Julep: I hate sweatpants.

Apologies to Mr. Lola, whose halfway cool sweatpants I have not seen. Perhaps they would escape my loathing.

Mr. Julep has a pair of sweatpants I would like to light on fire. They are navy blue, with elasticized waist and ankles and ... well, they're sweatpants. I hate them. Just last weekend, he was looking for them and I suggested that he put on some nice flannel pj pants instead. He said, "Those are fine, but I like my sweatpants because I don't have to change my pants if I have to run up to the store for something."

OK, point taken. But how long does it take to put on a pair of real pants? Thirty seconds, tops?

Why voluntarily assume the uniform of trailer trash? Nobody looks good in sweatpants. Even worn around the house, sweatpants are ugly and shapeless. They may be comfortable, but so are pajama pants, which come with the added assurance that you will not be tempted to rush out of the house without changing into some decent attire.

That is all.

LoLa: Facebook Maladies

I have a cousin. She is 18 years old and lives in Indiana. She just finished her high school diploma/Vo-Tech training in cosmetology. She is so sweet, but a little bit country (or alot country, actually). Today I want to take her facebook account away.

Apparently yesterday she and her boyfriend broke up. I know she is sad and grieving. I know this because her Facebook status updates go something like this (in chronological order):

Betsy* is now SINGLE.
Betsy is heartbroken...but it doesn't even bother him
Betsy he is done being with me and i wish he wasnt [sic].
Betsy what can I do to make him realize how much i miss him and he actually care...this is the hardest time of my life.
Betsy I've done it now...He's done forever...Bad...Upset.

Based on the last posting, I'm just hoping this eighteen year old bada$$ heartbreaker hasn't died in a freak farming columbine "accident."

Nevertheless, this is the paradox of those of us who grieved our broken hearts over the telephone with our bestest friends. Or had slumber parties where we cried over pizza and ginger ale while stabbing the eyes out of all our school-dance photos of said bada$$ heartbreakers. How provincial we were not to be able to skyright our graceless emoting of the "biggest tragedy ever" (aka our broken hearts) to all 205 friends we share on the internets.

Twinkle - please share this post with Twinklette as soon as she can comprehend the internets and let her know that if she acts the fool in such a pathetic way, her Auntie Lola will make fun of her. Because the fear of public ridicule and scorn seems to be severely lacking in today's youth.

Merry Christmas!
xoxo
LoLa

* Names changed to protect the sad and pathetic.

PS Props to STFU Parents for ridiculing parents for their embarrassing facebook status updates.

PPS Mr. LoLo's sweatpants are not even really half-cool. But thanks for the effort.

Twinkle: A Telling Tale

Amusing story.

Today, my mother-in-law whisked Twinklette away for the morning while I browsed the men's sweatpants department of Target, trying to find the same "halfway cool" ones Lola's husband had on a few years back.

Here's how the exchange went down:

Me to Mr. Twinkle: You're really wearing sweatpants to brunch?

Mr Twinkle: But Mr. Lola's wearing sweatpants!

Me: Yes, but Mr. Lola's sweatpants are halfway cool.

(I'm still sorry for the backhanded compliment, Lola and Mr. Lola!)

Y'all can guess that I don't personally care for the look, although Mr. Lola's sweatpants were fine as far as sweatpants go. For lounge/sleepwear I favor the cotton or flannel pj look, which Mr. Twinkle also embraces; as for going out of the house in sweatpants, well it's not something I actively support. Anyway. I was trying to be nice and give Mr. Twinkle something he'd love: sweatpants. So that's what I did while Twinklette was with her grand-mama.

Here's the real story.

So when MIL and Twinklette came back, I thought I'd throw my mother-in-law a bone, it being the season of peace on earth and such. So when they came in with a plate of cookies they'd made and decorated together, I said, "Oh--I made your almond icing for a cookie exchange last weekend and my cookies won."

Well, you should have seen her eyes light up. "My icing won? My icing won!" It took her a few minutes to internalize this bit of information. "I can't believe my icing won!" "My icing's famous!" She was still talking about "her" victory long after the subject had changed. It really was nice of me, because it seemed like it made her whole week. I've seriously never seen her so happy.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that the cookies won for presentation--before a single one of them had been tasted by anybody. I also didn't remind her that I was actually the one who made the icing. I didn't want to diminish her personal victory, after all.

Dibbs: Foiled Again

One of our dear friends put her head together with a co-worker and has set me up on a blind date.

I was so excited. I've talked to him twice. He's out of town on business, but he actually called two days in a row. This is such a rarity that I was beside myself.

Then it happened. He asked me what I was getting ready to do. "Watch Kentucky play," I said. He revealed what may be his fatal flaw. He doesn't have cable.

Now before you say anything, understand. It's fine if girls don't have cable. They'll miss a lot of most-dramatic-rose-ceremonies-in Bachelor-history, but whatev. It is, however, a deal breaker for me if a guy doesn't have cable. Why, you wonder, scratching your head...

He Doesn't Watch Sports! Yes, I know, this might sound like nirvana to you. Right now I'm watching Mississippi State play DePaul independently of a man so I can cheer for the SEC against the Big East. A man who doesn't watch sports would make me feel like a big ole butch. And let me tell you, there's nothing attractive for either of us if I have to explain pass interference to him.

I don't truck with men who don't watch sports. My male friends watch sports. My family watches sports. Hell, the baby watches sports. What Daddy raised this man? (And, no, he cannot be my father-in-law.)

I know I'm no spring chicken. Nor am I easy to deal with. At some point, I realize a girl has to make some sacrifices. Why couldn't they be crow's feet, or a receding hairline, or flat feet? Why does the sacrifice have to be this?

Twinkle: Avoid Vanille Patisserie

So, apparently the Vanille Patisserie is located near the scene of a stabbing yesterday. I cannot believe I sent you there! Maybe avoid West Lincoln Park from now on...I know I travelled this corridor a lot back in the day as I adored (and still do adore) the hip, up-and-coming feel of Wicker Park. Seems it's not so up-and-coming anymore.

Anyway, hope you stayed away, Lola. Cheers to staying safe!

Twinkle to Lola: French Pastry in Chicago

I happened to see the Twitter feed, and it seems our Lola is headed to my adopted hometown in search of Lill bags and French pastries. My recommendation is Vanille Patisserie--conveniently located on the North side on one of my favorite streets, Clybourn (complete with lots of other shopping, as well...and it's also close to Southport, which has lots of fabulous local boutiques). If you're willing to get in the car and drive just a little bit, it might be worth it. It's located pretty far west on Clybourn, but going from south-to-north (from downtown to Lincoln Park) it would be about halfway between downtown and where I used to live in Wrigleyville--not too far from your fabulous amenities at the Drake. (It's also an easy jaunt to Lill and other Armitage boutiques from there). Their Web site also mentions a Chicago French Market, scheduled to open today--how fortuitous! The new market is on Clinton Street (downtown somewhere if I remember, as all the presidential-named streets are). It might be fun to go on opening weekend, and it would probably be an easier cab ride than getting to Clybourn.

Have fun and don't miss the Dickens Christmas tea at the Drake, either--it's my favorite afternoon tea in Chicago. And y'all know I'm an expert on the matter.

Cheers to the Windy City!

Dibbs: Everybody Loves Incontinence

I am nothing if not a woman of my word. I promised I would tell you all about the treatment for my condition. I will tell you. Besides the dietary restrictions (nothing good is allowed) and the 11 prescriptions (I have approximately 15 more waking minutes,) pain management is an treatment component. Once a week I venture over to the office for my pain cocktail.

Before you get too excited, the pain cocktail is not served in a lovely highball with a nice cheese tray. It's inserted. With a catheter. I'm not telling you anything else. You can figure it out.

Actually Twinkle knows one other treatment component. She got it out of me with forbidden cocktails and peer pressure. If she wants to tell you she can, or you can ply me with more illicit alcohol. I really never want to talk about it again. I doubt you want to hear it. She probably went home and scrubbed her brain.

On to the funny, funny incontinent part. I went for my cocktail, which I try to schedule conveniently around trips to Churchill Downs or lunch. On this particular trip I needed to pick up a birthday gift. Lidocane, Marcane, Elmiron, Heparin, and some medicine that starts with a "T" cocktail properly administered, I journeyed over to Play It Again Sports for some 14-year-old birthday weights. Bad move. Never pick up weights in that condition. The cocktail found itself on the floor of PIAS. Looked like my water broke. Oops.

I thought this was an anomaly brought on by too much heavy lifting. Never gave it another thought past some major humiliation. Then came the day I needed to pick up one of my many prescriptions after cocktail hour. While waiting in line at Kroger, I felt a little drip. I felt a little river passing the hem of my skirt. Hell.

The lady in front of me couldn't figure out the complicated new Kroger prescription system. I pointed to the box. "Push that. Sign here," I told her. She told me she was too short to see the box, as I gazed down from my Amazonian perch of 5'4". I glared. By the time the boy got back with my scrips, I had signed my name and swiped my card (I don't need to tell them my name anymore.) "This ain't my first rodeo," I informed him. He looked at me so quizzically. He couldn't see the little rivulets flowing into my ballet flats and onto his tile. Only the rest of the store was watching...

Hey, at least I have a good excuse to get lunch if anyone's interested. I'll schedule my sick time.