A Hope for Small Mercies

I have a friend whose mother-in-law once judged her harshly for using plastic hangers. Another was called into question for using pre-peeled baby carrots instead of real (dirty) ones. A third friend’s mother-in-law may have hired a private investigator to spy on her, though there is no real way to know. Is it any wonder that I’m a nervous wreck about ZiMa’s recent arrival and all the ways I’m sure she’s going to decide I’m unworthy of her youngest son?

She seemed lovely enough when she got off the plane. She’s very pleasant and happy and kind, and I can see how such a person might have a created someone as excellent as Z. She even seemed like she might sort of like me. But right now she is in my house, sleeping in my Heavenly Bed (she needed a step stool to get into it—frivolous) and so I worry.

Hopefully she is sleeping and not rifling through my drawers where she will no doubt find further evidence proving that this girl is not fabulous enough for her boy, though she probably needn’t open a single drawer. It could be the ratty underpants (slovenliness), a ridiculous number of rings (greed and vanity), a too dusty Bible (general sinfulness), the art hanging on the walls (possible blasphemy), a not well hidden copy of Sex Tips from a Gay Guy to a Straight Girl (sexual immorality), my journals from 1989 through 2006 (all of the above sins plus some others). Who knows what she could uncover. I like to think the appreciation that Z and ZiMa have for Law and Order has more to do with justice being served than mysteries being solved, in which case my secrets are safe. I am of the other school, which explains why, possibly, Z’s drawers were once ransacked when I was trying to unlock the secrets of his heart. With luck, this will not be a karma moment, a do unto others moment where I get paid back for past misdeeds.

I find Al Capone’s epitaph on my lips: My Jesus, mercy.