They, and you (by which I actually mean ME ME ME ME ME!!!), are better off in their own little corners of the world. Or at least that's my immediate experience. A hypothesis now firmly grounded in the severity of reality and made into an iron-clad fact. This here = my corner, that one over there far, far away = the mil's niche. And we all can live happily ever after, like tradition, and Disney and each and every 80s teen movie, promise. And that Molly Ringwald, she wouldn't lie, would she?
So, please bugger off dear mama and let me have my prince already! The Viking's mine and no matter what you do, there is no way you will ever be able to shove him back up there. You know, up to Denmark, in case some of you were thinking I meant the uterus, which I did initially, but then I just decided to discard that image altogether lest it screw me up for good, so we'll just say Denmark. The sentiment still applies.
Between me and her (feel free to add your own disrespectful tone here) I prefer a distance of a few continents, and at least one whole ocean if at all possible, but I have heard - although this is something I would never personally accept or recommend - that a mere 'few countries to the East' is sometimes sufficient.
Well. Not for me. Still, like they say, bad things happen to good people.
And sometimes she (please amp up the disrespectful tone from before) is to be found right under one's nose. In one's spare bed. Loudly criticizing one's choice of linen, innards of the fridge (so the packet of crazy glue says to keep it in the fridge!), lack of tan, and the water pressure or the magical lack of it during her (you know the drill now) showers. And all that before the discussions about the ' unpalatable food of Africa' were ever even entered into.
But it's time to move on, she's (I know you know what to do...) gone. It's time to be generally glad that no one threw a punch or drew actual blood, intentionally or unintentionally, that doors have locks, that a car can drive you far, far away, that there was a fair amount of laughter, be it fake, distraught, to mask the tears or actual, that lions were being cooperative and not hiding in the bushes, giving everyone a welcome break from the evil eyes being shot left and right (I'm sure the lions never even knew what hit them), that regardless of not-so-veiled threats absolutely no one threw the poor daughter-in-law to them in best Roman style, that Spar sells wine early in the morning on a Tuesday, that a spot of archery and a wild imagination can relieve a pent up need to scream without any actual screaming, that world has coffee and alcohol and coffee-flavored alcohol in it, and that the Viking knows to take my (and only my) side.
And that my father-in law (who doesn't detest me nearly as much as I thought he did) and her (yada yada blah blah) managed to create someone I can call my bestest friend in the whole wide world, whom I love more than life itself, and to whom I'm the center of the universe without still quite figuring out how I manage to pull that off on a daily basis. And that he is the wonderful person that he is.
Thankful, yet homicidal.
Just give me a couple of days to retrieve my spirit from the top secret storage location (okay, the upstairs, master bedroom shower, that has excellent water pressure, I might add) I've had it shoved up into, to keep it safe from harm and any potential vampiristic, i.e. Hey-Zeus-help-me-this-woman's-sucking-every-single-drop-of-life-force-and-other-assorted-positive-things-right-out-of-me activities.
A child of a global world, originally from the land of Santa and cell phones, married to a bona fide viking, and attempting to raise a loud little life who has Down syndrome, all the while getting used to the US Pacific Northwest after many years in Latin America and Africa. Against all odds the kid's first words turned out to be 'mom' and 'book' instead of 'fuck' and 'no'. That may well turn out to have been my finest parenting moment ever.