Hostage

Last weekend, we went to visit My Sweetie's fam. I like 'em well enough, although, there are some pretty obvious differences: namely, I am a vile, vulgar thing with a potty mouth, and there's not a potty mouth among them. Even Sweetie's rebel sister doesn't swear.

They are kind, decent people, every last one of 'em (except his brother & sister-in-law, but that's a totally different story.) I love each of them for who they are, honestly.

BUT, it drives me absolutely crazy that his father regards women, in general, as incapable of anything more than cooking, cleaning, shopping, tending children and pets. (Case in point: we were there once when it was time to take down a tree. They were using a chainsaw that was exactly like the one I use every year to trim live Christmas tree lower branches and trunks. He refused to allow me to touch it (Look, yes. Touch? Hell, No. He actually jerked it away and held it practically behind his back to keep from despoiling it. No lie, I felt like Ayla in Clan of the Cave Bear when she touched the hunting weapons and they burned them because a woman touching it would curse it & the hunter who used it.)

I understand that his father is more my grandmother's generation than my own parents. And I get that he's pretty much set in his ways. (Case in point: he nagged My Sweetie for fully 2 years after the Howler was born because I went back to work. Nevermind that I get weird when sentenced to remain at home for extended periods of time; nevermind that I'm competent at what I do; nevermind that I chose to continue to work, instead of shrinking our budget to one vehicle-no extras-no frills. He actually called My Sweetie, one of the hardest working, annoyingly busy people I've ever known, LAZY. When the Howler turned 2, the old man realized, and admitted, as much as he was able, that he finally understood. What we'd been telling him for over 2 years!)

BUT, it annoys the shit out of me that the womenfolk fold, spindle, and occasionally shred themselves to the old man's ideas & will. "If Papa ain't happy, it's some woman's fault" is pretty much the unspoken Golden rule.

He's not a wife beater, and he truly loves his family. He'd give anything (except his tools & power equipment) to save his wife, children, grandchildren, or great grandchildren. He provided for 5 children in the 50's, 60's, & 70's. My Sweetie's childhood was fairly normal and happy.

BUT, he cannot seem to grasp the idea that the womenfolk are worthy of anything except being womenfolk. And certainly, his daughters or granddaughters should submit to their betters--their men, or more specifically, HIM. (Case in point: my one sister-in-law lives right next to her parents. She had a room in her basement fixed up--Papa did most, if not all the construction work for it--and it promptly flooded every time there was a substantial rain. The indoor-outdoor carpeting would need to be rolled up, wrastled out the door and dried in time for the next rainfall, so it could flood again. After spending several months in this Groundhog Day-like nightmare, she announced that she'd rather live withOUT the carpet, because it was too stressful, taxing, and tiring to continually deal with the flooding-rolling-dragging-drying of the carpet. She stated, absolutely, that she did not care where, who, what, or how the carpet never re entered her home, she just flat out did not want it--Absolutely Not Ever Again. What does Papa do? He waits for her to go to work, then returns the carpet to her basement. What does she do? She quietly cries and seethes and takes it. My response to the story is that the old man would not only NOT have access to my house any longer without supervision, but he'd be given a deadline to remove the carpeting from my house. She told me it was disrespectful to do that to him; I countered with he isn't respecting YOU very well, and he's not going to until-and-unless you put a stop to this. Classically, I am wrong, and I misunderstand the situation.)

In his favor, he wore a Princess crown for the Howler's birthday because she asked him too. He most recently took her, in her pajamas, to drive around the county in search of the Thurston Classic balloonists' takeoff point Sunday morning. He fixes stuff, and charges cheaper interest on car loans than the bank.

BUT, Friday night, at the big deal balloon take off, he was a jackass. And we all got held hostage to the Man.

He didn't want to go, and argued against it. He was informed that we were all going, and there would be no supper cooked for him. So he went too. (Case in point: in building the house they live in, he planned a dining/kitchen area that would not hold the dining room furniture and the appliances. The only reason the smallish cramped kitchen area--there is at least one cupboard that is practically inaccessible unless you stand on your head, sing the Star-Spangled Banner backwards while someone else holds your ankles to the chair for safety--got added was because my mother in law refused to move in until he changed the plans. The dining room is cramped, and the kitchen is cramped. My bathroom has more room, and it can't hold 2 people at the same time unless one is in the shower or standing in the toilet.)

Not having been there before, we were ill-prepared. No chairs, no umbrellas, beating down summer evening sun. It was hot. It was bright. It was a loooooooooong wait.

While everyone was in a make-do attitude, there was an garbled announcement that take off may be delayed by an hour or more. We were hungry, hot, tired, and sweating. At one point, the old man commented that he hadn't seen anyone he knew to me. I commented that I hadn't either. He promptly informs me that "Wall, you don't know anybody, anyway." Nevermind that I went to college for 3 years less than an hour away. Nevermind that between church and work, I did know people from the area. Hell, I once went to Baltimore to visit my sister, and ran into someone I knew from college. At our niece's baby shower, I knew the owners of the Inn where it was held. But, go figure, I certainly couldn't know anybody. My response was certainly clear, "Don't you tell me that I wouldn't know anybody here. I know people YOU don't know from here, so do not begin to tell me who I know and who I don't."

I'm already oozing annoyance, when the Committee (above mentioned sister in law is known as The Committee because there's not a decision that can be made in 30 seconds that certainly can't be made in 3.8 excruciating years in her hands.) begins clucking about how hot, tired, sore footed, and hungry everyone is.

I decide that rather than take it upon myself (and not have it thrust upon me anyway) to make the decision to leave before lift-off, I would take a poll--yet another learning experience I'll never have to repeat:

I begin with the Howler--not out of a sense of childhood entitlement, but to be sure that her voice was heard without the whinging that comes from being smallest and lastest. I move on to the old man. He announces that, "YES, I'M HERE AND I'M STAYING." and then goes back to talking to total strangers and ignoring the rest of us. My Sweetie abstains, the wuss. The Committee announces that she also refused to answer, and will not be cajoled or coerced into an answer. You can see where this is going, right? "I want to leave, but the old man doesn't, so we'll all stay here, in the hot sun, without chairs, bleating about how sore our feet are, watching each others' faces turn into lobster ornaments."

Nobody's going anywhere. Nevermind that the Committee has driven herself, and can load any takers into the vehicle. Nevermind that My Sweetie drove, but I have my keys with me, and we can load any takers and go. The OLD MAN HAS SPOKEN.

My Sweetie, bless his heart, tries to find his way out of the dilemma of having been raised to accept being held hostage & made miserable or pacify his anger-vibe producing wife. He fails, by asking quietly if I would like to take the Howler and any takers (with continued bleating in the background) and go--he'll stay with Dad.

Do you see the problem yet? Seven people--SIX of them adults--and the only one willing and able to stomp the Commandant's tyranny to dust cannot, out of "respect" and the open air-public access placement of the party.

Through clenched teeth I told My Sweetie that this was not the time nor the place for this particular conversation, and he'd better just go back to his indecision. I refused, for the next hour, to make any decision--I'd do what my menfolk told me to do. And grind my teeth, aggrivating my TMJ.

I was angry at my father in law for having no concern for anyone except himself. I was briefly angry at my husband for being a dishrag. I was angry at my mother in law and sisters in law for being unable to make a move against the old man's statement. I was angry, at myself, for not foreseeing this when we arrived, sans chairs and shade producing implements, and I was angry at the old man for the womenfolk he so thoroughly held hostage.

Finally, My Sweetie made the decision to leave, and I dutifully followed. He stopped, I stopped. The Howler questioned, I sent her to her father, because, and I quote, "I'm not allowed to make decisions, baby." (Hopefully, someday she'll wonder about that, too.)

We did see the balloons take off.

Then we all headed to a restaurant. I sat far away from my father in law and managed to dampen the death-vibe and keep it from spilling over and poisoning my wonderfully-herself daughter.

I tactfully got my sister in law to drive my daughter homeward, and once I knew the AC was on, and no one would hear, promptly let forth a spitting diatribe against this sort of jackass, self centered chauvanstic passive idiocy. The language I used was vile, vulgar, and most definitely not ladylike. (I know, big shocker, for those who know me RL)

My Sweetie didn't like it, but I told him, the next time we do something like this, either we won't be doing something like this, or I'll leave his ass, with the Committee, and leave. I will NOT be held hostage by an old man who treats me as second class because I can't piss my name in the snow. I will not cater to a man who has no concerns for the feelings and opinions of me and my daughter because we're not men.

I don't expect the old man to change his ways--but dammit, I'm not going to sit back and have my daughter see-hear-learn that making Papa happy at the expense of herself is okay. It's not okay, I won't be doing it any longer, either.