J-Fed Slays The Monster-In-Law

One of J-Fed’s biggest gripes all of these years is that he’s been married to two women, Kiki and her mother KuKu. Now, according to J-Fed, he’s had enough of being double teamed by the mother-daughter duo. Despite his 6’4”, 200-pound stature, he no longer has the strength to battle the two bitches of Basketcaseville who are small in stature but overwhelming in character.

“Your mother is always here. You need your mother to wipe your butt. You can’t do anything without your mother’s help,” he constantly belittles me.

J-Fed is absolutely right. KukKu is here all of the time. She helps get the kids off to school. She babysits at the drop of the hat. She assists in running errands. She brings over food on occasion. There isn’t any call of duty too big for KuKu.

Do you know why every time you turn around she’s always here J-Fed? Because you’re not. And if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times, even when you’re here, you’re not here. Working on your go karts in the garage does not equate to helping with the kids, doing chores or assisting in running the household.

You see, J-Fed. Most women who get married have a partner, someone who is there through thick and thin. Marriage isn’t a spectator sport. You don’t get to watch on the sidelines while I continuously take one for the team. If you did your part, KuKu wouldn’t always have been around to drive you, well, cuckoo.

The irony of J-Fed’s complaint is that 1/2 of the time Kuku is running around like a chicken with her head cut off because of J-Fed. In other words, she’s doing errands and housekeeping for him and his business. And most of the time she’s here because you tell me to call her here, bird brain.

“J-Fed, can you pick daughter up from school? I have a conference call at 1:30,” I ask him.

“Can’t your mom pick her up?” J-Fed retorts.

“J-Fed, can you run to the grocery store and get a can of chicken stock?” I beg.

“Can’t your mom bring one up?” he whines. Mind you, the grocery store is less than two minutes away and KuKu’s house is 12 minutes away.

When I have health issues, KuKu is always by my side while J-Fed simply declares I’m just being dramatic. Truth be told, I could be impaled by large wooden stake and bleeding out every orifice and J-Fed would say nonchalantly “Oh it’s just a splinter.”

J-Fed is constantly telling me that I should be married to KuKu and not to him. And he’s right. Unlike the Fedster, my mother always puts me and the kids first. She goes out of her way to help me at all costs. Her goal is to make my life easier even if it makes her life a little more difficult. Not to mention the fact, when she’s here, she’s here.

I hate to remind J-Fed of last summer when he injured himself while toying around on a neighbor’s bike. Unable to drive, KuKu served as a chauffer for him every day for almost six weeks. She drove him to and from work. She took him on Frap and cigarette runs. She carted his ass almost two hours away to pick up a new go-cart. At one point, he even joked that they were having sing-alongs in the car. Ah, those were the days when J-Fed couldn’t get enough of KuKu. Or should I say KuKu couldn’t do enough for J-Fed?

I can still recall the day he called me up and said. “Back off Kiki. She’s my momma KuKu now.” If only I’d had a tape recorder to replay those words every time J-Fed starts blaming KuKu for everything that goes wrong. The downfall of our marriage? KuKu’s fault. The kids not listening? You guessed it – it’s KuKu. Global warming? Yep, once again KuKu contributed to that big hole in the ozone layer.

Despite her many attempts to make life easier for J-Fed and I, KuKu has become nothing more than a scapegoat for big problems, little problems and all the problems in between.

While J-Fed has moved on up or on out I should say, KuKu has stuck by my side. J-Fed would likely tell you that crazy birds of a feather flock together. And for once, he’s right.