Julep: Every Girl's Crazy 'Bout A Sharp-Dressed Man

Will all y'all be attending the Pink Tie Ball/ Pink Lounge on Saturday? In honor of this function and an upcoming black-tie wedding, Mr. J has acquired a tuxedo. He tried it on last night so I could see if Mr-Mama needed to do anything besides hem it for him. (Having a seamstress on call is really so handy.) I think we can all agree that most any man looks better in a tuxedo ... but though I say so myself, Mr. J is mighty good-looking. Especially when he's all cleaned up. Alas that such doesn't happen more often.

I reorganized Mr. J's dresser and closet this weekend. The man has plenty of good clothes, mostly thanks to Mr-Mama. Far be it from me to complain that she likes to buy things for other people, but I do wish she would lay off the Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts. Every time she travels anywhere, she brings us T-shirts, complete with logos and/or cutesy slogans. Now, how many times have y'all seen me wearing a T-shirt? About as often as I've seen any of y'all: not many. Since I am not partial to manual labor or strenuous exercise, my T-shirt needs are quite limited. Given my previous life as a sorority girl and the stream of freebies sent my way from various charitable functions, really, buying me T-shirts is a waste of money.

I digress. This post is about Mr. J's wardrobe, not Mr-Mama's shopping disorder. I will save that topic for a later date; there is a whole post to be written about how, like the flu, her insatiable yen to fill my house with seasonal tchotchkes is returning with the cold weather.

As I was saying, Mr. J has lots of nice clothes, and he looks great wearing them. The problem is, he is far more likely to be wearing a pair of dirty ratty shorts and a T-shirt with a hole in it, even if we are going out to dinner. He simply does not understand the concept of dressing up or down for an occasion. If he happens to have on dressy clothes, and decides he needs to clean the gutters or work on the boat engine, he will do so without changing his attire. Thus the entire pile of ripped Dockers and oil-stained shirts I set aside as "work clothes."

I have tried to explain to him that certain clothes should not be worn for boat, car, or home repair. I have even informed him that certain items of clothing may not be worn without my express permission (in the hopes of preserving them). I have set standards of attire for varying circumstances: church requires a collared shirt and no denim; social occasions require no holes or visible stains. Mostly I just pick out his clothes whenever we are going anywhere together. To his credit, he is happy to let me.

I don't really know how I got here. One thing all my previous men had in common (besides average height and darkly ethnic mien): they were snappy dressers. Somehow I ended up with a 6'5" Viking who thinks wearing the same clothes three days in a row is perfectly normal.

Well, it's far easier to dress a man up than it is to repair his character flaws, so I clearly made the right choice. And Mr. J dressed himself for church last Sunday, and he did just fine.

Dibbs: Armaggedon is Upon Us

My grandfather conceded today that I have the same number of years in college as my cousin A.
This is not completely true. I have the same type of degree as my cousin A. She wasted many more years in college.

He also told me I'd gained weight. I was happy to hear that.

Last night we attended a pig roast in my hometown. I'll admit it: this social butterfly's wings are clipped when she gets around her homies. I just don't have much to talk about. They don't want to hear about Seviche guacamole, and they didn't even laugh when I told them about meeting The Lady Chablis. I did see the twitter-mentioned chick wearing the bunco girls shirt, so the night wasn't a total loss. I'm counting the hours 'til I can get out of this place...

Twinkle: Random Incidents in a Busy Weekend

I have one child, but to hear my MIL talk you'd think I were an aspiring Michelle Duggar. Her newest talking point in the Stealth Campaign To Get Twinkle To Stop Breeding: the quality of photos. It's possibly her weakest argument yet.

She knows I like to take pictures--I am famous among family and friends for it, actually--so today at her brunch, when we were trying to get three rambunctious little boys and Twinklette to sit still for a picture, MIL goes, "See what happens when you have three so close in age, Twinkle? You can't even get one of them to sit still for the camera!" It is lucky for the family albums that MIL was wise enough to space her children out, so that she could teach Mr. Twinkle to smile for the camera by the time his sister came along, so that they were more likely to get cherubic grins on both faces at exactly the same time than if Mr. Twinkle had been a busy two-year-old when his sister was born. There is no end to the control this woman tries to wield, and the fact that she takes every opportunity to remind me of the perils of having too many children is incredibly annoying.

This was the brunch she wouldn't let me help with, ostensibly because she didn't want my trademark fabulous touch. I've been asking for weeks, "What can I do to help?" because I really did want to help. Y'all know I love that stuff--if there's a party, I'm happy to bring a dish, help set the tables, coordinate the rentals, whatever. She wouldn't let me help, of course, because she has to be in control of everything and would hate it if I actually got credit for doing something well. But then, at the brunch, my sweet father-in-law told me the cookies I baked for the Bat Mitzvah (the famous cookies, the size of which was determined by a kitchen full of Jewish grandmothers) were his favorite thing there and he thought they were wonderful. They were his grandmother's recipe, and he said they tasted just like hers. Sometimes he does something sweet and adorable and makes it all worthwhile...but it's for that reason that MIL has to keep me in my place the rest of the time.

One more funny thing: when we were walking in, I joked to Mr. Twinkle that I wondered if they'd have mimosas (knowing good and well they wouldn't). When we got there, Gary, the cheerful African-American servant they always hire for everything, offered me a mimosa. I was shocked, and I said to Gary incredulously, "Is there really alcohol in this thing?" And he was like, "Well, no, but it'd be a lot better if there was!" So she actually served something called a mimosa with no champagne in it. It was garnished with an orange slice and cherry, but, garnish or no garnish, where I come from, that's not a mimosa. That's plain old orange juice. Or I guess you could call it a virgin screwdriver, too, if you wanted to.

Twinkle: Extravagant Legacy

It's my opinion that there's joy in giving, especially when you know that the gift itself goes against everything your MIL holds to be true and dear. I had to call Lola this morning, to share a bit of delicious, in-your-face, MIL rabble rousing, all over a gift for the little bat mitzvah girl, or, as I like to call her, "She of the Cheap Jar of Daisies." She would have been "She of the Blue Hydrangeas in Crystal Vases," except my MIL put the kabash on that nonsense.

So, a few weeks ago, there was talk between Mr. Twinkle and his sister about what to get her and going in on a present and whatnot, and y'all know it's my philosophy that you can never go wrong with jewelry. So it was agreed that I'd go to a local jeweler and check out the selection of bejeweled Judaica. I didn't really see anything of interest in the Star of David department (which, y'all can imagine, did not comprise a large section of the merchandise), so I moved on to greener pastures. I thought a nice, classic strand of pearls would be appropriate for a girl entering her teen years and it would be something that she could wear as an adult, too. Really, what could be better? Everyone needs pearls, and this branch of the family tree is particularly unfabulous...but She of the Cheap Jar of Daisies is different. I have hope for her. I think it's her girlish sense of playfulness, which hasn't yet been stamped out by the inevitable practicality and dourness created by the overwhelming sense of obligation that steers every aspect of their lives.

So I went today to pick up the pearls, which are the perfect size for a girl of 13 but will serve her well in the future, too. And when I saw them sitting in their lovely jewelry-store box, I remembered the whole flower conversation and how "a little girl doesn't need anything too extravagant," and I was overwhelmed with a delicious sense of joy--not just with the joy of giving something beautiful, or the joy of knowing it'll stick in my MIL's craw, but the joy that maybe I'm planting a seed in She of the Cheap Jar of Daisies. I am certain no one has ever trusted her with a nice piece of jewelry before (and, honestly, she probably won't be trusted with it now, which I think is a mistake, but that's none of my business). This gift says, "I think you're fabulous, and worthy of something special, and you deserve to own a thing of beauty."

We passed around the pearls over lunch (at this horrible O'Charley's, before which I'm proud to say Mr. Twinkle balked and said, "Why aren't we going somewhere local?") and MIL said they were "very nice," but I could tell by her tight-lipped expression that she disapproved. But She of the Cheap Jar of Daisies has lots of women around her disapproving, and judging, and steering her on the way of dour responsibility. I'm the lone dissenting voice that tells her it's OK to be frivolous, and the fact that I chose the gift that represents two of this family's fine, grown-up, practical households--and it's a gift that's so very me--makes me feel like maybe I can leave an impression on this family, instead of being swallowed whole by its expectations and demands. It's a delicious thought.

I'm off to wrap the gift in a profusion of ribbons and tulle, because that's how I roll.

Julep: FYI re Lola's Tweet

I checked Lifetime.com, and full episodes of Drop Dead Diva are available to be viewed online!

Apparently those of us who have missed out so far are only 8 episodes behind. I wager that my weekend houseguest and I can spend some happy girl time catching up with those this weekend.

Twinkle: Cookie Tyrant

What is it with this family's tendency to micro-manage about cookie size? I called my MIL tonight for her delish chocolate chip cookie recipe, as I'm hosting a cousins' playgroup for my side tomorrow morning. She gave me the recipe like a normal person, without any asides or digressions about sifting and room temperature eggs and what not. And I started to think maybe this woman gives me some credit after all. Then she gets to what size the cookies should be on the sheet and she launches into a 10-minute soliloquy about cookie scoops, bigger than a walnut, but not too much bigger, etc.

She also told me to cook it way longer than the cookies needed...and I'm pretty sure she left out an ingredient or two because my cookies, while fine, do not look light, fluffy, and golden-perfect like hers. They're more flat and cracked. I'm sure she'd blame it on my youth and inexperience, but next time I make these sons-of-bitches (and I hope it won't be soon, because there's nothing I hate more than baking cookies...all those endless hours of laying dough on a sheet!) I am throwing in an extra egg or something. Even Mr. Twinkle agrees--not in a mean way...in a baffled way--that they are distinctly different than his mom's.

She also rescinded her earlier request for me to design and execute centerpieces for the brunch she's giving in honor of the little bat mitzvah girl this weekend. Last week when I offered to help, she assigned me the floral duties. Tonight when I talked to her, she was all, "Well...I don't think I'm going to need you to do those centerpieces. A brunch for a little girl doesn't require anything too...extravagant." Because MIL knows good and well that any floral centerpiece I design will look like something Marie Antoinette cooked up, and we all know what happens to extravagant b*tches like her. (They go down in history as fabulous arbiters of glam). Just wait until Twinklette's second birthday party. MIL thought she hated the 100+ person cocktail hour/first birthday party at a children's yoga studio...wait until she sees the profusion of black tulips I have shipped in from Holland for this year's fete.

Ahhh...on to make my benedictine sandwiches. That recipe came from my grandmother, who has no motivation to thwart my culinary efforts.

Julep: Loose Ends

(1) So good to see everyone last night!

(2) Happy to report that I found my grandma's cross hanging in my jewelry case when I got home.

(3) That disconcerting book I talked about is Pushed.

(4) Our absent friend NPB swung by my house to pick up her Junyaleeg cookbooks, and shared a little intel on the "bed rest" of our mutual friend Belle. Apparently this bed rest is not so much doctor-ordered as Belle-designed. It seems that Belle has been feeling a little under the weather (a cold? a touch of strep?) and is pretty tired here in the end of her pregnancy. So Belle has announced to her workplace that she is "on bed rest" ... but that doesn't mean she won't run her errands or call NPB to see if she wants to go out to dinner. In short, nobody needs to worry about dropping by with a casserole to feed Mr. B or B Jr.

Love it.