“Pride is still aiming at the best houses.” – Alexander Pope
This time of year gets a bit tricksy with the budget, after all presents must be bought! But I had an interesting moment yesterday whilst writing out a check for December rent and simultaneously bemoaning car maintenance (new tires) – I realized I’m only going to be writing (probably) two more rent checks to our current landlord. Part of our contract involved paying first and last month’s rent up front, and I’m currently working on the theory that we’ll be leaving the area sometime in March. Thus there’s only January and February to go
Just like that, a rather hectic day improved. London is very close.
Mum rather blew the fairy dust off of my first grown up/married flat when she came to visit this past summer (her exact words were, “Well, this is a bit grim, huh?”), and I like to tease her for it, but it’s true. Our little flat is old and cheap, there is no dishwasher or laundry hookups, the furnace is a couple centuries below code, but it works. It’s been good to us. And the chances of us getting another two bedroom place in London for such a ridiculously low price are so infinitesimal as to be laughable.
I’m not sad to be moving on to new things, and I’m not sad that I have only two more rent checks to write here, but I’m always going to fond of our little place.
(Work’s still ridiculous, so posts this week are going to be blurb style. I mostly write this blog to keep my hand in, and I’ve been neglecting it. For shame, C.! I could be lazy and wait for the new year to make a resolution, but I think that procrastinating resolutions rather defeats the purpose, no? Prepare yourself for stream of consciousness, links, and ramblings!)
“I never made a mistake in my life; at least, never one that I couldn’t explain away afterwards.” ― Rudyard Kipling, Under The Deodars
We pretend to be all put together and grown up. It’s a front. A sneaky, lying, cheating front.
Ducklings, our house is a disaster zone – I can confess this and you won’t think badly of us. J.’s suitcases are still spread everywhere, sweaters are piled on the couch, we still haven’t folding the load of whites we did before we left for Arizona, and we just barely got around to doing dishes last night. At which point J. requested cookies so we made a mess of the kitchen and stayed up late with cookies and milk watching Dr. Who, refusing to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Adulthood and responsibility, fah!
However this current state has side effects. For example, with all this travel (not to mention a trip to London upcoming during the Summer of the Jubilee/Olympics) our finances have sort of fallen over wheezing and begged us to stop. We’re allowing ourselves the chance to eat out once a week, although we’re choosing not to exercise this privilege currently, and restricting entertainment to Redbox and card games. Of course, I’ve been mostly cooking for one for the past nine months and am remembering exactly how much food the guy I’m married to consumes – woof.
So, in an effort to make a lot of good food at one go to give us lunches for a few days, I whipped up a crockpot full of chicken fajitas. And you’ll excuse me for patting myself on the back when I say that they were delicious. Minions would have wept in joy to have tasted them. However we waited for the food to cool a bit before putting it away – and then forgot about it. J.’s first words to me the next morning when we woke up were, “Did we put dinner in the fridge last night?” My first words were, ah, unfit to print here as I scrambled for the kitchen and discovered I’d manage to waste a ton of food.
My brain is clearly having trouble reengaging after all my bouncing around and living out of suitcases. Tonight, though, it’s getting a break as we say farewell to J.’s old flatmate as he and his wife head off to grad school – and that means a barbeque! One more meal I don’t have to cook, and potentially ruin. Even I can manage to whip up a communal salad without incident.
“Catch, then, O catch the transient hour; Improve each moment as it flies.”
– St. Jerome
Alright, piglets! Recap of the past week and a half and a preview of coming attractions. Picture Grace Kelly saying it looking slinky and fabulous in some serious 1950’s night gear, believe it or not it ties into recent events:
So as not to offend maiden aunts and pearl clutchers, here’s an alternate image.
I hurt my knee exercising and lazed away on the sofa for days afterward. Immediately I gained forty-seven pounds (approximately) and since my gym classes are currently on break for the week, I am rediscovering exactly how bad I can be at self-motivation once a habit has been broken. But you don’t judge me, do you minions?
My in-laws took me out for a birthday lunch last Saturday, which as usual I managed to complicate. It was at a venue I’d never been to before on an area of road that has recently received a major overhaul and is a bit hard to navigate. Nevertheless I followed the signs only to find the whole area (consisting of shops, open farms, gardens, museums, and other family friendly dittos), was overrun by a Scottish festival. The nearest parking was along the road and a half hour’s walk to the main buildings. I wended my way through many a kilted man wielding a broadsword shouting in horrendous fake-Scotch (mostly quoting Braveheart), only to discover I was in the wrong area and the bistro was actually located a couple of miles away in separate gardens – and, of course, I’d misplaced my mobile the day before. Luckily a very helpful lady at the information center called up the bistro and I was able to enlist Atticus to come rescue me. I didn’t live it down for the rest of the day, but frolicking with my nieces and nephews did much to lessen the smart of ridiculousness.
The smart returned when I found my mobile later that day. In the trunk of my car.
The construction of the highway interfered again when I went to Margot’s bridal shower last night – and it took me over an hour to take what should have been a twenty minute trip. Also, I was the only one who showed up with a Victoria’s Secret bag – almost everyone else brought kitchen gear – with the exception of Margot’s sister who also brought something silky and scandalous. Thank goodness! I don’t mind being a scandalous friend, but for heaven’s sake I had only barely met their mother!
J.’s last final is tomorrow and he’s coming home on Monday! At which point I will have to relinquish the half of his closet I took over…drat. On the other hand, I won’t have to do dishes anymore, huzzah!
Margot gets married this Friday, Flyboy gets married over the two weekends after that – two out of state parties in a row. Note to self, get nails done at some point.
My landlord should be checking out my plumbing today, which would be much more exciting had we not first asked them to look at a few problems back in March. In the meantime an empty bucket has been living under my bathroom sink to catch the leakage, and my patience is long dead.
There, you’re all caught up. What have you been doing with yourselves, ducklings?
“It’s the friends you can call up at 4am that matter.” – Marlene Dietrich
“Why are you still up?” Margot demands.
I wave a frustrated hand at my laptop, “Because I’m working on this cover letter. My resume’s in working shape, thanks to Peregrine, but this is the first time I’ve had to write one of these. I’m making a pig’s ear out of it. Wait…why are you up this late?”
“Wedding stuff. My wedding planner came by and the meeting took three hours. We’re not seeing eye to eye on the color of the cake. I also had to strip down in front of a strange man.”
My eyebrow inches up. “I imagine that wasn’t nearly as fun as you’re making it sound.”
“Nope,” Margot yawns, “gown measurements. I only sound perky because of the chocolate I’ve been scarfing down to get by. What time did you get home?”
“10:30. What time is it now?
“12:30. Yikes. How’s work?
“FBI’s coming to town, I’m organizing the event. You?
“Parent Teacher Conferences. Any development on the cover letter?”
“Not much. Made a decision on the cake?”
“Lord, no.”
[Pause]
“We,” Margot strikes a pose, “are warrior poets.”
“Damn straight.”
“Never go to bed angry. Stay up and fight.” – Phyllis Diller
I’m grouchy, I’m tired, and I’m going to overshare some more. Brace yourselves.
You can always tell who is new to our apartment building.
If only...
The astute learn early that the walls are paper thin and everyone can hear everything that is going on next door (or above, or below), and most moderate their behavior accordingly. The newlyweds learn quickly that the whole building may be treated to their sexcapades if they aren’t careful and move their bed away from the creakiest of the floorboards and try to somewhat muffle their, ah, enthusiasm. Families learn to keep their fighting relatively civil, lest the whole building hear their business. The Girls Next Door have learned that not everyone appreciates their impromptu dance parties – especially the couple beneath the with the new baby.
But because the frequency of tenant turnover is so high (we’ve been there nearly three years and we’re ancient by lease standards), no one stays for long. The Beepingtons were replaced just a week ago by a newlywed couple who, I suspect, are going to take a while to learn the ropes.
Sunday night Margot was out of town visiting her fiance and I was still doing battle with the never ending cold, so I’d turned in blissfully early. Only to be woken up by the new neighbors going to bed. Angry.
It was 1:30am, and apparently the perfect time for a fight. And lucky me, I got to listen to it as it got more and more heated. They slammed closet doors and banged dresser drawers as they traded accusations. Not really knowing them, I assumed that reason would reassert itself, they would realize the time and that their altercation was probably at a decibel displeasing to most and leave it till morning. I was wrong.
Half an hour into it my inner monolog had been hijacked by the feuding couple and I found myself thinking things like, “Be fair, that’s not what he said at all!” and “Leave her mother out of it,” and “Now now, she has a valid point.” After about ten minutes of that, though, I’d crammed a pillow over my face and was sending hate-filled thoughts through the ceiling and contemplating the ups and downs of charging upstairs an banging on their door with demands that they shut up.
Really, propriety? NOW?!
Believe it or not, I have a very well developed sense of propriety – kept in a functioning state mostly for the malicious glee of doing exactly the opposite of what it tells me to do. But unfortunately this is the time it chose to assert itself.
“C.,” it said forcibly, “as aggravating as this is, there is nothing in my playbook for this scenario. If they were flinging artichoke hearts at you across the table at a really good dinner party I might have something for you. But 2am shouting matches on the part of perfectly nice but socially unobservant neighbors is, surprisingly, a new one.”
I was going to have to wait it out.
At about 2:30am, the conversation turned weepy with many protestations of change and improvement in the two parties’ attitudes and behaviors. ” Bully for you,” I sighed, and hoped that such talk meant an end to hostilities.
It did.
After a couple of minutes of lovely silence, however the sounds of, ah, vigorous amorous activities began. “Sex isn’t going to solve your problems, kids,” I thought nastily and dragged my blankets over my head.
I hear you asking, “Why didn’t you just go sleep on the sofa, you complaining idiot?” Two reasons. First of all there was the principle of the thing: I was not going to be forced from my bed simply because they were using their for acrobatics. Second, and more importantly, another of the fun features of our building is that in addition to thin walls, all of the heating and cooling elements are connected. Through which sound carries. The acoustics of the living room being what they are, things were actually louder out there.
The show ran for an encore last night, at about the same hours. So now I’m horribly tired and more grouchy about J.-being-in-London-enforced-celibacy than usual. Never say I don’t tell you everything, kittens.
“A good neighbor is a fellow who smiles at you over the back fence, but doesn’t climb over it.” – Arthur Baer
The building that contains my flat is typical student digs: old, in less than mediocre shape, and seldom improved or upgraded in any way (see my 30 year old furnace). But it sets itself apart in one way: the landlord prefers to rent to young married couples and the occasional small family. His logic, not entirely unjustified, is that couples and families are more likely to treat the place as a home rather than some dump you rent for a couple of semesters before moving on and mostly likely leaving a substantial amount of damage behind.
As a result, a sort of culture has sprung up in our building. People are largely quiet, go to bed early, take pains not to annoy one another. Many of us are done with school, finishing up internships, or generally in the transitional stage that comes after university when one gets a Real Job, but is still laughably poor. There are rare cases like My Lord and Lady Stompington, but when they rear their heads, people in the building are likely to mention such behavior to the managers, who in turn mention it to the perpetrators, who in turn usually manage to shape up. It’s a watered down version of Suburbia, everyone plays by the rules.
That is, they did, until the landlords decided to take a risk and let the flat next door to mine to four younger girls still at university. Our tranquility is shattered.
The other night I’d turned in and just barely shut my eyes when suddenly I heard one of them start to tune her violin and then practice scales for 45 minutes. Luckily the couple beneath them just had a baby and was able to invoke the Wrath of Mothers and the performance hasn’t been repeated at night.
Where I used be able to wind down at 10pm, that is the hour they they are just livening up. They crank up their music and have the occasional impromptu dance party. The opera (at reasonable levels), Edith Piaf, and Ella Fitzgerald, and plenty of indie rock I don’t object to in the slightest – but for the lateness of the hour. The Miley Cyrus, on the other, I object to strenuously, particularly because of the lateness of the hour. No one needs to listen to that at 11pm (or indeed ever) with the stereo cranked up.
Don’t they realize that the rest of us are old and boring?!
“It’s hilarious how tied up [our niece] was in the idea of having a sister, I think little boys are cute. Watch, God will give us triplet girls for that…” “As long as they don’t act like the girls I live with. If they do, I’m sending them back.” “Come on, darling, they’ll be half me.“ – C. and J.
Readjusting to having flatmates after living with a spouse is quite interesting. I’m lucky, because Margot’s a great flatmate. She’s funny, driven, seemingly indestructible, and unfailingly clever, one of those people who you just like being around because you’re practically guaranteed a good time, even if you’re doing nothing. But that doesn’t mean it’s not an adjustment. She is, after all, not my husband.
Our recreation is totally different, for one thing.
Hey, baby, you single? No? Pfft, wasted my best moves on you, then...
For example, Margot goes dancing and when she invites me along I decline, because where we live is a notorious marriage market, and frankly, I’m glad I’m out of all that! Nights out dancing are no longer fun: firmly not flirting with the overeager boys, disclaiming my taken status when asked to dance (in the interest of full disclosure) and trying to hide a grin when they back off hurriedly, as if they are complicit in adultery. I went dancing once or twice with girlfriends when J. and I were dating or engaged, but it was distinctly not as fun as it was as a Singleton. A good chunk of the dancers were hunting (aggressively) for a mate and the rest of us, only there for a good time, were in the way of that mission. Now I’m married, mission complete, and I’m a false start which they will resent should I wander into their path. It’s all frightfully funny, but not necessarily the way you want to spend an evening.
And for another thing, we’re at very different points in our lives – she’s recently graduated and job hunting, I’m (relatively) settled. She’s constantly putting in applications for a full time teaching job, and I admire her for it, but I’ve got a job. I’m all sympathy and willing to ponder the mysteries of our generation’s day and age…but my trials and concerns are different from hers. I am, in short, an old woman. I must be the most boring flatmate ever, but she puts up with me, and we get along great!
J., on the other hand, lives with two women who are daily growing in seeming hatred towards one another. That too must be the oddest feeling, living with two feuding females, neither of whom he’s related to as he tries desperately to stay out of it. It’s a foreign experience for him, he’s only ever roomed with other men and people he was obligated to love (me or his siblings). I’ve taken to calling his updates on the battle “Dispatches From the Front.”
This attitude, hilariously masquerading as "maturity," allows one to rise above most arguments.
I never got into a fight with any of the girls I lived with, it never seemed worth the energy. If you didn’t get on well, in six months one of you could move out and never see the other person if you so desired. There was no need for impoliteness or other unfortunate behavior in the meantime. I was the flatmate baffled when another girl would suddenly collapse weeping on my shoulder demanding if she’d done something wrong because I hadn’t spoken to her in an hour. I was the girl who unintentionally sparked a civil war in one flat because I put the newly washed silverware into the drawer in the wrong order (forks, knives, spoons, instead of the other proper way around), who was oblivious to the growing rage until the girl I’d offended demanded if I’d been raised in a zoo, flung all the cutlery across the counter, and promptly burst into tears. I patted her awkwardly, “there there-ed” a while, and promised never to put the forks on the left hand side again.
Margot’s gloriously sane by comparison. I like her lots.
“You’re Garfield. You’re a kitty and you hate Mondays.” – J.
I had a reliable morning routine with J.. Our alarm would go off, one of us would smack it silent. Fifteen minutes later, ditto. Fifteen minutes after that I would poke and prod him to get up and shower with many protestations of showering after him, he’d get up, and I’d go straight back to sleep. The probability of whether or not I would shower depended utterly on whether or not I needed to wash my hair. I’d be awoken for the final time when he would march back into our bedroom and order me up.
With him gone, I’ve had to go back to pre-marriage mode of getting myself up like a big girl. And, minions, I do not like it. I am not, nor have I ever been, a morning person. These days mornings are cold, dark, and currently husband-less. I see no reason why I should have to leave the comforts of my bed, on a Monday in November.
I’m in a bit of a strop (if you couldn’t tell), so cheer me up this fine (wretched) morning! How was your weekend, my loves? I had a nephew’s baptism, a date with Margot, and the beginnings of seasonal shopping to leap into – and I’m not even talking Christmas. J., Venice, and my father all have their birthdays this coming week, Sadie and Pieter have a couples wedding shower next Monday, and I’ve a wedding to attend this weekend. I’ll be exhausted before Thanksgiving!
“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.” – C.S. Lewis
Actual photo of the elusive Margot in the wild...
Kittens, I have failed. I told you all long ago that I had exciting news regarding the unfailingly awesome Margot…and then neglected utterly to tell you want it is. Here it is: she moved in with me!
With J. off in London and me with this two bedroom flat all by my lonesome, and she with this horrid student apartment she was splitting with five other people, and a probable job starting in February that would make it hard to sell her housing contract (since she would have to move out of the country)… we figured she should just take up residence at chez Small Dog. And lucky me, she said yes.
Margot is a busy girl holding down multiple jobs including teaching, tutoring, volunteering, and applying for yet more jobs. She’s taught all over the Pacific (mostly in New Zealand), she also grew up partly in Japan as the daughter of a US Air Force officer, she is sister to Pinto (now living and teaching herself in Germany with her husband), and Margot is planning on an educational administrative job in South America next year – unless a cooler offer presents itself. Yeah, if she weren’t my friend, she’d make me sick too.
In the interest of getting to know someone who will most likely feature at Small Dog Humor and Snark Inc., here’s a brief interview:
So, your computer dies spectacularly sending your life’s work into the screaming void. Reaction? Weeping.
Favorite flowers, just so your admirers know what to send (as we at Small Dog Social Commentating are awash in such things)? I like stargazer lilies, red roses and (new discovery) baby’s breath. But it has to be all baby’s breath. Mix any of these and you die.
You are a box of pudding just waiting to be made, what flavor are you? I am sugar free chocolate pudding.
The one author you would deny your students forever if you got the chance? As a taste issue, you understand, no banned books here. Ooh…Stephanie Meyer’s too cliche, there’s got to be someone I hate more… I’m going to say Glenn Beck?
You have to wear one outfit for the rest of you life, make it good! Black slacks, white frilly button up, black blazer, scarf, red lipstick. Oh! And fake big rimmed glasses and stilettos. I’ll look like I’m going to a very corporate funeral. “He was a good man…of business…”
Care to say hello to the minions? You people are fabulous. Carry on.
Small Dog Syndrome 