Well. That was pleasant.

            For the next thirty seconds or so, the stares persisted. I ignored them and attempted to suck the remaining three drops of mimosa from the champagne flute in my hand. Then, going on as if I had disappeared, which I am certain they hoped had been the case, they all shifted back and continued with the audible ridiculousness. On a positive note, it seemed that my little outburst had knocked Natalie off her "All About Me" track, which sent her discussing, and I was as shocked as anyone, our children. Of course, I had just downed four cocktails in a little over an hour and was a little bit on the tipsy side of things, so I didn't really pay as good of attention as I might have otherwise. Figures. The one time she actually gets to the point, and I alcohol-ed my way right out of it.

            Once the little get together disbanded, I was being stepped around and subjected to dozens of sideways glances that informed me that I had become even less savory than before, if that had even been a possibility. A loose cannon. A rebel.

             Or maybe just a person in desperate need of medication...          

             I chose not to dawdle once we were released by our master, Natalie, because, let's face it, why on Earth would I… but when I got outside to my car, I realized that I contained about three mimosas too many to drive in good conscience. I glanced at the time and saw that Ollie would need to be picked up in a little over an hour, which I didn't trust as quite enough time to work off my buzz. I may be socially deficient, but I know when to be an adult and the idea of driving my child around tipsy is not a good plan. My first thought was to call Derek and see if he might be able to take the afternoon off and pick up our lad, but then I would have to explain the reason for my absence, and I was pretty sure he wasn't in the mood to do me any favors after the weekend of sick Mommy.

            So in a momentary stroke of genius, I called Jenny Miller, a lovely, mousey little woman who lives a street over from our house, and scheduled a last minute play date for the afternoon, beginning with her picking Ollie up. Her son Mike (not Michael, which I always thought was odd) and Oliver are the same age, but go to different preschools. Mike goes to a blissfully normal, non-pretentious location for his early education, while poor Oliver is subjected to regulations and tedium that I liken to Accounting School run by drill sergeants. Jenny is on board, and I am relieved to not have to decide between ratting myself out to my husband, or the non-existent option of drunk driving my child.

            With Ollie's fate in check, I debated between sitting in my car for an hour or two until driving became a reality, or setting off on foot, and coming back for my vehicle later. Once I realized the very sincere risk of being spotted loitering out in front of Natalie's house, I took off. No need to add fuel to the already raging inferno that is the decline of my reputation.

            A few blocks over, I wander into a cafe in hopes of procuring a cup of coffee and some lunch. It should have hit me a lot sooner that I was still in Natalie's neighborhood, and that while it looked like a normal little spot to grab some java and a bite to eat, it was in reality a place where those little conveniences cost more than the total of the outfit I was wearing. Outfit being a loose term here, as I was still clad in sweats, and reminded of this as I was being given the stare down by my waiter who was well aware that there would be no grand tip coming from my shallow pockets. I have to say, after pushing the horror of the last few days out of my mind, I actually enjoyed having a nice long lunch all to myself. It was the first quiet mealtime I had been privilege to in months.

            Once I had waited out my drunkenness and indulged in a five dollar coffee and eleven dollar turkey sandwich that I believe consisted mainly of bean sprouts and avocado, I trudged back to my car. I will pretend that I didn't try and act all ninja, hiding behind trees and various forms of shrubbery, in the hopes of not being spotted by Natalie or any of her social spies. Call me paranoid if you must, but you would have done the same thing, rest assured. And when I tripped into a thorn bush, I figured it was a small price to pay.

            Back home now, and winding down after putting Abbs and Ollie to bed for the night, I debate coming clean with Derek about my many misadventures from the last few days, but he is engrossed in his laptop while watching television in the background. Instead, I take part in the familiar ritual that consists of me cleaning up the kitchen, doing dishes, and preparing the house for the next day, all the while listening to the television play shows for Derek that I once upon a time used to like to watch as well. If it weren't for the magic that is TiVo, I would be a lot less gracious about this injustice. Now, we seem to save a few sacred shows and get together once every week or two and watch together. I mean, sure, Derek is on the computer doing things, and I am clipping coupons or flipping through a magazine, but hey, it is our version of quality time since our lives hit suburban overdrive.

            It is because of this drudgery that I know I am in for it when Derek comes into the kitchen just as I am finishing wiping up the counters. Our routine is very rarely interrupted, and usually not for anything of a positive nature. No, most times it is something along the lines of him informing me he has to travel for work, or that he has found a new gadget that our home must have that costs in a range of thousands, or in a variance, I could appear behind him as he sits on the couch and tell him that I am not a slave and that he should get off his ass if he ever wants to see mine again. Needless to say, these little interruptions are not something either of us look forward to.

            I turn, sponge in hand, and brace myself for his revelation. I can sense that it is something particularly unsettling as he not only comes up beside me, but he gives me a light kiss on the top of my head.

            Oh God. Is he dying?

            "Why are you looking at me like that?” He asks, his tone indicating that he is defensive, but trying very hard to not come off as angry or nervous. It must be really big.

            "What is it?” I demand, tension dripping off my every syllable. "What's wrong?"

            "Why does something have to be wrong?” Now he is irritated with me. I have been here before. He has something bad to tell me, and knows that if he comes at me like this, I will get jumpy… at which point he can accuse me of being overdramatic and unapproachable, which will set off an hour long argument that will culminate with me exhaustedly apologizing for things I am too tired to remember that I had done, and at that moment he will casually throw in what it was that he uprooted our evening for in the first place.

            In the interest of saving time and  sanity, I decide to cut him off at the pass. A no-nonsense approach and a cool demeanor is needed to get the information out of him, and to save us a night of heated discussion about our conversational techniques.

            "Nothing has to be wrong." I say calmly, "I was jumping the gun, wasn't I?” I giggle, hoping to offset my initial accusatory tone.

            Hmm. He is still not convinced. Alright, I am breaking out the big guns...

            "Now, what did you need, sweetie?" As I say this, I step forward, put one hand on his chest, and place a gentle kiss on his jaw. It is a happy place to him, as it is also the place that is sought out by me when I want to convey that I am in the mood for a little lovin'.

            He visibly relaxes, and takes the bait. I feel like a female praying mantis or something, like I have lured him in with the possibility of sex, and in mere moments will instead rip his head clean off. The fate of his noggin will now rest on the news he is dangling over me, and is so reluctant to share.

            "I talked to my mom today," he starts, and wraps his arms around me. I maintain my amorous stance- I don't want him to clam up now. "She asked about the kids, and how things were going here."

            Yeah. Uh-huh.

            "I told her how well the kids were doing in school, and how you had been sick."

            Oooookay......

            "And she asked about you! She was wondering what you had been up to!"

            Alright, now I know something bad is coming. He only tries to butter me up with in-law interest when he knows he is about to drop a bomb. That woman never asks about me, other than to see if her son has come to his senses and ditched me for a more suitable model.

            "And she is coming to visit us next week!" he says, far too enthusiastically, and gives me a tight squeeze. I feel this is less about showing affection as it is to pin my arms to keep me from punching him as he says, "And she is staying with us for a few days!"

            I can feel my eyes bugging out of my head. This is terrible.

            "Are you sure you're not just dying?" I choke.

            "Oh, Ellie, it is not that bad, God.” He huffs and releases me, and heads to the fridge to grab a beer. Not completely devoid of empathy, he hands me one too. I assume his intention is to help calm me down, or to numb the pain, but if that is the plan, I think he would be better suited to hit me over the head with the bottle. "She is really excited! She says that she can come up and spend some time with Oliver and Abby, and that she can even help out around here!"

            "Did she say that?” I ask, "Did she say that she that she could help out, or did she say that she knows I need the help?"

            His blank stare and long pause are infuriating. I pop the cap off my beer and take a long chug.

            "Oh come on, what's the difference how she said it?" he exclaims, eyes darting about the room to avoid my icy glare. "Isn't that nice that she wants to come up and help out?"

            "No, Derek, it is not nice, it is her saying that I can't take care of my own home, and that she thinks she is going to swoop in here and show the incompetent me how things should actually be done!” I am distraught, and leaning on the counter for support.

            "No, she just said that last time you seemed so stressed out that she wanted to make things a little easier for you."

            "I was stressed out because she was taking over!" I am practically screaming, but very aware of not waking up the kids. "She rearranged my underwear drawer, Derek!"

            "She was trying to be help---"

            "MY UNDERWEAR, DEREK!" I cut him off.

            Oh man. I can't think of a worse way to spend a week. What, Mussolini wasn't available to spend the night?

            This woman hates me. Correction, his father does too. Okay, the whole fucking family, down to the fourth cousin thrice removed, hates me. I am not like them, and they are very prone to pointing that fact out, as many times as possible. They never were shy about letting either Derek or myself know that I was beneath him– I'm sorry, correction… them, and that they were hoping that I was perhaps a wild oat to be sowed by their son in college. Even after we were married, she would e-mail Derek updates about girls he used to date in prep school, and what wonderful things they were doing in their fabulous SINGLE lives.

            Okay, sure, I am from a different world in a way. A human world.

            Alright, so they have always made me uncomfortable, and I am routinely struck by horrid cases of verbal diarrhea. I tend to say the most awkward  and dreadful things around them. Like, once, when we were first dating, maybe the second time I had met his parents, his father asked me how my classes were going, and I ended up spewing out this insane play-by-play of my last month at school, complete with the night I had gotten so drunk, I had to give a speech in my Poetry class while hungover, and how I fell over the podium when I threw my arms forward to emphasize a point– all the way to how I had to reschedule a test because I had really bad PMS and cried when I couldn't remember the Pythagorean Theorem.

            But everyone says stuff like that to people they have known for about two hours, right?

            Right!?!?!

            And it is possible that once, after we were married, I was trapped alone in a room with his mother, who stared at me in complete silence until I was crazed to the point of either exploding into a million little pieces or doing what I actually did, which was start talking about how people were so wrong about sex slowing down once you get married, and that we had been making our way through our new house like two sailors on leave. Yep. Said that.

            By this point, the most common reaction these people have to me is to get up and walk out while I am speaking. Like, they actually get up, while I am in the middle of a sentence  and leave the room, coming back once they can be assured that I have shut the hell up.

            Once we had kids, they relented and accepted that no matter what, I was bound to them forever, and they became eerily cheery around me. It was like Stepford In-Laws. A switch flipped and instead of glaring at me and making blatant snide comments, now they rush to me and shower me with hugs and feigned interest, all the while invading my home, making it fit into their guidelines of how a household should be run (hence the underwear drawer), and taking shots at me in the cheeriest of tones, making them so hidden that when I would bring my disgust to Derek, he would be able to say that I was being sensitive and looking for a fight with them.

            They are evil geniuses, I tell you.

            Ew. It just hit me that they would have been thrilled for him to marry Natalie. Ick.

            That woman is the reason that poor Oliver has to go Stick Up Their Ass Academy. For some reason, they saw that Abigail had somehow turned out too much like me after having gone through the horrors of a public preschool, and so they sought to correct this imbalance by sending him to Wentworth. At first, even Derek objected to this idea. We are not exactly the private school type, and the expense was another big negative. Mostly, it was the fact that they dropped in one day and decided to tell us where our children were to be educated. Derek went in, guns blazing to put them in their place, but came back no more than half an hour later, sheepishly informing me that they had offered to cover tuition for Ollie at Wentworth and Abby at her own private school.

            "I mean, are we really going to turn down a chance for our kids to have a great education, all because you don't get along with them?” He had asked at the time. I could practically see them pulling his little puppet strings.

            Before I could counter with a resounding, "Hell no", they had told the kids that they were going to fancy new schools, and they were so excited, there really was nothing I could do. They trapped me, the bastards. Derek didn't look me in the eye for a week after that encounter.

            I hate this, because even though I know it sucks for me to have to put up with this insanity, I know it hurts Derek too. It kills me that he is put into the position to have to either defend their actions, or stand up to them and defend my honor. Well, technically, he never actually has defended my honor to them, but in his defense, they are intimidating as hell, and I would have a hard time too.

            That is the sensible and empathetic side of me. The other side wants to attempt to surgically attach a pair onto him, but I can't find a surgeon to hop on board with my plan.

            "So when will her broomstick be landing?” I ask, impressively restrained.

            "Monday.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes roughly.

            "Till when?"

            Derek doesn't immediately respond, and instead starts trying to peel the label off his bottle of beer. Not a good sign.

            "How long is she staying, Derek?” I persist.

            He looks side to side, avoiding my increasingly freaked-out stare, and takes a long drink.

            "Derek!"

            "Till Friday.” He whispers, wide-eyed.

            Slack-jawed, I stare at him.

            "And she is staying here? With us? Like, in this house?” I say, strangled.

            He nods.

            "For five days."

            Another nod.

            "Honey?"

            "Yeah, Ellie?"

            "I think we should see other people."

            "Baby, it is not THAT bad!” He sets his beer down and walks over to me, placing his hands on my shoulders in what I perceive as an attempt to loosen the tension. "Come on, everyone has in-laws!"

            I tilt my head, and give him a slightly appalled look.

            "Oh. Yeah. Well, I guess I don't.” He stammers, realizing his faux pas.

            "No. You don't." I say evenly. "And do you know why?"

            "Um, ye-- uh, no?"

            "Because my parents had the decency to keel over before we got married.” I say. "Now, why couldn't your parents be that considerate?"

            Well then. Next week should be pretty fucking interesting.