Notes from the Neurotic

It’s your favorite jet-setting blogger here, coming to you 'live' from South African Airways Flight 207. Actually, by the time I get to a computer and type this up I’ll be ‘live’ from Chicago, but I want you to feel as though you are here in the moment with me – cramped up in this narrow blue chair with a bottle of water tucked into the crevice between your hip and the metal armrest, a paper covered pillow tucked behind the small of your back, and a red polyester blanket draped over your lap while you breathe the recycled air and become more and more aware of the man sitting behind you with a constant cough.

So here we are - headed back to the States again. I won’t go on about how spoiled I feel and insist that I do recognize the indulgence of it all…okay I just did, but I won’t apologize for it. All I’m gonna say is that I’m excited to be going home.

Of course I’m not exactly going home, not yet anyway. We’re flying to Chicago first, then driving to my sister’s lake house in Wisconsin, then a few days in Louisville before our final weekend in Atlanta.

10 days.

It’s kind of a whirlwind, which perhaps explains why I’m slightly stressed. Although it will be fun, that kind of fast paced travel might be stressful for anyone, right? And yet I can’t help but feel that I have some sort of extra special stress gene that allows me to turn any situation into something to stress and/or obsess about.

I used to think stress was a result of being busy, but as we’ve established – I’m definitely not busy. Still, I tie myself up in knots over everything from what to pack to the American presidency.

Last night, for instance, I couldn’t sleep. Part of it was excitement, I’m sure, but it’s also this crazy stress that I manage to create for myself. To prove my point (though I may regret this), here is an all too revealing glimpse into last night's insomnia:

I’m going home! But does everyone back home think I’m pathetic for coming back so often? And does everyone here in Joburg think I’m spoiled for traveling so much? And why do I care so damn much about what people think? I’m going home! But have I packed right? Is it cold in Wisconsin? I’ll only be in Wisconsin for a weekend. Will that be enough time with my sister? And what about my mother? Will she have fun at the lake house? Oh, she’ll be fine, and I’ll get to spend some one-on-one time with her in Atlanta…but will I? I’m only in Atlanta for two days and there are a thousand people and things I want to see and do. I know - I’ll just invite everyone up to my mom’s for a BBQ so that I can see everyone at once…but what if no one comes? Or what if they all feel obligated to come but don’t really want to come because she lives so far away? Maybe I shouldn’t invite them at all. Oh, for the love! Only I could turn a backyard BBQ into a panic attack! What’s wrong with me? And what’s wrong with the Middle East? And who will be the next president? And who will be the next American Idol?
I need water. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
Oh God, was that the bottle that I left in my car all day? Because I read somewhere that hot plastic water bottles gave Sheryl Crow breast cancer. Damnit. I wonder how Mrs. T is doing. I should say a prayer for Mrs. T. (Pause for brief prayer.) I wonder if it’s bad that my prayers always seem to be asking for something. Does that mean I’m selfish? Well, I must be selfish, otherwise my mind wouldn’t be wandering to the fact that I had ice cream after dinner tonight and should therefore really go running before my flight tomorrow. Then again, tonight’s ice cream is probably the least of my worries; I doubt I’ll be able to fit into those cute new jeans I packed after ten days of eating all my favorite American foods. And what else did I pack? Did I pack enough? Is it cold in Wisconsin? And wait! I haven’t written anything for my blog to let people know I’ll be out of action this week…but maybe I shouldn’t take the week off anyway. Maybe I can put something together on the plane. Yes, that’s what I'll do. I’ll write something on the plane…

And there we have it.

More notes from the neurotic upon my return…

American Idol Smackdown

Okay, I have one more story to share from our ‘holiday’ at the coast. And to be fair, the M-I-L isn’t even the antagonist in this particular tale. In fact, if anyone comes off looking like a lunatic, I’m afraid it’s me (and the evil man who tried to ruin my life). Read on for details…

My relationship with American Idol this season borders on obsession. I look forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays with ridiculous glee. I even download the songs from iTunes. We’re a couple weeks behind the US, but I carefully censor my internet surfing (and conversations with my mom) so that I can watch the results show with suspense, and experience the full shock effect when the rightful winner is voted out of the top eight. I haven’t gone so far as to wake up in the middle of the night to call in and vote (though had I thought about that before now, maybe Michael Johns would still be with us), but to say I’m a fan would be an understatement.

So you can imagine my panic when I realized that we would be out of town for the Thursday night performance show (to be immediately followed by the much anticipated Idol Gives Back show). Sure, I knew we could record it and watch it when we got back to Joburg, but I also knew that I would feel very bitter about sitting in some snooty restaurant with the in-laws while the rest of South Africa watched my show. Understanding my disappointment, Roger promised that we would get takeaway pizzas and watch the show in our room at the B&B. We’d have our own little evening of Idol...but of course, the M-I-L likes American Idol too, so it was decided that our Idol evening would be a family affair.

When we check into the B&B, however, Roger discovers - much to my horror – that our TV doesn’t get the right channel. Never one to give up (especially on something so important to his fabulous wife), Roger talks to the owner of the B&B and finds out that the main television downstairs gets the channel. Roger explains that his wife is obsessed with American Idol and asks if we can use the main TV the following night. No problem.

But when we get back to the B&B the next evening – take away pizzas in hand – we find a middle-aged man sitting alone in the dark in front of the television. Roger leaves me in the kitchen hyperventilating while he goes into the TV room to see if the man would mind changing the channel. Roger explains – in his friendly and adorable way of course – that we don’t get the American Idol channel in our room and asks the man if he minds switching the channel. He is welcome to stay and have some pizza with us, Roger tells him, but we’re desperate to watch the show.

“No,” the man declares without expression. “I’m watching the news.”

Roger asks if he wouldn’t mind watching the news in his room – once again explaining that we don’t have that option since the channel we need is only available on that particular television.

“No, I’m watching it in here.”

Unwilling to accept that this man could be so unreasonable; Roger asks the man if he has kids asleep in his room, or perhaps his wife is watching something else upstairs. If this is the case, Roger tells the man that he is welcome to watch the news in our room.

“No,” he says without apology. “I just don’t want to be cooped up in my room.”

“Dude,” my husband says with a smile of disbelief, “That’s kinda rude.”

Meanwhile, I’m in the kitchen close to tears as I listen to the M-I-L’s for once appropriate rant about the horrible man watching the news. My rational self acknowledges that the whole thing is slightly ridiculous, but my psycho self thinks the world is ending. Surely, this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Fortunately, Rational Me gets a grip on Psychotic Me and I assure the M-I-L that really, it’s fine. We are, after all, recording it at home.

Roger comes back to the kitchen. He plans to switch the main cable box with the box in our room so that we can watch what is left of the show upstairs. Of course, the horrible man wants him to wait for a commercial break to make the switch. The M-I-L is fuming. She marches into the darkened TV room to unfurl her wrath. We hear the M-I-L tell him that he’s rude and horrible (which he is). He argues that she is extremely rude – especially for “an elderly lady.”

Do you see me hiding underneath the kitchen table? Because I am.

Just in case I haven’t made it clear…I can’t stand conflict. At the first glimpse of confrontation, I’m overwhelmed with fear, self-loathing, and outright panic. I can’t explain why it happens, but there I am – my heart is racing; I’m sweating. Perhaps the only thing worse than missing Michael Johns’ performance is the potential of my husband or his mother coming to blows with the horrible news-watching man.

“It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine,” I say, sounding eerily like a psych-ward patient, rocking back and forth in a padded cell.

“It’s not fine,” Roger says angrily. “He is in the wrong.”

“But he was here first,” I say, accepting defeat.

“But he’s being rude,” Roger argues. “And horrible!”

“But telling him that certainly isn’t going to change he situation,” I insist.

“That’s not the point,” he says before storming upstairs to disconnect our cable box.

And here we are again. Back to the central difference between my upbringing and Roger’s. Normally, it’s not an issue. Roger is one of the most laid back people on the planet and his go-with-the-flow attitude falls right in line with my if-you-can’t-say-something-nice-don’t-say-anything-at-all philosophy…but not tonight. Clearly, Roger feels very strongly about this horrible man – probably in part because he had promised me that we could watch Idol, and now this news-watching man was forcing him to break his promise. (It’s actually quite sweet, when I think of it that way).

But Roger didn’t break his promise. He successfully switched the cable boxes, and the four of us crowded into our bedroom just as the Idols Give Back show was about to start. Sally, Roger and I laid like sardines on the queen bed while Bryan perched on the chair beside the nightstand. We polished off the pizzas and by my third glass of red wine I wasn’t quite so upset about missing the performance show.

We all have our quirks, I suppose. In my own way, I’m probably just as nuts as the M-I-L. And one day it will be my daughter-in-law telling stories about her M-I-L's irrational fear of conflict and unhealthy attachment to reality TV.

The Dark Side

The thing about my in-laws is that they look like Normal People. Nice People. Fun People. People you might even enjoy spending time with...

...And occasionally, they are fun to be with, but they have these alter egos – this dark side, if you will – that I fear is quickly becoming the dominant side of their personalities (that is, if it wasn't all along).

On the surface, they are a fun-loving couple. My father-in-law is a jolly guy – he likes his rum and Coke, and he knows how to make people laugh with his wild opinions and teasing nature. And my mother-in-law, she comes across as the picture of effortless perfection with her easy smile and candid conversation. But their alter-egos are radically different – when the dark side takes over, he becomes this angry, grumpy old man and she turns into an anal, irrational psycho.

Maybe it’s just part of getting older, but even the most trivial things can bring out the dark side. It’s the usual stuff, for the most part – crowds, traffic, waiting in line, slow service – it’s the things that bother all of us, but most people are able to shake it off and accept that it’s just part of life.

In theory, by the time you reach your sixties you should have long since accepted the little inconveniences that life throws your way, but in reality, age seems to make you less tolerant of these everyday nuisances, and in the case of the M-I-L, more entitled to announcing your grievances in a public forum. You see, while my father-in-law merely grumbles about his frustration with the world, the M-I-L gets aggressive. She shouts at strangers; she bellows at innocent bystanders. If someone has wronged her – directly or indirectly, purposefully or accidentally – she makes sure that they regret it.

I know this firsthand, of course, for it wasn’t so long ago that Roger and I were the source of her irritation. Moving out of the main house solved this problem (for the most part), but it is for this reason that I’m extremely sympathetic to those on the receiving end of her tirades – like the poor girl who had the audacity to bump into the

M-I-L’s chair at a crowded mall coffee shop (and immediately squeak “Sorry!”).

"Jesus Christ!” the M-I-L snarls, whirling around with her signature look. I can actually see the young woman shrinking into her chair as she experiences the full strength of the look. “Does no one see that I’m sitting here?” the M-I-L continues, now talking to us, but loudly of course. “I mean, for God’s sake!” With that she looks over her shoulder once more, to make sure the girl is still sorry (and she most certainly is).

And then there is the man at the mall’s parking garage redirecting traffic from one entrance to another. He stands next to a “Lot full” sign and is gesturing that cars should continue to the next entrance. True, we have just seen five or six cars pull out of that very lot, but is that any reason to roll down the window and scream “ASSHOLE! The lot can’t be full – we’ve just seen a hundred cars come out!”

Geesh.

Now I'll admit that there is something to be said for expressing your feelings, for not being a doormat, for speaking up when someone wrongs you. Maybe I’m the backwards one – the southern belle, always biting my tongue in an effort to be polite – but I have to believe that there is a difference between expressing your feelings and randomly shouting at strangers. The former is healthy, the latter is just downright hostile…

And more importantly, it doesn’t solve anything!

But that doesn’t stop her from screaming at the crowd of twenty-somethings who are socializing in front of us at the rugby match. We spent last Saturday at Roger’s alma mater, where we claimed a space in the “Old Boys” section of the field. The younger alumni were using the area to mix and mingle with old friends – watching the rugby wasn’t exactly the priority of the day. But instead of acknowledging that maybe we had chosen the wrong place to sit, the M-I-L spent the afternoon shouting “I can’t SEE!” and “Get out of the WAY!” and “MOOOOOVE!”

She certainly wasn’t the only adult using such tactics, but to me, her belligerence is always particularly shocking. I suspect it’s because to look at her – if you didn’t know any better – she is the epitome of class and glamour…but then the dark side strikes, and she becomes this crazy lady ready to claw your eyes out in a trailer park cat fight.

Wow. I’m so going to hell for this. And to say all of this on Mother’s Day! I’m horrible…

Because she’s not all bad. I mean, it’s fun to paint her as this schizophrenic glamazon, but she’s not. Well, she is, but she’s more than that...

She can be funny and silly. She can be generous. She’s strong. And God knows she's tough – the woman has had two knees, a hip and a shoulder replaced; she had half her tongue and part of her esophagus cut out in order to beat throat cancer. Physically, I think she could face pretty much anything. And she’s truly passionate about her friends and family. I believe she’d do anything for her loved ones…and somewhere along the way, this crazy woman decided to love me.

And I love her too. Not just because she is Roger's mum, but because I've never known someone so completely comfortable in their own skin. And as much as her total disregard for common courtesy infuriates me, there is something admirable in her constant confidence. Maybe I could even learn a thing or two from her - at least in that department. Don't get me wrong, the woman is completely nuts, but I do love her…

So that being said, I’m entitled to poke a little fun…right?

Still, we should probably keep this just between us.

Last Supper

Oh, where to begin?

I’ve spent the last five nights down at the coast with Roger and his parents. Apparently, living in the back yard doesn't allow us to spend enough time with them; we need to trek six hours to a cozy B&B on the beach to get some real quality time. So where do I start? Do I begin with the M-I-L’s refusal to dine anywhere without white tablecloths? Or with my poor father-in-law’s gloomy conviction that his chronic back pain is bone cancer? Or perhaps I should start with his fits of rage behind the steering wheel. Better still, maybe I should begin with the M-I-L’s Tourette's Syndrome (Tourette's is the only plausible explanation for her belligerence towards total strangers). Or maybe I should start with this cloud’s silver lining – the sweet ways in which my husband attempts to make these long five days fun for me…

But, no. It’s late and I’m only just getting back to my computer, so perhaps I should begin with the ending – a recap of last night’s evening meal.

We meet an old friend of Sally’s at a nearby restaurant. I’m introduced to a petite sun-worshipping woman named Frieda who kisses both of my cheeks before promptly insulting me.

“Robyn is from America,” the M-I-L declares. She often does this – places a stronger than necessary emphasis on the ‘mer’ in America and draws out the syllable. I think this is an attempt to say the word with an American accent, though I’m sure I don’t say it that way.

“So what part of America are you from?” Frieda asks.

I smile sweetly, despite the fact that I would rather be anywhere but here. “Atlanta, Georgia,” I say.

“Oh, well,” the woman says, looking back at the M-I-L, “Very American.” They laugh and I laugh along with them until it occurs to me I’m not sure what she means. So I decide to ask, not to be a smartass – I’m much too polite to be a smartass – but out of genuine curiosity.

“What could I have said that would make me less American?” I ask with eyebrows raised.

“Well you could have said Canadian,” the woman quips. “At least that would be a bit better.” Both women continue to laugh but the smile vanishes from my face. I am so sick of this kind of crap. But we’ve just sat down to eat, and now is not the time to battle it out with an old biddy. So I mutter, “Well, thanks for that,” and open my menu.

So now we order. Wine first, of course. The waitress brings out a Chardonnay and pours five glasses, leaving a few mouthfuls in the bottle. Bryan says to go ahead and bring another, which she does – placing the new bottle in the ice bucket and emptying the first one into Frieda’s glass. Somehow this slips by my father-in-law and when he goes to refill his own glass he finds only the new bottle. “Well, who got the end of the first bottle?” he gripes. Roger wisely tells him that the waiter topped everyone up before opening the new bottle. I say that this was wise because had Bryan known Frieda got the last half-glass, he undoubtedly would have made a rude comment on her overly rapid consumption. I tell you this about the wine to demonstrate that despite my father-in-law’s genuine generosity, he is very aware of exactly what and how much is being consumed at his dinner table. I forgive him this because he was a child of World War II, with strong memories of food rationing. So it’s all perfectly understandable…until he turns his attention to me and my food.

I ask the waitress about the salmon. It’s usually quite expensive in SA but the price on the menu is surprisingly low – or at least no higher than all the other entrees.

“Oh, that salmon will be hugely filling,” Bryan says. I resist the urge to say that generally eating is designed to do just that – fill your stomach. I only comment that it sounds delicious. “Well, I just mean you definitely don’t want a starter if you’re getting that,” he continues. Irritated, I say that I wasn’t planning on ordering a starter. “Oh well, fine; that’s fine. I don’t care.”

Deep breath.

You see, it would be one thing if Bryan was paying for my meal, but the fact is, Roger and I pay our own way at least 90% of the time we dine out with his parents. So even if I wanted to order the friggin' oysters rockefeller and lobster thermador, he has no reason to comment…but he just can’t seem to help himself.

I order the salmon.

After the others eat their appetisers, the waitress brings out the main courses. As predicted, the salmon is huge. It looks delicious though, and with the veggies on the side, it’s exactly what I wanted.

“Good Lord, that’s huge!” the M-I-L comments.

“Well, you’ll never eat all that,” Bryan mutters. “I told you it would be hugely expensive.” My head snaps up because I know for a fact that my meal cost less that three out of the four other meals at the table. “I meant filling!” he says when I start to defend myself. “I meant I told you it would be hugely filling.”

I’m not sure how to respond to all of this because, to be honest, I’m unsure of my sin. My paranoid self thinks they're saying something about my figure by commenting on how much I’m prepared to eat. So, I won’t eat the whole thing, I decide. I will be dainty and eat like a girl who hasn’t run thirty miles this week. But then again, maybe eating the whole portion will be my redemption – if I eat it all, nothing will go to waste and my father-in-law’s WWII issues won’t be aggravated. My mind is spinning as I contemplate the large piece of fish and its even larger implications, until suddenly – miraculously – I mentally smack myself out of this people-pleasing frenzy.

I calmly place my knife and fork down and look up at my father-in-law. “I’m not sure if you will feel better if I do eat the whole thing, or if I don’t,” I say pointedly, but with a slight smile to ease the tension.

“Oh, I don’t care. It matters nothing to me,” he grumbles, diving into his own huge portion of fried fish and chips.

“Don’t be so silly, Robyn,” the M-I-L interjects, “Why should we care?”

My point exactly.
I reach for my wine glass, intending to drown my irritation, but stop myself. After all, I can’t have them thinking I’m consuming more wine than someone else at the table. That would be the ultimate sin.

We manage to avoid prolonging the experience with coffee and dessert, and the waitress brings the bill. Roger and Bryan produce their credit cards and the bill is split in half (the horrible friend made no effort to pay for herself). I pat myself on the back for getting through the evening without throttling anyone. All in all, it has actually been one of the more tolerable evenings, I think. But of course we haven’t made it home just yet. There will still be a screaming match over the best route to take back to the B&B. But I will close my eyes in the back seat and consider how I will tell these stories to you. Can I do it in just one post? Certainly not. So look forward to more fun with the fam next week…