My Father: I got those Cadillacs in my eyes. I’m going to get the operation this week.

Neighbor Lady: Oh…you’ll love it. You’ll just love it. That operation is wonderful.

My mother called me the other night to tell me that her doctor told her that she needs to eat more fiber. The conversation went something like this:

Mom: Fiber–most of my diet is fiber. I eat lots of vegetables and beans. Ever since you were little our diet has been primarily fiber.

Me: I don’t know what to say,  Mom. Maybe you should break out a bale of hay and start munching away.

Mom: I used to eat hay when I rode horses.

You probably don’t know my mother, but that is such a typical thing for her to say. She used to eat hay, yeah right? Maybe she chewed on a piece of hay like a cowboy in a movie, but she couldn’t have eaten it. She lives more than 5000 miles away and is still providing material for The Mooch.

She’ll call me after she reads this to insist that she did eat hay and feign anger. Then my father will call to ask why I don’t write any posts about him.

Photo by aussiegall

The riots across the UK have had much the same effect on me. I don’t have a television, but I’ve read every article and seen every online video about it. I don’t think I’ve ever used the word riot so often in my life.

Last night at dinner I was talking about the riots and my husband started laughing.

Me: What’s so funny?

My husband: You keep saying the word riot. I’ve been trying not to mention it, but it’s getting ridiculous.

So what if I’ve said the word riot 927 times during the past few days. Someone’s got to say it.

Maybe a song might help me feel better…

My husband: Oh no. We were going to make a chicken for you tomorrow.

My father-in-law: Don’t worry about us we’re easy to feed.

My husband: What do you want to eat then?

My father-in-law: It doesn’t matter. We’ll eat whatever you give us, but I don’t eat chicken or lamb. I don’t like any chunks of meat.

My mother-in-law: He’ll eat mince.

My husband: Do you eat fish?

My father-in-law: I like cod.

So I ended up making chilli. That’s an easy dish made with mince. I grew up just calling it chilli, but here they call it chilli con carne. I guess that’s the dishes full name. The problem is that I’d never seen it written, I’ve only heard it said. All this time I thought it was chilli con cardy. So I’ve been saying chilli con cardy to people and either no one has noticed or people here are too polite to point out my mistake. I only learned I was saying it wrong when my husband pointed it out the other day.

Anyway, if we lived near my in-laws I’m pretty sure that my father-in-law would provide an endless amount of material for this blog. I could probably get a week’s worth of blogging material from one two-hour visit.

“If you want to do some yoga I’ll teach you,” I told him. I taught him how to do the sun salutation. “How was that?” I asked when we were done.

“I didn’t like it,” he said.

“Really? Why not?”

“It was too hard. I just want to do the kinda of yoga where you just lay around.”

My Husband: I was always the handiest of the Bettison boys. My brothers are all mechanical, but I’m handy. Remember that time I fixed something around the house and you were surprised?

Me: No, what did you fix?

My Husband: I don’t remember, but you were impressed.

Me: Like when you fixed the mirror and now it hands two inches from the wall and we have to keep a box wedged between it and the wall at the bottom so it doesn’t hang on a crazy angle.

My Husband: You are so mean.

While on my morning walk, I noticed that the horses in the field near our house were sporting jaunty jackets.

Me: I wonder what horses did about the cold before humans were around to dress them up.

My Husband: I don’t know. I guess they just froze.

Horse picture by dichohecho

My Husband: (Taking the money out of his wallet to pay the cashier) Do you have any change?

Me: Yeah. I think I have a quarter, but I don’t have it with me.

The Cashier: (Laughing)

My Husband: I love sneezing. It’s like the orgasm of the nose.

My husband: That’s enough pineapple for one night. We’ll have that one tomorrow.

My stepson: This place is just like a dictorship.

My husband: Yeah. A dictatorship where you can’t eat too whole pineapples in one night.