Saga of the Little Blue Truck

Are y'all familiar with Little Blue Truck? I sure am. I could probably write out every word to the entire story right here and now. The Bear loves that damn book. It showed up at my house around Christmastime, and I've read it at least ten times a week since. Where did it come from? I really couldn't say. It's not like my child didn't have a giant mountain of presents courtesy of his extended family. Maybe it was slack of me, but I opened everything in sight of the gift givers and with no need to write thank you notes, the specifics of who gave my kid which board book were not entered into my mental catalogue.

Why does this matter? Well, it seems Mr-Mama was at our house today, spotted Little Blue Truck, and got worked up. Evidently she was the source of Little Blue Truck, and that book was supposed to stay at HER house. She tried to take it with her, and Mr. J had to beg her to leave it behind given that the Bear is obsessed with it. Now I am supposed to call her and apologize for making off with Little Blue Truck, and promise to buy another copy that can live at her house.

You've got to be kidding me. First of all, it's not like anyone actively stole the damn thing from her house (with the possible exception of the Bear). An extra board book makes its way into the huge pile of gifts I am toting home from her house, and somehow I should have noticed? Second, in light of the giant and ever-increasing pile of garbage she has already bought for him, she balks at replacing Little Blue Truck?

Is it just me or is this drama unreasonable? Mr. J said so himself. In the past couple of weeks (months) she has just been over the edge about every little thing, a veritable font of crazy. There's a pair of new Bandolino boots sitting in the box on the floor of our bedroom because when I tried to ask her about returning them (on the grounds that I don't like to wear flats and don't need another pair of black boots) she got chippy with "that's what they are showing this year" and "everyone is wearing those" and acted like it was a high crime to not want something she bought without asking me first.

I kept the boots for now (what a waste of money - those things are expensive!) because I have been told before to just take her gifts and say thank you even if I don't want them to avoid hurting her feelings. But this is starting to verge on the pathological. I am not going to live my life on pins and needles, keeping every POS she decides to buy me and calling every three days to apologize for something.

I told Mr. J I will "apologize" this time as a favor to him, but don't think this is going to be a habit. Next time his mother acts like a nut, he needs to tell her she's crazy - or at least, he needs to deal with it without my involvement.

"Senator Hagel Tied to Junior League of Hezbollah"

I think we all know the occasion in which the Junior League of Hezbollah first made an appearance in the U.S. And I believe there is photographic evidence to prove it. But I do not remember Chuck Hagel being there....

Twinkle: Speaking of "No Means No..."

I want to get more in-depth about something I touched on the other night, specifically that Fun Sink is always trying to get me to eat desserts. I've noticed for awhile that she's always trying to pressure me into eating the desserts she makes, but I've never thought much about it or noticed that I'm the only one she pressures.

The other day, I brought up to Mr. Twinkle how annoying it is that she's always trying to get me to eat desserts, even after I decline them, and so I guess he was watching that night when the time came for dessert and she gave me the hard sell. Here's how it went down:

Fun Sink: Did you want some ice cream cake?

Me: No, thank you. I'm good for now.

Fun Sink: It's really good. There's chocolate or vanilla ice cream. Let me get you some.

Me: No, really. I'm full from dinner.

Fun Sink: Let me just get you a little piece.

Me: Thanks, maybe I'll get some in a minute.

(A few minutes later)

Fun Sink: Oh, look--E didn't eat much of her ice cream cake. Do you want this? She barely touched it. It was really good.

Me: No, thank you. I don't want any.

Fun Sink: Did you try those brownies Amanda made? They have Heath Bars in them?

Me: That sounds great. I'll get one in a minute.

Fun Sink: Let me get you one now.

(At that point I pretty much had to take a brownie as Amanda was standing right there and I didn't want to be rude, and also I just wanted Fun Sink to shut up about it).

Me (After one tiny bite, which is all I ever really want from dessert): Those are delicious.

Fun Sink: Aren't those good? Are you sure you don't want to try some ice cream cake?

Mr. Twinkle noticed the hard sell and we discussed how she never pressures him, or my father-in-law, or her mother, or my sister-in-law, or my brother-in-law, or any of the grandchildren, or any of the various aunts, uncles, or cousins, to try dessert. Mr. Twinkle pointed out that she'll make four different kinds of dessert and then judge him for actually trying all four. No, when it comes to trying to get people to eat dessert, she only pressures me. Pretty curious.

Also, Grandma-in-Law was showing pictures to A of everyone's recent trip to Connecticut, and Mr. Twinkle heard GMIL saying, "See how much weight Uncle David has lost! Doesn't he look great?" Mr. Twinkle told her flat out to stop it. She does not need to be thinking about weight or knowing what weight is or having the notion that some people might want to change theirs. She's a five-year-old girl, and we're trying not to give her an eating disorder. What is wrong with these people?

On a related note, Uncle David was the one who started this whole family nutritarian trend, and now he and Lindsey are the family standard-bearers for health and wellness. My style isn't so all-or-nothing, which is why, unlike Uncle David, I can take one bite of Amanda's Heath Bar brownie and then not eat the rest of it. It's also why most people don't get annoyed by my eating habits or even pay attention to them at all (my brother-in-law will actually show up at someone's house for a dinner party and bring his own damn salad).

Fun Sink said something to Mr. Twinkle about how he should become a vegan/nutritarian the other day...it's funny how she never gives me the hard sell on that. She also has no idea about the healthy vegan meals we eat at home, because we don't go around shoving it in everyone's face all the time and making it the single way we define ourselves. She loves comparing me side to side with my dour, boring, beige sister-in-law, and knowing that no matter what other good things I may be, I will always come out on the losing end of my SIL's size 0. And that is just mean.

Twinkle: Mr. Twinkle's Family Food Issues

Mr. Twinkle and I recently had a conversation about his complicated relationship with food. I've always found it odd that he can be self-loathing about the food he's eating, as he's eating it. As in, "I can't believe I'm eating this ice cream. I should not be eating this. But it's so good. But I should not be eating it. But it's so good." There's no enjoyment; only guilt. Meanwhile his mother is constantly baking desserts, but his immediate family goes on these crazy diets where they won't eat anything. There's no pleasure; only guilt. The whole thing is just bizarre. (This article that Mr. Twinks found touches on some of the Jewish social pressures surrounding food, although it doesn't go into the self-loathing issues).

Anyway, tonight we had to get together for some dumb family birthday party, and Aunt Irene was there. She's the one who's always judging Kelly for her mini hotdog consumption. She's a teeny tiny, high-strung little woman. Someone asked her if she wanted a Sister Schubert roll, and she said, "Just a little one. I really shouldn't." Seriously, Aunt Irene...you weigh 90 pounds and you are 80 years old and it is a Sister Schubert roll. Live a little. Don't be ashamed--own the sh!t out of that Sister Schubert roll. Also, it's a Sister Schubert roll, so they're all EXACTLY THE SAME SIZE. SMALL.

Fun Sink was trying to dance around the issue of how they left the birthday party before cake was served. She was trying desperately to explain why the party hostess sent cupcakes (which she thought were much too large) home with the girls. It was hilarious to hear Mr. Twinks press her for details on the cake and watch her evade the question and change the subject. (It's also very telling about the family's complicated relationship with food that it's perfectly normal for him to demand every detail about a birthday cake). She actually didn't want to give the cupcakes to the girls, though! She said, "Do you really want those cupcakes, or do you just want me to throw them away?" No, my friend sent those cupcakes to the girls, so I want the girls to have them. She needn't concern herself about their size; they'll lick some icing off the top and that will be the end of it. No need to pass along the family food issues to them.

Also, I don't eat a lot of sweets, and I'm tired of Fun Sink trying to cram cake down my throat. I seriously think she wants me to be fat. No thanks, Fun Sink. I'm pretty sure all your recipes use Cool Whip, which is an abomination. I'd rather save my calories for wine, thank you very much.

Twinkle: Fun Sink Spurns a Friendly Warning

I've decided to try to be more real with Fun Sink. I'm never going to be the perfect one in her eyes (that dubious distinction goes to my sister-in-law), so instead of pretending I have it together all the time, I'm trying to admit the times when I really don't. I guess I'd hoped for a little realness back from her. But, no.

Last night was my turn to host our supper club. Fun Sink graciously offered to take the girls starting at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, but E had a birthday party and A, a friend of the birthday boy's big sister, was invited, too. Fun Sink said she'd take the girls to the party.

Here's my experience as a mother of three: the hardest situations to handle are when all three girls all going in different directions and wanting to do different things. A restaurant is doable, because everyone's relatively contained. Something with planned activities (games or crafts) is fine because their attention is focused on the same thing, and I can hold baby B, and all's well. A birthday party is usually the worst of the worst with all three of them, because A goes off in one direction and E either goes off in a different direction where she'll need to be supervised, or else decides she needs to be held, which would be fine if B didn't need to be held, too.

I told this to Fun Sink. I begged her to leave B with me and come get her after the party. I straight-up told her that taking all three of them would be "miserable." I used the word miserable. In regards to my children. To Fun Sink. I was trying to be straight with her. She said she'd be fine, and I knew as she walked out the door that she had absolutely no idea what she was getting herself into.

When A was asked about the party this morning, specifically about whether or not Bella was there (because you all know that putting Fun Sink alone in a social setting with Bella's mom could spell disaster), A said they had to leave before Bella got there. A few more questions revealed that they left the party before cake and ice cream. Apparently Fun Sink did not last very long in the setting I described as "miserable," yet when I asked her about the party when she dropped off baby B last night, she didn't mention the early departure and said everything went fine.

I feel bad that the girls didn't get to stay at the party the whole time, but I warned Fun Sink about what she was getting into. If she had taken my advice and left baby B, the big girls could have stayed at the party for the whole time. And even if they did leave early, why couldn't Fun Sink just admit that it was all too much to handle? I know the answer, of course--because not only would she be admitting that she can't handle them in a party setting; she'd also be admitting that I was right about it being too much. And the very worst thing for Fun Sink would probably be for me to know that she knows I was right.

Lola: Just Sayinging "No" Diplomatically

As I mentioned to Twinkle not too long ago, I recently joined a local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Truly, it is like the sweetest little old lady sorority you could imagine. They wear pins and ribbons and say an opening ritual before each meeting, which in the case of the DAR is very patriotic and includes the Pledge of Allegiance and the Preamble to the Constitution, followed by a rousing rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner! Moreover, I have to be amused by the fact that this is a new chapter which was recently chartered to be the new, young, and spunky chapter in our dear city. (And I can tell you that the 92-year-old member does seem rather spunky!) To this end they have purposely scheduled all their meetings for evenings and weekends in order to reach out to a new crowd and demographic ~ presumably ladies sort of like me to liven the place up a bit. Nevertheless, that average age is still about 65 – or whatever today’s retirement age is. And in keeping with the idea of preserving history, the topics presented at the last meeting were antique sewing implements and quilting(!). Despite the esoteric nature of both of these (at least to me), I found the discussion really fascinating and kind of fun. And you all know that I am happy to learn something new, particularly in the genre of decorative arts.

This past weekend was a lunch in honor of this chapter’s first year. It was a lovely luncheon with an honest-to-goodness really cool feminist speaker, talking about her efforts to break through glass-ceilings in our Commonwealth’s signature industry. Three cheers for more spunk on display!
Anyway, the reason for this post is because of an awkward interaction I had with one of the women at my table. First off, I understand that the DAR is a haven for women who are totally into the whole genealogy thing. Moreover, I also understand that many of these women have grown up in families where every female member of their family has been a member for generations. (Not at all the case for me.) I admit that I do think it is cool to think I have a great-great x 7 who fought in the Revolutionary War and appreciate that the DAR is in the forefront of national organizations actively preserving American history (and desperately attempting to ameliorate an ugly period of racial insensitivity).

So the fact that much of the discussion at our lunch table centered around the search for family ancestors is not surprising; nor is it surprising that there are more than a few of us who can also trace a few genealogical lines to a confederate soldier or two (given that we are residing south of the Mason-Dixon line). But surely, just because I have a great-great x 4 who died at the Battle of Shiloh fighting for the CSofA, should not lead one to believe I also want to join the Confederate Daughters of America too. Have you seen the OBAMA/BIDEN sticker on my car? But she was pushy. I get that she’s originally from Virginia and her mother was a member and she was a junior member and she is president of a local chapter, but that is just not a heritage I want to embrace. I tried to be polite in questioning her about the controversial nature of celebrating that part of American history, particularly in our city. (She admitted she was surprised how controversial it is here where we live. Uh…really!?!) I also mentioned that in light of where I work, I didn’t know that it would be too appropriate for me professionally. I was unable to assess the temperature at the table based upon the complete silence of everyone else. But now she’s sent me an email inviting me to her CDA luncheon. How does one make it clear that one is not inclined to join such an organization (because state’s rights ain’t the reason for succession) in a manner which is polite and lady-like. Because I am about at the point of saying “Please don’t be ridiculous!”

Fortunately, I know that the DAR is not aligned in that direction and in fact, it recently came under fire by FOX news for removing some Christian references in its chaplain’s prayers, so as to appeal to a broader and growing sector of non-christian membership. (And y'all know I am down with any organization provoking the ire of Fox News!!) Even better is that at the luncheon, I pulled in between two cars – a Volvo station-wagon with an Obama sticker and another car bearing a sticker in support for our U.S. Congressional delegate…who we all love from the bottom of our liberal-leaning hearts. I do not expect that every member of every organization be as liberal as I am. Moreover, I appreciate diversity of thought and ideas...to a degree. So today I am giving Miss Confederate the benefit of the doubt; she’s not from around here and she is probably a little bit dumb. I think a non-response is my friend at this point and will await the next meeting in hopes the solicitations will cease.
Cheers darlings; Or as we would say in my collegiate sorority, “In the Bonds!”

Julep: Just say "No."

Twinks, your post inspired me to recall a recent irritation I meant to blog about....

Unwilling to be called Grandma or Grams or Nana or anything that the general population would recognize as a cognomen for a grandmother, my MIL has chosen her own cutesy-pie nickname for the Bear to call her. Fine, whatever. I think it's cloying, but I can deal. My FIL says - quite reasonably, in my opinion - that we can wait to see what the Bear wants to call him. All well and good, but in the 1.5 years before the Bear starts verbalizing, we have to call him something. I have opted for "Granddad." Mr. J was very attached to his mother's father, now deceased, whom he called "Granddaddy," and this seems like a nice homage. Plus we are already calling my stepdad Grandpa and my dad Grandpa De (as his own father was called - not that he has met the Bear or anything); personally I dislike the P grandpa names (hearing people talk of "Peepaw" makes me shudder), plus Mr. J's other grandfather is still living and goes by Pawpaw so I can chalk it up to avoiding confusion.

OK, so, we call Mr-Papa "Granddad" until the Bear can speak for himself, right? Well, that's not precious enough for my MIL. She thinks the Bear should call him "The Captain." Let us be clear that this is not in reference to any actual professional qualifications: it's not as though Mr-Papa is an airline pilot or a former Navy officer. No, it's a reference to their yacht. If the rest of the family referred to him as "The Captain" or if Bear somehow came up with this for himself based on the one trip he has taken to said yacht, that might be different (although honestly, not really), but for her to just dream it up? To quote Steel Magnolias, "An ounce of pretension is worth a pound of manure."

The first time she came up with this idea, I asked when she had replaced Tenneille. Never one to accept a "no" graciously, she tried floating it again a few weeks later, and again I shot her down. I have been more than clear that this is NOT going to fly. I thought this stupidity was dead and buried until I went to pick the Bear up over at the in-laws' house last weekend. Bear had spent an hour or so hanging out with Mr-Papa while Mr. J and I ran some errands - my MIL had just gotten home, and she was bouncing him around and saying, "Did you have a fun time with Cappy?"

I said, "MIL, we are not calling him that." She huffed, "Why not?" and I said, "Because it's ridiculous." I laughed when I said it, I added something else about the 70s rock band, but I was clearly not kidding. And I'm not sorry. She refuses to pay attention to what she doesn't want to hear, and the only way to make a point with her is to drive it home with all the subtlety of a Mack truck.

So two days later, I get home from work to hear from Mr. J that I "really hurt [his] mom's feelings the other day." I asked him if there was any doubt in his mind prior to the weekend that I was completely opposed to "The Captain" nickname, and whether I would be in my rights to declare myself offended that she would deliberately ignore my clearly expressed wishes. He told me not to put him in the middle of it ... as though I were the one who took the first opportunity to report the story with the "you won't believe what she said" big eyes and pouty face!

You can carbon-date her emotional maturity to the year she graduated high school. Get over it, lady. We're not calling him The Captain.

Twinkle: American Girl Pet Drama

I'll be the first to apologize for the fact that I'm awful about e-mail. I check it maybe every 3 days and I have major guilt about it, but there's nothing I can do because we're in the middle of cold and flu season, and I have three children. It comes in on my phone, but unless I'm glancing at my phone the moment an important e-mail comes through, I probably won't have time to look at it until I get a chance to sit down. It's not as if I can even check it when everyone's sleeping, because everyone's never sleeping. Even if I could, going through 300 e-mails, much of them spam, isn't the first thing on my list when I get a moment of leisure time. It is a major problem.

And now Fun Sink is all bent out of shape because I didn't get back to her on the question of some American Girl dogs. She knew A wanted Honey the Dog, but which one did E want? E is not yet 2; she doesn't care. She will be happy with whatever. There are a lot of AG pets to choose from, so just pick one and move on with your life.

But Fun Sink can't ever do what's easy (just order something) or what's kind (give me a little bit of a break), so she had to talk to my father-in-law about it, who talked to Mr. Twinkle about it, who's now upset that it looks bad that I'm such a flake on e-mail. So I texted her even though it's been an embarrassing length of time and it's clearly too late to order for Valentine's Day anyway. I was appropriately contrite. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I'm so sorry I forgot to get back to you on the pressing question of Honey the Dog.

She sent back a b*tchy text explaining that it's too late to order, so never mind. I guess it's all my fault that everyone will be deprived of Honey the Dog this Valentine's Day. I'm not saying my e-mail habits are great, but I'm doing the best thing I can, and I'm not sure why she couldn't just have figured this out for herself instead of dragging my father-in-law and Mr. Twinkle into it. It was a simple mistake, made by a person who is stretched to her limits, and I apologized for it. What more does Fun Sink want from me?