Put the Viagra down...use goldenrod oil instead

Day 13 of living in cramped quarters with the MIL. If anything it's teaching me infinite amounts of patience. Or is it just testing my true wherewithal of hippie-dom?

Rozalin Focker, the every-woman MIL.

Some days -- with the aid of hyssop oils and patchouli, walking the miniature stone labyrinth she's fashioned in her 8' by 8' plot of a backyard replete with a Terra cotta fire pit and gurgling table-top fountain -- I ride my natural highs. No drugs necessary. Other times the vibe gets on my last nerve, like when (for some irritating reason) she projects her lifelong desire to be a 1950s-style housewife onto me, convinced that I quit my job to take care of my house and serve my husband. Um, just, no. If anyone does any serving in our household it's my husband to me (foot massages and tea brewing included). But when I tell her I actually despise cooking and cleaning she tells me I will learn to love it, because I'm a woman and I have breasts. (...) Of course I grow annoyed at this assertion, but trying to explain myself is like attempting to teach calculus to a pre-schooler (most likely because she's so romanticized her fantasy of being June Cleaver).

These are the times when I politely excuse myself to the bathroom upstairs, wash my hands for no reason other than to cool down and remind myself to follow the "love & gratitude" adage penned above the faucet. But it doesn't help because all I can think is "Anymore love and gratitude and I will punch someone in the face." Most likely my husband, since he's about an arm's length away at any given moment and, really, if he hadn't yelled at my mother we would never be in this predicament. Yes, I just went there.

But other times it's worth it enough to see J's mortified face light up crimson when his mom pulls out her “Cunt Coloring Book” from the '70s, all about exploring the nether regions of the female form. It's supposed to be art, but all I see is ... well ... you know what I mean. J is so different than his mother, very Mark Darcy with a bit of a goofier side, that I often wonder how he managed to stay that way growing up with such an open, liberal, anti-coffee woman.

When we first arrived at the Zen Den it took me only one morning to realize that there was no coffee in the kitchen. It turned out there was actually nothing caffeinated in the entire apartment.

"Why?" I asked shaking, pilfering through the kitchen cupboards.

“Because she thinks its toxic to your body,” J whispered to me.

“So?” I replied.

After about two days of drinking my MIL's coffee substitute, a 100% caffeine-free root drink called “Pero”, I was ready to pour a few carafes of espresso on my head. As was J, who's typical morning starts with a good, stiff Colombian roast. Starbucks Via, you've come in more handy than I could ever imagine. Along with no coffee there's also no ice and no microwave -- because “the radioactive waves poison the food,” duh. What I would give for an ice-cold Coca Cola and a piping hot bag of microwaveable popcorn. She's also deemed wine, or any other alcohol, a poison so there is nary a Pinot Noir in sight. Because of this J has been sneaking in the occasional bottle of red that we uncork late-night after she's fallen asleep, to enjoy in crystal goblets near the fire pit in the backyard.

I try to write here, but it's nearly impossibly. This post, for example, has taken me about two or three days to cobble together since every time I sit down and open my laptop the MIL begins quoting Rumi out loud and exploring what good karma is all about and before I know it an hour or two has passed and I have no idea what's going on. None.

So last night I stayed up after she and J had gone to bed, finished a good chunk of writing then desperately searched the Internet for any and all illegally uploaded episodes of Keeping up with the Kardashians (since cable is as absent as coffee in the Zen Den). After pages and pages of bogus results I finally found a pirated site so good I'm toying with the idea of canceling my cable when I head back to DC since it has every show I watch. Needless to say I finally reached Nirvana or enlightenment or whatever it's called, headphones in my ears, eyes devouring the computer screen as I chuckled along to the general debauchery of the Kardashian sisters from some illegal Chinese television website. What have I become?

It's like the Summer of Love ... every single day. Which is awesome, but too much of anything in too high of a dose and the novelty wears off. Behold a typical night at the MIL casa:

(Open scene in MIL's small living room. Crystal is sitting nearby at the dinner table reading the New Yorker online as MIL is cross-legged on the carpet, meditating in silence. In the gap between them lies an odd-shaped gourd maraca with a long appendage sprouting from its side. The ornamental gourd/instrument is hand-painted to look like a long-necked duck, the words “love and gratitude” written across its little chest. Apartment is silent; J has gone to run errands with his brother).

MIL: "If a man can't get erect, use goldenrod oil."
Me (confused): "Uh, what?"
MIL: "Goldenrod oil. It works wonders for erections."

(I burst out laughing, amused. Are we really having this conversation?)

Me: "Goldenrod oil?”
MIL: “Yes, goldenrod oil. If your man is tired and having trouble getting it up.”
Me: “What are you supposed to do with it, put it directly on the guy's ... thingy?"
MIL (completely serious): "Yes! Or on his feet. I've read it works in both areas, but I've only tried one."
Me: "Sweet, I'll remember that ..."

(Two hours later, J and his brother are hanging out in the living room with me.)

Me: “So guess what? If you have any trouble down there goldenrod oil is supposed to do the trick.”
J (in embarrassed disbelief): “What?”
Me (laughing): “Goldenrod oil. Apparently it's a legitimate substitute for Viagra. Your mom told me.”
MIL: “Oh yes, it is. Goldenrod is a magical substance.”
J (blushing and whispering to me): “You are such an instigator. You love bringing this stuff up and prompting her.”
Me (whispering back): “No! Ok maybe a little, but it's like hearing a little kid say inappropriate words. It's funny!!”
J: “Yeah, for you.”

It's both hilarious and disturbing when anyone's MIL -- especially yours -- starts discussing the art of tantric sex. True to form J grows bright red when this happens, which makes me laugh even harder. If anything it provides excellent comic relief to the situation with my fam right now.

Speaking of the fam we had a good New Year's, though I came thisclose to booking an all expenses paid trip to Cancun next week for my Aunt's bday – then realized my passport is sitting on my nightstand back in Virginia. *Insert deleted expletive here.* My sister, like always, will get to be enjoying the fruits of the spontaneous plans, sunning on white Mexican beaches this next Sunday while I look forward to heading back to the East Coast. *Insert yet another deleted expletive here.* Moral of the story: ALWAYS carry your passport with you. I did for the last couple years, but then after my trip to South America I casually left it on my side table, thinking that with our budget I probably wouldn't be taking another international trip for at least a few months. Stupid me.

So I may not be en route to Cancun in one week, but I've got something even better coming my way. According to the MIL Saturn's moon rises every 28 years and it's the highest form of orgasm. Well guess who's going to be 28 this year? Yep, yours truly.

"It is your time," she told me yesterday.

And to think, I don't even need a passport and an H1N1 vaccine to enjoy this trip.