Twinkle: Progress?

Alright...it looks like the All-Twinkle blog show will continue. Where is everyone? I'm glad the Daddy Rabbit Twitter feed back in business!

So, we had our road trip this weekend, and as Mr. Twinkle and I were driving home, the conversation (as it so often does) turned to nuts. Specifically, I had overheard a 4-year-old boy exclaim after a run-in with his older brother, "He got me in the nuts!" I was relating the story to Mr. Twinks, and naturally I had lots of questions. My biggest one was this: does it actually hurt a little boy to get hit in the nuts?

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Mr. Twinkle: "I don't remember anybody ever hitting me in the nuts as a child."

Me: "Well, there was your mom, but that was more in the figurative sense."

Mr. Twinkle: "It was an emotional castration."

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He admits it! I think it's progress, people!

Twinkle: Dinner Chez Moi

So Mr. Twinks' entire family came for dinner tonight, and it was fun and all that. MIL is always on her best behavior at these events, and is appropriately complimentary--although she did bring a ginormous plate of assorted cookies and desserts, the circumference of which was larger than any surface area in my home. I know she wishes we lived in a super-sized McMansion in Sutherland chosen by her, but let's be realistic: this is the Highlands, biatch, and things here are scaled more tastefully. And I swear I don't mean that b*tchy.

I had a moment of calm just before the guests arrived, when I felt like I was actually going to pull it all off successfully and have everything hot but not burnt. A moment later I saw Mr. Twinkle's cousin bouncing her happy *ss up to my front door. She got there 45 minutes early to "help," and started by reaching her hands into the ice bucket to fill the glasses, completely ignoring the scoop whose sole purpose in life is to keep everyone's ice clean and free of fingerprints and germs. Call me an uppity b*tch, but in the Twinkle household, we use an ice scoop.

When I started putting food out and said, "Go ahead and help yourself," it was a suggestion for her to take a taste of the Dolls cheese torte, maybe sample a little Barefoot Contessa smoked salmon spread while I finished putting out the hot dishes. She took this as an invitation to put her hand into the quiche that was cooling on the countertop, and extract a bite of tomato, egg, and cheese. Yes, she reached right into the quiche, the very one whose crust and filling I slaved over. Not what I meant by my invitation to "help yourself."

Speaking of helping yourself, after dinner and cleanup (which involved several dishwasher runs, hand-washing a dozen or so each highball, champagne, and julep glasses, and an exhaustive search for a lost spoon during which calamity and panic ensued), when I was about to pass out from exhaustion and still had more to do, Mr. Twinkle thought it would be a good time to come up to me, pull up my dress, and dry hump me from behind. Y'all know I'm not one to turn down a good roll in the hay with Mr. Twinks, but that was neither the time, the place, nor the most appropriate means of seduction. I mean, the way I was feeling right then (and now), he would probably have had a more interactive time with a decorative pillow. My advice to him: try me again in the morning, and start with a backrub.

Sorry if that's appalling, dears...that's what a stealth blog is for. Y'all need to come back and start posting again! It's supposed to be our blog...not the All-Twinkle show!

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.