Ode to Mama J.

People often ask me how I like living next door to my mother-in-law, and they usually give me a look of disbelief when I tell them I don’t mind. It’s true. After fourteen years, I don’t mind…anymore. Our relationship has been an interesting journey that has finally brought us to a comfortable place. It ain’t Tahiti…but it’s alright.

To get a good visual of our family, watch an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond..any episode. I would swear the writers of that show based every third episode on an incident at our house. It’s like they were spying on us. Mama J. is a lot like Raymond Barone’s mom, Marie. Same hairdo, same manicured nails, same obsession with cleanliness. Just like Marie, she meddles, manipulates and controls with the cunningness of a CIA operative. And just like Marie, she is usually motivated by her love for her family, me included. I’m just like Ray’s wife, Debra; stubborn, resistant to advice and frustrated over things that don’t go my way. Now Hubby is smarter than Ray and has always been better than Ray at supporting me and standing up for me in front of his mother. However, he often gets stuck trying to make me and Mama J. happy at the same time, which is like trying to balance a BB on your nose. Even Papa T. is like Raymond’s father in that he tends to worry about very little except what he’s having for dinner. I’m telling you, we ARE the Barone’s. To me the most interesting relationship on that show has always been the one between Marie and Debra because I can relate to it. While we’ve often been at odds over the years like Marie and Debra, we’ve gradually grown into a relationship that’s more of a partnership than a competition. It was a little ugly at times, though.

When Hubby and I first started dating, I found Mama J. nosey and intrusive. She was frustrated because I didn’t give up much personal information, and I didn’t wear lipstick. I didn’t share her love of makeup or purses, and I didn’t like that she let the men eat first at family get togethers. I hated that she was never satisfied with services such as dry cleaning and tailoring. On the evening before our wedding she made me drive her to the home of the shop owner who sold her a dress for the wedding to complain about the way it was hemmed. When Teen Angel was born, she hammered me with child rearing advice that I really didn’t want to hear. She bought more baby clothes than Teen Angel could ever wear but kept all of the nice ones at her house, only sharing the older, worn ones. I suffered many backhanded comments about my laundry and housekeeping skills.

When Teen Angel was a little over a year old, we bought the house next door to Mama J. and Papa T. because it was in the neighborhood we loved, it was a steal and we knew Hubby would be responsible for the bulk of his parents’ care when they got old. Also, Mama J. babysat Teen Angel while we were at work, and it was handy for her to be next door. I knew it would be tough, but I told myself I would get used to it. It took a long time.

We’ve had some disagreements, a few arguments and a couple of knock down drag out fights. We’ve been mad, frustrated and exasperated with each other. Hubby and I have threatened to move just about every year, but never have. We’ve also had some laughs, some tears and some hugs. We have lived, loved and learned throughout these past fourteen years. Somewhere along the way, things started to change. Mama J. quit popping into our house and getting into our business every day. She grew older and mellower, and I grew up. I realized that she really did have some good advice when it came to child rearing…and cleaning, and that I was too stubborn to admit she might be right about some things. I figured out that a lot of her annoying habits stem from some deep rooted insecurities. She is shaped by the fact that she had to scrape and dig her way out of poverty and some less than ideal family situations. She has worked her backside off all her life, and she doesn’t want to lose what she finally earned. I have also realized that I’m not the easiest person to get along with and that..gasp!...I can be wrong…and impatient...and mouthy. And..this one is tough to admit…I know that she loves me despite all of that. How do I know that? Because she has always treated me like her own daughter, even when I’ve been a butt. I love her too, even when she's being a pain in my patookus.

Over the last few years, we’ve settled into a more laid back relationship. Teen Angel is old enough that we don’t have child rearing debates any more. In fact, Mama J. is getting too tired to fight about much of anything. The roles have shifted. She now needs us to take care of her. We pop into her house and are into her business every day…all day long..and she doesn’t say much about it. She is grateful for the help. Her manipulation is limited to scoring the front seat of the van when we go places and controlling Papa T.’s clothing choices. There are many days when I get frustrated by her complaints, but most of the time I bite my tongue because I know she’s scared. She is eighty years old and scared that time is running out for her. That cannot be an easy pill to swallow, so I don’t mind carrying her purse for her when she shops. Or straightening out her cell phone bill when she’s messed it up. Or toting her butt to the beauty shop. Years ago, I would have, but I don’t mind….anymore. Really.

Sealed For My Protection

Am I getting weaker or are they making packages tougher? I can’t seem to open anything these days without a jackhammer and a chainsaw. Everything comes signed, sealed and shrink wrapped for my protection. You can buy crystal meth easier than you can open a CD case. It’s ridiculous. I can’t imagine what it must be like for folks with arthritis. I know companies are trying to make their packages tamper proof and theft proof, but it seems to me it’s a little out of control.

Have you tried to peel the stickers off of produce lately? Those suckers are attached with supercallafragalistic expialadocious glue. I almost starved to death today before I got the label off of my mid-morning apple. An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but now I have to go to the dentist to see about that tooth I chipped trying to gnaw the label off the apple in desperation. I bought a new hairbrush recently, and it was hermitically sealed in one of those plastic cases that refused to pull apart no matter how much I flung it onto the floor and stomped on it. I finally had to cut it open with the largest pair of scissors I could find, which made me nervous, because you know what kind of luck I’ve had with scissors. That plastic doesn’t cut easily, so you risk at least two fingers when you try to cut it open. It’s a task that requires safety glasses and a hardhat. Medicine bottles have been a challenge for years, ever since the big Tylenol scare. My vitamin C comes in a bottle with a vacuum seal Hoover would be proud of. It also has that tight little cellophane wrapper around the lid that can only be removed by handing it to the neighbor’s Rottweiler to chew on. The worst though is CD cases. Forget about listening to a new CD on the way home from the music store. You’ll never get it open in the car. You have to wait until you get home to your toolbox. Once you remove the packaging, IF you can remove the packaging, you have to get rid of that sticky seal that runs along the top of the case. I have yet to find anything that removes that seal in just one or two pieces. And the music companies wonder why we are downloading most of our music these days. Hello! Make me a CD that’s easier to open and I’ll think about buying a few of them.

I realize a lot of this is for my own protection, but I liked it better in the old days when you could open a bottle of aspirin without a plunger and an engineering degree. And frankly, the odds of me hurting myself with the assortment of knives, scissors and power tools needed to pry open packages are a lot higher than the chances of someone slipping some poison into my Motrin. Of course, if I were stronger this would not be an issue, but buffing up requires buying more exercise equipment, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to open the box.

The Votes Are In

Thanks to your support I won the contest over at Swampy's. Thanks for the votes pardners. Yippee Ky Yay!

Loose Ends

Wrapping up a fine week with these tidbits:

Our Sunday school class weighed in this morning following our first official Biggest Loser week. A dozen people lost a total of 94 pounds. Woo hoo! Apparently, I got carried away with my cheerleading. When I gave a high five to one of our classmates, who suffers from cerebral palsey, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "Not so hard". Oops! We high fived again over her five pound loss, and I walked away a little sheepish. Hubby lost three pounds despite a mid week Milky Way and milk shake. Yea!

This week's Cracker Barrell count for Mama J. and Papa T: 3. Papa T. was out of sorts last night when we ate there. They didn't seat us at our usual table near the front, and those of you who have a loved one who suffers from dementia know how important routine can be to that loved one. He pouted for some time about it, fussed because he thought the waitress forgot his drink order, then declared he was ordering lima beans for a change but proceeded to order carrots. I guess we're learning to roll with the punches of this disease because we laughed the whole time.

Mama J. is two weeks away from surgery for her "massy hernia" as she calls it. The massive hernia is growing and must come out, despite her age (80-don't tell her I told you) and her sketchy health. She's really worried about it (as are we), so she's been making all kinds of "final arrangments" this month in case she doesn't make it through the surgery. At first we were a little disturbed about it, but now we've heard about it so much, it's become a little funny. Every day at random, she throws out some kind of funeral or will tidbit, which is greeted by a chorus of "we know, we know".

Teen Angel got her report card Friday. All A's and she's number one in her class right now. Can I get a big woo hoo for the honor student who might get some scholarships if she keeps this up and save her parents from hocking everything they own to send her to college?

And I ran seven miles for the first time yesterday. That's nothing to serious runners, but to me it was a big deal. Almost as big as when I ran into the yard this summer to show Hubby I could get into my old college jeans (Don't think I'm bragging. This only happens about once a decade.) In my excitement to show him they were buttoned, I threw up my shirt too high and flashed the neighbor. Good thing he doesn't see well. Anyhoo, yesterday's run gave me a glimmer of hope that I might be able to do that trail run in March. However, my thighs are screaming "NO!" right now.

And it's Girl Scout cookie time. This is the first year in a long time Teen Angel hasn't had to sell cookies. While we didn't mind selling cookies, and she loved Girl Scouts, it was very nice this week to sign someone else's order form and not worry about having to sell cookies. Sigh. A mighty fine way to end the week.

Vote For Me

Sniff, sniff. It hurts my feelings when people say mean thing about me. It's just another example of hitting that glass ceiling..... Can you hear the quiver in my voice? Is it working? No? Well, it worked for another candidate last week, I thought it might work for me.

In a shameless wave of self promotion I am urging you to head on over to Swampy's and vote for me in her wild west contest. It's what any good candidate would do, right? I wrote a little ditty you'll find in the comments section along with the funny entries of some other folks. But I'm really, really, really coveting the prize from that cool Aspen store, so if you like me, love me, tolerate me or just flat out don't want to hear me whine about losing then saddle up pardner, sashay on over there and rustle me up some votes. Oh, and Swampy's site is a good read, so you'll enjoy it.

PS
Did I mention where you can vote? I did? And that you can vote multiple times? Oh, okay. I'll just be ridin' along now. I have some cattle..um laundry...to rustle up.

My Bucket Runneth Over

I can’t wait to see the movie “The Bucket List”. Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman are two of my favorite actors. Of course, it will probably be months before I see it because we never get to the theater. We always fiddle around until we miss it and then have to catch it on video. I think it’s the cost that scares us. I hate taking out a mortgage just to pay for a movie, popcorn and Teen Angel's dill pickle. The premise of this movie has me thinking, though. What things are on my list of stuff I want to do before I kick the bucket? I first started thinking about it two years ago after I finally made it to a Jimmy Buffett concert and Teen Angel made the comment, “You can cross that off your list now.” “What list?” “The list of things you want to do before you die.” I walked around the rest of the day going, “Hmmm.” Since then I’ve been gradually making a list in my head that I have never written down…until today.

My bucket is overflowing because I have a lot of things I want to do. Some of them are a little exotic. Some are simple. Most of them involve travel. And while some of them seem beyond my means, I figure what the heck. A lot of the stuff I’ve done to date has been things I never imagined doing. Life is surprising that way. Here we go:

1. Stand at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Hubby isn’t that interested in Europe. If he won’t go, I’d like to take Teen Angel as a high school graduation present.
2. Watch the sun go down at the Grand Canyon.
3. Take a trip on a train.
4. Take a safari in Africa. The only thing I’ll shoot is pictures. Hubby likes this idea.
5. See whales in their natural habitat…not an aquarium or Sea World.
6. Walk along a beach in Tahiti.
7. Stand in Times Square with a bunch of other crazy folks and watch the New Year’s eve ball drop.
8. Lie on my back and admire the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
9. Witness a total eclipse of the sun.
10. Have my picture taken next to the Pyramids of Giza.
11. Have a four karat diamond on my finger…for just a minute or two.
12. Watch the 4th of July fireworks in our nation’s capitol…live.
13. Own a convertible.
14. See Rio during Carnival.
15. See the following people in concert before THEY kick the bucket: Eric Clapton, Neil Young, Willie Nelson, Barbra Streisand and the Rolling Stones.
16. Own an English bulldog.
17. Have a house with bathrooms big enough to keep me from bumping my hind end on something every time I turn around in there.
18. Bake a cake with Paula Deen, although I will settle for eating at her restaurant in Savannah.
19. Write a book.
20. Enter a marathon….any marathon…and finish.

The marathon of life takes us to amazing places that we don’t necessarily dream of going. While I may never get to some of the things on this list, I hope to reach a few of them and hopefully, some I didn’t even imagine. What about you, my friend? What’s on your list?

Mind Games

One of my goals for the new year is to increase my running speed. I’d like to move up from the back of the pack to the middle of the pack in local races. Finishing a 5k without feeling like I’m going to die is a secondary goal, but I can only focus on one thing at a time, so speed is the big priority now. I use the term “speed” loosely, by the way since I’m a loooong way from a 6 minute mile. I couldn’t do a six minute mile if a tornado were chasing me. I need some help and I’m not rich enough for a personal coach so I did what any American does when he needs free information these days…I Googled it….and then went to the library. I loaded up last week on running books and have been soaking up all kinds of advice. I’ve been trying to put that advice to good use on my latest runs, but it’s kind of tricky because most of it involves mental exercises. The experts say to use positive thinking when you’re running, but I can’t seem to get the knack of it. For instance:

What I’m supposed to tell myself when adding an extra mile: “I think I can. I think I can.”
What I say: “You have freakin’ lost your mind if you think I can add one more mile. Besides high blood pressure can’t be that bad. Maybe I’ll just quit salting all of my vegetables.”

What I’m supposed to tell myself when I’m starting to lag: “Just focus on getting to the end of this block. Then keep going and focus on the end of the next block.”
What I say: “If I hang a left on the other side of this building, I can cut through their yard, dodge two pit bulls, hit that alley and be back to home base in no time.”

What is supposed to motivate me to get out there on days when I don’t feel like it: The good feeling I’ll get when I’m done.
What really works: Someone running backwards in front of me and dangling a donut on a stick.

What is supposed to be my reason for pounding the pavement: Keeping away heart attacks, stroke and diabetes.
What actually makes me do it: The fear of my backside becoming the size of my grandma’s.

What is supposed to be my reward for reaching a running milestone: A new jogging outfit or running shoes.
What I really get: A large chili cheese dog with fried mushrooms.

What I’m supposed to be tuned into while running: The rhythm of my heart and the pull on my muscles.
What I’m actually listening to: Dirty Prince songs from the 80’s.

What I’m supposed to be focusing on while moving down the street: One particular point in front of me.
What I’m really looking at: That hot construction worker in those tight Levis on the other side of the street.

Needless to say I’m easily distracted. Getting into the game mentally is going to take a while. I have a new tactic I’m going to try tomorrow though. I’ll run directly toward the donut store instead of to the park. And I’m going to buy a new jogging outfit now instead of later…something with pockets big enough to hold a jelly donut.