorizing skills.

In my first job out of college, when I was 25 and she was 22 and already established in her nursing career after earning a two-year RN degree for which she borrowed no money – smart girl, smart career choices – I wish I had had her sense and majored in something more practical than English – Jenny came to visit me at work. She was in Austin for a meeting and picked me up for lunch.

She walked in the door wearing a miniskirt and high heels. Her shirt was not low cut, but it was pretty obvious that she had gotten all the bosom that was allocated to the Digger sisters. 

Her long, curly blonde hair tumbled down her back. It had grown back since the Great Haircutting Debacle of ‘XX when she and the neighbor boy, Stevie, got into the gardener’s toolbox and found the hedge clippers.

My sister and me, back when we didn’t need makeup. Although I do know of people who happen to be Texans, which makes me sad, because it gives people a bad image of Texas, who put full makeup on their elementary school age daughters

Her long nails were red. Her makeup was perfect. She was wearing long earrings that twinkled against her hair.

I was wearing my little navy blue suit and a pink cotton blouse with a bow tie, for that was what proper young corporate women wore to work in the that time. It was radical for a professional woman to wear a dress to work and pants were out of the question.

I introduced my boss and a co-worker to Jenny when she arrived, then she and I went to lunch.

After she dropped me back at work, my boss sighed, “Your sister oozes sensuality.”

“Yeah,” my co-worker breathed. “You guys are complete opposites.”

Thanks guys.

Jenny knows what she is doing with hair and makeup. When she finishes, she turns me to the mirror.

I swear I do not even recognize myself. She is a miracle worker.

Ch 12 But they hardly drink the Lactaid

So far – what day is it? Friday? – after five mornings here, they have used only about two cups of the Lactaid, about one quarter of the container. The Good Cheese,[1] however, is gone.

---

[1] $22 a pound. Did I tell you it costs $22 a pound?

Ch 12 Sly and Doris finish all the booze they bought and start drinking our booze again

Remember that liquor Sly and Doris bought on Monday? That liquor of which I thought there would be leftovers to add to our liquor supply and I was happy about that, not because I care if we have cheap booze but because justice?

It is gone.

Yes.

You read that properly.

It took them only four days to finish almost two liters of hard liquor.[1]

They have been drinking wine with supper every night, too. We calculate that they drink more than eight ounces[2] of hard liquor each per day, plus wine.

---

[1] Primo was at a doctor’s appointment with Sly once. The doc asked Sly how much he alcohol he consumed and Sly answered, “Oh, about one drink a day.” Primo almost fell out of his chair.

[2] Or something like that. The math gets weird with ounces – you know that.

Ch 12 My brother, my sister, and Dr. J bring coffee and breakfast to us, including food Jenny can’t even eat, but her 100% lactose intolerance is exceeded by her family tolerance

Dr. J and my brother and sister, no worse the wear for having stayed up late the night before, arrive at 10:00 bearing a mocha for me, regular coffee for Primo, half caf/no caf for my mom, bagels, and cream cheese.

They probably slept past 6:30. They probably didn’t have someone stomping on a wooden floor right above their heads.

Jenny: Primo, can I fix your coffee?

Primo: No. I'll do it myself. I have my own way of doing it.

Jenny: How's that?

Primo: I put in the half and half first because that way I don't have to stir it and I put in the amount I want.

Jenny: Oh my gosh. You and my sister were made for each other.

Primo: What do you mean?

Jenny: When we were kids, Goldie would ask me to get her a glass of water. I'd get it and she'd say, “You didn't do it right.” How can you not make a glass of ice water right? Well, she'd say, “You have to put the ice in first! That way, the water runs over the ice and cools as it goes into the glass.”

Primo: Well, she is right.

Ch 12 Primo and I sleep in the basement, which is not comfortable and is not quiet, especially when Sly and Doris get their noisy, clomping selves out of bed at dark:30

Yesterday, Primo and I vacated the guest room for my mom and moved to the sofa bed in the basement, which is right under the kitchen.

Do not let people stay at your house when you get married unless you are really, really rich and have a huge house and servants.

And probably not even then.

At 6:30 a.m., which, if you will remember, is five hours and 15 minutes after we left the bar last night, which means we have had (five hours and 15 minutes) minus (the time it took to drive home, brush our teeth, and change clothes) to sleep, Sly and Doris start coffee. The coffee maker sounds like a small plane taking off.

They converse in normal tones.

They stomp, stomp, stomp across the wooden floor.

They open and close every single cupboard looking for the cereal and the bowls that I moved yesterday.

Yes. I spent an entire day re-arranging my kitchen so they could not find common kitchen items. Hahahaha!

No! Not really! I did not move a thing. Everything is in the same place it was yesterday and the day before and the day before that and the day before that and the day before that and where it will be tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Is it that hard to remember where things are in someone else’s kitchen? Must you open every cabinet and every drawer?

They are making no effort to be quiet and why should they? They are up. If they are up, shouldn’t everyone else be up?

Ch 12 Sly and Doris tell Primo that using cloth napkins is unhygienic and that I am a Bad Cabbage User

Primo: Oh! I forgot to tell you. Guess what my mom and dad are complaining about now?

Me: What?

Primo: You used bad cabbage. You are a Bad Cabbage User.

Me: What?

Primo: Bad cabbage. My mom said you used bad cabbage.

Me: What is she talking about? What is bad cabbage?

Primo: Apparently, when you made the coleslaw, you used bad cabbage. It had brown spots on it.

Me: Yes. Because cut cabbage rusts on the cut part, which is why I trim the brown part off before I use the rest for food. Which is how normal people do it.

Primo: My mom thought you should have thrown all of it away.

Me: Oh Lord. She thought I should have thrown away an entire half cabbage?

Primo: I guess so.

Me: Waste half a cabbage? Because of some bad spots that can be cut off?

Primo: Yes.

Me: That’s wasteful. And your mother – an environmentalist.

Primo: At least she is not a Bad Cabbage User. And she and my dad think cloth napkins are really unhygienic.

Me: Yeah, I already had that conversation with her. I can’t win, can I?

Ch 12 My family listens to Primo sing and of course they LOVE him, which is not hard to do because 1. They love Primo and would love anything he does and 2. He can sing really well

Jenny: We need to go out. It’s too early to go to bed.

Me: Let’s go to karaoke. You guys can hear Primo sing.

Greg: That sounds like fun.

My mom: What’s going on?

Me: Greg, Primo, Jenny, and I are going out to the bar where Primo sings. I guess we’ll see you in the morning.

My mom: I want to hear Primo sing!

I avoid looking at Sly. This, my friend, is the proper reaction to an invitation to hear your son sing.

Me: We might be out for a while. Are you sure?

My mom: Dr. J and I can take his car so we can leave when we want. One song, then he’ll drop me off here and go to his hotel.

We got to the bar and surprise - it is horribly smoky. Awful. One of the main reasons I don’t like to go out with Primo is that I hate cigarette smoke. At least, I hate stale cigarette smoke inside an unventilated building. I love fresh cigarette smoke in the fresh air and fully intend to start smoking when I am 70 and already have wrinkles. It looks like fun.

Mom and Dr. J take one step inside the bar and say, “We’ll just wait in the car until it’s Primo's turn to sing.”

Men love my sister.

Me: I’ll let you know when he’s on.

Despite the dense cigarette smoke, the bar is not busy.

(Not being busy) + (my hot sister flirting with the guy running the karaoke show) = (Primo gets to sing right away)

Jenny – our secret karaoke weapon. I summon my mom and Dr. J.

Primo sings Easy, which is his go-to impress people song. It works. People are impressed.

My mom: Wow! He sings beautifully!

She gives him a big hug.

My mom: You’re really good!

She flips through the songbook. Dr. J buys a round of beers. The tattooed Native American guys with long ponytails and Harley hats playing pool next to us hit on Jenny.

Primo sings again. He can rock Delilah. Tom Jones is fabulous, but Primo is not too shabby.

Jenny takes the mike and sings a Cher song. She actually sounded pretty good. I didn’t know she could sing.

My mom looks through the songbook, taking notes. She has a list of songs for Primo to sing.

Then she decides she is going to sing herself. She pulls Dr. J’s arm and takes him to the microphone, where they sing, When I'm 64. That ship has sailed, but it was still sweet. Primo and my brother sing with them.

None of us, including my mom and Dr. J, leave until 1:15 a.m.

Ch 12 Doris says to my mother – in front of Sly and the world – that she has always thought it best not to interfere in her children’s love lives and I don’t even know what to say but maybe Doris really believes that and maybe Sly has been the main actor in all of this drama, which is not hard to believe

My mom, her gentleman caller, Dr. J., and my brother arrived. We are all eating supper chez nous.

(AGAIN! If you get married, do not do this! Do not feel compelled to provide meals for dozens or even twos of people! THEY CAN FIND FOOD! THAT’S WHAT RESTAURANTS ARE FOR!)

It’s Thursday. Thursday’s plan is for garlic chicken. I threw chicken and 40 cloves of garlic in the crockpot this morning and made coleslaw, which probably isn’t the proper side dish to have with garlic chicken but whatever – I had half a head of cabbage in the fridge and thought I might as well use it up. Primo makes rice and we tell people to help themselves. We sit at the dining room table and eat.

(I tossed the cloth napkins we had been using and have surrendered to paper napkins, which you would think would have Doris ravingly happy, but shockingly, she says nothing.)

(Not because I am no longer principled about cloth napkins versus paper napkins but because we have only four cloth napkins that match.)

(I know. I should have just used unmatching. I am not in my right mind.)

My mom: Doris, Primo is such a wonderful man. I liked him from the second I met him. We are very happy that he is becoming part of our family.

Doris: He is wonderful.

I wait for the traditional response to such a comment – the, “We, too, are so happy to have Goldie join our family,” a statement that will bring about smiles and joy to all concerned and peace in the Middle East and maybe even an end to world hunger. And a cure for childhood cancer. For all cancer.

I wait.

And wait.

Well anyway.

Me: Doris, my Christmas present to my mom the year I met Primo was that I was dating him. I gave her an envelope and told her it was her Christmas present.

Doris: What was in the envelope?

Me: First, I have to give you some background. I was dating this Moroccan guy I had met when I visited friends of mine in Rabat. He was rich and had a PhD from the Sorbonne and was a consultant to the World Bank and he owned a boutique hotel, so I was impressed. But he turned out to be kind of a jerk.[1] My mom and dad had lived in Saudi Arabia for five years, so they had seen Christian/Muslim relationships and knew they didn’t always end well. Anyhow, I gave her a note that said, “Dear mom. I have broken up with the Muslin Moroccan and am dating a nice Lutheran boy.”

Doris the atheist nods politely. Sly doesn’t nod at all. I think the phrase, “Nice Lutheran boy” is not something they ever expected to have applied to their son. Didn’t they raise him right? Where did they go wrong that a child of theirs would ever go to church?

Me: I thought she would be really excited, especially given her experience in the Middle East, but she just said, “Well that’s nice.” An hour later, though, when her friend Pat, from church, came over, she showed Pat the note. Pat read it and said, “We know a lot of nice Lutherans!”

Doris laughs.

Sly does not. Maybe he doesn’t think there are many nice Lutherans? Maybe he thinks that was an ironic statement? I have usually found “nice” and “Lutheran” to be relatively synonymous. 

Whatever. Laughter. From Doris. Twice. Twice in one day! Doris laughs twice in one day.

My mom: I was relieved because Goldie’s father and I saw some of these marriages – of American women to Arabic men – and they did not usually seem to be successful, at least not for the women. The cultural differences are huge.

Doris: Didn't you say anything to her when she was dating the Moroccan? You clearly knew it was not a good idea.

My mom: No. I’ve always thought it best not to interfere in my children's love lives.

My mother's answer is completely unscripted. I did not prompt her. I did not prepare her. I had no idea such a question would be coming from Doris.

Doris: That's probably a good idea. I have always felt the same way myself.

She doesn’t look at Sly as she says this. He scowls. Doris ignores him.

---

[1] The week we spent together in Paris, he drank two bottles of wine a day, took a four-hour nap after lunch, did not want to do any of the tourist things – he said, “I ‘ave done zat! Eet ees boring!” – and didn’t want to eat out. He was THE MOST BORING, SELF-CENTERED PERSON I HAVE EVER DATED. Primo was a breath of fresh air.

Ch 12 Thursday Jenny informs me that just because a person is lactose intolerant does not mean he can’t eat cheese, which ticks me off because I want to be pissy about having to buy Lactaid for people who are eating all of my Good Cheese

I pick Jenny up from the airport. We take a slow drive along the river, then stop at a coffee shop with outdoor seating. The sun is sparkling on the waves and it is too pretty to hurry back to the house.

And, you know, I just don’t want to deal with Sly and Doris.

Me: I don’t like coffee. I’ll just get a diet Coke.

Jenny: Try the mocha. My treat.

Me: I don’t drink coffee.

Jenny: It’s like hot chocolate with caffeine. Just try it. There’s whipped cream on the top.

She is paying and it is my wedding week, so calories don’t count. Well why not? She buys a mocha for me and a soy latte for herself – that’s what people who are truly lactose intolerant do – and we sit outside in the sun, enjoying the peace.

She is right. The mocha is fabulous. Mocha: My new best friend.

Me: You won’t believe Primo’s parents. They say they’re lactose intolerant, but they didn’t want soy milk. They made me buy Lactaid for them, but they’ve been eating our expensive cheese for a snack every day. Don’t say anything to them.

Jenny: Like I would. But you know what? You can be lactose intolerant and eat cheese.

Me: No you can’t. Cheese has lactose.

Jenny: And you are an authority on this how? I’m lactose intolerant. I know. Some people are more lactose intolerant than others. Lactose intolerance can change throughout the day. It is possible to be lactose intolerant of milk and not of cheese.

Me: You’re kidding.

Jenny: Nope. I’m not. You should have hidden that cheese behind the regular milk so they couldn’t find it. You blew it.

I sure did. I hate being wrong. Well, they are still wrong for skipping lunch and then filling up on my expensive cheese instead of waiting for supper. 

Ch 12 Then we have the stupid idea to take an already cranky Sly to hear Primo sing at the American Legion karaoke and it ends in disaster

Sly and Doris have never heard Primo sing before. Don’t they want to hear him sing?

·         Sly and Doris are singers and

·         Sly and Doris are his parents and

·         Most parents like to see their children exercise their talents. Most parents are proud and excited when their children can do something well. Most parents like to see their children achieve. Most parents.

It’s early in the evening and the middle of the week, so the bar, in the basement of the Legion building, isn’t be too crowded, too noisy, or too smoky. Sly won’t have more than a few things to complain about.

Primo buys beer for everyone but me. I take another half a Vicodin.

Doris: I like this song! And that singer is good!

Sly: It’s too loud in here! Too loud!

Doris shakes her head and exhales.

We move to a table further from the speakers. What Sly wants, Sly gets.

Sly: That woman cannot sing.

It is true. The singer is not very good. She is not professional caliber. Most singers one finds in a karaoke bar are not professional caliber. Most singers in a karaoke bar would not meet Sly’s exacting standards. People here sing for fun. Sly is a semi-professional singer of classical music. She is a middle-aged bar patron singing a Cher song on a karaoke sound system in a basement bar. She is not a trained musician with Sly’s talent. Can’t he cut her some slack?

No. I guess not.

Doris, who got the scholarship to the music conservatory and who, according to Primo, is a better singer than Sly, can cut the singer some slack. She doesn’t look at Sly as she speaks.

Doris: I think she sounds just fine. And I like this song.

Sly glares at her.

Primo: I put my name on the list. It will only be a minute. There’s almost nobody ahead of me.

Sly goes to the bathroom.

Primo is called to sing. Doris smiles and claps when his name was called. “Go Primo!” she says.

He smiles at his mom, takes the microphone, and sings.

On one of our first dates, he took me to a bar to hear him sing. I thought karaoke was totally dumb and I could not imagine how an engineer could possibly sing well, which is on me, because aren’t I, the studier of literature, supposed to have some degree of imagination?

The first seven singers before Primo at this bar were awful. He and I were still in the blissful first months of dating stage – the stage where we didn’t fart[1] in front of each other. How would I would lie convincingly after he had sung to tell him how wonderful he was? 

Then he started to sing.

And guess what?

He can sing.

Total strangers were coming to our table to tell me, “Wow. Your husband can sing!”

Of course he was not my husband, but I took the compliment that was intended.[2]

Doris smiles. As Primo continues to sing, she smiles even wider. She beams.

Sly returns. It had taken him a long time to pee,[3] but Primo is still singing.

“Why why why Delilah?” he sings.

Sly: It's too loud in here! I can't stand it! I can't stand it! I'm leaving!

Doris: Honey, Primo is singing!

Sly: It’s too loud!

Doris: Honey! Listen! It’s Primo! Look! Listen to him! He can sing!

Sly: Too loud!

Me: Dammit, Sly! You will listen to your son sing! Shut up! Shut up and listen! What is wrong with you?

Sly: I can't see him! I'm leaving!

I slam my fist against the table.

Me: He's right in front of you!

Sly stomps out.

Doris puts her face in her hands. When she takes them away, her cheeks are wet.

Primo’ face falls.

Primo finishes the song – the show must go on – and then we walk outside to find Sly. Sly complains that it was too loud. He says nothing about Primo’ singing. Doris says nothing, period.

We return to the house.

Sly is dead to me. Dead. I spit on him. Pah pah pah.

---

[1] That sure changed.

[2] That’s because I am a Big Picture person. Primo, on the other hand, is a Super Detail person, aka An Engineer, so he would have corrected the compliment giver, telling her that he was my boyfriend, not my husband.

[3] I have since learned this is A Thing with older men.

Ch 12 Sly and Doris take us out to dinner, which is generous of them (they probably did it just so they wouldn’t have to use cloth napkins again) and Sly touches all the bread in the bread basket, which – really, Sly?

Holy smoke. If I weren’t on Vicodin, I might have slapped Sly’s hand.

The man has touched every single piece of bread in the basket. He grabbed one piece of bread from the basket, dropped it, grabbed another, decided it wasn’t to his satisfaction, and finally took another instead.

Who touches every piece of bread in the communal bread basket? People raised in a barn, that’s who. Does Sly think the normal rules of civilized behavior do not apply to him?

Instead of slapping his hand, instead of challenging him, I just don’t take any bread. Not because I am worried about catching a disease from him but on principle. There are things you do just because you have no choice, but there are things that no civilized person should have to endure.

I have cleaned cat vomit and cat poop and I have cleaned human poop from the men’s room floor at the pool where I worked as a lifeguard and I have picked up chipmunk carcasses after the cat is done with them. I have cleaned my own vomit and my friend’s toddler’s vomit. I have changed many a diaper. I have used some of the most disgusting public bathrooms you will ever see because when you have to pee, you have to pee. I don’t even always wash my hands after I pee, sometimes because there is no water, as in the bus station bathroom in La Paz, sometimes because I don’t pee on my hands,[1] people.

This is outside of the La Paz bus station. Trust me, you do not want to see the inside.

But I do not touch shared food with my bare hands. That’s Manners 101. You do not inflict your bodily fluids or contaminants on other people. Fine to touch your own food with your germy hands, not fine to touch other people’s food. If I am doing anything involving food other people will eat, I WASH MY HANDS. And then I touch the food only because I am preparing it. But at the table – I use utensils. Or touch only the food I am taking.

Although if Primo touches the bread, I don’t care. I kiss him. We already share germs. I have even used his toothbrush before by mistake and thought, “Oh well.”

His hands – and he is paranoid about washing them and gets all freaked out if there are dishes in the kitchen sink and he can’t wash them there even though I point out that he can wash in the bathroom, where he gets his drinking water – don’t bother me at all. I also point out that it is possible to wash hands in the same sink where there are dirty dishes because it’s not like you are going to make the dishes any dirtier.[2]

I do not pick my nose or my toes in front of other people, although I did have a roommate in the Peace Corps (an American studying in Chile) who would play with her bare feet and pick her toes and her toenails at the supper table. And then she would reach for food. With her fingers. That’s a great diet: to be so disgusted with someone else’s manners that you can’t eat.

I don’t touch the bread I’m not going to eat.

Sly is grossing me out. Rude.

I do not say anything to Sly about the bread, although I gave him several pointed, disbelieving, dropped-jaw looks that either he ignores or, more likely, doesn’t notice.

Barnyard manners.

I do, however, argue with him about school lunches and who pays and no, I do not remember how we got onto this topic. I am on Vicodin, remember?

Sly: Stephanie and Jack’s kids got the free school lunches.

Me: Wow. Jack must have been pretty bad off.

Sly: Jack?

Me: That his children were getting free lunch.

Sly: Oh! No, he has a good job.

Me: But not before the kids went to college?

Sly: No, he had a good job then.

Me: Then why would they have gotten free lunch?

Sly: Because Stephanie’s the custodial parent and only her income counts. But I think she somehow gamed the system.

Me: What? That’s crazy. Why shouldn’t the income of both parents matter? And really, Stephanie does not strike me as a cheater. Not to mention it is pretty hard to cheat on something like that. Don’t you have to show your tax returns for something like that?

Sly: That’s how it works. Just the custodial parent’s income matters.

Me: But you said Jack has a good job.

Sly: That doesn’t matter.

Me: So Jack was OK with the fact that his kids were on free lunch even though he could have afforded to pay for their lunch?

Sly: Why should he pay if he doesn’t have to?

Me: Because they’re his kids! I would be ashamed to take public assistance if I didn’t need it.

Sly: If the system is set up that way, why shouldn’t he take advantage?

Me: Because for one thing, when people who do have means do this, it means less for the people who are truly needy. But mostly because they’re his children. He can afford to take care of his own children. Why should I pay more in taxes so they get free lunch when he can afford it but won’t pay?

Primo, the adult child of alcoholics peacemaker: Dad, what do you think about this wine?

---

[1] My friend Charlotte grew up in Africa with her missionary parents. Her Big Secret is that she does not wash her hands. “I never get sick,” she says. “I have an immune system of steel.”

[2] None of this applies, of course, if you have been dipping your hands in Ebola virus. But for everyday situations, it is fine to wash dirty hands in the same sink where there are dirty dishes.

Ch 12 Doris and I go to the gardens and have a nice time, partly because I am drugged but partly because Doris, when she is not with Sly, can be a lovely person. I wish she would be like that all the time.

Me: Let me take a shower and get dressed.

Not that I care about looking fresh as a daisy for her or for anyone else – now that I am getting married, I can let the grooming slide, right? but I want to delay.

I get dressed, then collect Doris. We go to the gardens. It is a pretty day. Doris can’t move well under the best of circumstances and I have no interest in walking fast, so we amble through the flowers and sit frequently.

Primo is right. Without Sly, Doris is a different person. I have seen glimpses of this side of her, but never to this extent.

Me: Primo loved your mom and dad so much. He tells me wonderful stories about how your dad taught him to shoot pool and about how they were always so loving to him and Nancy.

Doris: My mother and father were the most loving people in the world. They worked so hard so I could have a better life. My father went to work in a ball-bearing plant when he was 16. But as soon as Prohibition was over, he got a job at the beer factory. He stayed there his entire long career. Every week, he got a case of beer to bring home.

Me: That’s a lot of beer.

Doris: He didn’t even drink! My parents were strict teetotalers. My mom came from church people in Georgia. They didn’t drink at all. My father promised not to drink when he married her. He kept his promise. He never raised a hand or his voice to my mother. I had friends whose fathers drank and were abusive, but never my father.[1]

Me: What did he do with the beer, then?

Doris: He gave it away. Or traded it. I started my piano lessons with that beer. He gave it to my teacher for my lessons. She didn’t drink, but her husband did. Later, I had to change to a more qualified teacher and the beer wasn’t sufficient, but my father worked overtime to pay for my lessons. I also had a part-time job when I was in high school. Some of that money helped with the lessons and some I saved for college. In addition, I was awarded a full scholarship to college. My parents were very proud. Nobody from my family had ever attended college before. My parents didn’t even go to high school.

Me: Tell me about college. What did you major in?

Doris: Even though I abhorred chemistry, it seemed like a practical course of study. I didn’t like it at all. I was good at it, but I didn’t like it. Then I started singing in the chorus. I loved it very much, but changing my major seemed like a very imprudent thing to do. It would have been very disappointing to my dear parents, who had struggled so hard to ensure I would have an education. I compelled myself to complete my degree. Then I was awarded a music scholarship to Berklee right after I met Sly. He didn’t want me to go, so I didn’t.

Me: Wait! You turned down a full scholarship to Berklee for a man? Didn’t you have boyfriends in college?

Doris: No. I had never had a boyfriend before. Sly was the first man who ever asked me out. I was not appealing to men.

Me: What makes you think you were not appealing to men?

Doris: I was skinny and had bad skin. No man had ever asked me on a date before Sly.

Me: Maybe you were skinny with bad skin in high school, but Primo has shown me photos of you from college. You were gorgeous.

And she was. Her skin was clear and her figure had gone from skinny to sleekly voluptuous. She had thick dark hair that reached her waist. She was stunningly beautiful – and completely unaware of it.

(Good looks)   +   (low self-esteem)   =   the perfect target for a bully like Sly.

Their relationship is starting to make more sense.

---

[1] I so much want to ask her, “Then why do you put up with Sly treating you the way he does?” but 1. That would be mean and 2. I know why – she has passed the point of being able to escape.

Ch 12 Primo asks me to take Doris somewhere to keep Sly from getting even nastier and I am drugged and I don’t want to be around Sly anyhow so I agree

I hand the newspaper to Sly, eat some crackers, take one quarter of a Vicodin, and go up to Primo’s office.

Primo: Maybe it’s for the best. We would be starting on social security when the kid would be in college.

Me: We would never get to sleep late again. And you would always be worried about the kid touching your stereo and your records. You would totally freak out. You would be all, “Don’t touch my stereo! Don’t touch my records! Don’t touch my CDs!” The poor kid would be scared to move.

Primo: I hope not. I don’t want to be like my father. I know he’s not now, but when I was a kid, he was really physically imposing. He worked out with weights. And I was really skinny and short. He towered over me. He had a horrible temper. I was scared of him. My mom was scared of him. My mom is still scared of him. You’ve seen how mean he can be. I do not want to be like him.

Me: Don’t worry. You are not like your dad. You don’t get drunk every afternoon. You don’t scream at people. You do not criticize other people all the time.

Primo: I used to be. When I got to college, I was a jerk. I was really critical and mean. I thought my dad was doing it right and that’s how I should do it.

Me: By being hyper-critical, you mean?

Primo: Yes. And then I discovered that nobody wanted to be around me. I was not making any friends.

Me: Because you were a jerk.

Primo: Yes. I decided I did not want to be like that. I changed. I don’t want to be that bitter, angry old man with no friends and whose own son and grandchildren don’-t want to be around him.

Sly, shouting up the stairs: How do I log onto this computer?

Me: I have already shown your dad how to long on twice. I gave him the password. It’s YOUR BIRTHDAY! [1] You’d think he could remember that. 

Primo: I know. I better take care of this or he will keep yelling.

He leaves and returns.

Primo: They are getting cranky because they hadn’t been able to watch TV since they got here.

Me: But – they knew you would be working the first half of the week they were here. Did they really plan to spend all their time just watching TV?

Primo: That’s what they do at home.

Me: How does anyone do that? I tried that at your place after I was laid off and it is really boring – even with Bridezillas and that show where they moms trade places and What Not to Wear.

Primo: They like PBS. And tennis.

Me: Still boring. Besides, didn’t you haul the stereo upstairs and set it up just for them? Has that not been enough?

Primo: Would it be enough for you?

Me: No sir, it would not, which is why I would not visit someone who could not take vacation or where I could not otherwise entertain myself. And if I did, I would make sure to have some books with me. And I would offer to help around the house and with supper. And I would help with other chores, the way my mom does. One time she visited and I came home from work to find that she had repaired all the doorknobs that had lost screws. I had learned to live with wobbly doorknobs, but she decided to take action. And she cleaned out my flowerbeds. That’s what I would do – I would fix stuff and help. Otherwise, I would be bored.

Primo: They are bored. They’ll start drinking soon. I don’t want the day to end badly. You know how they get.

Me: I don’t want to entertain them. We talked about this. And that was before the miscarriage.[2]

Primo: I know, but the only way around it is to tell them the truth. I can’t take them anywhere – I have to finish this project and I had never planned to take today off anyhow.

Me: You warned them that you would not be able to take Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday off. They should have been prepared.

Primo: I know. We’re kind of stuck now. Maybe you could take my mom somewhere. You’ve never been alone with her when my dad isn’t around. She’s not so bad. My dad can take care of himself. I really don’t care about him. But maybe if you and my mom spend some time together without him, she’ll see how great you are.

Me: She confuses me. Sometimes she is nice and other times, she is mean.

Primo: She is scared to contradict my dad.

Me: Yeah, you’re right. The times we have been alone, like working in the yard, she has been OK.

Primo: Maybe you could take her somewhere? Just the two of you? Neither of you will have to deal with my dad and he’ll have to figure out how to entertain himself without anyone to criticize.

Me: Oh to be a fly on the wall.

The Vicodin has kicked in. It has warmed me enough that I can perhaps stand a few hours alone with Doris.

Me: I guess I can take her to the botanical gardens. It’s not far and there are benches so she can rest. We can talk about gardening. She can talk. I’ll listen. That should make her happy. She better not whine, though.

Primo: Thank you. I owe you.

Me: Yes you do. I won’t let you forget.

---

[1] I have since changed it, so hackers, you are out of luck.

[2] Unfortunately, the miscarriage card is not as useful as you might think it would be if you want to keep said miscarriage a secret.

Ch 12 Wednesday I have a D&C and that’s about all I can say about that

Wednesday morning is like Monday morning and Tuesday morning: I get up, grit my teeth at having to share my kitchen with Sly, and get out of the house. Today, though, there is no gym. Today is the D&C.

I am not going to give you guys details of the D&C because

·         The information would not advance the plot and

·         It is not particularly pleasant experience.

My desire to keep Sly and Doris out of it and our inability to think of a plausible lie that would get Primo out of the house with me at 7:15 a.m. means I go through the procedure alone.

Let me just say that even if you never thought you wanted children in the first place and even if you are in theory relieved that you will not, after all, lose your freedom for the next 18 years, a miscarriage is not a walk in the park.

After it’s over, I go to Walgreen’s to fill the Vicodin prescription that the D& C doctor (the one who did not laugh at my joke) gives me and buy a newspaper (as I did on Monday and yesterday) for Sly and Doris. Then I go to the library, where I read back issues of People magazine until noon, which is when I would have been getting home from the gym had I actually gone to the gym.[1]

Nobody goes to BodyPump after getting a D&C.[2]

Most women probably do not read People for two hours after getting a D&C, either, but most women don’t have to deal with Sly and Doris.

---

[1] Clearly, I am capable of deception, but have not completely mastered the art if Sly and Doris think I go to bed early to avoid them rather than because of any other reason. I mean, that is the reason I go to bed early, but you would think I would come up with a lie they would believe.

[2] I am sure that if What to Expect When You Are Expecting had been asked that question, they would have given that answer.

Ch 12 Tuesday Sly and Doris want to give us a wedding present and suggest a nice lamp, but then decide it’s too expensive for the likes of us, even though they didn’t even buy their own plane tickets to come here and those would have been more expensive than a lamp

Doris: We noticed you don’t have a good reading lamp. That’s what we want to give you as a wedding present.

They are correct. We do not have a good reading lamp.

Primo: That would be great, mom.

Sly: It’s hard to read in there.

Me: I know, Sly. I’m sorry. We are still unpacking, so what you see here is not everything, but we do not have a good reading lamp. That would be a lovely gift.

I open the fridge.

Doris: Let’s go find one now. There is a lamp store not far from here. I noticed it on Sunday when we were out.

I stand in front of the open refrigerator door, which, if you know me at all, you know is something I Do Not Do. The fridge door is closed unless a person is actively retrieving or putting away food. I am standing in front of an open refrigerator door and doing nothing at all productive. The cold is coming out and the food is going to spoil and all I am doing is trying to think of a way to get out of shopping with Doris.

Me: I was about to start supper.

Doris: That can wait. We’re not hungry.

I look at the clock. Aha. It is 3:30. Thirty minutes to Snack and Bourbon.[1] Urgency explained.

Primo stands behind his parents and mouths “Sorry!” to me.

Primo: I actually have to check my work email. I am in the middle of a big problem.

Thanks, dude. When Doris said they wanted to buy us a nice lamp, I heard, “We will find something nice and we will send it to you.”

I did not hear, “We will require you to drive us to the store and to be an active participant in the process.”

Whatever.

Me: Let me put on my shoes and get my purse.

I have never noticed the lamp store near our house. If I were to seek a lamp, I would go first to Goodwill or an antique store to salvage a treasure. It would not occur to me to go to a store dedicated to lighting fixtures, mostly because I hate paying retail. My People Are Thrifters.[2]

But Sly and Doris want to go to the lighting fixtures store so go we do.

Have you guys ever bought a lamp at a dedicated lighting store?

I have not. Let me tell you a story about lamps.

I have a friend who is a brilliant interior decorator. Lindley has amazing taste and a fabulous eye and she creates the lovely spaces. I have, on occasion, helped her with invoicing. I have seen the invoices for nice lamps. I have seen the nice lamps in her shop.

A good lamp is not inexpensive.

A good lamp – well made, not Made in China crap, that will last the rest of your life – is not cheap.

A lamp from Target (and I do love Target but let’s be real here) is cheap. A lamp from Target will not last.[3]

We walk into the lighting store. The lamps are beautiful. The lamps cost $400.

That’s what a good lamp costs.

I find two I really like. I stroke the solid iron base of the one. Admire the seamless construction. Lightly touch the thick fabric and the tiny stitches on the shades.

Me: These are gorgeous! This was a great idea. Thank you! I hadn’t thought of having something this nice in our house.

Sly, bending down to look at the price tag: Four hundred dollars?!

Doris: It is nice.

Point Doris. It is nice and you challenged Sly.

Sly: Maybe we should look around some more.

What? I do the math in my head. Sly and Doris did not pay for the plane tickets to come here. They did not rent a car. They did not pay for the gas from San Antonio. They have not bought a meal. Except for their booze, which is an expense they incur whether they are here or not, they have not paid a cent to be here.

OK. It’s not like they want to be here. They have to win that point.

But buying a nice lamp is their idea, not mine. How much do they think a nice lamp costs? Did they think it was going to be under forty dollars?

This was their idea.

Not that I disagree with them. I, too, think $400 is too much to spend OF MY MONEY on a lamp.

But Sly and Doris’ money? Sly and Doris, who have a cleaning lady and a gardener and eat out frequently and spend (runs quickly to the internet to price bourbon)(can’t find it and don’t want to waste more time) a lot of money on bourbon, brandy, and wine?

It wouldn’t bother me to spend their money.

But – I am trying to get along.

Me: I guess we can look online for something less expensive.

---

[1] That might actually be a decent name for a restaurant. I should trademark it.

[2] My mom found my deep-fat fryer and a cookie press with dies at a garage sale. She also bought a karaoke machine for Primo at a garage sale. Some hits, some misses.

[3] Although I have some lamps from Target that I have had for 15 years and they are doing fine. I mean, they function as a source of light.