The Green Meanie

Apparently I’ve become sort of a recycling Nazi. A few days ago, I found an empty conditioner bottle in our bathroom garbage. I brought it downstairs, simply said “Hello?! Recyclable!” to Husby, and put it in the recycling bin. Yesterday, I found a glass bottle of pasta sauce in the kitchen garbage. I merely growled with a pointed look at Husby again, then took it out to the recycling bin in the garage. Today at lunch in the work cafeteria, I watched Husby throw away his yogurt cup when – gasp! – the plastic recycling bin was right around the corner.  This time I hissed at him, not wanting to draw too much attention to him and embarrass myself (yes, I’m married to HIM, ye-old-thrower-awayer-of-recyclable-materials).

Husby approached our table and told me I was a new kind of super hero. The Green Meanie. Heh. Wonder if they could change my business cards?

And other Big Red Gems...

The dating years…

BR: You can’t put green olives on your sandwich. Use a pickle instead.

Me: I really don’t like pickles.

BR: But you can’t use a green olive! It just isn’t done.

Me: Who said?

BR: (Huff!)

The engagement period…

BR: Have you given any thought for what you’d like to do for your honeymoon?

Me: We want to go on a cruise.

BR: A cruise! That’s terrible. You don’t want to do that. Dad and I went on a cruise once, and it was a miserable time. That’s not what you want to do.

(Asked Husby later… apparently they went on a FERRY BOAT across some European ocean and had a shitty time. Ferry boats do not equal cruises. We went on the cruise, had a great time, sang our praises, and now BR and father-in-law have been on three. Hah!)

The first grandchild…

BR: That’s too much detergent in your dishwasher.

Baby: Wahhhhh!

Me: It’s fine.

BR: You’ll scratch all your dishes. Don’t use so much.

Me: It’s not a big deal.

BR: You need to treat your belongings well so you have them around for a while. I never just throw money around and act like things are disposable.

Me: Wahhhhh!

Me: I’ve been doing dishes for 20+ years, I’ve been using as much as I like, and our dishes are just fine! (Note, this is unlike me… it’s called “lack of sleep and being a new parent” – guess it brings out the kahoonas in me!)

During my second pregnancy…

BR: How have you been feeling?

Me: Pretty good. My back has been sore, though.

BR: It’s probably because you were overweight before you got pregnant.

Me: (WTF?!)

In the hospital after Baby#2 was born…

BR: Baby#2 has a lovely color – almost orange.

Me: She has a mild case of jaundice.

BR: No, it’s probably because you drank too much juice when you were pregnant. Did you drink a lot of juice?

Me: No. It’s because she has a mild case of jaundice.

BR: Or maybe you ate a lot of carrots?

Me: No. It’s because she has a mild case of jaundice. Her doctor said that’s what it was.

BR: Those doctors are always over explaining things.

The day we brought Baby#2 home from the hospital.
I’m nursing BB and Husby is napping in a nearby chair. BR just brought Baby#1 home.

BR: Well, I’m off. Can you lock me out?

Me: No. I’m nursing. Husby can.

BR: Can Baby#1 do it?

Me: No, he has a hard time turning the lock. Husby can do it.

BR: No! Don’t wake him up. He’s exhausted. Let the poor guy sleep, he’s been through so much.

Me: (WTF?!! I was in labor for 15 hours! I just gave birth! I haven’t slept more than one hour in three days! My boobs hurt! My vagina feels like it had a rendezvous with a lawn mower! And your precious son needs to sleep?!! Screw you!!).

Me: HUSBY! WAKE UP! LET YOUR MOM OUT!

BR: (Huff!)

The Downy Ball Wars

In 2007, Husby and I decided to shake up our life and move to a different state. We decided to move back to Husby’s hometown. He’d been in my home state long enough to get a Bachelor's, Master's, an absolutely wonderful and perfect wife (me), and helped in the general creation of our son. I welcomed the chance to explore a new city... so after our decision to move, we lined up a job, put the house up for sale, and made the jump (all within 2 months).

Part of the reason for moving was to have a chance to save some money and get ahead in life. This was to be accomplished by living with my husband's parents for a short while (read: six long miserable months): a red-headed, hot-headed, fireball German full of love (my mother-in-law, Big Red), and a gentle, work-a-holic, conflict-avoiding Irish dovey (my father-in-law). And so began The Downy Ball Wars.

My mother-in-law is perhaps the most generous person in the world when it comes to her family. My husband is an only child - and our son was at that time an only grandchild. Needless to say, a lot of thought and devotion go into our family. My mother-in-law would give any of us her right leg if we needed one... but, she would tell us exactly what color of thread to use and just how to sew it on.

I haven't known that many Germans - but this immigrant of 35+ years retains what I believe to be the national German motto: "My way is the supremely right way. If you don't do it my way... well, there must be something wrong with you."

One of my first lessons from BR involved the Downy Ball. For those of you who do not know, Downy is a fabric softener to be poured into your laundry during the rinse cycle. The Downy ball is a device that holds Downy and automatically releases it during said rinse cycle - saving you time from having to listen for the rinse cycle to begin.

Apparently, despite nearly 10 years of using a Downy Ball, these do not work. At least according to BR.

While sharing a washing machine and dryer, we often did one another's laundry. I showed BR the Downy Ball, explained how it worked, started a tub of wash (with the Downy Ball inside) and proceeded to go about my chores. That night, as I folded laundry, I noticed how strong our laundry smelled... I later discovered BR had also inserted yet more Downy during the Extra Rinse cycle - so we'd had a double dose. No big deal. I talked to BR about it - again explained the Downy Ball function and assured her it really did work and that she did *not* need to add more Downy. She nodded her agreement and I thought that was that.

On Halloween, as my husband was carving our pumpkin, BR approached him. "Son", she said. "Your wife isn't do laundry properly." "Really?" my husband said. "How so?" BR then told him that I wasn't truly taking care of our family because I was missing the all-critical-phase of the rinse cycle. My husband, ignorant of ways-of-wash and unaware of the Downy Ball War that was now ensuing, urged BR to discuss this with me.

Later that week, in a brief, yet strangely heated discussion, BR again asserted to me that the Downy Ball couldn't possibly be working. I had her smell our clothes - they permeated with the magical Downy fragrance. She agreed that they did indeed smell nice. I suggested to BR that when she does laundry she do it her way... and when I did laundry, I'd do it mine. She agreed, and again, I thought that was that.

One day after pulling fresh laundry from the dryer, I found a new thing mixed in with the socks and underwear: Downy Dryer Sheets. BR had silently stuck some in - confident that the Downy Ball was not working and she would be damned if her only son and grandson did not have the softest, Downiest clothing out there.

Vent aVay

My mother-in-law (Big Red) has a very thick German accent. As such, her w’s sound like v’s, and vica versa (or is it wica wersa?) She’s also very proper, classy, and thinks words like “fart” are absolutely profane.

In their guest bathroom upstairs is a very special toilet. This toilet possesses a special button that when pushed promptly whisks foul odors from the toilet bowl (I’m not sure where they end up, but it’s definitely not in her house, neighborhood, or general vicinity). This toilet is called a “Vent-Away”.

Upon one of my first visits to their home, Big Red (BR) ensured it was just the two of us in the room, and gave me some simple rules of bathroom etiquette (OK, seriously, how many of you have as an adult been given bathroom etiquette rules when visiting someone’s house? Anyway…).

BR: If you happen to be menstruating [told you she was proper], please do not flush your tampons down the toilet. Our systems clog easily.

Me: Okay.

BR: And if you use sanitary napkins [see!], there is a garbage can next to the toilet for them.

Me: Okay. No problem.

BR: And if you should have a bowel movement, make sure you use the Vent a Vay.

Me: The what?

BR: The Vent a Vay. The button is right there on the side.

Me: Okay…

It was easier to just reply in the affirmative than ask what she was talking about. Husby later gave me a quick tour of the handy-dandy “my shit don’t stink” button. Pretty nifty.

One of my favorite definitions for vent is: “a means of exit or escape; an outlet, as from confinement.” Like BR’s special toilet, I have the means necessary to release things that have been trapped or, ahem, constipating my person. Hence the Vent a Vay blog!