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.
No comments:
Post a Comment