Inside Our Fridge

Brief

As a person reared in Los Angeles, I naturally duck and cover when life gets shaky.  And, so I have for all this quarter year 2012 avoided exposing my angst, lest my soul gets choked with my debris. I have not generated anything newsworthy to report about my life with Jack. Pity parties are so pathetic, and don’t lead to solutions.  The result is a life pretty raw and unresolved.

Distance and Reach

I took husband’s cousin’s exasperated call.  She, an esteemed professor who lives in Virginia was in Los Angeles for professional reasons, but made time to take her African-born husband and young son across town to lunch with Jack. Following the date, she asked my mother-in-law for driving directions from the Westside to the Wilshire Grand hotel in downtown LA. Go figure.  She spent hours with Jack. It is pretty obvious that Jack is in a wheelchair.  Her advice was S#(@!  So, after the cousin ended up in a ghetto she called our cell phone.  Because husband was driving at the time, I, the passenger picked up and coached her back to Wilshire. I am quite sure I will never be recognized for my contributions. She got her family to the hotel without incident. My point, why would you count on Jack for directions? 

Okay, she may inspire confidence because nothing seems to deter her from getting from point A to point B.  Just by way of example, she had the notion that she wanted husband to celebrate his birthday at brunch at the Magic Castle.  After a few calls she realized that an invitation from a member was required for us to get a reservation.  She tried to score a connection through her sole entertainment-business buddy, Marge, a neighbor who appears in headache commercials.  When Jack, deflated, reported the dead-end I tried to come up with alternatives. A day or two later, however, husband mysteriously received a calling card from a Magic Castle member.  A little digging revealed that Jack advertised in Craigslist for the invitation.

Similarly, few things come between the old lady and a snack.  If the object she desires is on a high shelf or in the back of the refrigerator she jimmies it out with my late father-in-law’s cane. Though she cannot shop in supermarkets, the market gladly comes to her bearing a tower of food bins delivered directly into the kitchen. If it’s an apple pie from McDonald’s she is craving she’ll pay someone to score it for her.

Once, when I was newly married to my husband and my father-in-law was still alive, Jack became furious with the slow service at a neighborhood Chinese food restaurant. But, when it became clear that she meant to wheel into the kitchen to yell at the staff, my husband--who is quite strong--grasped a wheel and kept her at the table.  From a family dynamic perspective, it is interesting to me that my late father-in-law did not attempt to prevent her from making that scene, and my husband, who is a pacifist, did. 

As a daughter-in-law, I have always chafed against that strong disposition. For example, for years I have begged her not to feed my animals because she feeds them toxic treats to excess. But, her will to feed them overshadows my reasonable request.  Fortunately, we have few outright conflicts these days.  A recent one however is quite silly as I put it to paper.  She, husband and I were in the kitchen, as husband and I were pulling dinner together from her recent, crazy supermarket delivery. She suddenly gassed the lever to the wheelchair, backed up without any thought and pinned me against the open door of the refrigerator.  I screamed and yelled for her to stop her recklessness.  Her retort was something snide.  My poor husband.  As I stormed off, he explained to her I was under a lot of pressure at work. Yeah.

Appearances

While I am not acutely self-conscious, I generally try to present my best side, most of the time. My mother's first career in the fifties was as a beautician, a concept that has as much resonance today as the three-martini lunch. I surmise that those were different times. And she was beautiful. When she left our house she was flawlessly dressed, with her styled hair and fresh application of lipstick. She and my father were also very conservative, in the middle class Catholic sense. For me and my sisters that played out as strict curfews, long hemlines when minis reigned and an immaculate mien. While naturally I rebelled, my picque with their directives only extended as far as they tried to control my social lifestyle. For some reason much of the rest of it stuck, and today as I type this on my Ipad I am making an appearance in court as a member of one of the most buttoned down professions, in a black wool crepe suit.

I experienced a magnificent rush of love for my husband soon after the start of our courtship despite his scuffed, inexpensive shoes with broken shoelaces and his dingy shirts and frayed cuffs. He demonstrated his love for me by cleaning up, and still does--most of the time. Fifteen years after our hookup I still experience a significant culture clash with the in-law nonchalance. I've described at length how the house resembles Miss Havisham's. My mother-in-law is a sight to behold as well.

Yesterday at dinner we were recounting what a drag it was to come home after a perfectly lovely afternoon to another animal control officer on the door step investigating yet one more animal abuse complaint about Stinky. My mother-in-law chimed in. "People stop me on the street and ask me if I have enough to eat," she craggled with an air of disbelief. "Do you think" said I, "it's because of that big hole in your shirt and because you don't comb your hair?" Oy vez.

Minutia

Give me the cursed and flawed Broadway play, Turn Out the Lights, I could do something with it.  I know I could save it.  Action, drama, character flaws. My life is less than epic.  Picking up the pace would be welcomed. I pick up filthy forks from the floor. 

I had my first meltdown. I cried. Over the unrelenting unsanitary condition of the kitchen, compounded with the fleas that Jack’s cat doled out to my animals.  I must add that I had an extraordinary event that week—another lawyer was physically violent and insane towards me and my client during a deposition. That, not Jack put me over the edge.  We had a long weekend to regroup, and to gain some perspective. 

Husband soothed the way he knew how. He cleaned our room and authorized the hiring of a housekeeper. I flipped through the MLS for affordable condos.

The Husband Weighs In: Magma, I'm Home

Husband guest-blogging here.

 

Just got new job.Gonna have at least one 12-hour day a week, probably two. Biggest concern? Wife's cranium.

 

It is routine for the first one home from work to encounter paper plates of dessiccated cat food on the floor, a lamp knocked over by a wide turn in the electric wheelchair, half-empty cans of dog food entertaining flies in the kitchen, CNN blaring on tv and 96.7 ("The way--uuh-aaave") on the radio.

 

All quickly remediable, but tedious and not fun to come home to after slaying the red-eyed dragon that is the westbound 10.  This is especially true for my wife, as these are mother-in-law quirks we're talking about.

My wife's private space was reduced to one bedroom when we moved in, and I fear she might blow like Kilauea one of these days. Gotta get her out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do. But the stars are not yet aligned, and the fact is everyone is trying their best to make it work -- orange cat, other cat, mom's cat, Stinky, Superdog, my best half, the old bat and me.

 

Will my new hours stir up the magma? I hope not.

To Be Honest Witch You

Life deals plenty of place markers. When I was first married I took great care to select keepers. That, in retrospect is a challenging task when you are in your twenties. Really, the adult hologram looks at that first wedding and sighs. Yes, I know they were meaningful to me when I was twenty-five. Not so now. I look at photographs and count seven people who are still alive and actively part of my life. I am a big town girl who lived in more than one country. I've lived with a different reference point.

So now I am chagrined about the headspace that Carlotta and Alex siphon from my brain? These are Jack's two caregivers. They are both hardworking women. Carlotta has the weekend shift. She has never been a minute late to her afternoon shift. I trust that she will care the best way she can for my mother-in-law and that should suffice. But, I fret.

Part of her pattern with Jack means that she shares weekend dinners with us. Thankfully, husband and I always have an away Saturday dinner plan and so she and Jack cook up some fast food adventure. Come Sunday it is a different story.

Left to my own I would be happy to cull the fridge, make a lovely Sunday repast of leftover
parts made into salads, pate and delicasies. But, I halt when I hear, "to be honest witch you" ... "I don't eat fish" ... "I don't eat pork"...to be honest witch you...."

Cassie skulks in the morning when we are gone, at 11:45 am to deliver her services mid -week, and weekday evenings around 8 pm when she finishes her shift at the fancy house in the Palisades. She also is remarkably responsible with time. She hates me. The situation should be explained some day when she and I are both earning over 200 k. Meanwhile, suffice to say she is a bitch. A bitch who strikes me as singularly motivated by the dream of a Bakersfield tract house. To be honest witch you.

The Joy of Intergenerational Living: Seeking Equilibrium

The Joy of Intergenerational Living: Seeking Equilibrium: "We’ve marked the year milestone . Some of us have adapted to the tumult with remarkable coping strategies. Husband has choreographed his ..."

Snore!

You read this post at your own peril. When I am sleep deprived, like now, my evil avatar springs to the fore. I am new to town so haven't identified a doctor to prescribe Ambian. I guess I see a blessing in that it has been a year since I've needed any meds.

I want to avoid cliches like "the perfect storm". I'm in a putrid pond with a straw just above the surface. Professionally, I am working on a motion to dismiss a million dollar lawsuit. It's due next week and I have been grinding it to the bone. Needless to say I need food, sleep and some head space. I got a mother-in-law with a diarrehea dog. Fine. I am donating the couch that cost me three thousand dollars fifteen years ago to him and his distress.

I should be so Lucky, Get it? I have Jack Crashing inTo walls and doorways at 2:30 a.m. I'm so sleepy and biototchy. Get it? Why? Does she really need to cram by our bedroom door with all her noisy, heavy metal at two in the morning?

Blur

I’ve spent a month without contact lenses. In fact that has left me blind except for images that are inches from my nose. My back-up plan? The trendy Swedish glasses (super expensive ten years ago) that I hate to wear. Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses. Unfortunately, blindness makes the other senses more acute. Like the lingering smell of Lucky. Husband busted him hanging out in our bathroom. Yuck.

One of Jack’s caretakers left her diaper bucket in the kitchen sink. Yuck. The newest coffee stain on the white carpet. Super yuck. I have spent weeks trying to eradicate it to no avail.

I cringe when I see Jack sailing by with my tea towels. She uses them as personal towels on her lap. I feel that the towels that wipe my wine glasses should not serve her needs as well. We apparently don’t see eye to eye. I feel mean spirited when I snatch them from her lap. Yes, I do.

Yesterday I was preening in the restroom that has a view onto the backyard. Without my glasses I sensed something amiss. I perched the glasses on my nose and headed to the backyard where I discovered a baby car seat. I am former law enforcement and determined that there was no baby in situ. I queried Jack who claimed to be as unknowledgeable as I was about the mystery baby car set. Fast forward to the end of the day. Caretaker had asked Jack if she could place the car seat in the backyard overnight. Jack, I surmise forgot.

On most days, after spending capital challenging weighty legal arguments on the job I want to blur my senses with an adult beverage. I am Catholic. Yet, I am nagged by a sense that I should be more charitable towards my mother-in-law. God help me.