Lessons I Wish Had Been Learned Before I Moved Here #1

January 2, 2006 at 8:42 pm (The Enlightening Ones)

As some of you know, back in May my fiance and I moved in with his mom and brother. Contentment levels have been pretty damned low these past months, in part because I’m dealing with a woman who has only shared accomodations with family and a man who’s never been forced to share a damned thing his entire long life short of having his mommy divvy it up and make him like it.

The woman’s position I can understand. She’s over 70 years old, and lived during times where a woman first lived in her parents’ house, moving out only to move in with her brandspankingnew husband. From there it’s the family home until age, illness or death force a move. I don’t see much excuse for the grown man who still has to be told there are other people in the house who occasionally expect to share in that five-pound bag of Chex Mix Honey brought home from work. I know it’s hard to expect a 40-plus man who has never shared his bed with anything but a Keeshond (and now my pushy-bitch cat) to deal with a family member he didn’t know from babyhood…

Wait.

I’m stopping myself on the “excuses for heinous behavior” hedge I’m writing here, because there simply is NO perfectly good explanation for a 40 year old virgin and an elderly woman who never learned boundaries. There just isn’t one and I’m not going to play fucking nicey-pants and hedge what I need to write here.

Lesson 1 I wish they’d learned:

There are things none of us need to see.

It seems so simple to me.

If you’re taking a shit while you’re on stool softeners, just close the door when you go. I don’t need to see you perched on the pot. I was a Certified Nursing Assistant for eight years. During that time I saw all the wrinkled asses I will ever need to in my lifetime, and unless something’s desperately wrong with yours, I don’t want to add to the body count. Shut the damned bathroom door!

In addition, I didn’t leave that can of citrus room spray in there because the aluminum bottles I got were such a decorative addition to your decor. I really, REALLY want you to use the stuff in it! It’s not like I have to harness up the dogsled and haul ass across the tundra to get more. I MAKE this–I developed the blend, I always stock the essential oils, and it smells infinitely better than Eau de Laxative. Use it, use it all, use as much as your stinky butt-products require. I’d be more than happy to refill the bottle, gratis.

Side note: Thanks so very much for asking for a new robe for Christmas. Being flashed because you don’t wear anything underneath a robe with worn-out snaps before I’ve had what passes for coffee here has not helped with my need to heat a fireplace poker and ram it into each eye socket until the gross pictures stop. My shrink’s very concerned about that, but even he has to admit it’s not an abnormal reaction to seeing the naked lower half of one’s mother-in-law-to-be.

If you’ve been running your Interwebnet pr0n machine all afternoon and feel the need for relief, simply go in your room across the hall from ours and close the fucking door. If there’s the slightest chance any of me I’m not intending for public consumption will poke out from under its covering, I shut my own door tight. I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same. It has to do with the creepy feeling associated with the thought of you peeping thru a crack in a not-quite-shut door. Just call it an eccentricity if you really must justify complying with this request. I don’t go around assuming that your passion for images of anything having to do with sex (not exaggerating here–he leaves the CD’s he stores images on around, titled by category, and, um, EW!) means you really want to see my plus-sized, poshly-scented, cellulite-pocked bare ass, and you can trust I have no deep-seated need to ever see yours.

As for your naked fumblings, do keep in mind I’m marrying your brother, and have negative interest in you. I’ve had many years to debate whether or not I’ve chosen the right brother, and my mind’s made up. I like to watch him beat off; the idea of sharing that intimate moment with you makes my skin crawl. The one time Fate forced the vision on me, it ensured that your brother didn’t get any for a week. I will sew you into your fucking ick-assed bedsheets and beat you with an iron skillet if I am ever forced to see your substitute for female companionship ever again! I know how you were raised–overcome it, you repressed dipshit!

In general, my family-in-law, if you’re changing clothes, feeling the need to spray that feminine hygiene stuff on your snootch instead of showering, if you’re actually showering, if you’re peeing, if you’re even just brushing your teeth, shaving in your underwear, or any of the other horrible sights I’ve witnessed since my incarceration here , just shut the Dog-damned door, all right?

No one needs to see that shit.

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1 Comment

  1. Serra said,

    Mary–I no longer update this blog. If you know me send me an email and I’ll redirect you to my new stomping grounds.

    And, um, who’re you anyhow?

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