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?

Twinkle: Always Starting Out Behind the 8-Ball With These People

And the 8-ball is you, Mr. Twinkle.

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What's that you say? My father-in-law's going vegan? And Fun Sink's out of town, so he needs a hot meal? No problem--I make delicious and healthy vegan meals all the time, and I can make something so wholesome and hearty he won't even miss the meat. It'll stick to his ribs and warm him up on a cold winter night, and he'll leave singing my praises and wondering why Fun Sink can't cook a vegan meal as well as I can.

This is a man who loves his steak and potatoes. In the past, he has made fun of my SIL and her husband, and how strict they are with Sophie's food, and how annoying their eating habits are, and how all the foods they prepare at their house suck. Which they do. And I am so the opposite of that--I really try to make healthy meals that don't suck, but are actually pleasurable. I should have known better than to try to create pleasure for any of these martyrs. I should have known it would backfire.

At 8 a.m. I get to work peeling 5 lbs. of potatoes, which will be the crowning glory of a delicious meatless shepherd's pie, complete with various root vegetables and mushrooms. I chop and sauté all day. I put vegetable broth and a little red wine in a jar with arrowroot powder and shake. There are a lot of vegetables in there, and I know my FIL hates vegetables, so I throw in a little cooked pasta to bulk it up. There's a suggestion about serving the recipe with a vegan gravy. I make vegan gravy, and that b*tch tastes exactly like real gravy, only better because I knew it wasn't filled with flour and grease.

5:45: the vegan shepherd's pie comes out of the oven, and the vegan gravy has been strained into a gravy boat. We sit down to dinner. No one touches the vegan gravy but me. (Turns out Jews aren't gravy people. They never know what's in it. Although, since this was a vegan gravy, they should have been confident that it was safe for them).

Come to find out FIL's not only a vegan, but also a nutritarian. This means he doesn't eat pasta or potatoes because they don't have the maximum nutritive value per calorie, so basically I made the wrong dinner. I tried to give him a hearty vegan alternative to a salad (which he hates and makes fun of), to prove to him that vegan meals don't have to be cold and boring and a convenient outlet for everyone's martyr complex, but he actually wanted a salad all along. (Actually, I served a salad, too). The worst part is that Mr. Twinkle knew this but failed to mention it. He thought he told me--not just vegan, nutritarian. I think I would have remembered that. I even told Mr. Twinkle I was making shepherd's pie--it would have been nice if he'd told me his father is currently off potatoes.

Also, y'all know Twinklette likes to throw me under the bus every chance she gets. I made her some buttered noodles for dinner, because...1). I was busy with the shepherd's pie all day, 2). I did not want to have a battle at the dinner table during a nice meal, so I gave myself a break tonight. She starts going on and on about how she loves buttered noodles and she doesn't have enough butter and she needs more butter and double the butter, please, and mommy I need more butter on these noodles. FIL goes, "Is that what she has for dinner every night?" No, for f*ck's sake, it is not, and I'm sorry I was so busy making the wrong thing for your dinner that I did not have time to prepare a lean protein and kid-friendly fruit salad for Twinklette. Is that what she has for dinner every night? Can you imagine?

Now, I like my FIL, and I wish he would have a little more confidence in me about what I feed my child. I know he didn't mean it b*tchy, but there's so much emotional baggage caught up with food in that family. The fact is that most nights I try to make her a healthy meal that she will actually eat, and on this particular night I was trying to make him a healthy meal that he would actually enjoy. But how can I ever get anything right when I don't have all the information? The worst part is knowing he actually would have preferred being up there with Fun Sink and my SIL, picking at a plate of raw spinach and unflavored quinoa, instead of enjoying a meal that is healthy and also delicious, and one that I worked very hard on for him. I wanted to win him over, but I can't do that as long as I'm uninformed.

I feel like I wasted a chance to win over someone who is usually squarely in my corner, and I would have liked to have given him a meal that was actually on his diet. I can't be expected to follow dietary restrictions that I know nothing about; it would have been nice to have been informed.

Still, he did ask for seconds.

Twinkle: An Inevitable Downton Abbey Analogy

Baby B has RSV, so we skipped ballet class in favor of snuggling up for a little Downton Abbey viewing party. (Yes, Julep...this is the life of a girl mama). And I totally realized something: I am the Lady Edith of Mr. Twinkle's family. My SIL is, of course, Lady Mary. No one would ever consider her a Mary in real life, which is why being Edith to her Mary within the family is even harder to tolerate.

I've never considered myself an Edith in my real life...I don't have sisters to compare myself with, so, while I like the saga of the Crawley sisters, I can't personally identify with anyone but their mother, Cora. Anyway, in my normal day-to-day life, I don't feel like an Edith because some people (Mr. Twinkle, my family, you all) seem to like me and want me around, and I also have much better taste in men. But I realized that, to Fun Sink, I am totally Edith. Always lacking what she wants me to be, always less than. Never quite as good as Mary; always desperate to prove her worth but never measuring up or even being given the chance to rise to the occasion.

And I think that is why it's so hard for me to even go over there. When I have to, I consider it a study in humility. I go about my life, doing my thing, considering myself an equal to the people I see. And then I go over there, and suddenly everyone's treating me like Edith. It's very jarring. And then I leave, and I'm me again.

Thank goodness.

Julep: On mothers and daughters

For Christmas this year, I gave J-Mama a book club: a list of books for the two of us to read and discuss over the course of the year. We had our first meeting at the Panera Bread on Saturday morning. I liked the book, and I really liked hearing her perspective.

I realized this weekend how lucky I am that I have had so many years to get to know my mother as an adult - and I want to spend as much time with her as I can. When my mom was my age, she still had 25 more years of time with her own mother. I hope I am going to have that much time with J-Mama. I was always pretty close to my mom, but I treasure her now in a way that I never did before. I don't know whether that is because I have become a mother myself and I realize how much of her guidance I am going to need to bring this child to a happy, healthy, high-functioning adulthood - why wasn't I taking better notes when she was raising me right? - or because J-Mama's health prospects have become precarious with the whole Parkinsonian thing.

I think you girls are aware that we are back on the list with the adoption agency. I would love to have a girl, and Mr. J is pulling for another boy, so we are leaving this up to fate. Of course I don't know for sure - since I didn't even grow up with a brother - but I can't help but think that the mother-daughter connection is something that just isn't the same with sons. Do y'all know the old line "A son is a son 'til he takes a wife, but a daughter's a daughter all of her life"? Maybe I only think that is true because my family has always been kind of a matriarchy. I still miss my grandmama, and I know that J-Mama misses her too. In the years before Grandmama moved north to the assisted living, after she stopped driving and was getting elderly, J-Mama went to visit her every day. She has told me so many times how glad she was they had that time together.

J-Mama told me last month - after years of saying that she would never retire, she'd work until she died - that she talked to her financial advisor and she thinks she will retire in three years, at 62. She figures she will stay busy by picking my kids up after school every day. May we all be so lucky that her plan comes to fruition.

Julep: On that note...

Dibbs, I just read this article and thought of your post!

I quote: "No, online dating is not a joy. It is a horrific den of humanity...." Does she read ADRG?