My Second Weekend as a Married Woman
Caution: Traumatic and Deeply Disturbing Story Ahead
I wanted to share with you all the story of the second weekend of my marriage. I was still somewhat naive, and slammed pretty fast into the realities of family obligations. It was culture shock, to say the least, and the bright and shiny rubbed off of me really fast. Anyway, the events described took place three weeks short of two years ago.
I feel sure that you will be able to laugh at my pain. So, in the spirit of entertainment, allow me to fill you in on all of the gory details.
Have you ever had this much fun?
Friday: Go to work. Work 8 hours. Come straight home. Load the car. Drive 2 hours, eating grease-burgers en route, until you reach the far end of the state. Walk up the driveway and down into the storm cellar/basement. Where 10 people are actively cutting, hacking, and otherwise strewing bovine carcass everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. Pant legs, belly fronts, floor, walls, hair, on kids, EVERYWHERE.
Say hello. Walk up the stairs. Take the out offered and refuse a knife of your very own. Arrive upstairs where "processed" meat is being packaged. Or more accurately articulated, where the newly hacked bovine carcass pieces have been taken.
You know those buckets you can get motor oil and other toxic chemicals in? Imagine bucket after bucket after bucket filled with hamburger. Fatty-er hamburger I've never seen, mind you. It was definately several percentage points (say 25%) off of the 95% lean I try to buy in the grocery store.
Imagine filling ziplock freezer bag after ziplock freezer bag with the aforementioned carcass pieces. Do you have any idea how hard it can be to drive all of the air out of a ziplock bag full (way too full) of ground meat? Did I mention that these were the cheap ziplocks (generic brand) that don't seal very well? F-U-N. Anyway.
Once you've done 3 or 4 or 5 of these big ass buckets of meat, then it is time to do steaks. So, they bring up bucket after bucket of steak. And you put those in cling wrap and further wrap them in butcher's paper.
Here's a laugh-inducer. Watch a tired Phoenix with hamburger-fatty hands try to work a box of cling wrap. I'm telling you...it was probably hysterically funny to watch, but I was ready to pull out my hair (IF only my hands weren't so gross!) So you do several buckets of steaks, then go back to hamburgers. Throw several dozen roasts in for laughs.
Now for the stomach turner: Thank God Phoenix had dinner on the road. At about 11:00 pm they decide its time to eat. So they get out some of that fresh hamburger and they make patties, and they grill.
Here's the problem: I'm the only person (besides the kids) that I ever saw wash her hands. We took breaks. We all did. Bathroom breaks, cigarette breaks, play with the kiddie breaks, snack breaks. The flu's going round. Everybody has a cold of some sort. There is no sink in the basement/cellar. I looked. I don't think of myself as squeamish, ordinarily. I've spent plenty of time on the farm. BUT--how about a little hygiene, people? To me, you should wash your hands at every opportunity, or everytime you despoil your hands.
But maybe that's just me being neurotic. I couldn't eat. First, I wasn't hungry. Second -- I'm no fool. I was once sick in Mexico. I took Microbiology in college. We DID an experiment on hamburger from GROCERY STORES. Ain't no way I'm going to eat that shit from somebody's basement. ICKY POO.
So, go back to your mother in law's house. Too late to shower, fall into the too short, too cold bed and sleep like the dead. Get up in the morning. No time to shower. Go back and do it all again. Six or Seven more beef quarters to go. More pressing air out of plastic hamburger packages. More fatty hands fighting the cling wrap. More alarming lack of hygiene. Exhausted, moody, un-showered Phoenix keeps a smile on the whole time. I'm no piker!
But I nearly lost it at the end of day two. When I was offered something they call appealingly "RAW DOG". Catchy name, huh? This is Fresh ground hamburger with raw egg, worcestshire, steak sauce, salt & pepper (and only god knows what else, including the microscopic buggies). No thank you, I said politely. Really, you can have my share. No thank you. More for you. No, I haven't tried it. No thanks. Someone save me from the raw-meat pushers!
Finally, you've had enough fun. Tired, moody, dirty, grossed out, pushed to the breaking point with no outlet, with strained smile on your face you leave. Thank god. Begin to wonder if you'll ever feel that euphoric happy that is supposed to define newly-wed. Cry in the shower. Tired of doing things on other people's schedule. I don't care how much goddamn meat they give us, it costs toooooo much. Need a romantic weekend, or some sleep, SEX? yeah. That too. Explain to your husband. He is supportive. But don't say all of the ugly things in your head. He says its okay, we'll leave by 8:30 Sunday morning.
A little while later Prince Charming's mother comes home. He tells her our plans to leave early in the morning. We have things to do, he says. "Bullshit" she says. "What could you possibly have to do?" Phoenix thinks to herself: 5 loads laundry, grocery shopping for week, clean house, pay bills, make 3 batches cookies for debts owed, and oh yeah, how about a little time for the newly-weds?
So you know what happened? I got up at 7:00 am Sunday morning and guess who was planning a huge f*&%ing breakfast? The menu included Bacon, French toast, eggs, cereal, hashbrowns, sausage. She's not a woman, she's a short order cook. Struggle through a breakfast with more food than most restaurant dinners. Clear off table for annoying mother-in-law while she frets over what meat we are taking home with us. I want to tell her to keep it all for herself. I don't want the crap. Finally pull out of the driveway at 10:30 am. Only two hours late. NOTE TO SELF: Next time, plan to leave at 6:30 am so you can leave by 8:30. Unf*&%ingbelievable. She really torqued me with that "Bullshit" comment.
How dare she suggest we have nothing to do? We left right after work on Friday. We are trying to line up a mortgage, build a house. She knows this.
anyway.
Married life isn't all its cracked up to be so far.
What do you think is next? Torture by Saddam?
Hope you got a laugh or two in there somewhere at my expense.
