In Defense of Twinkle: Dibbs

Some people are just perfect, aren't they? I called my mother after the party last night to break all the news. I told her about the two babies on the way.
She had a meltdown. Now, there are good reasons for this meltdown. None of these people are yet equipped to parent; mentally or financially. Her meltdown wasn't about this, though. Her meltdown was induced by how people would look at her since the potential babies will be, well, bastards.
I didn't mention that I wish she would make one mistake so she could identify with us mortals. I did break the news that the Baby Jesus was thought to be illegitimate. He turned out all right. She's pondering.
Then she called me this morning--crying because I want a baby, and it's not fair. Now I feel bad. And so it goes.

Julep: Now, the deluge.

First, to Twinks: the astonishing thing to me about your last post is that your MIL thought it was appropriate or necessary to tell you that you should apologize and arrange to take your gift to the bride-to-be. Does she think you were raised by wolves? Your MIL has had plenty of opportunity to observe your manners in the past few years, and after all, your mama is a lovely woman who brought you up right for heavens sake. I would have gotten a little frosty at that directive, myself. But then, my inability to suffer condescension is one of my worst traits.

Now, to my reason for visiting the blog: I was just washing my hands in the ladies' room a moment ago, and I saw something glinting at me below my earring. I thought to myself, "Is there something stuck in my hair?" I looked more closely, and woe. Woe is me. There were not one but two bright silver strands - not tactfully hiding themselves in the hairs at my temples, but all the way down in the mass of my curls. Of course, I yanked them both immediately - and then waved them at my secretary to share my outrage. She said, "I hate to tell you this, but I see another one." I yelped, "Pull it out!" and she started to do so but then advised me there was a whole mess of them.

I suppose I should be grateful that I made it this long. My daddy and MaidenAunt both started to show significant gray between 30 and 35 ... and I'm 34. But I am not happy about this. Yes, I can (and will) dye it but I really do not feel emotionally prepared for dealing with substantially gray hair. Going gray before getting pregnant seems like some sort of unkind biological prank.

Twinkle: Shoe Tale Continued

My MIL's reponse when I apologized for missing the shower, a passive-aggressive I-don't-care shoulder shrug that I've seen her use when she actually does care deeply, and "Well, it doesn't matter to me, but you need to call [bride's name] and apologize and take her your gift." Mr. Twinkle said, "What else is she going to say?" Here's what I would have said: "That's OK. Don't worry about it. People make mistakes." But whatever...there's no room for mistakes in MIL's universe...too bad for her she's forced to share her universe with the rest of us incompetents.

I had, of course, already arranged to take the present to the bride-to-be when my MIL issued her bossy and b*tchy directive. Bride-to-be had just come out of an 80-minute deep tissue massage at Elements and didn't seem one bit miffed at my calendar oversight.

I got to see the gorgeous pair of Blahniks, and I heard the story of how she wept when she opened them because she was so surprised. She talked about how moved she was that the hostesses went in to give her something she truly wanted, and how every time she wears them she'll remember how loved she felt when she received the gift. The shoes mean something to her.

According to my calculations, each of the 7 hostesses paid $102, not including tax/shipping for the shoes. I know my MIL would have gladly paid that amount for another gift--a nice kitchen item, perhaps. And that kitchen item would likely have gone unused, since the bride isn't all that interested in cooking. MIL's central tragedy is that she's totally incapable of seeing anyone else's perspective, or understanding that people's desires and motivations may differ from hers. She's generous only when she approves. Even Mr. Twinkle will readily admit that.

So I saw MIL tonight and she was rolling her eyes and hatin' on the shoes as expected. She doesn't even know how much her gift means to the bride, and she never will. And it's her loss. She's joyless.

Twinkle: It Was An Honest Mistake

So you know that three-hour, 50-person shower that was way out in Norton Commons that I've been dreading all spring, the only redeeming quality of which was that I was going to get to see the pair of shoes that incites such righteous indignation in my MIL? Well, it's going on right now...and guess who's on her back porch planting heirloom tomatoes and eating M&Ms.

I honestly did think it was Sunday, but the funny thing is that I designed the invitation. I of all people, should know when the thing is. It was one of those events that I didn't care enough about to pay attention to the details, and somehow I just thought it was on a Sunday.

So my MIL called to see if I was coming (she was actually nice, and I'm sure she wondered why on earth I'd be an hour late to a luncheon that I'd said I'd attend). I was like--"Yes, I'll be there. See you tomorrow!" Imagine my glee when she said it was going on right then!

My only regret is not seeing the shoes, and watching my MIL's passive-aggressive disapproval. But mostly I just feel like I won the lottery.

Save It, Tinkerbell: Dibbs

"I traded eyeliner for dark circles, salon hair cuts for ponytails, long showers for hairy legs, late nights for early mornings, designer purses for diaper bags and I wouldn't change a thing!! With Mother's Day drawing near, let's see how many Moms repost this."

If y'all think that's sweet, I totally understand. It makes me want to gag myself with a spoon. It was posted today by one of my sorority sisters who's reinvented herself as a Disney Princess. Actually, that's a pretty impressive feat, as she spend her college years with her knees behind her head on the Phi Tau floor. But I digress...

Here's problem one. This particular girl lives in a resort town complete with nannies and diamond tennis bracelets. She hasn't really traded down from her years in a south-end high school.

And...problem two. If every mother really gave up shaving her legs and wearing makeup forever, well, we'd have a whole lot more only children, wouldn't we? And no more Kate Spade or salons ever? Ever? How do those places stay in business? Single girls and grandmas? Bee-atch, please.

Okay, I'm going over to facebook to hide Tinkerbell. I'll be back.

Julep Has Left the Building

I came to the blog to post this article ... with what would have been deep thoughts and trenchant commentary.

But I have laughed so hard at the photo Twinkle posted that I have no more cogent thoughts to offer. Carry on, ladies.

Twinkle: He's Single, Ladies

So I sat down tonight and logged on to a little Facebook, and this is what popped up. This is apparently some guy from my high school who friended me, and I'm pretty sure I friended him back in an attempt to figure out who he is. No recollection, but I'm certainly glad he's on my news feed now.

According to his profile he is, in fact, interested in women. He is also a Catholic, whose interests include Motocross and parenting. (And who among us doesn't have a similar picture of our own father?) He's an English bulldog enthusiast, and his favorite book is Lord of the Flies. He is a CSX railroad conductor, subscribes to Dirt Wheels magazine, and enjoys the music of the New Minglewood Ramblers. He is a supporter of Jim Bunning (not surprising), and is a Kentucky Fan Against Billy Clyde. He is a proud alumnus of St. Margaret Mary, an institution that is no doubt proud to claim him.

He is also the single best argument in favor of a private education I have encountered yet.

Twinkle: Quick Thinking Saved My Morning

There's this mom at Twinklette's school who's nice enough, but every day she corners someone for at least 30 minutes. The first time she did it to me I was glad to have a friend--Twinklette is relatively new so I haven't met a whole lot of the moms there, and I want to be involved and to know people. This mom--we'll call her JG--asked me to design a logo for the preschool, and I agreed. And I swear I will, when I've got time between paying orders...I'm not running a charity after all (contrary to popular belief).

Every day she's got someone cornered when I walk in and the same person is cornered when I walk out. If I happen to pass her while one conversation is ending, she'll switch gears and corner me. I knew she had her eye on me today when I walked in with Twinklette, and I could almost sense the desperation of the mom she had already cornered. Well, sorry Toots. When it comes to JG, it's every woman for herself. I mean, it's a Monday...I have things to do that don't involve standing around in the school wasting one of the three hours I have to get something accomplished.

Anyhoo, with JG blocking the main entrance to the school, there was no way out, and I knew in my heart that she was lying in wait for me. So I dashed down a hallway, went out a side door, thanked the good Lord an alarm didn't go off when I pushed the door, and walked across the expanse of the parking lot to avoid her. I never really feel safe from her until I'm in the car, doors locked, and moving at a fast clip, and I saw her coming out the door just as I hit the power locks and sailed onward to freedom.

And how tragic, really, to be that woman that drives other people to seek alternative exits to a building rather than be stuck talking to you. I try to live my life with some measure of kindness toward others, but I simply cannot suffer those who waste my time.

I guess we're lucky to be so adorable and popular...JG needs to take a page from the Daddy Rabbit Girls playbook.

Twinkle: Disrespect

Mr. Twinkle and I went to Willow Lake Tavern to see the Key West song stylings of our friend's dad last night (I'm sure you all saw her Facebook invitation to come out and join the fun). Twinklette stayed with MIL, who's home alone for a few weeks as FIL is up in Connecticut, helping with SIL's transition back to work.

So when we dropped off Twinklette last night, MIL pulled out this dvd of Pinocchio and asked if Twinklette could watch it. I totally felt put on the spot, but I do let Twinklette watch movies on special occasions--usually when she's sick and needs to rest--as long as I don't feel like the characters in the movies are shamelessly marketed to young children. I felt kind of violated, and I left wishing my MIL would just respect my wishes instead of pushing, pushing, pushing the limits, but I consented. (Also, the weather is beautiful...why not play outside?) But I'm a reasonable person. I really don't think Pinocchio is evil incarnate...plus he's totally from the '30. I don't see his little wooden features gracing diapers, sippy cups, and toothbrushes very often these days. So I said it was fine.

So this morning we went to get Twinklette, who immediately started chatting when we started driving. Her commentary went something like this: "We tried to watch Sesame Street but I don't think Sesame Street is on so we watched something else. We watched Dora." Of course I freaked out and said, "What did you just say? Did you just say 'Dora'?!?!?" (I have successfully hidden Dora's existence from Twinklette up until now). My reaction was such that Twinklette immediately rescinded her earlier statement and wouldn't say anything else, so I didn't get any more deets. I plan to show her a picture of Dora tomorrow and ask if she looks familiar, and if Twinklette knows her name and ever saw her on tv. I have my ways of getting answers.

So, and excuse my Shakespeare here, but what the fuck? First MIL goes behind my back to get Mr. Twinkle's permission for Twinklette to watch Sesame Street, and now she's translating that (and my consent for Twinklette to watch a classic film) into an excuse to show my child Dora the Explorer? I also saw a Winnie the Pooh ABCs dvd at her house, and y'all know about the burning hatred I feel for cartoon Winnie. (I have nothing against the books).

I know that my MIL is an educator and that she somehow thinks that gives her license to know what's best for everyone else's child. (I dread the day Twinklette actually has a teacher like her). But I cannot understand why she won't respect my wishes on this. Mr. Twinkle said, "Why don't you give her a copy of Buy Buy Baby and let her see why you feel that way?" And I could do that, but I really don't feel like trying to convince her of my point of view. The bottom line is this: Mr. Twinkle and I are Twinklette's parents, and we get to make certain decisions that we think are best for our child. It is not my MIL's place to question them, or push them, or go behind our backs to advance her own agenda, and I shouldn't have to explain our reasoning to her. She knows we hate the idea of Twinklette watching tv, and yet she pushes for it anyway. She knows we don't approve of licensed characters, and yet there's an Elmo doll in their basement that they know I don't want Twinklette to play with. Why not just cooperate? Why not just trust our decisions as parents?

And, really, is a stupid Winnie The Pooh ABCs dvd something she really wants to push us on? What adult in this day and age says, "You know, that child over there really doesn't watch enough tv...if I don't go behind her mom's back and show her that Winnie the Pooh dvd she'll never learn her alphabet!" Nobody--least of all a teacher--thinks tv is so important as an educational tool. Basically, MIL thinks my rule is stupid and wants to break it however she can. End of story.

Well, she can keep trying me, but I'm not going to back down on this. At the end of the day, I am Twinklette's mother, and the final say about what Twinklette does (and who babysits her) is mine.

Julep: Please collect your demon.

My in-laws have been out of town since Wednesday, and we have been keeping their pet. Historically SIL is their default dogsitter, but this was a business trip, so she was with them. In the past when SIL was not available, their old dog went to the kennel; she was kind of crochety (as old dogs often are) and we all agreed that she would prefer the kennel to living with our two hooligans. Did I call my dogs hooligans? Correction: They are angels, and I am so sorry I ever thought otherwise.

The in-laws' old dog passed away this winter, and the in-laws have a new puppy. This morning I was trying to think of a redeeming feature of this creature. (Yes, she is very cute, but cute wore off around Thursday morning.) All I could come up with is, she doesn't run away. She burst out of the screen porch yesterday while the gate was open -- with my own dogs, this would mean 30 minutes of chasing them around the neighborhood. The puppy didn't even notice the gate was open.

This is because the puppy is as dumb as a box of rocks. In addition to being destructive, I have never met a stupider animal. She is five months old, certainly old enough to have some manners, not to mention bladder control. As if. She is crate-trained, that much is true ... she doesn't mess in her crate. (At least, not in that fashion -- but her way of announcing that she is finished eating is to turn her water dish upside-down. Then she sits in the puddle and whimpers. And when the crate is opened, she jumps out and tracks the water all over the floor.) She does pee anywhere else, though. She doesn't even seem to notice that she is doing it, just sprinkles everywhere.

I really cannot imagine sending my pet to stay at someone else's house when I know that my pet is not housetrained. We spent three nights in our house with no power the winter our dogs were puppies, because we didn't want to risk them making a mess at the in-laws' house. And we would have been there to keep an eye on them! The demon is just badly-behaved all around. On Friday morning, I was already running late from cleaning up her morning pee-stream when I had to go outside to bring her in - because she won't come in when called - and she jumped up all over me with her dirty wet feet, so I had to go change my clothes.

She has tormented our pets to the last ounce of sanity. She stands and barks at the dogs incessantly when they don't want to play with her or she tries to start smack by biting their legs or the ruff of their necks. Every time she spots Pretty Kitty, she tries to corner her. As Pretty Kitty has all her claws and suffers no fools, I have repeatedly warned the demon that she is going to lose an eye if she doesn't watch out. You would think the hissing and claw-swiping would be instructive, but evidently not.

We are all at our wit's end. Mr. J took Black Dog with him for two hours of errands yesterday because Black Dog was about to lose his mind. Meanwhile, I took Brown Dog out into the front yard to lie under the tree while I gardened, so she could get some peace and quiet. Today I am fortunately at work, because I really want Mr. J to be the one to tell his parents about how the week has gone and why we won't be watching the demon the next time they go somewhere. As soon as she leaves today, we will have to scrub down every inch of the hardwoods and powerwash the screened porch.

Dibbs Meets Birth Control

Y'all know I love children. I loved the 63 pound three-year-old who punched me in the stomach. I loved his five-year-old cousin who spat water in my face. I even loved the sixteen-year-old whose least pleasant personality liked to call me "Mother-Effer." (Which, really, doesn't make sense.) Today, I met the child who I would put on the plane back to Russia.

The first ten minutes were fine. She was beautiful with her long curls and her fluffy bow. She did her speech eval. She charmed me with her pronunciations of chocolate, Lucky Charms, and marshmallow swirls. Then it was time for Miss Dibbs to play her games. She-Devil arrived. She announced, "No, I'm not playing no more games. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not." We asked nicely. She wailed. I told her she could have candy after the games, because, you know, all I want is to finish my test. She wailed. I told her firmly that she was at school, and that she would sit in her chair and do what I said. She said, "No, I won't." She ran out of the room and began to scream. She screamed about riding down the elevator. She screamed about her Disney Princess shoes. She screamed that she didn't want to get in the car.

Then, I saw where she got it. She looked at her mother and screamed, "I want a toy. Toy, Toy, TOY!" Her mother told her she couldn't have a toy unless she was good all day. It took every ounce of restraint not to get in that little bow-haired, baby pink face and say, "Toys are out of the question, princess. You ain't good." That mother was seriously considering a reward for Miss Demon. No wonder she does it. I don't think I'm letting her into preschool. I think I'm sending Mama to parenting.

I'll tell you this: if she comes to live with Miss Dibbs, she'll have a nice Chi Omega tattoo where the sun don't shine (that's the kind of paddle I have.) But I'll bet she won't tantrum anymore.

Twinkle: Friday Night Airing of Grievances

The shoes. MIL and GMIL have an ongoing obsession with Twinklette's shoe size. They are always concerned that her shoes are too small, even though Twinklette will let you know in no uncertain terms if they're uncomfortable. So MIL just bought Twinklette a very cute but incredibly large pair of baby pink summer patent leathers. She'll be lucky to grow into these sons-of-b*tches by Halloween. There's literally an inch between the end of her toes and the edge of the shoes, and you can actually see the gap between her heel and the back of the shoe when she walks. And yet, she had to try them on tonight in front of GMIL, former children's shoe "expert" at Bacons, who proclaimed them to be a perfect fit. MIL had to reiterate (as she does every time I see her) that the shoes are two sizes larger than the identical black ones Twinklette owns--as if to say I need to retire the black ones because they're way too small. (I'm about to retire the black ones because of the change in seasons...but they still fit perfectly fine).

Preschool. GMIL: "She's really had an easy transition into preschool, hasn't she?" My thoughts: "Yes, it's only taken her four-and-a-half months not to weep uncontrollably and drag herself at my feet every day when I drop her off."

T-ball. MIL and GMIL are obsessed with girls t-ball, because SIL played t-ball and later softball. So tonight it came up that Twinklette does not own any t-ball paraphernalia. And I really don't care if they buy it for her--I also don't mind buying it myself, as I have nothing against t-ball. I do, however, have something against the idea that Twinklette has to be a mini-clone of my sister-in-law. I have something against the idea that t-ball is an inevitable part of Twinklette's future--akin to a college education--and that she doesn't have a choice about it (and the tacit implication that I'm somehow slacking off because she doesn't already own a t-ball set).

After dinner hug. Twinklette asked to be excused after dinner and immediately said, "I want you, Mommy," so I picked her up and she snuggled into my lap at the table. Once again unable to fathom that my child might just want a good snuggle, GMIL proclaimed, "She's tired. Didn't she get a good nap today?" She slept from 12:30 to 3:40...I'd say that qualifies as a good nap, so I'm guessing Twinklette really did just want a little love from her mama. Unbelievable, isn't it?

The Slamming of the Door. MIL and GMIL didn't notice the three times tonight (or the countless times, ever) that Twinklette said, "I want you, Mommy," or when we were spelling Twinklette's name with the letters on the fridge and Twinklette wanted to spell "Mommy," too. But when Twinklette slammed the kitchen door in my face and yelled, "See you later!" MIL could hardly contain her glee. She giddily exclaimed to GMIL and Mr. Twinkle, "Did you see that?" I followed her in there and to hang out in the peace and quiet of the living room, where we sang songs, jumped up and down, and had a generally marvelous time without the pressure or judgment from everyone. So she wasn't even slamming the door in my face to get away from me...she was just being a silly 2-year-old. I'm sure MIL will be talking about the simply hilarious door slam for the next month and a half.

Ohm: Dibbs

So, I went for my well-patient check-up yesterday. For some reason my doctor has been insisting on those lately. I must have looked bad or sounded a bit at the end of my proverbial rope. He brought out a card for meditation.

I don't think this is the type of meditation Altar-Boy does (I still totally want to go, BTW.) This meditator (?) is a gynecologist by day. We'll be having classes in the Highlands, natch. The best part---I get my own mantra! I just can't wait to tell y'all about my mantra.

From now on when my secretary is singing "Five dollar footlong," throwing her stuffed howler monkey at people to hear him howl, or calling me, "Dibbsie," I can merely say, "Ohm," and go to a better place.

Peace is within.

Julep: View from the Bubble

So I had another trip to North Carolina for work yesterday. I was feeling a little guilty about totally not even informing my family I was coming last time (and spending all that time with my best friend Charlotte and her kids instead). I had a wedding to attend on Saturday - which may be worth its own post later, if only to compare the nicely done small-budget wedding to others I have known - so I got up before the dawn crack on Sunday and flew down to spend the day with the J-Daddy family unit. Y'all may remember that this consists of J-Daddy himself, his very classy and lovely second wife of 20 years StepMama, their daughter (Baby Sis) and for the past 2 years Maiden Aunt, J-Daddy's sister.

Well, on the one hand it was nice to see everyone. They live out in the middle of nowhere -- 45 minutes from town -- at a country club development on a big old man-made lake, and the weather was lovely so the scenery was particularly nice. On the other hand, I pretended that my boss wanted to talk about strategy for Monday so I could leave at 4:30 and have dinner with Charlotte's family instead.

I worry about Baby Sis, really I do. She is smart and sweet and shows all the signs of growing up to be a nice kid. But she lives in a country club development, goes to a ritzy small-town private school (full of all the other wealthy kids from a 50 mile radius), her hobbies are golf, tennis, and riding her horse, and her annual family vacation is either to the Cloisters or Anguilla. I am not saying there is anything wrong with being wealthy, but I do think that there is something wrong with being unaware of how privileged you are. And nothing I have seen in the past few years gives me any idea that someone is trying to teach Baby Sis that life isn't like this for all people. I've never heard one word about volunteerism or community service work -- and given J-Daddy's long-standing gripe that he doesn't have to tithe because the government does it for him, I doubt it's happening.

Here's the thing I have the hardest time stomaching: the casual racism. Maiden Aunt is a schoolteacher at the public high school in the closest small town, and she teaches what we euphemistically call the "comprehensive track" here in our county. Her kids are not sharp. And I am sure many or most of them are indeed minorities. But it is awfully hard to listen to her go on and on about "the blacks" and their lack of work ethic and desire to have babies and live on the public dole. Meanwhile, J-Daddy decided to weigh in on the futility of Haitian relief efforts, and how you don't see the Chileans asking for help for their earthquake -- a distinction he attributes to the different "cultural backgrounds" of the populations. Even StepMama, whom I generally think of as a beacon of class and good graces, dropped the N-word in the context of a story. I mean, she wasn't calling someone that, but still. It's all very discomfiting, especially given that Baby Sis is a whopping 13 years old.

I've suggested that Baby Sis should come and stay with me for a long weekend this summer. I really would enjoy a chance to spend some time with her without all the adults in her life peering over her shoulder ... and it's not like I can take her to lunch and a movie when I am in NC, since the nearest theater is an hour's drive away. But just as importantly, I want to bring a breath of fresh air into the bubble this kid lives in. A few days bumming around our quirky urban suburb can only be a good thing -- not that Mr. J and I are poverty-stricken or anything, but it is a different view of life than she's had so far. I think she would benefit a lot from meeting you girls, for instance. We may have to schedule a cocktail hour, with mocktails for the preggers and the underage.

Twinkle: Audit of SIL's Farewill Dinner

We went to Rocky's across the river tonight to sit on the lovely patio with sweeping vistas of the city skyline and enjoy moderately-priced Italian fare, yet no one (but me) was happy. I say who really cares if the dinner takes forever and the pasta tastes like something I could have made with a pot of boiling water and a jar of Ragu--what's not to love about a long dinner on a patio with your fave people (assuming that they are each other's favorite people)? I had fun, and here is a breakdown of the evening:

Number of minutes Mr. Twinkle, Twinklette, and I waited for the rest of the party, which was delayed until SIL's baby finished napping and suckling her mother's teat (pardon my Chaucer): 45. Not that I minded. It was the best part of the evening.

Number of minutes MIL would have tolerated me to hold up everyone's meal back when my baby was new: -5.

Number of complaints about the wait for and the quality of the food: at least 4 per person, totaling an average of 20 complaints between them. And that's conservative.

Times my MIL b*tched about how long the plane ride is to Aruba (where we're taking her this summer as a retirement gift!): 1. And it was 1 too many.

Number of complaints from GMIL about the prices at local men's clothing store Rhodes, where the men's undershirts are reportedly exorbitant: 2.

Number of $3 Build-A-Bear cell phones gifted to Twinklette, whose tantrum has long-since ended: 0.

Times my MIL said, "This baby wants her mommy" about my SIL's kid: 1, which is 1 more than I've ever heard her say about Twinklette.

Number of glasses of wine I'm drinking on my porch while I wait for them all (and a few extras) to arrive at my house to eat dessert from the Pie Kitchen (which I was informed about at 7:30 this evening...not that it matters since I keep an immaculate home): 1, maybe 2 if I can squeeze a fast one in.

Bottoms up!

Twinkle: @the Daddy Rabbit Twitter Feed

Who doesn't love peanut butter and bananas (pregnant or not?!) Please tell me you convinced him to try it and that he realized the error of his ways!

Twinkle: Build-A-Bear Drama

Y'all should have been at Build-A-Bear today...it was quite the scene.

My SIL gave Twinklette a trip to Build-A-Bear for her birthday, and the whole fam finally went today. It began as a fun outing. Twinklette chose a pink bear and outfit (she only lingered briefly on a Disney Princess midriff top--for a bear!--before settling on a much more suitable outfit. MIL made sure the bear had "big girl panties," because MIL likes to push potty training down everyone's throats whenever/however she can (even though Twinklette couldn't care less, and I'm waiting for her to show interest before I start making a big deal out of it).

Big girl panties notwithstanding, the whole experience was sunshine and rainbows until it was time to pay. Mr. Twinkle was paying (with the birthday gift cards) while I entertained Twinklette, so we were shopping around and looking at the things we could get for the new bear on future trips to the store. Twinklette saw a cell phone (for the bear) and it was all over. I wouldn't have had a problem with her getting a cell phone for her bear if we'd found it earlier--it was $3, and the whole trip was about her getting what she wanted as a birthday present--but at that point we were ready to leave the store and it was too late to buy anything else. So I said no, a tantrum ensued, and I ended up carrying her out of the Build-A-Bear store screaming, "I want a cell phone!" while my inlaws and all the other Build-A-Bear patrons watched with great amusement.

Out on the sidewalk, she was still screaming, and Grandma-in-law said, "May I get her the cell phone?" (which I appreciated). Well, at that point, it was too late to back down and give it to her right then, but I said she could buy it if she really wanted to and give it to her another day. Any other day, actually...I just couldn't let her have it right then because it would be giving in to the tantrum. So then MIL was like, "Maybe you'll get it for your birthday, Twinklette." Well, that's next January, and it's a $3 gift, and I'm pretty sure Twinklette will have forgotten all about it by then. I was pretty much thinking about giving it to her tomorrow, or next week, or for Derby or something. Not making her wait until her birthday...I mean, that is hardcore. So it'll be interesting to see when my GMIL gives her the phone and how much influence MIL really wields over GMIL.

Then tonight, at bedtime, we found the bear's "big girl panties" in Twinklette's crib...I guess they came off (or were taken off) during naptime. Twinklette said, "Look mommy--we forgot her diaper cover!" So Twinklette considers them just another diaper accessory...so much for the concept of big girl panties getting through. Great purchase, MIL.

(Oh...we went to a soccer-themed birthday party at Mockingbird Valley yesterday...the kids ran around the soccer field and kicked balls if they wanted to, and chased balloons, and jumped on giant inflatable bouncers, and had a marvelous time. So today, MIL was all concerned about whether or not Twinklette had learned to play soccer or practiced soccer drills, and was appalled when she found out there was no instruction at the party and that Twinklette was not in fact the next David Beckham and/or Posh Spice. Because heaven forbid the birthday boy and his guests could just have fun and run around without a structured team activity).

Twinkle: The Nature of Giving

Can we talk for just a minute about the nature of giving?

My MIL is throwing this shower for one of Mr. Twinkle's cousins who's getting married this summer at the Henry Clay. The shower has 7 hostesses and 50 guests and is at Norton Commons...it's basically going to be the sort of nightmare event that we all hate and to which we are morally opposed, where you waste a Saturday and there's no alcohol and you end up sitting next to someone's 80-year-old great aunt, and there are three dreadful hours of watching the bride-to-be open gift after monotonous gift. All this will go down the same Saturday of the Cherokee Art Fair and other highly preferable pre-Derby festivities, if I'm not mistaken.

We were discussing the shower, and my MIL said, "Don't even ask me about the hostess gift."

First of all, where I come from, a hostess gift is one given to the hostess(es), for hosting the party in the first place. A bottle of wine, a bouquet of flowers, a cute tea towel...all would be perfect gifts for someone hosting a party. So at first I thought maybe my MIL was displeased about the gift that the bride-to-be was giving her as a thank-you for hosting the party. It was soon established that she was referring to the gift that the hostesses are giving to the bride-to-be, which isn't technically a hostess gift at all.

The gift that my MIL was referring to is apparently an extravagant pair of shoes for the bride to wear on her wedding day.

Now I don't know anything about these shoes, or what they cost or who makes them. Based on my MIL's righteous indignation, I'm guessing that they're of the $700 Manolo variety, but needless to say, MIL is not happy about writing a $100 check for 1/7 of the check to Nordstrom or wherever for a pair of shoes that she considers far too extravagant.

The irony to me is that my MIL would have no problem writing a check for the same amount, if it were going toward a KitchenAid mixer or some other practical (yet also extravagant) household item. A gift is a gift, I think, and it's more about the recipient's pleasure than it is about your personal opinions on the matter. If my MIL is writing the same amount for a check either way, why does she care if it's for a pair of shoes or a kitchen item or a place setting of china or something else? Who is she to dictate the desires of other people? I have aesthetically disagreed with the contents of many a wedding registry, but it wasn't really my place to criticize, was it?

I have no problem with Mr. Twinkle's cousin wanting an expensive pair of shoes for her wedding day. It isn't as if she mortgaged her home to get these shoes, or allowed a b*stard child to starve so she could buy them (she doesn't have children, b*stard or otherwise, for the record). All she did was fall in love with a pair of shoes--and who hasn't done that? She isn't even buying them for herself; she just wants them and the other hostesses of this shower have generously decided to give her something she truly wants, which I think is a beautiful thing.

I'm sure if it were up to my MIL, the bride would wear a practical and comfortable pair of Easy Spirits beneath her wedding gown. And if it were up to MIL, Mr. Twinkle and I would eat in the kitchen instead of the dining room--she has always pushed for us to eat in the kitchen. And we wouldn't own--much less use--a single place setting of Herend's Rothschild Bird, which she also disapproves of, and considers frivolous and "not what she would choose." And no one would ever have more than one child, and if they did have more than one, the children would be spaced at a manageable 5-year age difference so that they'd never be in college at the same time. And it's too bad for all of us who can't run our own lives that no one has appointed her absolute dictator over everyone yet, isn't it?

I guess when I give a gift, I think there's joy in giving someone what he or she truly wants--joy for him/her and even more joy for me. MIL is utterly joyless, and judgmental, and righteously indignant about everything, so how could she find joy in giving? Anyway, I can't wait to see the shoes...I hope they are doozies. And I can't wait to see the face of the bride--and my MIL--when those shoes come out at the shower. I know my MIL won't be able to hide her disdain, and I really hope that doesn't diminish the bride's joy.

Dibbs: The Great Flomax Heist--Thwarted

So, I went to see my grandfather today. No, I didn't call that guy. If y'all thought I was really calling that guy, you're crazy. My grandfather was just a little trickster. First, he wasn't in his apartment. He was visiting the lady next door. Wooo. Then, he kept getting confused, and I was afraid something was really wrong. Until...he told me he wasn't wearing his hearing aide. Hell's Bells!

Here's the best part. He needed a nap. I went to my parents' house to switch closets for the season and take a little nap of my own. I told him I would go to Walmart for him, but he said he didn't need anything. When I got back, he had decided he did need just one little errand. You see, the visiting nurse and my parents had done a little spring cleaning. My grandfather loves him some medicine. He had piles and piles of it that he didn't need anymore. Some of it wasn't in bottles, but he just took a random pill when he thought he might need a little something. So, during the cleaning spree, all the extraneous meds were thrown away.

Needless to say, my grandfather is not a fan. When I came back to the 'Ridge, he said, "Do you know how to get me some Flomax?" I asked him if it was over-the-counter or prescription. It's prescription. He told me about the great pill-disposal incident, and he wondered if my dad might have kept the Flomax since he takes it, too.

He had a great plan. I should take him to my parents' house (since they're not home,) and we should look through my dad's medicine for the Flomax. I told him I couldn't take him in my car. He explained to me exactly how I could. He gets in my dad's car. He holds onto the handle and sits down, and then his walker goes in the backseat, and it works just like that. I repeated, "I can't take you in my car. What if you fall? I can't hold you up." He repeated, "But I go in(your dad's)car. I hold onto the handle..." I told him no. He told me he understood my side. I offered to go look for the Flomax (code for "drive around for 20 minutes and tell him I couldn't find it.") He decided my dad wouldn't like him "plundering around his stuff." Good call.

Still faced with the problem of a bladder infection, (Why Flomax? Why not?) we discussed our options. Take the antibiotic meant for tonight? Well, it's 2:30. Take an aspirin? Probably won't work. Drink some cranberry juice! He didn't want to mix that with his medications. Natch. Finally I caved. I gave him one of my own bladder painkillers. It doesn't metabolize through the liver; won't hurt him. It does turn the urine blue. He'll be in the emergency room tonight for blue urine after failing to heed my direction that "When you go to the bathroom, it will be blue. That's okay." What if it's not blue? "That's okay, too."

Where's Saint Ashley of the Keyboard in all this?

Twinkle: Fun Times with Friends

Girls, I had such fun at cocktails tonight. I was trying to recount to Mr. Twinkle the whole plan we hatched with Dibbs, about convincing a former/prospective beau to help bust her grandfather out of the retirement community for lunch at Long John Silvers, and we were both hysterical with laughter.

I also tried to delve for information about the enlarged scrotum thing, but my efforts were fruitless. I guess when you're a guy, you're only familiar with your own, whereas women in the modern age may have seen several up close and personal...especially if your job is one that takes you into the operating room, where mens' junk is apparently flopping freely about. Mr. Twinkle was fully aware that when you have knee surgery, everyone in the room sees your bidniss. I suppose I thought it was more like getting a massage, where they tastefully wrap you in various sheets for your comfort and modesty.

Anyway, thank you for the laughs...Classic Cocktail Hours are too few and far between, but always worth the wait!