Single Married Widowed Divorced

Andy, Revisited

by Mel Miskimen

Oh. My. God.

There he was. At the ward table, getting his ballot. Damn he looked good. It had been 30 years since I had seen him and he had aged well – Harrison Ford-well.

It was two weeks ago. I was a poll worker, registering new voters. It was mid-morning and there were no other electors, except for . . . him. I didn’t even know that he lived in my district! The last I had heard about him was that he had moved to Thailand or was it Taiwan? (somewhere tropical and third worldly). He was working with a relief-type agency. He made being cause-y so . . . sexy.

He chit-chatted with the ladies who handed him his ballot. He turned. We made eye-contact.

“Andy!” I said, thanking God that I put on make-up.
He gave me a long look. He must have been remembering . . . .
We were 23 and worked at a park with an outdoor pool over the summers. It was a stupid job – selling concessions, maintaining the locker rooms (which weren’t really rooms, since the locker area had no roof), keeping the patrons safe from foot fungus. The pay was lousy, but my tan was great.

Of the guys who worked there, Andy was numero uno on the girls’ Who-I’d-Do list. He was tall, lean, tan, hair touched by the sun, he rode a motorcycle, he had that kind of body that was fit in a I-don’t-try-too-hard-to-be-fit kind of way. And, he always had a girlfriend.

So, I was really surprised when I ran into him in the student union that spring semester. He had transferred. Was single. And invited me to a party!
I wore my form-fitting black turtle neck and my show-off-my-butt jeans. Back then, I was very weight conscious – I weighed myself everyday. I counted calories. I measured my portions. If the bathroom scale edged past 112 pounds, it was time to panic. I had long blond hair. Not really. My real hair would have been a mousy brown, but . . . you know what they said about blondes.

Andy and I “hooked up” as they say in today’s vernacular. He was a great kisser. A good dancer! And then we went back to his upper flat. Andy, Andy, Andy!

He stood in front of the rickety folding table. My voter registration cards in a neat pile. He said nothing.

Maybe his memory needed a nudge.
“Johnson Pool? . . . 1975? . . .,” I said.
Nope. It wasn’t registering.

I named names of people we had worked with – real characters, that no one could forget. I brought up instances of near firings, reprimands, long lunches, the time the authorities found all that pot growing in the woods near the statue of Thomas Jefferson.

Again, nothing.

“It’s me! Mel!” I said.

He nodded. Not in the affirmative. Then he shrugged and proceeded to cast his ballot.

“I’m an idiot!” I said to the ancient Hmong lady as she filled out her new voter card via translator. She looked at me and smiled. Nice grill.

Had he sustained some kind of head trauma that caused him to have no memory of our sexcapades?

Or . . . maybe the sex wasn’t that great. Maybe his moans and groans weren’t about pleasure, but about frustration and dissatisfaction. Or . . . maybe I let myself go to the point of being unrecognizable?

Oh. Crap.

The polling place filled with eager, new voters and I didn’t have time to wallow. I did that after the polls closed in the privacy of my own bathroom mirror.

Yeah, my face had gotten looser. I pulled it back two inches. There. All I have to do was walk around with my hands like this and I’ll look 30 years younger. Well . . . sort of.
When Andy and I were, you know, doing IT, I wore contacts.

I couldn’t wear them anymore (trifocals) and Lasik surgery was totally out of the question – my corneas are the only thing on me that are too thin.

My breasts? Back then, the girls were free and easy. I used to get by without wearing a bra. Now? I’m well into menopause. The girls need a garment with structural engineering.

It took me a couple of days – thank God, Oprah had several make-over shows! – to get beyond the self-loathing. You know what? The blond hair. The 22 inch waist . . . that wasn’t me. And the methods I had to go through to maintain that version of me, were, extreme, took too much energy and time and were borderline abusive and oh, so fake.

I’m average. Height. Weight. Hair color. Nothing wrong with that. So, I guess I haven’t let myself go, I’ve let myself be.

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Listen in as three Midwest women gather around the dining room table to talk about issues related to marital status. Click here to be directed to the Single Married Widowed Divorced Podcast.

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Read their Marriage Tips 101 and take their brief, online “How’s Your Relationship” quiz.

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Tune into the Single Married Widowed Podcast, as three middle-aged women gather in a Milwaukee bungalow and discuss marital status in America.

Part “The View," part "This American Life,"... (the podcast it)an insightful often funny take on issues from online dating . . . to widow burning . . .
-- Annysa Johnson,
writing for The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

Married, with Dogs

by Alex Vagelatos

Blending families is one thing, finding common ground between dogs quite another.

When I moved to the Wisconsin wilderness to clear the homestead, hunt some badgers and get married, I brought with me the faithful dog. No help with badgers or deforestation, Eddie announced he would team up with his new step-dog, Jingles, to create an unbeatable team of canine companions.

Jingles was the alpha dog in the home of my new bride and her son. Jingles was big, graceful, regal, a hunter of the wily park squirrel, with a fearsome bark to scare away intruders and teach manners to French trappers. Eddie was the clever Hoosier, much smaller in size, used to getting by on wits and good looks. They claimed they would work in tandem, like wild dogs on the African plains, to protect hearth and home.

They worked together, all right. Just not as they had promised.

CB, my wife and the owner of Jingles, assured me that Jingles and Eddie would get along. She painted a picture: playful dogs frolicking in the dewy grass as little bluebirds flew overhead with big smiles. Instead, Jingles and Eddie learned they could teach each other their habits – and apparently get a good laugh out of the whole thing.

Jingles taught Eddie to bark at innocent passersby as the dogs stood at the backyard fence. “Sheesh, does that dog of yours have to bark all the time?” I would say to my blushing bride. “Well, that's not my dog growling at the little old lady in the walker, that's your dog,” she would reply, wondering why I would accuse her dog of bad behavior.

“Well, he never barked like that before he met Jingles,” I would reply.

“Well, Jingles never stole another dog's food, like Eddie does. Haven't you noticed he's gettinng a little chubby?”

These insults to my dog made my blood boil. “Well, he wouldn't have to steal Jingles' food if he could stomach your cooking.”

Okay. Things were plainly getting out of control. First, we were starting all of our sentences with the word “well.” Second, we were arguing over two dogs who were probably hiding in a corner snickering at the problems they were causing.

I apologized for the “couldn't stomach your cooking” remark. CB apologized for calling Eddie “chubby.” Altough he was having trouble fitting through doorways.

“I think we've just learned a valuable lesson in how two newly married people should get along,” I said.

She nodded in agreement. “Learn to be patient with our dogs' funny little habits and eccentricities. Don't expect the other dog to make all the compromises. And above all, value the differences that make life interesting and exciting.”

“That's brilliant and insightful, CB. That's why I love you. Oh, and by the way, your dog just taught my dog your on-line banking passwords. I'd check my account if I were you.”

A 1929 letter from a future mother-in-law

In 1929, in the Italian village of Fabbrica Curone, Matilde Vallotti wrote this letter to her future daughter in law, Gulia Vallotti. Gulia had moved from the Italian alpine village of Morbegno to the United States, where she had met Matilde's son, Pietro Vallotti, in Connecticut and became engaged.

Here is Matilde's letter to her future daugher in law.

Remeneglia, 5/5/1929
Dear Miss,

I send you this letter with my heart still suffering because of the painful departure of my son, Pietro, my youngest and favorite son, who decided to leave once again for that blessed (to not say cursed) America which so cruelly separates so many dear ones who love each other infinitely.
Please excuse me for the liberty that I am taking in showing you my feelings, obeying the impulse of my heart.

Through what Pietro has confided in me, I have found out how you have accepted willingly to pledge yourself to him in the tightest bond of affection, of love, with the firm intention of uniting yourselves in matrimony.

I was somewhat disconcerted, fearing that he had fallen in love with an ordinary girl, but then he convinced me and described you to me so well as a kind, proper, and serious young lady with good morals that I finally consented with pleasure; in fact, I am extremely happy, as is the entire family.

Thus, from now on, I consider you to be my daughter, and I feel that I love you with great affection.
I hope that my son is fortunate in the choice he has made and that he will find in you a worthy companion for life. I would not want him to be mistaken, because he is so kind and good and sweet-tempered and gentle that he truly deserves a companion who knows how to affirm him and to please him and to brighten his existence and to make him fully and eternally happy. I want to confide to you again a fear of mine, which is that in America, divorce is accepted, and I fear that with time, or for whatever reason, even an insignificant one, you might ask for a divorce as so many do. Here in our country, divorce is not permitted, and therefore it never happens that two spouses separate, but in America, that, too, is to be feared.

In conclusion, I want to tell you that before getting married, you have time to learn about each other and to get to know each other well, and once you are married, you must never think about divorce, because even if this is acceptable before the law of this world, it is abominable in the sight of God. My Pietro has always been a good Christian, and I believe that you also are one; therefore, may this never happen.
Please write to me and tell me many wonderful things. Once you are married, I would not wish for you to forget this land, because it is ugly, but I would wish that, as soon as possible, you would come here to fill this home’s hearth, which is almost empty. I am old and also of somewhat delicate health, and I am afraid of being unable to meet you and to embrace you, so I urge you to come very soon, in order to be able to enjoy my company in holy peace.

Yours, Matilde Vallotti

Insomnia

By Sally Tolan

Excerpted from "Bloodroot"

Suspicion, logical as an icicle,
invades the night, freezes
the heart, whirls its maelstrom
along the skull’s edge,
fogs the throat, drives sanity
to sharply remember meadows
where wild asters, goldenrod,
and sweet everlasting grow.

1983

Poet and writer Sally Tolan has been single, married, widowed, married again, and divorced. Her family includes six children, their spouses, and ten grandchildren. She taught writing at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee for years, edited newsletters and three children's books, and wrote articles and a book on John Muir for middle school readers. “Bloodroot,” published 2007, is her first volume of poetry.

Sally will read from “Bloodroot” at the Harry W. Schwartz Bookshop in Shorewood, WI, June 20, 2007 at 7 p.m.

Wine Isn’t A Hobby?

by Lisa McPherson

So I joined a club. A moms club. To be more precise, a “stay at home moms” club. I was so excited. I had a daughter who was two and a half and I had spent most of that time feeling so isolated at home. Plus, I was pregnant with our second baby. I thought, “ Wow, this is going to be great! I’m going to connect with other moms in my neighborhood and make some great friends! Yeah!" Not so much.

I had to fill out a questionnaire so that the other moms could learn more about me. One of the questions was, “What are your hobbies?” Let's see... cooking, movies, golf, Jimmy Buffett and wine. Well, when the questionaire was printed up in the newsletter (yes, we have a newsletter) so that all the moms could “get to know me” I noticed that “wine” was omitted. I thought that was weird, but I didn’t really think anything of it.

Then I went to my first meeting. I was so glad that my daughter immediately attached herself to the few kids who were there and she had a great time! Us moms (there were a whole five of us) sat around a table and talked about whether all the moms would be willing to pay to have play dates at a rec center in the winter. This was a huge debate! Who wants to spend money? If I don’t have to I don’t want to. Then I found out the amount of money we were painstakingly discussing was $2.50. Seriously?

So as the meeting goes on I start to wonder why there are so few moms there. I was told that there are about 40 moms in this club. They must all come to other things, like play dates in the park. ( It turns out they don’t. I see the same five moms at everything.) As I’m thinking of this, one little boy falls and bumps his head. Not a big deal really. Most kids would have stood up and took off again. After all, the boy was 3 years old and full of energy. This kid flipped out! His mom, not wanting to defuse the situation, because, why would you, cradles him in her arms and pulls up her shirt and whips out her breast to feed/comfort him.

Now let me just say, I think breastfeeding is wonderful and everyone should do it if they can, but… I would not have been more surprised if the boy would have been 35 years old. I looked around at the other moms to see if I was the only one who thought this was just a bit odd. Deadpan looks all around. Hmmm. OK. Was this a sign that perhaps I should really take notice? Hindsight? YES. (Side note: this mom also puts her kid in a sling and carries him around and has admitted that she does these things for her and not for him. Really, you don’t say.)

I talked to the other moms after the meeting. They all seemed nice. No one really stood out as someone I would like to hang out with, but it was just the first meeting. I have since been to several things. The moms all talk about the same things each time. Kids. These women are so into their kids! They eat, drink and sleep their kids! They plan projects every day for their kids. They plan outdoor activities for their kids. They have their kids enrolled in every single ECFE class they can find. Their whole day is all about their kids and keeping them entertained the whole time.

Now, I absolutely love, love, love my kids and I love doing things for them and with them. They are my greatest achievement in life. But I also exist. I have things I love to do, too! In talking with these other moms I realized they didn’t talk about themselves at all. So I have never really gotten to know anyone because all they want to talk about are their kids! On the other hand, by being like this they are really saying a lot about themselves. Am I right? Is this how all moms are? Do I just not fit in with other moms? It's really disappointing because I joined the club so I could make friends, too, not just for my daughter. But, I keep going. I go for my daughter and the fun that she has. I love hearing her talk about her friends and how she can’t wait to see them again. Geez…the things we do for our kids!!!!!!

Oh, and the point of my story? Well, there are several little groups within my moms group. A cooking group, where we make child-friendly dishes. A book group, where we read books about raising children, or books I read in high school. A group devoted to talking about home-schooling. As I was learning about these groups I thought, “Hey, where’s the cocktail group? Where’s the lets-get-together-and-get-the-kids-in-the-backyard-with-lots-of-toys-while-moms-enjoy-a-glass-of-wine group?” Well, there isn’t one.

Then I thought, “These women don’t drink. They have kids. They spend every waking moment thinking about the next thing to do with their kids." No wonder they deleted “wine” off of my hobbies list. Wine isn’t a hobby? I guess not! Who knew? It's not like I sit on my front steps drinking out of a paper bag while the kids are crying and running around the yard in dirty diapers. Perhaps that's what my moms club moms think?

I have overheard a mom say, “I don’t drink because I have kids.” Interesting. I drink because I kids.

Am I the only one who finds these people odd?

So, I’m still looking for that perfect moms group. The one where we meet up, get the kids together for an hour or two of intense playtime. And the moms sit back and talk about themselves, the kids, the husbands, the dogs, when they can plan a spa trip, and watch their little miracles release large amounts of energy, all with a glass of wine in hand!

Guest Blogger Mel Miskimen:Where the Hell is my Kitchen Towel?

Mel Miskimen is author of "Cops Kid," creator of the logo to your left, and coproducer of the Single Married Widowed Divorced Podcast.

I have a one year old labrador retriever and it’s spring in Wisconsin. So, Labrador + Spring (mud) = a kitchen floor that looks like a Jackson Pollack, but not worth as much.

He was supposed to be my husband’s dog. That’s why I agreed to get him (the dog, not the husband.) We already have a dog. An old golden retriever that lays around all day. I don’t have to do anything for him anymore, just feed him, and let him out and not step on him. Perfect!

But, then my husband wanted this puppy and since he is not home during the day, and I am, well, the training and the walking and the puppy-proofing is all up to me which, I have to tell you, is not what I wanted to be doing with my empty nesting aka me time. Why not just go ahead and adopt a crack baby?

I used my reasonably good dish towel to mop up. I know. I know. I should have used a rag, but, who am I kidding? The rags are stashed away in a bin underneath the basement steps and I won’t go there because it’s all spider-webby.

To get down on my hands and knees in the yoga pose ironically called Cat and Dog, and clean the floor one time is a minor inconvenience, and with a puppy, especially a Lab, it’s even kind of cute – he has a look – his head cocked to one side, his ears up, his eyes wide open and, is that a grin?

The second time, it’s a pain. The third time? It’s starting to get old. The fifth time? That’s when I threatened to sell him for medical research.

I threw the towel on the dryer in the laundry room – I know I did – because, it was really wet and it stuck to the side, like a good piece of spaghetti cooked al dente.

But, when I came back to wash it, it wasn’t there. I looked under the clothes hamper. Between the washer and dryer. Did he drag it into his crate like some kind of kill? No.

It wasn’t in the dining room. The living room. Behind the sofa. Under the sofa. Not under the dog bed. Not behind the treadmill. Not under the coffee table. Not behind the toilet. Or in the closets.

It had simply vanished.

Or so I thought. Turns out, that it was part of his little act.

Two days later I noticed something . . . a small piece of . . . no! the towel? It stuck out of my dog’s rear end, and like any assistant chosen from the audience, I pulled it and pulled and pulled and it came out and out and out, like those colorful scarves that never seem to stop coming out of the magician’s sleeve. And, better yet, it was intact.

Amazing! I am not satisfied. I keep looking. Waiting for . . . doves?

ON THE PODCAST
Listen in (for free!) to the Single Married Widowed Divorced podcast and hear how the rest of us are managing the ins and outs of our marital status.

Photo by Stephanie Bartz

Guest Blogger Mel Miskimen: Framed!

I went to the eye doctor for my yearly check up and guess what? I need new glasses! This comes as no surprise to me, because I've had glasses ever since the second grade, when I had a routine eye exam that was given to every kid in my grade school by a nurse from the Health Department. She asked me to tell her what direction the big E was facing on the chart that was thumb-tacked to the wall, and I said, "What wall?"

I cannot go to one of those places that advertise "Glasses in an Hour," or "$99 Regardless of Prescription," because, number one: my lenses have to be made by the same people who brought you the Hubble, and number two: the $99 places have stupid looking frames. Well, not unless you want to look like Larry King.

So, five days ago I began the process of finding the perfect frame. Just what was the perfect frame? Well, ever since I saw Diane Keaton at the Oscars, I thought something kind of little and round. Retro hippie. Wire.

Tuesday, I walked into an eye frame boutique, cleverly called Making A Spectacle, known for carrying THE most trendiest frames from France, Italy, Denmark, Germany and Japan (not the cheap Japan, the cutting-edge-robot-designer Japan.) Out from a flouncy curtain came an orange-hued man -- a cross between The Emerald City Doorman and Judi Dench when she's playing a lesbian and not the Queen of England.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I'm looking for a new pair of frames," I said.

"I have frames that are made by hand and by the finest artisans in . . . the . . . (insert really big sweeping gesture here) WORLD!"

He pulled out several pairs for me to try. "I would like to see you in these." They were everything I didn't want. Too narrow. Too severe. Too 1920s-German Expressionism. The were made from Titanium. I was looking for glasses, not something that could replace a hip.

"Do you have anything rounder?" I asked.

"You mean a modified cat-eye?"

"No, round."

"Oval?"

"No, round." I pulled out a pen and drew a circle on the back of an old receipt I had in my pocket. He rolled his eyes.

"No one is doing round anymore! Well, maybe you could find something . . . at a discount place." He made another gesture, a small one. It was the please-go-I-am-done-with-you-you-are-boring-me hand flick.

On Thursday (I used Wednesday to re-coup) I tried another place. This one was trendy, but a bit more pedestrian. And, there was a sale going on.

"Can I help you?" She was frameless.

"I need some new frames," I said.

"What are you looking for?"

"Oh, something round-ish. Wire-y."

She pulled the most perfect pair of glasses off one of the fake cacti in the window display. They were exactly what I had been looking for! They were round, wire, with a brushed rim in a grey-green metal. Retro, yet nowtro. And wouldn't you know it, they looked so good with my hair, my face, my skin tone! And wouldn't you know it . . . they were the same price as my first car.

"Oh, no. I can't. Too expensive." I handed them back to her and started to walk out.

"Wait!" she said. "Wait a minute. Let me see what I can do."

Do? What did she mean, do? She went into the back. Was gone maybe five minutes. When she came back out, she was with a blonde version of Danny DeVito in a hula girl and pineapple themed Hawaiian shirt.

"500," he said.

"Dollars?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"No, no. I can't afford that. I've got to get lenses and they're going to cost me at least $700. Not to mention that I've got two kids in college and a husband who along with me, likes to eat. No. No, I can't."
I hated this -- not being able to just get what I wanted, when I wanted it. I hated having to always weigh things -- New pants? Or gas? A 6 pack of cotton underpants or vacuum cleaner bags? I felt so defeated. It must have showed.

"Okay. Okay." He touched my forearm. "This is last years model. I'm trying to move inventory, okay? How about $300?"

"No," I laughed. Not as a negotiating tactic, but because I couldn't believe this whole process.

"I can't go any lower than $250."

I wasn't trying to be a hard ass or anything. I shook my head, no.

"No?!"

"I'm sorry. I just can't," I said.

I was truly sorry. Sorry that I didn't stay in that advertising job that I quit fifteen years ago because I needed to find my passion, which I haven't found yet. If I hadn't quit, then I probably would have been an Art Director by now -- a bonafide contributing member of the family and I would have something concrete to tell people when they asked me what I did for a living and had to make up stuff that sounded good, "I'm taking a sabbatical," or "I'm weighing my options." And, I'd be really raking in the loot and then I would have had more disposable income and therefore . . . those damn frames!

"What is it going to take for me to get you into these glasses?" Hawaiian shirt guy folded his arms across one of his hula girls.

"You want to know? I'll tell you. Here's the deal -- $140. That includes a pair of clips, a case and you've got yourself a deal, otherwise, I walk." Who knew I had an inner Condoleeza Rice?
He chewed on the inside of his cheek. He looked towards the back room. He pursed his lips. Wiped some sweat off his temple. I looked at my watch. I was late for my hair cut.

"Okay, okay," he shook his head. "You've got yourself a new pair of glasses." He looked spent. Blotchy. Damp. He went up to the front counter and leaned up against it. Caught his breath. "Cheryl, here, will write you up."

Damn! I should have held out for floor mats and rust proofing.

ON THE PODCAST

To help your day go by with a few laughs and maybe some insight, Listen in to the Single Married Widowed Divorced podcast.

Mel Miskimen: The Incredible Shrinking Vagina

Hi. My name in Mel and my vagina is shrinking. No, I’m not making this up. That is what my doctor told me and why would she lie?

I went in for my annual check up – height 5’ 4”, weight 165 pounds?! blood pressure 97 over 58, pulse 65, temperature 97.6 degrees, age (let’s just say that I’m past peri-menopause – which is the point when one is not “officially” in menopause, but circling the drain so to speak – I am well into the menopause. I’m in meno-stop-all-together).

My doctor asked me if I had any concerns, and I did. I told her about my lack of a sex drive, and I don’t mean a not-tonight-honey-catch-me-later kind of thing, I mean sex isn’t even on my mind. It’s gone. I don’t even get the urge. Which is okay, seeing as how my husband, who is on high blood pressure meds, is sort of in the same not-in-the-mood-for-love boat. So what’s the problem? Well, the problem is that I am concerned about my lack of concern. That’s the problem. Oh, yeah and the one time we attempted to have sex – last year, I think – it hurt like all get out, which is exactly what I told my husband to do.

So, the doctor went in for a looksee and that’s when she broke the news to me. Who knew a vagina could shrink? I didn’t. But, wait. There’s more. Its walls are collapsing and my pelvic floor isn’t doing all that great either. I’ll have to get one of those neon orange warning signs for my underpants: THIS VAGINA CONDEMNED! NO ENTRY!

Wait a minute. There’s hope. There is a hormonal cream that is available and is better than taking a hormone replacement pill because the estrogen (or is it progesterone?) goes right to the source instead of having to travel through the miles and miles of blood vessels where it could get lost and not ask for directions.

But, there is one minor problem. It is not covered by my insurance and therefore would cost me around $125. Okay, now, there are two issues here: 1) I feel that if this product or problem was for a penis, it would be covered by insurance, and; 2) Why am I willing to pony up at least that amount on other creams and lotions? Oh, yeah, those creams are for my face.

Until I come to terms with my inability to spend money on my nether regions, I’ll just have to shore things up with duct tape and some KY.

Mel Miskimen is author of "Cop's Kid" and co-producer of the podcast "Single Married Widowed Divorced."

Guest Blogger Gerry Steele: Apple Pie, Anyone?

“Gerry, it’s Mary. Sorry I missed you. Before I book our flights, I wanted to check that these dates work for you. won a round trip airfare last year at the Tour for the Cure and I have to book before the 27th. Dean is using frequent flyer miles from our trip out west. Call me back. Love you.”

Mary. Mary my mother-in-law. Dean. Dean. My father-in-law.

I have been married for exactly 16 years and ten months. On March 10, 2007 we will celebrate our 17th wedding anniversary. I will admit that I have NOT learned to enjoy the company of my father-in-law. I don’t call him “dad.” I still introduce him as “my father-in-law” or better yet “Chris’ dad, Dean.” This insures that no one will mistakenly think that I am in any way related to him.

I have come to believe that whatever we are, whoever we are today, we become even more of as we age. For Dean, my father-in-law, Chris’ dad, that is a crabby, rude, inappropriate man. Maya Angelo once said to Oprah Winfrey, and I paraphrase, “Accept people as they present themselves to you.” That’s a tough one in some cases.

Dean and his wife Mary live in Texas. They come to visit us in Milwaukee once or twice a year. Each visit is about four or five days long or in my opinion, three or four days too long. They only visit when the weather is cold because they enjoy traveling and book their real vacations and then slot us in around those trips.

Dean has a lot of energy. Even in his early 70s, he continues to run and bike on a regular basis. Over the years, I have caught him doing morning calistenics in his boxer shorts before he comes down for breakfast that always consists of a bowl of cereal, raisin bran and wheat Chex with sliced banana served in a mixing bowl that has been chilled in the freezer over night. It doesn’t matter if my husband is making homemade pancakes for the entire family. He still starts his day with a regiment that has been played over and over for years.

Mary, his wife, is quiet and proper. Mary married a man who does not have a filter on his thoughts. Mary married a man who only believes in that which can be proven in a double blind study. Mary married a man who is egocentric and more self involved that a three year old in a public sandbox. One of these qualities could be forgiven. But when mixed together, these qualities in fact have take on an ugly formula, not unlike the stuff bombs are made of. And he’s a Republican. Boom.

About a year ago, my in-laws came to visit for a long weekend. Every time they come, I attempt to psych myself up and tell myself, “Chris loves them. These are his parents, not mine. I must accept them. What if I just was a bit more positive? I won’t talk and I will swallow any and all of my opinions. This is great for my two children!”

I baked a homemade cherry pie in anticipation of their arrival on a Friday evening. I cooked a delicious meal and as we sat down, I was filled with a feeling of perhaps this time I could last through their visit without wanting to throttle Dean, my-father-in-law, Chris’ dad (DMFILCD). After our tasty dinner, I prepared to serve the pie complete with vanilla bean ice cream. Dean loves food so I was definitely making a clear attempt to extend the olive branch. He could see that, couldn’t he? Dean loved the pie. There we were, DMFILCD, Mary, Chris, my son Max, my daughter Maddy, and I. When all of a sudden, who should pick up his plate and begin licking it?

DMFILCD was in fact licking the remains of what once was a delicious piece of pie ala mode. My 13 year old, Max, looked at his grandfather. hen Max’s eyes looked into my eyes. Max was absolutely enthralled with what was sure to be a showdown. And I couldn’t let him down. By now, everyone was looking at DMFILCD. No one was saying a word.

Now that is important to mention - no one was saying a word to a grown man licking his dessert plate at the dinner table. Did I miss something? Because if my father did something this stupid, I would be all over him like a cheap suit and then I would tell everyone about it – like I am now. But oh no, we don’t correct Dr. DMFILCD. Did I mention that he’s a semi-retired physician? Formally educated at a well-known medical school out east? My dad didn’t even attend college and I still would not tolerate plate licking.

Back to the silence and the licking. In fairness to the rest of the people at the table, I think they all knew I could not pass up this opportunity to open my pie hole and comment. “Dean, we don’t lick plates in our house.” I said firmly, not yet yelling. He continued to lick. “Put down the plate!” I said yelling.

He sheepishly replied to my second command. “But it’s so good.”

“Then get another piece,” I said.

This was not going to be the visit that ended with all of us embracing each other for who we are. No, that would have to wait until 2007. I will call Mary back now. They will visit in April. We will get along. We will get along. We will get along…

ON THE PODCAST Listen to Single Married Widowed Divorced as we look at the world through the lens of marital status.

Photo by Stephanie Bartz