Previously:  Nichole informed us that Jeff's parents would be staying with them until after the wedding.  Horrified at this thoughtless invasion, I knew why Nichole put up with the situation. Clever mother-in-law had helped with final plans. Jeff’s stepfather took it for granted. I saw where Jeff learned the art of manipulation. 
 

It was a given. I wouldn't like Nichole's in-laws. 
 

 

Back at the apartment complex, Jeff made introductions. Jeff’s mother earned a tad of jealousy for being younger and thinner. Well-mannered fourteen-year-old Ashley lit up the apartment with her girl-next-door sweetness. Stepfather Tom blustered around the living room. “We’re going to be one big happy family.” He opened his arms to embrace us.

I mustered a fake laugh and moved out of his reach.  Short and stocky, he would squeeze  me into a pancake. Frank veered away from his party heartiness too.  ."Tom’s jovial square face, greased black hair, and comb-shaped mustache made me think of a smarmy salesman.  I  wanted to say, "You're the lucky ones, gaining a respectable daughter-in-law."
 

To be honest, I had pre-judged Carol and her husband a long time ago as flakes.  I’m leery of people who are job hoppers.  To be kind, I’ll call Jeff’s parents entrepreneurs.  When I asked Nichole what his parents did for a living in Miami, she answered, “They conduct self-improvement seminars or market new products.”  In other words, they sold the public anything it would buy.   I hated losing Nichole to strangers with different ethics and values.

When they moved to Kansas, Carol sold miracle vitamins for a while, then organic creams and make-up. Tom worked as a used car dealer. That lasted five years. Today, he’s promoting something new in the way of firefighter gear. Carol makes money as a dog sitter and as a teacher of safety classes to parents of baby-sitters.  Well, something like that.  I gotta admire their ingenuity. Shows what you can do without a college education.  Still, a flighty and insecure way of assuring a weekly paycheck to my way of thinking.  Small wonder Jeff didn’t see the value of a nine-to-five job.
 

The six of us made small talk laced with humor while preparing forty-three pumpkins for a face. Hollowing out these basketball size vegetables wasn’t easy. First of all we used a killer knife to cut off  the top. The next surgical instrument was another sharp tool to scoop out the flesh, pulp, and seeds. Yucky, unpleasant smelly stuff. It was all hard work and a messy job. Each pumpkin took at least a half hour. My struggle to dig hard enough to make progress was obvious. Nichole said, “Mom, you’re going to cut yourself. Why don’t you iron a skirt for me?” 
 

Grateful to leave, I set up her board in the bathroom and filled the iron with water. Easy task except, like the knife, a steam iron in my bumbling hands is a weapon. 
 

I slipped the skirt over the end of the board and lifted the hot iron to fabric. Sizzle! Excess water spilled onto the material. The iron slipped from my grasp and hit the floor. Bang!  Nichole heard the noise and rushed to the door.
 

“Geez, Mother, you’re here less than an hour and already manage to wreck something!” she yelled. 
 

I cringed. Yeah, Nichole, let everyone know what a klutz your mother is. 
 

“I didn’t break anything.”  I mumbled and picked the iron off the floor.
 

“Did you burn my skirt?” She stomped over and looked for damage.
 

“No, I didn’t burn your skirt," I shot back. "Go gut your pumpkins. I can do this.”   
 

“Are you sure?” Her eyes narrowed. But her voice had softened. 
 

Angry? Embarassed?  Upset?  Yes. All of the above.   Why did I let her treat me like that?  Call it being the wiser of the two.  She had  guests, and I didn’t want to create a scene. This wasn’t a TV drama or comedy.  Whatever happened couldn’t be changed in a second take. 
 

I’m guilty of making excuses for my daughter’s behavior, but in retrospect I chalked this incident up to tension. Seven people in a small apartment, three of them uninvited overnight guests, centerpieces (the pumpkins) still to be carved into faces, and the all-important rehearsal scheduled for tomorrow night along with a dinner for all those involved.  Unfortunately, that proved to be a breaking point for Frank and me.