Twinkle: My MIL is Pure Evil

I grew up watching the loving relationship between my mother and my grandmother, who has often said that God gave her two sons and made her wait until they grew up and got married before she could have her own daughters. My grandmother's sweet to everyone, of course, and so is my mother--so why would they engage in b*tchy power struggles when they could just be friends? That is what I always hoped for and expected for myself, and why shouldn't I have it? I'm nice to everyone, too.

I really don't think I ask much from my mother-in-law--certainly not more than I expect from any other friend or relative in my life. I don't want or expect her to buy me anything (she does, generously). I certainly don't expect her to love me more than her own daughter (she clearly doesn't). I really just want her to be nice to me, to treat me as a valid human being even though I may not be exactly like her and her precious perfect (to her)--and decidedly beige to the rest of us--daughter, and I'd prefer it if I knew where I stood with her on a day-to-day basis. That's about all I'm asking for.

What I don't understand is the ongoing dichotomy about my daughter. Because, on one hand, MIL acts like Twinklette doesn't even like me or care if I'm around. And on the other hand, she acts like we're in an unhealthy codependent relationship. The truth is, Twinklette and I are close--as all mothers and toddlers should be. I'm not afraid to let her have a little bit of freedom at a time, when I think that's appropriate--and I do believe I'm the one who knows best what's appropriate when, since I am the person who knows Twinklette best in the world.

So, we enrolled Twinklette in school. Her first day is next week, and we've all been getting excited about it. Twinklette has her backpacks ready, and we've been talking about school clothes and the friends she'll make and the things she'll learn, and how great it's going to be. And, while I'll miss her, I'm looking forward to having a little more freedom in the mornings to get things done or to do something for myself. (Note: this is not the attitude of an unhealthily attached helicopter parent).

Tonight, we were over there for some pathetic belated-Hanukkah bash, and I was in another room while Mr. Twinkle, Twinklette, and my in-laws were in the kitchen. I guess one of them said, "Are you getting excited about school?" and Twinklette said, "I'm not going to school. I'm going to stay home with mommy." I walked in the room a minute later, Mr. Twinkle told me about the sweet thing she'd just said, and of course my heart melted, and MIL looked me in the face with a look of disgust and disbelief. I said, "That's so sweet, sweetheart--I'm going to miss you, too," and MIL started talking about all the friends she's going to make and how she's going to learn and blah blah blah. The face she made sort of soured dinner for me, and when we got home I asked Mr. Twinkle how the initial exchange went down.

He said Twinklette said, "I'm not going to school. I'm going to stay home with mommy," and my MIL said to Mr. Twinkle, "Where'd she get that?"

And I cannot begin to describe to you how hurt I am by that little question. Do you really want to know where she got that, Grams? She got it out of the deepest parts of her sweet, tender, two-year-old little heart. And for that evil woman to think that it came from anywhere else does a disservice to Twinklette's genuine feelings. (She doesn't pay attention to Twinklette's feelings or thoughtfulness, anyway...tonight Twinklette was passing out treats and wanted to make sure Grams had some--she was willing to give her own away to make sure my MIL had some. And I'm sorry, but--like any toddler--Twinklette loves her sweets, and usually cares more about herself than anyone else. So for her to be willing to give up a treat and put someone else's feelings and needs before her own is very kind and grown-up of her, I think. My MIL didn't notice. All she cares about is if Twinklette knows what the duck says. Which Twinklette still doesn't).

So it upsets me that she thinks Twinklette couldn't feel that for herself, and express it. And it really hurts me that she thinks I just go around filling Twinklette's head with whatever ideas I want to all day long. I'm not going to lie--my daughter and I have a wonderful time together every day--but I let her be who she is and feel what she feels, and I would never try to force a feeling on her or try to make her more attached to me than she is. I want her to have the right amount of independence. I would never try to sabotage this important step for her--as much as I'll miss her, I want her to go to school and love it.

That woman is pure evil. Hope she enjoyed her babysitting privileges while they lasted, because I think school is going to make our daytime social schedule fill up pretty darn quickly, and we have so many reliable nighttime sitters, you know. And I really don't want to play that game, but I also don't want my daughter to spend her time with someone who considers brainwashing a valid form of child-rearing and assumes Twinklette's feelings and convictions are coming from my own personal brainwashing agenda. My only agenda is to help Twinklette grow into exactly who she is.

Twinklette can major in whatever she wants to in college (unlike my MIL's kids, whose majors were selected for them by her). In fact, I sort of hope Twinklette picks a pointless one just so I can shove it in MIL's face. Perhaps I'll enroll us in a spring pottery class.

Twinkle: Not to Beat a Dead Horse, But...

...the toy turned up. So I thought you all might want to see for yourselves what I'm talking about. Here's a normal view of the toy...a perfectly respectable fairy riding a bedazzled and flower-bedecked white steed, just the thing that would appeal to a little girl:

And now here is the money

shot, which, from what I hear, would appeal more to Catherine the Great. By the way, I felt like a serious pervert as I experimented with different lighting, angles, and flash settings to best capture the essence this horse's junk. But here it is, in all its glory.

Mr. Twinkle has no idea what's waiting for him when he gets home tonight, but I cannot wait to see the appalled look on his face! I'm just sorry I'm not there to see the look on all of yours!

Dibbs: The Date

Sorry, Y'all. I didn't realize I was leaving you in suspense.

I can't make fun of him that much now that I've seen him. I fear there may really be something amiss.

I'll give you one example. He didn't know how to use his debit card to pay for dinner. The bill came. He put his debit card in the holder like a normal person would, and then the waitress came. He told the waitress he didn't have a pen. (BTW, every time I tell this story, people think I mean PIN number because I don't sound like a Yankee, and it gets on my nerves. But I digress.) The waitress looked puzzled and gave him a pen. He looked at the bill with a befuddled expression and began to write on it. He said to the waitress, "I don't know where to write." She rolled her eyes and took the bill. Y'all, it was the first bill. Not the one you sign. I am not exaggerating when I say that I think he grew up in a compound outside Oklahoma City.

The date went on, and he is very nice, as I knew he was. I would know this, as he had been calling every damn night for a week-and-a-half. He texted two more times, and when I didn't answer the second text, he stopped.

There's so much more, but I just can't talk about it. Bless his heart.

Twinkle: The Comparisons Begin

So, we had lunch with my in-laws today (they made their triumphant return from grandparent duty in Connecticut yesterday). And the first thing out of Twinklette's mouth upon seeing them was not, as I had feared, "Santa Claus brought me the pink kitchen from Pottery Barn Kids and a Kit Kittredge doll," but in fact, "I ate some soap." She couldn't wait to tell them about how she'd gotten her hands on a Lush bubble bar and taken a big bite out of it. I'm sure this confirms their fears that I'm an unfit mother, but in Twinklette's defense, that bubble bar did look good enough to eat. She had to cleanse the palate with some Christmas tree Peeps after the fact...another infraction that would not be welcomed kindly by them, on many levels.

So, it's an amazing thing. My MIL has spent two years talking about how Twinklette looks exactly like my sister-in-law, and isn't the resemblance uncanny and blah blah blah? It was the middle of summer, when Twinklette's hair was blond-ish from days spent poolside, and MIL was like, "Look how dark her hair's getting!" as if my daughter were some swarthy pirate. Well, now it turns out my sister-in-law's baby looks exactly like her! (As she should). And my MIL is all, "She has lots and lots of dark hair and big brown eyes." Mr. Twinkle is like, "Yes, but where did that nose come from?" and MIL says, "Oh, that's his family's nose!" But anyway, now my MIL says, "We couldn't have two granddaughters who are more different-looking! I mean, Twinklette is so light-haired and fair-skinned, and the new baby has dark hair and a dark complexion!" That may be true, but the real marvel, for me, is how both granddaughters--swarthy pirate and fair English rose--both seem to uncannily resemble my sister-in-law. (Not that I think the new baby is a swarthy pirate--she's very cute and my SIL actually has a very pretty, very fair complexion with dark hair. I'm the one who tans well...although I'm sure my MIL would never admit it. Unless it were somehow turned into a criticism). Anyway, it seems that both granddaughters are beautiful living tributes to my sister-in-law, as expected.

I also have to discuss a toy Twinklette received in her Christmas stocking. Twinklette has a few of these, and I have never noticed anything amiss with them (although maybe I just haven't looked). Anyway, she got another one in her stocking, and when I was trying to remove it from its elaborate packaging, I had it turned upside down and realized that the horse was anatomically correct. The horse was male, and still had all its junk, if you know what I mean. (And, being a Kentuckian, I couldn't help but think that that horse would command a respectable stud fee, especially given its easy rapport with mythical woodland creatures). I was in the presence of my parents and 92-year-old grandmother, so I had to play off the fact that Santa had left a horse with a ginormous plastic schlong in my daughter's stocking. And I'm no expert on equine genitalia, but it looked remarkably humanistic, which makes me wonder if some sex pervert is designing plastic fairy horse molds. I took it out of the packaging as discreetly as possible, trying to contain a mixture of amusement and disgust. It would have been utterly inappropriate to show Mr. Twinkle at the time, so I turned the horse over, hoped no one would notice, and anticipated the look on Mr. Twinkle's face when I'd finally have the chance to say "Check this out."

I can't help but wonder whose idea this was. These are fairy figurines--with wings and pointy ears. It isn't as if the toys are being used to teach anatomy. Maybe it's one of those hippie companies that wants to be realistic with children, but then why are they manufacturing fairy toys at all? All I can say is it's a good thing they're not manufacturing Ken dolls.

Anyway, I couldn't wait to show Mr. Twinkle--but now the horse has disappeared! I don't know if a well-meaning relative spotted the appendage and decided that Twinklette should be sheltered from large equine penises for a few more years, or if it got lost in the shuffle, or what, but that horse is nowhere to be found. And I am devastated--I have not mentioned it to Mr. Twinkle at all, because that is the kind of thing you just need to see for yourself. I really don't think he'd believe me if I said, "That horse in Twinklette's stocking was actually hung like a horse." He just has to see it for himself. I'm still hoping it turns up, so if you all see him, don't mention the horse schlong.

Twinkle: Skype Tells All

So, y'all know how Mr. Twinkle's family refuses to admit that my child actually likes me. They can pull her out of my arms as she wails, "I want mommy!" and they'll be like, "What's wrong with her, Twinkle? Didn't you give her lunch today?" It's the general consensus in Mr. Twinkle's family that my daughter doesn't know or care about the difference between me and a Rhesus monkey in a blonde wig, and I have never, in almost two years of motherhood, heard any of them say (or even tacitly admit), "She wants her mommy." Not even when she's saying it.

So, yesterday the families fired up the Skype lines in an effort to introduce Twinklette to her new sweet baby cousin. We'd never used Skype, so at first we couldn't get/send a video feed and could only hear voices...and it was a good thing, too, because the very second we answered the call from Mr. Twinkle's sister, the very first thing we heard (in the background), was a baby make a small, innocuous cooing sound, and my mother-in-law saying, "Ohhhh...she wants her mommy!" You should have seen the looks on our faces...but it was a good thing nobody on the other end of that webcam could! (Funny, when my baby was a few weeks/months old, wasn't it my MIL who assured me that she was way too young to tell the difference between me and anyone else?)

I'm sure this is the first of many small or large inequalities that y'all can look forward to reading about as my sister-in-law forges the tricky waters of new motherhood with a grace and ease that my MIL thinks I never could manage. She already gave birth naturally and matter-of-factly in the span of a few hours, while we all know I'd have been dead on the stirrups table if they'd made me do that. That's probably why her kid loves her so much, and mine merely tolerates me.

Julep Is In Kinks of Laughter.

Twinks, your story about the fire department reminds me of one told by a co-worker several years ago. His grandparents engaged in a little, um, amorous activity that was vigorous enough to knock the phone off the bedside table. As they are both 80+, that phone was pre-programmed to call 911 in such an event. The 911 Call Center heard a lot of panting and moaning that sounded like an elderly person having a medical emergency.

Apparently his grandpa met the paramedics at the front door in a T-shirt, boxers and socks, smoking a cigarette.

Tips to them, and tips to you young-marrieds-with-a-toddler, for keeping love alive!

Lola is Appalled.

That is all. xxoo

Twinkle to Dibbs: In Suspense

Dibbs, I am dying to know the details of your date. I thought perhaps there'd be an update with a post-mortem by now...I'm going to consider the lack of one to be a result the fact that you were making out.

Do y'all have Skype? So my sister-in-law had her baby, which is super-exciting...tres thrilled to have a neice, and now my in-laws are out of state which makes my life ever-so-much easier. But now we are under all kinds of pressure to Skype all the time, because the grandparents want everyone to be able to see each other. I'm all for technology, but Skype is totally interfering with my intention to have an in-law-free couple of weeks. (I know it's a perfectly normal thing for grandparents to want, but a much-needed vacay from my in-laws is a perfectly normal thing for me to want).

So, Mr. Twinkle just had that knee surgery, you know. And so he's been at home, not working, hanging out, watching movies, and chatting everyone's ear off while in an Oxycontin-induced haze. And all weekend, he's been marveling at how long the weekend seems. He just cannot believe how long it seems. I know that he usually works a lot on the weekends, but he doesn't seem to realize that, when his parents don't own two nights out of the weekend (Friday and Sunday), and his dad doesn't come over on Saturday to watch the UK game, and we're not under all kinds of pressure to do sh*t for/with everyone...then yes, we do have quite a lot more time. Funny how that works! The best part is we have next weekend, too!

Lola: you might want to stop reading now.

So this is where we're supposed to say funny sh*t that we can't say anywhere else, right? Well, last night the fire trucks had to come to our house, because of a particularly rowdy and raucous activity on the sofa that caused it to scoot two feet across the floor, turning on the gas valve to the fireplace. We didn't realize the gas was on for awhile after, until I noticed a whooshing sound and we figured it out. We Googled what to do (air out the house), checked on Twinklette (whose room is just above the fireplace), and ended up calling the fire department, who ended up coming out just to be safe. Sorry if this is too graphic, but I think it's hilarious that the firemen had to come, causing all the neighbors to peep out their windows at 2 a.m., and we have no good explanation as to why. And all while Mr. Twinkle has a bum knee!

I apologize for probably causing most of you to hesitate about sitting on my sofa ever again.

Lola to Dibbs: How did the date go!?!

Darlin'! Are you holding out on the details? Is he more that a non-existent cable-bill? Did he treat you well and enjoy your company? Because at the end of a long day, that is the kind of man you want on your sofa.

xoxo

Julep: I'm Not Cut Out For This.

I volunteered for this pro bono program to represent domestic violence victims in family court ... it's once every four to six months, Legal Aid did a big training, and I figured even I could handle it. Um, no. No, I cannot.

Set my own client's case aside ... family court is on a floor of the courthouse that I never have to go to. I sat there for two hours yesterday waiting for our case to be called. It was the single most depressing place I have ever been, including hospital wards and funeral parlors. Sure, there are worse places in the world, like refugee camps and Evin Prison. But I saw more people weeping and/or irate yesterday than I can process. Custody disputes, mostly. It's like marinating in human misery.

I have a full helping of Catholic guilt ... I am easily put upon as to things I should do, that someone needs and I can provide. Heck, I give blood regularly even though I am so squeamish that I can't watch Gray's Anatomy without looking away from the surgery scenes. But there's a reason I don't practice family law, and I really don't know if I can go back there. (By the way, Lola, take another gold star for your CASA work.)

On that happy note, I'll get back to my regularly scheduled case load, in which nobody weeps or bleeds or is condemned to a life of grinding desperation.

Julep: I hate sweatpants.

Apologies to Mr. Lola, whose halfway cool sweatpants I have not seen. Perhaps they would escape my loathing.

Mr. Julep has a pair of sweatpants I would like to light on fire. They are navy blue, with elasticized waist and ankles and ... well, they're sweatpants. I hate them. Just last weekend, he was looking for them and I suggested that he put on some nice flannel pj pants instead. He said, "Those are fine, but I like my sweatpants because I don't have to change my pants if I have to run up to the store for something."

OK, point taken. But how long does it take to put on a pair of real pants? Thirty seconds, tops?

Why voluntarily assume the uniform of trailer trash? Nobody looks good in sweatpants. Even worn around the house, sweatpants are ugly and shapeless. They may be comfortable, but so are pajama pants, which come with the added assurance that you will not be tempted to rush out of the house without changing into some decent attire.

That is all.

LoLa: Facebook Maladies

I have a cousin. She is 18 years old and lives in Indiana. She just finished her high school diploma/Vo-Tech training in cosmetology. She is so sweet, but a little bit country (or alot country, actually). Today I want to take her facebook account away.

Apparently yesterday she and her boyfriend broke up. I know she is sad and grieving. I know this because her Facebook status updates go something like this (in chronological order):

Betsy* is now SINGLE.
Betsy is heartbroken...but it doesn't even bother him
Betsy he is done being with me and i wish he wasnt [sic].
Betsy what can I do to make him realize how much i miss him and he actually care...this is the hardest time of my life.
Betsy I've done it now...He's done forever...Bad...Upset.

Based on the last posting, I'm just hoping this eighteen year old bada$$ heartbreaker hasn't died in a freak farming columbine "accident."

Nevertheless, this is the paradox of those of us who grieved our broken hearts over the telephone with our bestest friends. Or had slumber parties where we cried over pizza and ginger ale while stabbing the eyes out of all our school-dance photos of said bada$$ heartbreakers. How provincial we were not to be able to skyright our graceless emoting of the "biggest tragedy ever" (aka our broken hearts) to all 205 friends we share on the internets.

Twinkle - please share this post with Twinklette as soon as she can comprehend the internets and let her know that if she acts the fool in such a pathetic way, her Auntie Lola will make fun of her. Because the fear of public ridicule and scorn seems to be severely lacking in today's youth.

Merry Christmas!
xoxo
LoLa

* Names changed to protect the sad and pathetic.

PS Props to STFU Parents for ridiculing parents for their embarrassing facebook status updates.

PPS Mr. LoLo's sweatpants are not even really half-cool. But thanks for the effort.

Twinkle: A Telling Tale

Amusing story.

Today, my mother-in-law whisked Twinklette away for the morning while I browsed the men's sweatpants department of Target, trying to find the same "halfway cool" ones Lola's husband had on a few years back.

Here's how the exchange went down:

Me to Mr. Twinkle: You're really wearing sweatpants to brunch?

Mr Twinkle: But Mr. Lola's wearing sweatpants!

Me: Yes, but Mr. Lola's sweatpants are halfway cool.

(I'm still sorry for the backhanded compliment, Lola and Mr. Lola!)

Y'all can guess that I don't personally care for the look, although Mr. Lola's sweatpants were fine as far as sweatpants go. For lounge/sleepwear I favor the cotton or flannel pj look, which Mr. Twinkle also embraces; as for going out of the house in sweatpants, well it's not something I actively support. Anyway. I was trying to be nice and give Mr. Twinkle something he'd love: sweatpants. So that's what I did while Twinklette was with her grand-mama.

Here's the real story.

So when MIL and Twinklette came back, I thought I'd throw my mother-in-law a bone, it being the season of peace on earth and such. So when they came in with a plate of cookies they'd made and decorated together, I said, "Oh--I made your almond icing for a cookie exchange last weekend and my cookies won."

Well, you should have seen her eyes light up. "My icing won? My icing won!" It took her a few minutes to internalize this bit of information. "I can't believe my icing won!" "My icing's famous!" She was still talking about "her" victory long after the subject had changed. It really was nice of me, because it seemed like it made her whole week. I've seriously never seen her so happy.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that the cookies won for presentation--before a single one of them had been tasted by anybody. I also didn't remind her that I was actually the one who made the icing. I didn't want to diminish her personal victory, after all.

Dibbs: Foiled Again

One of our dear friends put her head together with a co-worker and has set me up on a blind date.

I was so excited. I've talked to him twice. He's out of town on business, but he actually called two days in a row. This is such a rarity that I was beside myself.

Then it happened. He asked me what I was getting ready to do. "Watch Kentucky play," I said. He revealed what may be his fatal flaw. He doesn't have cable.

Now before you say anything, understand. It's fine if girls don't have cable. They'll miss a lot of most-dramatic-rose-ceremonies-in Bachelor-history, but whatev. It is, however, a deal breaker for me if a guy doesn't have cable. Why, you wonder, scratching your head...

He Doesn't Watch Sports! Yes, I know, this might sound like nirvana to you. Right now I'm watching Mississippi State play DePaul independently of a man so I can cheer for the SEC against the Big East. A man who doesn't watch sports would make me feel like a big ole butch. And let me tell you, there's nothing attractive for either of us if I have to explain pass interference to him.

I don't truck with men who don't watch sports. My male friends watch sports. My family watches sports. Hell, the baby watches sports. What Daddy raised this man? (And, no, he cannot be my father-in-law.)

I know I'm no spring chicken. Nor am I easy to deal with. At some point, I realize a girl has to make some sacrifices. Why couldn't they be crow's feet, or a receding hairline, or flat feet? Why does the sacrifice have to be this?

Twinkle: Avoid Vanille Patisserie

So, apparently the Vanille Patisserie is located near the scene of a stabbing yesterday. I cannot believe I sent you there! Maybe avoid West Lincoln Park from now on...I know I travelled this corridor a lot back in the day as I adored (and still do adore) the hip, up-and-coming feel of Wicker Park. Seems it's not so up-and-coming anymore.

Anyway, hope you stayed away, Lola. Cheers to staying safe!

Twinkle to Lola: French Pastry in Chicago

I happened to see the Twitter feed, and it seems our Lola is headed to my adopted hometown in search of Lill bags and French pastries. My recommendation is Vanille Patisserie--conveniently located on the North side on one of my favorite streets, Clybourn (complete with lots of other shopping, as well...and it's also close to Southport, which has lots of fabulous local boutiques). If you're willing to get in the car and drive just a little bit, it might be worth it. It's located pretty far west on Clybourn, but going from south-to-north (from downtown to Lincoln Park) it would be about halfway between downtown and where I used to live in Wrigleyville--not too far from your fabulous amenities at the Drake. (It's also an easy jaunt to Lill and other Armitage boutiques from there). Their Web site also mentions a Chicago French Market, scheduled to open today--how fortuitous! The new market is on Clinton Street (downtown somewhere if I remember, as all the presidential-named streets are). It might be fun to go on opening weekend, and it would probably be an easier cab ride than getting to Clybourn.

Have fun and don't miss the Dickens Christmas tea at the Drake, either--it's my favorite afternoon tea in Chicago. And y'all know I'm an expert on the matter.

Cheers to the Windy City!

Dibbs: Everybody Loves Incontinence

I am nothing if not a woman of my word. I promised I would tell you all about the treatment for my condition. I will tell you. Besides the dietary restrictions (nothing good is allowed) and the 11 prescriptions (I have approximately 15 more waking minutes,) pain management is an treatment component. Once a week I venture over to the office for my pain cocktail.

Before you get too excited, the pain cocktail is not served in a lovely highball with a nice cheese tray. It's inserted. With a catheter. I'm not telling you anything else. You can figure it out.

Actually Twinkle knows one other treatment component. She got it out of me with forbidden cocktails and peer pressure. If she wants to tell you she can, or you can ply me with more illicit alcohol. I really never want to talk about it again. I doubt you want to hear it. She probably went home and scrubbed her brain.

On to the funny, funny incontinent part. I went for my cocktail, which I try to schedule conveniently around trips to Churchill Downs or lunch. On this particular trip I needed to pick up a birthday gift. Lidocane, Marcane, Elmiron, Heparin, and some medicine that starts with a "T" cocktail properly administered, I journeyed over to Play It Again Sports for some 14-year-old birthday weights. Bad move. Never pick up weights in that condition. The cocktail found itself on the floor of PIAS. Looked like my water broke. Oops.

I thought this was an anomaly brought on by too much heavy lifting. Never gave it another thought past some major humiliation. Then came the day I needed to pick up one of my many prescriptions after cocktail hour. While waiting in line at Kroger, I felt a little drip. I felt a little river passing the hem of my skirt. Hell.

The lady in front of me couldn't figure out the complicated new Kroger prescription system. I pointed to the box. "Push that. Sign here," I told her. She told me she was too short to see the box, as I gazed down from my Amazonian perch of 5'4". I glared. By the time the boy got back with my scrips, I had signed my name and swiped my card (I don't need to tell them my name anymore.) "This ain't my first rodeo," I informed him. He looked at me so quizzically. He couldn't see the little rivulets flowing into my ballet flats and onto his tile. Only the rest of the store was watching...

Hey, at least I have a good excuse to get lunch if anyone's interested. I'll schedule my sick time.

Julep: Adventures in Ingratitude, Part II

Here we go: The Mr-Mama is a lovely woman who should have gone back to work 20 years ago when her youngest started school, or at least thrown herself into charity projects. She is very smart, and playing golf and riding her horse does not provide her with enough to do with her time. She has her sewing work, and that would be a great use of her energies if she were more self-motivated. But she doesn't like to be obligated to do things on other people's deadlines, and so she just sort of dabbles.

I'm not saying that she should go out and get a job now - she hasn't worked since 1980, she can hardly use a computer. At this point, there's nothing she'd be hired to do that would be challenging and fulfilling. That is truly a shame. And although I would regret the waste of a smart woman's capabilities in an abstract way no matter what, I probably wouldn't worry about it too much if it didn't affect me.

All of the above is background. Here's the rub: to fill her time, Mr-Mama likes to go shopping. Oh, does she like to go shopping. She likes to hunt for bargains, so she shops a lot on the sales racks at Macy, and places like Stein Mart or Kohl's. She thinks since she doesn't spend much money per item, she is being thrifty. Ha! A few weeks ago (at the football game, in fact) Mr J and I mentioned in front of his mama that he needed some new dress shirts, since his old ones date back to high school and are too small in the neck. Next thing I know, I've come home from the office and there is a giant Kohl's bag sitting on the kitchen counter. I said to Mr. J, "What's in there?" And he said, "Guess." I peeked in the bag, and saw eight or nine dress shirts in a rainbow of colors.

Now bless her, he did need shirts. Eight was overkill, but ... whatever. I don't mind so much that she buys things for Mr. J. What drives me crazy is that she buys things for me, and for the house. She has good taste, so at least there's that. But I don't need an hors d'ouevre plate shaped like a gourd. Nor do I need a matched set of kleenex box cover, toothbrush holder, and small dishes. Yes, they "look like me" in that I would like the style and color if I saw them at the store. I would perhaps even comment, "oh look, those are cute." But I would not buy them.

Here's another thing I wouldn't buy: clothes I don't need. Mr. J and I went to a black tie wedding in New York last month, and we decided it was time to buy Mr. J a tux. Mr-Mama did the necessary alterations and he looks grand - but it prompted her to ask me what I would be wearing. I said, "Well, I would wear that great dress you gave me last year, but I do hate to wear black to a wedding, even a Yankee wedding where probably no one would notice [and sure enough, 2/3 of the ladies present had black on]. But I'll find something." Meaning, of course, that I would find something in my closet.

Next thing I know, Mr-Mama is calling me up one evening to come over. She had gone to the mall and purchased five different evening gowns for me to try on. Sure enough, one fit and looked great, and I thanked her nicely and wore it to the wedding. Pick your battles, right? Well, then, a week later she calls again. When she was returning the dresses that didn't fit, she couldn't resist looking to see if a particularly pretty one was there in a bigger size. It was, and so she brought that home too. I tried to protest that the wedding was over but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I said I had no need for another formal dress (what with the ones I had before and the two she's now bought me in the space of a year) and I felt bad to waste money on it, and she said, "well you aren't! It's my money!"

I don't buy myself a lot of stuff, and isn't just because I'm cheap. (I am cheap, we know that.) It's a philosophical difference. I don't care for clutter. I don't like having a lot of crap piled up around the house in every nook and cranny. I also don't like spending money on things we don't need because there are people out there who really need things, and if I have $50 I don't need, a better purpose for it is to give it to someone who needs food and shelter and warm clothes than to buy myself some tchotchke to gather dust, or some piece of clothing that is going to hang in the closet and never get worn.

And I feel this way even though it isn't my money she's spending. It's wasteful. It wastes money and it wastes her time buying all this crap for us. And I wish there were some way I could tactfully tell her to go down to the Center for Women and Families, pick up a list of stuff they need, and go shop for that instead.

Twinkle: MIL Pathology

Tonight we had an extended family birthday/dinner anniversary dinner at my inlaws' home for all the people with occasions to celebrate in November. (This included both Mr. Twinkle's and my birthdays as well as our anniversary)...so the whole family was there, and they very generously gave us gifts and came to celebrate with us and all that, which was nice. But, wouldn't you know it?--I still have some b*tchin' to do.

Rewind to the beginning: I was in a quiet room changing Twinklette's diaper when the majority of the guests arrived, so we walked out to a huge room full of family members that Twinklette sees on occasion, but not every week or anything--and they were all staring at her because everyone always stares at the only little kid in the room. I understand this can be a daunting social situation for an almost 2-year-old. So Twinklette wanted to be held, and unequivocally stated, "Mommy, Mommy, I want Mommy." Well, my MIL never could stand the idea that Twinklette actually likes me--and she especially dislikes it when Twinlkette shows her preference for me in a large social setting, so MIL got up in her grill and said, "Do you want to come to Grams?" As if her position on the issue were somehow unclear before, Twinklette again said, "Mommy, Mommy, I want Mommy." But MIL still did not give up. She said, "Do you want to come help Grams?" Twinklette threw her arms around me neck tightly. My father-in-law said, "Is she tired?" (because, again, not one of these people can ever imagine that a child might just want her mother sometimes) and I said, "No, she's just feeling shy--which is OK sometimes, isn't it, Twinklette?" Then MIL goes, "Do you want to come help Grams in the kitchen?" and Twinklette again said, "I want Mommy." Well, this was too much for MIL to bear. She said, in front of the whole room--as if repeating what Twinklette had just said--"Come on, Mommy!" as if Twinklette really wanted to go help Grams and I was the only thing standing in her way. (MIL has a long history of repeating loudly what she wishes Twinklette has just said; it usually happens when Twinklette has said something sweet or complimentary to me, but MIL finds a way to announce a distorted version to the room).

But wait...this is just the beginning, and the pathology just becomes more evident later on in the evening...

Those of you who know me know that my inlaws are not ones to recognize that I might mean more to my daughter than, say, a sofa pillow. So you can imagine my delight when, in the middle of dinner, Twinklette looked at me and adorably stated, "You're a good Mommy." She didn't just say it once, she said it several times. She also told Mr. Twinkle he was a good Daddy, which was also adorable and the only time my MIL acknowledged the statement...whatever, I'm used to it. And, while it wasn't the first time Twinklette had made this statement to me, she chose an incredibly opportune time to bring it up in front of the whole family (even though they ignored it). You can be sure I relished it.

Well, a few minutes later, the subject of law school and bar exams came up between a cousin and his friend who are in their last year of law school. Well, evidently MIL could not bear the sweet toddler-to-mommy moment the table had just witness without tooting her own horn a bit, so she decided to tell the story about how when Mr. Twinkle took the bar exam, in the archaic age before cell phones, she stealthily followed him to and from the exam without his knowing, just to make sure he got there OK and his car didn't break down or he had a flat tire or anything that would have prevented him from taking the exam (he had a reliable Saturn at the time, by the way...he was not driving some clunker). But, whatever, cute story...I'm sure my mom's done something similar and I will probably do worse. The story is not the point...here is the point: she finished the story with, "And I followed him all the way to his exam to make sure he got there OK--what a good mother!"

Um, it's not really as effective if you have to say it about yourself, Grams.

Julep: Side Rant

Adventures in Ingratitude will return, but first...

I have a monthly meeting with my Catholic group (I took that class with the Archdiocese last year; now we're self-directing) and the girl who is hosting November sent out a message that we would be doing a pot-luck Thanksgiving. Everyone should bring a dish, and she'll provide the drinks, rolls and dessert. My first thought was, are we going to be dining exclusively on sides? Not that I have a problem with that, I can happily fill up on green beans and sweet potatoes, but shouldn't the hostess be providing the turkey?

My second thought was, ugh. We all know that my sweet tooth is legendary, and this hostess makes no bones about the fact that she doesn't cook. Deeply suspicious that she would be serving Frisch's pumpkin pie if we're lucky and some nasty cardboard-crusted Kroger special if we aren't, I emailed her to say that I would bring mashed potatoes and what was she doing for dessert since I love to bake and would be happy to also contribute a second dessert if appropriate. She wrote me back, and this is a quote: "I was planning yellow cake with chocolate icing (because I bought the mix and need to fix it)."

So many things wrong there, I don't even know what to say first. I'm sure you're all saying them in your head right now, so I'll leave it at that.

Edited to add: I just said them all in an email to Dibbs anyway, so ... she announces a Thanksgiving potluck, and her contribution is a yellow cake with chocolate icing. Honey. If you want to have a Thanksgiving theme meal, the dessert should be pie-shaped and orange-colored. And you, the hostess, need to put up the turkey (at least pick up a couple of rotisserie chickens).

Otherwise, just tell us it's a potluck sans theme and everyone can bring something random to go with your cake. Oh, and cake mix doesn't go bad.



By the way, in case anyone is wondering why I am suddenly so prolific, I am writing a rather tricky brief today, and the blog is serving to break up my writers block. Theoretically. Now let's see if it worked.

Lola: Whoopie Pies = Yum!

Made these on Friday night. Let me just say: sublime chocolatey goodness and cure for PMS. The recipe is here.

Thanks to epicurious.com for the drool-worthy photo.

Julep: Adventures in Ingratitude

Since my trial got postponed, this week has been pretty quiet - and I realized that I have totally slacked on my blogging lately. It was mighty hectic around here for a while, but I finally have a moment for two matters of pure ingratitude that I need to get off my chest. I'm sure no one will be shocked to hear that both involve the Mr-Mama.

(1) Mr-Mama and Mr-Papa invited us to join them at a UofL football game a few weeks back. Mr. J was very excited, and I was also looking forward to it. Y'all know (don't tell Mr. J) that in my heart of hearts I am more of a UK fan ... y'all and Mr Twinks can take the credit for that, as you had several years to indoctrinate me before I met Mr. J ... but I am not a true fan on either side and I like to support UofL also.

Mr-Papa is a huge UofL fan. Huge. And a big sports fan in general. So they have great seats and do great tailgating with a bunch of his buddies at one of the cabooses right by the stadium, and Mr-Papa gets to park directly beside the elevator up to the club seats. In short, attending a game with the Mr family is a Grade A way to go. Except ... there are four seats in their little box, right? And the seating goes like this: Mr-Mama, female guest, male guest, Mr-Papa, aisle.

There is a reason that Mr-Mama and Mr-Papa do not sit next to each other. That woman talks through the entire game. The. Whole. Game. I heard about her mother's health, and her golf game, and the dress she's been making, and the tension between her and her sister-in-law over which of them would name their baby daughter A***** back in 1983. She occasionally paused for breath while there was something noteworthy going on on the field, and took that moment to cheer. But it was really just a coincidence.

Now I like the Mr-Mama, I really do. And I wouldn't mind sitting for a few hours while she talks my ear off in some other venue, like say, a nice restaurant over a girly lunch. But if it is a Saturday afternoon in November and I am bundled up in a blanket sipping hot chocolate and sitting on a hard metal seat while just below and in front of me there are 22 young lads in matching outfits playing hot potato with a pigskin, by God, I am here to watch the game!

I made a brief mention of this to Mr. J, and he winced - said that next time I can sit next to his dad and he'll sit by his mom. Of course I told him he'd do no such thing: I know how much he enjoys getting to share the game experience with his dad, and I wouldn't disrupt that for the world. But it made me realize that I can never say anything about it to him again, because I don't want to spoil his fun. And I look down the long row of football seasons to come and anticipate that every year, at least once a season, I'll be spending what should be a great football-watching experience listening to my mother-in-law. And smiling while I do it.

OK, this was longer than I expected. Stay tuned, Part 2 of Adventures in Ingratitude will air later.

... And by the way, re the twitter feed: what the heck is a whoppie pie?

Me and Mrs, Mrs Jones

I was prepared to love Mrs. Jones. She had Don King hair. She was built kind of like Tyler Perry on "Big Momma's House." I tried to put on a brave face when my orderly with the rat tail told me I had to leave my private room and move down the hall. Mrs. Jones was going to be the silver lining to my drug-induced cloud.

Then she opened her mouth. "Now, Sugar, you know I couldn't eat a bite. My stomach, it just huuuurts. Why don't you go down there and get me some of that Phenergan? I know, I'll push my pain pump while I wait." (Rustle, rustle, munch, munch of the potato chips hidden under the bed.)

Hold up, lady. Some people don't have their own personal oxycontin dispenser. I hadn't gotten so much as my blood drawn and she was sending the staff around on errands. If I had to be on 2% thread count hospital sheets wearing a gown and begging for ice chips, the least I deserved was the perk of some IV painkillers. Stat.

It got worse. Rat tail hooked me up with my morphine, or whatever. I settled in for my long winter's nap. Then Mrs. Jones began to beep. And beep. And beep. She explained to my perplexed mother that if she bent her arm this one way her iv beeped. Our thought was, "Well, don't bend it that way, (dumbass implied.)" But, you see, the medical staff, her friends, came running at the sound of the beeps. We went through this drill twice. The staff taught me to unhook my own iv so I could take myself to the bathroom, as Mrs. Jones wouldn't let them get to me fast enough. The beeping woke me from my little nap. I finally looked at Rat Tail, and with my best Julia Sugarbaker glare said, "Make. It. Stop."

Rat Tail took the batteries out of Mrs. Jones's iv pole. (Lick finger. Score.)

Not to be deterred from bothering me, she began to call people on her cell phone. She called Chubby. "Now, Chubby, you know I miss you, but I just can be to home. My stomach get to hurtin' me too much. I love you, Chubby."

She called friends to tell them how much she missed Chubby. I don't know about y'all, but Phenergan usually makes me too sleepy to worry about talking on the phone.

At some point in the night, she may or may not have tried to kill me. I don't know, I was asleep. When Mom arrived in the morning, Mrs. Jones was tied to the bed. (Score again.)

Aside from Mrs. Jones, the hospital stay was not that terrible. They even let me play on my facebook. I will give you these tips about the emergency room, one of the 7 circles of Hell.

1) Take a painkiller/fashion your own tourniquet/design your own splint/ before you go. You will wait for 2 1/2 hours, minimum. In the meantime, the staff will giggle in the hall. I sent out facebook pleas, such as, "Will somebody call Jewish East and tell them to stop giggling in the hall and get in here?" Unfortunately it was 2:00, so no one saw. I also muttered curses, biblical-style, upon them. "I hope your children have 76 IQs. I hope I get to tell you. I will giggle." I didn't mean it. I hope their children are fine.

2) By any means necessary, smuggle in your own water. They will treat you Terri Schiavo-style up in there. Not so much as a wet washcloth for your parched, parched lips. Take a big, big, bag and hide water in it. It's your only hope. (I really think as long as a healthcare plan is in the works, this water thing ought to go in it. The nurses must wet a patient's mouth. Politicians seem to be in the micromanaging mood just now. Maybe they'd go for it.)

3) Your pain level must never be less than five. If you think the pain may come back, but it's just hovering there, it's five. An angel nurse sent straight from Heaven told me that. From God's lips to mine. Five.

Twinkle: McB*tchin'

So, I'm aware that people probably judge me for Twinklette's behavior on occasion. She's a toddler, which means that sometimes she doesn't want to sit in her chair or she loses interest in her meal. Sometimes she squeals at inappropriate times or whines annoyingly in the background. What the haters don't see is the round-the-clock lessons in age-appropriate etiquette and comportment I try to impart each day: asking nicely for something, saying please and thank you, eating what you're served. We've even begun work on the proper way to butter bread, and one of these days, it'll all pay off. It has to.

I trust that day will come well before she's 13.

I spent the better part of the day at a bridal luncheon at the fabulous Holly Hill Inn. I had the good sense to leave Twinklette at home, and yet I had the misfortune of sitting next to a very surly 13-year-old girl whose previous culinary experience was limited to the dollar menu at McDonalds, and it showed. She brought her McDonalds manners right there into the Holly Hill Inn, where she happily texted away for the better part of the three-course meal.

Texting was the least of her problems, and I don't care if I sound mean for hatin' on some 13-year-old girl. She was way too old to be acting the way she was, and if you don't want your surly 13-year-old to be judged, I say don't put her in a seat next to a judgmental b*tch like me. Here is my list of grievances against her:

1). The menu. She had no concept of a three-course meal and had no idea how to order. When the server came, she looked at her mother (who, by the way, was my age), to order for her. I'm sorry, but I have seen 2-year-olds speak to the staff with more poise. (I'm speaking not of Twinklette, but another little girl in my family, who, at the tender age of 2, said, "I'd like the macaroni and cheese and a fruit cup, please" to a waitress at the Lexington Country Club). I know most little kids aren't capable of this, but by the time you're 13 you're able to both read and speak, so I say you should be expected to order for yourself. After her mother ordered for her, she whined, "I'm never going to be able to eat all that." Even Twinklette is familiar with courses and the concept of pacing yourself, having been to American Girl numerous times in her young life. The Holly Hill in, after all, is not the all-you-can-eat buffet at Frisch's Big Boy.

2. The first course. She ordered the salad with orange slices, candied pecans, and a sweet sorghum vinaigrette, which I have had before, and it's delicious. Something about the salad wasn't to her liking, though. It wasn't, after all, deep fried and covered in ranch. So instead of just being quiet about it and waiting for the next course, she had to b*tch to her mother so that everyone could hear: "We are so stopping at McDonalds after this." It wasn't enough that she said it across the table to her mother, though--she had to say it all the way down the other end of the table to her step-grandmother (or someone...not really sure what the relationship was). Meanwhile I was focusing intently on my minestrone soup to keep from smacking the ill-bred little brat. By the way, I found the minestrone delicious, but there's no telling what this girl would have done when confronted with a soup that didn't have letters of the alphabet floating in it.

3. The main course. She ordered pork chops topped with an apple chutney and green beans, and I swear to you that, instead of cutting the meat, she picked up an entire pork chop with her fork and gnawed on it, with 95% of the chop flapping out of her mouth like a pancake. She scraped off the chutney, or, as she, her mother, and the grandmother figure called it, the "stuff on top." The green beans didn't meet her standards either, and, again, she stated, "I'm feeling McDonalds calling my name." Again, she said it twice, once to her mother and once to her grandmother.

4. The potatoes. The meal was served with a bowl of hash browns for the table. Since the rest of her meal was so unsatisfactory, she helped herself to practically the entire bowl, leaving the other 4 adults at the table to ration a few bites of what was left between us.

5. The dessert. We ordered the same one: lemon pound cake topped with Devonshire cream, whipped cream, blackberry glaze and fresh raspberries. What's not to love about that? She took one bite, made a face, and I braced myself for the obligatory McDonalds comment, but it never came.

6. The worst offense: THE BALDFACED LIE. So, after the salad course, the bride-to-be came up to our table to say hello and socialize for a little bit. Keep in mind that this was immediately after the girl's incessant complaining about the salad and how gross it was, and repeated queries to her mother about what the candied pecans were when the answer was patently obvious to anyone who has ever seen a German roasted nut stand at the State Fair (and I feel confident this girl has), and her constant statements about wanting to go to McDonalds. She actually looked at the bride and said, "The salad was good." I turned to her, shocked but hoping she'd come to her senses at last, and I said, "Did you like it?" She nodded, but the bride hadn't heard her. So she said it again. Then, when the bride was gone, she went back to her endless b*tching about the fact that the menu didn't include more processed meat, transfat, and items beginning with "Mc."

So not only is she ill-bred, but also a hypocrite.

I am exhausted after making conversation with that little brat and her family (I am, after all, a friend of the bride's family). I just had to share her horrible manners and rude behavior with y'all...it truly hindered my enjoyment of the meal, to hear someone complaining about each and every aspect of it the whole time. Twinklette may whine at times, but I think being a bad guest is a much worse offense.

Dibbs: Lortab Blues

I have so much to tell you girls, but I'm living in a medicine haze. I fear my spelling might suffer if I attempt to type.
While reading facebook status updates tonight, I've noticed a particular social activity. No, not the Halloween party at the Pendennis. No, not even trick-or-treating. Alas, it is the Miley Cyrus concert. Friends, this is the very reason for the existence of teenage girls. I may have offended a few of our friends when I wrote, "Why didn't y'all hire sitters for this?" But, seriously. As God is my witness, I will never watch Billy Ray's achy-breaky progeny shake anything.
Okay, six hours up. Back to the bottle.

Dibbs: And Deliver Us From Evil. Or Rednecks, Or Are They The Same?

Y'all know how I feel about my job. I was so excited a few weeks ago when I got to move and be by myself in an office. A little problem was presented by my departure. What to do with my empty cubby-hole? I was actually pleasantly surprised. I thought the girls would want to bring their dogs in or perhaps work on car parts. No, they'd like to bring in a little couch in case someone would like to take a little nappy-nap. Nice.

My secretary, you know, the hill-jack one. Wait, that's all of them. I digress. My secretary mentioned the need for a couch. She said the girls might like to have a chaise lounge. (Who knew she had heard the word "chaise?") She said, "Jennifer, we really want a leopard print chaise lounge. We thought if anyone had one, it would be you." For the love! I'm not above animal print. I have some zebra ballet flats, some cheetah mules, and a leopard belt. If I were to buy animal home accessories, I might get a plate, a pillow, or perhaps a little picture frame. But a whole couch! Do I look like Marla Maples?? Also, I've been wanting a chaise lounge since I was eight. A cream or baby pink raw silk one. If I somehow get one, I sure ain't takin' it in that hell-hole for my work-lesbian to put her greasy dockers on it. It's meshugeneh, verboten, feh (spit)!

Julep: Shoot Me Now

Y'all, I am dying over here. I feel like Sisyphus. Between my big hearing next week and my trial coming up in a couple of weeks, as of last night I had billed 88 hours in the month of October. That's 11 billable days ... seems about right ... until you realize that for 3.5 of those days, I was (supposedly) on vacation.

The beach house was everything lovely, as it always is. And it was actually good that the weather was grey and rainy a couple of days, since I was sitting on the screen porch working on the computer while the storm raged.

On the whole the beach was a lovely trip, but did highlight the age difference between Mr. J and some of my beach friends ... who nowadays get up at 7:30 am and walk the dogs on the beach, and then go to bed around 11 even on vacation. (I do too.) But five years ago we were all about staying up drinking until all hours, sleeping past noon. And lest we forget, Mr. J is five years my junior.

Now back to work. Please keep posting, I need the mental relief.

And So It Goes: Dibbs

Just to be clear, I never want to see my Work Lesbian again. As luck would have it, I'll see her tomorrow. And five days a week until I find another job. Alas...

Twinkle: Another Fun Evening with JLL

Did y'all get that evite from Junyaleague? For the informational event (located at the prestigious address at 11209 Electron Drive) about how to pay for cancer if it's not covered by your insurance? Sounds like a rockin' night in J-town (I think it's a J-town zip code, in keeping with their diversity initiative). Those Junyaleaguers really know how to throw a party.

Movin' On...Over

Last week was so exciting. I got my own office. It's not the privilege I make it out to be. An office came open, and my boss said someone had to move. I pretended I was taking one for the team. I was thrilled. No more five people in one room; no more people talking to themselves; no more work lesbian looking over my shoulder. Nirvana. At long last I could take naps, talk on the phone, solicit auction items, surf the internet. Ladies and gentlemen (?), your tax dollars at work.

I've been in my new room now for six days. It's like hill-jack surround sound. On one side we have the receptionist. You know her from forwarded email fame. She planned our office Christmas party at the Louisville Live and asked us to pray when our co-worker's husband's neck blew up on him. Every ten seconds she says "Redneck County Schools, Can you hold?" Today she was making plans to meet her husband somewhere after work. After much deliberation, they decided on the "liberry."

On my other side, we have a secretary. I'm not sure what she does. She has plenty of time to go to the tanning bed. And to squeal. Today she was belting out this jaunty little tune: "Sometimes I funny. Sometimes I not." Sweetcheeks, let me clear it up for ya, you're not. Since I don't have any Ritalin on hand, I took her some Smarties. Tomorrow I'm taking in some Red Bull.

Please, as my friends, if you hear me answer the phone "This is her," do a grammar intervention. I'm so scared it will rub off.

Twinkle: Post-Party Comparison

Two families (Mr Twinkle's and mine), two parties hosted by us (one for each side; one in August, one in October), one comparitive analysis:

Grandmotherly Help:

MIL: My MIL and her mother insisted on making a contribution, and I was glad to accept. I asked MIL to bake one specific kind of cookies and one other baked good to be determined at her discretion. She showed up with four large trays of various and sundry cookies, brownies, fruit bars, etc. She either worked very hard at baking her diverse array of treats, or else she raided her high holidays freezer stash. I'm not complaining...she's a wonderful baker, the guests were happy, and I didn't have to bake cookies myself.

My mother: When confronted with the same request from me, she picked up a phone and ordered a cookie assortment from Plehn's.

Tastes:

Mr. Twinkle's Family: exclusively hovered around MIL's trays of sweets. Ate nothing else, and I'm not sure why. I specifically chose a menu that was just universal enough, not-too-exotic but still interesting, but they ate nothing. Seriously, Lola biked over the next day and we made a meal off of all the savories his family refused to eat--including things that I made specifically for them that I thought they would like (Barefoot Contessa smoked salmon dip, to be specific...it is indisputably delicious, if you like smoked salmon, and I know for a fact that they do, and yet Lola and I ate a huge bowl of it ourselves because no one in Mr. Twinkle's family would venture beyond MIL's baked goods). I don't think it was out of meanness at all...maybe they just don't trust any cook who isn't a Jewish grandmother. But they should trust me.

My family: Tried and ate pretty much everything; told me it was good. I do not have nearly the amount of leftovers I had after the other party. (Sorry Lola).

Drinks:

Mr. Twinkle's family: stuck to my homemade lemonade. (If they'd had any other choice on beverage that hadn't been made by me, I'm sure they would have had that). I also offered red and white wine, but no one drank that except me.

My family: Some opted for the nonalcoholic apple cider, some opted for the fall cocktail I offered (cranberry kir Noel, from Splendor). Some kids had juice boxes and some men had beer. Different people drank different options, but I was definitely not the only one drinking alcoholic beverages. Not by a longshot...and people thought the cranberry kir Noel was festive.

Cloth napkins:

Mr. Twinkle's family: was shy, refusing to use the cloth napkins for the most part and, I guess they went napkinless because there weren't any other options. Of the three or so napkins that were used, they were so dirty it looked like someone had used them to clean up some sort of massive chocolate icing accident.

My family: wasn't shy. Used the cloth napkins, left a few spots consistent with normal napkin use.

Arrival time:

Mr. Twinkle's family: arrived right on time; left before the ending time on the invitation.

My family: arrived fashionably late; closed the place down.

Anyway, that's it, for what it's worth. Mr. Twinkle and I had fun comparing and contrasting the different styles of both families and how they differ as guests.

Twinkle: It's Called *Junior* League for a Reason, People

It looks like I have another bee in my bonnet about Junior League.

Have you all seen that fall membership survey? Giving my opinion was fun at first...I was thoroughly enjoying letting the League know that I think they should make things more fun and focus less on the business side of things and more on the social side (which is why I believe the average member joins). As we've said many times, no one wants to go to work after work. (And I'm counting stay-at-home-mothering as work, too; we need a fun outlet at the end of the day as much as anyone else...plus no one wants to waste a night of childcare on something that's not fun). So I was telling them in my own, nice way, what I thought about things.

And then I got to this question: I define diversity as (check all that apply).

The ones I checked were:

Race/ethnicity and Religious Affiliation because I think we can all agree that these factors make an organization more or less diverse.

Working/Stay-at-home parent because I wish there were more acknowledgement of different people's schedules in the League. (And why can't they just say stay-at-home-mother...I know stay-at-home-parent sounds all modern and enlightened, but it seems a bit pointless when any League member who is a parent is, by default, a mother. Since we don't let men in the League and all).

The ones I did not check were as follows:

Age: because we're the JUNIOR League.

Zip Code:: because I'm a snobby b*tch.

Sexual Orientation: because I don't care or need to know who you're doing in order to be your friend and have cocktails/do good works with you. And because I really can't envision myself saying the words, "You're a lesbian? Well have I got the group for you!"

Socioeconomic strata: because there has to be a difference between our members and the people we help.

Job description (professional vs. nonprofessional): because the last thing I want to do is recruit my cleaning woman (God bless her) to be a member of the Junior League.

Level of Education: because I don't think it's going to improve the organization to recruit a bunch of GED recipients, okay? I know it's an unpopular opinion these days, but have some standards people. I'm not saying we should make a college degree mandatory (although, what's so bad about that?), but do we really have to recruit the entire '09 associates degree class from Ivy Tech, just to be diverse? Since when did having educated members become a bad thing for an organization?

And, if we are to think about this from a practical perspective, how are all these poor, uneducated, "professionally-diverse" new members going to pay their dues, buy the cookbooks, attend fundraisers, or donate to the annual giving and endowment funds?

Then we had to give the percentage of diversity increase that we'd like to see for the next year, based on our definition of diversity, and that's what really put me over the edge. Because of this question I'm not filling out the survey at all (that'll show 'em). I hate percentages, and there is something that feels sleazy to me about checking a percentage. I don't understand why we can't just recruit our friends/co-workers/relatives/aquaintances who are fun and want to be volunteers, regardless of what they look like or believe, without breaking it down into a mathematical equation.

A very wise woman was correct when she said they're going to succeed in driving a 90-year-old organization into the ground. Why do I care so much? Because the League brought me all of you, and I love it and want to see it thrive. I just wish it would stop having this ridiculous identity crisis, embrace its identity, and get on with the business of doing good works and training volunteers.

And would it kill them to plan some sort of cocktail hour?

Twinkle: Fare Thee Well, Mr. Bill

I just received an e-mail from Mr. Bill at My Gym, informing me that My Gym is the latest victim of the economic downturn and will be closing its doors. Mr. Bill wasn't clear on specifics but I'm going to assume it's effective immediately.

Y'all can imagine that this comes as wonderful news to Twinklette and me. No more guilt over not finishing those ten painful sessions! No more forcing myself to go, and trying to make an intellectual connection with the other mothers only to be brutally rebuffed with talk of Dora the Explorer! No more Mr. Bill screaming "Ta-Dah!" in our faces and making Twinklette feel like a freak for not wanting to go on the dolphin swing!

I feel liberated, and I just had to share the good news.

Southern Funerals. Nothing Like 'Em

We had a sad week in our family last week, as my cousin, who we'll call "Big 'Un" passed away. (I know. I don't typically say things like Big 'Un, but that's what he called himself.) He apparently went for a run, came home to sit down, and had a heart attack. His wife found him in a chair. Y'all may have met this particular cousin. We've seen him at the track with my grandfather's bookie, and he's given us tips. Anyway, it's all very tragic, and his family is in my prayers.

The funeral home, generally a somber place, was hopping for Big 'Un. We decided that when younger people die, they still have friends who are alive. He was very full of life, so the people at the funeral had stories in abundance. I'd tell you, but they aren't that funny.

Here's what's funny. First, we saw Junior. (That's really his name, Junior.) He was my mom's and Big 'Un's neighbor growing up. I've always heard about Junior, as he walks around with a camera all the time, and because his family has tornado drills. That's right, tornado drills. You'll see them stop the car, jump out, and run to the ditch. When asked, they explain that they are practicing for the tornado. I always thought Junior was a little, well, disabled. Dad told me that Junior joined the Air Force after high school and went to Japan. Who knew? Anyway, Junior came to the funeral home, and I was gleeful.

After the Junior sighting, this woman walked through and accosted my mother. She said they went to high school together. Mom didn't know. The woman talked and talked and talked. Then she said, "I really need to get out of here." We mentioned the door right behind us. She said, "No, I'll go that way (through the receiving line.) There might be people I need to talk to." Wonder if she goes to the funeral home every day?

Time went on. Things were normal, except the former elementary school principal suggested I get a gun to take to work. Who does she think I should shoot? The kids? Good thing she retired. We made our way through the line, and then we went to sit in the area where my grandfather had his own little receiving line. That's what happens when you move to "The Ridge" and get your car taken away.

A man came up to talk to my cousin Andy. Andy moved to Michigan/California/Alaska twenty-five years ago. He is not abreast on current events. The man told Andy who he was, but Andy didn't know him. In the spirit of graciousness, Andy said, "Well, I don't remember you, but I've heard a lot about you." That would be a great response if the aforementioned had not been fired from his position of jailer for harassing and possibly raping the female employees at the jail. Open mouth. Insert foot.

When I meet my reward, will y'all make sure everyone has that much fun at the funeral? It'll make me smile down from above.

Lola's Lament

Today I am crusty. This morning I was leveled by the bureaucracy that is Walgreens. The sheer fact that I am leaving on an international jet plane tomorrow and I was at Walgreens today with the urgent need to purchase tampons and Claritin D had already put me in a foul mood. But my Walgreen's experience pushed me over the edge. One item over which I was virtually neutral in needing to purchase was what began the downward spiral.

I needed Venus razor blades. Did you know these are kept behind a lock-and-keyed case? The notice advised me that I need only ask any Walgreen's associate for assistance. What is unsaid in this advice is that one needs to hover and wait for the Walgreen's associate to finish her conversation before requesting her service. But even after the razors are freed from behind the case, the customer is not permitted to put them in her basket; "You're not allowed to carry these around the store. I'll put them up front until you are finished shopping." Huh? Because decked out in my double-strand pearls, pencil skirt, and ferragamo pumps, I am clearly a razor blade thief in disguise. The only people permitted to carry Venus razor blades through this store are wearing standard-issue, blue bibs. Okay, fine.

The only dilemma to this mandate is that, as Twinkle has pointed out, Claritin D may only be obtained from behind the pharmacy counter, after providing government issued photo id and confirming that one understands some federal code provision about truthiness. Moreover, the pharmacy counters are most often found in the far, back corner of any store. So with my box of tampons, I headed on back to the counter. But here's something I didn't know: Walgreens will not allow you to walk through the store with a box of Claritin D, either. You must buy it at the pharmacy counter.

So therein lay the infuriating bureaucratic dilemma - my razor blades can't leave the front of the store and my Claritin D must be purchased in the back. And because I had cramps and nasal congestion, I was in no mood to be generous of spirit. Instead, I told the pharmacist he needed to go get me my razor blades from Frumpy McBlueBib at the front of the store and ring up my purchases all at once. Neither sweet nor polite, I was successful in leaving the store with tampons, and both Venus razor blades and Claritin D, with only one receipt. My potential Walgreens crime spree was averted.

However, my triumph was short lived as I pulled into the parking lot that is the active construction zone of my employer and dodged two front loaders and a cement truck just walking to my office (in the aforementioned nice pumps which were never intended to be worn through gravel and over rebar). *grouse and grumble*

Post script - I took my Claritin D hit upon my arrival and am now beginning to feel the effects, so things are looking up. But Walgreen's can still suck it.

Twinkle: Voluntarism Redeemed

Tonight Dibbs and I went down to the Henry Clay for a dinner and auction benefiting the Cabbage Patch Settlement House. We had volunteered for the event, but that didn't stop us from surveying the silent auction items, sipping a little wine, sampling every passed hors d'oeuvre available (sometimes twice), and getting photographed for the Voice. When dinner came, we browsed the live auction items and chatted with other volunteers; after dinner we listened to the inspiring speech of a young scholarship recipient, then fulfilled our volunteer obligation by placing a balloon in front of guests who made a financial pledge to the scholarship program. Then the caterer gave us to-go boxes filled with stuffed chicken, au gratin potatoes, snap peas, and a pear and goat cheese salad, and I left with 5 YWC community service hours under my belt.

And, compared to that horrible Junyaleague meeting last night, it was the difference between the Four Seasons and the Motel 6. I know that's an analogy that everyone can understand, and I have to ask: when given a choice with what to do with one's limited free time, who would choose to spend it in the $39/night room?

Dibbs: Do Y'all Want to Know What I Just Said?

Twinkle, I'm sorry. You already heard this story.

Everyone else, this is what I did. My secretaries were asking about the newly-famous murderer from my hometown. They asked if I knew him. I replied, "Of course. He's from ********* (my hometown.)"

The ladies asked, "Do you know everyone from your hometown?'

I replied, rather snottily, "No, only the nice people."

Yes, I know. I just called an "accused" murderer a nice person. Perhaps I need to rethink my values.

Lola: No Fear, No Limits

Been reading the various posts of the past day or so and I just wonder why so much FEAR? Why would the police try to instill fear in parents over allowing their children to walk two blocks...6 houses...one mile to school/baseball practice/friend's house? Why does Twinkle fear the 9th street YMCA? I also read a very interesting post on Page One (.com) referencing the blog posts of a Kentuckian living in Stolkholm, Sweden who wrote the following:

What’s it like to live in a country where the police aren’t feared or regarded as adversaries? What’s it like to not feel like you have to look behind you when you’re walking alone at night? What’s it like to not have to worry about the cost if someone in your family gets sick? What’s it like to be able to go to college if you want to? What’s it like to be surrounded by educated people who speak multiple languages fluently? Freedom isn’t how many guns you can own without a background check. Freedom is feeling like you’ll never need a gun.

Why is it that America purports to be, in song and verse, "the land of the free and the home of the brave" when there is so much fear just in going about our daily lives. Moreover, it would seem that the instilling of fear is practically institutionalized by our government and by our media. Just yesterday morning, I was assaulted by Matt Lauer warning me that evil germs lurk in my showerhead and that a steamy shower could mean emphysema. Fear the Shower...Seriously? What the F!?!

I am tired of the fear. During my mom's volunteer days as a social worker for an Adult Daycare Center in the West End, she drove her little, silver, soft-top convertible BMW to 38th and Magazine every Tuesday and Wednesday, where both she and her car remained unmolested throughout her tenure. No fear.

When I was in grade school I would walk the one mile back and forth to grade school. As a freshman in high school I was popped on the tarc and sent off to high school. The perpetuation of fear does nothing to promote security, but rather promotes and infantilization of our culture and our young people. A century ago, eight year olds were working in factories, in mines, and in sweatshops. I doubt that that mothers today love their children more than they did 100 years ago. So I guess my question is WHY and why now? And who benefits from the perpetuation of this epidemic of fear?

No answers, just more questions.

Twinkle: Did Y'all See My FB Page?

The route to the Chestnut St. Y: far worse than expected.

The directions provided by the League: wrong.

The walk from car to door: extremely threatening.

And then a certain person with the initials M.S. had the audacity to comment on my FB page and say, "Girls you must get out more, YMCA on Chestnut is far from scary." It's so typical...not only did she make a lame joke about how sheltered other people are, but then she had to declare the location in question to be "far from scary" when any person with eyes could see that it was quite scary.

And so begins another chapter in my love/hate relationship with the League.

Julep: Why can't the children walk to school?

OK, this is a recap for Lola because we talked about this last night, but y'all, I need to discuss this article in the New York Times, titled "The Walk to School Fight."

My initial reaction was the same as Lola's when we talked about this: this is silly East Coast nonsense. As Lola said, "Here in Real America, we let the kids walk around outside." But the article includes quotes from people in Tucson and Vancouver, who were socially ostracized or had the police called for allowing their children to walk as far as six houses away unescorted. And THIS, from below the Mason-Dixon line!

In Columbus, Miss., Lori Pierce would like her daughters, 6 and 8, to walk the mile to school by the end of the year. “They want to walk,” she said. “They have scooters.” But she and the girls face obstacles. Mrs. Pierce must teach them the rules of a busy street, have officials install some sidewalks and urge the school to hire a crossing guard.

And Mrs. Pierce faces another obstacle to becoming a free-range mother: public opinion.

Last spring, her son, 10, announced he wanted to walk to soccer practice rather than be driven, a distance of about a mile. Several people who saw the boy walking alone called 911. A police officer stopped him, drove him the rest of the way and then reprimanded Mrs. Pierce. According to local news reports, the officer told Mrs. Pierce that if anything untoward had happened to the boy, she could have been charged with child endangerment. Many felt the officer acted appropriately and that Mrs. Pierce had put her child at risk.

What is wrong with these people? For heaven's sake, let your children play outdoors once in a while without an adult hovering overhead. They can roam around a safely delineated portion of the neighborhood with their buddies and have great adventures. And they can safely get themselves to and from nearby churches, stores, schools, etc., as long as someone knows when they are leaving and should be arriving.

I find this hysteria so ridiculous. Am I the one who is totally out of step with cultural mores these days? Are y'all going to report me to CPS someday when I let my eight-year-old* walk down the hill to Lakeside for swim team practice, or let my ten-year-old* ride his bike to Borders or Graeter's (no major streets to cross!), or let my twelve-year-old* take the TARC somewhere?



* Hypothetical children, that is. Maybe they are easier to risk than live ones?

Twinkle: Headed to the 'Hood

Dibbs--I always want to make jokes about b*stard babies in my status updates, too. If only I weren't so d*mn concerned about other people's feelings...

I just had to jump on and give a brief rant about Junyaleague: whose big idea was it to put the general meeting at some YMCA on West Chestnut Street? Y'all should know that I just re-upped with the League and paid my very pricey dues to my former Yankee League just to get involved back here at home. And I love the League, because it brought me all of you, and for that I am always indebted. Making friends was why I joined...contrary to conventional League wisdom, I did not join because I enjoy finding myself in the crossfire of warring gangs in Louisville's west end.

Last summer, when I wasn't even an official member, I attended a fun meeting at the home of one of our dear friends over near River Rd.--y'all know who I'm talking about. And the meeting was everything a League meeting should be and more: it involved friends, wine, food, talk of cookbooks, and the ever-present dissenters who made the meeting last for 3 hours. And in a flurry of misguided longing for what I think the League should be, I signed up to bring a dessert and work the cookbook table at the first general meeting...because, really, that's what the League is supposed to be all about. I did not know when I signed up that I'd have to cross Roy Wilkins Blvd.--after dark--to make good on my commitment.

Why do I bother? Dibbs said it best when she described herself as "Brokeback Junyaleague," because she just can't quit it. I can't either, and I don't really want to. I happen to think the League's aversion to country clubs is ridiculous, but even more ridiculous is making their members drive their little foreign station wagons into the ghetto for no reason whatsoever, when they could just as easily have a meeting at headquarters, or Bellarmine, or even some boring bank on Hubbards Lane. Instead, I'm supposed to park my Saab over on Roy Wilkins Blvd. after dark and carry my little plate of pralines in past the junkies and the whores that you know certain members of the Junyaleague would like to recruit in the next provisional class.

It just exhausts me--I joined the League to make friends and do a little light volunteering. I might not even mind so much if this were a volunteer opportunity in a bad part of town--at least then there would be a point to risking life and limb. I think it's a lot to ask of members.

If I get shot by a drug lord, my blood is on *your* hands, Junyaleague!

Dibbs: If There's Anything Ruder Than People, I Don't Know What

So, I guess by now, everyone knows about the illustrious murderer from my hometown. It's hard for me to reconcile this story with the man I know, but I can't defend him. What he did is indefensible; I know that.

The other thing that's indefensible? Writing that he should be castrated in your facebook status when his daughter is one of your friends. I mean, I don't write "Dibbs thinks having bastard babies is tacky." It would hurt the aforementioned writer's feelings. I don't want to do that.

I guess I can write whatever I want now. She's been removed from friends.

Julep: Every Girl's Crazy 'Bout A Sharp-Dressed Man

Will all y'all be attending the Pink Tie Ball/ Pink Lounge on Saturday? In honor of this function and an upcoming black-tie wedding, Mr. J has acquired a tuxedo. He tried it on last night so I could see if Mr-Mama needed to do anything besides hem it for him. (Having a seamstress on call is really so handy.) I think we can all agree that most any man looks better in a tuxedo ... but though I say so myself, Mr. J is mighty good-looking. Especially when he's all cleaned up. Alas that such doesn't happen more often.

I reorganized Mr. J's dresser and closet this weekend. The man has plenty of good clothes, mostly thanks to Mr-Mama. Far be it from me to complain that she likes to buy things for other people, but I do wish she would lay off the Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts. Every time she travels anywhere, she brings us T-shirts, complete with logos and/or cutesy slogans. Now, how many times have y'all seen me wearing a T-shirt? About as often as I've seen any of y'all: not many. Since I am not partial to manual labor or strenuous exercise, my T-shirt needs are quite limited. Given my previous life as a sorority girl and the stream of freebies sent my way from various charitable functions, really, buying me T-shirts is a waste of money.

I digress. This post is about Mr. J's wardrobe, not Mr-Mama's shopping disorder. I will save that topic for a later date; there is a whole post to be written about how, like the flu, her insatiable yen to fill my house with seasonal tchotchkes is returning with the cold weather.

As I was saying, Mr. J has lots of nice clothes, and he looks great wearing them. The problem is, he is far more likely to be wearing a pair of dirty ratty shorts and a T-shirt with a hole in it, even if we are going out to dinner. He simply does not understand the concept of dressing up or down for an occasion. If he happens to have on dressy clothes, and decides he needs to clean the gutters or work on the boat engine, he will do so without changing his attire. Thus the entire pile of ripped Dockers and oil-stained shirts I set aside as "work clothes."

I have tried to explain to him that certain clothes should not be worn for boat, car, or home repair. I have even informed him that certain items of clothing may not be worn without my express permission (in the hopes of preserving them). I have set standards of attire for varying circumstances: church requires a collared shirt and no denim; social occasions require no holes or visible stains. Mostly I just pick out his clothes whenever we are going anywhere together. To his credit, he is happy to let me.

I don't really know how I got here. One thing all my previous men had in common (besides average height and darkly ethnic mien): they were snappy dressers. Somehow I ended up with a 6'5" Viking who thinks wearing the same clothes three days in a row is perfectly normal.

Well, it's far easier to dress a man up than it is to repair his character flaws, so I clearly made the right choice. And Mr. J dressed himself for church last Sunday, and he did just fine.

Dibbs: Armaggedon is Upon Us

My grandfather conceded today that I have the same number of years in college as my cousin A.
This is not completely true. I have the same type of degree as my cousin A. She wasted many more years in college.

He also told me I'd gained weight. I was happy to hear that.

Last night we attended a pig roast in my hometown. I'll admit it: this social butterfly's wings are clipped when she gets around her homies. I just don't have much to talk about. They don't want to hear about Seviche guacamole, and they didn't even laugh when I told them about meeting The Lady Chablis. I did see the twitter-mentioned chick wearing the bunco girls shirt, so the night wasn't a total loss. I'm counting the hours 'til I can get out of this place...

Twinkle: Random Incidents in a Busy Weekend

I have one child, but to hear my MIL talk you'd think I were an aspiring Michelle Duggar. Her newest talking point in the Stealth Campaign To Get Twinkle To Stop Breeding: the quality of photos. It's possibly her weakest argument yet.

She knows I like to take pictures--I am famous among family and friends for it, actually--so today at her brunch, when we were trying to get three rambunctious little boys and Twinklette to sit still for a picture, MIL goes, "See what happens when you have three so close in age, Twinkle? You can't even get one of them to sit still for the camera!" It is lucky for the family albums that MIL was wise enough to space her children out, so that she could teach Mr. Twinkle to smile for the camera by the time his sister came along, so that they were more likely to get cherubic grins on both faces at exactly the same time than if Mr. Twinkle had been a busy two-year-old when his sister was born. There is no end to the control this woman tries to wield, and the fact that she takes every opportunity to remind me of the perils of having too many children is incredibly annoying.

This was the brunch she wouldn't let me help with, ostensibly because she didn't want my trademark fabulous touch. I've been asking for weeks, "What can I do to help?" because I really did want to help. Y'all know I love that stuff--if there's a party, I'm happy to bring a dish, help set the tables, coordinate the rentals, whatever. She wouldn't let me help, of course, because she has to be in control of everything and would hate it if I actually got credit for doing something well. But then, at the brunch, my sweet father-in-law told me the cookies I baked for the Bat Mitzvah (the famous cookies, the size of which was determined by a kitchen full of Jewish grandmothers) were his favorite thing there and he thought they were wonderful. They were his grandmother's recipe, and he said they tasted just like hers. Sometimes he does something sweet and adorable and makes it all worthwhile...but it's for that reason that MIL has to keep me in my place the rest of the time.

One more funny thing: when we were walking in, I joked to Mr. Twinkle that I wondered if they'd have mimosas (knowing good and well they wouldn't). When we got there, Gary, the cheerful African-American servant they always hire for everything, offered me a mimosa. I was shocked, and I said to Gary incredulously, "Is there really alcohol in this thing?" And he was like, "Well, no, but it'd be a lot better if there was!" So she actually served something called a mimosa with no champagne in it. It was garnished with an orange slice and cherry, but, garnish or no garnish, where I come from, that's not a mimosa. That's plain old orange juice. Or I guess you could call it a virgin screwdriver, too, if you wanted to.

Twinkle: Extravagant Legacy

It's my opinion that there's joy in giving, especially when you know that the gift itself goes against everything your MIL holds to be true and dear. I had to call Lola this morning, to share a bit of delicious, in-your-face, MIL rabble rousing, all over a gift for the little bat mitzvah girl, or, as I like to call her, "She of the Cheap Jar of Daisies." She would have been "She of the Blue Hydrangeas in Crystal Vases," except my MIL put the kabash on that nonsense.

So, a few weeks ago, there was talk between Mr. Twinkle and his sister about what to get her and going in on a present and whatnot, and y'all know it's my philosophy that you can never go wrong with jewelry. So it was agreed that I'd go to a local jeweler and check out the selection of bejeweled Judaica. I didn't really see anything of interest in the Star of David department (which, y'all can imagine, did not comprise a large section of the merchandise), so I moved on to greener pastures. I thought a nice, classic strand of pearls would be appropriate for a girl entering her teen years and it would be something that she could wear as an adult, too. Really, what could be better? Everyone needs pearls, and this branch of the family tree is particularly unfabulous...but She of the Cheap Jar of Daisies is different. I have hope for her. I think it's her girlish sense of playfulness, which hasn't yet been stamped out by the inevitable practicality and dourness created by the overwhelming sense of obligation that steers every aspect of their lives.

So I went today to pick up the pearls, which are the perfect size for a girl of 13 but will serve her well in the future, too. And when I saw them sitting in their lovely jewelry-store box, I remembered the whole flower conversation and how "a little girl doesn't need anything too extravagant," and I was overwhelmed with a delicious sense of joy--not just with the joy of giving something beautiful, or the joy of knowing it'll stick in my MIL's craw, but the joy that maybe I'm planting a seed in She of the Cheap Jar of Daisies. I am certain no one has ever trusted her with a nice piece of jewelry before (and, honestly, she probably won't be trusted with it now, which I think is a mistake, but that's none of my business). This gift says, "I think you're fabulous, and worthy of something special, and you deserve to own a thing of beauty."

We passed around the pearls over lunch (at this horrible O'Charley's, before which I'm proud to say Mr. Twinkle balked and said, "Why aren't we going somewhere local?") and MIL said they were "very nice," but I could tell by her tight-lipped expression that she disapproved. But She of the Cheap Jar of Daisies has lots of women around her disapproving, and judging, and steering her on the way of dour responsibility. I'm the lone dissenting voice that tells her it's OK to be frivolous, and the fact that I chose the gift that represents two of this family's fine, grown-up, practical households--and it's a gift that's so very me--makes me feel like maybe I can leave an impression on this family, instead of being swallowed whole by its expectations and demands. It's a delicious thought.

I'm off to wrap the gift in a profusion of ribbons and tulle, because that's how I roll.