Julep: Unexpecting

Well, it's official. The fertility specialist has struck out. Three turkey-baster procedures, accompanied by copious comments about how good everything looks, but no baby.

I've called to make an appointment to talk to the doctor about any other medical measures, but I'm not optimistic. I'm sure he will offer IVF, but (leaving aside the fact that it's creepy and my Church forbids it) it really doesn't make sense for us. Mr. J has a high sperm count, I ovulate like clockwork and my fallopian tubes are squeaky clean. They don't have any idea why the minimally-invasive procedure failed three times, so why would I sign up for a majorly-invasive procedure? (Particularly one that's colossally expensive, not covered by insurance, and has a 20% success rate.)

Mr. J and I had a long talk this morning, and agreed that we are going to start investigating adoption. We don't really have any idea what that will entail, but I guess we'll figure it out. I've called a few friends who have adopted to ask if we can talk to them about the process and the experience - I want to talk to other friends who were adopted, to get their take on things. And of course there's Google. But frankly the whole thing is kind of a mystery, and it's hard to get up the motivation to wade in and figure it all out.

For the first time in my life, I really feel like a failure. As St Teresa of Avila once said to God, "Lord, if this is how You treat Your friends, it is no wonder You have so few."

Julep: Now I've Done It

Y'all remember that way back in early October, I went shopping with Mr-Mama. As you know, I am not much of a shopper, and I keep my wardrobe fairly limited as a philosophical preference. This was not a shopping trip for a bored rich woman to while away a morning: I needed those clothes to wear to work. Mr-Mama offered to hem or shorten sleeves on several items, most notably a brown pantsuit, a black skirt-suit, and a black dress. It is more than 2 months later, and I have not seen a scrap of my new clothes.

I tried to tactfully mention at the Mr-Family brunch that I knew she was awfully busy during the holidays, but it would be really great if I had my new things to wear, especially that brown suit ... what with the very cold weather lately, and a lot of my old things not fitting anymore (hence the shopping trip). She promised me that she would at least have the brown suit finished before she and Mr-Papa head off for ten days in Florida, leaving tomorrow.

I should have known better, I really should have. But I was so looking forward to my new brown suit! I decided this morning that I would wear it tomorrow on my birthday, so I called her a few minutes ago to ask if Marc and I could stop to pick it up tonight on our way home from my mom's. "It's not ready," she said, "but I promise I will work on it the minute I step back in the door from Florida."

I couldn't help it. I asked her if she could just pack up all my things that she hasn't had time to work on so that I can hem them myself or take them somewhere to pay a tailor to finish them. She got mortally offended, and huffed about how she did make me an entire dress at Thanksgiving - and she did! and I thanked her! And I realize that she is doing all of this as a favor to me, and I don't want to be ungrateful ... but y'all, I need my clothes! I really do! So even though she kept pushing the offended meme, I kept asking her to gather my clothes so I can come and get them, do what I can myself and take the rest to a tailor. She finally huffed not to stop by tonight, she will bring them over tomorrow.

She has had the dress my mother gave me as a birthday gift last year for a whole year - and all it needs is a hem. She didn't do it all last winter, and then it was warm weather and I stopped asking about it, and she found it again this fall - I had forgotten all about it, what with never having worn it even once. I told her how great it would be to have for when Mr. J and I went to Seattle. Nope. Here it is a full year since I took that dress over and she still hasn't hemmed it. I can't afford to wait a year for my work clothes. I need to wear them; I don't have piles and piles of nearly-identical clothes to browse through and select from every morning. I need those clothes, or I wouldn't have bought them in the first place!

I am really sorry that I hurt her feelings, but if you don't have time to do me a favor, don't offer. And don't promise to have my suit hemmed before my birthday when what you really mean is, I'll get around to it sometime in the next decade.

UPDATE: Mr-Mama having left town for her vacation, I went by her house to collect my things. She had finished the work on the brown suit and the birthday dress before she left, which I appreciated. I took the other suit and the black dress to the tailor tout de suite.

CON: "That will be $45." PRO: "You can pick them up next Friday, ma'am."

Definitely worth the money.

Julep: Can't Hold Back

One of my co-workers, whom I quite like, told me over lunch today that she is getting divorced - as in, the papers will be final on Monday getting divorced, so this is hardly news. In fact, it seems they separated in September (immediately after their return from a 13-day trip to Europe with another colleague and her husband, in fact - and I wish I had the nerve to ask for the details on that trip.) I hadn't heard a word of it before today, and she said she has been sort of keeping it under wraps at the office. Fair enough, as her soon-to-be-ex worked here back in the day.

I asked how she felt about this development, and she said, "Good," so I said, "Congratulations." And we talked briefly about her living situation and the conversation moved on.

What I did not say, and must now say here ... although I disapprove of divorce in principle ... is: good riddance! I never liked him. I could never understand what a smart, tall, attractive, well-paid, gregarious woman in her mid-20s (at that time, now 31) wanted with a guy who is dull, short, unattractive, at least ten years older than she, not making any more money than she can earn for herself, not particularly pleasant company, who walked out on his first wife of 10+ years and two small children (both under five, one not even mobile yet). She can do so much better. So, so much better.

And I hope she will come to our upcoming party in January, to which Evite I added her immediately after learning that I could invite her without including him. (I hope you girls are coming too!)

Twinks, I want to hear about your trip to the CT in-laws. I didn't realize (but judging from your tweeting I now gather) that this out of town venture involved the entire Mr Twinkle clan. Do tell.

Julep: Just Call Me Scrooge

Got a phone call yesterday from Mr. J's Judgy Grandma. She wanted to make sure we knew we are supposed to come to their country club on Sunday morning for the annual Mr-Family Christmas brunch.

In theory, they do this every year so that Mr-J's youngest aunt (the one who got drunk and made the scene at our rehearsal dinner) can come in town with her husband and kids and see everyone for the holiday, since they live a few hours away and spend Christmas with her husband's family. Mr-Mama told me today that Young Aunt is not coming this year because of some long story about getting their kid's stuff home from college before he goes on foreign study. So it will be only the Mr-family who live in town - the Mr-Grands, Mr. J's immediate family, his older aunt and her family (Stripper Boots Cousin and Baby Mama Cousin plus hubby and baby) - exactly the same people we'll be seeing on Christmas day for dinner at Mr-Mama's house. One might think we could skip the country club this year (particularly since I don't much care for these people). But no, Judgy Grandma will not allow it. She wants the brunch, so brunch there will be.

The other thing she wants is a gag gift exchange. This is not for the older generations - just for the grandkids, all of whom are over 21 and none of whom really enjoy this little ritual. It's never entirely clear whether it is supposed to be a white elephant/ something you have around the house gag gift, or a go out and find something funny for $10 gag gift. One year I received a bar of soap and a roll of toilet tissue, which was at least useful - unlike the stuffed mouse in a kimono that danced to "Kung Fu Fighting," which Mr. J got.

I don't want really someone else's junk cluttering up my house. If this were a beloved tradition that everyone got a kick out of - and everyone participated in, not just the younger generation - I'd deal with it. But it isn't. Mr. J's cousins half-ass it every year. It's annoying. I told Mr. J he is welcome to play along if he wants to, but I intend to group myself with the grown-ups this year. I'm not bringing a gift or participating in the exchange. And boy oh boy won't Judgy Grandma be passive-aggressively mad about it.

Mr-Mama is admiringly envious that I don't kowtow to Judgy Grandma. It's hard for her to flout Mr-Dad's mother - as much as she would love to. Fortunately Mr. J isn't the least bit worried if Judgy Grandma is mad at me. And I couldn't care less.

No Thanks-Giving: Dibbs

As a warning, Julep, you've heard every bit of this. Feel free to skip.

I knew things were awry when my abstaining Southern Baptist mother called and told me to stop at the liquor store. Boy Cousin had a change of plans and decided to bring his new girlfriend--and her two-year-old--to our house for lunch. Funny, Breeder's Cup weekend he wanted me to fix him up with a friend. I'm ever-so-glad he found love, as none of my friends are interested in riding four-wheelers on his farm. I guess true love knows no time. But I digress...

After a 30-minute wait in the rain for Dutch Apple Caramel Pie and two wrecks on the interstate, the liquor and I were home. Crazy Girl Cousin I awaited. I heard, "So they're dating..."

"Who's dating?" I wondered aloud, emerging from the loo. Four hours, don't forget.

"Crazy Girl Cousin II and Hot Guy From High School," my mother answered, tentatively.

"Shit," I replied, and made a cocktail. Yes, I was on my way to a high school basketball scrimmage for Golden Child. All white trash mores have been violated in our family by now. Who cares?

Not a week before, Hot Guy From High School had joined Facebook and made his friend requests. On Friday, he went on a date with Crazy Cousin II, fresh from the psychiatric hospital and faux paralysis (more on that later.) On Monday, he moved in. Apparently, he "sold his business" in Knoxville and moved home to his mother's house in our hometown. Sure. That's what we all say when we're fired or bankrupt.

Crazy Cousin I was not to tell of this to my mother or to me, as I had a major crush on Hot Guy twenty years ago. Yes, what I want is an unemployed Hot Guy taking up room and finances in my house. Bring it.

Cue Thursday: Drinking starts at 11:00. Because it can.

Boy Cousin pulls in the driveway. I spy the new girlfriend. She has: wet, curly red hair hanging stringily to her chin. She has crooked yellow teeth. She wears brown K-mart Uggs. I warn my dad, "Boy Cousin's girlfriend. Get ready." This becomes a joke. If your girlfriend comes with a warning...

Her baby is asleep. We let him sleep in a back bedroom. Baby Shagari arrives, bearing Chicken Pox and energy. Not to be outdone, scary girlfriend goes to wake her baby. (So he can catch Chicken Pox? I still don't get it.) He never wakes, even when Baby Shagari shrieks. She says he has ADHD. Nope.

Boy Cousin says, "Dibbs, there she is." Well, yes, she sure is sweet... She asks about every dish. "What's this?" Broccoli casserole. "What's this?" Macaroni and cheese. I drink wine from a football game cup so as not to be caught in the act.

My father summed it up, "Boy Cousin didn't have to run very fast to catch her."

Friday: Playa Brother brings home a girl. She goes to his room. She never comes out. Never. Not to eat. Not to go to the bathroom. Not to shower. Nothing. I guess she peed in a cup? Two days...

Baby Shagari went in once, but he can't talk. He came back with jellybeans. We don't know anything else.

Happy Thanksgiving, Y'all.

Julep: middle-aged and risque

So one of my colleagues is getting remarried. This is a wonderful thing, as she is a lovely woman whose beloved soul mate died of cancer at the age of 54, when she was 51. They had a beautiful marriage - traveling together, reading the same books, building their dream home out in the country. And then he was gone, and it was so sad to think she would have another 30 years without him. Well, five years later he's still gone but she has found a new companion. Again, this is a wonderful thing. They are getting married in a few weeks and it's a very private service - I think there are eight guests, of whom four are blood relatives and two are the couple who introduced them.

Accordingly, another colleague is hosting a party for the bride. It is emphatically not a shower - the invitation specified no gifts - but it's just the women of our department. Although it is the same night as the Judds concert (alas), I have been looking forward to it. I've been working hard lately and it's been a while since I got to relax and chat with my colleagues.

Well. Today the hostess sent out a reminder email, and although "real" gifts are off the table, she directed that we should all bring a gag gift ... i.e., crotchless panties. Um. I am really sort of creeped out by this. The bride is my mother's age (almost, and older than my MIL). The other guests are my co-workers. I really don't want to know what anyone else is going to buy, or to think about what the bride will do with all these gifts.

What on earth am I supposed to buy her? Where do I shop for this on four days' notice?

Julep: Stay Gone

As y'all may know, we've hosted the joint families for Thanksgiving for the past couple years. We started with 20 people, last year was down to 14, and this year only 10, which was really lovely. Just us, my parents, Sis and her husband and baby (okay, it was 11 if you count the baby), Mr-Mama, Mr-Papa, Mr-Sister, and the fabulous Nanny (Mr-Mama's mother). We're starting to get this down to an art. Mr-J makes turkey, gravy, and mashed potatoes, I handle dinner rolls and dessert, and everyone else brings a side.

This year, Mr-Papa's parents did not join us for the first time. Mr-Aunt had a dinner last year for herself and her girls, and the Mr-Grands decided henceforth they would take turns between our house and hers. Unluckily for them, this year Mr-Aunt had some health issues so it ended up at the home of her daughter, whom you'll remember in the cast of characters as the baby-name-stealing cousin who demanded cash for a wedding gift. There was much discussion yesterday about whether Cuz knows how to cook.

Personally, I couldn't have been happier to say farewell to the extended Mr. Clan for Thanksgiving dinner. I don't dislike Mr-Aunt or the Mr-Grands, but they are kind of high-maintenance and always there is some drama. Taking the number down meant it was a very relaxed gathering of close family, and we all fit at one table, which was lovely. Not to mention the improved menu offerings. Escaping the ever-present plain cheesecake that Mr-Aunt brings to every. single. family. dinner. ever! is a blessing in and of itself. Plus for the past two years, Mr-Grandma has brought the corn pudding and sweet potatoes to Thanksgiving. And y'all, they were not good. I love me some corn pudding, but hers is just not right somehow. I think the problem is, she is one of those cooks who refuses to use a recipe - she thinks she can cook from instinct, which is fine if you are making a pot roast or spaghetti sauce, but corn pudding needs the right proportions of flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder.

This year I made the corn pudding, using the recipe from Lilly's as I always do. It was delicious, as it always is. And Mr-Mama, freed at last from the tyranny of her mother-in-law, made the sweet potato casserole from last month's Southern Living (the one with the marshmallow topping). It was so good I could have licked the bowl.

Is any way I can uninvite them for next year?

Twinkle: Party Crashers

I accepted a long time ago that I will never host a large Thanksgiving meal--even though I would actually like to. The thought of staying home all day on Thanksgiving, baking pies and basting a turkey, sounds so appealing to be...but alas, our Thanksgiving lot is to rush around from family to family, trying to make everyone in all families understand that it's kind of a full day for us so we're super-sorry about being there at 1:15 instead of 1. (When we were 15 minutes late to Mr. Twinkle's family yesterday, two different people called him to find out where we were and demand that we get there stat. I'm sorry, in my family, the arrival time is a suggestion, and you get there any time you can within the 2-hour cocktail hour window. My parents, who want to see their grandchild for the maximum amount of time, remedy this laissez-faire situation by assigning me to bring an appetizer, ensuring that I have to get there right at the beginning).

This year I decided that I would cook a Thanksgiving dinner for just us on Friday night--"just us" referring to the three members of the immediate Twinkle family. I really want to know how to cook a turkey, and I thought it would be fun to find and make my own Thanksgiving recipes--you can be a lot more creative when the expectations of 30 people aren't riding on your mashed potato recipe. Basically, it was about creating our own tradition, for once, instead of letting every holiday be dictated by everyone else's designs for us.

Y'all can probably guess how this ends.

So, I bought a 15-pound turkey--the smallest one at Whole Foods--and yes it's for 3 people but no I did not care. I purchased all the fixins and planned my menu. I informed Mr. Twinkle about my intentions, and he informed me that he would "feel bad" cooking Thanksgiving dinner and not inviting his parents. We discussed it for a couple of days, I caved, and now instead of a leisurely day of cooking for us--with the knowledge that it'll actually be OK if this turkey venture is an epic fail--it has turned into a formal dinner party for 6 people. It won't be OK if the turkey or anything else doesn't turn out, my MIL will be silently criticizing the way I did everything even if it does turn out, and my FIL will be sitting there thinking how much better my MIL could have done it all. Plus, I have to clean the whole house now. Not what I was planning.

So, this morning I broke out the gigantic turkey and performed that ancient rite of passage for Thanksgiving hosts: removing the gizzard. Which was actually not as bad as I expected. Mr. Twinkle came in to see what was going on, and had the audacity to inform me that I was supposed to sprinkle the turkey with paprika. You can guess who does this...but I'm not doing it. This is about us learning how to do it ourselves, not me mimicking every tiny detail that my MIL does. (And the instructions I was using made no mention of paprika). He also asked what I planned to do with the gizzard, and balked when he discovered I was going to throw it in the Crock pot with the green beans for flavor. And then, after he thought about it, his indignation faded and he thought it might actually be a good idea. Progress?

Obviously, real progress will only be made when we can actually do something for ourselves, our way, with or without unwanted guests. It's one thing for me to be forced to invite my in-laws to something that was supposed to be just for us, but I'm not changing the menu to make them judge us less. They can come crash the party, but they will have to suck it up and eat everything the way I fix it. I should have known how this would end, and not wasted my time in the first place.

Booty Call-Derailed:Dibbs

Last night I ran into some guys I knew from college at an old favorite watering hole. Most of them went to my school and were a few years older. One attended the land-grant institution down the road; not that there's anything wrong with that. Go Team!

The guy I didn't know was visiting from out of town. He had the bright idea that I should go back to his host's house with him when I was ready to leave. I had to decline, but I gave him my phone number. You see, the combination of a) hooking up with a stranger b) hooking up with a stranger at someone else's house c) hooking up with a stranger my friends know and d) hooking up with a stranger who lives in the 863 (Orlando) area code was pretty resistable. Four strikes, brother. You are way out. Even if you are totally hot.

Now the fun begins. This morning my phone rang. It was the guy. In the background I could swear I heard helicopters. He said:

"Do you know (my hosts) address? I left my bag in his car."

~No

"You've never been to his house?"

~No

"Who is this?"

~This is Dibbs. I met you last night.

"Oh! Oh, Dibbs. Well, it was really nice to meet you. I hope I see you again soon."

What I assume happened here is another fine young lady took him up on his offer. He went to her house and come morning they had no idea where to find our friend. Finding a number from our town in his phone, he thought he'd struck gold, but no. It was the other girl he'd propositioned. And still no luggage. Bless.

Julep: Taking Weird to a New Level

This time it's my sister in the crosshairs. Y'all, that girl is just strange.

My nephew turned 1 in the middle of last week. On his birthday, she called me at work (fairly early in the day too - I was planning to call her, I swear!) to say that they were going to celebrate his birthday on Sunday, by going to the Zoo. Apparently Nephew adores the Zoo, especially the giraffes. Bless. I'm fine with that. A little Zoo party is great for a first birthday.

Well, not so much a party, it seems. Then she said that they were figuring that they would go to the Zoo around noon, when Nephew was up from his morning nap, and stay a couple of hours, and people could just come find them at the Zoo. Oooookay ... how is that celebratory? I figured I was missing something, but it doesn't do to get into long Q&As with Sis.

Then she went into a long spiel about how unreasonable my mom was being about the whole thing, how she didn't want to come by herself to meet Sis at the Zoo. This did not seem unreasonable to me, but we simply agreed that I would tell J-Mama to come over to my house after church on Sunday and we would wait there for a call or text from Sis saying they were about to head out to the Zoo. Since Sis and I live two blocks apart, we could plan to arrive about the same time and meet them at the entrance to the Zoo.

Here's where it really got strange. Have y'all been to the Zoo lately? The adult entry fee for the Zoo is $13, which seems a bit steep for a cover charge to a one-year-old's birthday party. Admittedly J-Mama sprang for my ticket but I gather that Sis's four or five friends -- who showed up at various points in the Zoo wandering -- had to pay their own ways in. After we walked around about 2/3 of the Zoo, Sis announced that naptime was approaching, and everyone headed home. No cake. No presents. Not even a balloon.

I told Mr-J about all of this (he was working last weekend), and said, "Don't you think that's weird?" He said, "Not for your sister. You know how obsessively clean she is. I would never expect her to have people over to her house for a party. The only party we've ever been to there was outside." Very true. But come on, there are public parks with picnic benches all over this city. Tell everyone to meet you at the park, bring a cake and some balloons, and we'll watch the birthday boy chase the ducks. Heck, I could have even brought the dogs (Nephew and Black Dog are soulmates). But making everyone shell out $13 in order to walk around the Zoo with you? How is that a party?

-- I must share one more detail. When Sis was complaining about J-Mama to me on the phone, she actually said: "I cannot wait until y'all have kids." She did not say this in a mean or hurtful tone - it truly did not register that wishing a sibling would share the load of grandmotherly expectations is not most tactfully shared with your sister who has been trying to get pregnant for almost two years. To her credit, when I replied, "Oh yeah? Us too," she sounded kind of embarrassed and tried to backtrack. But for the love...!

Twinkle: Negative on the Nerdy Gifts

Well, it's that time of year again...time to gear up for the annual Christmukkah holidays. I'm planning to be done with my shopping early this year--and this time I really mean it.

So Mr. Twinkle has school-aged cousins, and I was asking MIL what they want. Their mom had provided MIL with an extensive list complete with prices (presumptuous, but helpful nonetheless), so I was checking out the list for ideas. The boy’s list included beef jerkey, which I find hilarious, and I totally plan to tie several Slim Jims on top of that kid's present.

For the girl, MIL told me she really wants a globe or a microscope, so MIL thought those would be a good things for me to get her. Now, I am all about educational toys, but I also appreciate the joy of opening something you truly want and love, and I didn't see a fracking globe or microscope anywhere on that list. I'm sure there are children out there who include globes and microscopes on their letters to Santa, but this little girl's list included several Hannah Montana items, something that appeared to be an updated version of those horrible Bratz dolls, and gift cards to one of those slutty pre-teen stores. I'm pretty sure a microscope is nowhere on her radar.

And maybe it should be, but that's none of my business. Not sure what MIL's motives were (was she trying to get me to give this girl a sucky gift so her gift would look better, or was she trying to steer me away from giving a sequined haltar top to a third grader, in favor of something more academic? One never knows with MIL). It doesn't matter--I'm getting her the Barbie Kitty Care Vet set. It's on the list, it's not slutty, it encourages girls to pursue a career in the veterinary sciences…so what if it gives her an unrealistic view of the adult female body? No toy is perfect. But I think it's bizarre that MIL encouraged me to deviate from the list and give the child something totally inconsistent with anything else she wanted.

Who can explain this woman?

Church Shopping: Dibbs

I've been shopping churches a little. I tend to get a little teary at church, which is embarrassing when your church consists of Men of the Order and Ladies of the League and Club. I had to make a move.

The problem is, I'm really looking for my hometown church, circa 1985. I want mandatory coat-and-tie and pantyhose in my very liberal denomination. This does not exist, even in said hometown church. I'd have to go Pentecostal, and I don't think I could take it.

Today I tried my denomination in the heart of my neighborhood. No ties here, baby. Peeps were wearing jeans. And sweatshirts. The minister had a ponytail. One guy brought in a two-liter of something pink. I didn't catch the label; I didn't want to stare too long. Having said all of that, these people were warm and genuine. Several of them approached me to say hello. One woman told me she might move back to Maryland due to it's proximity to Delaware and their more reasonable Senatorial voting. Yes, she was wearing an embroidered sweatsuit. Does it really matter?

I only cried once, probably because I was mentally crafting this blog post. Also, they have a lovely preschool should I need it for Baby Shagari. Perhaps I've found my home. I'll simply need to readjust my wardrobe and remember to take my Sigg along.

Twinkle: Just Wasted a Twix on a B*tch

So, there's this girl on my street, Kelly. I really, really don't know what her problem is but after I hung out with her and another neighbor, Ali, one morning and tried to friend her on Facebook, she never friended me back. This was last spring, and after our initial meeting that day we have never hung out again, she never accepted my friend request, and she has gradually stopped even waving to me as I drive down the street.

I don't know what I did, other than say her kid was cute and her job was cool, and we had some mutual friends, too. No clue, but to tell you the truth I haven't spent too much time worrying about it because I have lots of friends and I learned a long time ago that everyone doesn't like everyone and that's OK, especially when you're an adult and get to choose who your friends are.

Well, it's trick-or-treat tonight, and when her crew came to my house, she wasn't with them. I went outside to talk to Ali (who is nice, and whom Kelly is, unfortunately, very good friends with) and Kelly came up like 10 minutes later. I have no idea if that was personal or not, but she had the chutzpah to come up to me without so much as a howdoyoudo and say, "I need something without nuts." That b*tch. I mean, how dare she not even say hello but just start putting demands my candy bowl?! And if I wanted to be draconian about it, I would point out that I'd already given candy to her daughter at my front door--and the daughter mentioned no nut allergy. Kelly was essentially double-dipping in my Halloween candy after 6-months of acting rude to me, but, whatever. Who really cares?

I held up a Twix, with a look on my face that said, "WTF do you call this, b*tch?" (The bowl WAS Snickers-heavy, because I had given a lot of the nut-free candy to Twinklette's school party, but there were still plenty of nut-free options). She was all, "Twix?" like there might actually be a possibility that Twix bars have nuts.

I'm sorry, but if you grew up in America, and I'm pretty sure she did, you know that chocolate, cookie, and caramel comprise a Twix bar. So that b*tch needs to drop the nuts act. I can't promise that Twix bars are not processed at a facility that also processes foods containing peanuts, but I can say with confidence that no Twix I have ever eaten has had nuts in it, so b*tch needs to step off.

Now I'm thinking I wasted a Twix on her and I sort of want my Twix back.

Twinkle's Shallow Rant

This one isn't earth-shattering (not like when I identified the missing cookie ingredient or discovered the origins of Mr. Twinkle's hypochondria). It's about Twinklette's wagon, which was given to us when she was about a year old by (who else?) my in-laws.

Being a girl who appreciates the classics, I would have liked the old-fashioned red tin Radio Flyer wagon, but I'm really not one to look a gift wagon in the mouth. This one is a plastic behemoth, and when they got it for us, MIL explained she knows I like the classics, but that this one has lots of bells and whistles like 6 cup holders, convertible seats complete with storage compartments underneath, and a drop-down side feature that turns the whole thing into a bench.

Cup holders and storage aside, I can't figure out what good the d*mn thing is if I can't even lift it. We tried to go trick-or-treating at Boofest today, and Mr. Twinkle had to remove half the back seat of our station wagon just to get it into the trunk. When I got there, there was no way I could get it out by myself, which makes me think that the number of cup holders is irrelevant if taking it into and out of the car is an impossible task. I wonder if we might be better off with the smaller, old fashioned, bare bones wagon that has been quietly and competently doing its job for generations.

MIL has researched and wanted to choose other items for us for us, and we would have been better off with the simpler version that we really wanted. (The same thing happened with strollers...she insisted on buying a big, bulky, obnoxious stroller and trying to push it on us, while I went light and compact). This wagon will be relegated to the garage because it's just impossible to deal with. Next she wants to get us a swingset...Lord only knows what kind of monstrosity that will be. Stay tuned...

Julep: Culture Clash

Last weekend I went shopping with Mr-Mama. I really needed some new things, and she loves to shop - and I hoped it might be a chance for me to show her why some of the things she is drawn to aren't my style or would look awful on me. I don't know if I achieved the latter goal (although I made a valiant effort). I did succeed in one respect: she bought a couple of things for me that I loved but were too expensive, and we agreed she will hold on to them until Christmas. She offered to let me have them now, and I would love to start wearing them sooner - especially the luscious little suede jacket - but I am hopeful that waiting will keep her from buying me more things so I'll have something to open. I told that to Mr. J and he just laughed.

Mr-Mama has no concept of "less is more." On Saturday she bought herself a little navy-blue velvet-trimmed sweater/jacket that I swear she already owns. She wanted me to buy a little grey suit with a short jacket and pleated skirt when she just bought me a little grey suit with a short jacket and pleated skirt last year. I pointed that out, and she said, "Well, you might want another one for when you get tired of the first one." Um. Probably not.

Yesterday she had a conversation with Mr. J about the shopping trip. She couldn't get over that I was fairly appalled by the amount of money I spent. She kept telling him, "She makes plenty of money, her clothes budget should easily cover that." Um. I don't actually have a clothes budget. I have a little pot of discretionary money every month, and I use it for everything from haircuts and pedicures to cocktails with you girls to yes, clothes - which I buy rarely. When I do buy something, I'm conscious that I will have to restrict my other spending. When I bought my new (used) road bike this summer, I was pinching pennies everywhere else for two months.

Here's what I have realized. Mr-Mama has never been poor. She's never even been close to poor. She was the pampered daughter of a well-off family, and now she is the privileged wife of a wealthy man. Maybe there were a few years early in her marriage when they didn't have a lot yet, but she still had plenty. She has no concept of carefully allocating one's resources. And she really likes to have lots and lots of stuff.

I am not as much of a skinflint as my own mother, who - even though she has a lot more money to spend now that she did when she was a single mother raising three kids on an entry-level salary - has suits she bought in 1982 and throws something away before she will buy anything new. But I like the philosophy of "less is more" - because there are a lot of things I'd rather do with my money than accumulate stuff. I'd rather have a closet with half a dozen great pieces that will last than twenty-five things I bought on clearance just to have variety. I'm willing to spend on something I really want, but skip the three or four somethings I don't like as well.

My new challenge is to explain this perspective to Mr-Mama. I don't mind at all how she chooses to spend her own money on herself, but I really want her to stop buying me things. I'm not optimistic.

Nostalgia: Dibbs

I hate election season. In an effort to hide our locale, I hate "Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire," "CON...," "Social Security is a Ponzi Scheme," (What IS a Ponzi Scheme anyway?) and "He tied a woman up and made her pray to him." What the hell is that? That commercial makes me think I'm watching SNL every time I see it.

I was lamenting all of that to Julep as I drove to our local track and football game when I happened upon a small-town mayoral sign. And my hatred was over. A certain former acquaintance is running for mayor again. I'll give you a hint.

He lied about his status, he lied about his life...
He forgot he had three children, he forgot he had a wife...

Yes, our man is still going strong. Long live Jews for Jesus!!

Twinkle: Hypochondria Explained

Lola and I shared a fun Mexican lunch today, and naturally the topic turned to mothers-in-law and the neuroses they create in their sons, our husbands. I shared with her an epiphany I had the other night about the origin of Mr. Twinkle's hypochondria.

Y'all know that Mr. Twinkle loves nothing more than to be sick. Monday night he had a light-induced migraine, and I'll give him that. I've had those, and they suck. OK, he gets one night a week to lie on the sofa with all the lights off while I tiptoe around. However, for the next four days he repeatedly complained that his "whole mouth hurt" and "nothing tasted good"--and the first day he had the audacity to blame his mouth issues on my vegetable soup. He eventually went to the doctor, who was baffled (as usual). I don't like knocking Mr. Twinks because he's a sweetheart, but the ambiguous symptoms do drive me a bit nuts. Show me a confirmed fever or a positive pregnancy test, and we'll talk.

So, the theory that I explained to Lola today is that the only time Mr. Twinks has ever received positive attention from his mother is when he's sick. It goes beyond most mothers' habits of babying their sons--when he gets sick, it's the only time she's nice to him.

My theory was totally proven tonight...when he arrived chez MIL complaining of the ongoing mouth pain, she looked all concerned, asked him if he'd been to the doctor, asked if he had a fever, and suggested some sort of topical mouth spray. He broke out his special prescription mouthwash--it is actually labeled "Magic Mouthwash," clearly a placebo courtesy of his doctor. He proceeded to take a swig in the middle of the kitchen, dramatically swishing and spitting in front of the whole fam. She offered him some applesauce. When nothing on his plate tasted good, she wrapped it up, in case it might perhaps taste better later.

I've never seen that b*tch so solicitious. Considering her usual surly demeanor, I can see why it feels so good to Mr. Twinkle to get that kindness and concern from his mother.

I'm nice to him all the time, so I find it hard to be any nicer when another mysterious symptom presents itself. When I pointed out my theory to him, he did agree with me...he said, "Oh I know! She was all 'Can I get you some applesauce?' " Another step forward for Mr. Twinks. Now if only he could get a firm diagnosis on that mouth condition...

Julep: this is for Dibbs

I'm sure LoLa has already seen this story on Slate (the online magazine to which we are both devoted - but I am not sure if you others share our love). It's about "real life Blind Side" stories, and the author points out that Michael Oher being taken in by a white family is definitely not a unique situation. Of course, we already knew that ... exhibit A the Dibbs family. Good story, though!

Julep: Oops

So this is kind of bad. I sort of forgot Mr-Mama's birthday on Monday.

I didn't totally forget it ... I reminded Mr. J multiple times over the weekend that he would need to get a card and flowers for his mother on Monday. I feel like she is HIS mom, and a present from HIM is more meaningful to her. And I made him call her on Sunday to ask about plans for her birthday since we hadn't heard anything - again on the pretense that he remembers her birthday all by himself, he did the calling - but she and Mr-Papa were doing some sort of tour of the new arena Monday night so they didn't want to have dinner with us. And when he got off the phone I reminded Mr. J to call his mother the next day, and stop by with the card and flowers.

Then on the actual birthday, I totally forgot to call her and wish her a happy day. I remembered on my way home last night and called but she wasn't home. They had some sort of evening plans, and there's no intent to schedule a birthday dinner anytime soon. I explained to Mr-Papa that I had forgotten, please give her my best wishes, ask her to call me when she gets in if she has time but obviously it's not pressing. She didn't call back.

I don't know but would bet a lot of money that Mr J did not call, or bring flowers, on Monday. He had a pretty busy day ... as did I, although by Monday evening we were totally vegged out on the couch together.

It's one thing to skate by with flowers and good wishes, but if you don't even manage that? Now I am going to have to come up with a gift for a woman with more money than she can spend. She reads (but uses the library), cooks, sews, and rides her horse. Anybody have any suggestions?

Twinkle: Cookie Passive Aggression

Woo Hoo! Julep and Dibbs are back in the house!

So, Mr. Twinks is taking the Florida bar exam, which translates to less family time and more study time. To distract Twinklette from distracting him, I thought it would be a good idea for us to make some cookies. I returned to MIL's delicious chocolate chip/white chocolate chip cookie recipe--the one that never quite seems to work out.

They're delish when she makes them. When I attempt them, not so much...but I'm always up for another opportunity to tweak the recipe because I know one of these times I'll get it right (no thanks to her).

Today was that day, my friends. That evil b*tch told me to use 1 egg instead of 2. Can you believe that? That is not the kind of mistake that an accomplished baker like MIL makes by accident. I mean--there is a big difference in baking between 1 egg and 2. Everyone who's ever baked anything knows that the measurements have to be exact and you can't just add or omit an egg and get the same results. How pathologically b*tchy is that?

Of course, Mr. Twinkle thinks the mistake is legit, so our progress takes a step back. He has obviously never baked.

I just had to share.

Julep: I Return

Thanks for holding up the blogging for the past month or two, Twinks and Dibbs. I haven't spent a full week in the office since mid-August ... and actually won't this week either, I have to head to my usual Mountain City destination on Friday. But for the first few days of this week, I will be back here at the desk and I am determined to make some blogworthy contributions.

So let's start off by returning to my best-used theme: my MIL and her shopping habits. First off, there is a kitschy ... something (a box? a faux bag?) made of lacquered cardboard decorated with Halloween motifs by Thai children for 10 cents a day currently sitting on my kitchen island. I would put it someplace more appropriate but I don't know what it is, so I don't know where it should go. And I am afraid to ask Mr-Mama because I don't want to encourage her, or to have her ask if I like it. I suggested to Mr J that the most appropriate place for it was the St Vincent de Paul collection truck at the church last weekend, but he thought not. Unclear whether he thought the good churchfolk would think the decorations were Satanic or just too ugly for resale.

Meanwhile, I made the mistake of telling Mr-Mama that I need some new clothes. I have a few targeted areas that need boosting (perhaps LoLa would like to go shopping with me sometime soon). She took this as a blanket invitation to go spend lord knows how much money at the Macy's. Seriously, I think she bought everything in my size on the clearance racks ... which was incredibly kind and generous of her, BUT.

Y'all so graciously gave up your time last year to help me with the Closet Purge, and you know one main theme was to remove all the articles of clothing I have accumulated over the years from other people, as gifts or hand-me-downs, that simply do not fit or flatter me. Well, Mr-Mama has a tendency to buy me things that she would be drawn to for herself. It's not that her taste is bad - it isn't - it's that she has an exactly opposite figure of my own. She is tall and pear-shaped. I am short and top-heavy.

I need jackets that stop at the hip and have some waist definition, skirts that graze the knee, and square, sweetheart, or wrap necklines. Instead I now have a new suit with a long straight jacket and mid-calf skirt - and a new casual blouse with all sort of metallic adornment around the round neckline. Because if there's one thing I need, it's added weight and bulk in the bosom area.

I don't want to tell this woman I just don't like what she picks out, but I have got to find better ways of saying "no" to her about the wardrobe. She's totally shutting down my usual tactful go-to's of fit and price, because she will alter everything and she won't let me pay her. I know, I know - what a problem, right?

Dibbs: Nuts

I can add to the conversation about nuts. I was in a meeting last week. The teacher had to leave early because her little boy had a pain in his side.

I saw the little boy the next day.

Me: Do you feel better?

Him: Yeah. I found out it only hurts when I do this (grabs in the nut region and pulls up.)

Me: Well, um, maybe don't do that.

So, I guess hitting little boys in the nuts hurts, too. Also, little boys have no idea what not to talk about.

Twinkle: Progress?

Alright...it looks like the All-Twinkle blog show will continue. Where is everyone? I'm glad the Daddy Rabbit Twitter feed back in business!

So, we had our road trip this weekend, and as Mr. Twinkle and I were driving home, the conversation (as it so often does) turned to nuts. Specifically, I had overheard a 4-year-old boy exclaim after a run-in with his older brother, "He got me in the nuts!" I was relating the story to Mr. Twinks, and naturally I had lots of questions. My biggest one was this: does it actually hurt a little boy to get hit in the nuts?

---

Mr. Twinkle: "I don't remember anybody ever hitting me in the nuts as a child."

Me: "Well, there was your mom, but that was more in the figurative sense."

Mr. Twinkle: "It was an emotional castration."

---

He admits it! I think it's progress, people!

Twinkle: Dinner Chez Moi

So Mr. Twinks' entire family came for dinner tonight, and it was fun and all that. MIL is always on her best behavior at these events, and is appropriately complimentary--although she did bring a ginormous plate of assorted cookies and desserts, the circumference of which was larger than any surface area in my home. I know she wishes we lived in a super-sized McMansion in Sutherland chosen by her, but let's be realistic: this is the Highlands, biatch, and things here are scaled more tastefully. And I swear I don't mean that b*tchy.

I had a moment of calm just before the guests arrived, when I felt like I was actually going to pull it all off successfully and have everything hot but not burnt. A moment later I saw Mr. Twinkle's cousin bouncing her happy *ss up to my front door. She got there 45 minutes early to "help," and started by reaching her hands into the ice bucket to fill the glasses, completely ignoring the scoop whose sole purpose in life is to keep everyone's ice clean and free of fingerprints and germs. Call me an uppity b*tch, but in the Twinkle household, we use an ice scoop.

When I started putting food out and said, "Go ahead and help yourself," it was a suggestion for her to take a taste of the Dolls cheese torte, maybe sample a little Barefoot Contessa smoked salmon spread while I finished putting out the hot dishes. She took this as an invitation to put her hand into the quiche that was cooling on the countertop, and extract a bite of tomato, egg, and cheese. Yes, she reached right into the quiche, the very one whose crust and filling I slaved over. Not what I meant by my invitation to "help yourself."

Speaking of helping yourself, after dinner and cleanup (which involved several dishwasher runs, hand-washing a dozen or so each highball, champagne, and julep glasses, and an exhaustive search for a lost spoon during which calamity and panic ensued), when I was about to pass out from exhaustion and still had more to do, Mr. Twinkle thought it would be a good time to come up to me, pull up my dress, and dry hump me from behind. Y'all know I'm not one to turn down a good roll in the hay with Mr. Twinks, but that was neither the time, the place, nor the most appropriate means of seduction. I mean, the way I was feeling right then (and now), he would probably have had a more interactive time with a decorative pillow. My advice to him: try me again in the morning, and start with a backrub.

Sorry if that's appalling, dears...that's what a stealth blog is for. Y'all need to come back and start posting again! It's supposed to be our blog...not the All-Twinkle show!

Twinkle: Unable to Delegate

No matter how many times I offer, my MIL will never let me bring a dish to anything. It's because she doesn't want to share credit. If she's coming to my house, however, and I tell her not to bring anything but just her smiling face, she will show up with exactly two assorted dessert trays, ensuring that, no matter how hard I worked on the Barefoot Contessa's brownie pudding recipe (which is between a brownie and a souffle), my dessert and I are forced to share the spotlight.

In my family, it's not about spotlights. People chip in because it's the nice thing to do, and one person's cookies are in no way diminished by someone else's brownies. I wish it were not about spotlights with MIL, but that is the way it is, probably because she runs a cafeteria for 50+ observant and wayward Jews every time a holiday rolls around, and no one else contributes anything, and that's how she wants it. She's used to doing things by herself, and can't stand the idea of a new lunch lady in town--especially when that lunch lady has a touch of the Martha flair that her cafeteria line will never possess. Just sayin'.

So, this time, miraculously, she asked me to help her with her flower arrangements. She asked me Monday night, at one of my SIL's many birthday dinners, and I consented (the flowers were for tonight, Wednesday). She e-mailed me, too, and I responded with an enthusiastic yes. I love doing flowers, and I was proud of her for actually delegating something that she doesn't enjoy. No purple carnations and babies' breath this time, thought I. Boy was I wrong.

Today I called her. She had certain vases she wanted me to use, so I was going to go pick them up, then head to Whole Foods to do a whole fall fruit-and-flower medley like I saw in Southern Living. When I finally reached her--when I was almost at her house--she informed me that she just went ahead and did the flowers herself.

Now, y'all were there with me when I joined the Junyaleague, right? Because, like you, I have spent my entire adult life following through with tasks that Dooner or Lezlie Renee Pipes or some other higher up asked me to do. When a certain someone in YWC says, "Hey, I need 900 postcards for the fashion show, and by the way, I'd like to suggest several changes to your original design. And P.S., would you mind working on a flyer for my Greg Fischer event in your spare time?" I say sure. And then I actually follow through.

So when someone asks me to do some d*mn flower arrangements, and I say I'll do them, she can trust me that those flower arrangements will get done, on time, and look like something out of a magazine. It's just how I roll, OK? It's a good thing I didn't buy the flowers before I talked to her--which I easily, easily could have done. I just can't believe she asked me to do the flowers on Monday, and then did them herself anyway without telling me--like I was going to forget about them or flake out--or, worst of all--actually make something so pretty and full of flair that everyone at the party would have known she couldn't possibly have done them. She cannot delegate, and so she is a long-suffering martyr who complains her way through life--but at least she has that spotlight all to herself.

Reneging on a request for flower arrangements is not without precedent, but at least that other time MIL actually told me she'd changed her mind before I spent my morning tracking her down looking for vases. Someone has issues; this is just more proof.

Twinkle: Food Police

Tonight Mr. Twinkle's entire fam went out to that gorgeous new place in Anchorage, the Village Anchor Pub. It was just lovely--I recommend taking Classic Cocktail on the road one of these months, because the setting was beautiful and the menu delicious. There's a Daisy Buchanan champagne cocktail with honeysuckle bitters. I had the Capriole goat cheese trio that was served with honey that had lavender buds sprinkled on top--Lola would have been in paradise. It was just divine. I need to make a return visit so I can have their version of the hot brown, which is made with pulled chicken and candied bacon.

So, we were all ordering and my MIL ordered the fried chicken (which also looked wonderful), and FIL yelled out in front of the waiter and entire table of extended family, "The fried chicken is soaked in buttermilk!" I'm pretty sure my MIL wouldn't have even cared about the kosher ramifications of chicken soaked in buttermilk--she's more of a "what I don't know doesn't hurt me" type of a gal. Well, it totally put her on the spot and she had to change her order right then and there. It was so annoying. I don't know what gives him the right to be the food police.

Grandma-in-law got the fried chicken and it looked absolutely wonderful (I guess even FIL has qualms about bossing around his mother-in-law). My brother-in-law wanted the hot brown, too...we decided that we'd go back one of these days, without the food police.

Twinkle: Hypochondria

Cheers to the Twitter feed renaissance--so good to see it up and running again, Mama Lola!

I'm on here to relate a glaring difference between boys and girls.

Apparently there's something going around Twinklette's classroom. I'll spare you the gory details, but every day this week there has been a note sent home in her backpack that a stomach bug has been making its rounds in the 2s class. Twinklette--thank goodness--hasn't had any problems or symptoms.

Well, today Mr. Twinkle woke up "not feeling well." His seasonal allergies are starting to act up a little, but he also complained of the classic tummyache. Then he said, "It worries me about that stomach bug in Twinklette's class. I was actually in that classroom yesterday." (For exactly the three minutes it took to drop her off).

I laughed in his face. Hello, Mr Twinkle--I am in that classroom every day (that she goes), and yet catching the dreaded classroom malady has not once crossed my mind. Not even once. I've certainly hoped Twinklette wouldn't catch it, but not once have I entertained the thought that I might have been exposed in the short drop-offs I make to her classroom each morning. And what about Twinklette? She's in the thick of the classroom germ pool three mornings a week, probably being drooled and sneezed on by every child in there. And from the sound of things, when you get this stomach bug, you know it, so I'm pretty sure there's no need to fret over some vague tummyache.

Anyway, my reaction silenced him and the symptoms miraculously disappeared. I hate to sound sexist, but I think that's the difference between a boy and a girl, a mom and a dad. Boys with tummyaches are pampered by their moms their whole lives (even as adults), so when a tummyache rears its ugly head they are their own number-one concern--forget everyone else in the house. Women, for the most part, don't have that luxury. That's one reason why we like spas so much--they're one place where we're the ones who get pampered.

Twinkle: Family Gossip Circuit

Wow this blog is dead...where is everyone? Where are Dibbs' crazy tales of hilarity and mayhem? Where are Julep's rants about the idle Mr-Mama and her SIL's perfect dog? Lola's silence on the Twitter feed is deafening (although she can be forgiven given her current status as new mama extraordinaire).

So, I'm just hopping on to relate a maddening example of family meddling.

A week ago Thursday night...I believe it was the night we all gathered over at chez Lola to meet her precious new bébé...y'all may remember that the Twinkle family was headed to the baseball game. Of course before the game I filled up on delicious spreadable cheeses provided by one Ms. Lola, and I'm not much on ballpark food anyway, so after the game we were all famished and decided to make a White Castle run.

(Let me say that I usually reserve the Whitey's run for the latest and most intoxicated of evenings, but we were all compelled by the hamburger/cheeseburger/chicken rings promotion on the jumbo-tron at Slugger Field--I dare anyone to resist it).

We were in the drive-thru when Mr. Twinkle's uncle called with a legal question, and he yammered on for a good 15 minutes while we waited for our sliders and while Twinklette screamed from the back seat that she wanted chicken rings (which we did not get her--I had to draw the line somewhere).

Fast forward to tonight--a week and a day later--when Mr. Twinkle's mom and grandmother brought up the fact that they heard from Uncle Brent that we'd been at the White Castle drive-thru. How annoying and offensive is that? Uncle Brent needs to mind his own d*mn business and look after his own affairs. And the worst part: I knew the moment Mr. Twinkle mentioned where we were that it would get back to the disapproving ears of my MIL. I mean, who brings that sh*t up a week later?

I advised Mr. Twinkle, in the future, to keep his own counsel about whatever dalliances he doesn't want his mother to b*tch at him about.

Um, Twinkle: Dibbs

Twinkle, did you know that Mr. Twinks has a poetic-looking boyfriend named Neville on Sorority Life? I don't want to break it to you this way that there's another man in your marriage, but I feel it's important that you know.

Twinkle: Family Wedding Weekend

Just a few thoughts from a Mr. Twinkle family wedding this weekend:


Rehearsal Dinner Bluegrass Band: The rehearsal dinner was in a barn at Hubers, complete with fried chicken and delicious Southern veggies, Hubers wine and beer, and a great bluegrass band--really a fun event (especially for out-of-towners), but this particular part of Mr. Twinkle's family is uncharacteristically fun and normal. The bluegrass band was playing lots of country classics, and I was just thrilled when they started my all-time favorite song, Dead Flowers. Mr. Twinkle and I were enjoying it, singing along a little, and MIL and her brother were at the table, too. The brother was singing along and talking about the Stones a little, and everyone was having fun. MIL got all indignant and said, "What did this song just say? I don't think I like the idea of someone sending dead flowers to my wedding."

I am sorry, but anybody who has to have Dead Flowers explained to them is just an idiot. Also, the song would not be a classic if it were about the polite gesture of sending an appropriate (but not too over-the-top) bouquet during a time of celebration. This woman is so obsessed with form and obligation that she cannot see past the "dead flowers" motif to the immortal symbolism of lost love. I was disgusted and I may not be able to get over this one. I can't trust anyone who doesn't get Dead Flowers, just like I can't trust anyone who doesn't like goat cheese.

Wedding Menu: The wedding was a gorgeous affair at the Henry Clay: cream and peach roses with white French hydrangeas everywhere, a 20-piece Motown band, and a homosexual wedding planner named Arnie who did an unforgettable dance routine to It's Raining Men that I sincerely wish all of y'all could have witnessed.

Anywho, y'all can guess what's on the dinner menu at this sort of wedding: an old-fashioned filet, probably in a gorgeous sauce, with some potatoes and a little steamed asparagus. Naturally there was a vegetarian option on the response card. Mr. Twinkle even asked before we sent in the card if the meal would be up to the family standards of kosher cleanliness, and we were told to get the steak.

Well, last night my sleuthing father-in-law heard a rumor about a cream sauce on the steak and caused a minor uproar, resulting in the catering staff fixing not one, not two, but eight different meals that lived up to his kosher specifications. Now, he and his sister are both diabetic and have to eat, so I can maybe, maybe see the two of them asking for a small modification to the menu. (Although I would still argue that he should have sent in a vegetarian card beforehand to avoid this). But as for the rest of us, it is our own d*mn problem if we can't eat the meal and it should be up to us to deal with it my eating what we want and leaving what we don't want, and stopping at White Castle on the way home if we're left hungry.

It turned out that the cream sauce rumor was pure myth. At the end of the day, after all that drama, the only difference was that we got a plain baked potato instead of the delicious-looking herbed mashed potatoes that everyone else got (and half of the guest list was Jewish). I am still bitter, and Mr. Twinkle and even MIL were appalled at the social gaffe. Only my perfect sister-in-law defends his behavior, which just makes me want to vomit. I mean I just think that is the very height of bad manners as a guest, and why does he think he has to negotiate what's on the plates of eight of his closest family members? It should be our choice if we want to eat or not eat some d*mn mashed potatoes. Mr. Twinkle and I agreed last night: demanding that the hosts accommodate your strict religious dietary rules at the eleventh hour is just the epitome of shtetl.

Poetic Justice? Maybe, But I Don't Like It: Dibbs

Last week I met some friends of ours to hear a band. Some of us were there, actually. One couple, we'll just call them Lucy and Edward, brought a guy with them. He was actually cute. And nice. I was shocked. I told the wife-half of the couple I thought so. She informed me that the guy would be back next week to hear another band. "Good to know," I noted. I talked to the cute guy for the rest of the night, and I went home.

Spring forward to last night. I saw Lucy and Edward at a baseball game. Lucy forgot I thought the guy was cute. Edward set the guy up with another girl. She was meeting everyone at the bar. Of course. Because this is how my life rolls.

I got to the bar. The guy hadn't arrived yet, but the girl had. She was really nice. A little plain, not a stitch of make-up, but very, very nice. The guy walked in. It was like Jake meeting freakin' Vienna on the Bachelor. Sparks flew. Bam!

Here's the poetic justice part. That girl went to the same college I did for one year. She was a freshman when I was a senior. I don't remember her. She was a basketball player, but she had an injury. She told me she did nothing for a year but sit in her room and play video games. So...while I was running around being fraternity sweetheart and thinking I ruled that place, she was sitting in a darkened dorm room playing Super Mario Brothers III on Sega. Spring forward fifteen years and a few nasty crows feet, and she gets the guy. I liked this $hit a lot better on Square Pegs.

Breaking News: Dibbs

Remember the girl upstairs? You know the one. I won't talk about the story again. Well, she's joining the Younger Woman's Club. I saw the list of Member-Elects, and her address was on it. I'm not going to tell y'all which one she is. I want you to be able to look at her normally.

In other news, my cray-cray cousin took Baby Shagari to a crack house today, whereupon her car was stolen. She called me to come get her. Unfortunately, I was two bourbons in at Hullabaloo and couldn't quite do it. I apologized profusely. She said, "Not as sorry as I am." I don't know if you've ever seen your Dibbs quite this angry.

Time to watch Mad Men. Good Night.

Twinkle: More Grievances

I just got back...it was fabulous and yadda yadda yadda. Really, I mostly ignored my in-laws, but any day in which I travel with them is bound to be filled with drama.

So here is one major grievance from today, plus two more earlier ones that I forgot.

Earlier ones:

1). Diapers. I didn't know what the diaper situation would be on the island, so I packed a week's worth of both swim and regular diapers, and figured I'd have that much more room in my suitcase on the way back. Without even consulting me, MIL went to the grocery store in Aruba and stocked up on Twinklette's variety of Pampers, so we had double the diapers we needed for the week and I ended up having to find a place for them in my luggage on the way back. I don't mean to look a gift bag of Pampers in the mouth (although we did pay for them)...maybe it would have been a nice gesture if the overall circumstances were different; maybe I would have considered it nice if she'd said, "Hey--I'm going to the grocery store. Do you need any diapers?" Instead, she just assumed that I didn't have the diaper angle covered and she had to swoop in and take care of it. Again, MIL...I have my sh*t together, and can anticipate my child's needs ahead of time without your help.

2). Elmo vs. Dora. MIL knows how I feel about licensed characters, but what does she pull out on the flight home tonight? A fucking Elmo sticker book. I hate that red somb*tch. Susan, my sister-in-law's MIL (who's super-sweet) got Twinklette a Dora sticker book, and even though Twinklette doesn't watch Dora or know who she is, she really liked it and I appreciated the gesture. After all, Susan doesn't know about me and my crazy ideas about marketing to children. So we graciously accepted the book, Twinklette loves it, and I'm OK with it because I don't have to let her watch the show or even know Dora's name.

Sesame Street is different. Twinklette knows Elmo and Cookie Monster because my MIL introduced the show behind my back. I'm sure she thinks it's educational (I actually beg to differ) and that my objection is based on some ridiculous political bias against the show's liberalism (I couldn't care less about that). Y'all know my objection is based on unfair marketing to children, and I also resent the fact that my MIL is so disrespectful of my beliefs and wishes on the matter.

So, the Dora sticker book comes out and MIL goes, "Twinklette, who's that?" Now, if I don't let my child watch Sesame Street on KET, you'd better believe she's not watching any Dora the Explorer on Nick Jr. (You should see the horrible video gaming Web sites that advertise on Nickelodeon.com and even NickJr.com). I'm not sure if my MIL was trying to expose me as a fraud or what (like, I'm letting her watch Dora but not Sesame Street). I have no idea what she was thinking. Twinklette had no answer--she doesn't know Dora from Shinola. I was scared Susan would think Twinklette didn't like the gift, and I certainly wasn't going to explain my objection when Susan's intentions were good and a sticker book alone is totally harmless.

Today:

3). The airport arrival. Our flight out of Aruba was at 3 p.m. We went to breakfast with the whole crowd, stopped to buy some last-minute Dutch cookies at 10:30, and then Susan and her very nice, very fun husband Skip wanted to stop in downtown Oranjestad for a little more shopping before getting to the airport. The rental car we were sharing with my in-laws was too crowded with luggage, so we were riding with Susan and Skip (how convenient!), and the four of us agreed that there was no need to get to the airport 5 hours early.

Well, when we stopped for Dutch cookies, my in-laws did not like the sound of delaying our arrival at the airport, so they essentially came over to Skip and Susan's car and made us get back in their car and go to the airport with them (like a couple of delinquent teenagers who were out past curfew), so that we'd have plenty of time for customs and TSA and all that. Well, that stuff did take forever. But we made it in plenty of time, and guess who we saw on the other side of all those long lines: Skip and Susan, who stopped in Oranjestad and still made it in plenty of time.

I checked out of the whole thing early on, and decided I didn't really care about any of it. But the bottom line is this: they are fucking insane.

Twinkle: Airing of Caribbean Grievances

The trip with my in-laws hasn't been bad...other than the first miserable day of travel (made more dramatic by the fact that Twinklette had a cold and only got one hour of sleep before our 4 a.m. airport departure). But for the most part it's been fine, and I've had lots of time to float on a raft in the sea, not thinking or caring about my longsuffering MIL, who prefers not to take complimentary shots from friendly native bartenders, and who'd rather sit smugly and responsibly, guarding the towels and beach bags instead of snorkeling with everyone else. Do I look like I care? 'Cause I don't. But she was a major party pooper not to take that shot with everyone else at the table.

Of course, there are certain grievances. And here they are:

1). The Benadryl. Picture it, Standiford-Field, 4:10 a.m. Twinklette sneezes. MIL says, "Did you bring any Benadryl?" I'd packed every traditional and holistic remedy in my entire med-arsenal--before I even knew Twinklette was going to be sick--except, of course the Benadryl. I considered packing it, but ruled against it, because I couldn't remember what other medicines that I'd packed could be mixed with Benadryl. But I was wrong to worry about drug interactions. MIL wanted Benadryl, and I didn't have any. So clearly I'm not fit to wipe Twinklette's nose...which brings me to...

2). The Kleenex. Every time Twinklette sneezed or looked like she was going to, MIL instantly had a Kleenex. It was as if she literally had a Kleenex up her sleeve, just for the express purpose of beating me to the nose-wipe to make me look somehow unfit. I'm not making this up. Even Mr. Twinkle noticed/was annoyed by her quick-draw Kleenex technique.

3). The medicine. Remember all that medicine I packed? Well, it was liquid, so I checked it. And all day long as we travelled, MIL would keep asking me about it like I was some unfit mother who was withholding treatment from my child. And all day long I'd explain, "I had to check it. Darn terrorists." And again she'd ask for it. When we got our bags, I couldn't exactly remember which bag the meds were in (there was a little late-night shuffling of luggage contents, as I held my screaming child for 6 hours that she should have been asleep and tried to do the last of the packing). Well, of course, when my SIL got there, she had her child's medicine right there and knew right where it was, so she whipped that off-brand infant Tylenol out faster than you can say shalom y'all (good mommies know that, since the big Tylenol recall, it's best to use off-brand). For the rest of the day, any time Twinklette showed the slightest signs of her cold, MIL would say, "Your SIL has some Tylenol she can use."

4). The breakfast smoothie. Mr. Twinkle has discovered a new talent on this trip: making fresh-fruit breakfast smoothies for everyone, and they are absolutely delicious. He's made them every morning with whatever tropical fruits we've had in our condos, and he's gotten rave reviews all around. And every morning, at least 4 times, MIL says, "This would be a great breakfast for Twinklette; if you added a little yogurt it would be a whole healthy breakfast all its own." She has said it, and said it, and said it, and I suppose she thinks all we ever feed Twinklette for breakfast are Fruity Pebbles with a little Mrs. Butterworth drizzled on top.

5). The beach reading. It's true. On my kindle, I'm reading Living Dead in Dallas: A Sookie Stackhouse Novel, and loving every delicious page of trash. And I read Henry James' Portrait of a Lady before I left for this trip, to fill my head with literature before I filled it with trash. And I consistently read better quality books than she does, so I don't appreciate snide comments from my MIL, a literary enthusiast whose favorites include The Peach Cobbler Murder and Dead Men Don't Crochet. My worst guilty pleasure is better than her highest literary pursuit, which, if I'm not mistaken, is Glazed Murder: A Donut Shop Mystery. Sookie Stackhouse is Moll Flanders compared to that.

6). The eyes. Last night at dinner, SIL was saying that some of her work colleagues think her daughter and mine look alike (so much so that they thought my SIL had an older daughter). I agreed, to be polite, that yes, certain features--the eyes--do bear a resemblance. FIL said to SIL, "They both have your eyes." And MIL screamed out, "They're MY eyes." Who does that? Let other people say it, Grams! Does this woman think no one gives her any credit, or what?

Two observations:

1). Hotel bed sheets. This is totally inappropriate, but I'm pretty sure my MIL would never do the nasty in a hotel room. I get sort of grossed out by the thought of it, too (even just sleeping on those linens, whose history is totally mysterious, is kind of gross). But I'll put my reservations on hold in the name of a good time, especially if it's a nice hotel that launders everything (even the duvet cover). That's the key. I'll bet my FIL is just totally out of luck in that regard, though. MIL would probably b*tch to everyone about it, if it were in any way appropriate, "The nerve of FIL...thinking I would do that on a hotel bed."


2). Today while we were eating lunch, I exclaimed, "Mr. Twinkle makes a mean PB&J." And I realized that MIL would never say anything like that about her husband, or son, or anyone else. She'd never give credit where credit is due, or just say something nice to make a guy in her life feel good (I, too, make a mean PB&J...but it doesn't hurt if Mr. Twinkle gets a pat on the back for the one he made). MIL is all about taking, taking, taking credit, but never giving any credit or saying thank you to anyone. That's her central tragedy. That, and her refusal to take that delicious blue shot.

Off to see what that literary legend Sookie Stackhouse is up to.

Twinkle: The Road to Wit Begins in the Nursery

For awhile now, I've thought it was weird that Mr. Twinkle's family doesn't laugh at my always-hilarious jokes. I could come up with the kind of ingenious witty comment that would have all of y'all simply in stitches (and would likely get snappy retorts from all of you), and I will get stone-faced stares from that crowd. As you know, I stopped caring about all this around a month ago, and my mental health is all the better for it.

But I noticed something tonight: they don't laugh at Twinklette's jokes, either.

Twinklette is in a very silly phase. She will make giggly exclamations such as "cock-a-doodle ice cream!" and then laugh hysterically at her own joke, which I always think is funny so I laugh, too. Plus, it's polite to laugh. And "cock-a-doodle ice cream" is the first step towards a witty night of conversation and cocktails with your girlfriends, so I'm damn well going to encourage it.

Well, Twinklette was in a particularly silly mood tonight at Cafe Lou Lou, and was breaking out every number in her two-and-a-half-year-old repertoire, and she didn't get so much as a halfhearted grin from any of them.

I said I don't care what they think about anything, and I really don't. But I wouldn't be the Twinkle you know and love if I didn't enjoy pressing their buttons from time to time. So Twinklette got an extra-silly slice of me tonight, and so did everyone else. Twinklette was pretending to splash everyone as if we were already in Aruba, and I'd say, "Don't splash Grams! Don't you dare splash Grams! Oh no--don't splash Zeide!"...Twinklette thought it was hilarious but none of the pretend-splash recipients played along. We were in a restaurant, but this was by no means a raucous game, Lou Lou is pretty loud, and I doubt if anyone who did happen to overhear us (and I'm pretty sure no one did) would have minded hearing peals of laughter from a small child. What I'm saying is, they couldn't have objected on the grounds that it was obnoxious, because it wasn't. They objected because they haven't a silly bone in their bodies--or a witty one, for that matter. My parents always play along with the silliness, for the record--to extreme degrees.

My in-laws can think whatever they want of me, that I'm irresponsible, don't have my sh*t together as a mother, too uppity, too frivolous. (Although, when a cousin stepped on a bee at a recent picnic, guess who had Band-Aids and Neosporin: Ms. Doesn't-Have-Her-Sh*t-Together). Anyway, y'all know I'm not going to sit around and let anyone turn Twinklette's sparkling personality into the dour demeanor of a strict fourth-grade teacher.

Lola: An apropos article interlude

Because y'all know I love to share a good article with people, I found Julep's post below particularly timely, as I just happened to be reading the following articles about parenting. The first very extensive article was published by the New Yorker magazine, and the second is more an opinion-piece from the Washington Post. Both of these article touch on recent polling which suggest that parents are less happy than their child-free peers. In light of my own delicate condition, I am not certain how to best incorporate these into my own world-view, other than to just hope for the best, I suppose. But I have been trying to embrace, own, and revel in the current countdown of my child-free state, while mentally steeling myself for the impending drudgery of infant-parenting. (I figure if one is pragmatic that it won't be all rainbows, fairies, and Dreft-smelling wonderment, one is less likely to find herself in a severe case of PTSD - or the mommy equivalent thereof, PPD.) Again, here's hoping.

And not to say that I don't stare at my shifting belly with wonderment that there is a whole other person moving around in there; and that I don't find myself tearing up in the shower thinking about walking hand-in-hand with him on his first day of school - perhaps a little nerd-child with glasses and a big, curly jew-fro. But I also anticipate that the heartburn does not necessarily end at delivery; and that my child will not be the center of the universe. In the end, you just have to roll with a water-off-a-duck's back attitude... or Else.

Julep: For the Love

Hey Twinkle, you know how your MIL thinks that her daughter is the be-all-end-all of perfection? We should really introduce her to my sister, who appears to be under the impression that her child is the Second Coming. I actually had a pretty nice telephone chat with Sis the other day. But when I hung up the phone, there were a few things that stuck with me.

(1) Sis is not going to our cousin's wedding this Saturday, because she doesn't want to upset Baby's routine. They took Baby to a dinner party on Memorial Day weekend, and dinner wasn't served until 8 pm, so Baby didn't get to bed at his usual time, and she could just tell that he was not himself - for the next TWO WEEKS. It was so upsetting for Baby, she just doesn't want to put them all through that again.

Perhaps you are thinking (as I was thinking) that Sis could leave Baby at home with his daddy and attend the wedding with moi. But no ... Baby is still nursing, and she can't leave him for five or six hours to drive to Harrodsburg and attend the wedding. Let us recall that Baby is eight months old. She has not spent more than three hours out of his presence since his birth. "You know, it's the first year, right? I mean, that's just how it goes, we have to make sacrifices." I realize that she is nursing, but you know, most people would just pump. Nope, Baby goes straight to the source. Why? "I just don't like to give him bottles."

(2) Sis -- a public school teacher, when gainfully employed -- can totally see now that she is a parent why people get so upset about their children's school. "You know, you just want the best for them!" Thank heavens she has five years before she has to make a decision with Baby, because she just can't imagine sending Baby to school ... with, you know, other kids. "You just want them home, you know? Even [Her Friends] who send their kids to a great school were so relieved when it was summertime and they could have the kids away from all those other influences."

And as for school assignment, well, she just thinks that we need to go back to a system of neighborhood schools so kids who live in the good neighborhoods get the good schools and if you can't afford to live in a good neighborhood, too bad for your kids. The lack of self-awareness was remarkable, given that this statement was coming from a woman whose mother subsidizes her mortgage.

(3) The phone conversation ended when it was time for her to begin Baby's nighttime routine. At 6:45 pm. She suggested that I could stop by to see Baby sometime, in the hours that he receives visitors ... probably a weekend will be best. Not too early in the morning, or during the midday while he is napping, and again, 6:45 is when his evening routine kicks in. So let's see, that's ... a Saturday or Sunday between 9:30 and 11, or from 5-6:30. Because those are totally convenient times for people who have other things to do on the weekend.

I'm not sure this post does it justice - it was really amazing. Sis has always been a solipsist. Evidently her perspective has now shifted, and instead of seeing the entire world as a function of how it suits herself, she now sees it all revolving around her and Baby.

Julep: Raspberries, Pimento Cheese and Sympathy

I am having a little lunch here at the desk, and thought I would check the blog. Not much time to write - but I think this will be longer than a mere "comment." Twinkle, your post made me think not of my marriage (Mr. J is a pretty good defender) but of my mother. My mom is a lot like Mr Twinkle on this count ... she loves her family so dearly, and she just does not have the confrontation gene.

Used to be that my sisters were horrid to me whenever the family was together. I never wanted to cause a big scene by telling them off, but one of the hardest parts of how mean they were was that my mom would not stand up for me. I would have these long impassioned talks with her about how awful they were and beg her to say to them, "You can't talk to your sister that way in my house." But even though she could acknowledge later that they were being awful, she never would tell them to be nice or go home.

Declaring your emotional independence from it all is really the biggest step. (Somehow I had a liberating revelation the year I turned 30.) It was never that she didn't love me enough to fight for me - I know how much my mom loves me, and I know you know how much Mr. Twinkle loves you. You just can't get blood from a stone.

Twinkle; Monster-In-Law Rears Her Passive-Aggressive Head

It seems that keeping a Zen attitude toward my MIL is going to take serious mental fortitude, but just because I'm a self-declared pacifist in the MIL realm doesn't mean I can't come on here and talk some trash. (No fear, Julep...it never meant that I'd stop blogging. I'm just trying to find a way to reconcile my MIL's bad behavior with my own irrepressible desire to b*tch about her, while still staying sane).

Here is the source of the drama. My parents are returning from vacation today (it's my dad's last weekday off before returning to work after the holiday weekend) and they would like to see Twinklette. MIL has been taking Twinklette to a class at the zoo most Friday mornings this month, followed by swimming and lunch, so she's all miffed because I asked her to bring Twinklette back immediately after the zoo class today. Letting the grandparents share the morning is the only solution I can think of that will give all of them the time they think they rightfully deserve, and I think it's pretty d*mn fair. (And, indeed, my parents deserve it more than anyone, as they have not seen her in more than a week). My MIL got to play with Twinklette for most of the morning yesterday, and she is spending the night with them tonight, which means that MIL can once again openly defy me by showing Twinklette Sesame Street tomorrow morning. I'm sure that'll give her an extra boost of joy, but it's not enough to keep her from acting out her passive-aggressive angst on me for the past two days and the next two weeks.

And I almost fell for it this morning when she picked up Twinklette. I forgot my epiphany and b*tched about both sets of parents with Mr. Twinkle. We were laughing about moving away from the whole lot of them, eagerly anticipating the day when he will take the Florida bar and we will at least get some breaks from all their ridiculous expectations. (And, after talking to a friend about this very issue, I'm told that this is not an uncommon issue with grandparents). There was a note of seriousness to the conversation, too, an undercurrent of pleading for him to please make your mother be nice to me and understand that it's perfectly fair for my parents to want to see her today.

He will never stand up to her, or my FIL, as everybody knows. They have had him by the cajones since the day he was born (pardon my Cervantes). And that's his problem, and it's my choice as to whether or not it's going to be my problem. And I choose not to let it. The best I can do is continue living my life and doing what I think is best for my child. If I let her antics bother me--or drive a wedge between Mr. Twinkle and me--then she has me by by the cajones, too.

So I apologized to him. And when MIL brings back Twinklette in 15 minutes, I will not to let the bad attitude get to me, and I will not call Mr. Twinkle and complain about what a b*tch she was, because I cannot continue making so many of our family dynamics about her. She is a manipulator and a troublemaker, all wrapped up in a smiling matron who knits and sends my friends nice wedding gifts. But we have our own family life to get on with--Mr. Twinkle, Twinklette, and me. And I'm not going to let her come between us because it's a complete waste of time and energy.

I'm not saying it's not going to take some serious effort on my part, and I may need to return to yoga class with Lola for this one. I also may need to go with Dibbs for an old-fashioned aura-cleansing.

Julep is not a particularly nice person.

Mr. J has been super-busy lately with working for the Family - plus the beautiful weather means people want to take those sailing lessons they've paid for already - plus that Hippie Music Festival is coming up and that means Mr. J is running around attending to every little detail because the Festival's guru (a very talented promoter and seeker of sponsorship dollars) is so unorganized as to the practicalities that he can't find his @$$ with two hands and a flashlight.

So Mr. J is working too hard, and it's making him short-tempered. That only underlines the fundamental truth of our relationship: I am married to a much nicer person than I am myself. When I am overworked and stressed and impatient, and I snap at Mr. J about things that aren't really his fault, he makes allowances. He's patient, and loving, and he doesn't snap back.

When he snaps at me (a far rarer occurrence), I snap back. And even then the real reason it doens't mature into a full-fledged fight about nothing is because he is usually smart enough to leave the room.

Every time I feel bad about it, and promise myself that I will do better in the future. And then I don't. Sigh.

Julep: Ay caramba

Just read this article. Last lines say it all: "Women of the Gilded Age were very poor compared to women today. But from a libertarian standpoint, they were freer than they are on Sex and the City." I think my head just exploded.

Twinks, congrats on your newfound placid attitude re the inlaws. But please, keep blogging about whatever else inspires your ire, awe or frustration! I need the reading material.

I got an email today from J-Mama, attaching photos of my sister's baby and reporting that my sister would really like it if I stopped by to see him sometime soon because she is just so ga-ga over the baby that she can't understand why I haven't dropped in to see how big he's getting. OK, it just so happens that I called my sister on Sunday and she hasn't bothered to call me back yet, so obviously my presence is not that vital to her. It's great that she loves her kid and all, but I have never been someone who just leaps at any opportunity to fawn over a baby. And seriously? For serious? She can't understand why I am not dropping in?

Exhibit A, fifteen years of nastiness from her which yes, has improved a lot in recent years, but Exhibit B, hey, I'm kind of having a hard time with visiting other people's kids lately. It takes a lot of mental effort to set aside my own increasing frustration and disappointment and focus on being happy for someone else. It is one thing to gird myself for a joyful visit to my buddy P whose wife just home-birthed their third child. P really wanted me to come by and meet the baby, and I was glad to do it. P doesn't just want an audience for his miracle spawn - he loves ME. My sister? Not so much.

Mr. Twinkle: Able to Quote Junior League Gossip and History

So I've been absent from Daddy Rabbit recently, mostly because I have tried to turn over a new leaf with my in-laws and haven't had much to say. It was around Fathers Day when it happened. We were going over there to cook steaks for dinner, which neither Mr. Twinkle or I particularly wanted to spend our Fathers Day doing, but they said that's how it was going to go down. So let it be written, so let it be done.

After getting upset that Mr. Twinkle wasn't having a dream-come-true Fathers Day, I decided to be done with worrying about any of that whole crazy clan. If he doesn't want to stand up to them at the expense of his own Fathers Day, it's his problem. If they don't ever think I'm good enough, it's their problem. I have majorly relaxed around them in the past 2 weeks or so, and I can tell a real difference in my own sanity. To them I'm sure I'm still alternately considered an unfit mother and an uppity b*tch; the difference is that I don't care.

We went to pick blueberries on Fathers Day (something Mr. Twinkle did want to do), and it was his idea for me to make a homemade shortcake dessert with blueberries, peaches, and fresh whipped cream. He wanted me to take it there; I felt weird about taking a dessert when MIL's whole self-identity is wrapped up in baking better than anyone else on the face of the earth (or so she thinks), and FIL worships the ground her cakes cool on. Plus, I had to ask myself, "Why do I keep trying?" But we ended up going through with it, and it really made me feel like an adult to actually contribute something to a family dinner. No one in that family contributes...because MIL likes to be in charge of everything that everyone eats/does, and how they socialize. My shortcake sort of represented a little piece of delicious independence. Also, MIL found out that I do, in fact, eat whipped cream. Now she knows it's Cool Whip I shun, as any sane person living in today's food-conscious climate knows.

So things have gotten better there, and I haven't kept a tally of all the big and small ways MIL tries to make me feel inferior, and the biggest beneficiary of this new-found attitude is me. She actually texted me this weekend from Denver, to ask me if Twinklette has a upf-treated beach hat for our upcoming trip to Aruba. Old Twinkle would have screamed about it to anyone who would listen, "Hell no, Twinklette doesn't, and screw her!" New Twinkle forgot to mention it to anyone for a few days, and then laughed it off as typical. (Both old and new Twinkle would go shopping for just such a hat before MIL has the chance to ask me in person, which reminds me I need to get on that).

Anyway, I didn't even get on here to write about all that...I just felt my absence needed to be explained.

--------------------------------

I got on to say that Mr. Twinkle and I went to a late-night dinner at Steak And Shake after a dull party with no food on Sat. night, and we ran into a certain Junior League-lovin' sister-in-law of a certain Democratic candidate for U.S. Senate. And I said hi to her and we chatted for a little bit, because she has always been lovely to me even though our League cliques and philosophies have differed through the years. She mentioned her brother-in-law in the conversation (something about a power outage and a sprinkler system), so when she walked away, I started to explain who she was.

Me: I know her from Junior League. Her sister is married to [Senate Candidate]; that's who she was talking about with the sprinklers.

Mr. Twinkle: Oh, cool. You know the sister, too, right?

Me: Yes, she's nice.

Mr. Twinkle: Wait a minute--are they part of that family of sisters who tried to take over the entire Junior League through both the board and the nominating process?

I just beamed with pride.

Not For The Eyes of The Situation: Dibbs

Lola, cover The Situation's eyes, and everybody try to just decode what I'm saying the best you can. I'm way too prudish to even be telling this story, but I just can't keep it to myself.

Last night I went to hear a band and got home late. It took forever to fall asleep. At about three I heard the all-too-familiar squeak-squeak of the mattress from the skank-ho upstairs. "Strange," I thought, "her boyfriend's orange truck hasn't been outside in days." I tried to go back to sleep. Then I heard the high-pitched yip, yip, yip of the dog. Yes! I think skankalicious was using the old peanut butter trick!

Well, I couldn't sleep after that. I took two Ambien and got the broom. One more noise, and as God is my Witness, I'm hitting the ceiling. If she's going to be a trick, she loses her right to privacy, and I don't care.

I also know that I'm the bitter, dried up old lady downstairs. I don't care about that, either. The dog!

Won't You Take Me to...Crazytown?: Dibbs

She called tonight. My mother had enough, so she called me. It lasted an hour. By the way, she wants to visit next week and take Baby Shagari to the zoo, so if you want to see her up close and personal, it's your chance.

I digress. Last week one of my middle school classmates passed away. (His name was Rufus. It's okay to think that's funny.) Since I was already at the funeral home, I asked the funeral director about it. The services were delayed because the state medical examiner had to be involved. Rufus (the name is still funny) hung himself. Despite the name, it's very tragic. Tonight, cray-cray was telling me how she's pretty sure her baby daddy killed Rufus. I told her about my conversation with the funeral director. She is undeterred. I suppose the state medical director is mistaken and her baby daddy is a high-school drop-out/evil genius. Who knew?