What's the saying? No good deed...?

My last blog post was written in that post-holiday haze of realizing I had planned, cooked, and hosted my first-ever Thanksgiving more or less by myself. Again — I know people have it so much harder and people have accomplished so much more — but for a few short minutes last Friday, I let myself feel a tiny bit of pride.

On my honor, it wasn’t twenty minutes after I hit “publish” that my phone rang.
It was my mom.

And my mom, being my mom — the absolutely amazing and inspiring woman that she is — of course wanted to know how it all went. Never mind that I had called her no fewer than thirty times on Thanksgiving Day itself for advice and reassurance. Every time, she reminded me I was doing great and slipped in something like, “a little extra chicken stock…” or “extra butter never hurt the flavor of anything.” But that didn’t stop her from checking in again and giving me the kind of kudos only a mom can give.

Just before hanging up she said, “Honey, I would be remiss if I didn’t check in… I talked to your Aunt Connie and she said a few things. I know she’s dramatic, but I’m your mom and I’m allowed to worry.”

I knew instantly what she meant.

Aunt Connie is Eli’s mom — my cousin who has lived in our general area for almost as long as we have, and still expects an invite to Thanksgiving even though she’s never once reached out herself. Apparently Eli tattled on me.

Here’s what sent her into a tizzy:

After dinner, Eli, my brother’s PhD advisor’s wife (I feel terrible that I can’t remember her name — she was so sweet), and I were standing in the kitchen eating pumpkin pie off tiny plates and having some spirited girl talk.

The advisor’s wife said something like, “I can’t tell you how much I love your dress — it looks perfect on you.”
And diminutive Danielle melts instantly when flattered, so I gushed my thanks.

Then she joked, “I’d be getting a lecture for weeks if my husband saw anything like that on our credit card bill.”

I gushed again because it opened the door to tell the girls about the little coup I pulled off with Bubs.

Some might call me a master manipulator. Some might call this “marriage survival 101.”
Both are fine.

Bubs got home from his surf trip the Saturday evening before Thanksgiving. And I picked the phrasing and timing of what I said very, very carefully.

On the way home from the airport, I said, “Oh, that reminds me — Amanda and Dave’s daughter is finally getting married. I really want to go up to Anthropologie tomorrow to get her a gift.”

I could practically see the introverted fear in his eyes, though he didn’t speak.
The hamster wheel in his head spun a million miles a minute:

Wedding? When? No. Dani — no. Please. A fate worse than death. I'll do anything please don't make me go. Amanda and Dave who? A daughter??

A hundred years of panic passed across his face in about three seconds.

Before he could even respond, I gave him the relief he needed:
“Don’t worry — we aren’t going. But she was always so nice to me at school, I want to show we remember them.”

And here’s the truth: when Bubs sees “Anthropologie $520” on next month’s Visa statement, his extremely literal robot brain will simply go:

Wedding. Not going. Don’t bring it up or she’ll make me go.
Checkmark in the spreadsheet.
Move on.

Now, Amanda and Dave are real people. And their daughter did get married — last year — when I pulled off a similar coup.

So at Anthropologie the next day, an unemployed SAHM walked out with three new dresses… and some adorable throw pillows… for herself.

Was this perfectly honest?
Of course not.

Was this what a good and loving wife would do?
Some might disagree — but I say absolutely yes. Surviving marriage into old age is not for the weak or timid.

And the advisor’s wife thought it was hilarious and praised my ingenuity. Honestly, I could tell Bubs exactly what I did (he may even read this) and the very first thing he’d say is:

“…but we're not going to a wedding, right?”

But I could tell my cousin Eli was instantly offended. She gave me that pursed-lip look she’s been giving me and my sisters since we were kids — the one that says, “Ohhhh, I knew Aunt Janet’s kids would end up as master criminals someday!”

I’ve long since learned to ignore her. But sure enough, sometime between leaving my house Thursday night and getting home, she called her mom to tattle on me. Her mom then called my mom to warn her that “Danielle is up to nefarious things.”

She’s thirty-eight.
I’m thirty-three.

I invited her to my house. 

Now, it’s no secret that I love my family. I even love my cousins. But I can’t help feeling a little stabbed in the back. I invited her into my home, shared a silly story that is honestly part of why my marriage works — and she didn’t approve. Of course she’s allowed her opinion, but why not pull me aside and say, “Danielle, do you think your actions were appropriate?”

Instead it’s apparently a story traveling across five states about how awful I am.

Thank God my sisters called and laughed, saying Eli still apparently has a stick firmly lodged up her ass.

So yes — apparently I am the talk of five states now for daring to buy myself three dresses under the guise of a wedding gift.

But you know what? If there’s one thing this Thanksgiving taught me, it’s that I’d rather have a mom who calls to check on me, sisters who laugh with me, and a husband who trusts me more than any spreadsheet…
than a cousin who thinks a silly story is evidence of my moral decline.

I’ll take my messy, funny, honest little family over the tattletales any day.