“Marriage is like a tense, unfunny version of Everybody Loves Raymond, only it doesn’t last 22 minutes. It lasts forever.”
– Pete, Knocked Up
Mr Posy’s verygreekfamily live across the street. From us.
Late one night I was flicking through channels on the TV (something I rarely do – as we usually download from iTunes), eventually settling on Knocked Up. When I heard Pete compare marriage to a once-popular sitcom, I couldn’t help but laugh. Not about the marriage part, as Mr Posy and I are yet to tie the knot (we’re engaged, but living in sin – tsk, tsk), but because over the past six months I’ve often joked that if my life were a sitcom, it would be called Everybody Loves Mr Posy. But hopefully funnier. To everybody but me, at least.
About this time last year, Mr Posy’s parents sold us their house. That they had literally built with their own hands. My in-laws no longer needed such a large home – they wanted to downsize and move into a flat a few suburbs away, but they wanted to keep the house in the family. I was not too excited at the prospect at owning Mr Posy’s family home; I knew that there would be many problems, and that my in-laws would have trouble separating themselves from the idea that the house was no longer their own. However in the end, I had to admit defeat. It would be a means to an end – our golden ticket out of Posytown.
A few months later, and the in-laws still hadn’t moved out of the house – I was still living with my mum, refusing to move in with Mr Posy until his parents vacated the premises. Then, Mr Posy’s older brother moved from interstate with his wife, asking if they could crash at the house for just a few weeks. Fast-forward four months, and they were all still in the house. In MY house. That I still hadn’t moved in to. I was furious! It had been eight months since settlement – we were paying the mortgage (and I was also paying my parents a considerable amount in ‘rent’) – it was time for his family to move out.
My Posy rang me with “good news” a couple of days later – his Ma had found a place for my brother-in-law to rent. … And Mr Posy’s parents would move in with my BIL and his wife!
“Where is this new place?” I queried.
“Well,” Mr Posy replied, “It’s close.”
I was not particularly impressed that I would be able to wave to my in-laws from my front patio, but I was glad that I could finally move in with Mr Posy.
Before Mr Posy’s Ma moved out, she told him that we were to come to dinner each night. When Mr Posy told her that that would not be happening, she retorted that we were to come across the street to collect the dinner that she would make for us, and we could eat at it at our house. Failing that, we could give her a key so that she could come to our house to cook dinner each day while we were at work. When Mr Posy told her that we would be cooking our own dinner each night, she cried. She also cried when Mr Posy told her that, no, we would not be delivering our laundry for her to do, nor would we be giving her a key so that she could come and clean our house while we were at work.
The evening that I moved in, she was over at our place before I could even get out of the car, and about halfway through moving she informed Mr Posy (who translated for me) that we were tired, and demanded that we rest. The next evening she turned up on our doorstop in tears, insisting that Mr Posy take the meal she had cooked.
Perhaps when deciding on a pseudonym for my blog, I should have called myself “Debra”, and Mr Posy, “Raymond”.
The parallels between my life and that blasted sitcom are uncanny. But at least Everybody Loves Raymond only lasts 22 minutes.