Julep: Whoa.

Had dinner with Mr. J's extended family this week - it was his grandmother's birthday, a fact not made known to me until 4 pm on the evening of said dinner. Sigh.

Mr. J's immediate family is lovely and classy. Mr. J's extended family is very sweet and ... well, more entertaining. As the J-Mama said to me after dinner at his grandparents' house -- the night of Hurricane Ike, they were the only people we knew with power; they called while we were at J-mama's house helping her out and very kindly extended their dinner invite to include her. Really, they're sweet. But -- in the words of the J-Mama, "Their condo proves beyond any doubt that all the money in the world won't buy you good taste."

Any gathering of the full Mr. J clan is sure to be an experience, and this was no exception. Y'all may recall that Mr. J's cousin is preggers. This is the cousin whose Redneck Wedding back in April spawned so many great stories. As it turns out, at the time of her nuptials she was not three weeks pregnant as claimed but seven weeks pregnant. Setting aside the concerns this factoid raises about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome in light of her raucous bachelorette party, it does in part explain why the fervent prayers of the congregation were all that was keeping her [of course] strapless wedding dress in place over her straining bosom. It disconcertingly appeared that she had stuffed 200 pounds of ... bride ... into a 150-lb silk sack.

The rest of the explanation was made evident at dinner. You should have seen this girl eat. She is not even in her third trimester, and she must have put on 50 pounds already. At least 50. She is enormous. Gigantic. Huuuuuuge. And when she sat down at the table, her belly got a crease (visible due to the tight maternity tee, natch). Um, that's not supposed to happen to a pregnant tummy.

Someone needs to explain to this girl that while she may be "eating for two," the second person is the size of a cocktail shrimp, not an NFL linebacker.

Julep: A cautionary tale

This is why the blog must stay stealthy.

And if this woman ever brings her show to Louisville, it is definitely a Daddy Rabbit Girls field trip.

Julep: Rainy Day Thoughts

All week long, I have been looking forward to the weekend and a chance to finally, finally sit by the pool ... something that has happened all too few times this summer. Now, of course, yesterday was lovely and today is gray and rainy. C'est la vie. It's still kind of nice to have a quiet Saturday, even if I can't loll poolside. Mr. J is out of town again, but he will be home late tonight so I have the double pleasure of a day to myself to potter around the house and, later, watch The Tudors on DVR - with a day to spend together tomorrow.

Mid-potter, I thought I would check on the blog as we have done so well at keeping it fresh the last couple of days. Twinks, best of luck at your party tomorrow. I hope everything goes smoothly and I'm sure it will; you're a wonderful hostess.

Your post got me thinking about family culture, and how even in families that are organic to the same city (or general vicinity, at least), things can be so different. I remember the first holiday I spent with Mr. J's family, a Thanksgiving before we were even engaged (but already knew we would be). After the meal, I hopped right up and headed into the kitchen to get started with the dishes. In my family, that is what you do. (Well, some people head off to the couch. It is surprisingly not gender-defined. My older sister hates doing dishes, and she doesn't, while an uncle and male cousin are reliable dishwashers.)

Little did I know at the time that Mr. J's mother was, I'm now sure, cringing. Mr-Mama hates to have anyone else clean up her kitchen. I did think it was rather odd that although several people were clearing, only one of Mr J's aunts was in there helping to load the dishwasher. And now, after many meals I have learned that the Mr-Mama just wants you to get out of her kitchen. She will do the dishes when everyone leaves. And that's fine for her and all. But when I have Mr J's family come for a meal, I am always a little disheartened at the huge pile of dirty dishes when they all tramp off ... and I yearn for my mother and sister who would be there with me in the kitchen.

All that is to say, I don't think I really appreciated as a younger girl how much every family has a different culture, about so many little things in addition to the bigger overwhelming things. My family is private, if that makes any sense. We seem to think that if you need help you will ask, and otherwise we will all mind our affairs. Mr. J's family is much closer, not to say all up in each other's business all the time (but if the shoe fits...). But when his family has an issue, the whole fan-damily takes it out and discusses it to the nth degree, and then they move on. My family broods and holds grudges.

Maybe it's all shaped by personalities and within a few generations families change. I don't think that the family my grandmother grew up in was as reserved as the one that she raised, and that may be due to the husband she chose. I do know that there are things about my family that I hope to preserve, and things about Mr. J's family that I would like to see us carry forward ... as well as things to be avoided on both sides.

Twinkle: It's Almost 3 in the Morning...

...I've been cooking/baking all night because I've got all of Mr. Twinkle's family coming over Sunday afternoon for an open house to see our new digs. And all the baking gave me time to think. About what, you may ask. Well, actually, about baking, and how it relates to my MIL.

A few weeks ago I was invited and generously accepted an invitation to go bake for a cousin's bat mitzvah (because calling a caterer would be so impersonal). So I gave up precious weekend time in the name of being a trooper. We all showed up and all the ingredients were there and I dug in with both hands (despite the unsavory sexist overtones of all the women in the family expected to do this), but I was fine because I like to bake. Of course, my MIL, being the queen bee, was assigned to make the crowning glory of the event: a very complicated 15-step chocolate bobka. And I didn't envy her, either...but my tasks were more menial. One of the grown cousins actually wanted to double-up with me to make a brownie mix. I nixed that right off, let me tell you.

So I was a machine, moving from job to job with efficiency and ease. After I'd proven myself with a few mixes, etc, they trusted me with a beloved family chocolate chip cookie recipe. I don't have to tell y'all that I graduated from chocolate chip cookie baking in about the fourth grade. But whatever, give me the recipe and let me get it done so I can go home.

So the recipe says, "Drop by Tablespoons on ungreased cookie sheet." I dropped by tablespoons and the cookies were freaking enormous. I went to the mother of the bat mitzvah/hostess of the upcoming events, and said, "Is this right? This is what the directions say, but they look way too big." This woman is a 45-year-old mother of two teenagers, and here is what she said to me. "Let's go ask." I was like, "Well, what do you think?" and she emphatically said, "No, this is something you need to understand. You always need to ask. Just do it." So here we trudge to a table of certified grandmothers, and the hostess of everything was like, "Mom, are these cookies that Twinkle made the right size?" And of course every woman at the table was like, "No--half that size." So I came away looking like an idiot, when all I was doing was following directions and then asking a person who had actually had the cookies before what they were supposed to look like...oh, these young wives think they know everything, but what they really need is a table of Bubbies telling them what to do...

(There was also an incident with parchment paper in which I was lovingly mocked for allegedly not knowing its purpose. Like any person who has ever baked, I was greasing the pan, flouring it, and then lining it with parchment paper...but then came the loving reprimand. "Honey, grease after you put in the parchment paper. So you don't have to scrub it as much." I'm sorry, but that is so not the purpose of parchment paper).

Anyway, if you have to consult a parent on the size of some chocolate chip cookies, why wouldn't you just go ahead and let your parents run every other aspect of your life, too? The need for advice on cookie size, the way no one trusts young mothers with their own babies, the lack of self-confidence in the younger generations (i.e. doubling up on brownie mix), the inability of the older generations to recognize adult children as competent...it's all starting to come together in a bizarre hierarchical jigsaw puzzle. And I feel like I've come along and inadvertently knocked the table over, just in the process of going about my business.

I think that's why I'm so determined to throw a fabulous party for the family without much help--and, really, I wouldn't ever want much help with something like this. I like to be in control of my house/kitchen/parties. (MIL is contributing some cookies, which I appreciate--she'll probably bring so many there won't be room for the food I made). In a way I want to show that unfortunate 45-year-old cousin that she, too, can be fabulous, and cook by herself without maternal supervision, and put together a menu and pull it off with her own two hands, without comment or opinion from anyone. And if anyone's mother wants to comment on my party, I hope it begins and ends at, "Oh, how fabulous!" Somehow I doubt it'll go down that way, but hope springs eternal.

Twinkle to Lola: You're Up!

So I did a little Googling to learn what exactly is involved in transferring educational guardianship, and it turns out there's a little form called Standard Power of Attorney for Medical/School Decision Making.

That's right, Lola--be prepared to start taking Twinklette to her doctor's appointments, and feel free make the call about any and all controversial vaccinations and/or medical treatments. After all, I've put you in charge, so I really don't have a dog in this fight anymore.

The first appointment's tomorrow, 9 a.m. sharp. I'll be getting a facial.

Dibbs: Eccentric Glamour? Not in "Work" County

So here's the story. I'm not supposed to wear heels right now. This edict is getting as much compliance from me as the rule that I'm not supposed to drink alcohol. (When I whine that my hips hurt, feel free to tell me it's my own fault.)

Well, my new secretary, the one I hate because she asked if my parents wanted to be grandparents, felt the need to discuss wardrobe this week. I was wearing a dress and bling-bling flip-flops. I don't like to wear flip-flops with a dress, but I was trying to comply. The secretary exclaimed over the shoes, which was sweet. I explained to her that I really would wear heels with a dress, but I can't wear them right now. She said these fateful words:

"Oh, Dibbs, anything goes."

Anything goes? Absolutely not. You know what never goes? Her navy linen closed-toe slingback flats from 1997. I was stunned for a minute. I recovered with, "No, not really. I'm very picky." She shook her head and walked away. Secretary, sweetheart, let me make this clear: just because you have an above-ground pool in your yard, you are not fabulous. Actually, the pool takes away points.

Vote Lola for Home Room Guardian!*

I really am just sitting here thinking of all the quirky fun I would have as an educational guardian for one of y'all's children! That is all.

*Lola had to edit this post, since she initially misspelled "guardian." Don't tell the MIL...