A not so quiet week ahead, today the wonderful love of my life is off to collect his parents from the train station to come and stay with us for a couple of days.
Naturally this is not a social visit, there are doctors appointments to attend, and it has always been expected of us that we should be the ones who should make the trip to play happy families. Regardless of our bank balance, my health and the unlikelihood of the car making it that far. All of that is of little matter, we are simply bad people because we don’t visit. After the initial squawking match over some details, all has been settled and we are now battering down the hatches for the impending arrival. While one of the visitors should be fine the other is a royal pain, the kind of pain that legends are born of. Naturally, given my lack of ability to suffer fools, divas and pity party princesses this could prove to be quite an interesting few days. Had I been given more notice of this visit naturally I would have chosen to visit family of my own. In either north Queensland or Darwin, far, far away. Alas, after years of marriage to their son, it seems my in-laws are on their way to visit (use us as a free hotel).
But I have been here before, my first set of in-laws were just as much fun to deal with. You’d just get a phone call that they were just leaving and then that was it. You were stuck with them until they decided they wanted to leave. This of course was back in the dark ages before I discovered the words, ‘No, you are not welcome. And, get the f*ck out of my house.’
Still it leads you to a far deeper understanding of the saying ‘Family. Can’t live with them, can’t shoot them either.’ What is it that leads a grown man to swear you to everlasting silence over the fact you can cook better than their own mother? What deep primal fear does that invoke? Or pleas to try and not loose your temper, (Who me? Temper? Never.), when dealing with some of the less evolved members of the family. All in the name of a happy family with shiny happy plastic smiles.
Right. Not happening. If my mum bless her cheeses me off I tell her about it, like wise if I tread on her toes, no malice or abuse, we simply clear the air and then work out who’s turn it is to make a cuppa. Simple. The sister on the other hand is a different story, for a while she became quite an issue for me, until I remembered that in my life I am the one who decides who knows what about what, when and if. Since then things have been much better. Of course my sister has next to no idea what I am doing at any time on any day. But it makes sense, there is friction if we talk too much so I simply do not talk too much. In other words I rarely if ever talk to her at all, but hey what ever works. It hasn’t always been this easy, but at least we worked on it and got it right in the end.
In the meantime, I would appreciate any donations of sedatives for the upcoming week, I’ll even organise the pick up.
Please.
