If You Buy Bagels, They Will Come

A while back, when was it?  Three years ago?  Four?  Trust me on this:  It was a glorious day, a day of celebration, when Cuzzy's Wife, a stylish shiksa gal I call Sis, asked me, Big Little Sis, if she could take over Mother's Day.  It would be her holiday.  Just hers.  Would that be okay with the SJG?  "Let me get back to you," I said.  "Yes."  I was so delighted, so elated, to end the long-ass tradition of trading off hosting Mother's Day, that I went giddy.  Woo-hoo! Let the trumpets blare!  Hurray! Trading off on Thanksgiving provides enough aggravation.  On my years, something breaks (dishwasher), something burns (cheesecloth turkey wrap), someone falls (hubby's aunt).  On Sis's years, everything goes ridiculous well.  It isn't fair, but then, what is?  So, Sis's offer to take over Mother's Day was the best gift ever, the kind that keeps on giving.  Whoever started this long-ass tradition (I blame my mother and my aunt) never envisioned that one day, their kids would have their own kids and spouses and significant others, that the fresser count would swell, and that these people would expect to be fed bagels and cream cheese and lox. 
But Mother's Day is now Sis's holiday, so what do I care?  I give the whole thing very little thought.  It comes down to what to buy my mother-in-law and what should I bring.  A collapsed blintz souffle that looks mushy but tastes delish?  Or something easier, like a nice babka?  You could say I've gotten a bit lazy.  Go ahead and say it.  "The SJG is lazy.  Everyone says so."  So lazy, that only a week ago, I emailed Cuzzy and said, "What up with Mother's Day?"  Cuzzy emailed back:  "The wife is O.O.T."  O.O.T.?  I'm not a texter, so I had to give this one a good long think.  O.O.T.?  Out.  Of.  Town?  Oh, dear God, nooooooooo!  Sis!  How could you?  Does this mean?  You bet your tush it does.  The SJG is doing Mother's Day.  Hello, old friend.  Hello.  I've dragged out the folding chairs.  Bought the frozen blintzes.  Made my house look pretty.   On Sunday, they'll arrive, the hungry ones.  Seventeen fressers.  Maybe eighteen.  I never did learn how to add.  Next year, Sis, it's on you.  None of this O.O.T. business.  Pull another O.O.T., and I'm coming with.