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.