Oldies Lessons

It's not exactly haunting but I still feel the oldies. I dream of them. I think of them as I look at butter. I must be moving on because I'm able to eat fried foods again -- as long as they aren't cooked in my kitchen.

Our supplies of paper products are dwindling. The Belle would be on the case. She would march out with Hangdog -- she did not walk, she marched -- and restock. I think she's tapping me on the shoulder.

I've tried to figure out the lessons I was supposed to learn through the oldies experience. Here's what I think so far:

Families who get along all the time don't know each other very well.
Honor thy father and mother.
The verbal jab is not as harsh if you start it with, "Love, I need to tell you ..."
Your children, whether 6 or 60, will always be your children.
Sometimes it's okay to admit that you don't like your family.
There's a delicate balance between dependency and independence. No one knows the formula.
Don't shame the family name.
Accessorize.
Work that you love is a gift.
Learn to make a couple of dishes and make them your specialty.
Never forget a grandchild's birthday.
A deal is a deal.
Music is a salve.
Sometimes you have to choose between being right and being happy.

What did she learn from me? Probably things like:

Relaxing on the patio takes the stress away.
Wearing comfortable clothing to the doctor is okay.
Home cooking doesn't have to happen three times a day.
Some foods taste better when they're not fried or boiled to death.

The Belle is tapping me. Some lessons came along too late for her to abide by but she still imparted the wisdom to others.

Not a Saint

Occasionally, I run into someone I haven't seen in a while and they will ask if the oldies are still living with us. When I respond, they almost always say, "You're a saint."

Let me be clear. No, I am not. Not even close.

I try. Some days are better than others. I can be rude and I can be extremely cranky. I fall on my knees a lot and pray for strength, wisdom and guidance. I still fail. My big mouth gets me in trouble. My brain has difficulties distinguishing between battles worth fighting and those that are better to let go. I forget that the last word is not a worthy goal. I conveniently dismiss the fact that the oldies' lives have been changed way more than mine. I get selfish and have little pity parties in my head.

Sometimes my prayers are answered. I enjoy a nice evening on the patio with my mother-in-law. I notice that the father-in-law is getting stronger and walking taller. We share a (non-fried) meal and a few laughs. She plays the piano and I sing along.

Then, we all go to bed and prepare to start over the next day. Sainthood is not in my future.

If the Shoe Was On the Other Foot

I'm a voyeur. I watch the oldies with a mix of admiration and fright. I ask too many questions. I track how they're feeling and I try to pay attention to the medication trends. (No one is allowed to touch their medications.)

I watch her tend to his every need. I watch her fry food, do his laundry, make sure the coffe is hot and plentiful, etc. He's very polite but it's also expected.

Maybe that's how she willed her way out of her bout with cancer. She knows no one would take care of him in the custom that he has come to expect. She barks at him but she's the only one who is allowed to get crabby with him. She becomes an armed guard if anyone even tries. She's a little (but mighty) watchdog and he is her territory.

I'm just tracking along behind her, picking up the pieces and making notes about what I will not do when it's my turn.

They're Baaaack!

I think this is a line from the movie, "Poltergeist." I can still see that little blond cherub, sitting in front of the television static and announcing about the demons/ghouls/whatever, "they're baaaack."

The oldies were supposed to take a 2-week vacation. They came home 4 days early. I left town a few hours before they pulled in so Big Daddy was a little shocked at their change in plans. He handled it. (He got to leave town a day and 1/2 later.)

We had a great family weekend, along with wonderful friends. Big Daddy and I drove separately and I happened to get home first. When I opened the back door, I smelled something frying. They're not demons or ghouls but my first thought was, "They're baaaack!"

She was standing in front of the skillet and he was bundled in a bathrobe over the Unabomber outfit. I let the dog loose just to let them know that I'm back too.

A New Twist on Carry-Out Food

Why do people buy carry-out food? Personally, I do it to avoid cooking.

The mother-in-law bought a rotisserie chicken, plucked all the meat off of it and fried it in butter. Then she dumped a bunch of gravy on it. I didn't stick around to see how it was served.

The irony of this is I met some friends for dinner and ordered something fried.

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?

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.