Hanukkah Dramakkah

So Mr. Twinkle's cousin is a little intense and she gets offended at the slightest little thing, and I just don't have time to deal with her. She's the type who will call me to ask what my children want for Hanukkah, but then when I say, "What do yours want?" she will want me to call her back later on that night. Sorry, b*tch. You get one phone conversation at a time. I texted her (yesterday) to see what they wanted, but didn't hear back until last night (she wanted me to have to track her down instead of the other way around, probably). She finally called last night, desperately looking for me once again to respond to the text message. Too late--her kids are getting gift cards.

Well, tonight she passive-aggressively b*tched me out over some coupon books that were Twinklette's school fundraiser last fall. Yeah, I forgot to get them to her, because honestly the damn things are not my top priority (it's not like she'd paid for them, either...we had a strictly verbal agreement over them). We wrote a check to the school for them in September, and if family members want to buy them that's cool, but I don't have the time, energy, or inclination to hit up family and friends to sell them. I have two children, one of whom is rather high maintenance, and a husband who belongs on the show Hoarders; my day is spent wiping *ss and trying to tame clutter...not to mention all the Christmukkah magic I'm responsible for this time of year. I couldn't care less about some damn coupon books.

So tonight she came up to me with a huge, intense, maniacal smile.

Her: Do you ever check your messages?

Me: Oh, sometimes. But...not today.

Her: You know, with all the social things that you do, I'd think you would check your messages.

Me: Yes, it's one of my many shortcomings.

Her: Well, did you bring the coupon books?

Me: Oh, I forgot. I'm sorry.

Her: If you'd checked your messages you would have known that I wanted a coupon book.

Me: Yes, I know. I'm not perfect. I forgot.

Her: I really need the coupon book.

Me: I'm sorry. I don't have it.

Her: Because, if I can't get it from you, I'm going to get it somewhere else.

Me: That's fine. If you need to do that, I totally understand.

Her: I really want to get it from you, but I can get it at Kroger if I need to.

Me: Well, if you need it right now, maybe you should just get it at Kroger, then.

Her: Because, the thing is, I've already needed the coupon book.

Me: OK, well if you need it, you should just go ahead and get it somewhere else.

Her: See, the old books expired December 1.

Me: Well, do what you need to do. I understand.

Her: I mean, if you could just give it to David, then we could get it from him.

Me: OK. I can do that.

Her: Because we see him a lot, so you don't even need to bring it to me. Just give it to him and he will get it to us.

Me: OK. That's fine.

Anyway it went on and on with her pushing the issue and me agreeing with her/not caring until she finally turned and walked off in a huff. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen, because the maniacal smile did not leave her face the entire time, and I just wanted the conversation to be over. Then she didn't talk to me again the rest of the night until the very end, when she thrust $40 in my face and put her order in for 2 coupon books.

(P.S. Do you love value? Coupon books still available!)

Twinkle: Fancy Here's Your One Chance Don't Let Me Down

So, today was the sad, sad Thanksgiving luncheon, and the situation is so dire with Mr. Twinkle's uncle that I was actually glad I wasn't the one in charge of the Thanksgiving meal. The insurance company will only pay for ICU for so long, which has forced the family to make some very awful decisions on Thanksgiving Eve/Thanksgiving Day.

So in the midst of all this, I am trying to make Thanksgiving memories for my children. Which is why I planned a nice Thanksgiving dinner for tomorrow--how could I know he'd be removed from the ventilator then? No one could have.

I'm not worried about the turkey and all the fixings that I bought. I just don't want to do the wrong thing, and if I fix everything and it goes uneaten that'll be OK. I'm doing what Mr. Twinkle wants, and Mr. Twinkle said to go ahead and fix everything. He said his parents probably won't want to cook, so maybe they could come over. And of course they can. His mom is a b*tch to me, but I'm not so heartless as to deny her a nice meal and family time with the grandchildren who will surely cheer her up at least a little, as her brother is dying. If she wants to come, she is welcome. If the meal doesn't happen at all because of how the day goes, that's OK too.

But...y'all know me. I planned a nice meal for my family. Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, corn pudding, green bean casserole, a big, decadent chocolate cake that Mr. Twinkle requested from the pages of this month's Southern Living. We will use our nicest dishes and silver; we always do because enjoying our nice things is part of my whole worldview. Someone might find this meal to be feast-like and--dare I say it--fancy.

I planned the meal for just us, but now they're coming and I can try to tone it down all I want, but I know she will only see that I'm trying to be fancy. And I wish that I could just explain myself to her. I like to use my nice dishes on normal days and holidays, not because I'm trying to be all uppity and fancy, but because I believe in making occasions special. My desire for our own Thanksgiving isn't about me trying to take over, but about me trying to make memories for my children. She just takes everything I do the wrong way, and I know this will be more proof to her that I'm just a big snob with no sense of how to act when tragedy strikes. Never mind that I planned this meal weeks ago and she was never invited to it in the first place and is only coming now because I want to help alleviate a little of her pain in this small way. I'm sure she'll take it all wrong, and I wish I could just get it out in the open that I'm actually a good person with good intentions.

Twinkle: I'm done trying

So Mr. Twinkle's uncle had a stroke, and it's very sad for the family, but my blog posting deals with the fallout from the Thanksgiving plans. This uncle always hosted, but this year's dinner will clearly be kind of sad. There was talk of going to a restaurant, or bringing food in, which I think sounds even sadder, so I offered to host it. I knew my MIL would never let that happen, but I offered anyway.

What happened? She won't let it happen, and I knew she wouldn't. But I still hoped. And I still think having it at my house is preferable to having it at a damn restaurant. And here was how Mr. Twinkle pitched it: it would be a low-key version of the traditional feast, and all the usual guests would be welcome to bring whatever they always do. If they didn't feel like making their usual dish, I said I'd make it. I thought it was a lovely and appropriate gesture, and I meant it. I think that in trying times sometimes it's the traditions that make people feel a little better, especially Thanksgiving since it's so tied up with the same comfort foods year after year.

Yeah, not going to happen.

MIL shot that down and was all, "We don't need to be doing anything fancy." Now I KNOW that everything I touch turns to fabulous--it's what she hates most about me-- but I have nothing if not a sense of decorum. I would never have let this Thanksgiving lunch turn into one of my usual fun family parties (and make no mistake about it--my family parties are more fun than anyone's on that side, which is not saying a whole lot). There would be no mimosas (tacky, under the circumstances), there would be no over-the-top seasonal decor. Just the traditional Thanksgiving meal and maybe a sense of comfort in the chaos and sadness. But, no. Her "fancy" comment is at the heart of her misunderstanding of me and my ability to make occasions special and appropriate.

And I am done. I am done offering to help with every holiday only to be turned away, when everyone else in the family pitches in. I am done offering to prepare a dish only to be told that she has it all under control. I am done saying I will arrange the flowers for one of MIL's dinners (after she ASKS me) only to have her do it herself anyway (which has happened more than once). I don't need a power struggle with this woman, and I don't want one, because I HOLD the power. I have Mr. Twinkle, and my two daughters, and I can make family traditions on my own, with or without her.

We do our own Thanksgiving dinner, just for us, on the Friday after. She has no control there, and she has no control over our day-to-day lives. This prejudice she has against me is officially her problem, because I am done trying and done caring, done expecting ever to be truly included, and done having my feelings hurt when I am not. Her son obviously finds something redeeming about me, and my daughters think I'm pretty fabulous. And I'm the person who gets to teach them everything about family and traditions and how to throw a party and when and when not to have a champagne toast. The day she finally learns that will be a sad day for her, because she alienated me long ago, and the tragedy for her is that she also alienated herself.

Julep: Some kind of help is the kind of help we all can do without.

I hope none of you will think I'm a bad mother when I say that I am currently concocting ways to torture my child. He refused to sleep during the dark hours last night, and I am determined to get him straightened out today. If anyone has suggestions on how to keep a sleepy baby awake all day (other than a walk, running errands, and a bath - which he hates) please pass them along.

But that is not what I came here to say. I must vent. Y'all know we did not have much time to prepare for the arrival of Babycakes. The nursery walls were already cream and the carpet blue, and there is a cozy yellow chair in there, so I bought yellow gingham crib sheets and skirt and curtains. Blue, cream, yellow. Very sunny, not cutesy or babyfied but I was OK with that. I prefer a minimalist style of decor.

Well, while we were stranded Across The River waiting for the paperwork to come through to bring Babycakes home, Mr-Sister was staying at our house with the pets. (So sweet of her, truly - a huge help.) She asked if I would like for her to paint a sailboat mural on the wall. One of her friends did something similar for her own baby a few months back and Mr-Sis loved it. And yes, the walls were bland. So I said that would be great, Mr-Sis accepted direction on which wall to paint on, and it is indeed really cute.

But it didn't stop there. Oh no, not the Mr-Family. Mr-Mama got in on the act, and by the time we got home from Across The River, the nursery had acquired two sailboat picture frames, two anchor-shaped wall pegs, a model boat, a stool with a compass rose on the top, and a full-sized oar with sea-themed appliques stuck to it and painted letters spelling out Babycakes dangling from it. OK, the nautical theme is established.

"Tell me if it's too much," said Mr-Sis, "I know how we can be." It's cute, I said, but we're done now. Well, she said, her mother was looking for a sailboat-themed lamp. I like the lamp that's in here, I said - it's a pretty little crystal lamp with low light and it's perfect for a baby's room. In case telling Mr-Sis were not enough, I told Mr. J: you had better tell your mom not to hunt for a lamp. I do not want any more themed articles in this room. We could use a night light, or perhaps a yellow throw rug, and I'd love to have some yellow cushions for the rocking chair. If she wants to shop for something, tell her to look for those things.

For three days, I reminded Mr. J: tell your mom not to buy a sailboat lamp. Tell her. I know his mother. I said: no lamp, and if she brings it here, I will tell her to her face that I do not want it and she can take it home. Finally, after copious nagging, Mr. J called his mother yesterday. Well, of COURSE she had already bought a sailboat lamp. She spent two days hunting for it and it is darling. Mr. J refused the lamp, hung up the phone, and accused me of hurting her feelings over something that is "no big deal."

Well excuse the h-ll out of me, but it's a big deal to me. I have accepted the seven useless articles already foisted upon me with good grace, but I am not going to remove an object which I chose and which I like in order to enable Mr-Mama to fill the whole g-dd-mn room with sailboats. That woman goes crazy with a theme. Every single inch of the room where we sleep on her boat has a lighthouse stitched, painted, sculpted, or appliqued on it and although I think it's ridiculous, it's her boat. This is MY g-dd-mn house, and MY g-dd-mn baby, and I will not be compelled to allow my in-laws to decorate his room to their taste. I draw the line here.

I am sorry her feelings were hurt, but IF before she spent two days shopping she had bothered to ASK "would you like a lamp?" I would have said, "no thank you, I like the lamp that is in there now." She could have spent her two days looking for something we actually need, like the rocker cushions.

My mother wanted to buy us things for the baby. My mother took me to Target, let me fill the whole cart with things I needed, and paid for it all. THAT is the kind of help that helping's all about. Mr-Mama doesn't want to help, she just wants to shop. She can do that on her own time.

Twinkle: Swapping Germs

The Familia Twinkle has all had this ragged TB-esque cough for the past two months, and guess what: families pass sh*t around. They also build up immunities to each others' infections. That's just the way it works, and it's why I never worry about sharing germs with my peeps. (Unless of course it involves vomiting and fever, in which case I will break out the Clorox wipes like nobody's business).

So tonight we were all over at my in-laws' for dinner and Mr. Twinkle and I were going to share a Diet Coke. This is normal for us. We always share Diet Cokes and desserts. It's our thing. So MIL was all, "You all do NOT need to be sharing drinks." Um, MIL, I hate to remind you of this and I know you'd rather not think about it, but I have given birth to your son's two children and I snuggle up with him every night and make out with him (and Lord knows we like to keep things hot and spicy), so I assure you a Diet Coke will not be the only thing we're sharing tonight. Seriously? She should not be telling us not to share a Coke. It is not her business, and does she really want to go there? I doubt it.

At dinner I told a story about how Mr. Twinkle and Twinklette like to negotiate over every little thing (because it's funny how much like him she is--you'd think my MIL would like the theme of that story). Basically one night at dinner the two of them had a philosophical discussion about whether Twinklette had to eat "some" or "a lot." Our child is smart and precocious and I love her for it, and it was cute. MIL goes "And WHY are you negotiating with a three-year-old?" She totally missed the point because she just couldn't resist making it all about our parenting shortfalls. You know what? F*ck that. I like that my kid is precocious, and I like that she can negotiate the sh*t out of her lawyer father. Also, Mr. Twinkle and I do the best we can with her. That's really all anyone does, even self-righteous b*tches like my MIL.

It was the same old thing with Tiny Twinklette, too--she would scream her head off any time I left her sight or if someone else was holding her, and everyone was all, "What's wrong, baby? Don't they feed you?" I went to take her back, the screaming stopped, and it was still a big mystery to everyone why she'd been crying before. When my SIL's daughter said, "Mommy carry me," my MIL just thought that was the cutest and greatest thing ever. But when Tiny screams it's because I don't feed her.

So typical...I just had to vent.

Julep: still waiting....

They are going to induce on Wednesday if the baby hasn't come yet. Meanwhile, I am trying to be remotely useful at the office. Although I am sure we are still woefully unprepared,we have finally gotten everything in order at home. And a huge round of thanks to you darling DRGs for your part to get us set up with what we need!

I am starting to freak out a little bit about being in the extended-stay hotel with a newborn ... I hope the weather is good enough for long walks or I may develop claustrophobia ... what are we going to eat? ... what if he is a really loud fussy baby, will they kick us out?

I am secretly glad that the Mr-Parents are out of town this week. They are scheduled to fly home on Saturday and I think that should be just about right. I do not need Mr-Mama participating in, contributing to, or witnessing any drama that may go down while we are at the hospital. Between us, the birthmom, her parents, the agency social worker, the hospital social worker, and the nurses - we've already got a cast of thousands to deal with.

Last comment: We are fighting a losing battle to keep this news on the down low. We have told immediate family, close friends, and work people who need to know. The thing is, everyone we tell the exciting news now is one more call with the awful news if things don't go as planned. I have two aunts, three uncles, and nine first cousins myself, and none of them have been clued in. But no one in the Mr-Family can keep their d@mn mouths shut about anything.

I wouldn't even have told the Mr-Grands if it were up to me, but Mr. J thought we should. We stopped by to share the news last weekend, and they wanted to call everyone they know - we waved off three phone calls while we were there, stressing over and over that we are trying to keep this quiet until the actual baby leaves the hospital with us. Not 4 hours after we left the Mr-Grands' condo, Mr J's aunt called and left him an excited voicemail, wanting him to call and give her all the details. Really?

If you can't bear to keep your mouth shut as instructed, can't you at least tell the people you're blabbing to, "Now don't say anything until they tell you themselves"?

Twinkle: The Appropriate Response When Someone Makes You Breakfast

The men of Mr. Twinkle's family love to make breakfast. On many a weekend morning Mr. Twinkle will get up early with our girls and I'll wake an hour and a half later to the smell of pancakes. They will be hot on the table when my lazy ass finally decides to descend the stairs, and, you know, I've never once thought to complain about it. I don't even mind cleaning up the disastrous kitchen after the fact. The appropriate response when someone makes you breakfast is to smile and say thank-you, and talk about how delicious the breakfast was, and then insist that they go rest while you clean up.

That's in the normal world, of course. My MIL actually finds fault with my FIL's habit of making breakfast. He is retired, so his breakfast-making operation is a daily event, and he measures and freezes all his ingredients beforehand so it will be easy to grab the contents of, say, two egg white mushroom omelettes. He is also working on his technique for Waffle House hashbrowns (he likes them "scattered, smothered, and covered"...which for the non-initiated involves frying them in a skillet with cheese and onions). I all find the effort endearing, and if someone were making me breakfast every day before I went to a thankless damn job at the elementary school, you'd better believe I'd be grateful to that person. Also, you know that he doesn't dare leave that kitchen messy, so I don't really see what the problem is. When someone hands me an omelette with no strings attached I just say thank you.

Not my MIL. Instead, she just bitches and bitches about it and rolls her eyes when he seems proud about the effort he puts into it. It's unbelievable. Of course I try to make a big deal out of how nice I think it is, and how I admire the creativity, and how I know that's how Mr. Twinkle will be when he's retired. I mean really, how ungrateful can that bitch be? And then her mother is all, "Well, did you skip lunch?" to my FIL, and my MIL breaks in and says, "No! He went to lunch with a friend!" like that is the worst thing in the world. I have a word of advice for my all-knowing mother-in-law: if a man wants to make breakfast for you, let him, and if he then wants to go to lunch with a friend, be nice to him about it, and be glad he's not spending his retirement screwing someone nicer.

Whew. That woman gives me a case of the horribles.

Twinkle: Gossip and Gluttony, the Glue that Binds Families Together

In my family, every event begins with a 2-hour bacchanalian orgy of appetizers. There is a huge table of them, and everyone crowds around with a festive spirit and completely without shame. We gossip, laugh, and drink wine for so long that, by the time the meal is finally served, every appetizer plate and bowl is scraped clean and we are all so tipsy and full and exhausted from laughing that no one really cares what's for dinner.

That's just another reason why Mr. Twinkle's family is so foreign to me. There are never any cocktails or appetizers at his mother's house, which always makes for a sober and dour time. But I'm here to talk about his grandmother's house.

She serves a tiny tray of little hot dogs in a puff pastry and other little things like that, on a tiny little table in the corner of her den. You walk into the room and everyone is sitting down (always an atmosphere-killer), usually in silence, just watching anyone who dares to approach the appetizer table. I feel completely awkward helping myself to whatever veggie option is there (y'all know I only eat humane meat, and I doubt those little hot dogs lived happy lives). Anyone who dares to approach the appetizer table more than once is judged, so by the time the meal is served, there is still half a tray of sad little hot dogs sitting there all lonely.

My family would have polished off those sons-of-bitches in three minutes flat.

Tonight Mr. Twinkle's cousin dared to have more than one of them, and that girl's grandmother, the high-strung Aunt Irene, said all judgmentally, "You're not going to be hungry for dinner," as if this girl were a child, which she is not. For me, it's all about the appetizers; I couldn't care less what's for dinner (especially there, where all they ever serve is meat that I don't eat and some flavorless vegetable without any seasoning). So what if you're not hungry for dinner? As an adult, it's your business, not Aunt Irene's.

I think that they are missing out on festive, gossipy times around a bowl of dip. Of course, my dour MIL would never think of being catty and would never gossip for the sheer pleasure of it. The closest she gets is when she's fired up with righteous indignation about something-or-other, or when she judges someone for having too many children too close together. Her self-control around the decadent desserts (that she personally makes but rarely indulges in) mirrors her self-control regarding cattiness. In my family, the girls will sit around a plate of brownies/bowl of M&Ms/log of cheese and dish, gossip, and laugh until someone says, "Take these M&Ms away from me," and shoves them down the table for someone else to gorge on. (This is slightly different from the orgiastic feast of cocktail hour...it still involves a measure of gluttony but it's a more intimate setting).

And that is what I want for my children. When my girls are older I want them to, occasionally, sit down at the kitchen table with me and tell me funny stories and not be afraid to indulge in cattiness and more than one brownie. Not all the time, of course--I want them to be healthy and well and not morbidly obese, naturally--but I honestly think that's how memories are made and that's how relationships stay close. Maybe if my inlaws were less judgy and more fun, I would have that kind of relationship with them--I honestly wish it were possible. But the opportunity is never there, because the family culture is hostile to gluttony and gossip. It's their grievous loss.

Julep: anxiety

OK, I've gone from being very hopeful and excited to being a ball of anxiety. I started off worrying about what I would do when they hand me a newborn to take home -and now I am principally worried that they won't.

The birthmother missed a lawyer's appointment on Friday, which could be a simple scheduling snafu (she originally had an appointment at the agency on Friday which was moved up, and personally I didn't realize there was a separate appointment with the lawyer, so maybe she didn't either) or it could be that she is having second thoughts. I and my stomach lining do not need this kind of stress.

I think part of the problem is that I feel like I am in the first trimester "we're hopeful and excited but we know to be cautious because things could go bad suddenly" phase, but because of the timing, I have to act like I am in the third trimester "there's a baby coming any day, arrange your schedule accordingly and set up the nursery" phase.

I had to call two sets of other lawyers and the court and move a trial date yesterday. It made me want to throw up. If I tell all these strangers that we are expecting a baby and then she changes her mind and we don't get one after all, I'm going to look completely pathetic. And I don't mind looking pathetic to you girls, but it's not the kind of laundry I like to air with people I hardly know.

As I said to LoLa the other day, I know the Lord is working for the best, and if that means I get a heaping dose of humility instead of a baby, well - I probably need it. But it isn't going to be fun.

Julep: big news

We have been matched with a birthmother - the baby is due Nov 2 and she's already having contractions so nobody thinks it will be that long. The baby is a boy - the birthmother is biracial and the father is either biracial or white (there's more than one candidate).

We are keeping this news a little quiet until we have the baby actually in our hands ... I can't help feeling a little superstitious and I don't want to jinx anything. But the birthmother appears to be fully committed to adoption, her family is supporting that decision, and the birthfather candidates are uninterested in parenting. So far, everything looks good - no health concerns, she's had all her prenatal care, etc.

Keep us in your prayers and I will keep you posted!

Julep: All you can do is laugh...

I had a nice chat with Mr-Sister yesterday, trying to come up with ideas for Mr-Mama's impending birthday. I am truly awfully fond of her. But when I heard that she's been spending most of her free time with the horse she just bought ... well, re-read the "impartiality" post below. Sometimes a sense of humor is all I can muster.

Julep: Really?

Let me put forth a hypothetical.

If one of you girls - hypothetically speaking of course, as you would never - were to get quite tipsy at someone's post-Big Race party back in May, and were to stumble into the wall and knock into someone's lovely framed triptych of family wedding photos, breaking the frame into several pieces ...

... and you gave many drunken apologies and promises to pay for said frame ...

... and then failed to remember it once you sobered up ...

... and then several months later, your hosts delicately inquired if you might be willing to have this frame repaired ...

... would you think it was appropriate to go to Kohl's and buy a budget three-photo frame to replace the one you broke? And when it turned out that the 4x6 cut-outs in the budget frame were just a bit too large for the photos, since they are wedding photograper prints and an odd size, and your hosts gently explained that in fact, the only way to replace the item you broke was to take the whole thing to a frame shop where the wooden frame could be replaced (and fortunately, the mat and glass were undamaged)...

... what would you do next? Would you take your @$$ back to Kohl's and find another budget frame that isn't even the same color wood as the frame you broke, of totally different dimensions, with a cheap-looking mat with 3 1/2x5 cut-outs that are ever so slightly too small for the photos; put the photos in it; leave it on your hosts' doorstep; and keep all of the pieces that your hosts might have taken to the frame shop themselves if they didn't like your budget alternative?

You wouldn't? Really? Imagine that.

Julep: Impartiality

Sometimes the Mr-Family is a real mystery to me. Mr. J and his sister are both kind, warm, fun, smart, attractive, hard-working, lovely people. They have a really nice relationship with each other, and I think either of them would say that he or she also has a really nice relationship with the Mr-parents. However. The inequitable treatment of these two Mr-progeny is really astounding. Here's the most recent example.

Mr. J has been driving his 1998 Ford Ranger pickup for a long time now, and although he loves that truck, it is on the verge of being impractical. Most importantly, it won't accommodate two adults and a child seat. We knew this day was coming, and we've been scrupulously saving for a new vehicle for the past four years. He moved into an active-shopping mode last month. Although Mr. J has never had a new new car, and he would have dearly loved a 2011 model with a navigation system and the new Eco-Boost engine, he finally found a three-year-old Ford F-150 with a crew cab (so it has a back seat) that after taxes came in just over our budget. So we wrote the check.

Meanwhile, Mr-Sister has been driving a shiny new little BMW since 2005, a gift from her parents when she graduated college. She carts around a lot of large equipment around for her sales job at Mr-Company, and she recently decided she needed to trade the little BMW for an SUV. But money was tight as she spent quite a bit on her home renovations last year and (sadly) had a lot of vet bills this summer. Instead of trading in that Beemer - blue book value, $10k - for a used SUV, Mr-Sister is happily tooling around in a brand-new top-of-the-line Dodge Durango. Friends, this is a $50,000 car. Even a helluva negotiator couldn't get it for under $40k. Mr-Sister's cost? Free. She got Mr-Papa to buy it for her "as a company car."

Now, none of the rest of the sales force at Mr-Company has a company car. And you can bet your bottom dollar that if Joe Salesman down in Hopkinsville decided his old vehicle really wasn't suitable for the demands of his employment, he'd have to trade in the old one and take out a loan for something bigger. He wouldn't be getting a company car - and if he did it wouldn't cost $50k (what with the all-leather interior, satellite radio and nav), and it wouldn't get 12 mpg to be charged to his company gas card. Mr-Papa didn't buy Mr-Sister that fancy new ride because she is his employee. He bought it because she's his kid - and it's his company, more power to him if he wants to give her special treatment. But you know, he has two kids.

What do you want to bet that Mr-Sister pockets the money when she sells the Beemer? Meanwhile, not only did we buy the used truck we could afford, we are scrimping and saving to pay for an adoption as the Mr-parents are well aware.

I can't complain about this too much with Mr. J - I don't want to taint him. He is truly the best-hearted person I know. When he heard about Mr-Sister's new car, he did need a moment outside by himself with a cigarette. But then when he came back in, he only said that his parents have been good to him all his life and he has no room to complain that they haven't given him enough. And when Mr-Sis came over to show him the new ride, he happily fussed over every inch of it with her.

The Mr-parents have no idea how lucky they are. A less-beautiful soul would have been eaten up by this blatant partiality; he would be full of bitterness and rage at this uneven treatment. It's nearly too much for me, and it's not even my family. Mr-Sister is totally oblivious to the iniquity, and I have gently tried to raise it with her. She knows her parents are good to her, but doesn't even notice how good her brother is. My sisters would have tossed her out the back of the van and left her for dead years ago.

I wouldn't mind the Mr-parents giving Mr. J so much less financially if they valued him otherwise, or even acknowledged that they aren't fair to their kids. But they don't. Mr-Sister is their golden child while they pick at him about not working regular hours and not earning more, like he's some kind of free-loader. They never say they respect him for not asking them for money, or tell him what a wonderful loving person he is. I tell him ... but I would like to knock their heads together.

Julep: Where have all the bloggers gone?

We have all been laying down on the job here. I don't know about the rest of you but I need the regular pick-me-up of reading a snarky blog post. So I'll go first.

Here's a little fun reading material for you: God's Blog and a little piece from a magazine I have never heard of, called Garden & Gun.

The latter is a manifesto about the endurance of the Southern Belle ... to quote the article: "Fundamentally, no matter what the circumstance, Southern women make the effort. Which is why even the girls in the trailer parks paint their nails. And why overstressed working moms still bake three dozen homemade cookies for the school fund-raiser. And why you will never see Reese Witherspoon wearing sweatpants. Or Oprah take a nap." Let me air my pet theory y'all have probably heard before: to be a real Southern woman, one must be raised in the South, by a Southerner. The one doing the raising doesn't have to be one's own mother - in my case, it was my grandmother. I think this theory explains a lot about people like my mom, who spent her formative years above the Mason-Dixon line and doesn't quite have the same outlook. It also explains those certain friends who occasionally cause us to collectively tip our heads and say, "What on earth is she doing?"

It gives me comfort any time I see those paparazzi photos of Reece taking her kids to church on Sunday in L.A., dressed in their best. But can her daughter really grow up Southern while living in California?

Discuss.

I Don't Do Tacky: Dibbs

Dear Members of the Lifestyles Committee,

I realize that you are, gasp, models. I realize that one of you chooses to forego food and paying her dues so she can be judged "Best Dressed, Best Dressed, Best Dressed!!" by people who care.

Guess what.

I? Am Southern. You need not tell what's tacky. You need not monitor or micromanage my every move. And little model one, let me offer a suggestion: People who carry suede purses in June need not throw stones. Call me when your boobs come in.

Julep: A slightly edited RSVP....

Dear War Bride,

I received your invitation in the mail yesterday. Since there was no contact information given for the "hostesses" of said shower, and your name and address appeared as the return address on the envelope, I'm directing this RSVP to you.

As an aside - Miss Manners would not approve of arranging your own shower, dear. No wonder my aunt didn't sound terribly enthusiastic when she told me about it: I thought maybe it was just that she knew good manners would dictate that she, as your mother-in-law, ought not be hosting. Now I suspect that you asked her to front it while you plan everything yourself. Tacky. Where was I? Oh yes ...

It was very sweet of you to send me an invitation - although I already told my aunt (the putative hostess) that I would not be able to attend, so, when taken with your own name on the return address, it starts to look a bit like gift-grubbing. Very tacky. Where was I? Oh yes ...

I would rather shove bamboo under my fingernails than spend a Saturday afternoon at your baby shower. So although I don't have any scheduling conflicts on the books as of yet, you can be damn sure that I will come up with one between now and July 2.

Hope you have a wonderful time!

Best,
Julep

Julep: Paean to the Dinner Party

Check out this article from Gourmet....

My first thought is that our part of the country may be better at this than the Manhattanites and West Coasties who are commenting on the article. We have a supper club, and I know at least one of you girls does as well - and the ladies brunch is alive and well in our circle.

BUT, I have been thinking for the past six months about launching a practice of the true dinner party as described in the article - not just hosting our supper club group, who all know each other and all bring a dish. It just seems sort of daunting, and I wonder if the people I would invite would find it completely odd. But maybe this is my cue.

Dibbs: Flaming Liberal

I totally know I'm snobby about my co-workers. I assume they can read my mind thinking, "Yeah, I eat at places with one name; you eat at Mexican joints in strip-malls. I shop in boutiques; you shop in the South End mall." Yada, yada. It's an unpleasant fact of my existence, but I must face it.

Today I remembered one of the more flattering, to me, differences. We were talking about children's movies. I was all left out. I asked if "Tangled" was good (Thanks, Twinkle.) One of the women said her husband didn't even mind it. That sequed into me saying I made my dad read "The Help."

Blank faces. No one knew "The Help." I repeated it, as if that would jog their memories. More blank faces. I said, "Well, y'all better hurry up and read it, because it's going to be a movie this summer." They wrote it down. Then...I ruined it. "It's about the Civil Rights Movement in Mississippi." Screwed up noses, like something smelled bad. Oh, yeah, I forgot where I was.

Julep: In which I ponder the shower.

Y'all know I am a devout adherent of the Dibbs Anti-Shower Manifesto, freeing us from the tyranny of afternoons spent wearing pantyhose to sit around the living room of some woman you've never met who works with your friend's mother, emptying out your purse to win the game du jour, trying not to say anything eyebrow-raising to your friend's future mother-in-law, and watching your friend unwrap box after box containing one piece of her sterling flatware. Baths forever, showers never!

That said, last week I was advised as to two upcoming showers, and I am on the horms of a dilemma. One of the prospective showers will be a family affair. Pilot and War Bride are going to be at home for a week this summer and my aunt wants to plan a baby shower. I am dearly fond of my family, but almost certainly going to skip this one. First and foremost, I'd like to continue success in the battle against bitterness that this child is pregnant and I am not. On a more practical note, this prospective event has AWFUL written all over it. The median guest age will be in the very early 20s, if that. You know there will be games. I won't put any money on the presence of alcohol - even if it's there, there won't be enough to get me through an afternoon of giggling college girls guessing how many squares of toilet paper it would take to wrap around War Bride's pregnant belly. (I am not sure there is enough alcohol for that, period.) Last but not least, my aunt is darling, but she is from Cincinnati and you know the spread of eatables at a Yankee function is never up to Southern standards. And really, she shouldn't be hosting it herself ... oh dear.

In reflection, I wonder if our phone call the other day was her fishing around for me to offer to host the shower. Someone, please tell me I don't have to offer to host War Bride's baby shower. If it were at my house, the food would be good and I could get as drunk as I deemed necessary, but I still don't think I can deal with the squealing collegians.

The other baby shower is a girl I work with and quite like. I'll call her "Agnes." She grew up with Mr. J and their whole families are friends. This is not a "work" shower - I do go to those for workplace camaraderie, plus they're usually cocktail parties, no games, and always some of us hang out in the kitchen while the gifts are being unwrapped. Agnes and I joked that I am invited in my alter ego as a member of the Mr. J family, rather than in my professional persona.

Agnes assured me repeatedly that she will not take it amiss if I do not attend. She hates showers herself but her mom is dying to celebrate her first grandchild. Agnes insisted on scheduling the shower from 1-3 pm on a Sunday so as not to ruin an entire Saturday - there will be games, but the food will surely be delicious, and I foresee mimosas galore.

My dilemma is this. On the one hand, as we all know, one core element of Shower Refusal is refusing all invitations, since no one can get hurt feelings if you refuse to go to everyone's showers. On the other hand, I am a little worried about dissing Agnes, her family, and the larger circle of Mr-J family connections on the shower front. I admit this is self-serving ... but if the Adoption Fairy drops a baby in my lap on a week's notice, I might need a shower one of these days not too far in the future. I'm pretty sure there is a short-term sacrifice for long-term gain equation here ... or is it a long-term sacrifice for short-term gain?

Twinkle: This is a new one

You all know how, when Twinklette was a baby, my MIL never would admit that she wanted me. Well, I have a new baby now, and it's starting all over again. It's happened several times. The other day my FIL said, "That sounds like an 'I want my Mommy cry,'" and my MIL said, "Or an 'I'm ready to get out of here cry."' (Because every 8-week-old knows where she is and when it's time to leave someplace to go somewhere else...Tiny Twinklette was ready to get on with our day, by golly!) Even Mr. Twinkle acknowledges that it's an almost pathological obsession with my MIL, to minimize my relationship with my babies.

The worst was today. They wanted to join us at the farmers market for some unknown reason (intruding upon our weekly family time at the Douglass Loop market, might I add). Unable to locate Douglass Loop on their own, they had to come to our house first, and MIL was holding Tiny. Tiny started to cry and MIL said, "It sounds like you want..." (and here I really thought she was going to say it, but she just couldn't bring herself to). "It sounds like you want...to get in your carseat."

Yes, because when a baby cries it could either be because she's hungry, or tired, or has a dirty diaper, but most often it's because she wants to get into her carseat.

How To Lose A Girl In Five Minutes: Dibbs

The NBA Playoffs reminded me of a date I once had; I don't know if I ever told y'all. It was a few years ago in March. My rival team was the one-seed in the NCAA Tournament. Our team was firing Smirky the Clown. The date was a fan of the rival team and from Connecticut. Also, he didn't have a job (other than working trivia and selling Zoe, a very healthy vitamin drink.) And, he didn't believe in God. Strike One. Strike Two.
So...he proceeded to tell me all about said one-seed. Then he said, "I always hated Tubby." Now, I know all about some Tubby hate, but generally it emanates from someone with one tooth, and rarely is it uttered from a man who cheers for the other team. Why is this cat getting his dog in our Tubby-hating fight?
I asked. "Why would you hate Tubby?" And he said..."Because he didn't start"...the NBA player who was my brother's back-up.
Check, please.

Oh, do y'all think black beans and rice or Chinese take-out are acceptable Derby party side dishes? I don't, but I thought I'd check. Yankees.

If "Something Borrowed"="Something White Trash," Then Yeah: Dibbs

Y'all, I just have to giggle every time I see the previews for the "Something Borrowed" movie. You remember my cousin Crazy? She's pretty unforgettable, I presume. A few years ago she let me borrow the "Something Borrowed" book. (It's actually pretty good. You should check it out.) Anyway, when she handed it to me, she told me the Darcey character reminded her of herself and made some comment insinuating I was more like the mousy Rachel character. Funny how that turned out...I'll let you watch or read.
Anyway, if you've noticed the previews at all, Darcey is played by Kate Hudson, I believe. I'm pretty sure she never wore Nikes everyday, used food stamps, or took a piss in the floor. I'm not sure where Cray-Cray sees the resemblance. I am, however, happy for her healthy self-esteem. I'm sure it serves her well up in the Lady.

Twinkle: There's Someone Less Fun Than Me...Guess Who!

So, as the mother of a very headstrong three-year-old, I often feel like every moment of every day is an epic battle of wills. It's my job, of course, to make Twinklette into a productive member of society, and before that I would really like her to be one of those nice, responsible teenagers. Of course, those don't just happen naturally; they are the rare products of years of intense training. The way I look at it, the more I train her to act better now, the more fun we can have together long term.

Still, I want to be fun, but it's just not always in Twinklette's best interest for life to be one big party, even if I'd prefer it that way. After all, it has to be someone's responsibility to keep her from harming herself or someone else, or destroying the personal property of others, or even just getting her to take turns and share. That responsibility is clearly mine, which diminishes my fun quotient considerably.

Much of my time is spent chasing Twinklette, who takes great delight in running away from me and ignoring me when I tell her to stop where she is and come back to me. Tonight was no different. There was a time when all the kids were up moving around, and she got wild. So I tried to grab her, she avoided me (it's hard to go from a sitting position to chase mode with a sleeping infant strapped to you) and did a few laps around the room until my MIL caught her and wrestled Twinklette onto her lap.

Able to take it from there, I said, "Twinklette, I'd like you to come over here please so I can talk to you." Imagine my delight when Twinklette attempted to pre-empt my MIL's inevitable lecture by saying, "But, my mommy needs to talk to me right now." How can I help but be overjoyed by that? Not only was she using her smarts to avoid a schoolmarm-style smackdown, but she was essentially playing the mommy trump card (a subtle reminder to my MIL that I'm still the ultimate authority), and best of all I learned that there's someone besides me that Twinklette would least rather get a lecture from.

Because no matter how un-fun I am as a mother, there's always my MIL. She serves as a constant reminder to Twinklette that no one could be less fun than her.

Twinkle: Let My People Go (wherever they want for dinner tomorrow night)

So, there's a friend of ours, a certain eccentric former prosecutor-turned-defense-attorney with a proclivity for gourmet cooking, cats, and musical theatre. I think we all know to whom I'm referring here. This particular person turned down my in-laws' invitation to this year's Passover seder because his parents were in town and they didn't want to do anything religious. For the record, I think our friend normally enjoys the seders (as do I), but since his parents were in town and weren't interested, he decided to bow out this year. That's their business, in my opinion, and it's not my place--or anyone else's--to question it or be offended by it, even though I wish he were coming. The seder will be as bland as a matzo cracker without him.

He was gracious about it, explaining to my MIL that they were going to "do their own thing," which even she considered a legitimate excuse (although I'm sure she thinks no one can do Passover with quite the level of precision and organization that she does). Well last night he happened to run into my sister-in-law, and he mentioned to her the real reason that he wouldn't be coming to the seder: his parents aren't interested in doing anything religious on their trip here. Again, their business. SIL took offense to it, talked loudly about their "awkward" conversation in front of my MIL, who now knows the real reason this friend and his parents won't be at the seder. And, not possessing my level of magnanimity or ability to just shrug it off as not that big of a deal, my MIL naturally got all huffy about it. Mr. Twinkle and I denied knowledge.

Regarding my sister-in-law's punking of this person, my question is this: why do it? I would never, ever do that. Not that I felt the need to cover for our friend; I just believe that his reasons for attending or not attending an event are his business alone, so why mention the real reason to my in-laws when they're going to be upset about it? I am just not in the business of punking people, especially to people who go around acting more-kosher-than-thou and are notorious for holding grudges. Why do it? Why not just let my MIL believe they had their own family seder (as we all know, this friend of ours would be perfectly capable of throwing one)? That way, the friend and his parents get to observe their religious holiday in their own way, and MIL could still cling to the smug belief that no one would ever be so crazy as to turn down her brisket except for the most extenuating of circumstances, and peace would prosper throughout the land.

My point is people need to mind their own d*mn business and stay out of other people's affairs.

Julep: May I recommend...

... the website betterbooktitles.com, particularly as to children's books. I laughed out loud at "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "The Giving Tree."

Twinkle: Break out the champagne; I don't suck as a mother

OK I just have to rejoice about this...sorry if it's not the most exciting post or if it's TMI, but to me it's huge.

After months of flagellation and self-doubt about the fact that I had somehow screwed up Twinklette in regards to the potty, she has totally trained herself in an instant.

I never knew what I did to screw her up...I was actually very laid-back about the whole potty thing and was waiting (for years) for her to show signs of interest. Turns out I waited too long and missed my original window, but I know what people think about mothers whose children have potty issues. They think we are controlling b*tches who shame our children and rub their little noses in any accidents like we would a misbehaving golden retriever. On the contrary, I was almost too laid-back about the whole thing...but try telling that to the teachers at her preschool who only see the last kid in the class who won't use the potty and who refuses to get paint on her hands/clothes (also not my influence...I swear. I do like to dress her cute, but I am a supporter of the arts and want her to paint/be creative/do whatever her class is doing. I have never been mean to her over a dirty outfit. I just buy a lot of OxyClean.).

Anyway, she went to dinosaur camp yesterday, and I don't know what happened there, but in the late afternoon she announced that she wanted to wear panties. I said OK, even though we've been down that path before and she usually wants the panties without the accompanying responsibilities. I explained that wearing panties means actually trying to use the potty, and that accidents are OK sometimes, but only if she's actually trying to be successful. She said OK, donned a pair of Princess and the Frog panties, and has been using the potty totally independently ever since with not one accident.

I am totally incredulous that my headstrong and rebellious child, who just last November announced that she wanted to "break the rules of going to the potty" has just potty trained herself. It was all Twinklette. I mean, I did nothing, which, when I look at it like that, actually makes it seem like less of a parental victory. But it was the easiest victory ever, and long overdue, so I'll take it.

Julep: And while we're on the subject ...

... of cousins, there's some impending drama in the Mr. J clan. Y'all know Mr. J and I have been hosting Thanksgiving since we got married; for the past three years (since she moved home from Nashville) Mr-Sister has hosted the whole family at her house on Easter. She's already said she planned to do so again this year.

Well, Mr-Mama told me last week that Trashy Baby Mama Cousin wants Easter to be at her house this year. This comes after she just hosted Thanksgiving for her branch of the Mr-J clan (to my delight).

I don't want to go to her house for Easter. I don't like her, and I'm frankly not all that crazy about her mother or the Mr-Grands, either. But I really don't like how she seems to be pushing to take over all the holidays. This girl's wedding was the single tackiest experience of my entire adult life. (I know you DRGs haven't forgotten the "give us cash" poem tucked in the invitation.) Who died and made her Martha Stewart?

I told this new development to Mr. J last night. He said, "We're going to Mr-Sister's for Easter. And if she decides to go to Trashy's, we'll just do our own thing. I'm not spending Easter at Trashy's house."

I fell in love with him all over again.

Julep: Oy vey.

War Bride just posted her ten-week ultrasound picture on the Facebook. She's not popping that kid out until Halloween. This is going to be the. Longest. Pregnancy. E.V.E.R.

Julep: Isn't this timely....

Check out this article, titled "Why Exercise Won't Make You Thin."

Guess who is feeling pretty darn justified in giving up on boot camp.

Julep: Adoption progress

Thought I would give everyone an update on where we stand. Things have actually moved along pretty darn fast to this point! Now comes the time to cross our fingers that the rest of it goes quickly too.

We've turned in our application ... such a simple word for a stack of paper two inches high, including three letters of personal reference (thanks, Dibbs!); three letters of credit reference; forms signed off by our doctor, the veterinarian, and the marriage counselor we saw 3 years ago that everyone in the house is physically and emotionally sound; last year's tax return; copies of our birth certificates, marriage certificate and drivers licenses; and clearances from the State Police, the court system, and the child abuse registry. That's in addition to the ten pages we each had to fill out about ourselves and our family history and our relationship and how we plan to parent, and the joint application about our house, mortgage, bank accounts, life insurance, investments, and monthly budget. And there was the Discipline Form (which is actually horrifying, it lists all these things you promise not to do to your child, and the idea that anyone would do these things to a child is heartbreaking, Mr. J made me stop reading it to just let him sign it), and the Care Plan, stating who will take care of your adopted child if you are both hit by a bus - and we not only have to sign it, the proposed guardians have to sign it too.

(In case you're wondering, we named Little Sis and her husband. Although Little Sis is borderline certifiable, she is a really good mom. And while I'm sure she would be absolutely insufferable going on and on about how tragic it all is and how busy she is now that she's raising our child too but what else could she do after all -- if it happens, we won't be here to listen to it!)

We've also had our home study with the social worker: she went through all of the paperwork, interviewed us for a few hours, and physically inspected the house. Even though we don't have the baby yet, and he or she won't be mobile for quite some time, we had to put child locks on all the cabinets with medication, cleaning supplies, firearms, hazardous substances or alcohol. Since our alcohol usually resides behind the basement bar, it spent the day in the trunk of Dibbs's car. (Thanks again, Dibbs!) While I certainly see the need to secure said alcohol by the time our child's age reaches double-digits, I just don't feel concerned about a toddler getting the cork out of a bottle of wine.

We've also done the first 8 hours of our 20 hours of training - that will qualify us as foster parents with the state, so when the baby is born, we can bring him or her directly home from the hospital even though the adoption won't be finalized yet for a month or two.

Last but not least, we've finished our scrapbook - ahem, the "adoptive family profile." We did it on Snapfish - apparently that's what all the adopting parents do these days - as we needed five copies; the agency will distribute them to its social workers around the state who work with birth parents. The social worker reviewed our first effort and gently suggested that I needed to use bigger pictures, fewer words. The second effort looks great, for a child's picture book. Such a sad commentary.

Once the hard copies of the scrapbook arrive - and I write the next $4000 check - we're ready to be matched. We filled out a bunch of forms about what we are willing to consider in a child (race, gender, age, family medical history, substance use history, how far along in the pregnancy, contact after the adoption). The birth mothers do the same - maybe they tell the agency they only want married couples who are Catholic and don't have other children. So the social worker would pull our profile along with any other profiles of adoptive parents who meet those criteria, and check to see that we are open to the birth mother (i.e., her child will be biracial and we are OK with that). Then the birth mother looks at all those profiles and she ... picks.

Presumably, eventually, someone will pick us. I don't expect that will happen before the summer at the very earliest. It could be a year or more. But we'll see.

We are feeling good about it all. As we've gone through the process, it seems more and more real, and that is healing - and exciting. No more crying in church, which is a good thing.

Julep: Enthusiasm Gap

This morning I got blessed out by the boot camp instructor - whom some of y'all know socially, as do I - for my bad attitude, and I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. I am trying to avoid my knee-jerk reaction to criticism and engage in a little introspection.

Let me first say, I fully respect her fitness. She's got biceps that would make a scrawny teenage boy weep in envy, and you could bounce a quarter off her behind. I also respect her dedication. You don't get her physique without putting in some serious time. And she has done a great job of shaping me up, even with my bad attitude for baggage.

But she is not interested in complaints, even joking ones (and she isn't much one for positive reinforcement, either). By golly, we are supposed to be there at 6 am to exercise with enthusiasm.

I have dragged myself out of bed for boot camp for a good six weeks now, even when I was sick or really tired or had some other halfway-decent excuse not to go. To me, that felt like a victory. But she says I am not giving it my all. And you know, I see her point. I do not have said enthusiasm, and maybe if I were she, it would be frustrating me too.

Here's the bottom line: I don't really want to exercise, I just feel like I ought to do it. I'm not sure I want to achieve my fitness potential. I might be OK with being just fit enough to fend off the diabetes.

I don't know how this is going to pan out. I am going to try attending the rest of the session (3 more classes) with a positive attitude. But she's just so serious about it. If I can't make smart-ass comments while exercising, will there be any fun in it at all?

Twinklette: My Sassy Advocate

I knew Twinklette would make a fabulous big sister, and she is an even better one than I expected. She is absolutely in love with her new baby (let's call her Tiny Twinklette), and has never shown a bit of jealousy or resentment, nor has she even shown the slightest notion that her new baby might take attention away from her. She has met Tiny Twinklette with nothing but love, adoration, and goodwill, and I could not be prouder.

I never doubted that she would be just fine with the transition, but I didn't anticipate the way her smart mouth might be of service to me in my new role as Infant Mama 2.0. She is totally the kind of advocate and ally I need: one with a three-year-old sense of sass and absolutely no filter.

I needed to get out of the house today, so in an unprecedented gesture, I suggested to Mr. Twinkle that we drop by the inlaws' house to say hi. (This tells you how desperate I was to see the outside world). We loaded up the family wagon and drove over there...it was so nice to get out, it made them happy, and it was better than having them at our house getting all up in my bidness.

So Tiny Twinklette was wearing this personalized hat with her name on it, and it is a little too big for her head, but I put it on her anyway because it's cute and it does the job. MIL was holding her, and the hat fell off.

Me: Oh, I know that hat is a little big. You can take it off her if you want to.

MIL doesn't take it off, because meddling old matronly types are always obsessed with babies' heads being covered by hats, even in the controlled climate of the modern living room.

Twinklette (authoratatively): You need to listen to my mommy.

In that moment, I felt all the vindication of three years' worth of slights just melt away. Twinklette is the only person on earth who can totally tell off my biggest doubter and critic. Of course I pretended not to hear her, but I was smiling smugly on the inside.

MIL (defensively and with a sourness I'd not seen her use before with Twinklette): Well, I doubt Tiny Twinklette wants to have a cold head. Do you think she wants to have a cold head?

But she took the hat off anyway.

Pure Randomness: Dibbs

A: Love the new design. Who knew Blogger had gotten all fancy. Big ups, Blogger.

B: Let's hope I never try to adopt. I'll never pass the physical. I'll have to pay some young child to impersonate me at the doctor's office. Hell.

C: Is there a way to make your family stop calling you? I want to stop hearing the names of crazy people. And if that means my mother can't call, so be it. Also, she's no longer allowed to text. This, "Dad getting stint going 2 icu" is no good. It led to my infamous facebook warning to fashion a shiv, which could hurt me in the long run.

D: Remember St. Patrick's Day...and Boogie...green test-tube shots...and no parking places because of someone's grandma who shant be named? Now I'll probably just sit home and eat kale or something. #losing.

Lola: Core-Shifting

Hello darlings -
I am lost in a combination of Babyland and jury duty, actually. However, I will openly admit that it is my wanderings through Babyland that I have found the most compelling and disorienting as of late. I think I might be addicted to my child. And coming to this realization as someone who heretofore could take-or-leave babies, I find myself addled by it all. I spend too much time thinking about him during the day when I should be concentrating on due process or RFEs. The agitation I feel as I get ready to leave to pick him up from daycare is similar to what I imagine the addict's shakes could be. The complete joy of anticipation as I speed-walk through the halls of the daycare to pick him up are followed by the serene abject joy of his enormous grin at me grabbing him off the floor when I arrive. Pure addiction as I go through this scenario day after day. But this is pretty normal compared to my darker secret...

More disorienting, though, is that just thinking about children in general has more than once caused me to break into a sob at my desk. I never used to be like this. My only thoughts about children were generally that they were so-so, but more often, annoying. Any conversation about children caused my eyes to glaze over and my mind to wander. (You know me well enough to remember that fact, I am sure.) So anyway, imagine my surprise when the below movie trailer seriously caused me to have an emotional meltdown at my desk:



I was a wreck. The little-boy imagery was too much and I lost it. Contemplating all the little-boy things my future holds is absolutely heart-warming and gut-wrenching at the same time. So there you have it. I am in the midst of a serious core-shift the likes I have never experienced in all my life. Fortunately, I was able to find steady ground under my feet when I watched this video, so enjoy.



All my best,
LoLa

Julep: You girls need to post more.

I mean, sure, Twinks is about to have a baby and Dibbs had surgery and LoLa seems to be lost in Babyland ... but I need the occasional blog fix! Here are my moments of blog zen for today:

(1) Mr. J is out of town and Mr-Sis was going to stop by on her lunch hour to let the pooches out for a moment. She sent me an email around 11 to say that she was just on the phone with Mr-Mama, who was on her way home from running errands and would stop by our house "if that's OK!"

Fortunately I did not get this message until nearly noon, too late to speak up. Because I would have had to bite my tongue pretty hard not to say, "Actually, since the time we were ten hours away from home and your mother set my dog loose and left her roaming around the neighborhood so as not to be late for her riding lesson - I try not to ask her to interact with my pets."

I don't think that would have done much for family harmony.

(2) I've been feeling a little run-down this week. I've chalked it up to the trial I have coming up plus a lot more on my plate at the office, in addition to all the adoption stuff we are plowing through. No big deal.

One of the adoption forms is something signed off by our doctor that we are healthy enough to raise a child. Mr. J had a physical last week and he took the papers along for both of us. Doc had most of the info for mine already from my last physical in July, but she needed me to come in for a urine test and a chest x-ray. (A chest x-ray, really? Have they updated the regs since Waverly Hills closed?) I stopped in Friday morning and headed off to work.

I got a call today from the doctor's office that everything looks great for the paperwork. But, the nurse said, the urine sample actually tested positive for a low-grade strep infection, so Doc will call in some amoxycillin for you. I told her not to bother. It's been almost a week since I gave the sample, and it hasn't developed into anything. I'm tired, but I am pretty sure a couple good nights' sleep will be just as effective, cheaper, and less hassle at the pharmacy.

But it made me wonder. All of these years I've thought I was never getting sick, have I been fighting off bacterial infections all unawares? Do I only think I am usually quite healthy? Is that a good thing or a bad thing? And now that she's told me I'm sick, will I feel sicker?

Julep: Ice the Cake

First, let me say how glad I was to see someone else's blog post when I arrived on site - though I'm sorry to hear the circumstances. Twinks, here's hoping you and Twinklette make it through the remaining daddy-free time without committing hara-kiri.

Y'all know the big bad sad news about the passing of the grandmama. The finality is hard but I can't miss her any more than I already did. I'm not going to get into that because I already have the dehydrated/tears headache. I'd rather talk about this.

I pop on the Facebook this morning for the love and support of condolence notes (thanks, girls), and what do I see but a status update from War Bride, whom y'all will recall dropped out of college this summer to marry my 23-year-old cousin and move to Mississippi for his Air Force pilot training. We all know what's coming, don't we?

Yes, War Bride and Pilot are expecting. This is not exactly a shock - as Little Sis said earlier today, "Think how fresh those eggs must be, she's only been through puberty for about three years." Here's what slew me: she's due October 27. Some of you may be furrowing your brows to do the math, as I was this morning, so let me save you the trouble. Forget the first trimester, I'm not sure she's even out of the first month. Evidently War Bride peed on the stick and posted on the Facebook at the same time.

She is a sweet girl, and I'm sure she's excited about being a mama - what else does she have to do in Columbus, Mississippi? And God bless her, I sincerely hope they do have a happy healthy baby on or around October 27, without any complications. But as we all realize, there is good reason to keep these things to yourself for a little while. I guess when you're 20, the only sad pregnancy stories you know are the ones about girls who got knocked up after prom.

Twinkle: The Cough from Hell and the Worst Timing Ever

Most of you know that for the past few months I've been living the life similar to that of the teen moms on a certain MTV series: lonely, pregnant, with an absent babydaddy and (as in the case of some of the more wayward girls) another small child at my hip. The only difference between me and gals of Sixteen and Pregnant is home decor. I'll say it: mine's better.

Anyway, forgive me but I just have to rant. It all started when Twinklette developed a violent cough two weeks ago. Here's a concise timeline, which is really boring, but shows you just how long this has been going on and how incredibly annoyed I am with her doctor right now.

* Two weeks ago: Twinklette coughs so violently she barfs on herself and on the floor. We immediately visit the doctor but are happily dismissed and sent on our merry way without any medication or real diagnosis.

* All that week and last week: the cough persists.

* Last Friday: just as Mr. Twinkle is about to leave town, Twinklette becomes incredibly hard to deal with and complains that her ears are hurting. The cough has become an ear infection.

* Last Friday night: Twinklette spends the night with my in-laws, where they blithely watch the verboten Sesame Street and are under strict orders to call me if she gets sick or needs me. I know they will not do this, but she has to spend the night because Mr. Twinkle has an early flight to Florida and it's just better for everyone this way. I am already p*ssed at her doctor at this point.

* Last Saturday: Twinklette comes home with broken blood vessels around her eyes from violent coughing (which, shockingly, went unreported by my inlaws*). The pediatrician's answering service and I both mistake this for an allergic reaction to the antibiotic, so we spend hours that afternoon in the Pediatric Acute Care center on Poplar Level Road, which is filled with the dregs of society and is pretty much the free clinic of pediatric services. (I told you I was like one of those teen moms). The ear infection has become a double ear infection.

* Monday: Twinklette's school calls to report nasty stomach issues that have ruined an outfit. (I was on the phone with Lola when all this went down). They give her a t-shirt and someone else's socks (yes, apparently this episode affected even her socks) but when I arrive to pick her up, they say she seems fine and is having fun, so I let her stay.

* Tuesday (today): I try to have a fun day with Twinklette but it's filled with drama, tears, whining (and also more stomach problems), and I start to wonder if she's just going through a really unpleasant phase or what. I Google the side effects of her drug. As suspected, they include stomach issues and diaper rash, but also the complete inability to listen and cooperate, as well as whining, crying, ignoring one's mother, and having an overall b*tchy attitude from dawn 'til dusk. (This was officially listed as "hyperactivity and irritability," but we know that's just code for "royal b*tch").

So. Here we are. And I'm glad I Googled the side effects so now I can be a little more understanding of where all the drama is coming from. But DEAR LORD could it be worse timing? Mr. Twinkle skipped town the day after the medication started, and she has to be on it for 10 days--6 of which he will be gone. I do realize that he's working hard and that we will all eventually benefit from his tireless dedication, so I can't really be mad at him.

You know who I'm mad at? The d*mn doctor. If she had given us some d*mn cough syrup two weeks ago, we would not be in the downward spiral of unpleasantness we're in now.

Anyway...that's my rant, and I feel better. Thanks for listening!



* Oh, and it'll be a long, long time before Twinklette spends the night over there again.

Julep: Surely You Jest.

I just got home from a SuperBowl party at Mr-Sister's house. Mr. J is out of town but she invited me to come without him, which was awfully nice of her. I've gotten to know several of her friends well over the years, and I enjoy them. So off I went, and who ended up sitting beside me but her good friend S.

S is a sweet girl; I like her very much; she is also pregnant. This is not too big a deal - y'all know I am not one to begrudge, and although she is seven years younger than I am in fact S has been married longer. So although I didn't start asking her any happy baby questions, I was fine. Until ...

J, another gal pal of Mr-Sister's, is getting married in July, and it seems that they have already scheduled the weekend for J's bachelorette festivities. The girls discovered this evening that there is some fabulous music festival in Gulf Shores, Alabama on J's bachelorette weekend. Excitement ensued with great discussion of whether they can go to Gulf Shores for the bachelorette. S's husband called from across the room, "I don't think the doctor will OK that for you!" She said, "Well, maybe I can go ... when is it?" May 22. "I could maybe go. I'll see, anyway." Much joking from the room. She seemed annoyed.

So I asked her, quietly, "When are you due?" June 11, she said. I laughed and said, "I think you will have to sit this one out, no doctor will let you take a road trip to Gulf Shores at that point." And she said, "Well, you know, I'm planning to do a natural birth and all, so the doctor really isn't the final say."

Honey. I don't care if you are planning to spawn this child from your cranium like Athena from the head of Zeus. When you are TWENTY DAYS from your due date, you cannot be driving across three states to spend a weekend in the hot sun wandering around a music festival. I am sorry to be the one to break the news to you, but this will be the first of many fun times that your single, childless girlfriends will be having without you. Deal with it.

Oh, and at halftime, her husband stepped out to the backyard to smoke some weed.

Is it possible to call Child Protective Services before the baby is actually born? I would like to exercise eminent domain on that fetus.

Julep: This says it all

I keep meaning to mention this - thought of it this morning as I was getting dressed.

Mr-Mama bought me these darling boots for Christmas. She shopped for ages to find the near-perfect match to the gorgeous little suede jacket she purchased for me on our shopping trip back in October. So considerate, truly. She was so pleased to find them and wanted to be certain that I had the right size, so she bought two pairs with plans to take back the pair that didn't fit. She bought a 7 1/2 and an 8.

As she knows, I wear a size 7 shoe. But, she said, the 7 looked so tiny! She was sure I would need something bigger. (For reference, what with being 10 inches taller than I am, Mr-Sister wears a size 12 shoe.) As it happens, the 7 1/2 fit ... a trifle roomy but boots can be worn with thick socks, so all's well that ends well.

Who is so determined to get the right size that she is willing to buy two pairs of shoes, but doesn't buy the size that the gift-recipient actually wears?

Overheard: Dibbs

From our receptionist: "My sister-in-law has six inches of snow. She lives somewhere near California."

To self: "Why do I care?"

Receptionist: "Carroll County, I think."

Self: "Bless."

Julep: Stay on the happy side

Thought I ought to give you girls a bit of an update. As you know, we had dinner last week with my friends who adopted a daughter from China after having two biological sons. It also happens that my friend is the daughter of our town's biggest adoption lawyer, and they are both lawyers themselves who have worked with her dad at least a bit. So they know a lot about adoption, from the personal side and the legal side.

They were so incredibly positive and encouraging, with so many good things to say about their own experience. Even though we won't follow their same road (Mr. J feels strongly about domestic versus international), they gave me a lot of comfort that although this will be a difficult process, someday it will be over and we will have a child of our own even if not a biological child. So although we are still working through the process, we are getting some traction. Planning to contact the adoption-lawyer-dad next week when he returns to town from vacation, and maybe also the local non-profit agency.

Meanwhile, we are continuing to lay ground work. We dropped something off at Mr. J's parents' house last weekend and took the opportunity to broach the subject with his folks. Of course my own mom has been in the loop the whole time, but evidently Mr. J had been somewhat less forthcoming ... no surprise there. Mr-Mama was sort of aware that we had gone to see the fertility doctor but that is all she knew. So we gave them the details on the lack of success, and explained that we were turning our attention to adoption.

They were pretty quiet, mostly, and what little they did say was supportive. Mr-Papa was all "however it happens, it will be a good thing." Mr-Mama referred to a good friend of hers whom I did not realize has two adopted children, and I was glad to hear that because I think it will give her a helpful frame of reference. And then she asked me in a concerned voice, "What does your mom think about this?"

I said something vague about how my mom thinks we should do whatever we need to do, but it struck me as odd ... not that she asked, but the sort of ominous tone she used. I asked Mr. J later what he thought she was getting at, and he said, "She's so different from your mom, it's hard for her to know what your mom thinks about anything. I'm sure she was just curious." Well, maybe.

What I think is that Mr-Mama wanted someone to give her an opening. What with Mr-Papa being all power-of-positive-thinking, she didn't want to head out on the limb as the naysayer. She was hoping my mom would have already voiced some concerns, so that she could get on board and start throwing out her own issues. But my mother's parenting credo is: "whatever makes my kid happy is great with me." As I said to Mr. J, we could tell my mother we are never having kids - great! we are doing IVF and hoping for triplets - great! we are adopting an alien baby - great!

I'm expecting Mr-Mama to have all sorts of things to say once she gets warmed up. I just hope she decides to land on our side ... Mr. J doesn't need any more stress.

Twinkle: The Epic Swingset Battle

I just waged it, and won.

It happened, conveniently enough for Mr. Twinkle, when he and Twinklette had just left for a little early afternoon sledding in the park. It's probably better that I handled it myself. If I'd sent him out there to deal with the situation, I would have a swingset smack dab in the middle of my back yard right now. I would also have no hope of a garden, ever.

It was a hard-fought battle. My FIL and the handyman, Terry, had the thing set up right in the center, where it would have taken up every square inch of any garden I'd ever hoped to have. They tried to argue that I needed to watch the children from inside the house. They tried to argue that my ideal placement of the swingset wouldn't work because of the trees/garage, and because the swingset is a behemoth. My FIL even said, "Can't you just plant tomatoes in that corner over there?"

And you, my attorney friends, would have been so proud of me. I was not intimidated by these two men trying to tell me how to use my yard. I stood up for myself! I made my case for not needing to watch the children from the house. I argued that I thought it would fit, which was the whole reason why we measured before choosing the swingset in the first place. I said that no, a corner of the yard reserved for tomatoes is unacceptable. (I'm pretty sure my FIL doesn't begin to comprehend my grandiose Carloftis-like vision. And why would he, when he has spent his entire life with a woman completely devoid of imagination?). It was my own little feminist rebellion against the patriarchy. Hands off my womb and my garden, sons of b*tches!

I know my FIL is probably annoyed with me for not just going with what he wanted for the yard and the swingset. (Terry was slightly nicer about it). Maybe I seem like a spoiled b*tch, or some annoying harridan who will not be silenced. But am I really so spoiled for wanting my yard the way I want it? I think it's a pretty reasonable request, and there are worse things to want in life than a garden.

Anyway, I won. After several configurations and a lot of attitude from my FIL, who no one in the family ever stands up to, the swingset is going to be nestled under the trees, behind the garage, in the shade, out of sight from the house, and not taking up any (or all) precious sunny spots in the yard. And it actually doesn't look half bad. It looks like a really nice place for little girls to play...and it'll be even better when I go all Carloftis back there.

I sort of have to now, don't I?

Twinkle: See for Yourselves

I know you've seen and lived the difference firsthand, and I'm going to stop harping on this League thing for now. But when I saw these pics posted online, the glaring differences in our and other Leagues became all the more apparent. I'm not saying the girls of the Charleston League never get their hands dirty, as I've never been a member there, and I'm not saying I'm opposed to doing manual labor.

Actually, I am opposed to manual labor. I would much rather raise or donate money and pay someone else to do manual labor. Add that to my credentials as an uppity b*tch who clearly no longer has a place in today's Junior League. But the main point is that the differences between Leagues speak for themselves.

Our League:




















Charleston League:



















I rest my case.

Twinkle: Garden in Peril

I'm of the belief that yards and gardens--even (especially!) ones near houses where children live--can be full of natural beauty and magic. With love and imagination, I think they can be considered fabulous and delightful by people of any age, a la The Secret Garden. My particular bit of earth (backyard) is a complete and utter empty slate. It was a slate I'd hoped to fill with something lovely and Jon Carloftis-like. It could take years, but that's how long we'd like to stay here.

I'm not one to look a gift swingset in the mouth, but when my in-laws proposed said swingset and came over to measure for it, they wanted to buy one so large that it would have taken up the entire yard. Literally. (It's not that hard to do--the yard isn't large by any means. Your standard Lake Forest-style McMansion swingset would easily fill up the whole space). Mr. Twinkle and I requested a smaller model, something we could stick behind the garage under a cluster of tall trees--a magical, semi-secluded spot that wouldn't interfere with a garden and would be a shady, delightful place for our girls to play.

Well, the day of reckoning is here, as I learned this afternoon when I walked downstairs to find a familiar silver Camry parked in my driveway, and a certain father-in-law snooping around my back yard. My first impulse was to hide and pretend not to be home, but I figured if I didn't, the swingset would end up exactly where I didn't want it. So I went out there to defend my garden-to-be. And how ridiculous is it that I even have to?

My father-in-law informed me that the swingset might be too big to fit where I want it, and if so they might need to put it somewhere else. And don't I want to be able to see the swingset from the kitchen window? (Well, no, actually I don't think I need to. When Twinklette and her sister are little, I will probably be out there playing with them anyway, and when they get older I think they'll be fine out there in the highly secure fenced back yard by themselves. Not that my reasoning is anyone's business but mine and Mr. Twinkle's. Why do I even have to explain myself on this?)

I explained that I want a garden, and that I like the idea of the swingset being in the shade, and that they need to find a way to put it where Mr. Twinkle and I want it. I was informed that it still might not fit. I thought that was why we measured the yard and decided on a particular model before. And if it doesn't fit where I want it, I say instead of finding a new spot for it, we find a new swingset.

My father-in-law then informed me that he'd need to set up the swingset in my garage right now, so that he and a handyman can put it in the yard tomorrow. This means that Mr. Twinkle and I won't be able to park in the garage tonight. In the 4-6 inches of predicted snow. If the snow's bad, who even knows if they can get over here and install the swingset tomorrow? Our cars could be parked outside in the elements for several days. As I was writing this, there was a knock on the door and I was informed that I needed to remove my car from my garage right this minute, so that swingset assembly could officially begin.

I feel like my in-laws are getting awfully bossy over a swingset that I could take or leave.

Just Thought You Needed To Know: Dibbs

As I was exiting Jack Fry's tonight, I saw Gary, Mayor of Bardstown Rd. He was drinking a White Russian. I did not spot the Seque.

Twinkle: Frivolous League Rant

Have you all seen the new Southern Living? Of course you have. But I'm wondering how in-depth you all read those Best of the South Travel Awards. There is a simply gorgeous picture of several Southern belles lounging and looking pretty in an opulent room wearing dresses designed by an up-and-coming Charleston designer, Lucinda Robinson. The dresses are Grecian-inspired and designed to flatter any figure, and I'm totally coveting one for the upcoming YWC ball.

Anyway, I missed it the first time around but just saw the caption: Designer Lucinda Robinson, foreground, with Junior League provisional members at the Aiken-Rhett house in Charleston, South Carolina.

Now, I'm pretty much through with trash-talking our League here because most of us have moved on to greener pastures, but this just made me a little sad. That's what it's all about, girls--reclining on antique chaise lounges with your friends, holding bone china teacups and wearing beautiful flowing dresses, preferably designed by a fellow League member. This picture was what I envisioned League life would be like when I emerged fresh-faced from my sorority house and joined the League as a recent college grad.

Instead, what did I get? You all know the answer: a bunch of whining about how too many of us are blonde and live in Prospect (and, incidentally, none of us Daddy Rabbit girls do). An initiative to increase the diversity of our members' zip codes. Evening meetings/recruitment events at the Boys and Girls Club at 38th and Dumesnil. Relaxed membership standards. No ball even though the members beg for one. Five dollar bag sales. And a whole lot of Pendennis animosity and hatin' on white gloves and pearls.

Even the word "provisional" gave me a pang of nostalgia--do we still call them that? I don't pay much attention anymore, but it seems like the kind of word our League would change in favor of something more politically-correct. (Don't get me started on how you can't use the word "rush" or call sorority pledges "pledges" anymore. It's a modern tragedy.)

Can you imagine if Southern Living approached a business owner from our League and wanted to run a picture like that? Ninety percent of y'all have been on the board and know exactly how something like that would go down: there would be major drama about how it represents the wrong image of our League and how we're not a "white glove organization" anymore. One reason I went sustainer was to avoid hearing the phrase "we're no longer a white glove organization" ever again. It's just too upsetting. What is so wrong with white gloves, anyway?

All I know is, that picture represents the best of what could have been for our League, and for us. I will always be loyal to the League because, as I've said so many times before, it brought me all of you. But when I look at that picture I can't help but think of what we missed out on, thanks to the Dooner League members who came before us. It was our bad luck that they got their turn at white gloves and gentility, then turned around and made sure we didn't get ours.

I'll tell you one thing: if our League acted more like the picture above, it wouldn't be begging for members and money all the time.

Julep: Let me explain.

Lola, I appreciate the support, I really do. I know that you are speaking from your good, kind, loving heart full of sympathy. And I am very glad that the woman who wrote the NY Mag story is happy with the way her situation has turned out. I am not sitting in judgment on anyone whose conscience does not object to these things - although I think it is a sad reflection on our culture that we have gotten to the point where so many people's consciences do not object.

As for me, I am morally opposed to IVF, let alone surrogacy. It isn't simply that I take seriously my obligation to form my conscience by educating myself as to the Church's teachings -- although I do. It so happens that on this subject, what the Church teaches matches up with what I have always thought and felt. Life should not be created in a laboratory (... or destroyed in an exam room for that matter. People struggling with infertility wouldn't feel like these measures are necessary if women with unwanted pregnancies were given the support, resources, and encouragement they need to pursue adoption instead of abortion. But I digress). Just because science has developed to the point that we can do something doesn't mean we should do it.

Surely God will love a baby however it comes into being - that's not what I'm worried about. I'm not going to abandon my moral principle now that my circumstances are making it inconvenient.

On a more practical note, there is no reason to believe that IVF would work for us: we don't have the conditions (low sperm count, irregular ovulation) that it is able to ameliorate. And while adoption is evidently going to be a huge hassle and expense, I can't envision any less of a hassle or expense in finding an egg donor, and/or a sperm donor, and/or a surrogate to generate a baby who won't be genetically related to us and whom I can't nurse. I'll just have to find one who is already out there and needs a family.

Unlike the woman in the magazine article, Mr. J and I don't have age issues or medical issues that will interfere with adopting. And if we do have issues -- or if we never get matched with an adoptive child -- I guess we'll chalk it up to God's will and learn to live with it, hard as that may be. My conscience simply is not OK with ordering up a baby like take-out.

Julep: 2011 is off to a great start!

So I talked to my friend who adopted from one of the two non-profit adoption agencies in our town and is now on its board of directors. I learned that adopting with them will cost us a minimum of $27,000 in fees (maybe more), with a projected wait of two years, and a 25% disruption rate, meaning that the birthmother changes her mind before the adoption is final.

The $27,000 is actually a bargain. If we go with a for-profit national agency, while the waits are shorter, the fees go up to about $50,000. I checked some websites and notice that none of the national agencies will say how much they charge. Evidently if you have to ask, you can't afford it.

My friend said that when they left the hospital with her adopted daughter, the agency worker warned her, "Don't fall in love with that baby - she's not yours yet." In Kentucky it takes 30 to 60 days to finalize an adoption. Since I am terrified of tiny infants as a general rule anyway, I can imagine what success I will have at bonding with a newborn whom I can't nurse and must be prepared to relinquish at any moment.

Did I mention the $50,000?

Mr. J talks so little about how he feels, and I know it's because he wants to be strong for me. But his good friend who now lives in Chicago stopped by yesterday with his wife and 6-month-old, and when they left, Mr. J said, "I almost teared up looking at that baby and knowing we aren't going to have our own."

God sucks. That is all.