Yes, I have company. Invited company? No. Well, unless you count them inviting themselves. My mother-in-law is back. I know she is one person, but I use “them” because I still feel like it’s her and my deceased father-in-law visiting. Not beause I’m sentimental, but because she still complains about him as if he were here. “You know what your father-in-law used to do that would make me so mad?” No, I don’t and I don’t want to know. Leave the poor, dead guy alone. And for that matter, leave me alone.
There is one good thing about her visiting. Yup, unbelievably long dog walks. Three times a day. Whenever my mother-in-law visits I lose weight. Sort of. I mean I do get more walking in than ever. But my mother-in-law is a great cook. Actually she’s amazing. And even though I beg her NOT to make her famous cheesecake, or her ridiculously good spaghetti and meatballs (I have a long story about that, but another time), she thinks my “No” means “Yes.” And she’s right. I love her cooking. But she drives my wife crazy. She is the messiest cook, destroying our kitchen even if she’s just toasting an english muffin. It’s almost uncanny. Her cheesecake is to die for, and I probably will. I think she uses 40 sticks of butter per cake. It’s hard to eat it without clutching your chest. But I can think of much worse ways to go.
So then why do I dread my mother-in-law’s visits? Well…she’s my mother-in-law. It’s kind of built in. I doubt she’s worse than most. I guess it’s just that she’s there. Wherever I am in the house. She’s there. No matter what time. Once I came down to the kitchen in the middle of the night to grab a snack from the fridge and she was sitting there in the dark and I almost passed out from fright. My scream woke my wife who got mad at ME for overreacting. Overreacting?! A friggin’ creepy lady was sitting in my kitchen in the dark in the middle of the night!
It’s mostly that it upsets my morning routine. I love coming downstairs in the morning before everyone wakes up and having that quiet moment to myself before the Dad-hatred begins. Well, I can’t be alone while she’s here. Because when I come down, there she is sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee that she made. Her way. I don’t like her way. I like MY coffee that I make. Yes, I sound like a baby, but I don’t care! I don’t care! At this stage of my life, routine is all I have. And she has taken that away from me.
Right now though I’m tolerating her because after my 2 ½ hour dog walk she is making me an 8 egg omelet loaded with a pound of cheese and thick rye bread toast dripping with butter. Maybe she’s trying to kill me. It would be hard to blame her. I’m not the nicest to her. Except when I’m eating her cooking. During those few minutes I love her more than any other human. Maybe she should never stop cooking. I’ll be 900 pounds. But so will my dog. Next time, the spaghetti and meatballs story.