Julep: Whoa.

Had dinner with Mr. J's extended family this week - it was his grandmother's birthday, a fact not made known to me until 4 pm on the evening of said dinner. Sigh.

Mr. J's immediate family is lovely and classy. Mr. J's extended family is very sweet and ... well, more entertaining. As the J-Mama said to me after dinner at his grandparents' house -- the night of Hurricane Ike, they were the only people we knew with power; they called while we were at J-mama's house helping her out and very kindly extended their dinner invite to include her. Really, they're sweet. But -- in the words of the J-Mama, "Their condo proves beyond any doubt that all the money in the world won't buy you good taste."

Any gathering of the full Mr. J clan is sure to be an experience, and this was no exception. Y'all may recall that Mr. J's cousin is preggers. This is the cousin whose Redneck Wedding back in April spawned so many great stories. As it turns out, at the time of her nuptials she was not three weeks pregnant as claimed but seven weeks pregnant. Setting aside the concerns this factoid raises about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome in light of her raucous bachelorette party, it does in part explain why the fervent prayers of the congregation were all that was keeping her [of course] strapless wedding dress in place over her straining bosom. It disconcertingly appeared that she had stuffed 200 pounds of ... bride ... into a 150-lb silk sack.

The rest of the explanation was made evident at dinner. You should have seen this girl eat. She is not even in her third trimester, and she must have put on 50 pounds already. At least 50. She is enormous. Gigantic. Huuuuuuge. And when she sat down at the table, her belly got a crease (visible due to the tight maternity tee, natch). Um, that's not supposed to happen to a pregnant tummy.

Someone needs to explain to this girl that while she may be "eating for two," the second person is the size of a cocktail shrimp, not an NFL linebacker.

Julep: A cautionary tale

This is why the blog must stay stealthy.

And if this woman ever brings her show to Louisville, it is definitely a Daddy Rabbit Girls field trip.

Julep: Rainy Day Thoughts

All week long, I have been looking forward to the weekend and a chance to finally, finally sit by the pool ... something that has happened all too few times this summer. Now, of course, yesterday was lovely and today is gray and rainy. C'est la vie. It's still kind of nice to have a quiet Saturday, even if I can't loll poolside. Mr. J is out of town again, but he will be home late tonight so I have the double pleasure of a day to myself to potter around the house and, later, watch The Tudors on DVR - with a day to spend together tomorrow.

Mid-potter, I thought I would check on the blog as we have done so well at keeping it fresh the last couple of days. Twinks, best of luck at your party tomorrow. I hope everything goes smoothly and I'm sure it will; you're a wonderful hostess.

Your post got me thinking about family culture, and how even in families that are organic to the same city (or general vicinity, at least), things can be so different. I remember the first holiday I spent with Mr. J's family, a Thanksgiving before we were even engaged (but already knew we would be). After the meal, I hopped right up and headed into the kitchen to get started with the dishes. In my family, that is what you do. (Well, some people head off to the couch. It is surprisingly not gender-defined. My older sister hates doing dishes, and she doesn't, while an uncle and male cousin are reliable dishwashers.)

Little did I know at the time that Mr. J's mother was, I'm now sure, cringing. Mr-Mama hates to have anyone else clean up her kitchen. I did think it was rather odd that although several people were clearing, only one of Mr J's aunts was in there helping to load the dishwasher. And now, after many meals I have learned that the Mr-Mama just wants you to get out of her kitchen. She will do the dishes when everyone leaves. And that's fine for her and all. But when I have Mr J's family come for a meal, I am always a little disheartened at the huge pile of dirty dishes when they all tramp off ... and I yearn for my mother and sister who would be there with me in the kitchen.

All that is to say, I don't think I really appreciated as a younger girl how much every family has a different culture, about so many little things in addition to the bigger overwhelming things. My family is private, if that makes any sense. We seem to think that if you need help you will ask, and otherwise we will all mind our affairs. Mr. J's family is much closer, not to say all up in each other's business all the time (but if the shoe fits...). But when his family has an issue, the whole fan-damily takes it out and discusses it to the nth degree, and then they move on. My family broods and holds grudges.

Maybe it's all shaped by personalities and within a few generations families change. I don't think that the family my grandmother grew up in was as reserved as the one that she raised, and that may be due to the husband she chose. I do know that there are things about my family that I hope to preserve, and things about Mr. J's family that I would like to see us carry forward ... as well as things to be avoided on both sides.

Twinkle: It's Almost 3 in the Morning...

...I've been cooking/baking all night because I've got all of Mr. Twinkle's family coming over Sunday afternoon for an open house to see our new digs. And all the baking gave me time to think. About what, you may ask. Well, actually, about baking, and how it relates to my MIL.

A few weeks ago I was invited and generously accepted an invitation to go bake for a cousin's bat mitzvah (because calling a caterer would be so impersonal). So I gave up precious weekend time in the name of being a trooper. We all showed up and all the ingredients were there and I dug in with both hands (despite the unsavory sexist overtones of all the women in the family expected to do this), but I was fine because I like to bake. Of course, my MIL, being the queen bee, was assigned to make the crowning glory of the event: a very complicated 15-step chocolate bobka. And I didn't envy her, either...but my tasks were more menial. One of the grown cousins actually wanted to double-up with me to make a brownie mix. I nixed that right off, let me tell you.

So I was a machine, moving from job to job with efficiency and ease. After I'd proven myself with a few mixes, etc, they trusted me with a beloved family chocolate chip cookie recipe. I don't have to tell y'all that I graduated from chocolate chip cookie baking in about the fourth grade. But whatever, give me the recipe and let me get it done so I can go home.

So the recipe says, "Drop by Tablespoons on ungreased cookie sheet." I dropped by tablespoons and the cookies were freaking enormous. I went to the mother of the bat mitzvah/hostess of the upcoming events, and said, "Is this right? This is what the directions say, but they look way too big." This woman is a 45-year-old mother of two teenagers, and here is what she said to me. "Let's go ask." I was like, "Well, what do you think?" and she emphatically said, "No, this is something you need to understand. You always need to ask. Just do it." So here we trudge to a table of certified grandmothers, and the hostess of everything was like, "Mom, are these cookies that Twinkle made the right size?" And of course every woman at the table was like, "No--half that size." So I came away looking like an idiot, when all I was doing was following directions and then asking a person who had actually had the cookies before what they were supposed to look like...oh, these young wives think they know everything, but what they really need is a table of Bubbies telling them what to do...

(There was also an incident with parchment paper in which I was lovingly mocked for allegedly not knowing its purpose. Like any person who has ever baked, I was greasing the pan, flouring it, and then lining it with parchment paper...but then came the loving reprimand. "Honey, grease after you put in the parchment paper. So you don't have to scrub it as much." I'm sorry, but that is so not the purpose of parchment paper).

Anyway, if you have to consult a parent on the size of some chocolate chip cookies, why wouldn't you just go ahead and let your parents run every other aspect of your life, too? The need for advice on cookie size, the way no one trusts young mothers with their own babies, the lack of self-confidence in the younger generations (i.e. doubling up on brownie mix), the inability of the older generations to recognize adult children as competent...it's all starting to come together in a bizarre hierarchical jigsaw puzzle. And I feel like I've come along and inadvertently knocked the table over, just in the process of going about my business.

I think that's why I'm so determined to throw a fabulous party for the family without much help--and, really, I wouldn't ever want much help with something like this. I like to be in control of my house/kitchen/parties. (MIL is contributing some cookies, which I appreciate--she'll probably bring so many there won't be room for the food I made). In a way I want to show that unfortunate 45-year-old cousin that she, too, can be fabulous, and cook by herself without maternal supervision, and put together a menu and pull it off with her own two hands, without comment or opinion from anyone. And if anyone's mother wants to comment on my party, I hope it begins and ends at, "Oh, how fabulous!" Somehow I doubt it'll go down that way, but hope springs eternal.

Twinkle to Lola: You're Up!

So I did a little Googling to learn what exactly is involved in transferring educational guardianship, and it turns out there's a little form called Standard Power of Attorney for Medical/School Decision Making.

That's right, Lola--be prepared to start taking Twinklette to her doctor's appointments, and feel free make the call about any and all controversial vaccinations and/or medical treatments. After all, I've put you in charge, so I really don't have a dog in this fight anymore.

The first appointment's tomorrow, 9 a.m. sharp. I'll be getting a facial.

Dibbs: Eccentric Glamour? Not in "Work" County

So here's the story. I'm not supposed to wear heels right now. This edict is getting as much compliance from me as the rule that I'm not supposed to drink alcohol. (When I whine that my hips hurt, feel free to tell me it's my own fault.)

Well, my new secretary, the one I hate because she asked if my parents wanted to be grandparents, felt the need to discuss wardrobe this week. I was wearing a dress and bling-bling flip-flops. I don't like to wear flip-flops with a dress, but I was trying to comply. The secretary exclaimed over the shoes, which was sweet. I explained to her that I really would wear heels with a dress, but I can't wear them right now. She said these fateful words:

"Oh, Dibbs, anything goes."

Anything goes? Absolutely not. You know what never goes? Her navy linen closed-toe slingback flats from 1997. I was stunned for a minute. I recovered with, "No, not really. I'm very picky." She shook her head and walked away. Secretary, sweetheart, let me make this clear: just because you have an above-ground pool in your yard, you are not fabulous. Actually, the pool takes away points.

Vote Lola for Home Room Guardian!*

I really am just sitting here thinking of all the quirky fun I would have as an educational guardian for one of y'all's children! That is all.

*Lola had to edit this post, since she initially misspelled "guardian." Don't tell the MIL...

Julep: Put down the can of crazy and step away slowly.

Twinkle, first I want to offer my condolences on your aunt's passing. I remember hearing you say often about what a lovely lady she was - I'm sure this was tough for your family and I hope everyone is doing OK.

My second condolences are related to the fact that your MIL is clearly bat$hit insane. I cannot imagine for one minute that any person would look at her fully responsible adult son and his wife and conclude that she should be named the educational guardian of their child(ren).

For heavens sake. What makes Wilder the be-all-end-all anyway? I have never heard that it is some marvel of educational glory. Your "resides" school is Hawthorne ... as it is for our house ... and it's a perfectly fine school. The rest of the cluster will also do fine at least for a year or two. The Advance Program is at Bloom ... I spent first grade at Klondike before getting moved on the AP track to Goldsmith, and it was not the death knell for my academic career as we can all see. And when you apply to Bloom or whatever AP school for future children, they will get sibling preference ... since you are not spacing them out and they will all be in school at the same time. Clever you!

Lola = Proud Educational Guardian!

Twinkle! Your MIL story is the most off-the-wall tale I have ever heard. The crows must be in high-dungeon in the birdsnest atop her head, if she honestly thought it would be appropriate to vocalize her little fantasy.

Please assure her that you have spoken with us, and Mr. Lolo and I would be more than happy to serve as Twinlette's educational guardian for Bloom purposes if necessary.

Twinkle: I Couldn't Make This Sh*t Up If I Tried

So our car was leaking some sort of coolant (engine, air conditioner, I have no idea...) and my MIL was gracious enough to meet Twinklette and me over at the dealership, and then drop me off at my hair appointment and watch Twinklette for a few hours. I had a fun time chatting with Ryan of the Purple Mohawk, my fabulous stylist, and he ended up styling me in an almost Mad Men-esque bouffant, in honor of my State Fair cameo tonight. MIL picked me up right on schedule to take me to collect my car, and all was going well. In the car we chatted about the school system and the ever-controversial busing situation.

She was talking about how terrible it is for little children to be taken out of their neighborhoods on an hour and a half bus ride across town, when instead resources should be poured into their home schools and blah blah blah teacher talk...(and I actually do agree with her on that). Anyway, she was like, "Well, there's something we can do when Twinklette gets to that age...", and I said, "Oh, I'm sure it'll be all ironed out by then and there'll be some new big controversy everyone's talking about." She said, "Well...yes...but there's something we can do."

First red flag: her use of the Royal we. Second red flag: her insistence on "doing something" even five years down the road, when the problem is likely to be solved. I saw it coming so I told myself to sit back and enjoy it. And, yet, what came next was shocking in its presumptuousness.

She then started extolling the virtues of giving educational guardianship to her and my father-in-law, so that Twinklette can go to the school of their choosing (which, of course, is the one where MIL served as stern and humorless schoolmarm for 30 years...and while we're on the subject, there's no telling what she thought of my kitchy "State Fairdo"). She was like, "Well, if Twinklette doesn't get into Bloom or whatever school around you all that is...decent..." (clearly by "decent" she actually meant "trashy snakepit"), "...we can just give educational guardianship to FIL and me and she can go to Wilder!" At least now it makes sense why she didn't put up a huge fuss when we bought a house far from Wilder's district. She had educational guardianship in her back pocket all along.

I'm sure I don't have to explain to you girls the high improbability of me handing any sort of guardianship--educational or otherwise--to this woman. I would sooner lick the floor of Cardinal Stadium at at this weekend's free Oak Ridge Boys concert. I don't even want her to go to Wilder--it's one of those depressing midcentury elementary schools with no windows--and I really want Twinklette to forge her own path in a school, not live under the shadow of her father, aunt, cousins, and every other relative whose parents my MIL strong-armed into attending there. Why does she think she can run everyone's life?

It's a common practice, according to my MIL, to write down the address of a friend or relative when registering for classes at a school not in your district but close (and, if that's true, why couldn't we do that instead of seeking to transfer educational guardianship?!?!?...but of course we all know why...because MIL has to be in control, and she is an authority on education, you know). Anyway, if that were the case, I could just write down Lola's address as she lives in Bloom's district (as long as she doesn't mind). Any of you, really, could probably do this for me if getting into Bloom became a problem. I wonder how MIL would like it if I took legal action to make one of my crazy-*ss girlfriends educational guardian? I almost want to do it to find out...any volunteers?

The bottom line: I don't even know where I want Twinklette to go to school, but I know where I don't want her to go, and I know I won't be handing over the educational reins to my MIL, now or ever.

Lola: Potpourri de creme

So I baked my pots de creme last night and must have spent all my mental fortitude engineering the perfect water-bath, that I forgot one of the 6 simple ingredients. Nevertheless, sans vanilla, they are super tasty, as I sampled one for breakfast this morning. One month from today, my breakfast will be a cafe creme and a gigantic pain de chocolat from a parisian boulangerie.

But in the meantime, so much seems to be happening, but not so much. Mr. Lolo has become obsessed with finding the perfect pair of walking shoes for the trip, since I informed him I would not tolerate the jeans and sneaker look through the Rodin museum and beyond. At this point, I am thinking he has spent about 10-15 billable hours shoe shopping both on the internet and in all the area shoe-shopping locales. I fear he has spent more time shoe shopping than he has even researching the city of lights. The funniest thing, though, is that I cannot even imagine spending that much time shopping-researching-deciding-on any product EVER. In. My. Whole. Life. I didn't even spend that much time on picking my china pattern.

Fortunately, I was away from the action this past weekend at one of cutest little spa resorts in Eastern North Carolina: Lakeview at Fontana. Described as "rustic chic", this place is gorgeous and perfect. For what it offers, it is extremely reasonably priced and my mom and sister and I had a ball....and I got drunkety-drunk from the complimentary wine and cheese spread the first evening, which was pretty funny for my mom and sister, to be sure. Every detail was lovely (down to the individual french-press coffee pots at breakfast each morning) and the massage therapists were some of the best I have ever had. The only regret is that we needed another day. So count that as my review for the month, for what it is worth.

I have no mother-in-law news as she does not call or email me, and I appear to be disinclined to do the same. Not certain if we are not in communication for any particular reason or whether it just feels more comfortable for all of us this way. I'm certainly not complaining. On the other hand, I do talk to hilarious Nonnie quite a bit and sent her flowers on her birthday.

Twinkle - I am sorry about your auntie! I hope you and the fam have a fun time at the Fair this evening. And selfishly speaking, I am glad all of us are still on the SAUCE! So CHEERS!

Dear Daddy Rabbit Twitter Feed,

A water bath is child's play, but I say you bring your recipe over to my house--I have a pots de creme set that I have never used. (Shameful, I know...it was acquired just before our move).

xo,

Twinkle

Twinkle: Off the Grid

It's true I've been off the grid, girls. It's been a difficult week for the House of Twinkle as a beloved aunt (wife to my late uncle), who was diagnosed with lung cancer in May, became very sick last Wednesday, spent several days in the hospital with the family rallying around her, and passed away on Saturday. The funeral is tomorrow, after which I plan to rejoin the social (and social networking) world.

And with all the back-and-forth to and from Lex-vegas, and the long hours at the hospital with Twinklette (a real trooper) in tow, and planning a party chez nous for Mr. Twinkle's side of the family this weekend, I have just not had a moment to catch my breath until now. Anyway, I was thrilled to log on and find all the new posts...love that the blog has been so active!

And I must add to the subject addressed by Lola: the controversial (at least at our house) topic of the water park. Mr. Twinkle and I were discussing this issue long before we were even engaged; he is of the opinion that it's a great opportunity for old-fashioned family fun, while I stand by my firm assertion that it's a great way to catch worms from a trashy person.

Of course, I'm also against those horrible playground things at the fast food restaurants (and I'm also mostly against fast food restaurants, too, as I'm convinced that the meat they serve never had a face, and, call me old-fashioned, but I like the meat I'm eating to have had a face at some point). Anyhoo, Mr. Twinkle took Twinklette to breakfast at Chick-Fil-A last weekend while I was sleeping late (and if someone lets me sleep in and takes Twinklette to breakfast, far be it from me to criticize the restaurant choice), and he smugly informed me that she played on the playground. He was pleased to see that I was appalled. I'm OK with playgrounds in public parks--because they have lots of time to air out. But the gigantic plastic tubes? Those things look filthy, and I'm convinced that you could get stuck in one. There is no telling what kind of uncleanliness lurks there. Would I look OCD if I sprayed down the whole thing with CleanWell? Well, one mention of the playground and Twinklette's mouth started to draw down at the corners. So traumatic was it that Mr. Twinkle had made her leave the playground, her voice cracked and she burst into tears at the mere reminder of it. And I'm thinking it's best if we just avoid Chick-Fil-A in the future, which we were probably going to do anyway.

So there's the sanitary aspect of water parks, as well as the obvious drawbacks associated with these places: listening to thousands of children scream all day and and the thought of being a grown woman in a bathing suit, careening down a gigantic yellow slide. I know that keeping Twinklette out of such places may be a lost battle, but Mr. Twinkle knows where I stand. Like a clandestine trip to the Chick-Fil-A playground, that's something they can do without me on family trips. If they need me, I'll be at a spa or getting drunk at the Four Seasons.

And, Lola--Mr. Twinkle's dad was also the water park patron of the family back in the day. Heaven forbid MIL should ruin that bird's nest she calls a hairdo.

Julep: And one more thing...

Brett. Honey. Really. It's time to let go of the dream, buddy. I bet Mississippi is just lovely in the fall. You could stay home and enjoy it. Maybe find a hobby. If you feel nostalgic for the gridiron, you can tailgate the Ole Miss games. I hear they throw quite a party in Oxford.

Bless.

Julep: Potpourri

OK dolls, we hit our stride for a stretch there - without dear Twinks carrying the load for once -- even Lola in on the action via blog as well as Twitter. But we've ground to a halt and I take responsibility for starting another round up. I've been busy at work and don't have much exciting to say, so this will be a series of short comments.

* First item from my trip to NC last weekend: we spent one night with Dad and Co., and although it mostly went very well (we hogged the conversation at dinner with funny stories about Mr. J's cousin and the Redneck Wedding, and thus avoided any political/ religious lectures from the Dadster), there was one moment that took me aback. As my baby sister was crossing the room to the couch, my stepmom (a lovely woman and devoted mother) said: "I'm starting to see a little hint of a tummy pooch there, honey. We may have to get you doing some crunches." Y'all. Baby is 13. First of all, she has no pooch (believe me, I know from a poochy tummy). Second, she is 13. Can we not give her an eating disorder, please?

I said, "she's fine!" But now I wonder if I should send her some emails about ignoring her mother. On this one issue only, of course.

* Second item from NC. We stayed two days and nights with my college best friend Beauty and her family, and it was such fun. On the long drive home (not nearly as long as it should have been, Mr. J is working on a land-speed record), Mr. J and I were mourning the fact that all one's favorite people don't live in one's own town, and it's so true. Beauty would love the Classic Cocktail. But the silver lining of having Beauty out of town is that we get to stay right in her home when we visit ... it's almost like college dorm life again, for a little while. Plus the men and children, that is.

* Third item: children. A friend here in town had her baby this weekend. So sweet. I am definitely experiencing a sea change as usually newborns scare the wadding out of me, but I held him and everything.

* Fourth item: children, or lack thereof. I'm still on the sauce. Last month was a bust. Mr. J actually took it up with his doctor last week, and she told him, in a nutshell, that we both should focus on this less and he needs less stress, period. I really don't think I was paying attention to how stressed he has been lately, as he works for his dad and works for himself and gets his rental property on the market and travels and tries to attend to the home front. It hit me when he came home from the doctor with three different prescriptions ... one for a stress-related rash, one for high blood pressure (at his age!), and one to quit smoking, which is a topic that stresses him out just to think about it.

* Last item: today is the birthday of the infamous B, whom y'all remember meeting in Hilton Head. Twinks, I still have the photo you scored of my doppelganger, his bride. I must remember to call him later to say happy birthday. It's a funny thing. I have no doubt that I am much happier and better-off generally married to Mr. J than I ever would have been with the B. But I think of him - well, not often, but occasionally, and fondly - in a way I can't put a label on and don't know that I will bother to try.

Next!

Guess Who's Back, Back Again...

...no not Slim Shady, but close. The Little Pimp enrolled at the school next to my office today. My boss came into my office with a note. His principal had already called by 1:00. Apparently, Little Pimp was yelling, pushing other kids, and telling everyone that he had a twin brother, Peter. He would put his head down, then sit up and say he was Peter. Hmm.

I went to see him, natch. He remembered my name when I walked in and remembered that I sent him birthday candy after he moved. He informed me that he had a new sister. It's his step-mother's baby..."by another man" (said scornfully.) He cried when I left. I really love that baby!

In other news, upon walking into my other school, a seriously disabled child felt me up. I'm glad I have these lawyer friends in case I get fired!

Lola: Adventures in Motherhood?

Now I am by no means expecting anything; however, I was leaving the gym this evening with a lovely woman with whom I have become friendly. (She's a French teacher from the high school alma mater of one Mr. Twinkle.) But anyway, I commented on the fact that she had gotten a bit of sun recently and she offered the explanation that she had spent the day at the waterpark with her two kids (to be followed by an evening at Chuck E Cheese tomorrow, as some pre-back-to-school fun). But as far as I'm concerned: Quelle Horror!

I know I loved a waterpark as a child, but that was before my thighs began to rub together and, as an adult, I cannot imagine anything more horrific. How did my mother even tolerate hauling three girls around an icky waterpark wearing nothing but a bathing suit and a pair of old tennis shoes? And what if I should someday come in contact with a child who wants me to go to such a place with him/her? My mind cannot even wrap itself around such an idea. (Twinke - did your MIL ever allow herself to be dragged around a waterpark by the Chosen and the Mistake?) That could be the Twinklette's revenge!!

I am off to bed with the sincere hope that I do not suffer nightmares. xoxo

Twinkle: Sunday Night MIL Report

So, because my in-laws demand not one but two nights each weekend, we found ourselves at a godforsaken Beef O'Brady's on the edge of the universe tonight. And when Mr. Twinkle's cousin's children began to bicker, MIL took the opportunity to comment on the perils of having more than one child. She put it in the context of one of Mr. Twinkle's college friends, Amy, who has a son Twinklette's age and is once again with child. But we all know who the real targets of the comment were.

Kids: (bickering)

MIL: You should take a video and send it to Amy. (Um...why? At this point it's too late for Amy, unless someone just wanted to rub it in her face about what she's gotten herself into).

Me: (sweetly feigning confusion) You had two children.

MIL: Yeah, well. I spaced mine apart.

Mr. Twinkle: One of them was a mistake.

MIL adamantly denies that my sister-in-law was a mistake, and yet Mr. Twinkle and his sister both remember the exact spot in Ruby Tuesday's where the revelation was made. Tonight Mr. Twinkle called his sister about something else, and brought up the bickering and what MIL said (leaving out the eventual direction of the conversation), and my sister-in-law said, "Mom never wants anybody to have more than one kid. Even I was a mistake." But revisionist history is SO my MIL.

She was also talking about having to go to the Immediate Care Center because of a reaction to some medication this morning. She had people coming over for brunch and had to go to the doctor instead of cooking everything and getting it on the table. So my father-in-law really came through and cooked everything, and my MIL got home just in time for the guests to arrive. I think that's pretty darn fabulous of my father-in-law, and if that had been Mr. Twinkle, I would have made a big deal about how he saved the day and was the best husband ever, and what he made was the best d*mn creation in the history of breakfast casseroles.

Of course, MIL couldn't bear to give the man any credit. He smiled proudly as he told us the story, and all the while she was tearing him down, rolling her eyes, and saying, "Now wait just a minute...I was on the phone with you the entire time telling you exactly what you needed to do." Just let the man have his moment in the sun! Or, better yet, how about an old-fashioned "thank you"?

Julep: In Memoriam

Yesterday my great-aunt Jane passed away in Philadelphia at age 87. My mom and uncles (and we kids) were her only close relatives as she married late in life and had no children of her own. Whenever I visited her, anyone we ran into would say how much she talked about her family in Kentucky, but she refused to move here: she said not in this life would she leave Philadelphia. But until the last few years she always came for Christmas, and the holiday season of my childhood didn't begin until she arrived from the airport -- in her full-length mink with bags full of presents from Nordstrom or Saks.

Yes, Aunt Jane was the type of lady we Daddy Rabbit Girls want to be when we grow old. She was always immaculately dressed, jewelled, coiffed, and made-up, and every afternoon at 5 she had cocktail hour on her terrace with her housekeeper, her Bichon Frise, a snack and a Scotch. Even in her 80s she was attending her monthly book club, and though she had to give up golfing in her later years she still loved to have dinner at "The Club" and sing around the piano bar afterwards. (Her signature tune was "Someone to Watch Over Me.") She was a devout Catholic; she used to work for the Philly archdiocese and she got married in the Cathedral with the Archbishop presiding. She was a supporter of the theater, the Art Museum (in the '70s and '80s her apartment overlooked the Rocky steps), and her alma mater high school where she funded a tuition scholarship for needy girls. She could parallel-park her great big Caddy on a dime, and she said she learned to do it "sitting on a bar stool in Cape May." (She taught me the trick and it always works.)

Unfortunately, with her passing and my little grandma with us only in body not mind, I am the only person of faith remaining in my mom's family. So if you have a moment to spare in the next few days, please say a prayer or even a rosary for the repose of the soul of my dearly loved Aunt Jane....

Twinkle: THAT's My MIL--Her Demeanor's SO B*tchy

That's not my princess—her tiara's too bumpy.

That's not my princess—her dress is too thick.

That's not my princess—her sash is too velvety.

That's not my princess—her bows are too silky.

THAT'S my princess—her crown is SO glittery.

So goes one of Twinklette's favorite books, just one of a series of "That's Not My ..." touch-and-feel books that teach kids different textures and adjectives, and also the subtle idea of being able to identify and verbalize the more subtle differences between similar objects or characters. They're fun, cute, and not wholly uneducational, as words like bumpy, thick, velvety, silky, and glittery (while not on the college entrance exam) actually do come in handy sometimes.

So Twinklette has memorized the book and can finish the sentence when prompted. And it's cute, and it's one of her new tricks, and Mr. Twinkle taught it to her so he was excited to show the trick off at dinner with his fam tonight.

So as MIL was doing her usual mealtime curriculum of ABCs, numbers, and "What does the duck say?" (To which Twinklette invariably answers "moo," making me look like a complete slacker). Mr. Twinkle broke out with the, "That's not my princess...her tiara's too..." and Twinklette said "Bumpy," then they went through the whole thing.

Mr. Twinkle was all proud and beaming, but I know my MIL like the back of my well-manicured hand. So I knew it wasn't going to end well.

All MIL said was, "Oh--that's great." And the implication was that she could not believe we were reading her some frivolous princess book when there are letters to be learned and core concepts to be mastered, and first grade is going to be here before we know it!

That woman needs to back the hell off with the whole education thing. Of course, whatever intelligence Twinklette has is because of MIL's influence as a trained educator, and all Twinklette's shortcomings are because she has a mother who's too frivolous. Does MIL know that every day at naptime, Twinklette and I have a French lesson? Or that, instead of some obnoxious Baby Einstein cd, I actually play the violin for Twinklette? Or that she loves looking at books with Renaissance paintings in them? And that, believe it nor not, we actually do the alphabet, numbers, colors, and animal sounds, too?

It's OK for Twinklette to like a princess book. Even if it had no educational value (which it does), it would be fine to enjoy a book just because you like it. I'm sure MIL would balk at the time I spend reading for pure enjoyment, but, self-indulgent aspects aside, I happen to think that's the best way to instill a love of reading in children. Judging a child's reading material certainly isn't the best way to encourage reading.

Any woman whose reading material includes such literary classics as The Peach Cobbler Murder or Dead Men Don't Crochet has little room to cast aspersions. (I swear. Dead Men Don't Crochet was actually on her bedside table for 6 weeks). But it's not cool for an 18-month-old to read a book about princesses.

Twinkle: Sanitized Nursery Rhymes

We're having a bit of trouble with our station wagon, so today after a date(!) with Mr. Twinkle (we went to a mid-afternoon movie and early dinner--such a treat for us both) we did a switch-a-roo on some cars. So now I'm driving MIL's car because it has a car seat in it. And it is lovely that she's letting me use it, but it is this tan Buick with the driver's seat sitting so high I actually bump my head on the roof of the car when I drive it. I don't know how that birds nest of a hairdo of hers survives any commute.

Of course, playing in MIL's car was a Baby Genius cd (Baby Einstein knock-off) for the benefit of Twinklette. I tend to think that even children's music can be interesting. I play everything for Twinklette (right now we're into '60s protest ballads), but when I want a children's cd I look to a charming little cd I got at the Land of Nod. It's Elizabeth Mitchell, a mom, playing acoustic guitar and singing kids songs (some old-fashioned, some new) in a sweet voice. Sometimes her children sing on the album. It's charming and sort of Southern, and Twinklette and I both like it, when the mood calls for something kid-friendly. Baby Genius, on the other hand, grates on the nerves like someone else's toddler screaming in a coffee shop. (Mine would never do that, of course).

So, there is this one song on the cd, Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, sung in an operatic style and performed with a full orchestra. And I have been making fun of it to Mr. Twinkle forever (MIL plays that d*mn cd every chance she gets), so as soon as I got the Buick back at my house, I ganked the cd and loaded my favorite track into iTunes.

And upon more intense listening, it seems that the good folks at Baby Genius have changed the words to this beloved nursery rhyme. As I remember it, the rhyme goes:

Peter Peter pumpkin-eater

Had a wife and couldn't keep her.

Put her in a pumpkin shell,

And there he kept her very well.

I've always liked that particular rhyme, because it's kind of funny, and I like the nod to the cuckolded Peter. It's almost like an Old English version of Finding Nemo, which I haven't seen but apparently has humor that appeals to both children and their parents.

The Baby Genius version says:

Peter Peter pumpkin-eater

Had a wife who could not sleep

He put her in a pumpkin shell

And there she slept so very well.

That's not really fun or whimsical...it's just kind of preachy.

Twinklette has another book with the Little Piggies, and instead of "this little piggy had none," it says, "this little piggy had fun." Because I guess it's not fair that one little piggy got all the roast beef. I don't know about you all, but I just think that is ridiculous. And I really don't understand the thinking behind teaching kids the wrong words to classic rhymes, when history made them that way for whatever reason. Why mess with it, geniuses at Baby Genius? Is there some movement that I'm missing that believes that some nursery rhymes are inappropriate for small children because they're unfair or illustrate unhealthy marital relationships? I say leave the lyrics alone, and for heavens sake stop setting them to classical/country/jazz tunes.

The whole baby education movement is out of control, anyway. Playing is the best thing babies and children can do to learn...and a good way to expose them to different kinds of music is to play different kinds of music. Hey Diddle Diddle with new lyrics, set to a honkytonk beat, doesn't count.