Twisted Family Antics

I’m going to use an e-mail from my husband as a sort of guest blogger today, but I have to give you the background information first.

We were supposed to be going to Kentucky in April on an archaeological field trip for my daughter, and had included a visit to my mother afterwards.  Because of gas prices, the questionable endeavor of making a trip to see a woman I called the ‘C’ word last time we saw one another, etc., we canceled.

Mind you, I’m not backing down from what I said.  It was appropriate noun usage.  But I do have the schizophrenia gene, which causes me to suffer daughter guilt, as well.  The woman is a bit of a mess and doesn’t seem to be able to help herself.

Anyway, when we realized that we’ll be driving to Virginia Memorial Day weekend for other purposes, I thought maybe we’d tack eight hours onto the drive and make the trip to Mom’s then.  I mentioned it to her.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

In the mean time, gas travels another dollar per gallon higher, a freaking abomination in conjunction with unnecessary road trips.

We were again going to back out and just do D.C.  Ixnay on the Entuckykay.

I have never visited my mother’s home; she’s lived there for 20 something years.  She’s rightly offended.  But I’m allergic to dogs and she has an entire pack that wander freely through her home.  I’ve been told the cleanliness factor is questionable, i.e. don’t get up in the middle of the night and walk barefoot to the bathroom or you may suffer catastrophic consequence.  (Dog poop under my toenails could put me in a mental hospital with a diagnosis of psychotic break.)

She’s not that easy to get along with, either.  She’s a master of the freak out, crying and screaming like a banshee, mascara running down her face, when my sister used the last of the coffee one Easter.  You never know what will set her off.

She’s quite financially successful.  But for years she coerced family members, every time they went to town, to take full garbage bags and throw them in business dumpsters rather than pay for pick-up.

Anyway, last night I got this e-mail from my mother:

. . . start proceedings to get kids to ky . . supposed to clear off land for the modular–it’s so hard to get anything done here–got loan and house paid for–got electric unhooked and water line marked–have to put in septic tank–clear land –tear down old house–almost more than we bargained for–

. . . looking forward to you coming to ky–tell me what you want to do while here–can take boat to lake–see grand ole opry–opryland hotel–got gardens in center of it–also a river can ride the boat –mammoth cave–locks at ky damn–they’re big—–give Joy* ride in semi–to name a few–got country music museum in nashville–p and m went to it–i haven’t been–got to get to bed–mom

Oh, fucking fudgesicle.  She sounded excited.

So I sent this e-mail to my husband and said:

I’m not sure how I can get out of the KY trip at this point . . It doesn’t look good. Are you going to punch me?

And here’s his reply:

As the eldest, dutiful daughter of the aging woman who brought you into this world - I do not understand your reluctance.

As for me - in grateful appreciation to my dear, sweet mother-in-law - the woman that provided me the love of my life – who gave me the loving and caring mother of the joy of my being - I am more than willing to throw my chain saw and sledge hammer into the truck, drive cross country and labor from dawn to dusk and into the night (if she has flood lights), side-by-side with my sister-in law and brother-in-law and step-brother-in-law and maybe-brother-in-law and ex-live-in-father-in-law and truck drivers and neighbors and … and …

to provide a good home for my nieces and nephews and sister-in-law and potential-brother-in-law and migrant workers and truck drivers.

Not going to punch you - probably just slap you around a little - maybe once up-side-the-head with a 2-by-4.

* * * * *

Now tell me, do you love this man as much as I do right now?

P.S.  Joy* will not be riding in a semi.