Shake Before Serving

Each year, about this time, my father-in-law heads for Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and spends nearly a week playing golf and getting re-acquainted with his college buddies. Hank is a wonderful guy and the perfect father-in-law, however, his annual departure unleashes an unholy hellfire that compels me to start praying, almost immediately, for his quick and safe return from the links. Why would I want to deprive such a fantastic fellow a trip to this putters paradise? The answer is simple: When Harry departs, my mother-in-law moves into my home.

I realize comedic material regarding the subject of mothers-in-law spans centuries and even ions. The earliest unflattering portrayal of in-laws were probably found etched in a pre-historic cave somewhere near Henny Youngman's boyhood home, launching one-liners that live even today. Legends are truths with a little age added, don't you think? Why would mothers-in-law be so scorned if history had never recorded their kind as shrews?

If you had ever had the opportunity to spend a week in the presence of my mother-in-law, you would agree that myths have some connection to reality. Sometimes a very strong connection.

Possessed with a blunt nature that would make an IRS auditor blush, Jane has the ability to make one feel unwelcomed in your own home. Phrases like "What are you doing here?" or "I thought you were gone" can make a mortgage paying homeowner like myself want to run out in the street and re-check my address.

My son, a stoic lad, is unfazed by his grandmother, citing his IPOD as his source of comfort. "Nana is best heard through the muffled sounds of Green Day" he explained. Ignoring grandparents has come quite a long way since I was a kid.

The person that suffers the most during this week long siege is my wife. She is a petite, angst-ridden insomniac who receives a Christmas card from the Augustus Busch family for her continued support and consumption of their products. The mother-daughter bonding time that the golf trips creates is both painful for her and painful to watch. This combination of guilt, criticism and downright meanness are a recipe straight out of Freud's cookbook.

The best way to explain this angonizing interaction, is a model I call "The Pepsi Metaphor". Here's how it works.... First, think of my wife as a can of Diet Pepsi (I know that's weird, but stay with me on this). Next I place my mother-in-law in the role of a disturbed and thirsty infant. Finally, I will play the part of an unsuspecting schlemeel (not a stretch for me).

When the infant meets the canned drink she throws the Pepsi into the air, rolls it on the ground, steps on it a few times, and then hands it to me to open for her. Anyone who has ever had a shaken can of soda knows what happens next. Now take that metaphorical scenario and replace the Pepsi with my wife's emotions. GUUUUUUUUSSSSHHHHHH! All over me.

Every night, when I arrive home, I am greeted by a geyser of mom-induced rage. All I can do is hug my stuttering, convulsed spouse and keep her head from flying off. The are moments when, approaching my driveway, I nearly head for the lifeboats and drive off, leaving my wife to fend for herself. My love for that disfunctional little woman keeps me coming back, allowing her to vent herself into exhaustion every night.

Tonight marks the final night of this yearly ritual. Harry will return, I will have one final soaking until next year, and my wife will sleep until Tuesday. Next year, I get an IPOD.