I had been working in the yard trying to repair some paver bricks that were being uprooted by a tree and, predictably, I got annoyed and pulled up the entire walkway figuring that it would be easier and cheaper to just put down some gravel. Accordingly I was foul and filthy and in a sour mood when I walked into the house for a shower.
I had the house to myself: Duckie, my 90 year-old mother-in-law who is visiting from New Jersey and Ryan were at the mall. On the way to the shower I passed the laundry room, so I just stripped and left my dirty work clothes there. On the way from the laundry room to the shower I passed the linen closet, grabbed a clean towel and then headed for the master bathroom which is at the far end of the master bedroom.
As I walked into the master bedroom I was mightily surprised to see Duckie was in there reading a book. I hastily wrapped the towel around myself.
“I thought you were at the mall?” I said.
“I didn’t want to go,” said Duckie, not looking up from her book. “I wanted to read instead.”
“But why are you in our bedroom?” I asked.
““The light is better in here,” she said, still not looking up.
I sighed. Duckie has a very nice guest room with its own private bathroom and the lighting in the master bedroom is no better than it is in the guest room – or, for that matter, in the living room, the family room or the dining room and I knew immediately I had walked into the middle of another of Duckie’s head games: I mean, what house guest hangs out in their host’s master bedroom? Are there no boundaries?
“Do you mind if I take a shower?” I said acidly. “The sound of running water won’t disturb you?”
“Not at all,” she said magnanimously. “Just don’t use all the hot water.”
In the shower I counted to 100 and practiced my deep breathing and calculated the number of minutes until United Airlines would take her back to New Jersey and was reasonably calm when, fresh and clean, I emerged from the shower and walked into the kitchen.
On the counter was a row of dirty glasses Duckie had used. Her habit is to take one or two sips from each glass, put it on the counter and get a clean glass next time she is thirsty. This drives me wild and I was putting the glasses in the dishwasher when Ryan came home from the gym. “Why can’t your mother use the same glass more than once?” I asked him before he could say hello. “Or put them in the dishwasher?”
“She’s our guest,” he said. “And she’s old.”
I decided to take the high road and not mention that she was like this when she was young. I also did not mention her other annoying habits, like leaving wet towels on the bedroom floor or her refusal to help clear the table after dinner (“I’m your guest!”) and her insistence on riding in the front seat of the car because she claims she gets car sick. (She doesn’t.).
“I hate these power plays,” I told Ryan now. “She’s treats us like she’s the Queen Bee and we’re her drones.”
“Just relax,” said Ryan soothingly . “She leaves Saturday.” When I did not respond, he shrugged. “I’m gonna take a shower before dinner,” he said.
Ten seconds later he was back. “Duckie’s taking a shower,” he said, furious. “In our bathroom.”