The Bewildered Housewife

Entries from April 2008

The Road to Abilene

April 30, 2008 · 6 Comments

Today I am baking banana cookies, replete with walnuts and chocolate chips.  I hope my husband doesn’t read this at work, because I’d like for them to be a warm surprise when he gets home.  I feel myself about to enter into another cycle of recipe exploration, because I have adopted the following tried and true methodology to life:  When all else fails, cook.

If you’re anything at all like me, you occasionally feel guilty for crimes you have not committed.  With such venom being spewed from the doors of my in-laws’ mansion lately, I have naturally spent some time pondering the possibility that there could be some truth to their accusations.  I try to be fair, just in case I need to learn something.

For instance, is it true that all of my husband’s actions are designed to mortally wound his mother’s feelings?  Did he really marry me with the sole intent of abandoning her ? 

Curious!  I ponder on…

Might it be true that I, in marrying my husband, was not expected to merely be an excellent wife?  Did I also sign up for the required task of frequently lunching, shopping and closely bonding with my mother-in-law, at which I am failing miserably?  Is it possible that my independence is indeed a cruel, purposeful display of defiance?

After much consideration, I have reached my conclusion.  It goes a little like Kiss My Ass.  It ain’t all about you.  Put on your big boy shorts and take some responsibility for your own unhappiness.

Mother-in-law has been in New York, purchasing yet another Park Ave. apartment to become bored with and sell again 12 months from now.  In her absence, she left a string of nasty emails, and a Father-in-law to scold the two of us for being so terrible.  He called us over to his study last week, and proceeded to spend the next three hours counting off each of their resentments. 

In no particular order:  My husband hadn’t sought their approval for his car.  I hadn’t sought their approval to leave my job.  We hadn’t sought their approval before conceiving a child.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  And the best part is that we’ll either shape up and obey, or ‘not be part of the family’. 

“What brought this all on?’”  I wonder for the next week.  “They’ve never hidden their disapproval, but why are their resentments suddenly surfacing with a vengeance?”   And then it dawns on me.  I look at my watch and glance up at the fan that has been visibly covered in shit since the day we informed them we are pregnant.  Coincidence? 

My willingness to tolerate other people’s crap is shrinking in direct proportion to my expanding belly.  Really, the more room my womb takes up, the less room there is for bullshit.  So, in the interest of not committing homicide, I decided to enlist some help.  But how?  I’ve never been huge on self-help books.  All the ones I’ve ever read usually have me doing primal screams at the moon or sucking my thumb in the fetal position and I, as a rule, prefer to do neither.  But I’ve been diligent lately about making sense of the situation, and this is a task too large for one person. 

And so, against my normally stellar judgment, I surfed around Amazon until I landed on this book by Susan Forward, mostly because I love her name.  She’s eloquent in a Take No Prisoners kind of way, and I do love a woman who tells it like it is.  In it, she outlines his parents’ behavior with such ease that I seriously wonder if she’s teamed up with my astrologer and camped out in our bushes.

“…the crime is that he had become independent.  In response, his parents had become desperate, and lashed out with the tactics they knew best: withdrawing love and predicting catastrophe.  Like most controlling parents, his were incredibly self-centered.  They felt threatened by his happiness, instead of seeing it as a validation of their parenting skills.  They see the new spouse as a competitor for their child’s devotion. They make every choice an all-or-nothing decision.  With directly controlling parents, there is no middle ground.  If the adult child tries to gain some control over his own life, he pays the price in guilt, frustrated rage and a deep sense of disloyalty.”**

Wonder how they’ll take the news that we’re selling the house and moving 900 miles away.  Get out your crash helmets, kids.

** Toxic Parents, Susan Forward, Ph.D.

Categories: My Mother in Law · The Pregnancy
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Despot Housewives

April 24, 2008 · 6 Comments

Another failed attempt at clothes shopping has me in a tizzy.  It is difficult to navigate authentic individual style when surrounded by nubile 18-year-olds gracefully sliding into their size 1 duds.

I, on the other hand, go home and squeeze myself into my size 4 jeans that are becoming a bit too snug for comfort.  At 3 months pregnant, I am desperately trying to get every ounce of wear out of my girl clothes before having to eventually purchase a throng of tent-like contraptions to fit my expanding physique.  This is foreign territory.  All my life, I’ve been the one with no butt, narrow hips and a small chest – but no more!  Soon my husband will be able to hang a jacket on my rear, while I keep miscalculating doorways to wind up with bruised hipbones.  I am not exactly sure what a huge ass has to do with gestating a fetus, but whatever.  These are sacrifices a woman makes to become a mother, at least until she gives birth and hits the gym obsessively.

There is a whole breed of Moms who never seem to outwardly struggle with these things.  Everything about the process of becoming a mother is TABOO, especially the issue of pregnancy weight.  You can recognize these ladies by the way they are picked up and blown away every time a breeze kicks up, all due to trading prenatal vitamins for celery sticks and wheatgrass once the little one has been lifted out of their womb.  They step out of their Porche Cayenne, unsnap the infant car seat and walk away on their cell phone as the Guatemalan nanny takes over - who, by the way, hasn’t seen her own children in 10 months, but sends them every meager cent she is bestowed by the Anorexic Miss.  Think I’m exaggerating?  Last week, parking lot, Trader Joe’s.

There are other favorite taboos among this calculated breed of Breeders, such as ‘birth’ and ‘nursing’.  Nursing doesn’t usually happen with this crowd, because nursing mothers will normally hold onto those last 5-10 pounds as energy reserves.  And these mothers know it.  Bring on the formula, ladies!  Besides, nursing huuuuuuurts the poor dears, and they have done quite enough bringing their child into the difficult world without, god forbid, having to FEED it, too. 

These ladies like to get it in, get it cooked, and get it out – preferably during a c-section scheduled two weeks early, so as to avoid gaining those last couple of pesky pounds.  Don’t get me wrong; I am not against C-sections if they are necessary.  But not wanting to get sweaty, not wanting to retain a little more fluid, and, my favorite, just growing impatient while that selfish little fetus decides when it’s ready to come out – the nerve of that child! – don’t constitute “necessity” to me.  If it seems judgemental, it is.  That’s why it’s my blog, not yours.

My mother-in-law, before I recently tossed her to her own wolves, was trying to convince me that I simply MUST have a c-section.  Because that is what you do.  You whip out your calendar and decide when it’s convenient to thrust this child into the world, and dammit it’s going to obey you from the get-go.  When I scoffed at the idea, she amended her argument, saying that my “narrow hips” would necessitate a c-section then.  I explained to her that nature takes care of that, and was met with the best version of a raised eyebrow she can muster with all that Botox.  Nature is so barbaric!

Clearly, I need a nap.

 

 

Categories: The Pregnancy
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Sunday Haiku Series

April 20, 2008 · Leave a Comment

You know the drill.  Don’t be shy.

Returning bird’s nest
spotted eggs on front porch beam
soon to be chirping

Categories: The Haiku

East vs. West

April 14, 2008 · Leave a Comment

Some of my best memories come from my childhood home back East.  Knowing exactly where on this planet my pet parakeet is buried in a Maxwell House can provides me comfort in the wee hours when I have trouble sleeping.  I remember every hornet’s nest, every four leaf clover, every pile of leaves and could walk every inch of that house and acreage backwards, with my eyes closed.  There was a calm security I took for granted, which came from knowing that this was our place in the universe (even as it was inevitably shrinking).

I know a great many people who never had this experience.  Take my husband, for instance.  His childhood addresses read like a progress report on upward mobility.  He grew up on a smattering of Los Angeles properties that his parents acquired, leveled and rebuilt to be newer, bigger, better.  Several times he was wrested from the bedroom he’d come to know, and carted across The Valley to settle into the next dream home before trading up again in a few years.  It almost has the element of military brat, only with a maid and without the military.

If I was my husband back then, I would have sewn my addresses into my pants, because the thought of going “home” to so many different places is confusing.  I’m betting this is the reason why he has such a highly developed sense of direction.  Not me.  I still find myself driving toward my old apartment occasionally.  Just imagine if I were a kid without my current level of crystal-clear acuity!  I’m sure that I’d have been weary from an especially trying day in second grade, walked into somebody else’s kitchen and been halfway through a sandwich before I thought to ask anyone what the hell they’ve done with the fishbowl.  And the wallpaper.  And my mother.

I am normally not this overly sentimental, but I simply cannot help being enamored by the past lately.  Perhaps it has to do with having a little one on the way and the accompanying urge to provide a stable, cozy environment.  Perhaps it is the fact that my family is so far away, and the “family” I married into is too committed to tomfoolery to provide an adequate base of security or affection.  Or perhaps it has to do with the realization that I love my husband more each day and am dreamily envisioning the perfection of our unfolding life.  I’d like to take all those tasty bits of the past, touch up their corners and give them to what’s to come.

See, I can be nice.

 

Categories: Memoirs
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The Bitch is Back

April 8, 2008 · 9 Comments

Most mothers teach their children that if they’ve nothing nice to say, then saying nothing is preferable.  My own mother, however, taught me that if there is truth worth telling, to tell it. 

So Ima gonna tell, and youra gonna listen.  Here’s an open letter.

Dear Mother-in-Law With the Quintessential Chicken-Headed Haircut that for Some Reason You Paid For,

Next time you whine about not having a closer relationship, don’t preface it by saying that you “made a big mistake” by “agreeing” to our wedding.  I know this comes as a great shock to you, but we never asked for, nor required, your permission. 

Next time you hijack your son’s entire wedding and ruin any chance at a healthy relationship with your daughter-in-law, at least put up a fucking picture.  It’s called “follow-through.”  No time or space to hang a portrait, you say?  The wedding was eight months ago and you’ve got a 13,000 square foot mansion.  The fact that you refuse to acknowledge the photographic evidence of our marriage in no way means it did not happen. 

Next time your grown, married son lets you know he’s having a child, try to say something other than “Oy.” 

Next time you have a shot at therapy, for god’s sake TAKE IT.  While difficult, it’s not impossible to treat Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  There are medications, and if those don’t work, I will happily commit you for extensive treatment.

No, you are not merely a “Jewish mother” who simply “can’t help but be involved”, nor any number of benign, stereotypical caricatures with which you identify to make excuses for your inappropriate and infantile behavior.  Really, you’re just an asshole who has had her butt kissed for far too long.  The sooner you cop to it, the sooner I can let you out of this armbar.

Your comments about “the working-class” are anything but elegant.  This is the problem with the nouveau-riche.  You forget that your parents could not afford a bed, and that you and your husband lived in their basement until you were thirty.  Your elitism stems from self-loathing.  Your ostentatiousness is a desperate attempt to compensate.  Pull your head out of your ass.

The night you scolded your son in public for expressing an ambition not in line with your wishes, you failed to recognize that you were lecturing a grown man and his wife.  Plenty of other people did notice, however.  They stared, and it made even your diamonds look ugly.

Next time, try to save the remark, “Good boy!  You finished your plate!” for a four-year-old.

Next time your son attempts an adult conversation, try not to fly into a personal attack deliberately aimed at making him feel guilty and small.  Try not to become enraged at his adult communication or begin slinging veiled threats.  By the way, thank you very much for wishing us a happy life – we shall have one.  You, on the other hand, are quite unhappy and I feel sorry for your utter lack of joy, empathy, or ability to be accountable for your own fulfillment.

In Summary (take a note if you have to):

I. Personally. Have. Had. It.

He may be your son, but he is my husband, my lover, my best friend and the father of my child.  According to my calculations, I have you outnumbered by the sheer nature of my being.  There will be no further contact until you can act your age and show up with an honest apology and a little fucking respect.  Until then.

The Queen is dead; Long live the Queen!

Categories: My Mother in Law
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Fun with Search Engines

April 2, 2008 · 3 Comments

If you could be summarized by a search engine term, what would it be? 

Those of you familiar with the WordPress Dashboard know about the statistics it keeps on our blog views, page sources, comments and external links.  My absolute favorite feature of the Dashboard is the little column where it gives up the phrases people have searched that have brought them to my little bewildered blog.

 It’s almost like voyeurism, and I almost feel guilty.  But that feeling quickly fades as I find myself alternately delighted, puzzled and put-off completely by the things people look for on the internet.

Here, for your reading pleasure, is a small sampling:

Haley’s Comet.  This is one of my favorites to see.  You’re led to this post, and I wonder if you’re a student with a paper to write or an amateur astronomer.  Railroad stories also fit into this category, which delighted me.

Poop.  Four people in one day searched poop and found me.  Golly, it doesn’t get much better than that!

F*ck my mother in law.  Woah.  I can picture this person hunched over their keyboard, hateful beads of sweat dripping from their brow, finally having had enough of the evil wench.  And then it occurs to me – what if this person actually wants to f*ck their mother in law?  I’m not even going to touch that one.

Search of a house wife who is not satisfied.  Get cozy; I have thoughts.  A) Who prefaces their internet searches with “search of”?  B) It’s 8 o’clock in the morning, mister.  Isn’t it a bit early for that?  C) I do not appreciate the stereotype of the dissatisfied housewife.  Really, do you think we’re all just sitting here, splayed naked on the couch, just waiting for your marginally endowed self to ravage us before the husband gets home?  Here’s a newsflash, buddy: it’s incredibly satisfying to be able to pursue my interests and nurture my homelife while being completely provided for.  If you’re seeking a dissatisfied woman, try looking in your kitchen, where your girlfriend is dropping cigarette ashes into your eggs while you surf the net for porn.  Get off of my page.

Housewife with body rings.  This guy spent 1.3 seconds here before hitting the Back button.

I know there are other bloggers who check in over here… who I love and adore… and I would be tickled to hear some of the terms that have popped up on YOUR pages…

Categories: Neither Here nor There
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