The horrors of the Greek family

There are times in my life when I want to be mean. Naturally mean. When I wish I could kill the enemy with the swish of my tongue. There are times when I let go of the steam and I speak out my mind. There are times when I do both. Then I feel terribly awful.

The said week with the outlaws is over. They came, turned our life into a cage, kept the worst for the end, and then all laughs and kisses left this morning for Athens where they arrived safe and sound.

I am one to blame myself for ways I could do things differently and did not. I blame my strict Christian upbringing for that. And I accuse the deadly, suffocating grip of the so called tightly knit Greek family.

My next-door neighbour who knows m.i.l. for over a year now, is telling me that I won't find peace until m.i.l. dies. That is when she found her peace. Yes, but will I last, or is she slowlly killing me and my marriage?

I have kept a quiet smiling profile all week. I made myself promise that I won't speak her name to my husband. I smiled and served, cooked and smiled, washed dishes and provided fresh towells. And smiled. Having opposite me a moody beast like those who survive from times immemorial in the depths of the seas. Accompanied by f.i.l., her goodwilling, lawful, faithful servant. And I smiled and served.

Saturday, three hours short of the wedding we were all supposed to attend, the girls tell me that she attempted to brainwash them, telling them how much she has done for us, bringing them up, cooking, ironing and taking care of us. Huh? Pardon me? I was begging for help when my kids were sick and in hospital, and she wouldn't come because she had "prior obligations" as she called them, i.e. playing cards and attending dinners. While we were working a 6 day 9a.m. to 9p.m. week.

I smile, let C know, he smiles, says, never mind, they're leaving tomorrow. I serve lunch, do dishes and head upstairs to get dressed while he watces the news. I immerge wearing a 3 year old long black linen dress, a short sleeved linen cardingan, pale gold ballet flats, a black shoulder bag a la Chanel, and try to accessorise a look black like my heart. A small neckerchief does it, its pale pink watercolor flowers providing a glimpse of joy.

The outlaws are off. M.i.l. wears a pale gray organza she has had made for the occasion. A string of fresh water pearls we had offered her a three years ago (what was I thinking? whjat have I not done to make myself pleasant?), long pearl and crystal tear drom earrings, bejewelled peep toes, full make up, and fresh from the hairdresser's hairdo. 

I look at them go, and I wonder. Am I jealous? Good God, me, jealous of my Mother in Law?

Truth is, I haven't been to the hairdresser's since before Summer, when I coloured my hair, that is now turning orange from the sun. I haven't ordered a special occasion dress, since that black dress I wore at a ballroom dance evening that C hated so I stopped going. I turn older while she turns younger. How can it be? I push the thought aside. Let's get the job done.

C is wearing his familiar beige and olive gear. It's his unconventional, active lifestyle wardrobe staple. He has aquired that taste with me. I have styled him, opened up his good quality choices. Familiarised him with Gant.

-How do I look?
-Fine, very you, I say. And you smell nice.

I don't put any perfume on. It is going to compete with m.i.l.'s overwhelming fragrance that is drawining the living room and climbes the stairs. I spritz some Caudalie envigorating spritz and go.

We get into the car, C looks at me, obviously dispproving.
-What is it you don't like, I say. I can go and change.
-No, nothing, he says, still looking at me.
I can no longer hold it back.
-Women expect their husbands to tell them how nice they look before an outing, I say quietly, and the quiet of my voice surprises me. Or tell them what they thik they should change.
He doesn't reply.
-How come I always tell you how nice you look, and you don't?
-Yes, dad, F, says. Mom is right. You don't encourage her.
-Stop it, he tells her. It's all your fault, taking your mom's side.
I cannnot believe this.
-What does she have to do with it? I say. Now I am trully surprised. And hurt. Because he still doesn't say it. He doesn't say "you look fine". Or even "OK". I now cry. Hot, bitter tears. I shall be fourty this year and I am jealous of a 77 year old who has been hurting me from the moment she met me. Is there no mercy?

I cry inside the church. The plastic bag holding the tissues is now empty. What are those people so happy about?Where is the joy of getting married?

The ordeal is over. I smile at smiling relatives while we stand in line to greet the newly weds. They are happy to see us, so is the groom's father, one of C's nicest cousins.

On the way to the dinner I check my blog. I need to see something positive. Denise says she loves me. Thank God.

During dinner, m.i.l. snaps pictures of my children with her mobile without telling me or them. She chats with realtives, all men, thirty years her younger about mobile phones, photos and how she is going to get into internet, too. I want to take her mobile and crash it with the killer heels I do not wear. Nice people come and greet us. I drink three glasses of great red wine from my beloved Peloponnese. I fantacise about kicking her big fat rear out of my house and down the stairs.

The girls  tell C on the way back. He says he will check her mobile. I tell him I want an end to his mother's doing as she pleases. He says he will take care of it. I lie upstairs in bed sqeezing J in my arms. They ring and C lets them in. I wish I had locked them outside. I wait for C to say something. She kisses him goodnight. How I hate her smell on his cheeks! He comes upstairs. All lights open. I don't care.

I wake up at 10a.m. C is having coffee with his parents. I wake up the girls and J. The sooner we get them out the door, the better. I don't want to waste all of my Sunday. Tomorrow they sail to the island of Tinos with other retired army officers and their wives. Since I got married to her son, she has turned religious. She failed to turn me into a consumer beast, criticised my fasting choices, and now she goes on a yearly pilgrimage to the church of Virgin Mary. I am disgusted. But I accept that only God knows her soul.

C comes upstairs. He lies in bed while I pull on a t-shirt and a skirt. He is quiet. So am I. Then I listen to f.i.l. telling m.i.l. "You were the best last night. The most beautiful. The best dressed". I hurt. My heart hurts. My head hurts. This is not right.
-Did you hear that? I tell C. Your dad just said...I have had enough of her. Look at me. I was full of life, working on TV. leading a glamorous life, and now I am getting older and older, while your mother gets all the compliments. Do what you have to do with her. I do have a mother, too. who raised me on her own, sent me to College, paid for my French lessons, and turned me into the person I was when we got married. We can have her over here, too. And suffer from her. She is my mother. At least I am not going to suffer from my mother in law. 

There, it's out. I've said it. I go downstairs. We cross kiss each other. She begins getting down the stairs. She turns around. "You looked nice, last night", she says. "I didn't tell you earlier".

They get in their car. D and I behind them. With her fat bejewelled hand she squizzes my younger daughter's hand. "Don't ever forget this. Granny loves you very much", she tells her.How dare she touch my child? God, I hate her.