We went to brunch with the delightful California cousins today, and the conversation turned to Mad Men. They asked if I watched, and I said I used to, but now that it's the late sixties and the clothes aren't as cute, I'm less interested. (Everyone knows that, right? It is universally acknowledged that the early '60s are much, much cuter than the late '60s. This is not breaking news). Fun Sink got all offended and was all, "Don't insult the late '60s. That was our time." Screw you, Fun Sink. I didn't say you were personally responsible for bellbottoms and avocado green. I essentially said that I prefer a pillbox hat to everything that came later, OK? It has nothing to do with Fun Sink. She thinks everything is a personal insult directed at her.
Tonight she got the chance to complain about fixing dinner for all those people in the kitchen at the Glenview, so I guess that was fun for her. Mr. Twinkle just had to bring up the case of the mistaken dinner invitation. (I thought it was best to let it go at this point). He said we can't have them for dinner on Derby Eve but we can do it the next week, and her reaction is infuriating because it was the same type of reaction that led to the original misunderstanding about last Friday night. Here's how it went down.
Mr. Twinkle: We're busy Derby Eve, but we'd love to have you over the next week.
Me: Yes, and you're welcome every week until your kitchen is done. (Which is more than generous, might I add).
Fun Sink: (noncommittal) Oh, I don't know. It'll probably be ready by then. We'll see. (This is what she said weeks ago that led to us think she didn't really care about coming on the night of the mistaken dinner invitation).
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Oh--and they just dug up her subfloor in the kitchen--probably one of several unforseen add-on projects that will make the 6-week process take even longer. So there's no way she's going to have a kitchen by the week after Derby.
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Mr. Twinkle: We want to have you over. We just needed to go to dinner with her mom that other weekend and... (he had to go there)
Me: Well, I don't think we ever actually nailed down the plans on dinner that night. We never committed to it and I think it led to a misunderstanding.
(When I was mid-sentance, Fun Sink turned to another family member (the babydaddy--like she really wanted to talk to him) and tried to start a conversation. I was literally in the middle of a sentence about a topic that she was pissed off about, and she turned away from me to talk to the babydaddy. She just didn't want to hear the reasonable thoughts I was trying to express).
Mr. Twinkle: And--yeah. We never committed to a plan. We'd love to have you all over.
Fun Sink: Oh, I don't know. We'll see. (Again with the noncommittal response--apparently Fun Sink can't just accept a damn dinner invitation. But then she'll get mad at me for not knowing that she was planning to come to dinner at my house, after she didn't accept the original invitation one way or the other).
Me: Well, I think the other misunderstanding happened because we didn't have a plan. So let's make a plan now. You all will come to dinner the week after Derby, and as many weeks after that as you need to. (Except for the night of the Bacon Ball).
Fun Sink: OK. We'll see.
Me: Fuck you, Fun Sink. I hate you, and hereby revoke all invitations to dine with us. (This part was said silently, inside my head).
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