The Antelope in the Living Room: The Real Story of Two People Sharing One Life

by Shankle, Melanie

  Just the other night we were watching TV together, and a commercial came on for a product called a pocket hose. Are you kidding me? Is this a real thing? What man is going to be able to resist making a remark about something called a pocket hose that “starts off normal size but grows larger and larger when you turn it on”?

  And the thing that kills me is that even though the majority of my girlfriends all agree these conversations happen in our homes, not one of us has ever reported that we’ve felt a sudden urge to strip off all our clothes and head to the bedroom after our husbands tell us, “I’ve got some meat for you right here.” I mean, is there one man in the history of the world this strategy has ever worked for?

  The whole thing certainly hasn’t been helped by Michael Scott from The Office introducing “That’s what she said” into pop culture. For the love of all things, do not remark while attempting to get something to work, “I’m having a hard time trying to turn this on.” You’ll regret it. That’s a promise.

  But every now and then I’ll meet a guy who appears to be the sort of husband who might read poetry to his wife under the stars, and I think, I bet he never cracks a joke when the pocket hose commercial comes on. And she’d probably cry if he did. Because they are clearly a sensitive-type couple, which . . . good for them. The world needs people like that. Perry and I just don’t happen to be among them, and ultimately, that’s why we’re a good match. Because when he says stuff like that, I laugh. Or roll my eyes, depending on my mood.

  I think sometimes we can get caught up in believing that other women are experiencing more romance than we are, and perhaps that’s right. But there are also a lot of women out there who know their husbands are feeling amorous because they whisper, “I haven’t put my retainer in yet tonight” or “I just brushed my teeth” or “Did you notice I got my burger without onions?” And that’s okay. That’s real life.

  Which is why it’s all right for us to sometimes reply, “Okay, but I’m going to leave my socks on because it’s cold.”

  Granted, you never hear Meg Ryan or Emma Stone say that in the movies, but you also never see anyone with hair that looks as good as theirs either.

  CHAPTER 20

  In-Laws and Outlaws

  REMEMBER WHEN THERE was all that brouhaha (most underused word ever) about Chick-fil-A? And all of a sudden delicious chicken got thrown into the political spotlight? And chickens everywhere were all like “What happened? We’re just chickens.”

  Then the Chick-fil-A cows painted a new sign that said, “Get off our backs.” Or maybe not. I can’t remember for sure, but that would have been awesome. Truett Cathy should have called me. Because we talk on a regular basis.

  Anyway, it was during this time that people decided they needed a day to show our support for Chick-fil-A, because if Chick-fil-A goes away, then there really won’t be a reason to continue living.

  Something you should know about my mother-in-law is that she loves to send all her kids e-mails about any type of political movement and/or petition we need to sign. So she sent us all a message that read:

  Dear Children,

  As you know, Chick-fil-A has recently been under fire for their beliefs. On August 1 there will be a day we can show our support of the Cathy family by eating at their restaurant. I have never eaten at a Chick-fil-A, but I will definitely give it a try on August 1. I hope you will do the same.

  Love,

  Mother/Sallie

  Please go back and reread the part about how she’d never eaten at a Chick-fil-A prior to August 1, 2012. I don’t even understand.

  But that pretty much sums up my mother-in-law. She is not one to think that fast and food belong anywhere in the same sentence, whereas I grew up in a family that didn’t think dinner had been served until we’d made our way through a drive-through lane. Perry’s mom would make June Cleaver feel like a failure. Honestly, one time when Perry and I brought over fast food, she put it on her fine china and set full places in the formal dining room. She may have even lit candles. And I guarantee she had a seasonally appropriate centerpiece, because she is not a savage.

  The first Thanksgiving Perry and I were dating, his mother invited me to join them for Thanksgiving lunch, and I happily accepted. Then I called her a few days later to ask if she would like me to bring anything to contribute to the meal, and she requested that I make the homemade cranberry sauce. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as homemade cranberry sauce. I just thought cranberries grew in a can with Ocean Spray printed on the front. Honestly, it doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving to me until I hear the thwack of cranberries hitting the plate as they come out of the can. I guarantee the Pilgrims felt the same way, even though it was probably a nightmare to get those cans open using only an arrowhead they’d borrowed from the Indians.

  But she gave me her recipe for fresh cranberry relish, and admittedly, it was significantly more delicious than the canned variety. That was also the Thanksgiving I discovered that not everyone believes in pumpkin pie for dessert. Perry’s family’s tradition was something called chocolate icebox pudding. I believe it was sometime after my first bite of pudding that I decided we should spend the rest of our lives together.

  However, things aren’t always that magical. Several years into our marriage, I missed the way my family always had a smorgasbord (second-most underused word ever) of all types of side dishes. I longed for more of an assortment than just turkey, dressing, fresh cranberries, and green beans. And not green beans in a casserole, but fresh and steamed. To which I ask, what’s the point of eating a green bean if it’s not covered in cream of mushroom soup and french-fried onions?

  My mom’s side of the family always had fruit salad tossed with whipped cream, broccoli-rice casserole, the aforementioned green bean casserole, and sweet potatoes covered in marshmallows, among other things. And when we had Thanksgiving with my dad’s Italian side of the family, there was always spaghetti and meatballs as an alternative to turkey. I come from a people who enjoy a little variety in their culinary experience.

  So I decided one year that I would create my own variety. I made a broccoli-rice casserole, complete with the ever-elegant Cheez Whiz, to take to my mother-in-law’s house for Thanksgiving lunch. And I promise, the reaction was the same as if I’d plopped a dead, cooked rat in the center of the dining room table.

  “What is THAT?” my brother-in-law asked with a scowl.

  “It’s broccoli-rice casserole. I brought the food of my people, just like the Indians did on that first Thanksgiving,” I replied as I put a serving spoon in my beloved casserole with a flourish.

  “It smells weird,” he said.

  “Yes, that’s the Cheez Whiz. It’s an acquired taste.”

  All I know is if that’s the way the Pilgrims treated the Indians at their Thanksgiving feast, it’s no wonder that whole situation went so awry and eventually ended up with scalpings and such.

  Then there was the Thanksgiving just three months after we got married when I brought Perry to my grandparents’ lake house. The seven-hour trip included moments to treasure, such as when Perry bought an Elvis clock complete with swiveling hips at the local gas station, where the cashier remarked, “Honey, if I had a dime for every piece of Elvis memorabilia at my house, I’d be a rich, rich woman” (wouldn’t we all!), and my grandfather, Big Bob, getting so upset that someone had put out his burning pile of leaves that he proceeded to walk into the kitchen, pull a bottle of vodka out of the freezer, and drain it. Big Bob didn’t drink EVER, with the exception of the occasional can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, so you can imagine the effect the vodka had on him. He spent most of the day passed out in his recliner. My grandmother, Nanny, was outraged, but the picture of the family all gathered around Big Bob as he sat slumped over at the head of the table is priceless. It’s like we were living in a Robert Earl Keen song.

  The lesson we all learned was don’t mess with a man’s burning leaf pile. And maybe wait until you’ve been married a little longer to bring y
our husband home to spend Thanksgiving with the whole family.

  One of my most painful experiences as an in-law was the Easter Caroline and I went to Perry’s aunt’s house for an Easter egg hunt. Perry didn’t go with us because he had to work, so we picked up Perry’s mom and headed to the festivities. I believe there is no greater act of marital love or martyrdom than attending an event involving your spouse’s family without your spouse in attendance. Not to mention that we only see this aunt and her family once a year for the annual Easter egg hunt. Which may explain why earlier that day, during brunch at Perry’s mom’s house, when we told the kids we were going to hunt eggs at Aunt Edna’s house, they all looked at us and said, “Who’s that?”

  Exactly.

  Anyway, Aunt Edna has two daughters who are older than us, and one of them coordinates the Easter egg hunt every year. It always involves elaborate instructions that make my head hurt, and that year was the pinnacle of egg hunting gone bad. Whatever happened to just hiding some eggs in the grass? Why do I have to work to find clues instead of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? Why am I involved in anything that involves throwing a raw egg back and forth across the driveway until the inevitable happens? What has happened to my life? I feel with all certainty this isn’t how Jesus intended for us to celebrate that he is risen. The disciples never had to throw one raw egg that I recall.

  The theme of the egg hunt was “pirate’s treasure,” and we were divided into teams of kids and adults. As my brother-in-law, Jeff, read the instructions, I listened intently, in between watching Caroline grind confetti into Aunt Edna’s expensive antique oriental rugs. I heard Jeff read, “Each team will need to answer the pirate geography question found inside the egg to proceed to the next egg.” And I knew with all certainty, like the kind of certainty with which you know your own name, that I would never have a better opportunity to prove my complete ignorance in front of my in-laws.

  A key element to this whole story is that the cousin who designs these hunts is a genius. And I don’t mean a genius in the same way Perry tells me, “You’re a GENIUS!” when I forget to buy milk despite it being written in capital letters at the top of my grocery list. I mean she’s a real genius. She knows a lot of stuff about math and science and computers, otherwise known as the axis of evil. I’m pretty sure she’s a Mensa member. However, I wouldn’t know this, because I only see her once a year. At the egg hunt, not at Mensa meetings. (Just wanted to clarify.)

  So the egg hunt began at a huge X to mark the spot to emphasize the pirate theme. Perry’s cousin opened the first egg and began to read the question. About three words in, I heard the word archipelago and realized, without a doubt, that I was out of my league. Like the kind of out of my league I was in back in eighth grade, when every other girl in school actually needed a bra and the only curves I ever saw belonged to my Barbie doll. The only reason I even know the word archipelago is because Father Time used it on Rudolph’s Shiny New Year when Baby New Year was lost and Rudolph had to search for him in the Archipelago of Times Past or something like that. However, to my credit and great relief, I did know that Galápagos Islands was the answer to one of the questions because I had just seen it on an episode of Go, Diego! Go!

  (Who says kids can’t learn anything from watching television?)

  The remainder of the hunt passed with locations like the Caspian Sea, Kazakhstan, the Ural River, and Cape Horn being thrown about. Oh, and something about a city in China that had me prepared to yell out, “TOKYO!” as my answer, and I’ll be forever grateful that, for once, my brain worked faster than my mouth.

  Unless they had asked what country is shaped like a boot (ITALY!) or which country borders Texas (MEXICO!) or which country used to be part of the Communist Bloc (I KNOW IT ENDS WITH “STAN”!), there was no way I was going to be of any use in this game. Back in sixth grade, when I was coloring in all those world maps with map colors, I had no idea that twenty-six years later I would be called on to remember that information. And let’s be honest, the only thing I really learned back then is that it looked good to color the United States red, because it really set off the blue color of whatever that ocean is called on the east coast of the United States.

  Oh, I kid. I totally know it’s the Indian Ocean.

  And maybe I didn’t pay attention to all that geography back then because I intuitively knew that there would one day be a thing called Google Maps. Who’s the genius now?

  Finally the geographical agony was over, and I was rewarded with what appeared to be a terra-cotta pot full of dirt, although I was promised there was a plant in there that would eventually grow. They probably figured I was too dense to know the difference.

  Next up, it was the kids’ turn to play the pirate geography egg hunt of torture, and sadly I didn’t necessarily know the answers to any of their questions either, except for one. “What city do you live in?”

  SAN ANTONIO!

  I think it’s obvious that it’s just a matter of time before I run into Perry’s cousin at a Mensa meeting.

  An older friend of mine once shared that the Christmas after she married into her husband’s large family, she arrived at lunch and discovered that her mother-in-law had set one table for the immediate family and a separate table that she referred to as “the outlaws’ table” for all the spouses. That’s hard core.

  But it’s easy to feel a little bit like an outlaw when you suddenly become part of a new family —and not just because there are times you might want to carry a gun. It’s like you journey into a new, strange land just because it’s the land of the person you love. Kind of like how I adore Mexican food but wouldn’t necessarily want to move to Mexico. I don’t know the language and the customs. I just happen to love the enchiladas.

  It takes a lot of God’s grace to adjust and adapt and remember that just because they don’t do things the way you were raised, they’re not necessarily wrong. (Except for the way they taught your husband to hang the paper towel roll, because that’s clearly backward.)

  There’s a reason that people list in-laws as one of the biggest things (along with money) that cause stress in a relationship. Their voices become part of the DNA of your relationship, and they can either support you and encourage you or tear you down and make you feel like you’re not worthy to be there. They tell you how to raise your kids and manage your money and spend your holidays. They have an effect on you whether you want them to or not. And only you and your husband can determine how much you’re going to let them affect your life together, because there are times when it feels like the only commonality is that you both love the same person and you just have to appreciate that.

  (On a related note, this makes me think of that children’s book Love You Forever. If there’s a chance your mother-in-law might come to your house and rock your grown husband in a rocking chair, then you have my deepest sympathies. And perhaps some unsolicited advice that you move and change the locks.)

  Fortunately, I married into a family who has embraced me most of the time, even with all our differences and the fact that I think they still don’t understand how I can stay in my pajamas all day on a Saturday. Or believe that Cheez Whiz is a viable food ingredient.

  We’ve done our best to love one another for who we are, with all our weaknesses and faults and beliefs that Tokyo might be a city in China, and the fact that my mother-in-law never ate at a Chick-fil-A for the first seventy years of her life.

  CHAPTER 21

  Skeletons and Grace

  PERRY AND I WENT TO a wedding for some friends a while back because we are all about some white bride’s cake, and the minister performing the ceremony just kept repeating over and over again that the most important thing in marriage is forgiveness. Forgiveness is essential. Forgiveness is what will keep you together. Forgiveness is the key to a healthy relationship.

  He said it so many times that I began to suspect he’d royally ticked off his wife prior to the ceremony and was trying to send her a not-so-subtle message as he married
this sweet, unsuspecting couple who had no idea he might have a personal agenda.

  Because, yes, I think forgiveness is important. Marriages can’t survive when bitterness and resentment take root. But he made no mention of friendship and love and grace. You can forgive someone all day long, but I think forgiveness can sometimes be offered independently of grace. Forgiveness often says, I’ll let this slide, but I’m not really going to forget that it happened, whereas grace says, It’s over and it’s finished, even though you may not deserve it.

  I think Anne Lamott said it best in one of my favorite quotes: “I do not at all understand the mystery of grace —only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.” There’s something about grace that makes us want to do better, be better, because we know we’ve been given a pardon.

  And that’s what so much of marriage is —giving each other a pardon. Letting some things go and realizing neither one of you is married to a perfect person. Even though there are times you feel certain he got the better deal because you would never join a basketball league without asking him if it was okay first, or leave to go hunting for the weekend and just assume that he doesn’t mind being alone for three days in a row. And not just because you don’t play basketball or like to hunt.

  Of course, there are also the times Perry chooses to ignore my tendency to overshop or how I can forget to go to the grocery store when we’re down to half a roll of toilet paper. Grace is a two-way street.

  But there is nothing in my life or my marriage that compares with the grace Perry showed me a few years ago. It changed me in a permanent way and will go down as one of the most profound lessons of my life.