The Dog Ate It

I am the only member of this household who wanted a dog. Our dearly departed dog was docile (she was old) and acclimated to our household. A puppy is a different adventure.

The oldies leave things on the floor, i.e. hats, shoes, socks. The puppy thnks this is an adventure. This is playland!

The husband is often furious. "What happened to the remote?" The dog ate it. "Why is this hat in the living room?" The dog ate it. "What happened to your leg?" The dog ate it.

She still makes me laugh.

Who's the boss? Who's in control?

As a child of the 60s and 70s, I have definitely been influenced by the culture of the times. I grew up with a mother who worked outside the home and still finds great satisfaction in her career. I have always been better at asking forgiveness than asking permission.

The mother-in-law is completely in charge. There is no doubt about who controls the finances or the decisions. Yet, she has this completely charming way of making the father-in-law think he's in control.

The husband always tells me that life would be so much easier if I would just realize that he's the boss of me. (Tongue in cheek humor but he's semi-serious.) It's probably not going to happen but I love it that he keeps trying. I remind him that he has helped raise a daughter who is probably the strongest woman I know.

Parents will always be parents

I am in my 40s. The husband is in his 50s.

Living with the oldies is like being a teenager again. "Where are you going?" Or, "Will you be home for dinner?" The love is genuine and the thoughts are wonderful but I'm not used to reporting my comings and goings.

I catch myself doing the same thing to them.

A Reality Check

I've been called on the carpet, so to speak.

The tongue-in-cheek humor in these stories is directed at my situation and my life. These tidbits are not intended to bash the oldies -- just my constant inability to deal with them.

Every day brings a scenario for which I am ill prepared. That's what I am trying to share.

These are well-educated, smart and loving people who have been plopped in my world. I'm sure they don't like it any more than I do. It's a good thing that they don't know how to blog -- I'm sure they would write some interesting things about me.

My sick sense of humor can get me in trouble. But, I will keep writing.

The Dog & Pony Show

Do you remember the expression, "putting on the dog?"

The mother-in-law does this quite well. She's southern and the compulsion to be well presented is deeply ingrained. However, this is for public consumption only. Reality is quite different.

Everyone should be comfortable in their own home but I do get tired of living with people who don't get dressed. That is, until they have to meet with someone outside of the household and then they dress to the nines.

Maybe we all do that. I don't know.

The Not-So-Suble Digs

They are living in my home! Every day, I get a couple of digs. Sometimes they're directed at me and other times they're directed at the husband. They include:

• The husband doesn't spend enough time with his "daddy." (Feel free to barf at will.)
• You both go through a lot of wine. "We just don't drink very much." Well, guess what, you would if you were in our situation!
• "I'm just glad to see you eat." The digs about my weight are constant.
• "Did he go to the club?" "Does it bother you that he's never home?" Well, no, it doesn't bother me. He has his interests and I have mine. Our marriage is fine. Although we're not joined at the hip 24/7, we prefer it that way.
• "We're really not dog people."

Okay, fine. Live somewhere without a dog. My dog is a maniac and I spend an endless amount of energy to keep her out of their way. She's not well trained; she's a puppy. Oprah has a dog trainer on today so I must TIVO it. In my opinion, the dog has as many rights as they do.

Food Issues

I will be the first to admit that I have food issues. There are certain smells that nauseate me. I have a problem with portions, i.e. someone eating a humongous plate of anything makes me lose my appetite.

The oldies fry everything. (See fire story below.) Once I grilled a beef tenderloin and the next day, she was frying the leftovers. When I served shrimp cocktail during the holidays, she fried up the rest.

They eat dessert with every meal. Breakfast is fried eggs, fried bacon, toast slathered with butter and then either cookies or coffee cake. We should buy our own dairy farm to save costs on butter.

My three recent favorites are:

• Cheese slop
• Tomato gravy
• Cracker mush

Cheese slop involves an iron skillet with a ton of melted butter. Then she throws some Velveeta cheese slices on top of it. She actually puts the hot skillet on a trivet and puts it right in front of him with some slices of white bread. The man is legally blind -- yeah, that's safe.

Tomato gravy is some concoction with stewed tomatoes and cream. It looks disgusting and it smells worse. They gobble it up like a cat with tuna.

Cracker mush involves breaking a bunch of Club crackers in a bowl and pouring cream on top. Yum!

Once, she had a friend over to help make greens. My friend (J) was so nauseated by the smell she threw up in my driveway.

When I make a (normal) dinner of grilled whatever and a salad or veges, they both look at me like I've lost my mind. How did they live this long with these eating habits?

Hate

I don't use the word hate very often. In fact, I try to never use it when I'm speaking of a person, only a situation.

I hate living with the oldies.

Here's a quick list of some of the things I hate:

• The money we've spent
• The cloud of depression that permeates our home
• Worrying about car accidents, fires, falls and whatever comes next
• The constant ding from the Game Show Network
• The smell of frying
• The paperwork that goes with elder care
• The obsession with the mail
• The constant questions: "When will he be home?' "What should we do for dinner?" "Why do you spend so much time with your girlfriends?"
• The time away from business and things I would rather be doing.
• The repeated stories
• The crap that shows up because they're "entitled to it."
• The moods, the walkers, the canes, the wheelchairs
• Sitting at the table with the Unibomber because it's 80 degrees, but he has a hood on his head due to the freezing temperatures.

The Sandwich Generation

I'm trying to figure out how I got sandwiched.

I am an only child. I am blessed with two wonderful step-children. They have wonderful mothers. To J & T, I am an afterthought, at best. My parents are semi-healthy and independent for now. Yet, every day I deal with some issue with the oldies. Does that make me kind and wonderful or does it make me a doormat?

Fire

The kitchen isn't on fire (yet.) It has been. Once she went on an apple pie frenzy and then tried to clean the ovens. They both were on fire. She loves to keep bacon and other things in plastic wrappers near the gas stove top. It is not unusual for me to walk through the kitchen and say, "The plastic is on fire."

The Nightmare Never Ends

The oldies are home. I use the term home loosely. This is MY home. In 17 months, they've managed to destruct my home, my marriage, my career and ultimately my life. The oldies are my 84-year old in-laws.

She's frying now. They're southern so there is no food eaten that is not fried. This has led to multiple fires.

Better go check out the kitchen.