Twinkle: Unable to Delegate

No matter how many times I offer, my MIL will never let me bring a dish to anything. It's because she doesn't want to share credit. If she's coming to my house, however, and I tell her not to bring anything but just her smiling face, she will show up with exactly two assorted dessert trays, ensuring that, no matter how hard I worked on the Barefoot Contessa's brownie pudding recipe (which is between a brownie and a souffle), my dessert and I are forced to share the spotlight.

In my family, it's not about spotlights. People chip in because it's the nice thing to do, and one person's cookies are in no way diminished by someone else's brownies. I wish it were not about spotlights with MIL, but that is the way it is, probably because she runs a cafeteria for 50+ observant and wayward Jews every time a holiday rolls around, and no one else contributes anything, and that's how she wants it. She's used to doing things by herself, and can't stand the idea of a new lunch lady in town--especially when that lunch lady has a touch of the Martha flair that her cafeteria line will never possess. Just sayin'.

So, this time, miraculously, she asked me to help her with her flower arrangements. She asked me Monday night, at one of my SIL's many birthday dinners, and I consented (the flowers were for tonight, Wednesday). She e-mailed me, too, and I responded with an enthusiastic yes. I love doing flowers, and I was proud of her for actually delegating something that she doesn't enjoy. No purple carnations and babies' breath this time, thought I. Boy was I wrong.

Today I called her. She had certain vases she wanted me to use, so I was going to go pick them up, then head to Whole Foods to do a whole fall fruit-and-flower medley like I saw in Southern Living. When I finally reached her--when I was almost at her house--she informed me that she just went ahead and did the flowers herself.

Now, y'all were there with me when I joined the Junyaleague, right? Because, like you, I have spent my entire adult life following through with tasks that Dooner or Lezlie Renee Pipes or some other higher up asked me to do. When a certain someone in YWC says, "Hey, I need 900 postcards for the fashion show, and by the way, I'd like to suggest several changes to your original design. And P.S., would you mind working on a flyer for my Greg Fischer event in your spare time?" I say sure. And then I actually follow through.

So when someone asks me to do some d*mn flower arrangements, and I say I'll do them, she can trust me that those flower arrangements will get done, on time, and look like something out of a magazine. It's just how I roll, OK? It's a good thing I didn't buy the flowers before I talked to her--which I easily, easily could have done. I just can't believe she asked me to do the flowers on Monday, and then did them herself anyway without telling me--like I was going to forget about them or flake out--or, worst of all--actually make something so pretty and full of flair that everyone at the party would have known she couldn't possibly have done them. She cannot delegate, and so she is a long-suffering martyr who complains her way through life--but at least she has that spotlight all to herself.

Reneging on a request for flower arrangements is not without precedent, but at least that other time MIL actually told me she'd changed her mind before I spent my morning tracking her down looking for vases. Someone has issues; this is just more proof.

Twinkle: Food Police

Tonight Mr. Twinkle's entire fam went out to that gorgeous new place in Anchorage, the Village Anchor Pub. It was just lovely--I recommend taking Classic Cocktail on the road one of these months, because the setting was beautiful and the menu delicious. There's a Daisy Buchanan champagne cocktail with honeysuckle bitters. I had the Capriole goat cheese trio that was served with honey that had lavender buds sprinkled on top--Lola would have been in paradise. It was just divine. I need to make a return visit so I can have their version of the hot brown, which is made with pulled chicken and candied bacon.

So, we were all ordering and my MIL ordered the fried chicken (which also looked wonderful), and FIL yelled out in front of the waiter and entire table of extended family, "The fried chicken is soaked in buttermilk!" I'm pretty sure my MIL wouldn't have even cared about the kosher ramifications of chicken soaked in buttermilk--she's more of a "what I don't know doesn't hurt me" type of a gal. Well, it totally put her on the spot and she had to change her order right then and there. It was so annoying. I don't know what gives him the right to be the food police.

Grandma-in-law got the fried chicken and it looked absolutely wonderful (I guess even FIL has qualms about bossing around his mother-in-law). My brother-in-law wanted the hot brown, too...we decided that we'd go back one of these days, without the food police.

Twinkle: Hypochondria

Cheers to the Twitter feed renaissance--so good to see it up and running again, Mama Lola!

I'm on here to relate a glaring difference between boys and girls.

Apparently there's something going around Twinklette's classroom. I'll spare you the gory details, but every day this week there has been a note sent home in her backpack that a stomach bug has been making its rounds in the 2s class. Twinklette--thank goodness--hasn't had any problems or symptoms.

Well, today Mr. Twinkle woke up "not feeling well." His seasonal allergies are starting to act up a little, but he also complained of the classic tummyache. Then he said, "It worries me about that stomach bug in Twinklette's class. I was actually in that classroom yesterday." (For exactly the three minutes it took to drop her off).

I laughed in his face. Hello, Mr Twinkle--I am in that classroom every day (that she goes), and yet catching the dreaded classroom malady has not once crossed my mind. Not even once. I've certainly hoped Twinklette wouldn't catch it, but not once have I entertained the thought that I might have been exposed in the short drop-offs I make to her classroom each morning. And what about Twinklette? She's in the thick of the classroom germ pool three mornings a week, probably being drooled and sneezed on by every child in there. And from the sound of things, when you get this stomach bug, you know it, so I'm pretty sure there's no need to fret over some vague tummyache.

Anyway, my reaction silenced him and the symptoms miraculously disappeared. I hate to sound sexist, but I think that's the difference between a boy and a girl, a mom and a dad. Boys with tummyaches are pampered by their moms their whole lives (even as adults), so when a tummyache rears its ugly head they are their own number-one concern--forget everyone else in the house. Women, for the most part, don't have that luxury. That's one reason why we like spas so much--they're one place where we're the ones who get pampered.

Twinkle: Family Gossip Circuit

Wow this blog is dead...where is everyone? Where are Dibbs' crazy tales of hilarity and mayhem? Where are Julep's rants about the idle Mr-Mama and her SIL's perfect dog? Lola's silence on the Twitter feed is deafening (although she can be forgiven given her current status as new mama extraordinaire).

So, I'm just hopping on to relate a maddening example of family meddling.

A week ago Thursday night...I believe it was the night we all gathered over at chez Lola to meet her precious new bébé...y'all may remember that the Twinkle family was headed to the baseball game. Of course before the game I filled up on delicious spreadable cheeses provided by one Ms. Lola, and I'm not much on ballpark food anyway, so after the game we were all famished and decided to make a White Castle run.

(Let me say that I usually reserve the Whitey's run for the latest and most intoxicated of evenings, but we were all compelled by the hamburger/cheeseburger/chicken rings promotion on the jumbo-tron at Slugger Field--I dare anyone to resist it).

We were in the drive-thru when Mr. Twinkle's uncle called with a legal question, and he yammered on for a good 15 minutes while we waited for our sliders and while Twinklette screamed from the back seat that she wanted chicken rings (which we did not get her--I had to draw the line somewhere).

Fast forward to tonight--a week and a day later--when Mr. Twinkle's mom and grandmother brought up the fact that they heard from Uncle Brent that we'd been at the White Castle drive-thru. How annoying and offensive is that? Uncle Brent needs to mind his own d*mn business and look after his own affairs. And the worst part: I knew the moment Mr. Twinkle mentioned where we were that it would get back to the disapproving ears of my MIL. I mean, who brings that sh*t up a week later?

I advised Mr. Twinkle, in the future, to keep his own counsel about whatever dalliances he doesn't want his mother to b*tch at him about.

Um, Twinkle: Dibbs

Twinkle, did you know that Mr. Twinks has a poetic-looking boyfriend named Neville on Sorority Life? I don't want to break it to you this way that there's another man in your marriage, but I feel it's important that you know.

Twinkle: Family Wedding Weekend

Just a few thoughts from a Mr. Twinkle family wedding this weekend:


Rehearsal Dinner Bluegrass Band: The rehearsal dinner was in a barn at Hubers, complete with fried chicken and delicious Southern veggies, Hubers wine and beer, and a great bluegrass band--really a fun event (especially for out-of-towners), but this particular part of Mr. Twinkle's family is uncharacteristically fun and normal. The bluegrass band was playing lots of country classics, and I was just thrilled when they started my all-time favorite song, Dead Flowers. Mr. Twinkle and I were enjoying it, singing along a little, and MIL and her brother were at the table, too. The brother was singing along and talking about the Stones a little, and everyone was having fun. MIL got all indignant and said, "What did this song just say? I don't think I like the idea of someone sending dead flowers to my wedding."

I am sorry, but anybody who has to have Dead Flowers explained to them is just an idiot. Also, the song would not be a classic if it were about the polite gesture of sending an appropriate (but not too over-the-top) bouquet during a time of celebration. This woman is so obsessed with form and obligation that she cannot see past the "dead flowers" motif to the immortal symbolism of lost love. I was disgusted and I may not be able to get over this one. I can't trust anyone who doesn't get Dead Flowers, just like I can't trust anyone who doesn't like goat cheese.

Wedding Menu: The wedding was a gorgeous affair at the Henry Clay: cream and peach roses with white French hydrangeas everywhere, a 20-piece Motown band, and a homosexual wedding planner named Arnie who did an unforgettable dance routine to It's Raining Men that I sincerely wish all of y'all could have witnessed.

Anywho, y'all can guess what's on the dinner menu at this sort of wedding: an old-fashioned filet, probably in a gorgeous sauce, with some potatoes and a little steamed asparagus. Naturally there was a vegetarian option on the response card. Mr. Twinkle even asked before we sent in the card if the meal would be up to the family standards of kosher cleanliness, and we were told to get the steak.

Well, last night my sleuthing father-in-law heard a rumor about a cream sauce on the steak and caused a minor uproar, resulting in the catering staff fixing not one, not two, but eight different meals that lived up to his kosher specifications. Now, he and his sister are both diabetic and have to eat, so I can maybe, maybe see the two of them asking for a small modification to the menu. (Although I would still argue that he should have sent in a vegetarian card beforehand to avoid this). But as for the rest of us, it is our own d*mn problem if we can't eat the meal and it should be up to us to deal with it my eating what we want and leaving what we don't want, and stopping at White Castle on the way home if we're left hungry.

It turned out that the cream sauce rumor was pure myth. At the end of the day, after all that drama, the only difference was that we got a plain baked potato instead of the delicious-looking herbed mashed potatoes that everyone else got (and half of the guest list was Jewish). I am still bitter, and Mr. Twinkle and even MIL were appalled at the social gaffe. Only my perfect sister-in-law defends his behavior, which just makes me want to vomit. I mean I just think that is the very height of bad manners as a guest, and why does he think he has to negotiate what's on the plates of eight of his closest family members? It should be our choice if we want to eat or not eat some d*mn mashed potatoes. Mr. Twinkle and I agreed last night: demanding that the hosts accommodate your strict religious dietary rules at the eleventh hour is just the epitome of shtetl.

Poetic Justice? Maybe, But I Don't Like It: Dibbs

Last week I met some friends of ours to hear a band. Some of us were there, actually. One couple, we'll just call them Lucy and Edward, brought a guy with them. He was actually cute. And nice. I was shocked. I told the wife-half of the couple I thought so. She informed me that the guy would be back next week to hear another band. "Good to know," I noted. I talked to the cute guy for the rest of the night, and I went home.

Spring forward to last night. I saw Lucy and Edward at a baseball game. Lucy forgot I thought the guy was cute. Edward set the guy up with another girl. She was meeting everyone at the bar. Of course. Because this is how my life rolls.

I got to the bar. The guy hadn't arrived yet, but the girl had. She was really nice. A little plain, not a stitch of make-up, but very, very nice. The guy walked in. It was like Jake meeting freakin' Vienna on the Bachelor. Sparks flew. Bam!

Here's the poetic justice part. That girl went to the same college I did for one year. She was a freshman when I was a senior. I don't remember her. She was a basketball player, but she had an injury. She told me she did nothing for a year but sit in her room and play video games. So...while I was running around being fraternity sweetheart and thinking I ruled that place, she was sitting in a darkened dorm room playing Super Mario Brothers III on Sega. Spring forward fifteen years and a few nasty crows feet, and she gets the guy. I liked this $hit a lot better on Square Pegs.