Entries categorized as ‘My Mother in Law’
Bewildered Housewife is finally back in the Blogdom, having emerged from an extra-long pregnancy wielding one gorgeous baby, two fabulous breasts, and a set of in-laws who, as grandparents to our perfect child, have only gotten stranger. We aren’t talking about deadly cupcakes or evil racks of lamb strange, either. No, we are talking just plain creepy.
Bewildered Housewife believes that if I labored, induced and unmedicated, for 20 hours to give birth to another human life, that baby should be called mine. Apparently, my mother-in-law never got that memo. If it were up to her, she would have slapped me in a t-shirt that read “I’m Just the Vehicle” for my entire pregnancy (as long as the t-shirt had a Mercedes emblem on the back) and ran off with the child the second its cord was cut.
Since the baby’s birth, my mother-in-law has ran even more off-kilter from an already askew reality. To be fair, she started out on her best behavior. But as her normalcy won her more frequent visits with Baby, her classic sense of narcissistic entitlement began to show. I’ve mapped out some of the territory to better illustrate this:
(Keep in mind that these are more or less quotes, people)
Point A: I’ve just bought her a few darling little outfits —–> I just spent $1600 on a whole baby wardrobe with the word JUICY emblazoned on the ass ——> I can’t believe you went shopping for your baby – don’t do that! —–> Point B: I’LL buy all the baby’s clothes!!
Point A: I’ll follow whatever rules you lay down about your baby ——> Oops, sorry I filed the baby’s toenails, it won’t happen again ——> The baby’s face is all scratched up and her fingernails are jagged? Oh I would NEVER EVER cut them! Really, they look different from when you left the baby this morning? Hmm… well, I might have ‘filed’ them a little… —–> You said toenails, not fingernails! —-> Point B: I’m devastated you called to tell me not to groom the baby!
Point A: I’m sure you know exactly when the baby is hungry ——> You don’t feed the baby from both breasts?!!? GASP —–> Are you sure you’re making enough milk?? Maybe you should give baby formula —-> What do you mean only give the baby 3 oz. in a bottle – she ate all 7 of them at once! —–> The baby is STARVING! —-> Are babies supposed to be this fat? —-> Point B: You’re overfeeding the baby!! Don’t feed the baby any more!!!
And other random, incendiary comments such as my favorite, anytime I’ve dressed the baby in something pink:
You’re so CUTE when your mommy dresses you like a giiiiiiirl!
As opposed to what – dressing the baby like a priest? A left-handed circus midget? Or – crime of crimes! – androgenously in cotton?
According to the general mommy public, though, these is more or less the standard moronic landscape whenever a woman pops out somebody’s grandbaby. What is not standard, however, is the way that this particular actually shield’s the baby’s face and walks in the opposite direction when either I or my husband attempt to retrieve our child. I then get to look like the psycho when I bare my teeth and growl, “Give Me My Baby,” which is actually fine with me at this point.
Because I am slightly psycho these days. I haven’t slept in months, am often covered in poop or milk, and my hair has hit that lovely postpartum stage in which it begins to fall from my head like teams of suicidal jumpers off Wall Street. I don’t have time for the creepiness. Hell, I just now found the time to blog.
Hello again Blog World!
Categories: Housewifery · My Mother in Law
Tagged: baby, birth, breastfeeding, clothing, creep factor, formula, girl, grandchild, grandmother, hair, in laws, labor, mommy, mother in law, pregnancy, shopping
October 26, 2008 · 1 Comment
My bloggery pal over at Westward Bound had the right idea a few months ago, when she formally announced a hiatus during her last month or so of pregnancy. I should have announced the same, but that task did not make it onto my spreadsheet of To-Do items and subsequently fell into the abyss.
And so, here (along with a final VENT) is official notice: I give up. I am round, sleepless, and can only touch my toes when sitting down. I am sick to death of eating spicy noodles, waddling for hours throughout the neighborhood, and attempting to deny myself ice cream. Other… ah… intimate means of labor induction have taken a turn toward futility at a time when my skinny old cat cannot even fit in my lap, nevermind my husband.
I am becoming more hostile toward people who tell me I look ‘ready to pop’. Really? That hadn’t occurred to me more than eighteen times this hour. The grocery girls have begun to look at me sideways and move backwards a step when I approach their line, as if my belly might explode in their general direction and muss their hair. They cock an eyebrow as if to say, “Still?”
There are smudges on the hardwood floors and they make me cry. I stand in the refrigerator door and sigh at regular intervals. I don’t even care about my double chin anymore, which looks as if it has taken over the task of replenishing my stores of amniotic fluid. Cheekbones… what cheekbones? I am actually LOVING the cramping that’s been happening the last week, PRAYING for the pain of labor to arrive, and anticipate laughing with hysterical relief through regular contractions.
So you see, I am blogging off for a while because my attempts at remaining chipper are beginning to fail miserably. I tried to keep my bitching and moaning within the confines of my house, but it is slowly spilling out past the door and into the street. Those around me cheerfully point out that the baby will be here when it is ready, to which I respond with a steely gaze permanently affixed to my tired face. I am beginning to have my doubts about this alleged baby. In fact, I am starting to wonder if there is actually a baby in here at all; maybe it’s just been a near-year of undiagnosed severe gastrointestinal distress.
I’ll update again when I can either a) stop complaining or b) describe my newborn.
(Oh, and Happy Freaking Halloween. It’s been cancelled at our house, because I have eaten all the chocolate.)
Categories: My Mother in Law · The Pregnancy
Tagged: baby, double chin, groceries, halloween, husband, ice cream, induction, labor, newborn, pregnancy, pregnant, round, sex, spreadsheets, toes
Having a mother-in-law is a stark reality I have come to accept. On bad days, it’s like a terminal reality, but on good days I am almost able to see the bigger picture. Difficult as she may be, she ties me to the billions of other women who, after muttering the words “I Do”, involuntarily witnessed a similar ball of flames volleyed onto to their courts.
One of the women to whom this dubious honor links me is the actress Isla Fisher, Sacha Baron Cohen’s betrothed. In case you have been living under a rug in the Sahara Desert, Cohen is the comic (?) behind the hilariously horrifying movie Borat and The Ali G Show. All seven-foot-eight-inches of him can be found carting around the USA and Europe, making asses out of unsuspecting victims. Cohen recently fathered a child with Fisher, and they are engaged to be married – but only AFTER she converts to his religion.
Apparently, Cohen comes from an Orthodox Jewish family. (I am not sure where the Torah prescribes staging homo-erotic cage matches, but whatever. I’ve also been trying to figure out where Orthodox philosophy condones not only dating a non-Jew, but knocking her up out of wedlock. That’s three no-no’s in one short sentence!)
Don’t get me wrong, being religious is fine; what frightens me about this story are the accounts of Cohen’s MOTHER. She seems to be dissatisfied that Fisher has returned to work making movies “so soon” after having her grandchild, when she had expected Fisher to stay home and spend her time making borscht with the extended family. She is also very upset that Fisher seems to be taking longer than desired to convert to Judaism – which means that the summer wedding she was planning on throwing her precious son and his hussy bride must be delayed. (Oh, this is bringing back my own memories!) The atmosphere between Fisher and Cohen’s mother has evidently become so hostile that Cohen himself is mediating relations.
My, what a good little boy he is! Throwing the mother of his child into the controlling clutches of his family. What a guy.
Since reading about this drama, I have actually developed a shred of gratitude for my own in-laws. While they have insisted, like children, that I call more/look pretty/obey/quit ruining their son’s life, they would never demand that I convert. They aren’t Jewish enough for that. They are what you call Deli Jews: Jewish enough to faint over good Rugulah and drink Diet Coke with everything, but not enough to go to temple. Jewish enough to dub a shiksa anyone not wearing Cartier, but not enough to light a menorah. Jewish enough to Oy with gusto, but not enough to demand that I Oy along with them (although this is admittedly my favorite part).
And thank the great pagan gods for that. It has been a point of brief contention with my husband, but it isn’t a big deal. He mentions converting every several months, and I promptly shoot it down. Other than not subscribing to the concept of organized religion, my reason for not doing so is simple: If reciting a few words and going through hand motions can magically “make me into” something else, I’d much rather spend that energy becoming tall, blonde and independently wealthy.
Perhaps, though, Isla really feels it. Perhaps she has been so moved by her love of Cohen, and by the history and ritual she’s witnessed thus far, that she is willing to walk into her mother-in-law’s den and risk suffocation and identity-snatching for love. Maybe there really is a part of her that seeks the mothering presence of manipulation and control in order to make sense of the universe.
Me? I’d tell her to run, Isla, RUN. Just as far as your unholy shoes will take you.
Categories: My Mother in Law
Tagged: Ali G, baby, Borat, bride, Cartier, conversion, deli, diet coke, engaged, gods, isla fisher, jewish, married, oy, pagan, rugalah, sacha baron cohen, shiksa, son, Torah
Well, THAT didn’t last very long.
Narcissists apparently suffer from amnesia quite frequently. Every point made in the recent blowout between me and my mother-in-law has vanished into thin air, every last bit of lightning-sharp anger has been dutifully swept away like a broom to her size 5 footprints. It has been nary three weeks since, and the woman has already reverted to her old ways.
This is the problem with resting on one’s laurels; they bio-degrade entirely too fast. I am foolishly disappointed, but I am not surprised. I feel like a superhero who had been flying along famously until she looked down, at which point her cape deflates and she tumbles past skyscrapers to the city floor. I thought for sure my venom had more staying power, but will dust myself off and take it as a lesson to further hone my fury.
Father’s Day is quickly approaching (and I’ve got ideas about the origins of that day, too. It was most likely created by the same woman who dreamed up Mother’s Day, in order to a. have another reason to guilt her children in both May and June, because we all know there is little guilt to be found in August and b. have a way of gauging which parent is favored, by who got the better gifts).
This means that another Royal Family Craptacular is on the horizon. It’s brunch at the castle this time, which is bad because it will no doubt entail my mother-in-law’s cooking, but good because of the close proximity to my pick of ten private bathrooms in which to vomit.
I shall wear my best tiara.
Categories: My Mother in Law
Tagged: amnesia, castle, cooking, father in law, father's day, guilt, lightning, mother in law, narcissist, princess, royal, superhero, venom
There is a baby boom happening here on the West Coast of the United States. The wealthy Jewish daughters of my mother-in-law’s friends in particular are popping out children at breakneck speeds, destined to be weaned from supple breasts straight into Juicy Couture.
My mother-in-law delights in these children (which on most days, I find odd, given that I am halfway through my pregnancy and she still hasn’t told a single soul). She takes every occasion we see each other as an opportunity to describe each of their births in detail. Fortunately, these stories are never very long; most last about two sentences and invariably include the words “scheduled”, “induced” and/or “voluntary c-section”. But there is an art to my mother-in-law’s storytelling. Her labor tales are always related with a soft tilt of the head, the last syllable drawn out long, and the whole thing colored by a tone of voice usually reserved for explaining something incredibly complex to a five-year-old, such as “That big bad tiger wouldn’t be nice to people, so that’s why we keep him in a zooooooo,” or “People are putting money in that man’s cup because he has no place to liiiiiiiive“.
Once my mother-in-law burps up the initial news and the method of birth, she narrows her eyes and pauses to look me over for a moment. Now comes the head-tilt. I watch in slow motion as she opens her mouth. Here is where she inserts her expert medical opinions, apparently earned during her lengthy residencies at Saks and Nordstrom.
She opted for surgery because:
(choose all that apply)
She’s just such a tiny girl.
Her hips were far too narrow for a natural birth (for the eightieth time).
She was just so exhausted, she couldn’t bear to be pregnant anymore.
and my favorite, which rolls the soothing voice, the narrowed eyes, and a slow head nod all into one bundle of condescending bliss:
It’s just what people today dooooooooo.
I follow along with all the rapt attention of a giraffe on qualudes. Who knew that a woman oblivious to the dangers of injecting botulism into her face could be so knowledgeable about labor and delivery? And here I was making monthly appointments with amateurs. Boy, am I naive! Hopefully she will break through the line of security officers instructed specifically to keep her out of my delivery room, and show us all how it’s really done. But that will only be if I am very, very lucky… but then, I AM her daughter-in-law.
If that doesn’t make me lucky, I don’t know what does.
Categories: My Mother in Law · The Pregnancy
Tagged: babies, baby boom, birth, botulism, c-section, delivery, friends, hips, induced, jewish, labor, lucky, medical, mother in law, natural birth, obstetrician, pregnant, Saks, scheduled, surgery, tiger, tired, united states, west coast, zoo
I am the type of woman whose throat physically hurts if there is something I wish to say, but don’t. When I am not just merely miffed but genuinely angry, I pace, fragile things spontaneously break with the slightest graze of my fingertips, and the top of my head tingles as my hair literally stands on end. I become an impossible, immovable force and when I have finally had enough, you will know it. I ought to wear a sign across my chest that says, Do Not Reach Inside the Animal’s Cage, or Don’t Fuck With the Mama Tiger.
Cut to early this weekend. Telephone. Living room. Mother-in-law. Pregnant woman who had not yet eaten breakfast. You see where this is going… I shall not re-enact the torrent of fury unleashed that morning, but I think its quake may have postponed the Big One in Los Angeles for at least another few years.
Confused, silenced and stunned, I do believe my mother-in-law is now beginning to understand how serious this Mama Tiger really is. So a bit of advice to all the accomodating and polite ones out there, sweetly operating under the pretense that whatever must be said can be communicated kindly:
“Kind” only works if the party you are dealing with is SANE. Don’t squeeze another compromised moment’s worth of sweetness from your body. Pounce. Hard. Show your fangs and watch the unheard points you’d been offering with honey for a year suddenly received in an instant.
And sleep like a baby.
Categories: My Mother in Law
Tagged: anger, breakfast, communication, earthquake, fangs, healing, kindness, living room, los angeles, mama, mother, mother in law, pregnant, sane, telephone, tiger
My husband is a wonderful critic. He enjoys my use of humor as defense, and prods me to keep writing even when my mind goes blank for days, or weeks, at a time. Last night we were talking in bed, various arms and legs asleep under the weight of our animals.
“It’s just a little dark,” he said. He was talking about yesterday’s post, which apparently reads like a Grimm Fairy Tale. He’s right, it is dark, but only because it’s true. I huffed and puffed and channeled my inner Steve Martin and said, “Well, I can’t be funny ALL the time!” People who are funny ALL the time are a bit creepy, to be honest. I want to smack them upside the head and tell them to come out with what’s really hurting them. I figure that if I falter into such “darkness” every once in a while, I’ll escape the resident creepiness that comes from denying it.
People have been asking if I truly hate my mother-in-law, so let me clear this up. I do not hate her; I simply don’t like her. This is a certain distinction. I don’t wish her harm or that her airplane will fall out of the sky, and if it did I would surely feel badly. Kind of like when my husband immediately apologizes to the big black spider we just smashed and flushed down the toilet – sorry, little buddy – even after I’d hopped from foot to foot shouting, “Kill the bastard!” It’s not the spider’s fault it is ugly and potentially poisonous; it is simply being itself. I, however, don’t have to give it the chance to bite me. This is the way I feel about my mother-in-law. Make sense?
Tomorrow is Mother’s Day and the second year in a row I have managed to escape spending the afternoon with my husband’s mother. Last year at this time, we were newly engaged and I was plagued by a string of migraine headaches that were miraculously cured by saying the word No. (I ought to bottle the word and sell it freely to daughter-in-laws everywhere, sparing them unpleasant experiences while simultaneously making myself rich.) This year, it is refreshing to have stated openly and weeks ago that I would not be attending the worship ceremony. I have my OWN mother to adore (albeit, over the phone) for being such a wonderful woman; I have no need to make smiley faces at another dame who would change my hair, my clothes, my attitude and, oh yeah, my husband if she could. Call me crazy for banning the holiday, but the last time we celebrated an occasion in public (aka my rehearsal dinner), she pulled me aside before leaving the house and pounced on me with a tube of lipstick and a can of spray-on tan for my legs. Do I feel like being accosted AND bringing flowers this time? Sorry, but no.
Oh, look! There went my headache! Damn, this stuff WORKS.
Categories: My Mother in Law
Tagged: airplane, brunch, darkness, daughter-in-law, defense, engaged, fairy tale, flowers, funny, headaches, humor, husband, lipstick, married, migraine, mother, mother in law, mother's day, NO, rehearsal dinner, spiders, steve martin, tan, writing
It’s that sweet time of year when the apricots are ripening on the trees out back, the birds wake me up before the alarm clock, and mentally ill mothers everywhere expect their alienated children to come bowing, hat in hand, at their feet. And somehow, for no logical reason, it works.
Now this is what I call a neat trick. I’d love to learn how to be needy and rude for 364 days in a row and still have people bring me flowers and candy. I wonder if the size of the bouquet would be to scale with the degree of misery I impart? Imagine the possibilities!
Given the imminence of this special day, I’ve done a bit of research and discovered its true origins. Mother’s Day originated not in the heart of a strong, loving Mama whose only requested reward was her child’s happiness. Nay, the day sprouted from the darkened mind of a short, tyrannical woman who insisted on being praised for her marginal mothering. And it goes a little something like this:
The poor lonely Mother awoke one morning to find herself utterly alone; alone in her bed with the ironed sheets, and alone in her mansion with only the live-in housekeeper as company, but he’s Philipino, so he doesn’t count. She rolled out of bed, casting a remorseful glance at the four Snickers wrappers lying empty on the bedside table, and padded on pedicured toes into the bathroom. There, she slathered cavier on her face, just as the doctor had ordered to preserve her face-lift. Mother looked into the mirror and sighed. Oh, how she wished her son would just show up with flowers and tickets for a cruise. Or that her daughter-in-law would surprise her with a stack of magazines, from which she’d permit her to choose a haircut that she felt more suited the young wife. These kids today, they need guidance, they need HER. Why can’t she make them know that?
Mother wrapped herself in her robe and sauntered toward the kitchen in search of coffee and doughnuts. She stopped along to the way to check her emails and voicemachine for the familiar presence of her grown children, only they had long since stopped phoning, although she had no idea why. She thought they’d said something about “invasive” or “manipulating,” but clearly they were high on drugs because they made no sense at all. Whatever they had said, apparently they meant it, for she hadn’t heard from them in a very long time. Mother could barely even remember what the youngest one and his wife looked like; she’d never bothered to put up a picture. How typically selfish of them to leave her memory!
Mother chewed her doughnuts in a silence that no click of Vivier heels could fill. She stewed. She lamented. She made a few phone calls, and then wept herself into a frenzy in the presence of her similarly surgically-altered friends. For she did, after all, sacrifice everything for her ungrateful children, who only sought to take from her every other day of the year. And for what?
‘Is it too much to ask for these selfish little brats to at least pretend to love me for one measly afternoon? Don’t you see how they treat me? ’ Her friends, drunk on the standard Upper Class Cocktail of acrylic nail fumes and Xanax, clucked their tongues and helped her devise a way to guilt her adult children into submission. Once they felt confident with their plan, they telephoned their good friend Ari Hallmark in New York and sold him the idea. The rest is history.
Yes, folks, that’s where Mother’s Day came from. Just because you didn’t know it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
Coming up: Mother’s Day Countdown – The Revolution!
Categories: My Mother in Law
Tagged: apricots, birds, children, chocolate, christmas, countdown, daughter-in-law, flowers, friends, gifts, hallmark, mama, mentally ill, mother in law, mother's day, new york, origins, sacrifice, surgery, tyranny, xanax
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
Tagged: baking, bananas, bullshit, chocolate chips, cook, cookies, crimes, family, father in law, guilt, husband, independence, marriage, mother in law, moving, parents, recipes, toxic, walnuts
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
Tagged: adult, apology, chicken, daughter-in-law, dinner, disorder, family, homocide, jewish, marriage, medication, mother, mother in law, narcissist, oy, photograph, pregnancy, queen, son, wedding
The life of a writer brings with it some reasonable degree of danger - that of being pummeled to death by our subjects. It isn’t as romantic as running from the CIA, but I do spend some time looking over my shoulder or peering through the blinds, where I half expect to see an angry mob of well-dressed wives descending upon my lawn.
This mob is, of course, led by my mother-in-law. She times their advance and, in groups of five or six, the women take turns trying to break down my door with the heels of their Manolo Blahniks. Obviously this takes a while, so I pour a cup of tea and watch from the sofa as they each chip a nail and quit in favor of lunch.
I have become increasingly aware of my mother-in-law’s lack of appreciation for me. It’s not easy being the wretch who is ruining her son’s life, and I’d like a little respect. I spent years perfecting the art of wrestling sons from their mothers, after all. While other 12-year-olds were listening to Bon Jovi I was studying mortuary science, and one day someone will excavate my parents’ lawn to find a heap of dismembered Ken parts. As if it isn’t work to saw off all those limbs.
Occasionally my mother-in-law forgets about these skills and challenges me to spar. When she realizes that her Blinding Golden Earring stance is no match for me, she goes into another style of fighting altogether. It’s called Food Warfare. She introduced me to this art the night of my rehearsal dinner where she, well aware of my distinct dislike of lamb, served it and its disgusting green jelly counterpart to our guests. I foolishly thought this choice odd, but benign. Only months later did it occur to me that I’d been played for the first time. The second time was Thanksgiving Dinner (read Vices and Spice Part Deux below), but by this point I began to get wise. My husband and I began making reservations for the meals shared with his parents, where no yams could be laced with either distrust or heavy cream. We even stepped up our offense, bringing wine to each dinner because when tipsy, his mother’s aim is far less true.
But I must concede to her this third, and final, victory.
My husband and I dined with the in-laws last night, and she brought along a batch of homemade cupcakes. My mother-in-law fancies herself quite the baker; I maintain that she is a far better shopper and wish she would use those skills to purchase her baked goods rather than make them. But this was a special occasion and so, in the spirit of kindness, we politely ooed and ahhed at the… what was that… icing?
I generally avoid eating things that cannot be readily identified, especially if these things have a sequined skin that is usually reserved for lizards and various insects. But as a show of good faith, I dug in. Whatever it was left a greasy slick on my tongue that tasted vaguely of petroleum and lingered far into the evening, despite my attempts to douse it with an array of vodka and menthol lozenges.
No, the cupcakes were not sitting right. By the time my husband and I made it into bed, I had spent ample time in the bathroom and was beginning to feel nauseous. I reiterate that there is something about my mother-in-law’s cooking that my body just does not like. Perhaps it is the dash of resentment folded into each bite; or perhaps the amount of plastic surgery the woman has had somehow seeps through her fingers as she cooks, magically bestowing even the most whole, live foods with the shelf life of a twinkie.
Whatever the great, bilious mystery, I applaud her efforts to debilitate me. This is the most calculating she’s done since reducing a recipe by two-thirds. I am sure she is clapping her hands with glee this morning. Certain that I am well incapacitated behind the walls of my home, she phones her friends and rallies the mob into action, instructing them to circle the Mercedes around the block, stilletos in hand, waiting to pounce.
The water’s in the tea kettle, ladies. I’ll be waiting.
Categories: My Mother in Law
Tagged: baking, cooking, cupcakes, dinner, disgusting, food, lamb, lynch mob, machete, manolo blahnik, martial arts, Mercedes, mother in law, warfare, writing
February 2, 2008 · 1 Comment
I am noticing a distressing theme to this blog. This is my third post, and also the third time I am talking about my mother-in-law. Damn it, she really is everywhere.
But she likes it that way. I’m sure she does it on purpose, to inject just enough under-handed slight into a situation as to first, leave one speechless and then to second, cause one to awaken at 3am whispering venomous, imaginary comebacks that one rarely has the gall to utter in the daytime. I’m sure I can sense her smiling in bed, pleased that her nefarious plan has worked.
Take last night, for instance. I spent the usually sedate hours between 2 and 5am tossing and turning, plagued by a resentment I hadn’t realized mattered so much. My mother-in-law never had a daughter and so spent the first two months of my engagement to her youngest son finally living out her fantasy. She began buying me clothes and taking me to luncheons. In my naivety, I miscalculated. What I thought was a genuine interest in me was, in fact, a predator’s gaze. I was in dangerous territory.
I got a taste of how dysfunctional things could get when she began talking about ”her” bridal shower. While my guest list consisted of my mother, sisters, a few best friends and myself, I was instructed to purchase six (count em, SIX) hostess gifts. I was puzzled. Why on earth it took 6 women to organize a shower was beyond me. Would there be giraffe rides?
In the end, it became clear why so many troops were required. Any one of those women alone would have been crushed beneath the weight of the nametags. Yes, nametags. I’m going to let you sit with that for a moment.
Right. I’ve never met another woman who had to wear a sticker to her own shower identifying her as the betrothed. Hello, my name is The Bride. Won’t you admire this cute little flower drawn in red felt marker next to my name? By the way, who the hell are you people?
And so, I spent a lovely afternoon getting drunk with sixty women I had never met before. Sixty women from The Valley; sixty wives with diamonds; sixty sets of face-lifts in various states of disrepair. The more champagne I had, the harder it was to tell between the pulled faces and suspiciously perky breasts. It was like being in a room of identical, animatronic dolls, only worse because they actually talked. In the end I suppose that the nametags were useful, though only to me. (Note to Darwin: It seems that once women achieve aesthetic uniformity, they are able to identify each other by scent. This is a skill I have not yet honed.)
Months later, after The Wedding (another blog post… better pack a lunch for that one), I am thankful for the gifts and the graciousness of these strange women, none of whom I could pick out of a lineup. I remember how my mother-in-law was lavished with the most attention that day; how she glowed and basked; how her friends strutted proudly around the garden tables, satisfied to have given her the best bridal shower a mother-in-law could ask for.
But I will have my revenge. I planned it out last night somewhere around 4am. My husband and I are trying for baby and I am waiting patiently, positively stalking the moment when we offer the news – that there will be NO baby shower, the nursery will be painted yellow, the baby will be sleeping next to me, and the pregnancy will NOT be televised. I am anticipating what might pass as shock across her paralyzed brow. And I will laugh.
Oh, I will laugh.
Categories: My Mother in Law
Tagged: baby, bridal shower, bride, coux, diamonds, giraffe, mother, mother in law, nursery, pregnancy, wife
Is that how you spell “deux?”
Today is Day Three of the Ultimate Cleanse. My husband and I decided we needed a good scrub for our innards, but he abandoned the product last night. Tummy is just too sensitive. I, on the other hand, am continuing en force and I’m glad I’ve stuck it out thus far. My intestines are slowly – slowly – giving up the ghost. Actually, it’s more like a gaggle of spooky spectors, but you get the idea.
I’ve been hearing about this product for years but had always been reluctant to pass an alien mass from my bum. These past few weeks – nay, these past two MONTHS – have been brutal to an already sensitive system. In fact, it started with Thanksgiving dinner at my mother in law’s house. I took one look at the dinner table and knew that the entire holiday was not going to be pretty. Yam souffle – as in, yams whipped with what, cream and sugar? Creamed corn? Sausage stuffing? Gravy made with starch and flour? Sure, I’ll have seconds!
…and thirds and fourths and fifths, only those were coming out the other end. My mother in law’s cooking is just the gift that keeps on giving.
Since then I just haven’t been the same. It was like a sonic boom of processed food that sent my system spiraling in another direction that I am only now, with the aid of copious amounts of vita-pills, beginning to stabilize from. Add christmas baking, sour cream dips (oh god) and thoroughly hydrogenated chips to the mix, and you might just stop me on the street and ask me what my due date is.
Because that’s how my belly looks: impregnated circa oh, say, October or so. Only, it’s not. It would be charming if it was, because that’s exactly what my husband and I are trying to achieve. Only, we haven’t yet and I am still thinking about buying some maternity tops to hide this basketball I seem to be carrying around above the button of my skinny jeans.
What I like about the Ultimate Cleanse is that you don’t have to fast or follow a severely restricted diet. Probably it would be best if one did, but it seems to do the trick on its own. I’ve been pretty conscious and have been sticking to mainly vegetables, fish and chicken in the hopes of helping the process along. I definitely do not have as much of an appetite, except for the times when my odd brain tries to talk me into pizza or a burger under the flawed premise that it’s all going to be flushed out anyway. I call bullshit and go back to my salad.
I’ll post updates on my progress with the Ultimate Cleanse, but I will NOT post any manner of disgusting photographs. Hopefully the effects will be great and long-lasting, so that the next time my belly looks this way, it will be a happy occasion.
Categories: My Mother in Law
Tagged: cleansing, dinner, fat belly mother in law, food, gastrointestinal, poop, pregnant, thanksgiving, the ultimate cleanse
