Poor Pumpkin. Her brother had a big Hallowwen themed blow-out for his first birthday - but her first birthday is Saturday and we are essentially doing nothing. Well, not entirely nothing: we've invited her grandparents and her godparents and her aunt, uncles and cousins to come over on Saturday mornning for lunch and cake. That's it. No invitations, no balloons. I just can't manage to get my $h!t together for anything more elaborate.
In my defense, Mr. J threw me off because he wanted to have her birthday party at a park, like at the Big Rock picnic shelter. But (1) she will hardly be running in the creek or on the playground herself, nor would any children her age, so this seemed a little inhospitable to me, and (2) weather is always a concern especially at this time of year. I told him if he wanted to arrange it himself, that was fine but I did not have time to be calling Metro Parks to reserve a picnic shelter. To my complete surprise (not at all), he never did anything.
So our baby girl's first birthday is tomorrow and we are, essentially, punting.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Twinkle: Escort or Trust Beneficiary?
There's a certain trust company in town that Mr. Twinks does business with, and they recently invited us to hear the Israel Philharmonic. There was a reception before the concert, and it was filled with exactly the demographic you'd expect: lots of olds, and a couple of younger types in ascots.
There was one notable exception.
The first thing I noticed about her was her professional and severely over-sprayed up-do. Her dress was a little too cocktail-y and it had sparkles. She clearly is not someone who understands fashion nuance, because if any of us went to the orchestra on a Tuesday night, we would know how to dress on point. We'd wear a casual cocktail dress (not the sparkly kind) or a nice suit if we were coming from work. Normal hair, because we wouldn't want it to look like we went to the trouble of getting a professional up-do for this. The event is special, so we'd want to look like we put a little thought or effort into an outfit, but not too much thought or effort, because after all the orchestra on a Tuesday night is not the Speed ball. We'd be dressy, yes. But not too dressy, because too dressy means we'd be trying too hard. And this person was.
The next thing I noticed about her was her elaborate leg tattoos. At first I thought they were those awful coloful-patterned leggings, but I was right next to her in the buffet line and they were definitely tats.
The third thing I noticed was that she was returning to the buffet line for seconds or thirds and lingering a little too long in front of the meatball chafing dish (not that I wasn't discreetly sneaking a meatball every now and then, too...so no judgment there). But she was a little too excited about the food and didn't know how to be cool about it.
I think we can all agree that the above evidence points to one obvious fact: this was a Pretty Woman situation.
I discreetly pointed her out to Mr. Twinks, who immediately said with disgust, "That's what happens to trust beneficiaries," and I was like, "No way." Mr. Twinks insisted that the older man she was with was her grandfather and not her most generous client (as he so clearly was). The main reason Mr. Twinkle was wrong on this is that she was trying way too hard. If it were her grandfather, she'd be in normal street clothes with normal hair. No one gets a professional up-do and puts on a too-sparkly cocktail dress to go to the orchestra with her grandfather on a Tuesday. I'm sorry. And if she were really the spoiled trust beneficiary that Mr. Twinks was trying to make her out to be, she probably wouldn't have cared enough to show up at all, much less get an up-do.
Am I reading way too much into this up-do? What do y'all think?
The third thing I noticed was that she was returning to the buffet line for seconds or thirds and lingering a little too long in front of the meatball chafing dish (not that I wasn't discreetly sneaking a meatball every now and then, too...so no judgment there). But she was a little too excited about the food and didn't know how to be cool about it.
I think we can all agree that the above evidence points to one obvious fact: this was a Pretty Woman situation.
I discreetly pointed her out to Mr. Twinks, who immediately said with disgust, "That's what happens to trust beneficiaries," and I was like, "No way." Mr. Twinks insisted that the older man she was with was her grandfather and not her most generous client (as he so clearly was). The main reason Mr. Twinkle was wrong on this is that she was trying way too hard. If it were her grandfather, she'd be in normal street clothes with normal hair. No one gets a professional up-do and puts on a too-sparkly cocktail dress to go to the orchestra with her grandfather on a Tuesday. I'm sorry. And if she were really the spoiled trust beneficiary that Mr. Twinks was trying to make her out to be, she probably wouldn't have cared enough to show up at all, much less get an up-do.
Am I reading way too much into this up-do? What do y'all think?
Monday, March 31, 2014
Monday, March 24, 2014
Twinkle: Blame It All On My Roots, I Showed Up In Boots, and Ruined Your Erev Pesach Affair
You've all met my dour yankee SIL and her husband, the Smug Vegans. Well they're making their annual Passover visit in just a few short weeks. This always makes the already-draconian Passover restrictions even more unfun--who would have imagined it was possible?
So the deal with Passover is that you're supposed to go for eight days without eating any bread and lots of other stuff, too. Even fruits and veggies are restricted (no corn or legumes, and everything theoretically has to be able to be grown in Israel, or something) and any processed food has to be marked "Kosher for Passover." It's a big, expensive undertaking, and I suspect it's a racket perpetuated by the Manischewitz food company to sell their disgusting chocolate or potato chips or whatever that most people wouldn't eat throughout the rest of the year, but will buy for this one week just to have a little variety. (Just so y'all know; I never make it to the end of this and I don't even try).
Anyway, you can imagine that if you had to go all that time without eating normal foods, you'd want your last meal before Passover to be a decadent blowout with all your favorite foods. (I'm totally on board for this meal, by the way). So I was happy to get an email from my SIL's lovely mother-in-law this morning, saying that she and her husband and a few other family members want to treat the whole family to a fun Erev Pesach (the night before Passover) meal, to thank the Louisville crew for our generosity throughout Passover. It was a kind gesture--my SIL's inlaws are lovely Southern Jews with good manners and a fun outlook on life that is so refreshing since Fun Sunk is usually running the show around here. They all come to town once a year at Passover and make the whole thing more bearable, and actually joyful. They drink and laugh and bring aunts and uncles and little kids. They even bring out the best side of Fun Sink, who cuts loose a little bit around them. I like when they're around.
So, yay, Erev Pesach meal--it's a Sunday night so it's not going to interfere with anything else fun that'll be going on; it'll be a big family meal with kids and grandparents and everyone. I was fine with it. And then I read the crucial sentence: "The Smug Vegans have suggested Roots." So, thanks to the Smug Vegans, we get to blow it out on Erev Pesach with bean sprouts and steamed banana leaves.
Mr. Twinks and I are appalled. Appalled. And it's not just because of the last-meal-before-Passover aspect of it. It's just so rude and presumptuous. At my count, there will be 18 people at this dinner, and three of them--three--are vegans. (Two are Smug Vegans and one, Mr. Fun Sink, is the much less common kind of vegan: the Nice Vegan Who Enjoys A Good Steak Every Now And Again). So three people out of the 18 want to eat bean sprouts, and now we're all going to Roots. Roots. How am I supposed to get drunk at Roots?
Also, what the hell are my children supposed to eat at Roots? We've taken them there before with the Nice Vegan Who Likes Steak, and here's the answer: nothing. They hate everything at Roots, as any normal redblooded Americans would. This will only make my children look worse, as I'm sure Sophie will be stuffing her face with the braised beets while my children rightly demand to know where the fuck they can get a bowl of mac and cheese. Similarly, I can't imagine that the inlaws' 90-year-old grandmother, Bubbie, is going to enjoy Roots. Bubbie owned a catering company in Memphis; Bubbie knew Elvis, OK? Bubbie is not down with bean sprouts. Even Fun Sink likes a fat chicken thigh every now and then.
The choice shows a complete disregard of other people's tastes or preferences. It's so typical of the Smug Vegans to try to force their aberrant lifestyle on the rest of us. It's the very worst kind of bad manners. It's the equivalent of me holding them down while Mr. Twinkle sprays a can of whipped cream into their mouths.
Also, what the hell are my children supposed to eat at Roots? We've taken them there before with the Nice Vegan Who Likes Steak, and here's the answer: nothing. They hate everything at Roots, as any normal redblooded Americans would. This will only make my children look worse, as I'm sure Sophie will be stuffing her face with the braised beets while my children rightly demand to know where the fuck they can get a bowl of mac and cheese. Similarly, I can't imagine that the inlaws' 90-year-old grandmother, Bubbie, is going to enjoy Roots. Bubbie owned a catering company in Memphis; Bubbie knew Elvis, OK? Bubbie is not down with bean sprouts. Even Fun Sink likes a fat chicken thigh every now and then.
The choice shows a complete disregard of other people's tastes or preferences. It's so typical of the Smug Vegans to try to force their aberrant lifestyle on the rest of us. It's the very worst kind of bad manners. It's the equivalent of me holding them down while Mr. Twinkle sprays a can of whipped cream into their mouths.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Twinkle: The Mitzvah of Mishloach Manot
Well, it's Purim, and y'all know what that means: Fun Sink is doing her annual duty of delivering little Purim gift baskets to family and friends.
This is good news for me, not only because I am a recipient of one of these coveted baskets, but also because she employs my children in the baking, stuffing, and delivering of the mishloach manot. Just so y'all know, I just learned how to spell that and I still can't pronounce it, but here's a translation: it means that I got two afternoons off this week. One while they baked, one while they delivered. So you won't hear me complaining about that. Yay, Purim!
I actually do like Purim, because it's the one holiday that actually seems happy. I mean, sure the evil king was going to kill all the Jews; that's a bit of a downer. But then the lovely Queen Esther comes along and uses her feminine charms to convince him not to. Or something. (Wait--was Queen Esther's husband really a bad guy? Did she actually bone with some murderous anti-Semite who wanted to kill everybody? That doesn't sound right. Did someone say "use your imagination, wink wink" when describing how Queen Esther convinced him not kill everyone, or was that my French professor talking about the study sessions between Heloise and Abelard? I have no idea). Anyway, it's the one holiday where Jews are supposed to cut loose and have a little fun--Mr. Twinks claims you're commanded to get so drunk you can't tell the evil King Haman's name from anybody else's--so naturally it's a holiday I can get behind.
Of course, Fun Sink has to take the Mardi Gras of Judiasm and turn it into another depressing and joyless obligation. And, I swear I don't mean this bitchy, but here is a picture of the basket:
I told Mr. Twinks that if it were me, I'd deliver a split of Veuve Clicquot to my friends and family (same size, infinitely more exciting). He said we should do it next year. But getting into a big fat mishloach manot contest with Fun Sink is not my goal. How about I just buy some Veuve and drink it myself? Or y'all could come over and help me. All in the name of Purim, of course.
Also, can we talk about the plate that all this was delivered on?
This is good news for me, not only because I am a recipient of one of these coveted baskets, but also because she employs my children in the baking, stuffing, and delivering of the mishloach manot. Just so y'all know, I just learned how to spell that and I still can't pronounce it, but here's a translation: it means that I got two afternoons off this week. One while they baked, one while they delivered. So you won't hear me complaining about that. Yay, Purim!
I actually do like Purim, because it's the one holiday that actually seems happy. I mean, sure the evil king was going to kill all the Jews; that's a bit of a downer. But then the lovely Queen Esther comes along and uses her feminine charms to convince him not to. Or something. (Wait--was Queen Esther's husband really a bad guy? Did she actually bone with some murderous anti-Semite who wanted to kill everybody? That doesn't sound right. Did someone say "use your imagination, wink wink" when describing how Queen Esther convinced him not kill everyone, or was that my French professor talking about the study sessions between Heloise and Abelard? I have no idea). Anyway, it's the one holiday where Jews are supposed to cut loose and have a little fun--Mr. Twinks claims you're commanded to get so drunk you can't tell the evil King Haman's name from anybody else's--so naturally it's a holiday I can get behind.
Of course, Fun Sink has to take the Mardi Gras of Judiasm and turn it into another depressing and joyless obligation. And, I swear I don't mean this bitchy, but here is a picture of the basket:
And here are the contents: some dried bananas and apricots, hamantaschen (not all they're cracked up to be), trail mix, some fruit bars, and kosher grape juice. I'm sorry, what? Did someone say grape juice? Am I supposed to get excited about grape juice? Who the fuck is even going to drink that? I mean, I know we have little kids so obviously they could drink it, but is Fun Sink actually delivering grape juice to adults, in the name of celebration and excess? I know those dried apricots are decadent and all; I wouldn't want anyone to go overboard.
Also, can we talk about the plate that all this was delivered on?
Where do you even get a Purim plate? Obviously they're not that common (if they were, who would choose this monstrosity?). I think if it were between this plate and something plain, or just a generic Mardi Gras themed plate with masks on it or something, or any plate other than this, I would go with the alternative. Here are some close-up highlights. I'm not even sure I want this plate in my house. Good luck not having nightmares tonight.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Twinkle: Childcare Drama and Accepting Help When Needed
I always end up looking like an idiot in front of my inlaws.
And it really does hurt that they never want my help. It's even worse when I offer my help and it falls through, making me appear to be more of an idiot. Twice.
So Aunt Irene died on Saturday morning. Jewish people usually have a pretty quick turnaround on funerals, which means--not to be crass--but those of us with small children have under 24 hours find a babysitter. And it's made even more difficult when 8-10 inches of snow are predicted in that 24-hour timeframe.
My parents understandably didn't want to drive two hours round-trip in the impending snowpocalypse. I thought surely I could count on our regular sitter service, so I even called my inlaws to ask them if my SIL needed childcare and wanted to share our sitter. She already had childcare taken care of. Of course.
Well, then the sitter service couldn't find anyone willing to do it.
None of the teachers at school could do it.
A friend with children the same ages as mine offered to take all three girls, but she could only do it if Bella's birthday party got cancelled and all the kids could stay at her house. Naturally it was only raining during the appointed time for the party/funeral, so the party happened as scheduled. My friend graciously took AM to the party, but she understandably couldn't take all my children and all of hers to Bella's party, and of course I would never ask her to.
It was a first class clusterfuck, resulting in Mr. Twinkle and me showing up at the funeral with E and B in the car with us, switching off during visitation while the other one sat in the car. Meanwhile, my SIL, who doesn't even live here, apparently had no trouble getting childcare. Her boring friend Christa did it. Christa actually has a business called Suck and Swallow Specialists, LLC, which doesn't actually sound that boring. But I promise she is.
Anyway, a distant cousin of Mr. Twinks found out about the situation and ended up offering to stay at my inlaws' house and tag-team all the babysitting duties with Suck and Swallow. And I accepted, because I'm not averse to taking help when I really need it. But we still sort of ended up looking like idiots who can't get our sh*t together, while my SIL always, always, always has her fucking sh*t together, even while finding childcare out of town.
---
Today Mr. Twinkle called me. He wanted to know if I could ask the school if cousin Sophie could go to E's class tomorrow (this has happened in the past and hasn't been a big deal). I called the school; the school said fine. Like an idiot I texted everyone to let them know it was all good to go, because I so crave a pat on the back from these jerks.
A few hours later I heard from the principal, who said that actually they have an extra kid in that class on Wednesdays so Sophie can't come. So I looked like an idiot yet again, and had to text my SIL and say never mind. Since I had a sitter booked for tomorrow (I'm going to that luncheon at the Woman's Club), I again offered for my SIL's kids to come over and stay with my sitter. My SIL said no thanks; they have it covered. Of course they fucking do.
---
And I think the worst of it is that they don't really look at me to get to know me. They have no clue how fabulous all of you are, and how fabulous I am just by proximity to such amazing, interesting women. I know my SIL does not have interesting friends, and I'm not just talking about Suck and Swallow. She has one friend that I know up in Connecticut--she's cool and I like her. She's a big, loud, funny northeasterner, and she actually humanizes my SIL to me a lot, but she couldn't hang with you Southern fabulous girls. I feel like, as with everything this family does, my SIL is friends with people out of obligation, because they're Jewish or because she's been friends with them forever--whereas I'm friends with people because I like them and find them interesting. She happened to find a gem in that one yankee girl that I've met, but I bet you she'd never have given that girl the time of day if she hadn't been Jewish.
And when I sent that ill-advised text today announcing that Sophie could attend school tomorrow, I really did want everyone to say, "Yay, Twinkle--great job! Thanks for taking care of it!" because it is a good feeling to be useful and to do someone a favor. And that's my problem, because I can't force those people to appreciate me, and of course no one did, and they never will. And now I look like an idiot and a flake and my SIL should obviously just arrange her own childcare and bypass me altogether because I'm incapable of getting my sh*t together. Twice.
---
Also, Sophie is a mean girl who tried to make E feel bad for being younger (because being almost three-years-old instead of four is totally E's fault) and I so wanted to make Sophie be in her class at school. And if she couldn't be in E's class, I really wanted to make her stay at my house with a babysitter and Baby B. Maybe I'm a vindictive b*tch, but you don't mess with my sweet baby E.
---
Also, Sophie came to my house and I fed her a smorgasbord of sweets. It seriously was the most decadence that kid has ever seen, and she could not control herself in the face of all that excess. She also found one of Baby B's pacifiers and was kind of hiding it behind her back. I was like, "What do you have behind your back, Sophie? Oh, I don't really care if you have that. You don't have to hide it. Go for it!" So even though she annoyed me by trying to exclude E (whom AM totally stood up for, by the way--Twinkle sisters stick together!), I'm still sort of angling to be the only adult who ever says yes to anything fun. And let me tell you all--when it comes to the Fun Sink family, it isn't that hard.
And it really does hurt that they never want my help. It's even worse when I offer my help and it falls through, making me appear to be more of an idiot. Twice.
So Aunt Irene died on Saturday morning. Jewish people usually have a pretty quick turnaround on funerals, which means--not to be crass--but those of us with small children have under 24 hours find a babysitter. And it's made even more difficult when 8-10 inches of snow are predicted in that 24-hour timeframe.
My parents understandably didn't want to drive two hours round-trip in the impending snowpocalypse. I thought surely I could count on our regular sitter service, so I even called my inlaws to ask them if my SIL needed childcare and wanted to share our sitter. She already had childcare taken care of. Of course.
Well, then the sitter service couldn't find anyone willing to do it.
None of the teachers at school could do it.
A friend with children the same ages as mine offered to take all three girls, but she could only do it if Bella's birthday party got cancelled and all the kids could stay at her house. Naturally it was only raining during the appointed time for the party/funeral, so the party happened as scheduled. My friend graciously took AM to the party, but she understandably couldn't take all my children and all of hers to Bella's party, and of course I would never ask her to.
It was a first class clusterfuck, resulting in Mr. Twinkle and me showing up at the funeral with E and B in the car with us, switching off during visitation while the other one sat in the car. Meanwhile, my SIL, who doesn't even live here, apparently had no trouble getting childcare. Her boring friend Christa did it. Christa actually has a business called Suck and Swallow Specialists, LLC, which doesn't actually sound that boring. But I promise she is.
Anyway, a distant cousin of Mr. Twinks found out about the situation and ended up offering to stay at my inlaws' house and tag-team all the babysitting duties with Suck and Swallow. And I accepted, because I'm not averse to taking help when I really need it. But we still sort of ended up looking like idiots who can't get our sh*t together, while my SIL always, always, always has her fucking sh*t together, even while finding childcare out of town.
---
Today Mr. Twinkle called me. He wanted to know if I could ask the school if cousin Sophie could go to E's class tomorrow (this has happened in the past and hasn't been a big deal). I called the school; the school said fine. Like an idiot I texted everyone to let them know it was all good to go, because I so crave a pat on the back from these jerks.
A few hours later I heard from the principal, who said that actually they have an extra kid in that class on Wednesdays so Sophie can't come. So I looked like an idiot yet again, and had to text my SIL and say never mind. Since I had a sitter booked for tomorrow (I'm going to that luncheon at the Woman's Club), I again offered for my SIL's kids to come over and stay with my sitter. My SIL said no thanks; they have it covered. Of course they fucking do.
---
And I think the worst of it is that they don't really look at me to get to know me. They have no clue how fabulous all of you are, and how fabulous I am just by proximity to such amazing, interesting women. I know my SIL does not have interesting friends, and I'm not just talking about Suck and Swallow. She has one friend that I know up in Connecticut--she's cool and I like her. She's a big, loud, funny northeasterner, and she actually humanizes my SIL to me a lot, but she couldn't hang with you Southern fabulous girls. I feel like, as with everything this family does, my SIL is friends with people out of obligation, because they're Jewish or because she's been friends with them forever--whereas I'm friends with people because I like them and find them interesting. She happened to find a gem in that one yankee girl that I've met, but I bet you she'd never have given that girl the time of day if she hadn't been Jewish.
And when I sent that ill-advised text today announcing that Sophie could attend school tomorrow, I really did want everyone to say, "Yay, Twinkle--great job! Thanks for taking care of it!" because it is a good feeling to be useful and to do someone a favor. And that's my problem, because I can't force those people to appreciate me, and of course no one did, and they never will. And now I look like an idiot and a flake and my SIL should obviously just arrange her own childcare and bypass me altogether because I'm incapable of getting my sh*t together. Twice.
---
Also, Sophie is a mean girl who tried to make E feel bad for being younger (because being almost three-years-old instead of four is totally E's fault) and I so wanted to make Sophie be in her class at school. And if she couldn't be in E's class, I really wanted to make her stay at my house with a babysitter and Baby B. Maybe I'm a vindictive b*tch, but you don't mess with my sweet baby E.
---
Also, Sophie came to my house and I fed her a smorgasbord of sweets. It seriously was the most decadence that kid has ever seen, and she could not control herself in the face of all that excess. She also found one of Baby B's pacifiers and was kind of hiding it behind her back. I was like, "What do you have behind your back, Sophie? Oh, I don't really care if you have that. You don't have to hide it. Go for it!" So even though she annoyed me by trying to exclude E (whom AM totally stood up for, by the way--Twinkle sisters stick together!), I'm still sort of angling to be the only adult who ever says yes to anything fun. And let me tell you all--when it comes to the Fun Sink family, it isn't that hard.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Twinkle: On Judgment and Guilt
So today while the big girls were at school and Baby B was napping, I did something that people probably assume I spend all my time doing, but I never, ever actually do as a stay-at-home-mother. I reclined on the sofa with a few Easter-themed Reesie cups and watched as many True Detective re-runs as naptime allowed. (I was reviewing them for symbolism, y'all. Seriously, I am obsessed).
I was literally on my sofa, watching tv instead of having a job, and eating chocolate--the very things that the women in Mr. Twinks' family probably judge me for the most (even though reaching that level of leisure is so rare it's practically unheard-of)--when I got the call that Aunt Irene, of Sister Shubert guilt and mini-hot dog judgment fame, had a massive stroke and is on life support.
I guess I've known Aunt Irene and the rest of the family for 10+ years now (so hard to believe), and I've always felt that Aunt Irene got a bad rap, even though I was sort of hard on her here on Daddy Rabbit. She's known to be a little high strung, but has always been nothing but nice to me. Apparently her first marriage--the traditional Jew-on-Jew match that the 1940s demanded--was to a man who was not so nice, but most of her married life was spent in a great marriage with a non-Jewish man who died right around the time I came into the picture. So she was never that judgmental about Mr. Twinks and me. Mini-hot dogs, yes--she would judge the sh*t out of people who ate too many mini-hot dogs. But she was always cool with interfaith relationships, and I appreciated that. She was never anything but nice to me.
So of course I immediately thought of the Sister Shubert roll that she accepted with guilt and self-loathing almost exactly a year ago, and again I wish she had eaten as many of those as she wanted and not felt guilty about any of them. I mean, y'all, she was old. I'm all for being healthy, but I'm also for living your life and enjoying it. Aunt Irene has had a long life with lots of children, grandchildren, and one bastard great-grandchild who has the tackiest name ever, but how much of that life was spent fretting over calories as she consumed them? I'll tell you how much: a lot. She fretted over how many she consumed; she fretted over how many those around her consumed. It's one example of an unwillingness to enjoy life, and it just makes me sad.
Any one of us could have a stroke at a gas station on our way to the beauty parlor, with a sh*tload of money in our purse. I would argue that, if you're old and have had a good life, it's preferable to a long, drawn-out illness with lots of suffering. But I'm not trying to get too dark here. I'm just saying that I appreciate Aunt Irene not judging me, and I wish she hadn't judged herself quite so harshly.
So, after Mr. Twinks returns from delivering her living will for the second time today (the family lost the first copy, and the incompetence is making Mr. Twinks lose his mind), he and I will enjoy a little wine, a lot of sushi, and the return of Scandal. And we're doing so guiltlessly.
I was literally on my sofa, watching tv instead of having a job, and eating chocolate--the very things that the women in Mr. Twinks' family probably judge me for the most (even though reaching that level of leisure is so rare it's practically unheard-of)--when I got the call that Aunt Irene, of Sister Shubert guilt and mini-hot dog judgment fame, had a massive stroke and is on life support.
I guess I've known Aunt Irene and the rest of the family for 10+ years now (so hard to believe), and I've always felt that Aunt Irene got a bad rap, even though I was sort of hard on her here on Daddy Rabbit. She's known to be a little high strung, but has always been nothing but nice to me. Apparently her first marriage--the traditional Jew-on-Jew match that the 1940s demanded--was to a man who was not so nice, but most of her married life was spent in a great marriage with a non-Jewish man who died right around the time I came into the picture. So she was never that judgmental about Mr. Twinks and me. Mini-hot dogs, yes--she would judge the sh*t out of people who ate too many mini-hot dogs. But she was always cool with interfaith relationships, and I appreciated that. She was never anything but nice to me.
So of course I immediately thought of the Sister Shubert roll that she accepted with guilt and self-loathing almost exactly a year ago, and again I wish she had eaten as many of those as she wanted and not felt guilty about any of them. I mean, y'all, she was old. I'm all for being healthy, but I'm also for living your life and enjoying it. Aunt Irene has had a long life with lots of children, grandchildren, and one bastard great-grandchild who has the tackiest name ever, but how much of that life was spent fretting over calories as she consumed them? I'll tell you how much: a lot. She fretted over how many she consumed; she fretted over how many those around her consumed. It's one example of an unwillingness to enjoy life, and it just makes me sad.
Any one of us could have a stroke at a gas station on our way to the beauty parlor, with a sh*tload of money in our purse. I would argue that, if you're old and have had a good life, it's preferable to a long, drawn-out illness with lots of suffering. But I'm not trying to get too dark here. I'm just saying that I appreciate Aunt Irene not judging me, and I wish she hadn't judged herself quite so harshly.
So, after Mr. Twinks returns from delivering her living will for the second time today (the family lost the first copy, and the incompetence is making Mr. Twinks lose his mind), he and I will enjoy a little wine, a lot of sushi, and the return of Scandal. And we're doing so guiltlessly.
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