October 2006 I meet Stephanie for the first time when we have our Meet the Parents Tour. All I know about her is what I have heard from Primo via Sly and Doris: She's lazy. Fat. Speaks improperly.* Doesn't cook. Doesn't expose her children to Culture. Bad Mother. Bad Person. Woe is us that Jack brought such a Lowlife into the family. And their wedding. Trashy. Can you believe how trashy it was? All that food! And the dancing! And the way the people were dressed!
This from people who cannot leave a surface uncovered with tchotchkes - mainly frogs - in their own house and thought pressed board tables with hummingbirds were the height of elegance.
But I digress. I meet Sly and Doris and they are cold and rude to me. Then Primo takes me to Stephanie and Jack's house. They are still married. The divorce doesn't come until next year. I don't know if Stephanie has started her affair. No, an affair is not a good thing. I am not excusing it but I will tell you that there is more to that story. It's not my story and I don't feel comfortable telling it here, but if Stephanie and I ever collaborate on a book, trust me, you will want to buy it because wow is there a lot of stuff when you throw in Jack's mother (Sly's first wife) and her second husband. Let's just say buy stock in Jack Daniels and leave it at that.
So. My first meeting with Stephanie. What happens?
She opens her arms, grabs me, hugs me, says, "I finally get to meet you! Come over here! Let's talk!"
She is interested in me. In my life. How did Primo and I meet? Are we getting married? We don't know yet? We've been dating a year! Come on! Where am I from? What about my family? Can Primo and I come over for supper? Oh, why can't we spend more time together?
I like her.
And I am suspicious when I hear the stories about Stephanie's many failings as Primo and I continue to date and then marry. They do not jibe with the Stephanie I am getting to know. Shortly after Primo and I marry, Sly has a serious medical problem and needs daily help that Doris cannot give. Stephanie calls every day to ask what she can do. Sly and Doris do not accept Stephanie's help but complain that Jack does not offer.
"If they want Jack, why don't they just ask him?" I ask Primo.
"They think he should call them," Primo answers.
"So they'd rather complain than call him? And why won't they accept Stephanie's help?"
Primo shrugs. "I don't know."
"I think I know. I think if they take her help, they will feel guilty about trash talking her all the time."
We visit for Thanksgiving in 2008. The "I never did like the white meat" Thanksgiving. After hearing Sly and Doris complain about how Stephanie doesn't cook for her kids - how she gets home from work and just makes them sandwiches or the like and again, she is a Bad Mother - I decide to do some investigating. Primo and I take the kids bowling. It's his tradition with Michael, Maria and Pia. I casually ask the kids what they eat for supper.
"Oh, pot roast. Salad. Meatballs and gravy. My mom is an awesome cook."
"Every night?" I ask.
"Yes," they answer, puzzled as to why I would ask such a dumb question. Of course their mother makes them supper every night. She's their mother. They eat supper. Duh.
That evening, back at the ranch, Sly launches into another diatribe about how Stephanie does not feed the kids decent meals. Just gives them hotdogs and sandwiches. I can't stand it.
"You know, Sly, that's not true. I asked the kids about that today. Stephanie cooks. She makes meals. I don't know where you got your information."
Primo nods in agreement. I leave the room before I say anything to make things worse. But I am tired of hearing Stephanie maligned.
I tell Stephanie this story in December. She laughs. "They just want to believe what they want to believe about me. They still complain that Maura and I don't know how to load a dishwasher! We loaded it that once and it got clogged not because of how we loaded it but because it's a crappy dishwasher. I know how to load a dishwasher! Maura knows how to load a dishwasher!"
She's right. I've heard the complaint about the dishwasher. It was years ago. And yet the story lives. Honestly.
She continues. "I was there once and Doris wanted me to make the broccoli. I knew that no matter how I made it, they wouldn't like it, so I just told her I didn't know how to cook broccoli. And she believed that! So whatever."
* You know - with a specific regional accent. Let's say a New Orleans accent. That's not it but for the sake of this blog, I am changing names and certain facts, not that Sly and Doris wouldn't recognize the events I describe here. Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they think that everyone's family is like this.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
In which Primo goes to a funeral
Summer 2009 Sly calls. Or emails. Probably emails. They don't call us. We're supposed to call them. Well, Primo is supposed to call them. Not me. Why don't they call? Because they feel as if they are "interrupting." I don't know why they would get that feeling. Primo always answers their calls. Always. Always always always. He worries that if they are calling, it's because something is wrong. My philosophy is that is someone is dead, he'll still be dead in the morning, especially halfway across the country. Oh. Maybe it's because when they do call, they call at suppertime. Could that be it? Perhaps.
Primo is supposed to call them. If he doesn't make his weekly mandatory call, he gets a passive aggressive? angry? martyred? whiney? wondering if something is wrong, hoping everything is OK because honey, we didn't hear from you email. "I don't know why they just can't pick up the phone and call me for a change," he mutters.
Anyway. Sly's sister's husband has died. Sly wants to go to the funeral but traveling is tough for him. Will Primo go as the family representative?
Let me point out here that the last time Primo saw Uncle Joe and anybody from the family was two years ago at Uncle Tom's funeral.
The last time he saw Uncle Joe or Uncle Tom or any of the associated relatives before Uncle Tom's funeral was when he was in high school.
Primo tells me about the request. He is super busy at work.
"Why can't Ted go? He lives two hours from Uncle Joe," I point out. "He could go there and back in a day." If Primo goes, it will be a flight, a rental car, two nights in a hotel. His work will not stop. His father does not seem to understand this about Primo's job: that someone does not take over Primo's work when Primo takes time off. The work just accumulates, waiting for Primo's return.
Primo acknowledges the logic of my point and mentions it to his father.
"Ted says he can't afford it," Sly answers.
"Wait. Sly was prepared to spend the money to fly himself up there and get a car and a hotel but he can't send Ted $100 for the train?" I sputter.
Primo says, "My dad says that Ted isn't really part of our family. He wants me to represent them."
My head spins. "What does he mean, 'Ted isn't part of this family?' Isn't Joe Ted's uncle as much as he is yours?"
Primo shifts uncomfortably. "Yes."
"Your dad is a jerk," I say.
How can a father say something like that? "Ted isn't really part of this family?" What a horrible thing to say. As bad as telling Primo that Ted and Jack have been a great disappointment to Sly. You don't say things like that to your kids. You don't violate boundaries that way. You don't betray your children like that.
But Sly knows no boundaries. He is a master manipulator. Only you, Primo, are worthy. Only you, Primo, can save us. No, of course I can't send $100 to Ted to do this task. You must take $500 of your own money that could be spent on your mortgage and take two days of your own time and fly to the funeral.
You are the only one who can do this. Only you. You, Primo, the rescuer. Your brother can't possibly do this. If you don't do this, that means you don't really love us and haven't we suffered enough with your sister's mental illness and death? You owe us. You're healthy and alive, so you owe us. Plus you have betrayed us by marrying That Woman, so you have to do everything we want to make up for that.
Sly and Doris don't think that Primo's spending the money on plane fare, a car and hotel to go as their representative to a funeral for someone he saw once in the past 25 years counts as part of his obligation to them and I think it does, as does Primo.
I am still waiting for them to send us a check to pay for Primo's expenses.
I am not holding my breath.
Primo is supposed to call them. If he doesn't make his weekly mandatory call, he gets a passive aggressive? angry? martyred? whiney? wondering if something is wrong, hoping everything is OK because honey, we didn't hear from you email. "I don't know why they just can't pick up the phone and call me for a change," he mutters.
Anyway. Sly's sister's husband has died. Sly wants to go to the funeral but traveling is tough for him. Will Primo go as the family representative?
Let me point out here that the last time Primo saw Uncle Joe and anybody from the family was two years ago at Uncle Tom's funeral.
The last time he saw Uncle Joe or Uncle Tom or any of the associated relatives before Uncle Tom's funeral was when he was in high school.
Primo tells me about the request. He is super busy at work.
"Why can't Ted go? He lives two hours from Uncle Joe," I point out. "He could go there and back in a day." If Primo goes, it will be a flight, a rental car, two nights in a hotel. His work will not stop. His father does not seem to understand this about Primo's job: that someone does not take over Primo's work when Primo takes time off. The work just accumulates, waiting for Primo's return.
Primo acknowledges the logic of my point and mentions it to his father.
"Ted says he can't afford it," Sly answers.
"Wait. Sly was prepared to spend the money to fly himself up there and get a car and a hotel but he can't send Ted $100 for the train?" I sputter.
Primo says, "My dad says that Ted isn't really part of our family. He wants me to represent them."
My head spins. "What does he mean, 'Ted isn't part of this family?' Isn't Joe Ted's uncle as much as he is yours?"
Primo shifts uncomfortably. "Yes."
"Your dad is a jerk," I say.
How can a father say something like that? "Ted isn't really part of this family?" What a horrible thing to say. As bad as telling Primo that Ted and Jack have been a great disappointment to Sly. You don't say things like that to your kids. You don't violate boundaries that way. You don't betray your children like that.
But Sly knows no boundaries. He is a master manipulator. Only you, Primo, are worthy. Only you, Primo, can save us. No, of course I can't send $100 to Ted to do this task. You must take $500 of your own money that could be spent on your mortgage and take two days of your own time and fly to the funeral.
You are the only one who can do this. Only you. You, Primo, the rescuer. Your brother can't possibly do this. If you don't do this, that means you don't really love us and haven't we suffered enough with your sister's mental illness and death? You owe us. You're healthy and alive, so you owe us. Plus you have betrayed us by marrying That Woman, so you have to do everything we want to make up for that.
Sly and Doris don't think that Primo's spending the money on plane fare, a car and hotel to go as their representative to a funeral for someone he saw once in the past 25 years counts as part of his obligation to them and I think it does, as does Primo.
I am still waiting for them to send us a check to pay for Primo's expenses.
I am not holding my breath.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
In which Primo discovers it's important to read the fine print
Once upon a time, Primo, who is one of the nicest guys in the world, and who went to college when he was 16 years old, and was graduated a few days before he turned 20, and who was not shall we say, wise to the ways of women, especially women who might be on the lookout for a Nice Guy with High EP*, met a woman.
Primo had not had many dates. He'd had crushes, especially on Sally, who led him on a merry chase, always teasing, teasing, teasing, if you know what I mean and I think you do. I will say this: Sally is doing much better now that she is on lithium, but she did just recently start an affair, divorce her third husband and marry her fourth (the two in the affair tango), all in just five months, leaving Primo to muse that although Sally is probably the best kisser he has ever kissed, she is also the biggest bullet he has ever dodged.
I might be putting words into his mouth, but he undoubtedly feels that way, don't you honey?
Primo met Isabel . Isabel was cute. I've seen the photos. Adorable. Petite, cute little figure. Pretty face. Pretty smile. And she had two cute daughters. She needed to be rescued. Primo is a rescuer. He has had that tendency beaten out of him, although I have to remind him occasionally that even though he might be accustomed to being around incompetent or mentally ill women, I ran my own life just fine for the 42 years before I met him and I am perfectly capable of putting dishes away without his supervision. Or of washing them. Or of paying bills. Or of buying groceries.
But I digress. Primo was still in the rescuing business. And Isabel was cute. And probably talked a good game. She was in sales. Told Primo she had some hotshot job. Sure, she lived with her mom, but that was so the girls had some stability. She said.
They married after nine months of dating.
Despite Sly and Doris' advice against the marriage.
You just knew they'd be against it, didn't you?
But even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
Isabel was 36, Primo was 24. They'd known each other just a year. They did not go through any pre-marital counseling at all.
See any red flags?
Here's what Primo discovered after they married and what would have kept him from marrying Isabel had he known:
Isabel ex didn't pay child support and she had no intention of pursuing it, even though it was in the divorce decree.
Isabel had never gotten a social security number for her ten year old daughter.
Isabel's fancy job? Yeah. Not so fancy. She made almost no money and was mooching off her mom.
Isabel had not filed a tax return for the past several years.
Debt.
What do you do when you are 24 years old and you've made a huge mistake but you are an honorable man and you have made a vow that you intend to keep because it's not just you and Isabel but there are also two little girls who are depending on you now? How many years do you help the girls with their homework and make their breakfast and their supper and take them to school before you finally say, "Enough?" because their mother is not what you thought she was?
You stay married way too long. You don't get an immediate annulment or a divorce.
Of all the places you visit your friend and college roommate Sam as he moves in his career, the only one you don't visit is Cincinnati, which is the one place where he and That Woman, who is a friend of Sam's from their on-campus college job, happen to be at the same time post college, which would have been the only opportunity post college for you and That Woman to meet when you were still in your 20s. You didn't meet in college because you were drinking and That Woman had a boyfriend, so she was busy doing other stuff.
Hence, you and That Woman don't meet until your 20 year college reunion, three years after you and Isabel separate. Now burned, you have learned your lesson. You date three years before marrying. Go to pre-marital counseling. Talk, talk, talk about the money. About everything.
If only you'd met sooner.
* Earning Potential, which is what young engineers in Silicon Valley were back in the day, the day being the late 80s.
Primo had not had many dates. He'd had crushes, especially on Sally, who led him on a merry chase, always teasing, teasing, teasing, if you know what I mean and I think you do. I will say this: Sally is doing much better now that she is on lithium, but she did just recently start an affair, divorce her third husband and marry her fourth (the two in the affair tango), all in just five months, leaving Primo to muse that although Sally is probably the best kisser he has ever kissed, she is also the biggest bullet he has ever dodged.
I might be putting words into his mouth, but he undoubtedly feels that way, don't you honey?
Primo met Isabel . Isabel was cute. I've seen the photos. Adorable. Petite, cute little figure. Pretty face. Pretty smile. And she had two cute daughters. She needed to be rescued. Primo is a rescuer. He has had that tendency beaten out of him, although I have to remind him occasionally that even though he might be accustomed to being around incompetent or mentally ill women, I ran my own life just fine for the 42 years before I met him and I am perfectly capable of putting dishes away without his supervision. Or of washing them. Or of paying bills. Or of buying groceries.
But I digress. Primo was still in the rescuing business. And Isabel was cute. And probably talked a good game. She was in sales. Told Primo she had some hotshot job. Sure, she lived with her mom, but that was so the girls had some stability. She said.
They married after nine months of dating.
Despite Sly and Doris' advice against the marriage.
You just knew they'd be against it, didn't you?
But even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
Isabel was 36, Primo was 24. They'd known each other just a year. They did not go through any pre-marital counseling at all.
See any red flags?
Here's what Primo discovered after they married and what would have kept him from marrying Isabel had he known:
Isabel ex didn't pay child support and she had no intention of pursuing it, even though it was in the divorce decree.
Isabel had never gotten a social security number for her ten year old daughter.
Isabel's fancy job? Yeah. Not so fancy. She made almost no money and was mooching off her mom.
Isabel had not filed a tax return for the past several years.
Debt.
What do you do when you are 24 years old and you've made a huge mistake but you are an honorable man and you have made a vow that you intend to keep because it's not just you and Isabel but there are also two little girls who are depending on you now? How many years do you help the girls with their homework and make their breakfast and their supper and take them to school before you finally say, "Enough?" because their mother is not what you thought she was?
You stay married way too long. You don't get an immediate annulment or a divorce.
Of all the places you visit your friend and college roommate Sam as he moves in his career, the only one you don't visit is Cincinnati, which is the one place where he and That Woman, who is a friend of Sam's from their on-campus college job, happen to be at the same time post college, which would have been the only opportunity post college for you and That Woman to meet when you were still in your 20s. You didn't meet in college because you were drinking and That Woman had a boyfriend, so she was busy doing other stuff.
Hence, you and That Woman don't meet until your 20 year college reunion, three years after you and Isabel separate. Now burned, you have learned your lesson. You date three years before marrying. Go to pre-marital counseling. Talk, talk, talk about the money. About everything.
If only you'd met sooner.
* Earning Potential, which is what young engineers in Silicon Valley were back in the day, the day being the late 80s.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
In which Sly tells Primo that I am a bad bacon eater
Autumn 2007 It's a year since I met Sly and Doris. They do not like me any better now than they did then. I want them to like me. People like me. They do. Why don't Sly and Doris like me? I was polite. I took a hostess gift. I helped with the dishes. I sent a thank you note. What did I do wrong?
I know there is the blog, but it's not like I am a raving lunatic, name calling or anything. I write about my garden and why haven't I won the yard of the month award and how there is a grand conspiracy keeping me from winning it. But I don't really mean that there is a conspiracy. It's satire, people. Satire.
And occasionally I make reference to political issues, so Sly and Doris know where I stand. I know where they stand. I know where my friends stand. As a matter of fact, I have many friends, Primo included, who are almost opposite of me on political issues and yet we get along. But Sly and Doris seem to be quite unhappy that we do not share the same political beliefs. Why can't we all get along? is what I say. Tolerance. Tolerance.
But they do not like me. And I don't know how to make them like me. I have failed. What am I doing wrong?
Primo has one of his weekly mandatory phone calls. Finishes. "How was it?" I ask.
"I'm not sure I should tell you this," he says.
"Tell me," I say, dreading what I might hear.
"My dad said something about you."
Great, I think. Now what?
"He's unhappy about something that happened last year when we were visiting."
"What did I do?" I ask. I can't think of anything that was exceptionally rude. Mildly - like barely hardly noticeable - rude, yes. But so rude that it had to fester for a year before it could be addressed yet of a code so bizarre that I wouldn't even notice? What on earth could that be?
"When he made breakfast that Sunday - remember? - eggs and bacon - he didn't like that you picked the fat off your bacon and just ate the lean."
I'm waiting for the rude part. "Um-hmm."
Primo says nothing.
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
"Wait. You mean your father has been upset about how I eat my bacon for a year?"
"Yes. He said it was an insult to the host."
"Your dad is full of crap."
"Yes."
"And you were worried about telling me this?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I thought it might upset you."
"What?" I am silent as I think about this. Am I upset? Yes. This is stupid. STUPID. He doesn't like me because of the way I eat my bacon? What's wrong with how I eat my bacon? I don't want the fat. So sue me. Primo eats it, so it's not like the fat is going to waste, and even if it were, so what? So the heck what? This coming from the man who ATE MY CARR VALLEY CHEESE EVEN THOUGH HE IS LACTOSE INTOLERANT? AND DIDN'T EVEN DRINK ALL THE LACTAID I HAD TO BUY FOR HIM?
Yes. I am a wee bit upset.
Just a little.
But in a good way.
Because you know what?
I have realized something.
I have been trying to make someone who is completely irrational like me.
And it's never going to happen.
Because he dislikes me for reasons that cannot be fixed. For reasons that have nothing to do with me. He has decided he is not going to like me no matter what and is looking for excuses for that dislike.
He doesn't like how I eat bacon? He's been thinking about that for a year? A YEAR? Yes, I know I am shouting. But honestly. BAD BACON EATING? As a basis for disliking someone?
You'd be shouting too.
The realization is liberating. I don't have to make him like me. I can't make him like me. He won't like me. Ever.
The only thing I can do is be sure to cut the fat off every single piece of meat that crosses my plate any time I am around him. And that's what I do. Revenge is a dish best eaten lean.
I know there is the blog, but it's not like I am a raving lunatic, name calling or anything. I write about my garden and why haven't I won the yard of the month award and how there is a grand conspiracy keeping me from winning it. But I don't really mean that there is a conspiracy. It's satire, people. Satire.
And occasionally I make reference to political issues, so Sly and Doris know where I stand. I know where they stand. I know where my friends stand. As a matter of fact, I have many friends, Primo included, who are almost opposite of me on political issues and yet we get along. But Sly and Doris seem to be quite unhappy that we do not share the same political beliefs. Why can't we all get along? is what I say. Tolerance. Tolerance.
But they do not like me. And I don't know how to make them like me. I have failed. What am I doing wrong?
Primo has one of his weekly mandatory phone calls. Finishes. "How was it?" I ask.
"I'm not sure I should tell you this," he says.
"Tell me," I say, dreading what I might hear.
"My dad said something about you."
Great, I think. Now what?
"He's unhappy about something that happened last year when we were visiting."
"What did I do?" I ask. I can't think of anything that was exceptionally rude. Mildly - like barely hardly noticeable - rude, yes. But so rude that it had to fester for a year before it could be addressed yet of a code so bizarre that I wouldn't even notice? What on earth could that be?
"When he made breakfast that Sunday - remember? - eggs and bacon - he didn't like that you picked the fat off your bacon and just ate the lean."
I'm waiting for the rude part. "Um-hmm."
Primo says nothing.
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
"Wait. You mean your father has been upset about how I eat my bacon for a year?"
"Yes. He said it was an insult to the host."
"Your dad is full of crap."
"Yes."
"And you were worried about telling me this?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I thought it might upset you."
"What?" I am silent as I think about this. Am I upset? Yes. This is stupid. STUPID. He doesn't like me because of the way I eat my bacon? What's wrong with how I eat my bacon? I don't want the fat. So sue me. Primo eats it, so it's not like the fat is going to waste, and even if it were, so what? So the heck what? This coming from the man who ATE MY CARR VALLEY CHEESE EVEN THOUGH HE IS LACTOSE INTOLERANT? AND DIDN'T EVEN DRINK ALL THE LACTAID I HAD TO BUY FOR HIM?
Yes. I am a wee bit upset.
Just a little.
But in a good way.
Because you know what?
I have realized something.
I have been trying to make someone who is completely irrational like me.
And it's never going to happen.
Because he dislikes me for reasons that cannot be fixed. For reasons that have nothing to do with me. He has decided he is not going to like me no matter what and is looking for excuses for that dislike.
He doesn't like how I eat bacon? He's been thinking about that for a year? A YEAR? Yes, I know I am shouting. But honestly. BAD BACON EATING? As a basis for disliking someone?
You'd be shouting too.
The realization is liberating. I don't have to make him like me. I can't make him like me. He won't like me. Ever.
The only thing I can do is be sure to cut the fat off every single piece of meat that crosses my plate any time I am around him. And that's what I do. Revenge is a dish best eaten lean.
Monday, January 25, 2010
In which we get worse presents than the hummingbird tables
December 2009 We are at Sly and Doris' house. It is not Christmas. It is the weekend before Christmas. I don't want to be there but it is easier for us to suck it up and go for a long weekend than for Primo to be subjected to endless rounds of telephone torture. Which he will get anyhow, but at least now he can throw down the card of, "Hey. I did visit you before Christmas so shut up already." Only of course he would never be that mean.
I would. But I don't talk to Sly and Doris. Not that they want to talk to me either, so we are even.
We have paid $500 for the tickets to fly to their place. Why we didn't use frequent flyer miles I don't know. Probably something about Primo needing to get to a certain status and the flight being cheap enough for me that it didn't make sense to use the FF miles.
We have a rental car. Because of course Sly can't come pick us up at the airport. No. That would be inconvenient. Fortunately, because Primo travels about 460% of the time for his job, he has some free Hertz days coming to him so we do not have to pay for the car.
In addition to paying to fly to visit Sly and Doris, we have bought them a Christmas present. As if spending $500, or half a mortgage payment, isn't enough. We are getting them some decent knives. When we visit, we take over the heavy lifting in the kitchen. Doris has arthritis and it is hard for her to cut and chop and peel. I actually don't mind doing the cooking because it gives me something to do. But I do not like working with bad equipment and not only are their knives bad, they are dull. I am not interested in hurting myself just for supper.*
And then Primo, whose vacation has been slashed, is taking precious vacation days for this trip. He will spend those days doing his parents' chores. Because there is nobody where they live, including their cleaning lady, Jack, or their 16-year-old grandchildren who are interested in earning some cash, who can 1. vacuum their closets, 2. dust their ceiling fans, 3. clean around the cat box, or 4. organize their garage.
Got the picture? Plane fare. Knives. Vacation days. Chores.
We sit down one evening to open presents. Doris tells us about mailing presents to Ted and Maura. "I hope the box of gourmet cheese got there in time," she frets. "They're having company."
"Gourmet cheese!" I say. "What a cool present! I would love to get gourmet cheese!"
And I would. I would like it better than hummingbird tables. Or a custom jigsaw puzzle of a map of our neighborhood.
Odd, though, because when I tell Stephanie about this later, she says, "Why would Doris send cheese to Ted? He's the one who got them started on this lactose intolerance crap. He claims that he's lactose intolerant."**
We have already given the knives to Doris, who seems pleased. She has used them. Sly, however, wants to use his old knives that they got as a wedding present. When Jack comes over for supper one night, Sly hands the wedding knife to him for carving. Jack, who is a chef, spies the new knife. As soon as Sly steps out of the room, Jack whispers to Primo, "Hand me the new one." Jack is no fool.
Back to the present opening. This is a good sign - that Doris has sent cheese to Ted. Or is it? Cheese is good, but is giving cheese to someone who is lactose intolerant a good sign?
She hands a box to Primo. He opens it.
It's a framed photo.
Of Sly and Doris.
"Here's another frame if you don't like that one," Doris says.
Primo takes the frame and holds it next to the photo. "Which one do you like, honey?" he asks me.
"Oh, you pick," I answer.
"No, you!" he says.
"Oh, I think you should decide," I say.
"But don't you have a preference?" he insists.
"Really. You pick," I smile.
"Which one?" he pushes.
"I. Don't. Care." I answer through gritted teeth because that photo is going to hang in his office where I will never see it so I really do not care.
And he knows this and wants to torture me so asks again. "Oh come on. Which frame looks better? The dark one or the light one?"
Just to get him to be quiet, I say, "Oh the dark one."
And I think, "That's it? That's our Christmas present? A photo of the two people who hate me and told their son not to marry me and who badmouth me to him? The people who give me a 12-day migraine?"
No! Of course that's not it!
Doris passes Primo another box.
He opens it.
It contains a cast-iron cat.
Our Christmas is complete.
* I can't hurt myself for lunch because remember, they do not eat lunch.
** Doris and Sly's fridge contains cheese, cream cheese, and yogurt. And Lactaid.
I would. But I don't talk to Sly and Doris. Not that they want to talk to me either, so we are even.
We have paid $500 for the tickets to fly to their place. Why we didn't use frequent flyer miles I don't know. Probably something about Primo needing to get to a certain status and the flight being cheap enough for me that it didn't make sense to use the FF miles.
We have a rental car. Because of course Sly can't come pick us up at the airport. No. That would be inconvenient. Fortunately, because Primo travels about 460% of the time for his job, he has some free Hertz days coming to him so we do not have to pay for the car.
In addition to paying to fly to visit Sly and Doris, we have bought them a Christmas present. As if spending $500, or half a mortgage payment, isn't enough. We are getting them some decent knives. When we visit, we take over the heavy lifting in the kitchen. Doris has arthritis and it is hard for her to cut and chop and peel. I actually don't mind doing the cooking because it gives me something to do. But I do not like working with bad equipment and not only are their knives bad, they are dull. I am not interested in hurting myself just for supper.*
And then Primo, whose vacation has been slashed, is taking precious vacation days for this trip. He will spend those days doing his parents' chores. Because there is nobody where they live, including their cleaning lady, Jack, or their 16-year-old grandchildren who are interested in earning some cash, who can 1. vacuum their closets, 2. dust their ceiling fans, 3. clean around the cat box, or 4. organize their garage.
Got the picture? Plane fare. Knives. Vacation days. Chores.
We sit down one evening to open presents. Doris tells us about mailing presents to Ted and Maura. "I hope the box of gourmet cheese got there in time," she frets. "They're having company."
"Gourmet cheese!" I say. "What a cool present! I would love to get gourmet cheese!"
And I would. I would like it better than hummingbird tables. Or a custom jigsaw puzzle of a map of our neighborhood.
Odd, though, because when I tell Stephanie about this later, she says, "Why would Doris send cheese to Ted? He's the one who got them started on this lactose intolerance crap. He claims that he's lactose intolerant."**
We have already given the knives to Doris, who seems pleased. She has used them. Sly, however, wants to use his old knives that they got as a wedding present. When Jack comes over for supper one night, Sly hands the wedding knife to him for carving. Jack, who is a chef, spies the new knife. As soon as Sly steps out of the room, Jack whispers to Primo, "Hand me the new one." Jack is no fool.
Back to the present opening. This is a good sign - that Doris has sent cheese to Ted. Or is it? Cheese is good, but is giving cheese to someone who is lactose intolerant a good sign?
She hands a box to Primo. He opens it.
It's a framed photo.
Of Sly and Doris.
"Here's another frame if you don't like that one," Doris says.
Primo takes the frame and holds it next to the photo. "Which one do you like, honey?" he asks me.
"Oh, you pick," I answer.
"No, you!" he says.
"Oh, I think you should decide," I say.
"But don't you have a preference?" he insists.
"Really. You pick," I smile.
"Which one?" he pushes.
"I. Don't. Care." I answer through gritted teeth because that photo is going to hang in his office where I will never see it so I really do not care.
And he knows this and wants to torture me so asks again. "Oh come on. Which frame looks better? The dark one or the light one?"
Just to get him to be quiet, I say, "Oh the dark one."
And I think, "That's it? That's our Christmas present? A photo of the two people who hate me and told their son not to marry me and who badmouth me to him? The people who give me a 12-day migraine?"
No! Of course that's not it!
Doris passes Primo another box.
He opens it.
It contains a cast-iron cat.
Our Christmas is complete.
* I can't hurt myself for lunch because remember, they do not eat lunch.
** Doris and Sly's fridge contains cheese, cream cheese, and yogurt. And Lactaid.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
In which lactose intolerant Sly and Doris eat our expensive cheese
September 2008 I know you want to know what happened with the Christmas presents, but first you have to know about the cheese. Trust me. It's part of the plot.
Sly and Doris are going to spend NINE DAYS at our house for our wedding. Yes. Despite their vow that they will not attend the wedding (I will tell you that whole saga eventually), Primo convinces them to come. Even though I am all, Don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya. NINE DAYS, y'all. NINE DAYS.
"They're lactose intolerant," Primo tells me. "They drink Lactaid."
"Ask them if soy milk is OK," I say. "I have to get that for my mom and sister anyhow."
My mom and sister are lactose intolerant enough that the teeniest bit of milk or cheese or ice cream makes them very uncomfortable. They can't drink Lactaid. When my sister and I were in Italy, she just looked longingly at the gelato. And the cheese. My mom accidentally ate some of the Parmesan cheese in the salad at our wedding supper and spent the night miserable.
Primo checks. No, soy milk is not OK. Lactaid. Lactaid only. I buy Lactaid. The smallest unit in which Lactaid is available is half a gallon. Lactaid? Is not cheap.
Sly and Doris have a little bit of Lactaid with their cereal in the morning.*
They do not eat lunch. I mean, ever. They don't eat lunch. We'll discuss this again in a future post.
At 5:00, they have Snack.
Snack = Bourbon. A lot of bourbon.
Plus cheese.
Cheese? you ask.
But how does one who is lactose intolerant eat cheese?
Well that is the question du jour is it not?
And not just any cheese, but our expensive Carr Valley cheese that we eat sparingly. You know - not as a MEAL but as a true snack.
But if you haven't had anything to eat since 8:00 a.m. because you don't eat lunch, you're going to be hungrier than the average person, so you are going to fill up on cheese, even if you are allegedly lactose intolerant.
So they fill up on cheese. That they want Primo, who usually works from about 9:00 a.m. to 7:30 p.m.,** to cut up for them. That, to keep the darn peace, he does.
And then, at 7:30 p.m., when I have supper ready - steak, roasted chicken - guess what? Oh, we're not that hungry, dear. You really didn't need to go through all that trouble for us.***
By the time they leave, they have used only about three cups of the Lactaid.
* I will tell you the oatmeal story later. About how I did not offer oatmeal to Sly. And how that made me a bad hostess.
** On a good day.
*** Oh yeah right like I wouldn't have heard about it via Primo if I had just thrown together something light and easy for supper.
Sly and Doris are going to spend NINE DAYS at our house for our wedding. Yes. Despite their vow that they will not attend the wedding (I will tell you that whole saga eventually), Primo convinces them to come. Even though I am all, Don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya. NINE DAYS, y'all. NINE DAYS.
"They're lactose intolerant," Primo tells me. "They drink Lactaid."
"Ask them if soy milk is OK," I say. "I have to get that for my mom and sister anyhow."
My mom and sister are lactose intolerant enough that the teeniest bit of milk or cheese or ice cream makes them very uncomfortable. They can't drink Lactaid. When my sister and I were in Italy, she just looked longingly at the gelato. And the cheese. My mom accidentally ate some of the Parmesan cheese in the salad at our wedding supper and spent the night miserable.
Primo checks. No, soy milk is not OK. Lactaid. Lactaid only. I buy Lactaid. The smallest unit in which Lactaid is available is half a gallon. Lactaid? Is not cheap.
Sly and Doris have a little bit of Lactaid with their cereal in the morning.*
They do not eat lunch. I mean, ever. They don't eat lunch. We'll discuss this again in a future post.
At 5:00, they have Snack.
Snack = Bourbon. A lot of bourbon.
Plus cheese.
Cheese? you ask.
But how does one who is lactose intolerant eat cheese?
Well that is the question du jour is it not?
And not just any cheese, but our expensive Carr Valley cheese that we eat sparingly. You know - not as a MEAL but as a true snack.
But if you haven't had anything to eat since 8:00 a.m. because you don't eat lunch, you're going to be hungrier than the average person, so you are going to fill up on cheese, even if you are allegedly lactose intolerant.
So they fill up on cheese. That they want Primo, who usually works from about 9:00 a.m. to 7:30 p.m.,** to cut up for them. That, to keep the darn peace, he does.
And then, at 7:30 p.m., when I have supper ready - steak, roasted chicken - guess what? Oh, we're not that hungry, dear. You really didn't need to go through all that trouble for us.***
By the time they leave, they have used only about three cups of the Lactaid.
* I will tell you the oatmeal story later. About how I did not offer oatmeal to Sly. And how that made me a bad hostess.
** On a good day.
*** Oh yeah right like I wouldn't have heard about it via Primo if I had just thrown together something light and easy for supper.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
In which we try to de-escalate the gift giving but just offend Doris
September 2009 A huge box arrives via UPS. Primo opens it. Oh Lord. It's three pressed wood nesting tables. With hummingbirds painted on them. Ugly as sin.
Bless her heart, Doris has sent us an anniversary present. As far as I'm concerned, the only ones who need to recognize an anniversary are the persons in the marriage, so it is very sweet of her to send us a present at all.
But could these things be any more not to my taste? Hideous.
I call the vendor. Can we return them for cash? Nope. Only exchange. Rats. Double rats because our options are other hummingbird type options. I am not a painted hummingbird type person. At all.
I am thinking perhaps we just put these in the Goodwill pile, even though Doris paid $100 for them - on sale! - when she starts pestering Primo about my October birthday. Would I like this or this or that? She emails him links to various items, none of which he knows I would like.
We decide to address this issue, which has been festering for a while. Doris and Sly send us expensive, yet tacky, presents we neither like, need, nor want, then expect us to spend like amounts on every gift-giving occasion for them.
Indeed, they do things like send us a link to $99 outdoor lights and say, "Give this to Doris for mother's day." $99 for mother's day?! I send my mom a card! Yet they expect $100 for every occasion. That gets expensive and we cannot afford it. I'd rather pay off our mortgage, thank you very much.
I must say in Doris' defense that she has for years asked Primo what he wants and he won't tell her, so he has only himself to blame for a lot of the crap he has gotten. We can send her a list of stuff we want, which she will buy, but we don't need stuff. I would be thrilled if they would chip in for our plane tickets to their place, but Primo doesn't want to do that. What I really want is a moratorium on expensive gift giving. Stop the madness.
Primo writes a thoughtful, tactful email in which he tells his parents that although we appreciate the sentiment behind the gift of the tables, they really do not fit our decor.* He says that we also are not comfortable accepting expensive gifts from them given their financial situation** and would rather see them spending their money on themselves. He says he and I have merged two complete households, we really don't need any stuff, that maybe if they do want to give us presents, they could get us restaurant coupons or pay for our tennis classes.
Doris' response?
"I'm sorry my taste isn't to your standards."
When I tell Primo that his mother is passive aggressive, this is the sort of thing I mean. But maybe I am using the wrong terminology. Perhaps passive aggressive is not right. Manipulative? Martyrish?
Doris continues. "Your brothers liked the tables."
Ha. That's a lie. I ask Stephanie if Doris has given her or Jack the tables and she says no and that she hasn't seen them at Jack's. She also says that Ted's wife, Maura, would have just given the tables right away to Goodwill and not said anything.
So Primo has to have a long, long phone call with Doris and Sly about presents. And why we are So Hard to Shop For. He is exhausted by the time it is done, because of course the conversation has to expand to Why Don't You Visit More Often and Why Are You Married To That Woman Anyhow and You Don't Call Enough.
He does, however, emerge victorious with an agreement that we will return the tables for cash that will be used to pay for our tennis classes next summer and that my birthday present, even though I kept waving my hands mouthing, "No presents! Let's agree to NO BIRTHDAY PRESENTS FOR ANYONE!" will be a set of cloth napkins from Crate and Barrel, even though Doris the environmentalist thinks cloth napkins are unsanitary*** which I suppose they would be if you never washed them.
And we think things are fine.
Until Christmas.
* Which they have seen because they stayed with us for NINE DAYS when we got married. I assure you there is absolutely nothing in our house to indicate a liking of items with hummingbirds painted on them. Or of pressed wood. Nothing.
** They made a business investment that did not end well.
*** I think paper napkins are wasteful for me but great for everyone else because I used to work for a paper company and will someday I hope have a defined benefit pension coming to me so use paper, everyone.
Bless her heart, Doris has sent us an anniversary present. As far as I'm concerned, the only ones who need to recognize an anniversary are the persons in the marriage, so it is very sweet of her to send us a present at all.
But could these things be any more not to my taste? Hideous.
I call the vendor. Can we return them for cash? Nope. Only exchange. Rats. Double rats because our options are other hummingbird type options. I am not a painted hummingbird type person. At all.
I am thinking perhaps we just put these in the Goodwill pile, even though Doris paid $100 for them - on sale! - when she starts pestering Primo about my October birthday. Would I like this or this or that? She emails him links to various items, none of which he knows I would like.
We decide to address this issue, which has been festering for a while. Doris and Sly send us expensive, yet tacky, presents we neither like, need, nor want, then expect us to spend like amounts on every gift-giving occasion for them.
Indeed, they do things like send us a link to $99 outdoor lights and say, "Give this to Doris for mother's day." $99 for mother's day?! I send my mom a card! Yet they expect $100 for every occasion. That gets expensive and we cannot afford it. I'd rather pay off our mortgage, thank you very much.
I must say in Doris' defense that she has for years asked Primo what he wants and he won't tell her, so he has only himself to blame for a lot of the crap he has gotten. We can send her a list of stuff we want, which she will buy, but we don't need stuff. I would be thrilled if they would chip in for our plane tickets to their place, but Primo doesn't want to do that. What I really want is a moratorium on expensive gift giving. Stop the madness.
Primo writes a thoughtful, tactful email in which he tells his parents that although we appreciate the sentiment behind the gift of the tables, they really do not fit our decor.* He says that we also are not comfortable accepting expensive gifts from them given their financial situation** and would rather see them spending their money on themselves. He says he and I have merged two complete households, we really don't need any stuff, that maybe if they do want to give us presents, they could get us restaurant coupons or pay for our tennis classes.
Doris' response?
"I'm sorry my taste isn't to your standards."
When I tell Primo that his mother is passive aggressive, this is the sort of thing I mean. But maybe I am using the wrong terminology. Perhaps passive aggressive is not right. Manipulative? Martyrish?
Doris continues. "Your brothers liked the tables."
Ha. That's a lie. I ask Stephanie if Doris has given her or Jack the tables and she says no and that she hasn't seen them at Jack's. She also says that Ted's wife, Maura, would have just given the tables right away to Goodwill and not said anything.
So Primo has to have a long, long phone call with Doris and Sly about presents. And why we are So Hard to Shop For. He is exhausted by the time it is done, because of course the conversation has to expand to Why Don't You Visit More Often and Why Are You Married To That Woman Anyhow and You Don't Call Enough.
He does, however, emerge victorious with an agreement that we will return the tables for cash that will be used to pay for our tennis classes next summer and that my birthday present, even though I kept waving my hands mouthing, "No presents! Let's agree to NO BIRTHDAY PRESENTS FOR ANYONE!" will be a set of cloth napkins from Crate and Barrel, even though Doris the environmentalist thinks cloth napkins are unsanitary*** which I suppose they would be if you never washed them.
And we think things are fine.
Until Christmas.
* Which they have seen because they stayed with us for NINE DAYS when we got married. I assure you there is absolutely nothing in our house to indicate a liking of items with hummingbirds painted on them. Or of pressed wood. Nothing.
** They made a business investment that did not end well.
*** I think paper napkins are wasteful for me but great for everyone else because I used to work for a paper company and will someday I hope have a defined benefit pension coming to me so use paper, everyone.
Friday, January 22, 2010
In which Primo is barred from Claudia's wedding
June 2008 Claudia, Primo's older stepdaughter, is getting married in August. We have been waiting for the invitation, but have not gotten anything yet. Odd.
I met Claudia for the first time that March. I wanted to hear all about the wedding but she seemed reluctant to talk about it. I couldn't figure it out. Finally, it hit me: Claudia is a lovely young woman. Well mannered, sweet. Probably because Primo did most of her raising.*
"Claudia," I said. "It would probably be uncomfortable for your mom [Isabel , Primo's ex] for me to be at your wedding,** so I certainly don't expect to be invited. But I love to talk about weddings, so please tell me what you have planned."
Ah. That was the key. She spilled, in her quiet, timid way. The wedding was to be at a winery. Primo loves wine. Lots of friends and family Primo hadn't seen in a while. Isabel's mother, who loooooves Primo, would be there.
So. We are waiting for the invitation. It hasn't arrived. "Call her," I urge. "Maybe it got lost." We know Claudia wants Primo there. A year ago, when she and Steve got engaged, she asked Primo to walk her down the aisle.
He calls. Comes downstairs.
"Isabel doesn't want me there."
"What?!"
"Isabel. She's mad at me. She told Claudia not to invite me."
This is the Isabel who got probably one of the most generous divorce settlements evah.***
Why is she mad at Primo?
Because Isabel, who married her first husband in a Catholic church, then got a divorce, then married Primo in a Presbyterian church without getting her first marriage annulled because she cared that much about being Catholic, saw that I had her marriage to Primo annulled. Which took about two weeks because 1. she married Primo without getting her first marriage annulled and 2. she married Primo in a Presbyterian church. So it wasn't even the hard kind of annulment, for those of you who know anything about annulments.****
Basically, her marriage to Primo was declared invalid in the Catholic Church, which was something that she obviously hadn't even cared about to begin with.
And she was mad about it.
And willing to punish her own daughter to get at Primo.
What a lady, huh?
The good news is that her little stunt kills Primo's lingering guilt about the divorce. May it rest in peace.
* More about all that later. Primo and I have just completed the negotiations about what I can talk about with respect to Isabel and Le Divorce. Not that there is any love lost with Isabel , but Claudia and Chloe are sweet and Isabel is their mother. You know.
** Primo and I met at our 20 year college reunion, a few years after he and Isabel split. I am not a homewrecker. But that doesn't mean Isabel wants to see me.
*** Rule 1 of divorce that we learned way too late: Get the baddest, meanest lawyer you can find. Do not have a mediated divorce.
**** They can drag on for years and go into every detail of your married life.
I met Claudia for the first time that March. I wanted to hear all about the wedding but she seemed reluctant to talk about it. I couldn't figure it out. Finally, it hit me: Claudia is a lovely young woman. Well mannered, sweet. Probably because Primo did most of her raising.*
"Claudia," I said. "It would probably be uncomfortable for your mom [Isabel , Primo's ex] for me to be at your wedding,** so I certainly don't expect to be invited. But I love to talk about weddings, so please tell me what you have planned."
Ah. That was the key. She spilled, in her quiet, timid way. The wedding was to be at a winery. Primo loves wine. Lots of friends and family Primo hadn't seen in a while. Isabel's mother, who loooooves Primo, would be there.
So. We are waiting for the invitation. It hasn't arrived. "Call her," I urge. "Maybe it got lost." We know Claudia wants Primo there. A year ago, when she and Steve got engaged, she asked Primo to walk her down the aisle.
He calls. Comes downstairs.
"Isabel doesn't want me there."
"What?!"
"Isabel. She's mad at me. She told Claudia not to invite me."
This is the Isabel who got probably one of the most generous divorce settlements evah.***
Why is she mad at Primo?
Because Isabel, who married her first husband in a Catholic church, then got a divorce, then married Primo in a Presbyterian church without getting her first marriage annulled because she cared that much about being Catholic, saw that I had her marriage to Primo annulled. Which took about two weeks because 1. she married Primo without getting her first marriage annulled and 2. she married Primo in a Presbyterian church. So it wasn't even the hard kind of annulment, for those of you who know anything about annulments.****
Basically, her marriage to Primo was declared invalid in the Catholic Church, which was something that she obviously hadn't even cared about to begin with.
And she was mad about it.
And willing to punish her own daughter to get at Primo.
What a lady, huh?
The good news is that her little stunt kills Primo's lingering guilt about the divorce. May it rest in peace.
* More about all that later. Primo and I have just completed the negotiations about what I can talk about with respect to Isabel and Le Divorce. Not that there is any love lost with Isabel , but Claudia and Chloe are sweet and Isabel is their mother. You know.
** Primo and I met at our 20 year college reunion, a few years after he and Isabel split. I am not a homewrecker. But that doesn't mean Isabel wants to see me.
*** Rule 1 of divorce that we learned way too late: Get the baddest, meanest lawyer you can find. Do not have a mediated divorce.
**** They can drag on for years and go into every detail of your married life.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
In which Sly tells Primo to Keep Me In Line and I Win
December 2009 but not Christmas because remember we are not spending holidays with Sly and Doris and I mean it. Doris and I are having a conversation about her favorite foods when she was a little girl. I try to find neutral ground with her. She is a nice lady when we avoid politics and when Sly isn't around and she doesn't have to take his side.
Not that I would ask her to take my side against his. That's not fair. She has to live with him. She would pay the price for my small victory. If we lived down the block from them*, I would have it out with Sly, but for an annual visit, I do what I can to suck it up and keep the peace. As excruciating as that is.
I don't always succeed.
As you shall see.
So Doris is telling me about what her mother used to cook and Sly, even though he is in the other room, is interjecting his unasked for opinion and I am doing my best to ignore him. Doris cannot say one sentence without Sly correcting her. She says "bring" and he yells, "That's 'take,' honey," and she restates her sentence using "take" instead. Somehow, Senator Coburn comes up. Doris mentions that he is an OB. Sly yells, "He's a GYN, honey!" Oh, how I want to say, "Sly. He's both. He's BOTH." But I do not.
That evening, we go to Stephanie's for supper. As is his wont, Sly corrects the kids' grammar. Constantly. It's not like the kids sound as if they have never been to school. They are not saying, "ain't." Some of the things that Sly corrects are style choices. He is a retired English professor and is pickier than most. They are teenagers and speak slang. We all understand what they are saying.
It's when he nags Maria about saying the word "extract" as she is telling the story about making pizelles with Stephanie and how they made some with anise seed and some with lemon EXtract that I lose my temper. First, he says that she pronounces it "exTRACT" instead of "EXtract," which she did not, but second, even if she had, SO THE HECK WHAT?
We have this exchange:
Me: Stop!
Sly: You’re not the boss of me!
Me: You’re not the boss of her!
Sly: I’m her grandfather.
Me: I’m her aunt!
Sly: I’m a blood relative.
Me: I don’t care. Leave her alone.
Sly gets all mad and huffy, but we retreat to our respective corners and drop it.
On the drive back to Sly and Doris' house, Primo gets mad at me. "You didn't need to yell at my dad," he says.
"He started it," I say sullenly.
"You could have calmly said, 'Sly, is it really necessary for you to correct the kids' grammar like that?' or something. You're the one who escalated it right away."
"He's the one who was being a jerk first," I maintain stubbornly.
Primo sighs. "There will be a price for this."
I don't know why we have to walk around on eggshells all the time just because Sly is a big bully.
When we get back to the house, Sly summons Primo into his room. When Primo returns to our room, he tells me that Sly told him that he better keep me in line and that I should respect my elders and asked him why he let me boss him around.
"Did you tell him it's because I'm good in bed?" I say.
Primo sighs. "Just cool it, OK? I'm the one who's caught in the middle here."
I say, "Wait a second. If your dad has a problem with me, why doesn't he just talk to me? Wait! Wait! Your dad won't talk to me because he knows he can't push me around! Wait! Your dad is scared of me! OMIGOSH! I've spent all this time scared of your dad and he's scared of me!"
"Yeah, whatever," Primo says.
"No! This is good! I feel powerful! I feel great! I win. I win!"
And I do feel great. The next morning, my 12-day migraine is gone.
And Primo is happy because Primo?
Got a little reward of his own. If you know what I mean.
Power. Is an aphrodisiac.
* Not that that would ever happen.
Not that I would ask her to take my side against his. That's not fair. She has to live with him. She would pay the price for my small victory. If we lived down the block from them*, I would have it out with Sly, but for an annual visit, I do what I can to suck it up and keep the peace. As excruciating as that is.
I don't always succeed.
As you shall see.
So Doris is telling me about what her mother used to cook and Sly, even though he is in the other room, is interjecting his unasked for opinion and I am doing my best to ignore him. Doris cannot say one sentence without Sly correcting her. She says "bring" and he yells, "That's 'take,' honey," and she restates her sentence using "take" instead. Somehow, Senator Coburn comes up. Doris mentions that he is an OB. Sly yells, "He's a GYN, honey!" Oh, how I want to say, "Sly. He's both. He's BOTH." But I do not.
That evening, we go to Stephanie's for supper. As is his wont, Sly corrects the kids' grammar. Constantly. It's not like the kids sound as if they have never been to school. They are not saying, "ain't." Some of the things that Sly corrects are style choices. He is a retired English professor and is pickier than most. They are teenagers and speak slang. We all understand what they are saying.
It's when he nags Maria about saying the word "extract" as she is telling the story about making pizelles with Stephanie and how they made some with anise seed and some with lemon EXtract that I lose my temper. First, he says that she pronounces it "exTRACT" instead of "EXtract," which she did not, but second, even if she had, SO THE HECK WHAT?
We have this exchange:
Me: Stop!
Sly: You’re not the boss of me!
Me: You’re not the boss of her!
Sly: I’m her grandfather.
Me: I’m her aunt!
Sly: I’m a blood relative.
Me: I don’t care. Leave her alone.
Sly gets all mad and huffy, but we retreat to our respective corners and drop it.
On the drive back to Sly and Doris' house, Primo gets mad at me. "You didn't need to yell at my dad," he says.
"He started it," I say sullenly.
"You could have calmly said, 'Sly, is it really necessary for you to correct the kids' grammar like that?' or something. You're the one who escalated it right away."
"He's the one who was being a jerk first," I maintain stubbornly.
Primo sighs. "There will be a price for this."
I don't know why we have to walk around on eggshells all the time just because Sly is a big bully.
When we get back to the house, Sly summons Primo into his room. When Primo returns to our room, he tells me that Sly told him that he better keep me in line and that I should respect my elders and asked him why he let me boss him around.
"Did you tell him it's because I'm good in bed?" I say.
Primo sighs. "Just cool it, OK? I'm the one who's caught in the middle here."
I say, "Wait a second. If your dad has a problem with me, why doesn't he just talk to me? Wait! Wait! Your dad won't talk to me because he knows he can't push me around! Wait! Your dad is scared of me! OMIGOSH! I've spent all this time scared of your dad and he's scared of me!"
"Yeah, whatever," Primo says.
"No! This is good! I feel powerful! I feel great! I win. I win!"
And I do feel great. The next morning, my 12-day migraine is gone.
And Primo is happy because Primo?
Got a little reward of his own. If you know what I mean.
Power. Is an aphrodisiac.
* Not that that would ever happen.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
In which I meet Sly and Doris for the first time
October 2006 Primo takes me to meet his mom and dad. I don't know they already dislike me because of our political and religious differences. And because I am not comfortable sharing a bed with Primo under their roof. And because I am not good enough for their son. Nobody is good enough for their Only Joy.
We arrive, greet each other, sit. They focus immediately on Primo. Ask me not a single question about myself, my family, my life. It's not as if I'm a dull, unlikeable person. (Am I? Maybe I am. Oh no.) I've lived and traveled* all over the world. I have a family. I've done cool things. My family has done cool things.
They're not interested.
Almost immediately, though, I hear about Stephanie, who is married to Primo's brother half-brother Jack,** who is not yet my sister in law but will be eventually. What a bad mother she is: She feeds her kids white rice instead of brown rice! Her grammar - atrocious! She doesn't take the children to museums but watches TV with them instead! Worst of all, though - she's FAT.
Yeah, well. Glass houses, Sly. Glass houses.
But my first thoughts are these:
1. This is how they talk about their own family in front of strangers?
2. This is how they talk about their own daughter in law in front of their prospective daughter in law?
Lord have mercy what am I getting myself into?
Let the record show that Primo is wonderful enough that I stick around despite everything.
After more of the fat talk (as if fat is a character flaw), I ask Sly why Stephanie's weight is any of his business.
He sighs. Isn't it obvious? Why must he explain everything? How will they save Primo from making yet another marriage mistake?***
"Because her mother died young from heart problems and Stephanie has heart problems and if Stephanie dies young, then we will be raising those three children."
I bite my tongue rather than ask the obvious questions, which are, "Don't they have a father?" (they do - Jack) and "Why are you so sure that you would be their guardians?"
I asked Stephanie last month who would get her kids if something happened to her and Jack. "My brother," she said.
I told her the story about Sly.
"Omigod no!" she said. "Nonononono. My brother. I made sure about that."
* To this day, they have never asked me a single question about 1. growing up abroad, 2. my Peace Corps experience, 3. any of my travels to four continents. Never.
** A distinction that is not important to me, because family is family, but matters for this story because Primo is his mother's only living child and it makes a difference in her attitude to him versus her attitude toward Ted and Jack and the grandchildren. She does love them, but they are not hers in the way that Primo is hers. Which is fair.
*** How can Primo be so brilliant and yet make such Bad Decisions About Women? Where did Sly and Doris Go Wrong?
We arrive, greet each other, sit. They focus immediately on Primo. Ask me not a single question about myself, my family, my life. It's not as if I'm a dull, unlikeable person. (Am I? Maybe I am. Oh no.) I've lived and traveled* all over the world. I have a family. I've done cool things. My family has done cool things.
They're not interested.
Almost immediately, though, I hear about Stephanie, who is married to Primo's brother half-brother Jack,** who is not yet my sister in law but will be eventually. What a bad mother she is: She feeds her kids white rice instead of brown rice! Her grammar - atrocious! She doesn't take the children to museums but watches TV with them instead! Worst of all, though - she's FAT.
Yeah, well. Glass houses, Sly. Glass houses.
But my first thoughts are these:
1. This is how they talk about their own family in front of strangers?
2. This is how they talk about their own daughter in law in front of their prospective daughter in law?
Lord have mercy what am I getting myself into?
Let the record show that Primo is wonderful enough that I stick around despite everything.
After more of the fat talk (as if fat is a character flaw), I ask Sly why Stephanie's weight is any of his business.
He sighs. Isn't it obvious? Why must he explain everything? How will they save Primo from making yet another marriage mistake?***
"Because her mother died young from heart problems and Stephanie has heart problems and if Stephanie dies young, then we will be raising those three children."
I bite my tongue rather than ask the obvious questions, which are, "Don't they have a father?" (they do - Jack) and "Why are you so sure that you would be their guardians?"
I asked Stephanie last month who would get her kids if something happened to her and Jack. "My brother," she said.
I told her the story about Sly.
"Omigod no!" she said. "Nonononono. My brother. I made sure about that."
* To this day, they have never asked me a single question about 1. growing up abroad, 2. my Peace Corps experience, 3. any of my travels to four continents. Never.
** A distinction that is not important to me, because family is family, but matters for this story because Primo is his mother's only living child and it makes a difference in her attitude to him versus her attitude toward Ted and Jack and the grandchildren. She does love them, but they are not hers in the way that Primo is hers. Which is fair.
*** How can Primo be so brilliant and yet make such Bad Decisions About Women? Where did Sly and Doris Go Wrong?
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
In which Doris alienates her neighbor and we can't borrow a turkey baster
December 2009, but not Christmas because we are no longer visiting Sly and Doris over the holidays. Doris is telling me about her next door neighbor, who no longer speaks to Doris. I have heard this story before. It all started two years ago when Doris wrote a letter to the editor of the local paper proclaiming that the people of the Polka Dot Party were absolute flaming idiots.*
The neighbor, Elsie, read the letter.
Elsie and Doris used to be casual friends. When Elsie's grandchildren would visit, Elsie would bring them to see Doris. Doris would get them small presents. Doris can be very sweet.
When Elsie saw the letter, she told Doris, "I'm a member of the Polka Dot Party!"
"Well Elsie I certainly didn't mean you!" Doris said.
Too late. Sometimes the words are out and you can't take them back, not that Doris necessarily wants to take them back. I don't know. Maybe she does. I do not know Doris' state of mind. I do know she just wants Elsie to understand that she means the other Polka Dot people. Those idiots. Not Elsie. Me, probably. But not Elsie.
Primo thinks Elsie is being unreasonable. I think Doris didn't think through what she was doing. If you stand in the middle of town and shout your opinion about a group of people, especially if you are name calling, there will probably be some repercussions.
If someone writes a letter saying, "I disagree with the stance the Polka Dots have taken on the Great Lakes Compact because I don't like the impact it will have on the sport fishermen," that's one thing. Disagreeing with someone on the issues is not the same as calling someone a poopyhead and probably won't lead to your neighbor never speaking to you again.
The grandchildren come to visit and Elsie shepherds them into the house. No visit to Miss Doris. That's what hurts Doris the most.
Last year, Thanksgiving. Doris is basting the turkey. The baster melts. I didn't even know that could happen. Well, OK, let's just borrow one from the neighbors. Oops. Can't do that. Doris isn't on speaking terms with Elsie and doesn't know anyone else to ask. After how many years? After I was in my house for eight months, my neighbors were shoveling my sidewalk. Just saying.
We have been at the house for a few hours. I am resolved not to argue with Sly or Doris. Keep this visit pleasant. No fighting. No tension. I will do my part and more to eliminate the stress. My response to everything will be, "Hmmm" or "Well." Neutral, non-agreeing responses.
Doris is telling me again about Elsie and how unreasonable it is that Elsie will no longer talk to her. Maybe Elsie did overreact, I think. Maybe she took that one sentence against months of knowing Doris. Maybe that wasn't fair.
"Hmm," I answer. "Indeed."
"I just want to ram a pole up her ass!" she almost shouts.
"Oh!" I say. "Well. Excuse me. I'm going to the bathroom."
I end up peeing a lot during that visit.
* These might not have been her exact words. Maybe she just said "stupid."
The neighbor, Elsie, read the letter.
Elsie and Doris used to be casual friends. When Elsie's grandchildren would visit, Elsie would bring them to see Doris. Doris would get them small presents. Doris can be very sweet.
When Elsie saw the letter, she told Doris, "I'm a member of the Polka Dot Party!"
"Well Elsie I certainly didn't mean you!" Doris said.
Too late. Sometimes the words are out and you can't take them back, not that Doris necessarily wants to take them back. I don't know. Maybe she does. I do not know Doris' state of mind. I do know she just wants Elsie to understand that she means the other Polka Dot people. Those idiots. Not Elsie. Me, probably. But not Elsie.
Primo thinks Elsie is being unreasonable. I think Doris didn't think through what she was doing. If you stand in the middle of town and shout your opinion about a group of people, especially if you are name calling, there will probably be some repercussions.
If someone writes a letter saying, "I disagree with the stance the Polka Dots have taken on the Great Lakes Compact because I don't like the impact it will have on the sport fishermen," that's one thing. Disagreeing with someone on the issues is not the same as calling someone a poopyhead and probably won't lead to your neighbor never speaking to you again.
The grandchildren come to visit and Elsie shepherds them into the house. No visit to Miss Doris. That's what hurts Doris the most.
Last year, Thanksgiving. Doris is basting the turkey. The baster melts. I didn't even know that could happen. Well, OK, let's just borrow one from the neighbors. Oops. Can't do that. Doris isn't on speaking terms with Elsie and doesn't know anyone else to ask. After how many years? After I was in my house for eight months, my neighbors were shoveling my sidewalk. Just saying.
We have been at the house for a few hours. I am resolved not to argue with Sly or Doris. Keep this visit pleasant. No fighting. No tension. I will do my part and more to eliminate the stress. My response to everything will be, "Hmmm" or "Well." Neutral, non-agreeing responses.
Doris is telling me again about Elsie and how unreasonable it is that Elsie will no longer talk to her. Maybe Elsie did overreact, I think. Maybe she took that one sentence against months of knowing Doris. Maybe that wasn't fair.
"Hmm," I answer. "Indeed."
"I just want to ram a pole up her ass!" she almost shouts.
"Oh!" I say. "Well. Excuse me. I'm going to the bathroom."
I end up peeing a lot during that visit.
* These might not have been her exact words. Maybe she just said "stupid."
Monday, January 18, 2010
In which - Wait! Who's Nancy?
I've been holding out on you. I didn't tell you about one of the main characters. Knowing about Nancy might change your impression of Sly and Doris. Might put you on their side. Make you forgive them of everything. Because after what they've been through, they are allowed to be complete jerks for the rest of their life, right? They are allowed to wallow in grief and bitterness and anger and to drag everyone down with them.
Nancy is Primo's younger sister.
Was.
She died of a heroin overdose about three years before I met him.
She was mentally ill, or so they say. Borderline personality disorder? Who knows? Whatever she had, it couldn't be fixed. When she was committed, she would emerge angrier than when she had gone in, which is not surprising, because Nancy was no idiot and being condescended to by county social workers just ticked her off.
Based on Primo's description of her, I don't think she would have been my favorite: tattooed, pierced, purple haired. Hooked for booze and drugs.
But my sister in law Stephanie liked her. Said they would hang out, laugh, do their nails. Nancy was funny, artistic, smart as a whip. Said that it was Sly who set Nancy off and having spent time with Sly, I can sure sympathize. Stephanie says that when Sly was around, Nancy wouldn't come out of her room.
I'm not quite sure what the mental illness did because it doesn't seem that Nancy wasn't in control of her actions. She knew that if she was going to flip off a cop, she should wait until she was inside of a bus pulling away from a stoplight when the cop could do nothing.
She either couldn't or wouldn't hold a job. Got disability and housing assistance. Got pregnant more than once. Doris took her to get her abortions. Doris will never have any grandchildren of her own. I wonder if she regrets those abortions now.*
Primo maintains Nancy's death wasn't a suicide - that there were several heroin deaths that night from a bad batch.
Sly and Doris are broken. They think they failed Nancy. I can't begin to understand. I have no children. I don't know. I do know that other people have had tragedies in their lives. My great-aunt Madge and her two little girls watched as her husband crashed his small plane in front of them. Madge remarried, had more children, was not a bitter, angry woman. Stephanie's great aunt buried three of her children, but did not stew in despair.
Now you know. Now you know Sly and Doris' excuse for their anger. For their demands on Primo. They are owed. They were robbed. I am sorry for their loss. I am also sorry that they choose to be bitter and angry for the rest of their life.
* Primo thinks I am making a political statement about abortion here. I am not. I am genuinely curious about what Doris thinks. Primo is absolutely positive that Doris has no regrets about what happened - that raising the children of two drug addicts was not how she wanted to spend her later years and that is what would have happened because Nancy would not have given up her chilren for adoption but she also would not have been a responsible mother.
Nancy is Primo's younger sister.
Was.
She died of a heroin overdose about three years before I met him.
She was mentally ill, or so they say. Borderline personality disorder? Who knows? Whatever she had, it couldn't be fixed. When she was committed, she would emerge angrier than when she had gone in, which is not surprising, because Nancy was no idiot and being condescended to by county social workers just ticked her off.
Based on Primo's description of her, I don't think she would have been my favorite: tattooed, pierced, purple haired. Hooked for booze and drugs.
But my sister in law Stephanie liked her. Said they would hang out, laugh, do their nails. Nancy was funny, artistic, smart as a whip. Said that it was Sly who set Nancy off and having spent time with Sly, I can sure sympathize. Stephanie says that when Sly was around, Nancy wouldn't come out of her room.
I'm not quite sure what the mental illness did because it doesn't seem that Nancy wasn't in control of her actions. She knew that if she was going to flip off a cop, she should wait until she was inside of a bus pulling away from a stoplight when the cop could do nothing.
She either couldn't or wouldn't hold a job. Got disability and housing assistance. Got pregnant more than once. Doris took her to get her abortions. Doris will never have any grandchildren of her own. I wonder if she regrets those abortions now.*
Primo maintains Nancy's death wasn't a suicide - that there were several heroin deaths that night from a bad batch.
Sly and Doris are broken. They think they failed Nancy. I can't begin to understand. I have no children. I don't know. I do know that other people have had tragedies in their lives. My great-aunt Madge and her two little girls watched as her husband crashed his small plane in front of them. Madge remarried, had more children, was not a bitter, angry woman. Stephanie's great aunt buried three of her children, but did not stew in despair.
Now you know. Now you know Sly and Doris' excuse for their anger. For their demands on Primo. They are owed. They were robbed. I am sorry for their loss. I am also sorry that they choose to be bitter and angry for the rest of their life.
* Primo thinks I am making a political statement about abortion here. I am not. I am genuinely curious about what Doris thinks. Primo is absolutely positive that Doris has no regrets about what happened - that raising the children of two drug addicts was not how she wanted to spend her later years and that is what would have happened because Nancy would not have given up her chilren for adoption but she also would not have been a responsible mother.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
In which we "abandon" Sly and Doris
November 2009 We are making our Christmas plans. Well. Not really. Because our Christmas plans are to do nothing. Go nowhere. Stay home. At last, we are free. We did decide when we married that we would not travel during the holidays. Our families were welcome to visit us. A safe thing to say, given that Primo's parents do not travel. Well, they did travel to our wedding. What a disaster that was. But they do not travel now. Thank goodness. Alas, we are expected to go to them.
We have told my widowed not quite penniless but definitely not awash in cash mom we will fly her here,* but the frozen north in December is not her idea of a good time.
Here is where we plan to be. Primo travels a lot for his job. He wants to be home, not in an airport, in December.
And then he gets the dreaded question. Because we have not yet made the blanket statement to Sly and Doris: We will never again spend a holiday in your house.
"Are you coming for Thanksgiving? Are you coming for Christmas?"
Nope.
Only Primo says it much more nicely than that. Primo can be tactful. When he wants to be.
Shocked, angry, betrayed silence.
A few days later, he gets an email from Doris. It starts out with a line something like, "I had written another email but decided not to send it."
Oh please.
She continues: "Dad and I will feel abandoned if you don't come for Christmas."
"Oh good grief!" I exclaim.
"Well, they have gotten used to my coming since I separated from Isabel and Nancy died," Primo says.
"You are married now," I say. "Things are different."
He calls. Talks to Sly. Tries to explain. Asks what if my mom made the same demands on our time and attention.
"That's different," Sly snaps. "That Woman's family is not close."
We're "not close?" That's Sly's excuse?
Let's define "close."
Does he mean family who see each other?
Primo has three or four cousins and two aunts. He has seen the cousins and aunts at his uncles' funerals, one last year and one two years ago. Before that, the last time he saw them was in high school. He sees Jack when he visits his parents. Maybe. He sees Ted occasionally, maybe every four or five years.
Primo has seen my mom when we have visited her (twice) and when she has visited us (twice since we married). He has met at least half of my mom's six siblings and both of my dad's brothers. He has not met all of my 24 cousins but has gotten a good start. We stop in the town where a chunk of my family lives when we drive to the cottage in the summer.
We have stayed with my dad's brother and his wife. We have hung out with my cousins A and J many times. We have shot pool with them. We have gone to family reunions. We visited M in the hospital 90 miles away. My uncle has taken us horseback riding. We have had Thanksgiving with my aunt and uncle, other dinners at their house. We have visited my sister. Primo visited my grandmother in the nursing home 250 miles away several times. He has met two of my dad's cousins who live here in town.
Or does he mean a family who like each other? Because my family doesn't spend time bad-mouthing the ones who aren't there.** Oh. Did I say that out loud? Yeah, I'm talking to you, Sly, who doesn't have anything good to say about Stephanie, who is very nice, and who has been known to tell Primo that Ted and Jack are a great disappointment to him. What a generous thing for a father to say about his own sons to his other son.
But apparently my family doesn't count because we are not "close." Only Sly and Doris' wishes count; only their holiday desires are important. If my mom demanded that we be at her home for Christmas, it wouldn't matter. Sly and Doris' claim would trump hers because my family isn't "close."
Bad move, Sly. You just strengthened my resolve. If it were up to me, you'd never see your son again.
* We are also not awash in cash, but we do have frequent flyer miles.
** OK, except for my one cousin who licked Primo. We do talk about her. But SHE LICKED PRIMO.
We have told my widowed not quite penniless but definitely not awash in cash mom we will fly her here,* but the frozen north in December is not her idea of a good time.
Here is where we plan to be. Primo travels a lot for his job. He wants to be home, not in an airport, in December.
And then he gets the dreaded question. Because we have not yet made the blanket statement to Sly and Doris: We will never again spend a holiday in your house.
"Are you coming for Thanksgiving? Are you coming for Christmas?"
Nope.
Only Primo says it much more nicely than that. Primo can be tactful. When he wants to be.
Shocked, angry, betrayed silence.
A few days later, he gets an email from Doris. It starts out with a line something like, "I had written another email but decided not to send it."
Oh please.
She continues: "Dad and I will feel abandoned if you don't come for Christmas."
"Oh good grief!" I exclaim.
"Well, they have gotten used to my coming since I separated from Isabel and Nancy died," Primo says.
"You are married now," I say. "Things are different."
He calls. Talks to Sly. Tries to explain. Asks what if my mom made the same demands on our time and attention.
"That's different," Sly snaps. "That Woman's family is not close."
We're "not close?" That's Sly's excuse?
Let's define "close."
Does he mean family who see each other?
Primo has three or four cousins and two aunts. He has seen the cousins and aunts at his uncles' funerals, one last year and one two years ago. Before that, the last time he saw them was in high school. He sees Jack when he visits his parents. Maybe. He sees Ted occasionally, maybe every four or five years.
Primo has seen my mom when we have visited her (twice) and when she has visited us (twice since we married). He has met at least half of my mom's six siblings and both of my dad's brothers. He has not met all of my 24 cousins but has gotten a good start. We stop in the town where a chunk of my family lives when we drive to the cottage in the summer.
We have stayed with my dad's brother and his wife. We have hung out with my cousins A and J many times. We have shot pool with them. We have gone to family reunions. We visited M in the hospital 90 miles away. My uncle has taken us horseback riding. We have had Thanksgiving with my aunt and uncle, other dinners at their house. We have visited my sister. Primo visited my grandmother in the nursing home 250 miles away several times. He has met two of my dad's cousins who live here in town.
Or does he mean a family who like each other? Because my family doesn't spend time bad-mouthing the ones who aren't there.** Oh. Did I say that out loud? Yeah, I'm talking to you, Sly, who doesn't have anything good to say about Stephanie, who is very nice, and who has been known to tell Primo that Ted and Jack are a great disappointment to him. What a generous thing for a father to say about his own sons to his other son.
But apparently my family doesn't count because we are not "close." Only Sly and Doris' wishes count; only their holiday desires are important. If my mom demanded that we be at her home for Christmas, it wouldn't matter. Sly and Doris' claim would trump hers because my family isn't "close."
Bad move, Sly. You just strengthened my resolve. If it were up to me, you'd never see your son again.
* We are also not awash in cash, but we do have frequent flyer miles.
** OK, except for my one cousin who licked Primo. We do talk about her. But SHE LICKED PRIMO.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
In which Doris gets angry that she and Sly are not in the wedding photos
Autumn 2008 Primo and I are married. Despite the Drama that starts with D that rhymes with T and stands for Trouble.
At the wedding, which is a quick little Lutheran ceremony* conducted at Primo's church with Father T in attendance to give it the Catholic imprimatur, my mom takes photos. Lots of photos. After the wedding, my mom takes photos. Sly and Doris have a camera. Ted has a camera. My sister has a camera. Claudia has a camera. Everyone has a camera, pretty much. Not everyone uses his camera, though.
Then we depart for the lake, where we are going to take more photos. It is a prettier backdrop than the inside of Primo's little cinderblock (but with a heart) church.
Sly and Doris ask Ted to take them back to the house. They don't want to go to the lake.
Whatever.
They don't have to go. They're grownups.
Doesn't matter that we have packed a small picnic of cheese and sausage and wine.** Doesn't matter that we thought it would be fun to show our city's beautiful lakefront to everyone.
Whatever.
Ted says OK, he'll take them.
They go to the house. We go to the lake and take more photos.
A few weeks later, my mom sends me the best shots, maybe a dozen. They are of Primo and me, either alone or with Father T and Pastor G, with my brother and sister, with Ted, with Claudia and Chloe, with my mom and Dr J, her gentleman caller.
Sly and Doris are not in any of the photos.
Because Sly and Doris 1. did not ask to be in any of the photos and 2. did not come to the lake, where most of the photos were taken.
I think they might like to have copies, even though I am in them, so I email the photos to them. They can edit me out and have Primo-only pictures.
A few days later, Primo tells me that Doris is upset that she and Sly are not in any of the pictures.
What! I exclaim.
She's really unhappy. Why aren't they in any?
Because THEY DIDN'T ASK? I suggest. Because they didn't go to the lake with us so THEY COULD DRINK INSTEAD?
I point out that not only did they not ask anyone to take a photo of them with us, but that they HAD THEIR OWN CAMERA and DID NOT TAKE A SINGLE PHOTO WITH IT.
I guess they have nobody to blame but themselves, he shrugs.
I should never have sent those photos, I fume.
* Oh how I love German efficiency. I will be a Catholic until the day I die, but Italians, they are not so concerned about Getting Things Done.
** But we didn't pack bourbon. And that's what they want. Because when they arrive at the restaurant for the wedding supper a couple hours later, we can tell they have a good head start on the drinking. How can they endure this event sober?
At the wedding, which is a quick little Lutheran ceremony* conducted at Primo's church with Father T in attendance to give it the Catholic imprimatur, my mom takes photos. Lots of photos. After the wedding, my mom takes photos. Sly and Doris have a camera. Ted has a camera. My sister has a camera. Claudia has a camera. Everyone has a camera, pretty much. Not everyone uses his camera, though.
Then we depart for the lake, where we are going to take more photos. It is a prettier backdrop than the inside of Primo's little cinderblock (but with a heart) church.
Sly and Doris ask Ted to take them back to the house. They don't want to go to the lake.
Whatever.
They don't have to go. They're grownups.
Doesn't matter that we have packed a small picnic of cheese and sausage and wine.** Doesn't matter that we thought it would be fun to show our city's beautiful lakefront to everyone.
Whatever.
Ted says OK, he'll take them.
They go to the house. We go to the lake and take more photos.
A few weeks later, my mom sends me the best shots, maybe a dozen. They are of Primo and me, either alone or with Father T and Pastor G, with my brother and sister, with Ted, with Claudia and Chloe, with my mom and Dr J, her gentleman caller.
Sly and Doris are not in any of the photos.
Because Sly and Doris 1. did not ask to be in any of the photos and 2. did not come to the lake, where most of the photos were taken.
I think they might like to have copies, even though I am in them, so I email the photos to them. They can edit me out and have Primo-only pictures.
A few days later, Primo tells me that Doris is upset that she and Sly are not in any of the pictures.
What! I exclaim.
She's really unhappy. Why aren't they in any?
Because THEY DIDN'T ASK? I suggest. Because they didn't go to the lake with us so THEY COULD DRINK INSTEAD?
I point out that not only did they not ask anyone to take a photo of them with us, but that they HAD THEIR OWN CAMERA and DID NOT TAKE A SINGLE PHOTO WITH IT.
I guess they have nobody to blame but themselves, he shrugs.
I should never have sent those photos, I fume.
* Oh how I love German efficiency. I will be a Catholic until the day I die, but Italians, they are not so concerned about Getting Things Done.
** But we didn't pack bourbon. And that's what they want. Because when they arrive at the restaurant for the wedding supper a couple hours later, we can tell they have a good head start on the drinking. How can they endure this event sober?
Friday, January 15, 2010
In which my mother puts us in the same room
Thanksgiving 2006 My mother has already met Primo, but this is our first visit to her house.
Wait. Have I told you about the first time my mom met Primo? I don't remember and I don't want to back out of writing this to read my archives. If I don't remember, then you, my treasured reader*, probably do not remember either. I took him to a family reunion type event.** We had been dating for about ten months. My mom came over, exclaimed, "You must be Primo!" hugged him, then dragged him away, saying, "Come tell me all about yourself!" My mom loooooves Primo. My mother, woman of great manners and great taste.
So. We fly to a nearby city and rent a car to drive the 90 miles to my mom's. There is an airport in my mom's city and she would pick us up, unlike some other parents whom I shall not name and it is not a sore spot at all with me that it should cost us so much money, tickets plus renting a car, to make a visit I do not even want to make (to the parents I shall not name) but whatever. We are flying to the nearby city rather than my mom's city because of frequent flyer miles or connections or something like that. Can't remember.
Anyhow. Because of flight delays, we do not get to my mom's until 2:00 a.m. Primo asks what the sleeping arrangements will be and I tell him that there is a guest room in the basement (which is finished and opens to a patio, so is it really a basement?) and the last time I brought a boyfriend home, I slept in the guest room and my mom put a trundle bed in the den and I assume she will do the same this time.
He grumbles, but I tell him to shush, that when you are a guest in someone's home, you go by their rules.
"Well what about my mom and dad wanting us to sleep in the same room?" he asks.
"Their rules are stupid," I counter. "Besides, the more conservative rule should win. Good manners mean you make people feel comfortable."
We argue about that for a while, as is our wont. There are times when I wonder why we are married, as there is almost nothing we agree on except bacon. But we do like each other and he kisses great, so there is that.
We get to my mom's and she is already in bed, so we go downstairs.
And the trundle bed is not in the den.
The trundle bed.
Is in the guest room. Near, but not next to, the twin bed under which it usually resides. There is a chocolate on each pillow.
Whoa.
What's this about?
The next morning, I ask my mother what's going on.
"Well," she says. "We're going to have everyone over here for Thanksgiving and we have to have it in the den, so I didn't want to have the bed in there. You know - more work to get it moved in and out."
"Mom!" I say. "Practical issues never stopped you before."
"I know," she sighs. "But I also figured you probably weren't sleeping in separate beds when you visit each other. And I did leave a bundling nightstand*** in between the two beds, so it's OK."
* Primo does not understand why I am so obsessive about writing and being read and about having comments. Oh, the joy of comments. Manna from heaven! Validation!
** Actually, my uncle Larry and aunt Rita's big annual fish fry at the lake.
*** I had to give Primo a hard time because he had never heard of a bundling board before. And he - a descendent of Puritans!
Wait. Have I told you about the first time my mom met Primo? I don't remember and I don't want to back out of writing this to read my archives. If I don't remember, then you, my treasured reader*, probably do not remember either. I took him to a family reunion type event.** We had been dating for about ten months. My mom came over, exclaimed, "You must be Primo!" hugged him, then dragged him away, saying, "Come tell me all about yourself!" My mom loooooves Primo. My mother, woman of great manners and great taste.
So. We fly to a nearby city and rent a car to drive the 90 miles to my mom's. There is an airport in my mom's city and she would pick us up, unlike some other parents whom I shall not name and it is not a sore spot at all with me that it should cost us so much money, tickets plus renting a car, to make a visit I do not even want to make (to the parents I shall not name) but whatever. We are flying to the nearby city rather than my mom's city because of frequent flyer miles or connections or something like that. Can't remember.
Anyhow. Because of flight delays, we do not get to my mom's until 2:00 a.m. Primo asks what the sleeping arrangements will be and I tell him that there is a guest room in the basement (which is finished and opens to a patio, so is it really a basement?) and the last time I brought a boyfriend home, I slept in the guest room and my mom put a trundle bed in the den and I assume she will do the same this time.
He grumbles, but I tell him to shush, that when you are a guest in someone's home, you go by their rules.
"Well what about my mom and dad wanting us to sleep in the same room?" he asks.
"Their rules are stupid," I counter. "Besides, the more conservative rule should win. Good manners mean you make people feel comfortable."
We argue about that for a while, as is our wont. There are times when I wonder why we are married, as there is almost nothing we agree on except bacon. But we do like each other and he kisses great, so there is that.
We get to my mom's and she is already in bed, so we go downstairs.
And the trundle bed is not in the den.
The trundle bed.
Is in the guest room. Near, but not next to, the twin bed under which it usually resides. There is a chocolate on each pillow.
Whoa.
What's this about?
The next morning, I ask my mother what's going on.
"Well," she says. "We're going to have everyone over here for Thanksgiving and we have to have it in the den, so I didn't want to have the bed in there. You know - more work to get it moved in and out."
"Mom!" I say. "Practical issues never stopped you before."
"I know," she sighs. "But I also figured you probably weren't sleeping in separate beds when you visit each other. And I did leave a bundling nightstand*** in between the two beds, so it's OK."
* Primo does not understand why I am so obsessive about writing and being read and about having comments. Oh, the joy of comments. Manna from heaven! Validation!
** Actually, my uncle Larry and aunt Rita's big annual fish fry at the lake.
*** I had to give Primo a hard time because he had never heard of a bundling board before. And he - a descendent of Puritans!
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