Weekends with Family
They arrived in the midst of a huge fight I was having with Debbie. Her parents are easy enough to deal with. Okay, easy enough. Her mother, Faith, is as her name indicates, a holyroller. Her usual repartee includes snippets of religious jargon, like “Holy smoke!” Or “Hells bells” And “heavens,” if I slip a curse word in there! Surely, she’d scold me. Debbie’s dad is benign- much like her, he’s a brainiac to the Nth degree. I don’t even recall what he did for a living. One of those jobs you’d have to kill me if I knew. Now that Dan’s retired, the lounge at the Auburn Golf Club seems to be his best friend.
Our fight today has little to do with their impending visit. It began (do they all?) with my insensitive tendency to overlook some manner in which Debbie preferred I manage my time. Trash removal, lawn mowing, some mundane task that could, in my estimation, wait another day. I mean, would her mother talk less about her passion of Christ if our grass was a quarter inch versus a half inch?
But, as fights often do, this one rapidly progressed into that realm known as “Family man versus Madonna.” The mere fact that the longer I’d been living with Debbie (oh yes, don’t get her mother started on that one!) and not marrying; the more reasonable it is, to me, to reconsider this whole family affair business. Not to mention the over-population factor, the increasing cost of living, job pressures soaring. Now I’m sweating. It pisses her off even more that I can’t feel empathy about her so-called “body clock,” her motherly instincts (which, I have to say, I’ve seen diminish in the time that we’ve lived together). Or her need to re-produce, biologically or otherwise.
And then, in the midst of the newly drizzling rain, and pea soup fog, and Debbie’s stony silence, the lights of Faith and Dan’s Audi loom up the driveway. Oh boy, what fun, I think. Just how I wanted to spend my Saturday.