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Initiation Test (by Jan Andersen)

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Initiation Test

(Meeting the other half’s parents for the first time – the dating nightmares of a single parent))

It was one of those mornings when my skin resembled a bowl of muesli, both in texture and colour and my ‘get up and go’ got up and sprinted off without me. My attempts to transform myself into something a little less like a corpse were not entirely successful. My newly-permed hair looked like suitable fodder for a horse and my makeup settled on my skin like emulsion applied to an unprepared surface. The finished result compared favourably to baked beans on toast. My thoughts were swiftly backed up by my other half Paul, who quipped, ‘You look so good I could eat you.’ I bore a frightening resemblance to one of my children’s scribbled wax crayon impressions. Realistically, their asymmetrical portraits were probably a trite more attractive than the real thing.

Typically, it was also the day when I had the privilege of meeting my now ex-boyfriend’s parents for the first time. This pleasure had been somewhat delayed, to allow this rather straight-laced couple to adjust to the idea of their youngest, over-protected son being involved with an older, divorced woman with three boisterous young children in tow.

To add to my anxiety, they had invited us to stay for the entire weekend no less, minus the brood of course.

After the entire contents of my non-designer wardrobe had been dragged mercilessly from their hangers and thrown haphazardly onto the floor, I eventually settled for the only outfit that wouldn’t be mistaken for a domestic rag and teamed it with my least eroded shoes.

‘You look like Ben’s mum in that’, observed my youngest son, as he attempted a forward roll in the direction of my prize Umbrella plant. This could have been perceived as a compliment, had Ben’s mum not been 10 years’ older and 10 stone heavier than I.

‘Have you packed everything you want to take to your dad’s?’ I yelled, above the drone of the Hoover as it sucked up lumps of earth from the inverted plant pot.

The offspring were despatched to their reluctant father’s, along with several hundredweight of baggage, including the fragmented contents of their toy boxes, in varying degrees of disrepair. My children had been born with a congenital desire to hurl their toys through the air with great force, without prior consideration for any object or person that may happen to be in the flight path.

‘My folk will love you, just like I do’, soothed my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend whilst scratching the side of his nose, which betrayed his insincerity.

As we chugged to a halt outside the immaculate mock Tudor style house, my beloved suggested that maybe it would be better if I parked a little further down the road, thereby preventing pre-judgement by his parents of my suitability as a girlfriend, simply because I didn’t drive a high calibre vehicle. What he really meant was that he wanted to save his parents the embarrassment of having an ‘F’ registration, plastic interiored rust bucket positioned on their driveway.

The formal greeting was fairly painless and I almost felt relaxed. For approximately two minutes anyway. Then the interrogation began.

‘And what do you do for a living then Jan?’ enquired Paul’s dad, addressing my breasts over the top of his spectacles.

‘Well, I was a Marketing and PR Executive before I got divorced’, I waffled, ‘but I’m doing a bit of freelance copywriting at the moment’, I continued, a little more confidently.

‘Ah! So you’re just a housewife now then?’ he sneered, simultaneously scanning my wayward coiffure.

‘Well, actually, I’ve just been offered a job with a mobile data company. I start in two months’ time.’ I felt slightly triumphant.

‘Ahhh, so you are just a lady of leisure at the moment then?’

‘Yes’, I muttered submissively. What I really wanted to say was, ‘And what over-inflated job title did you have before you became such a condescending, misogynistic bastard who’s probably never changed a nappy in your his life and who grossly undervalues the work involved in raising a family, let alone single-handedly?’

Instead, I tried the humorous angle. When he was giving us a bulletin on his latest venture in the Netherlands and Belgium, he asked, ‘Are you familiar with the Benelux, Jan?’

‘Not really. My washing machine’s a Phillips’, I joked, before letting out a thunderous snort of laughter.

At that point, I decided that I had already failed the initiation test.

‘Do you like dogs?’ enquired Paul’s mother, as this grotesque, dribbling, pug-like creature thrust its flattened face into my crotch.

‘Err, yes I love dogs. Except Poodles that is. I think it’s what the owners do to them that puts me off. I’m not fond of the sculptured look of kneepads and slouch socks.’ I thought I had a small chance here.

‘Actually, we used to breed Poodles’, she retorted frostily.

Paul looked as though he was about to combust spontaneously. His face had turned puce in an attempt to suppress his laughter. I shot him a venomous glance for making me endure such a tortuous experience, without volunteering any support for my cause and for obviously deriving immense enjoyment from my embarrassing predicament. Now, had the situation been reversed and had it been he who was the object of my parents’ cross-examination, my natural care and concern for his cause, would have prompted me to assist him and present him in as favourable light as possible. It was rapidly becoming evident that I didn’t not feature prominently in his future vision.

Dinner was like a slapstick comedy. During the meal, I made a half-hearted attempt at stabbing my pickled onion with a fork. The prongs, which made no impression on the stubborn little blighter, skid across the moist, polished surface, creating an excellent catapult effect. The airborne vegetable advanced across the table at great speed and came to rest in the centre of never-to-be-mother-in-law’s plate. I keeled over forwards, clutching my abdomen and cackled uncontrollably. When I removed my forehead from the tablecloth, I was greeted with icy stares from all quarters. I surmised that this would be the first and last weekend that my hosts would have the pleasure of my witty and charming company.

Paul and I retired to bed early with the pathetic excuse that we were weary after the long journey. Oddly enough, we had been put in the same room in a double bed, so we weren’t able to win points by pretending that we didn’t do ‘it’.

The lure of the 50-tog duvet caused me to fling myself horizontally onto the bed, not realising the effect that this action would have upon the unstable headboard, which careered into the wall with a resounding crash. A wave of terminal depression swept over me. Even sex was off the menu then.

I conjured up a pre-visit scenario where Paul’s parents were browsing a furniture store in pursuit of a bed for the visitors’ room.

‘And what sort of bed were you looking for Madam?’ I imagined the sales assistant asking.

‘Do you have one with a loose headboard which squeaks horrendously? It’s for our spare room. We want to be able to hear our guests bonking because we’re too old and decrepit to do it ourselves.’

As I lay on the dodgy bed pondering my fate, I spied a large Pooh Bear cuddly toy gazing mockingly from the top of the chest of drawers.

Two minutes later, an inverted Pooh Bear had been lodged firmly between headboard and wall, acting as an excellent buffer. However, the bed still creaked with every move and the sight of the fat, furry arse poking out from the top of the headboard just made me hysterical with laughter. At this point, Paul had to press a pillow over my face to muffle the sound.

We decided to move onto the floor and positioned ourselves between the foot of the bed and the dressing table. There was enough room to manoeuvre ourselves horizontally, but the vertical space proved to be more troublesome. Paul endeavoured to stretch out his long legs, the journey of which was terminated when his foot rammed into the wardrobe, causing the top of the door to fall off of its hinge. Approximately two hours later, after having replaced the wardrobe door with the use of a letter opener and, by some miracle, having managed some sort of coital liaison without grunting like pigs, we were presented with another dilemma. How to dispose of the condom. It would be considered impolite to leave second-hand bodily fluids in the guest wastebasket and to place it on one’s pocket as the risk of forgetting it was there, was not a viable option. There seemed to be one choice only. Flush it down the loo. For some strange reason, I found myself volunteering as waste disposal person.

I sneaked into the bathroom and deftly dropped the offending item into the pan, not realising that unless you immerse your hand into the depths of the S-bend and assist the object on its voyage, it has a habit of floating back with a vengeance.

After the first flush, a horrifying image appeared before my eyes. Up bobbed the inflated balloon, which had now doubled in size. At this point, may-have-been-mother-in-law decided that she needed a midnight pee. She knocked on the door and asked whether or not I would be long, despite the fact that there was another perfectly good WC downstairs. I reassured her, saying that I would only be a couple of minutes, before pulling the chain for the second time. As the cascading waterfall descended into the bowl, with a force that you would imagine would submerge even the most buoyant of objects, the persistent piece of rubber continued to dance merrily around on the top of the water. When the cistern had re-filled, I commenced my third attempt at sending this stubborn blimp to a watery grave. Paul’s mother banged urgently on the door, enquiring after the health of my internal organs.

There was now no other alternative. I employed the most basic of fishing techniques and removed the sodden sheath with a bare hand. With haste, I lobbed it out of the open bathroom window, feeling a similar sort of relief to that experienced when you awaken from a nightmare.

Had I been familiar with the architectural layout of the house, I would have realised that immediately below the bathroom window was situated a glass topped conservatory.

The relationship was, of course, doomed. However, shortly afterwards I met a wonderful man with whom I could see a future. He kept saying that he couldn’t wait for his family to meet me. Two months’ ago, we were invited to stay for the weekend. On the morning of our departure, I awoke with a hangover. It was one of those days when my skin resembled a bowl of muesli........................... (1,746 words)

Jan Andersen may be contacted at http://www.mothersover40.com worldwriteruk@hotmail.com. Click here to view more of their articles.
Jan Andersen is a Freelance Writer and Copywriter specialising in articles and features on diverse lifestyle topics and social issues. She has also participated in many TV and radio programmes. Jan also owns and runs five websites; World Writer, Mothers Over 40, Child Suicide, SACS (Surviving After Child Suicide) and Jan Andersen Writing Services. Until recently, Jan had four children aged 20, 18, 16 and 4. Her eldest son, Kristian, tragically took his own life on 1 November 2002. Whilst campaigning for depression, suicide and drugs’ awareness, Jan is writing a book on child suicide entitled, “Chasing Death”. http://www.janandersen.homestead.com

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