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.

Julep: FYI re Lola's Tweet

I checked Lifetime.com, and full episodes of Drop Dead Diva are available to be viewed online!

Apparently those of us who have missed out so far are only 8 episodes behind. I wager that my weekend houseguest and I can spend some happy girl time catching up with those this weekend.

Twinkle: Cookie Tyrant

What is it with this family's tendency to micro-manage about cookie size? I called my MIL tonight for her delish chocolate chip cookie recipe, as I'm hosting a cousins' playgroup for my side tomorrow morning. She gave me the recipe like a normal person, without any asides or digressions about sifting and room temperature eggs and what not. And I started to think maybe this woman gives me some credit after all. Then she gets to what size the cookies should be on the sheet and she launches into a 10-minute soliloquy about cookie scoops, bigger than a walnut, but not too much bigger, etc.

She also told me to cook it way longer than the cookies needed...and I'm pretty sure she left out an ingredient or two because my cookies, while fine, do not look light, fluffy, and golden-perfect like hers. They're more flat and cracked. I'm sure she'd blame it on my youth and inexperience, but next time I make these sons-of-bitches (and I hope it won't be soon, because there's nothing I hate more than baking cookies...all those endless hours of laying dough on a sheet!) I am throwing in an extra egg or something. Even Mr. Twinkle agrees--not in a mean way...in a baffled way--that they are distinctly different than his mom's.

She also rescinded her earlier request for me to design and execute centerpieces for the brunch she's giving in honor of the little bat mitzvah girl this weekend. Last week when I offered to help, she assigned me the floral duties. Tonight when I talked to her, she was all, "Well...I don't think I'm going to need you to do those centerpieces. A brunch for a little girl doesn't require anything too...extravagant." Because MIL knows good and well that any floral centerpiece I design will look like something Marie Antoinette cooked up, and we all know what happens to extravagant b*tches like her. (They go down in history as fabulous arbiters of glam). Just wait until Twinklette's second birthday party. MIL thought she hated the 100+ person cocktail hour/first birthday party at a children's yoga studio...wait until she sees the profusion of black tulips I have shipped in from Holland for this year's fete.

Ahhh...on to make my benedictine sandwiches. That recipe came from my grandmother, who has no motivation to thwart my culinary efforts.

Julep: Loose Ends

(1) So good to see everyone last night!

(2) Happy to report that I found my grandma's cross hanging in my jewelry case when I got home.

(3) That disconcerting book I talked about is Pushed.

(4) Our absent friend NPB swung by my house to pick up her Junyaleeg cookbooks, and shared a little intel on the "bed rest" of our mutual friend Belle. Apparently this bed rest is not so much doctor-ordered as Belle-designed. It seems that Belle has been feeling a little under the weather (a cold? a touch of strep?) and is pretty tired here in the end of her pregnancy. So Belle has announced to her workplace that she is "on bed rest" ... but that doesn't mean she won't run her errands or call NPB to see if she wants to go out to dinner. In short, nobody needs to worry about dropping by with a casserole to feed Mr. B or B Jr.

Love it.