Dibbs: Why Does This B*tch Keep Calling Me?

I must vent. I went to Glasgow this week for two days to help Little Brother Dibbs prepare for his camp. On my way home my secretary called me to ask some questions about a former student. That's fine, I guess. When I got to my parents' house, I had an email from the same secretary updating me on her conversation with the mother. I told her I would be back to work on Thursday, and I would take care of the matter then. Today...another email from my secretary asking me to call the parent.

Seriously, were these people home-schooled? Everyone knows school personnel don't work in the summer. I'll do what this woman needs, but I certainly won't change my plans for her. I'm sorry she's in a hurry. Not my problem. I have half a mind to call her right now at 11:30, wake her ass up, and tell her what I think. Here is one thing I know: if she calls me one more time, she won't be getting a letter at all. I'm not her shabbes goy.

'Night.

Lola: Near Occasions?

Over glasses of wine and the candlelight ambiance of the Grotto last week, Julep and I engaged in discussions of whether a married person should limit him or herself to interactions only with persons of the opposite sex to whom there is absolutely no attraction. Julep seemed to rest her position on the adage that one would do best by avoiding the “near occasion of sin” and not tempting the fates by delving into interactions with a comely man who is not one’s husband. I, on the other hand, while not so much arguing that one should seek out such interactions, felt that limiting oneself in the possibilities of future friendships or colleagues based squarely on whether said persons do or do not seem to be attractive or particularly engaging, was depressing.

As you know, I am happily married to the man I still consider to be the cutest person I have ever seen, so I am certainly not on the prowl for attractive men with whom to engage in flirtatious friendships. Moreover, I think Governor Sanford acted in a dismal manner, betraying his wife and children, as well as the good people of South Carolina. But I also think he is crazy and narcissistic. As are John Edwards, Newt Gingrich, John McCain, and Eliot Spitzer. A narcissistic personality does not aptly evaluate the consequences of his behaviors and actions on the people who he is supposed to love and protect most in the world. I think that is what should serve as the distinction between them and me…or Julep. Add to the equation that I am also a bit of a prude.

From my current employment, I am scouring my brain to think whether there are any men remotely attractive or engaging with whom I come in contact…and, no. However, I remember from my old law firm days, there were quite a few occasions when I would come in contact with opposing or co-counsel for whom I could totally have developed crushes. According to Julep’s philosophy, though, I would be completely prohibited from a happy-hour cocktail with any of these gentlemen in my current married state, because I would be tiptoeing toward a “near occasion of sin.” Maybe there is a moving goal line as to where each of fears loss of control over personal responsibility versus where biological hormones take total control. But I just don’t think that tabloid-level discussions should serve as a definitive indictment against male-female interaction of the attractive-engaging kind. Nonetheless, I would undoubtedly tell my husband that I was going out for a cocktail after work with a crush-worthy co-worker …if only there were such a thing at this worksite.

Dibbs: My Take on the Issue of the Day

I just read Twinkle's post (on her other blog) about expanded gaming. I admit to mixed feelings about the issue. I just can't imagine slot machines dinging in the hallowed walls of Keeneland. It doesn't seem to go with all those floral arrangements and stone walls.

My Daddy tells me that the reason other tracks are doing better than the ones in Kentucky is because of the slots, so I guess I'll go for it. Churchill has been pretty desolate lately (Night Racing excluded.)

But, I'll tell you my real clincher. It's just like high school geometry. I hate David Williams. David Williams hates expanded gaming. Ergo, I will support expanded gaming to the death.

Julep: This whole thing is really getting sad.

I saw a fuller photo of Maria's building. It is fairly chic. But I am fully in accord with you, Dibbs, on the "re-directing feelings." Maria, back off. I don't think Jenny Sanford is the kind of woman you should cross.

Who else thinks that Maria sent the emails to The State five months ago? My money says Jenny found out about the whole thing and the Gov was tres agoniste; Maria wanted him to leave and be with her, but of course he had not only a wife but a promising career. If she ruined his political career (anonymously, natch), he would be free! free! to leave it all behind him and join her in the Argentine! She couldn't confirm the emails when the paper tried to verify without tipping off the Gov.

I feel bad for the whole Sanford family. Lola, are you reading this? Exhibit A to my point in our conversation the other day* ... they were friends for years before it turned romantic last year. Moral of this story: avoid the near occasion of sin. Don't develop "platonic" friendships with attractive members of the opposite sex once you are married.* That lunch will lead to coffee will lead to long emails when you and your spouse have been struggling and/or distant will lead to the cocktail hour one night when your spouse is out of town and then, you know, things just happened! The heart wants what it wants!



* Just so the record is perfectly clear, our conversation was wholly hypothetical, and grew out of a discussion of the movie He's Just Not That Into You. It is absolutely no reflection on the very happy marriages of Lola and Julep!

** I don't object to platonic friendships that developed before marriage. If you and that person were meant to be, you wouldn't have married your spouse. And I think you can develop truly platonic relationships after marriage, ones in which you truly and honestly feel no giddy tug towards the other person. If you feel that tug, though ... don't think you can sublimate it and be friends, 'cause you're so mature like that. Look down the road, and beware the cocktail hour of doom!

Dibbs: I Found Them!

"Maria" lives here. I think it looks like something we'd see down by Churchill Downs.

These are the emails. I particularly enjoy that he loves her tan lines. And by the way, Maria, you can redirect your feelings toward him. Just stay away.

Hugs.

Dibbs: I Can't Leave Comments...

...so I have to do whole posts. Somehow I don't think the lovely and graceful Mrs. Sanford will be destroying the Governor's Mansion ala Judy. Also, I don't think she wore a tiara in her official photo.

I'm googling those skanky emails right now!

Julep: Forget Tammy Wynette....

Have y'all seen any of this news coverage on the South Carolina governor, his mysterious disappearance for a week and his subsequent revlation about his affair with some woman in Argentina? Crazy stuff, y'all!

I started off paying attention because of the whole SC connection: Gov. Sanford went to both of my institutions of higher education, so I have always been vaguely interested in him although I don't much agree with his politics. But now I have a new hero - or shall I say heroine? Jenny Sanford is the Best Politicial Wife Scorned Evah.

Forget the grinning/ gritting teeth and bearing it (Hillary), or standing next to him at his presser looking shell-shocked while he tearfully apologizes (Silda), or even packing the bags and disappearing back to eastern KY (Judy). This is the kind of public statement I can get behind.

Twinkle: Bunco Ya-Ya

Alright, so bunco wasn't as horrible as expected (of course). There were actual alcoholic beverages there, which I sampled a tiny bit of at the very beginning, since Chamberlain Lane is a 45-freakin'-minute drive from civilization. So that was better than expected. The food was OK and, all things being said, with the obvious exception of my mother-in-law (who just wants to control everything), Mr. Twinkle's family is really very sweet to me.

I do have a few observations about my mother-in-law's odd behavior. Rewind to around two years ago, when Mr. Twinkle and I announced the impending arrival of Twinklette, thinking it would be a joyous occasion, and my MIL's initial reaction was, "Holy crap, where are we going to put a crib in our condo?" It sort of took the wind out of our sails a little, and I rather took it personally. Well, apparently I was wrong to do so because she pretty much has the same attitude toward her own daughter's path to motherhood.

Everyone there was congratulating my MIL and saying how exciting it was, asking about due dates and all the normal questions, and MIL just shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "Well, they didn't consult me on this, but I guess there's no going back now." Meanwhile, GMIL (grandmother-in-law) was going on and on, once again, about how worried she is because my sister-in-law can't do it alone. It's as if MIL (and GMIL to a certain extent...although she is sweeter in general) think that they are the only competent mothers in the world, and no one else will know what to do when confronted with an infant, and woe to any infant who doesn't have either of them for a mother.

And I have to say, for all the up-front b*tchiness on the matter, MIL is certainly obsessed with Twinklette. But we all know that Twinklette is only as wonderful, kind, caring, and smart as she is because of MIL's influence. Left only up to me, she'd probably be an insufferable smocking-clad snob. Thank heaven for the village!

Another experience I had was with a very nice, funny, seemingly normal girl (the only other one there, really), a friend of Mr. Twinkle's cousin. I liked this girl right off because of her dry wit and her unashamed consumption of peach margaritas (I only had one, but far be it from me to deny anyone else...especially since she walked there). Anyway, upon talking to her more, it became apparent that she was clad from head to toe in grandma jewelry--the kind where your grandchildren (or children) are represented as stick figures on a pendant, or their birthstones are part of a bracelet, or, in her case, both. And the jewelry wasn't tacky-looking, and I guess one piece of it can be OK as long as it's not plain ugly, but I cannot imagine why a girl our age would wear more than one piece of this sort of jewelry at a time. Aren't the stick figures enough? Did she have to include the birthstones, too? I find the whole thing mind-boggling.

The game of bunco was just boring. There was no strategy, it was just rolling dice. I like playing cards, specifically games that can have a variety of outcomes based on the other players' cards and their strategies. Bunco was just rolling, rolling, rolling. My luck was terrible but at least I couldn't blame myself for losing.

Dibbs: I Really Must Know

All this talk about bunco must be contagious. One of our mutual friends called me last night because her group needs a substitute. Alas, (insert rolled eyes) I have a Younger Women's Club meeting on Thursday and will be unable to attend.

Can't wait to hear about Twinkle's experience.

Twinkle: The Things I Do For Material

Accepting the invitation for Bunco night seemed like a good idea at the time--it was the night we started this blog and it seemed like a hilarious prospect...playing Bunco on some godforsaken street off Chamberlain Lane with my mother-in-law and a bunch of strangers. I now believe the calamari at Jack's is hallucinogenic, because how else could I have ever agreed this?

Now, here I am, staring my Bunco sentence in the face, and I can think of SO many things I'd rather be doing on a rare night out. I can also think of things I'd rather do with five dollars...surely that still buys a mimosa somewhere in this town. I mean, even at the meetings of certain volunteer organizations, you can at least count on a Doll's cheese torte and a few glasses of wine. Here I'm sure there'll be an open bag of Dorito's on the table and some sort of a 2-liter. Diet, if I'm lucky.

So I'm trying not to think about it, and enjoying my last afternoon of Bunco innocence. Make no mistake: if Bunco ever comes up in conversation, I'm going to play dumb. And if I'm ever asked about it flat-out, I'll lie. Why can't Mr. Twinkle's family do something normal, like the women in my family, who drink wine and gossip like nobody's business? That's my scene--not Bunco. I'm hoping something hilarious or illuminating will happen to make it all worthwhile.

Julep: Some kind of help is the kind of help...

The first time I ever went out of town as a homeowner, my own dear Julep-Mama came over to tend the plants and the cats. And when I got home, she had moved the plants (which I had chosen for specific windows) and added a ton of kitty litter to the box (which I deliberately keep on the low side so it doesn't get kicked all over the bathroom floor). J-Mama and I had a little chat in which I told her how much I appreciated her help, and gently assured her that she had raised me already and I could be trusted to make my own decisions about litter fillage and plant placement. To her ever-lasting credit, J-Mama apologized, and since has often come by to tend the house without tampering with my stuff.

Since I got married, though, the J-Mama is less likely to come and assist. You see, Mr. Julep's mama (let's call her the Mr-Mama) lives less than half a mile from Casa Julep. And the Mr-Mama has no job, while the J-Mama is fully employed. And to Mr. Julep, the Mr-Mama, and even the J-Mama, these factors add up to indicate that we should call on the Mr-Mama for household assistance more often than not. But not to me.

Here's the thing. I am fond of the Mr-Mama, with certain caveats that are surely going to be discussed here in future posts. Mr-Mama is always happy to volunteer, and always very sweet about helping. But I would really rather ask my own mother for help with things.

Case in point: when we went to New Orleans in April, Mr J's parents were tending to our dogs. When the Mr-Mama brought them home on Sunday morning, she failed to shut the front door all the way and got distracted by our new couch. One dog took the opportunity to run for freedom. Mr-Mama called us to report that the dog was out, and she herself was late for her riding lesson so she was headed off. To recap, we were ten hours away when she let our dog get out and she was just going to leave. Mr. Julep and I heard this news with utter horror. I looked Mr. Julep square in the eye and said, "I'm calling my mother. Right. Now." And the J-Mama dropped everything and went right over to our neighborhood and searched until she found our dog.

When we got the news, after our huge sighs of relief, Mr. Julep expressed his gratitude and all of his own accord observed that MY mother can be relied on, while his ... can't. Exactly.

Mr. Julep thinks I don't know that sometimes my mother drives him nuts. (Truth is, sometimes my mother drives me nuts also.) But as I occasionally tell Mr. Julep, his appreciation for the J-Mama is going to increase exponentially as time goes on. Because minding her own business, accepting correction, and being reliable are traits worth their weight in gold.

Dibbs: My Thoughts on PrideFest '09

The Girls. They never disappoint, do they? They mix the new stuff with my old faves seamlessly. They bring the crowd to a frenzy, of sorts, with their rallying cries. Aah. Good stuff.

I didn't realize quite how much I would like PrideFest. That emcee, Miss Pussy Willow, I believe, I'd just like to put him in my pocket and take him home with me. Fabulous with that big old wig. And who doesn't admire his loyalty to Techno-Tiffany? I, for one, appreciate him.

I think my very favorite thing about Pride Fest (besides all the time with my girls and THE Girls) was that pink baby doll tee bearing the words "I EAT" and a cute little sketch of a kitty cat. Now, if that wouldn't be both disgusting and misleading, I might just have to buy one.

Let me make one thing clear before I get to talking about the downside of P-F '09: I know exactly how hard it is to find love. I cast no stones at where others find it, or with whom. (Caveats: Please do not steal from others, fall in love with family members, or have romantic encounters with your pets--I'm looking at you, Travis the Monkey.)

That being said, I have to wonder why most of the women we saw were so willing to, shall we say, let themselves go the way they did. I expected to be among the few people wearing makeup. No problem. I'm referring to the bikini-top clad girls who had no business showing their nine-month-swollen bellies and their overlapping back fat. I know. I'm no one to talk about back fat, but at least I keep mine under clothes where it belongs. I don't even like to see it in the mirror. Certainly there is no room for exposed, jiggling back fat on the lawn of the Belvedere.

We'll be back for Forecastle (I'm already working on my hippie costume.) This time photography will be allowed. Can't wait!!

Twinkle: I Really AM Grateful...

...that my in-laws watched my house/pets for a week and a half while the Twinkle Family wined and cheesed our way through the upper eastern peninsula of Wisconsin. I know that letting someone's dog out several times a day and taking it upon oneself to keep someone's heirloom tomatoes alive are no small undertakings. It kept me from having to ask my friends, after all, and for that I must salute them. 

But here's the thing. I left the house a certain way. For a certain reason. To be specific, I left the washing machine door open because if you don't, it mildews. And I left the bedroom doors closed, because Kitty K-Fed likes to throw raucous ghetto parties in my house while I'm gone, and the last thing I want to think about when I get home from vacay at 1 a.m. is scrubbing cat barf out of damask. All the time I was away, when I thought about my home and wondered what was going on there, and whether or not my cat had "b*tches in the living room, gettin' it on," I was comforted in knowing that it least they weren't going at it on on my bedspread.

When I returned home...the bedroom doors were open wide...even, bizarrely, the guest room door, which always stays closed (I like to keep it in pristine condition, just in case). Now, all plant and pet paraphernalia were downstairs, so they really didn't need to come upstairs at all. Now, I (sort of) understand the temptation to snoop, although I would feel weird doing it...but if you're going to snoop, at least pay enough attention to return the house to its pre-snooping state! As for the washing machine door--I didn't leave it open because I'm a slacker or because I don't take care of my things. I left it open because I'm not and I do. So please just leave it the way it was and don't ask questions.

They also took care of calling a plumber to install a gas line to our new grill (we had all sorts of trouble nailing down a particularly flaky plumber the week before we left), so they took the liberty of finding someone and having him install the grill without consulting us about where we wanted it. I came home to my porch furniture pushed all around and my formerly pleasant configuration permanently interrupted.

That said, the dog is alive, and so are my tomatoes.

Dibbs: He's Not My Baby, You Know

So, I'm learning from Twinkle's experience. A few days ago, baby Shagari was visiting my parents' home with his mom. (We'll just call her "Crazy.") Sweet baby started to cry while I was holding him. I didn't hesitate. I took him straight to his mom, even though I think she's nuts. He didn't stop crying, though. He was hungry.

In other news, apparently in addition to being an athlete (crawling at 2 weeks) and a social butterfly (going to bars at 4 weeks), Baby Shagari is also quite the verbal prodigy. Yes, you heard it here first. He can say "Mama" at the ripe old age of 8 weeks. I guess this will come in quite handy in the event that he needs to call Child Protective Services. Poor little guy...

Twinkle: An Entertaining Prospect

Have y’all heard the news? There’s a bambino on the way, and Grams is going to be a Grams, again—only this child won’t have an unfit mother who’s far too obsessed with hairbows and American Girl.

Actually, I am thrilled about this news. Twinklette will finally have a cousin, and perhaps the heat will be off me a little as my mother-in-law turns her attention to more important matters. It’ll be such an interesting case study to see the difference in treatment between the unfit and the fit, and it’ll give me something in common with a certain sister-in-law who seems increasingly dour and humorless. Best of all, perhaps the formerly critical sister-in-law will see the light of day and understand that some of my complaints are more than shallow, idle b*tchiness. Maybe this is wishful thinking, but maybe not.

Case in point…

The news broke this weekend (we’ve known for a week or so), but Mr. Twinkle got an e-mail from his sister saying, “Did you hear what Grandma said when I told her?” Apparently Grandma used the same line that so infuriates me: it takes a village. Specifically, she said, “My baby’s having a baby! But you can’t do it by yourself—it takes a village!” Well, Sister may be dour, but she is a competent adult and I’m confident that she’s capable of doing this or anything else by herself, just as I was for a year, before I moved home and had the benefit (liability) of the aforementioned village. Get used to this feeling, Sister—it’s your first taste of how I feel all the freakin’ time.

What a strange and fun alignment this will be--and if nothing else it'll be so interesting to watch. I’m sure she’ll be the better mother between the two of us (it’s to be expected). Will her family ever utter the words, "This baby wants its mommy" that I have so longed to hear when it's so obviously true, or will they make excuses like, "The baby's tired. The baby's hungry. The baby wants Grams." If so, will Sister stand up and say, "No, actually she wants me, because she's not crying anymore now that I'm holding her...obviously." Will my mother-in-law act like it's unhealthy if Sister's kid says "mama" too much? Will she hand Sister a list of "concepts" for second graders when the kid is 6-months-old, and if so, will Sister roll her eyes and tell her she's crazy in a way that I never could? This is going to be good...and all I have to do for now is sit back, relax, and watch it all unfold…

Dibbs: My Quote for the Evening

Everybody is smarter than somebody. Bucky is smarter than Irene.

Twinkle: Viva Viagra

So I'm in Door County, which is adorable and quaint, and possesses a nice blend of families with little kids, and girlfriends away on a weekend together, and also vibrant seniors. And it's a little like living in a Viagara commercial. I keep seeing them sitting around, French kissing on benches in front of charming harbors, or stepping out of Porche convertibles. And we all know where they're headed--straight for a passion-filled afternoon set to an Elvis soundtrack. (Not that I'm knocking it. I love the King, especially in the early years, before the sequins and certainly before he became the voice of illicit geriatric shenanigans). 

Don't get me wrong--I'm glad that 60 is the new 40. I couldn't be more thrilled that I live in the age of botox and cougars and sassy seniors who are enjoying themselves. It bodes well for us all. I just don't want to live it until I'm actually living it, you know? I'm also slightly jealous of the post-menopause set, who are apparently getting a second go-round at consequence-free Free Love while I'm still somewhat of a slave to biology. Those d*mn Baby Boomers win every time.

Dibbs: I Hate You, Tiny Jagged Shard of Intestinal Glass

I'll admit it; it's my own fault. I brought it on the day I made fun of that crazy woman who couldn't fill out the form because she had a urinary tract infection. I thought something was wrong when my hips kept hurting, and I kept having unusually bad cramps even when it wasn't "that time of the month."
On Monday I was minding my own business, happily taking a nap, when the phone rang. A perky little nurse told me, "Miss Dibbs, you have a small kidney stone. At your appointment we'll do a little loopdey-loop and see what we find. Now, if you want pain medicine, you'll need to get it right now." Did I need pain medicine? Did I need oxygen? Champagne? From what I hear, kidney stones are comparable to childbirth (not that I know about either.) Suddenly I was experiencing unbearable pain (wink, wink) and I needed that prescription post-haste.
The second delightful portion of our joyous adventure is that I will no longer be able to take my migraine medicine, as it is the cause of the kidney stone. My best friend migraine medicine, who takes my headaches away, along with my appetite. Curses!
I do now have Lortab, which might as well be made of, well, Lortab. I can't really think of anything better. Call me if you want a delightful chat of nonsense.
Smooches.

Julep: re the tests

Twinkle, I laughed out loud at your post because it is too true. People, this is not Sudafed. It is no crime to buy a pregnancy test! Or a condom, for that matter.

I assume that they lock this stuff up because if teenagers are likely to shoplift, it's going to be something they are embarrased to be seen paying for. Like condoms. Or pregnancy tests. Maybe they should just hang a little note on the unlocked case that says, "You can get this stuff for free at the Planned Parenthood" along with the address of the nearest PP. Wouldn't hurt to send the kids by there anyway.

For future reference, I can advise that the Walgreens in St Matthews (by the Vogue center) has a whole row of pregnancy tests, unmonitored in any way. I stood there and read the boxes for about twenty minutes trying to figure out if there was really a quality differential sufficient to make up the nearly double price for some brands. I mean, this is not a question where I want to have shaky intel. But on the other hand, if there is another mouth to feed in the offing, I need to start watching my wasteful spending!

Do those things expire? If Mr. Julep and I don't manage to both be home at the right time of the month sometime soon, I may be back to comparison shopping.

Twinkle: Because There Really Aren't Enough B*stards Out There

Am I going to go there? Yes, I am. And I have to apologize in advance for the sensitive nature of this post, but what's the point of holding anything back in a stealth blog?

So I got to thinking the other day, after our Return of the Classic Cocktail hour and all the talk of family planning. I thought back through the (particularly rowdy) month of May, and started to wonder. And I figured I'd better ascertain the situation one way or another, so I could curtail all that bourbon and sushi consumption tout de suite.

I marched my happy *ss into the Kroger Highlands and discreetly made my way to the pharmacy section. The goods were in a case, and there was a line, so I did a little shopping and waited until the coast was clear. When I went back, I had full access to the case, but much to my dismay, it was locked. I decided to just swallow my pride and ask for help. Here's how it went down:

Twinkle: Can I get one of those pregnancy tests?

Pharmacist: Sure.

Twinkle: The case is locked.

Pharm Tech: (a different one, who likely came to gawk at Twinkle the Whore) Yeah. I'll unlock it for you.

Twinkle: Thanks. So why do you keep all this locked up? Do you not want people using birth control?

(A kindly grandmother type and a bemused biker dude walked up just in time to hear me say that last part).

Pharm Tech Girl: Oh, someone's supposed to unlock it every morning, but we always forget.

Well, that's nice. I wonder how many taxpayer dollars are spent subsidizing the needs of various illegitimate children whose parents simply gave up because the case at Kroger was locked. Everyone doesn't have the moxy to ask for what he or she needs, after all. 

I have never understood a retailer putting its most embarrassing items under lock and key. Our neighborhood Walgreens did it in the pre-Twinkle Jr. days, and Mr. Twinkle was so anxious to know back then that he actually found a Walgreens employee to unlock it. Only she didn't have a key, so she had to page someone over the loudspeaker. "Assistance needed in Aisle 3, pregnancy section side. Young eager couple has been gettin' it on, and now needs definite answers." What is the point of this? If there's a religious objection to pregnancy tests (and, beliefs about birth control aside, what objection does anyone have to pregnancy tests?) then don't sell them. If they're worried about shoplifting, put one of those plastic alarm tags on it. There has to be a better way than screwing with people's emotions when they've already got the stress of a potentially life-changing experience staring them in the face. They don't need to be humiliated too.

Anyway, the result of the test was negative, which means I can still have wine and Lil' Twinks doesn't have to share her playroom any time soon. The moral of the story: if you need to know, go to CVS.

Julep: The Hills Are Alive!

Y'all, I went on a retreat this weekend to St. Meinrad Archabbey, and I had no idea that it was possible to live out The Sound of Music this close to home. This place is in the hills of Southern Indiana, and you would hardly expect it to look like the Austrian Alps, but the monastery was founded by a group of monks from Einseideln Abbey in Switzerland, and they built the place to look just like home. (Have any of y'all been there before -- Lola, maybe? Twinkle, one of these lovely summer days you and Baby Twinks should take a drive there and have a picnic.)

We came in from the parking lot over a little rise, and we were looking right at the great big church with the abbey behind it -- and the bells were ringing for Vespers. And we were late. And we were running across the courtyard. And of course I was singing "How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?" And to my horror and dismay, I discovered that two of the people with me for the retreat had no idea why. Two GIRL people. How on earth does an American girl grow into her mid-20s without seeing The Sound of Music? What is wrong with these people?

Now, I have to admit, these girls are rather younger than myself ... five to seven years younger, at least. But can it be that a deep abiding love for The Sound of Music stopped with Generation X? Did network TV stop running that movie when The Wonderful World of Disney went off the air? Was it quietly smothered by Nickelodeon? Say it isn't so. I have a chill just considering the possibility.

Twinkle: Karmic B*tchslap

All my recent hatin' on Cool Whip came back to haunt me today when I got a little overzealous and cranked up the KitchenAid way too high for the cream to handle gracefully. It clotted, and I sent Mr. Twinkle to the store for more, specifying that it had to be organic and hormone-free because we don't want Twinkle Jr. going through puberty when she's 3, do we? I did admit to Mr. Twinkle, and (more importantly) to myself, that it served me right for running my mouth about Cool Whip all the time.

In other news, I may be getting my hair cut by a man with a purple mohawk on Wednesday. I don't care what he looks like really, but it is a leap of faith to entrust one's hair to someone on the farthest fringes of fashion.

Lola: I'm on a boat

Dear compadres - I apologize for being off the grid the past couple of days. I have enjoyed a few adventures but nothing that felt particularly blog-worthy. I did spend last evening at Captain's Quarters with family, including a handful or my country cousins who live on the family farm which straddles Nelson and LaRue counties. (Thank goodness we have no association with Clay County. Quelle horror!)

But I digress...I admit it has been some time since I enjoyed the evening scene at Captain's Quarters. Moreover, I love the vast array of humanity which can be observed, particularly on such a gorgeous night as last night was. I was even humbled to serve yet again as an ambassador of sorts to a yankee visitor from the great North (new york city.....) who approached my husband and me to ask if this was a fairly popular night spot. I told him that it had been awhile since I had been here, but based upon the great masses of people mixing and dancing and drinking, I assumed it still was. (I certainly didn't want to insult his intelligence too much in light of what would otherwise have been a quite obvious point.) He said he was only in Louisville for a couple of days on business with five other gentleman, but that every stereotype he had of coming to Kentucky had been wiped out this past weekend. (Now, I guess I should be used to the stereotype that is "Kentucky" - I have dealt with it a great deal throughout my life, even in college in Virginia, where fellow students seemed puzzled that I did not have an "accent.") I know he meant it as a compliment - that I should be grateful that one fewer yankee thinks that Kentuckians are toothless, meth-face bastards - but I was slighly nonplussed, so I smiled and wished him well in his business ventures, at which point, my husband and I wandered off along the waterfront.

It was along the waterfront that I saw that the whole big boat scene was in full force. Men with beer guts, wearing no shirts but lovely gold necklaces strutting their stuff for young, tan, bleached-blonde lovelies in inappropriate boating footwear. It was this scene that brought to mind one of the funniest SNL skits I have seen in some time: I'm on a Boat! So maybe New Yorkers and Kentuckians really do have something more in common than I realized.

Cheers, bebes!

Dibbs: Why Must People Be So Damn Loud?

I spent the loveliest day today at the track. We won't have many days with weather like this--breezy, warm-- but not hot, perfect. I didn't win, but I felt good about contributing to the state's declining horse industry. Pure Bliss.
Only one thorn pierced the side of my Nirvana (well, two. Bad fashion. Everywhere.) The other was the cacophony of sound in my area. A family sat behind us and proceeded to make my mother and me wish for an elephant gun. Let me be clear. It's fine to cheer when one's horse is winning. Everybody does it. It's part of the experience. However, it is unnecessary to cackle and howl for the rest of the day. And don't tell me it's cultural. I've never heard my brother cackle. Not even once.
Finally, we moved. And the redneck sitting behind us began to hit. his seat. with his program. over and over and over. Even Dad glared at him. I thought I might get up and beat him with said seat. Because I don't think we have the Constitutional right to annoy others in our pursuit of happiness.
I need a drink. Deuces.

Twinkle: Where are you Lola?

Your silence is deafening.

Twinkle: On my honor, I will try...

Julep's post about the Boy Scouts got me thinking, as did an incident this morning in which my husband brought in our darling child to say good morning to me in bed (it was my day to sleep late). She was already wearing sandals (because, bless his heart, he dressed her and took her to McDonalds). But anyway I promptly removed the shoes, to the bewilderment of my husband. I don't have to explain to y'all that, while I love nothing more than a good morning snuggle with the bambino, I don't need the dust and grime of the McDonalds-going population all over my sky blue 800-thread-count sheets.

It's my firm belief that boys just do not think about it. It doesn't occur to them that throwing a piece of stale cake away will take 5 seconds and save someone from a much more disgusting job in a few weeks, or that no one wants to spend a Saturday scrubbing the filth of a fast food nation from one's Yves Delorme bedclothes. He actually had to ask why I was removing her shoes; he genuinely did not know.

This and Julep's post prompted me to check out the Girl Scout Law, which reads as follows:

The Girl Scout Law:

I will do my best to be

honest and fair,

friendly and helpful,

considerate and caring,

courageous and strong, and

responsible for what I say and do,

and to

respect myself and others

respect authority, 

use resources wisely,

make he world a better place, and

be a sister to every Girl Scout.

It's certainly no small undertaking, but notice there's nothing in there about cleanliness. We girls don't need to take an oath to stay clean. Boys do, and even when they swear they will, it's one promise they can't keep.

Dibbs: Dear Lazy, Irresponsible Parent,

If you cannot be bothered to circle numbers on a piece of paper for the benefit of your child, please consider putting said child up for adoption. Just food for thought.

Love,

Dibbs

Julep: The Boy Scout Law

I love my husband. I do, I really do. The Boy Scouts would be proud of him: he truly does "help others at all times," and he is, as he likes to remind me, "trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, (sort of) thrifty, brave and (mostly) reverent."

Those of you familiar with the Boy Scout Law may be running back through that list with a frown, thinking to yourself, "thrifty, brave and reverent... isn't she missing something?" Oh yes, dear readers. It was not an oversight.

I went out of town for four days. When I left the house, it was fairly tidy, other than a few dirty dishes that someone (not me) should have placed directly in the dishwasher rather than placing them in the sink. When I returned home, the few dirty dishes had spawned a multitude. They were not only filling the sink, they were piled on the counter. They were joined by (a) a number of recyclable items - within sight of the bin; (b) a dead houseplant, which had not been watered for four days, (c) a number of strange mechanical items that seemed to have strayed from the garage; and (d) a cake plate, hosting one lone piece of my special lemon cake* that had molded over. I will just say, the rest of the house was in like condition.

Tell the Boy Scouts I want a Merit Badge review. My husband is not "clean."

* which I would have eaten a long time ago had it not been for a request to please, please, save him a piece

Twinkle: Cool Whip Scares Me

I have two things to say about Cool Whip.

1). I hate when people call it by its generic name, "whipped topping." 

2). It is one molecule away from being a plastic, and it is such a sorry excuse for real whipped cream that it should be banned. I'm actually afraid to eat it; there is no telling how many chemical reactions had to take place before science developed a product that seems sort of like it comes from a cow, but doesn't. Why not just eat the real thing? Neither one is particularly healthy, but only one is naturally-occurring, and that one happens to be so delicious that it renders the other completely pointless. It isn't as if real whipped cream is all that hard to make, either. I'm going to go ahead and say what we all already know: Cool Whip is for lazy, sweatpants-wearing people who have checked out of living life in favor of doing what's easy. They pop open a plastic container instead of spending a little extra time adding the sugar to cream that comes directly from a cow. And then they brag about how lowfat it is. They represent everything that is wrong with our nation.

I RSVPed in the affirmative to inlaw Bunco night, because I thought it might have blogworthy material (but I would like to point out that my family does cute, normal things, like go to the Ginko Tree for lunch, or tea at the Greentree Tea Room). And the cocktails flow freely in my family, too. Who ever heard of playing Bunco? 

One more thing: it does not take a village to raise my daughter, nor does it take three people to get her ready for a walk. I manage fine all day every day, without assistance from anyone, thank you very much. I welcome help when it is available...but am also capable of taking care of things without the rest of the village. The village analogy is so nineties, anyway.

Twinkle: In-law Bunco Night

Where I come from, Bunco is for poor people who can't play bridge. (Apologies to your mom, Lola*).

I consider it a matter of personal pride that I don't know the first thing about playing Bunco, but what am I to do when my husband's cousin invites me to a family Bunco night? First of all, it's in the middle of sprawling suburbia, and even if I could be assured of there being cocktails there, how am I supposed to get back to civilization after the fact? Honestly though, I don't envision there being cocktails there; I see a 2-liter of Mountain Dew and a bag of Funyuns**.

Is it bad that I don't want to go to a place where there aren't drinks?

In other news, I'm tired of all these Baby Boomers friending me on Facebook. If you're over 50, I say get your own social networking site.

* Lola's mom is definitely not poor, and Lola assures us that her mom's Bunco group mostly just goes to the movies instead of actually playing Bunco.

** Nothing against Funyuns.