Twinkle: My MIL is Pure Evil

I grew up watching the loving relationship between my mother and my grandmother, who has often said that God gave her two sons and made her wait until they grew up and got married before she could have her own daughters. My grandmother's sweet to everyone, of course, and so is my mother--so why would they engage in b*tchy power struggles when they could just be friends? That is what I always hoped for and expected for myself, and why shouldn't I have it? I'm nice to everyone, too.

I really don't think I ask much from my mother-in-law--certainly not more than I expect from any other friend or relative in my life. I don't want or expect her to buy me anything (she does, generously). I certainly don't expect her to love me more than her own daughter (she clearly doesn't). I really just want her to be nice to me, to treat me as a valid human being even though I may not be exactly like her and her precious perfect (to her)--and decidedly beige to the rest of us--daughter, and I'd prefer it if I knew where I stood with her on a day-to-day basis. That's about all I'm asking for.

What I don't understand is the ongoing dichotomy about my daughter. Because, on one hand, MIL acts like Twinklette doesn't even like me or care if I'm around. And on the other hand, she acts like we're in an unhealthy codependent relationship. The truth is, Twinklette and I are close--as all mothers and toddlers should be. I'm not afraid to let her have a little bit of freedom at a time, when I think that's appropriate--and I do believe I'm the one who knows best what's appropriate when, since I am the person who knows Twinklette best in the world.

So, we enrolled Twinklette in school. Her first day is next week, and we've all been getting excited about it. Twinklette has her backpacks ready, and we've been talking about school clothes and the friends she'll make and the things she'll learn, and how great it's going to be. And, while I'll miss her, I'm looking forward to having a little more freedom in the mornings to get things done or to do something for myself. (Note: this is not the attitude of an unhealthily attached helicopter parent).

Tonight, we were over there for some pathetic belated-Hanukkah bash, and I was in another room while Mr. Twinkle, Twinklette, and my in-laws were in the kitchen. I guess one of them said, "Are you getting excited about school?" and Twinklette said, "I'm not going to school. I'm going to stay home with mommy." I walked in the room a minute later, Mr. Twinkle told me about the sweet thing she'd just said, and of course my heart melted, and MIL looked me in the face with a look of disgust and disbelief. I said, "That's so sweet, sweetheart--I'm going to miss you, too," and MIL started talking about all the friends she's going to make and how she's going to learn and blah blah blah. The face she made sort of soured dinner for me, and when we got home I asked Mr. Twinkle how the initial exchange went down.

He said Twinklette said, "I'm not going to school. I'm going to stay home with mommy," and my MIL said to Mr. Twinkle, "Where'd she get that?"

And I cannot begin to describe to you how hurt I am by that little question. Do you really want to know where she got that, Grams? She got it out of the deepest parts of her sweet, tender, two-year-old little heart. And for that evil woman to think that it came from anywhere else does a disservice to Twinklette's genuine feelings. (She doesn't pay attention to Twinklette's feelings or thoughtfulness, anyway...tonight Twinklette was passing out treats and wanted to make sure Grams had some--she was willing to give her own away to make sure my MIL had some. And I'm sorry, but--like any toddler--Twinklette loves her sweets, and usually cares more about herself than anyone else. So for her to be willing to give up a treat and put someone else's feelings and needs before her own is very kind and grown-up of her, I think. My MIL didn't notice. All she cares about is if Twinklette knows what the duck says. Which Twinklette still doesn't).

So it upsets me that she thinks Twinklette couldn't feel that for herself, and express it. And it really hurts me that she thinks I just go around filling Twinklette's head with whatever ideas I want to all day long. I'm not going to lie--my daughter and I have a wonderful time together every day--but I let her be who she is and feel what she feels, and I would never try to force a feeling on her or try to make her more attached to me than she is. I want her to have the right amount of independence. I would never try to sabotage this important step for her--as much as I'll miss her, I want her to go to school and love it.

That woman is pure evil. Hope she enjoyed her babysitting privileges while they lasted, because I think school is going to make our daytime social schedule fill up pretty darn quickly, and we have so many reliable nighttime sitters, you know. And I really don't want to play that game, but I also don't want my daughter to spend her time with someone who considers brainwashing a valid form of child-rearing and assumes Twinklette's feelings and convictions are coming from my own personal brainwashing agenda. My only agenda is to help Twinklette grow into exactly who she is.

Twinklette can major in whatever she wants to in college (unlike my MIL's kids, whose majors were selected for them by her). In fact, I sort of hope Twinklette picks a pointless one just so I can shove it in MIL's face. Perhaps I'll enroll us in a spring pottery class.

Twinkle: Not to Beat a Dead Horse, But...

...the toy turned up. So I thought you all might want to see for yourselves what I'm talking about. Here's a normal view of the toy...a perfectly respectable fairy riding a bedazzled and flower-bedecked white steed, just the thing that would appeal to a little girl:

And now here is the money

shot, which, from what I hear, would appeal more to Catherine the Great. By the way, I felt like a serious pervert as I experimented with different lighting, angles, and flash settings to best capture the essence this horse's junk. But here it is, in all its glory.

Mr. Twinkle has no idea what's waiting for him when he gets home tonight, but I cannot wait to see the appalled look on his face! I'm just sorry I'm not there to see the look on all of yours!

Dibbs: The Date

Sorry, Y'all. I didn't realize I was leaving you in suspense.

I can't make fun of him that much now that I've seen him. I fear there may really be something amiss.

I'll give you one example. He didn't know how to use his debit card to pay for dinner. The bill came. He put his debit card in the holder like a normal person would, and then the waitress came. He told the waitress he didn't have a pen. (BTW, every time I tell this story, people think I mean PIN number because I don't sound like a Yankee, and it gets on my nerves. But I digress.) The waitress looked puzzled and gave him a pen. He looked at the bill with a befuddled expression and began to write on it. He said to the waitress, "I don't know where to write." She rolled her eyes and took the bill. Y'all, it was the first bill. Not the one you sign. I am not exaggerating when I say that I think he grew up in a compound outside Oklahoma City.

The date went on, and he is very nice, as I knew he was. I would know this, as he had been calling every damn night for a week-and-a-half. He texted two more times, and when I didn't answer the second text, he stopped.

There's so much more, but I just can't talk about it. Bless his heart.

Twinkle: The Comparisons Begin

So, we had lunch with my in-laws today (they made their triumphant return from grandparent duty in Connecticut yesterday). And the first thing out of Twinklette's mouth upon seeing them was not, as I had feared, "Santa Claus brought me the pink kitchen from Pottery Barn Kids and a Kit Kittredge doll," but in fact, "I ate some soap." She couldn't wait to tell them about how she'd gotten her hands on a Lush bubble bar and taken a big bite out of it. I'm sure this confirms their fears that I'm an unfit mother, but in Twinklette's defense, that bubble bar did look good enough to eat. She had to cleanse the palate with some Christmas tree Peeps after the fact...another infraction that would not be welcomed kindly by them, on many levels.

So, it's an amazing thing. My MIL has spent two years talking about how Twinklette looks exactly like my sister-in-law, and isn't the resemblance uncanny and blah blah blah? It was the middle of summer, when Twinklette's hair was blond-ish from days spent poolside, and MIL was like, "Look how dark her hair's getting!" as if my daughter were some swarthy pirate. Well, now it turns out my sister-in-law's baby looks exactly like her! (As she should). And my MIL is all, "She has lots and lots of dark hair and big brown eyes." Mr. Twinkle is like, "Yes, but where did that nose come from?" and MIL says, "Oh, that's his family's nose!" But anyway, now my MIL says, "We couldn't have two granddaughters who are more different-looking! I mean, Twinklette is so light-haired and fair-skinned, and the new baby has dark hair and a dark complexion!" That may be true, but the real marvel, for me, is how both granddaughters--swarthy pirate and fair English rose--both seem to uncannily resemble my sister-in-law. (Not that I think the new baby is a swarthy pirate--she's very cute and my SIL actually has a very pretty, very fair complexion with dark hair. I'm the one who tans well...although I'm sure my MIL would never admit it. Unless it were somehow turned into a criticism). Anyway, it seems that both granddaughters are beautiful living tributes to my sister-in-law, as expected.

I also have to discuss a toy Twinklette received in her Christmas stocking. Twinklette has a few of these, and I have never noticed anything amiss with them (although maybe I just haven't looked). Anyway, she got another one in her stocking, and when I was trying to remove it from its elaborate packaging, I had it turned upside down and realized that the horse was anatomically correct. The horse was male, and still had all its junk, if you know what I mean. (And, being a Kentuckian, I couldn't help but think that that horse would command a respectable stud fee, especially given its easy rapport with mythical woodland creatures). I was in the presence of my parents and 92-year-old grandmother, so I had to play off the fact that Santa had left a horse with a ginormous plastic schlong in my daughter's stocking. And I'm no expert on equine genitalia, but it looked remarkably humanistic, which makes me wonder if some sex pervert is designing plastic fairy horse molds. I took it out of the packaging as discreetly as possible, trying to contain a mixture of amusement and disgust. It would have been utterly inappropriate to show Mr. Twinkle at the time, so I turned the horse over, hoped no one would notice, and anticipated the look on Mr. Twinkle's face when I'd finally have the chance to say "Check this out."

I can't help but wonder whose idea this was. These are fairy figurines--with wings and pointy ears. It isn't as if the toys are being used to teach anatomy. Maybe it's one of those hippie companies that wants to be realistic with children, but then why are they manufacturing fairy toys at all? All I can say is it's a good thing they're not manufacturing Ken dolls.

Anyway, I couldn't wait to show Mr. Twinkle--but now the horse has disappeared! I don't know if a well-meaning relative spotted the appendage and decided that Twinklette should be sheltered from large equine penises for a few more years, or if it got lost in the shuffle, or what, but that horse is nowhere to be found. And I am devastated--I have not mentioned it to Mr. Twinkle at all, because that is the kind of thing you just need to see for yourself. I really don't think he'd believe me if I said, "That horse in Twinklette's stocking was actually hung like a horse." He just has to see it for himself. I'm still hoping it turns up, so if you all see him, don't mention the horse schlong.

Twinkle: Skype Tells All

So, y'all know how Mr. Twinkle's family refuses to admit that my child actually likes me. They can pull her out of my arms as she wails, "I want mommy!" and they'll be like, "What's wrong with her, Twinkle? Didn't you give her lunch today?" It's the general consensus in Mr. Twinkle's family that my daughter doesn't know or care about the difference between me and a Rhesus monkey in a blonde wig, and I have never, in almost two years of motherhood, heard any of them say (or even tacitly admit), "She wants her mommy." Not even when she's saying it.

So, yesterday the families fired up the Skype lines in an effort to introduce Twinklette to her new sweet baby cousin. We'd never used Skype, so at first we couldn't get/send a video feed and could only hear voices...and it was a good thing, too, because the very second we answered the call from Mr. Twinkle's sister, the very first thing we heard (in the background), was a baby make a small, innocuous cooing sound, and my mother-in-law saying, "Ohhhh...she wants her mommy!" You should have seen the looks on our faces...but it was a good thing nobody on the other end of that webcam could! (Funny, when my baby was a few weeks/months old, wasn't it my MIL who assured me that she was way too young to tell the difference between me and anyone else?)

I'm sure this is the first of many small or large inequalities that y'all can look forward to reading about as my sister-in-law forges the tricky waters of new motherhood with a grace and ease that my MIL thinks I never could manage. She already gave birth naturally and matter-of-factly in the span of a few hours, while we all know I'd have been dead on the stirrups table if they'd made me do that. That's probably why her kid loves her so much, and mine merely tolerates me.

Julep Is In Kinks of Laughter.

Twinks, your story about the fire department reminds me of one told by a co-worker several years ago. His grandparents engaged in a little, um, amorous activity that was vigorous enough to knock the phone off the bedside table. As they are both 80+, that phone was pre-programmed to call 911 in such an event. The 911 Call Center heard a lot of panting and moaning that sounded like an elderly person having a medical emergency.

Apparently his grandpa met the paramedics at the front door in a T-shirt, boxers and socks, smoking a cigarette.

Tips to them, and tips to you young-marrieds-with-a-toddler, for keeping love alive!

Lola is Appalled.

That is all. xxoo

Twinkle to Dibbs: In Suspense

Dibbs, I am dying to know the details of your date. I thought perhaps there'd be an update with a post-mortem by now...I'm going to consider the lack of one to be a result the fact that you were making out.

Do y'all have Skype? So my sister-in-law had her baby, which is super-exciting...tres thrilled to have a neice, and now my in-laws are out of state which makes my life ever-so-much easier. But now we are under all kinds of pressure to Skype all the time, because the grandparents want everyone to be able to see each other. I'm all for technology, but Skype is totally interfering with my intention to have an in-law-free couple of weeks. (I know it's a perfectly normal thing for grandparents to want, but a much-needed vacay from my in-laws is a perfectly normal thing for me to want).

So, Mr. Twinkle just had that knee surgery, you know. And so he's been at home, not working, hanging out, watching movies, and chatting everyone's ear off while in an Oxycontin-induced haze. And all weekend, he's been marveling at how long the weekend seems. He just cannot believe how long it seems. I know that he usually works a lot on the weekends, but he doesn't seem to realize that, when his parents don't own two nights out of the weekend (Friday and Sunday), and his dad doesn't come over on Saturday to watch the UK game, and we're not under all kinds of pressure to do sh*t for/with everyone...then yes, we do have quite a lot more time. Funny how that works! The best part is we have next weekend, too!

Lola: you might want to stop reading now.

So this is where we're supposed to say funny sh*t that we can't say anywhere else, right? Well, last night the fire trucks had to come to our house, because of a particularly rowdy and raucous activity on the sofa that caused it to scoot two feet across the floor, turning on the gas valve to the fireplace. We didn't realize the gas was on for awhile after, until I noticed a whooshing sound and we figured it out. We Googled what to do (air out the house), checked on Twinklette (whose room is just above the fireplace), and ended up calling the fire department, who ended up coming out just to be safe. Sorry if this is too graphic, but I think it's hilarious that the firemen had to come, causing all the neighbors to peep out their windows at 2 a.m., and we have no good explanation as to why. And all while Mr. Twinkle has a bum knee!

I apologize for probably causing most of you to hesitate about sitting on my sofa ever again.

Lola to Dibbs: How did the date go!?!

Darlin'! Are you holding out on the details? Is he more that a non-existent cable-bill? Did he treat you well and enjoy your company? Because at the end of a long day, that is the kind of man you want on your sofa.

xoxo

Julep: I'm Not Cut Out For This.

I volunteered for this pro bono program to represent domestic violence victims in family court ... it's once every four to six months, Legal Aid did a big training, and I figured even I could handle it. Um, no. No, I cannot.

Set my own client's case aside ... family court is on a floor of the courthouse that I never have to go to. I sat there for two hours yesterday waiting for our case to be called. It was the single most depressing place I have ever been, including hospital wards and funeral parlors. Sure, there are worse places in the world, like refugee camps and Evin Prison. But I saw more people weeping and/or irate yesterday than I can process. Custody disputes, mostly. It's like marinating in human misery.

I have a full helping of Catholic guilt ... I am easily put upon as to things I should do, that someone needs and I can provide. Heck, I give blood regularly even though I am so squeamish that I can't watch Gray's Anatomy without looking away from the surgery scenes. But there's a reason I don't practice family law, and I really don't know if I can go back there. (By the way, Lola, take another gold star for your CASA work.)

On that happy note, I'll get back to my regularly scheduled case load, in which nobody weeps or bleeds or is condemned to a life of grinding desperation.

Julep: I hate sweatpants.

Apologies to Mr. Lola, whose halfway cool sweatpants I have not seen. Perhaps they would escape my loathing.

Mr. Julep has a pair of sweatpants I would like to light on fire. They are navy blue, with elasticized waist and ankles and ... well, they're sweatpants. I hate them. Just last weekend, he was looking for them and I suggested that he put on some nice flannel pj pants instead. He said, "Those are fine, but I like my sweatpants because I don't have to change my pants if I have to run up to the store for something."

OK, point taken. But how long does it take to put on a pair of real pants? Thirty seconds, tops?

Why voluntarily assume the uniform of trailer trash? Nobody looks good in sweatpants. Even worn around the house, sweatpants are ugly and shapeless. They may be comfortable, but so are pajama pants, which come with the added assurance that you will not be tempted to rush out of the house without changing into some decent attire.

That is all.

LoLa: Facebook Maladies

I have a cousin. She is 18 years old and lives in Indiana. She just finished her high school diploma/Vo-Tech training in cosmetology. She is so sweet, but a little bit country (or alot country, actually). Today I want to take her facebook account away.

Apparently yesterday she and her boyfriend broke up. I know she is sad and grieving. I know this because her Facebook status updates go something like this (in chronological order):

Betsy* is now SINGLE.
Betsy is heartbroken...but it doesn't even bother him
Betsy he is done being with me and i wish he wasnt [sic].
Betsy what can I do to make him realize how much i miss him and he actually care...this is the hardest time of my life.
Betsy I've done it now...He's done forever...Bad...Upset.

Based on the last posting, I'm just hoping this eighteen year old bada$$ heartbreaker hasn't died in a freak farming columbine "accident."

Nevertheless, this is the paradox of those of us who grieved our broken hearts over the telephone with our bestest friends. Or had slumber parties where we cried over pizza and ginger ale while stabbing the eyes out of all our school-dance photos of said bada$$ heartbreakers. How provincial we were not to be able to skyright our graceless emoting of the "biggest tragedy ever" (aka our broken hearts) to all 205 friends we share on the internets.

Twinkle - please share this post with Twinklette as soon as she can comprehend the internets and let her know that if she acts the fool in such a pathetic way, her Auntie Lola will make fun of her. Because the fear of public ridicule and scorn seems to be severely lacking in today's youth.

Merry Christmas!
xoxo
LoLa

* Names changed to protect the sad and pathetic.

PS Props to STFU Parents for ridiculing parents for their embarrassing facebook status updates.

PPS Mr. LoLo's sweatpants are not even really half-cool. But thanks for the effort.

Twinkle: A Telling Tale

Amusing story.

Today, my mother-in-law whisked Twinklette away for the morning while I browsed the men's sweatpants department of Target, trying to find the same "halfway cool" ones Lola's husband had on a few years back.

Here's how the exchange went down:

Me to Mr. Twinkle: You're really wearing sweatpants to brunch?

Mr Twinkle: But Mr. Lola's wearing sweatpants!

Me: Yes, but Mr. Lola's sweatpants are halfway cool.

(I'm still sorry for the backhanded compliment, Lola and Mr. Lola!)

Y'all can guess that I don't personally care for the look, although Mr. Lola's sweatpants were fine as far as sweatpants go. For lounge/sleepwear I favor the cotton or flannel pj look, which Mr. Twinkle also embraces; as for going out of the house in sweatpants, well it's not something I actively support. Anyway. I was trying to be nice and give Mr. Twinkle something he'd love: sweatpants. So that's what I did while Twinklette was with her grand-mama.

Here's the real story.

So when MIL and Twinklette came back, I thought I'd throw my mother-in-law a bone, it being the season of peace on earth and such. So when they came in with a plate of cookies they'd made and decorated together, I said, "Oh--I made your almond icing for a cookie exchange last weekend and my cookies won."

Well, you should have seen her eyes light up. "My icing won? My icing won!" It took her a few minutes to internalize this bit of information. "I can't believe my icing won!" "My icing's famous!" She was still talking about "her" victory long after the subject had changed. It really was nice of me, because it seemed like it made her whole week. I've seriously never seen her so happy.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that the cookies won for presentation--before a single one of them had been tasted by anybody. I also didn't remind her that I was actually the one who made the icing. I didn't want to diminish her personal victory, after all.

Dibbs: Foiled Again

One of our dear friends put her head together with a co-worker and has set me up on a blind date.

I was so excited. I've talked to him twice. He's out of town on business, but he actually called two days in a row. This is such a rarity that I was beside myself.

Then it happened. He asked me what I was getting ready to do. "Watch Kentucky play," I said. He revealed what may be his fatal flaw. He doesn't have cable.

Now before you say anything, understand. It's fine if girls don't have cable. They'll miss a lot of most-dramatic-rose-ceremonies-in Bachelor-history, but whatev. It is, however, a deal breaker for me if a guy doesn't have cable. Why, you wonder, scratching your head...

He Doesn't Watch Sports! Yes, I know, this might sound like nirvana to you. Right now I'm watching Mississippi State play DePaul independently of a man so I can cheer for the SEC against the Big East. A man who doesn't watch sports would make me feel like a big ole butch. And let me tell you, there's nothing attractive for either of us if I have to explain pass interference to him.

I don't truck with men who don't watch sports. My male friends watch sports. My family watches sports. Hell, the baby watches sports. What Daddy raised this man? (And, no, he cannot be my father-in-law.)

I know I'm no spring chicken. Nor am I easy to deal with. At some point, I realize a girl has to make some sacrifices. Why couldn't they be crow's feet, or a receding hairline, or flat feet? Why does the sacrifice have to be this?

Twinkle: Avoid Vanille Patisserie

So, apparently the Vanille Patisserie is located near the scene of a stabbing yesterday. I cannot believe I sent you there! Maybe avoid West Lincoln Park from now on...I know I travelled this corridor a lot back in the day as I adored (and still do adore) the hip, up-and-coming feel of Wicker Park. Seems it's not so up-and-coming anymore.

Anyway, hope you stayed away, Lola. Cheers to staying safe!

Twinkle to Lola: French Pastry in Chicago

I happened to see the Twitter feed, and it seems our Lola is headed to my adopted hometown in search of Lill bags and French pastries. My recommendation is Vanille Patisserie--conveniently located on the North side on one of my favorite streets, Clybourn (complete with lots of other shopping, as well...and it's also close to Southport, which has lots of fabulous local boutiques). If you're willing to get in the car and drive just a little bit, it might be worth it. It's located pretty far west on Clybourn, but going from south-to-north (from downtown to Lincoln Park) it would be about halfway between downtown and where I used to live in Wrigleyville--not too far from your fabulous amenities at the Drake. (It's also an easy jaunt to Lill and other Armitage boutiques from there). Their Web site also mentions a Chicago French Market, scheduled to open today--how fortuitous! The new market is on Clinton Street (downtown somewhere if I remember, as all the presidential-named streets are). It might be fun to go on opening weekend, and it would probably be an easier cab ride than getting to Clybourn.

Have fun and don't miss the Dickens Christmas tea at the Drake, either--it's my favorite afternoon tea in Chicago. And y'all know I'm an expert on the matter.

Cheers to the Windy City!

Dibbs: Everybody Loves Incontinence

I am nothing if not a woman of my word. I promised I would tell you all about the treatment for my condition. I will tell you. Besides the dietary restrictions (nothing good is allowed) and the 11 prescriptions (I have approximately 15 more waking minutes,) pain management is an treatment component. Once a week I venture over to the office for my pain cocktail.

Before you get too excited, the pain cocktail is not served in a lovely highball with a nice cheese tray. It's inserted. With a catheter. I'm not telling you anything else. You can figure it out.

Actually Twinkle knows one other treatment component. She got it out of me with forbidden cocktails and peer pressure. If she wants to tell you she can, or you can ply me with more illicit alcohol. I really never want to talk about it again. I doubt you want to hear it. She probably went home and scrubbed her brain.

On to the funny, funny incontinent part. I went for my cocktail, which I try to schedule conveniently around trips to Churchill Downs or lunch. On this particular trip I needed to pick up a birthday gift. Lidocane, Marcane, Elmiron, Heparin, and some medicine that starts with a "T" cocktail properly administered, I journeyed over to Play It Again Sports for some 14-year-old birthday weights. Bad move. Never pick up weights in that condition. The cocktail found itself on the floor of PIAS. Looked like my water broke. Oops.

I thought this was an anomaly brought on by too much heavy lifting. Never gave it another thought past some major humiliation. Then came the day I needed to pick up one of my many prescriptions after cocktail hour. While waiting in line at Kroger, I felt a little drip. I felt a little river passing the hem of my skirt. Hell.

The lady in front of me couldn't figure out the complicated new Kroger prescription system. I pointed to the box. "Push that. Sign here," I told her. She told me she was too short to see the box, as I gazed down from my Amazonian perch of 5'4". I glared. By the time the boy got back with my scrips, I had signed my name and swiped my card (I don't need to tell them my name anymore.) "This ain't my first rodeo," I informed him. He looked at me so quizzically. He couldn't see the little rivulets flowing into my ballet flats and onto his tile. Only the rest of the store was watching...

Hey, at least I have a good excuse to get lunch if anyone's interested. I'll schedule my sick time.