I have written before about my father-in-law's penchant for peeing in the garden, here. Regrettably, this bizarre habit continues apace, and I'm seriously considering filling my kitchen window in with cement so I don't have to keep seeing that old fart unzip his trousers and spray the area like some feral hound. It seems like every time I pause to rinse my teacup at the sink and gaze thoughtfully out into the little olive grove, I get an unwanted glimpse into octogenarian hillbilly depravity.
Lately my mother-in-law--a champion of decathlon nagging, a harpy of Herculean proportions--has been persecuting the FIL even more than usual. I can hear her from my place. Honestly, in the 17 years I've known this ill-starred couple, I have never heard her say a kind word to him or speak to him in a tone of voice that was nothing less than lacerating. But the past few weeks have seen the normal floodtide of criticism swell into a tsunami, to the point where I almost feel sorry for poor, hapless FIL.
So I guess, in a way, I can understand the thing that happened.
One mid-morning not very long ago, I was at the sink and heard my father-in-law's truck pull into the courtyard. I looked up and saw him get out. The door to the in-law's lair was closed, which meant the MIL had gone on her daily pilgrimige to the Coop for her little cloth bag full of groceries. FIL plodded over to the side of the house to where my mother-in-law keeps her potted flowers and plants--which she lovingly tends (unlike her marriage)--in a long, neat row. He unzipped his pants and very carefully--and quite lavishly--urinated all over her roses.
Then he went inside the house.
|"That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet"--Shakespeare|
Well, at least it shouldn't smell like your husband's pee
Campobello (I swear I'm not making this stuff up)