Julep: Adventures in Ingratitude, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twinkle: MIL Pathology

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julep: Side Rant

Adventures in Ingratitude will return, but first...

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

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

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

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

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



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

Lola: Whoopie Pies = Yum!

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

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

Julep: Adventures in Ingratitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me and Mrs, Mrs Jones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twinkle: McB*tchin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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