“A child educated only at school is an uneducated child.”
– George Santayana
We here at Small Dog Syndrome got some fun emails from a previous post (the post about things one’s kids ought to know. Not the post about beating one’s kids. Very different). And so, because it’s summer and I need something to do on my lunch breaks and weekends, I think I’ll start up a bit of a series on the subject (again, about what’s one’s children out to be exposed to, not domestic violence. Just so we’re clear). Nothing formal, and certainly not organized; that’s just not the way we do things around here. Let’s think of it as an ongoing project that will intermittently interject into our regularly scheduled reading.
Do you have something to share with the class?
I’m opening this up for discussion as well, be free with your comments, accolades, scathing rebukes towards my taste, etc. And by all means, add your own suggestions! I’m looking for books, movies, TV shows, vacation spots, and the like, all I ask is that you keep it culturally-minded. Meaning while Spongebob Squarepants may have been your favorite drivel growing up, I’m looking for the quality things that you’d truly want your future spawn to know of. More importantly, why.
“There is a peculiar burning odor in the room, like explosives. The kitchen fills with smoke and the hot, sweet, ashy smell of scorched cookies. The war has begun.”
– Allison Lurie
The end of a semester is always a bit sad, largely because we often have a turnover in student employees. Today is Daae’s last day and Sport’s second to last day.
In honor…actually, in mourning…of the day, Wise and I decided that we wanted to do something for them and I said I would make a bunch of cookies for the office. Unfortunately I had my creative writing final which lasted until 8pm (which was a surprising amount of fun, but that’s another post) and then I had to spend half an hour Harley (yes, I named it), so I didn’t open my cupboards until 9:30 which is when I discovered we had no butter – or milk, or bread, but who’s keeping tabs?
(Side note: We go through butter at an alarming rate. Perhaps I should up my Harley time to an hour?)
So, off to the store. While I went in with the best of frugal intentions, I came out with butter, milk, bread, apples, oranges, carrots, dried fruit, yogurt, English muffins, granola bars, vegetables, chocolate chips, and evaporated milk. Oops.
Now, I'm no culinary wonder, but I do know my chocolate chip cookies!
Then I got to work whipping up a double batch of chocolate chip cookies and thanking Mum and Dad for the foresight of getting me an industrial sized Kitchen Aid for a wedding present. It was all going swimmingly until I pulled the first pan out of the oven.
Something had gone terribly wrong. They didn’t look like cookies at all, they looked like scones. But they didn’t taste like scones, they tasted like incredibly dry biscuits. But they didn’t feel like biscuits, the felt like hockey pucks. You can imagine my confusion.
“At least she’s eating better things than macaroni and cheese.”
– Heidi Klum
Translation of fragment: "Mac and Cheese is food fit for dogs. And Gauls. Go Rome!"
Throughout my life my mother has been in school, in some capacity or another. When I was about three or four, she had to leave Dad and I for a few weeks to finish up something or other with one of her degrees (I misremember which. Which isn’t me being a bad daughter, it’s her having one in Asian Studies, one in American History, and now another in Classical Studies from Cambridge because she decided to learn Greek and Latin. In other words, my mother is exceptionally awesome). Time has blurred the details a bit but as I recall, this was an absolute highlight of my short life because Dad and I subsisted on mainly pizza.
I didn’t realize this during the Great Pizza Blitz, but it turned out that my Dad hated cooking. Really hated it. He encouraged my Mum to go to school, continue her education throughout her life, and work if she wanted, but by golly the one thing he wanted was dinner to be on the table, because left up to him, dinner would come grudgingly from a frozen package.
So, a few years down the road when she decided to teach for a semester or two at a local university, I thought the Pizza Affair would be reborn. I was sadly, terrifyingly mistaken.
This is NOT food.
Mac and Cheese. From a box. Every night. Some days even for lunch. Sometimes we varied it up with chunks of hotdog, but mostly not. Again, I’m sure both time and horror have worked their magic on me and the vile orange sludge was not as prolific as I remember, but it sure seemed like it at the time. When my mother’s teaching finished, I refused to eat another disgusting, processed bite, and I’ve never touched it since. Once when shopping J. picked up a box for himself on days when I’d be at school late or he needed a lunch, I had to swallow escaping bile.
However, watching Food Network the other day, I saw a recipe for ‘Grown Up Mac And Cheese’ and thought suddenly to myself, “That doesn’t look so bad.” It sounded pretentious enough that I could assure myself that it would be as un-Kraft-like as possible, but looked really easy to make. So, on Sunday I girded my loins and made Mac and Cheese for the first time in years.
And you know what? It was pretty darned tasty!
**I’ll still never make the packaged stuff again. My children will not be subjected to this powdered cheese monstrosity, except to survive the Zombie Apocalypse. And even then, I might choose death.
I went home with J. for lunch and as we walked in the door, we were met with an overwhelming smell that neither of us could identify. We sniffed dubiously around trying to solve the mystery. We dumped all the bins, lit candles and opened windows to clear the air, but it wasn’t until J. wandered into another room and got a fresh whiff that he exclaimed, “Sesame oil! But…why…how?”
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,—
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
– Shakespeare
So! Flew in to Heathrow on the morning of Christmas Eve, met at airport by Dad and Snickers, drove home to Suffolk. Day spent hugging, talking, and trying to stay awake. Christmas Eve feast was superb. Went to bed. Woke up Christmas morning (siblings showed infinite patience and let us sleep in longer than I’d ever imagine they’d be able to) and tore into both presents and breakfast. Rest of day spent in rest and relaxation.
The adventures begin on December 26th, also known as Boxing Day. It’s part of the Christmas holiday in England and most people keep holiday hours on it, but this was the day chosen to go to London to show J. the sights. We checked online and it appeared some things would be open, so off we went.
Mum, left in red. Me, middle in red. Gio, right of me in red. Dad, right of Gio in red. Buddy...in black. Snickers, hidden. J., behind camera.
Never trust the internet. The Tower, which really is the historical base of the city (thanks, William the Bastard/Conquerer) was closed. Luckily Westminster Abbey was open. Some of you may recall my raptures at visiting it two years ago? Well, it was nothing compared to this time. I was so obnoxiously happy to be back in England that I had a hyper litany of sheer enthusiasm trilling through my head as I forced myself to walk somberly through its hallowed naves. The Shakespeare alone was particularly thrilling, I may or may not have muttered the St. Crispin’s Day speech as I meandered past Henry V. Anne of Cleves got a nod and a, “Well done. Better off without him. Much,” Congreve got a cheeky grin, Elizabeth I another critical glance over (still not as pretty as she thought she was).
After Westminster we tried for the Tower but that as you know was a fruitless effort. So we traipsed across the city! I didn’t make it over to Kensington where I lived but I did stare longingly at the High Street Kensington and Gloucester Road stops on the Tube for a while. We walked through Trafalgar Square (scene of many a late night revel with Marie, Elizabeth, and AbFab so long ago), made our way to Leicester Square where, completely out of other ideas, we massacred three hours by watching Avatar. An observation: don’t see this movie in 3D from the second row of the theatre. Your inner ear thanks me. After that we saw Stomp and made our way home at a ridiculous hour of the evening.
Sunday we tried to recuperate a bit and celebrated Buddy’s birthday with a quiet family evening at home. The next day we celebrated it by scampering around the misty wet fields with nearly fifty people, shooting each other with paintballs. I had only been paintballing once before and been shot in the mouth, so I didn’t have a high opinion of the activity (this time I was shot at point-blank range while guarding a little girl, but it was during our mad dash for glory in a game of capture the flag and we were welcomed to the splotched sidelines like heroes). The boys loved it.
No, it's not the camera angle, the house really looks like that.
Tuesday we went to Lavenham, which is without question the most charming country village outside of the Lakes District. I’ve written about it before, but allow me to gush a little bit more! It’s just delightful, the crooked Tudor houses always make me grin like an idiot. I rummaged through my favorite antique store (trying on an Edwardian hat, drooling over Victorian jewelry, and rifling through letter boxes and cupboards) and we ate lunch at The Swan.
Wednesday J. and I basely ditched the family and hopped on the train from Cambridge back down to London so he could actually see things. The train was a necessity because, according to the news, a truck of pigs had gotten into a wreck on the M11 and, far from turning the passengers into bacon, a dozen or so had escaped and were wandering across the highway, grazing on things, and generally causing a bad time of it for the drivers who were backed up for hours waiting for the porcine perils to be rounded up.
We hit the Tower and the British Museum. Going through it was like visiting an old friend. J. seemed to especially love the awful imperialism it represented. “I mean, these guys just showed up and said, ‘I like that wall. I think I’ll take it!'” he said going through the Parthenon exhibit. During the evening we walked from Tottenham Court Road to Oxford Circus so I could get in some much needed shopping before we made our way back to Liverpool St. and hopped back on the train to Cambridge. Then, the next day, back to the States.
I’m going to be honest and admit that as we were driving back from J.’s parents house and I was looking across the valley and snow-covered mountains…I burst into homesick tears. When we got home I was absolutely howling with misery (or lack of sleep, one of the two). “I want to live two hours outside of London!” I sobbed, “I want to live where it’s green even in the winter! I hate the desert! I don’t want to go back to work on Monday! I don’t want to live here for two and a half more years while you finish school! I want my dog!”
J. just hugged me and promised to get me back there someday if he could, and he meant it. I calmed down, went to bed, and woke up feeling alright about leaving England behind for a while. In the meantime, I’ll just be here. Missing it.
“How much sleep have you gotten in the last three days?”
“…twelve hours…maybe…”
– Parents and C.
Hello, darlings! J. and I have returned from Merrie Olde Englande but I’m not at all intact! For some reason I didn’t adjust to English time at all this trip, and no amount of Tylenol PM could fix me. And rest certainly wasn’t on the agenda because J. had never been and there is SO MUCH TO SEE/DO. All of which I will faithfully recount, as soon as I have recovered from the exhaustion induced headcold fog I’m currently clawing my way out of. Thank goodness I’ve the weekend to rest before going back to work.
And now, a few observations.
Small Dog, upon arrival.
Item the first. Some women look good when they travel. I am not one of them. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been flying at least a couple times a year for a good portion of my life, how much I hydrate, how many naps I squeeze in, whether or not I put on makeup, how many vitamins I’ve popped, or whether I’m seated next to the banshee child from Hades or a perfectly silent baby, I will inevitably arrive looking haggard. My hair will be in desperate need of a wash, my skin will have turned to an ashen mess, and my eyes will be rimmed in red agony. And also inevitably, on every flight there will be a leggy blonde in skinny jeans that fit her properly, a flowy cardigan, the perfect carry-on bag, at least one unobtrusive and flattering accessory, flawless skin, and perfectly mussed hair that will come out of the jet in the same lovely condition it went into it with. I hate this woman.
Item the second. Terrorists will make an appearance. I’ve had some experience with the fallout of their behavior. A few years ago I was flying out of Brussels back to the States, my family was on their way to the UK and I was back off to university. It was a day after the UK-based terrorist plot to use liquid explosives on airliners had been discovered and dismantled (2006, if you don’t recall in these fast-paced times) and the resulting chaos was ricocheting around airports world-wide.
Goodbye, dear. Be safe and don't talk to extremists. See you at Christmas...maybe.
My parents drove me to the airport, waved a cheerful goodbye, and off they were down to Calais to take the ferry across the Channel to Dover. And there I stood in the Brussels airport staring blankly into the pandemonium. There were security guards everywhere, dogs, and barking airline employees informing me that I would not be permitted a carry-on on my flight so I would either need to repack everything or throw my carry-on and everything in it away. I had turned in my European mobile phone (and so had my parents) so there was no way to keep in contact, and exchanged all my money for US dollars so there was no way to pay for anything unless I wanted to eat the exchange rate fees on my US credit card. And they were on their way to France (without me!). A very nice Middle Eastern family made room for me with their group on the floor where we all repacked, stuffed, sat on suitcases to close them, and repacked again to make sure we were within weight requirements. Going through the security screening took nearly two hours, but it didn’t matter because my flight was delayed for five.
After the foiled terrorist plot this past week, Heathrow had stepped up security but J. and I actually made it through in good time with only a frisking. Unfortunately, after we were frisked and shown into our containment area, we weren’t allowed out again and so I had to forego breakfast.
And item the third. Continental’s new entertainment system?! Amazing! You should fly with them just for the countless movie options!
“No look, I’ll show you.”
Pause.
“Wow. I was just about to lift up my shirt and then I thought, ‘No, there’s got to be a better way…'”
– Kay
I love my husband. I do. But I am more convinced than ever that he married me purely for the entertainment. Last night, we both collapsed in the door feeling generally beaten about by the world (him from mid-terms, me from work), and dove straight into pajamas. I was freezing so, against my will, I grudgingly pulled on my only long sleeve pajama top: a gray one with the words, “You, Me, and the Mistletoe” emblazoned across it that’s been in storage for a year. (I’m breaking one of my cardinal holiday rules: one at a time!) However, feeling toasty I forgave myself my Thanksgiving-overlooking indiscretion and happily relaxed, allowing J. to eat macaroni and cheese to his heart’s content while I finished off leftovers…until after we had cleaned up and I snuggled up against him for a hug…he leaned into my neck and smelled me.
Not adorable “I love your perfume” smelling, or even “I’m just trying to annoy you by doing weird things” smelling. Full on, “There’s something wrong here” smelling.
“What?” I demanded, pulling away.
“No! Come back!” he yanked me back against him, leaning down to bury his nose in my shoulder.
“What on earth is wrong with you!”
“You smell funny.” Deep inhale again.
“Hey!”
“No, I mean you smell…” he sucked another sniff down before declaring, “like seasoned salt, or spices.” A pause. “Why?”
“You’re just picking on me.”
“No I’m not, take of your shirt and smell.”
“Of all the stupid-”
“I’m serious!”
Not only did I get my shirt ridiculously caught on my elbow (and therefore stuck), I didn’t even need to get it over my head before the unmistakable whiff of Cajun seasonings hit me full in the face.
The great question for me is not J.’s “Why?” …but “How?!”
“Early to rise,
Early to bed,
Makes a man healthy,
But socially dead.”
-Animaniacs
J. and I make all sorts of good decisions, with fine intentions, and solemn promises to comply with our goals. None of which work when slapped with reality. Case in point? Going to bed at a reasonable hour. We can’t do it. Nevermind that I have work at 8am and if he’s a millisecond late to class his homework won’t be accepted. Somehow we scrape through everyday but it’s been by the skin of our teeth every time.
Smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, adulterates hourly. And yet so appealing. A conundrum.
This past sunday night I turned to him very seriously and said, “We have to start getting up earlier, ergo, going to bed earlier.”
“Ok,” he said, “nine thirty?”
“Good idea.”
I then stayed up until nearly midnight because The Great Escape was on, and who doesn’t want to watch Steve McQueen nearly jump the border into Austria (chased by the entire Nazi army who sprung from nowhere)? And last night, J. was doing evil accounting homework, so what other choice did I have but to watch episode after episode of Mad Men? None whatsoever! And I certainly couldn’t have stopped myself from going to Blockbuster and getting the next two DVDs.
NOT a morning person.
The real problem isn’t going to bed…it’s getting up. When I was a student I could stay up for hours (or days if it was exam week) and I don’t think I’ve lost the ability, just the will. The weather is growing delightfully more and more chilly, it’s getting gradually darker in the mornings (which is a blessing because I can’t sleep if there’s any light at all), and I have this nice warm husband to cuddle up against. Waking up just doesn’t seem nearly as good in comparison.
“So, you liking married life?”
“No.”
(awkward pause)
“Wait! I mean, I love being married to J. but being married itself is hard!”
“K…”
-Daae and C., who was not paying proper attention to the question
If we're being honest, though, let's admit that as long as we're not at this point, we're doing rather well!
Now, my other young married girl friends, back me up (especially us breadwinners Angel, Jane, Venice, Daae, and the rest of you!), it was a bit of an adjustment when someone took Beyonce’s advice and put a ring on it, wasn’t it? There are dozens of variations on this theme, but they all involve trading total independence for total inter-dependence and that, my dears, is no easy feat!
See, everyone tells you that being married is work and tries to warn you, but nothing prepares you for the reality of factoring in another human being into every decision you make. And nothing can even hope to brace you for the blow that comes from being utterly independent (parents in another country, never asking for money, graduating, travelling, etc., all on one’s own), and then being the sole supporter of a newly minted family!
No more sharing bills with flatmates, extra money now goes towards feedings this guy (who eats approximately 56 times as much as you do, rough estimate), and say goodbye to nearly all your free time! Lunch breaks for me ever since we got married have been spent running errands, getting my name changed on everything imaginable, and putting him on my various policies. Evenings are spent shuttling us around to our various commitments, and I’m the only chauffeur as J.’s ability to drive a manual aren’t up to par. On top of which, the flat, cable, electricity, gas, car, insurance, and only full-time job we’ve got is all on my head. And laundry, because J. hates it (which is ok, because I flat out refuse to touch dirty dishes).
Much to Small Dog's chagrin, this look usually makes J. laugh. Which is odd, because I've found to be very effective in other aspects of my life...but my husband think's it's hilarious.
Occasionally I get stressed out/mildly resentful of all this change slapped on at once. Busiest time of year at work, J. starting his program (which is one of the top ranked in the country) and therefore falling off the planet, and adjusting to living with a new spouse, with all the curious incidents that entails.
But I am fortunately/unfortunately married to a person who absolutely understands the way my busy little mind works. So when the stress gets to be too much, J. cracks a joke or makes a rather ill-timed comment, and I turn freezingly silent for hours/days while I try to reign in my temper…as soon as I emerge from my little nuclear winters, J. can say, “I understand,” and I know he means it.
We bought (another) bookshelf some time ago but just got it secured to a wall in our office a couple nights ago. It was nine thirty in the evening and we were both exhausted, but I pulled almost all our books out to reorganize them to use all that glorious additional space we’d acquired. Not as easy as you might think.
Should I sort alphabetically? If so, by title or author? What about by color of book cover? Size? Hardback vs. Paperback? Topic? Gah! What was a bibliophile to do?
I eventually decided on chronology, starting with Homer, Virgil, and Beowulf (remember how I majored in European Studies with an emphasis on literary history?…) working my way through Geoffrey of Monmouth, Dante, and Petrarch, and got on rather well until I butted into the sixteenth century. I stared down at my copy of The Other Boleyn Girl and then frowned at the space it should go for a while before setting it down in a new pile. I could not, in good conscious, wedge it between Sir Thomas More and John Donne. I didn’t even get a full century ahead of that before I ground to a halt again. Rousseau, Voltaire, Manon Lescaut, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and…The Scarlet Pimpernel? Hm, a better fit than the Boleyn Girl, but still didn’t seem quite right.
“Are these supposed to go in order of subject matter or when they were written?” I demanded of J. as he obligingly carted books around the flat for me.
“I have no idea what you’re doing,” he returned, disappearing into the office with my anthologies, essays, and critical works.
“Me neither!”
The same problem with C. S. Lewis, as well as the fact that I have works from him that fall both in fantasy and theology, neither genre had previously featured. I tucked The Chronicles of Narnia with my science fiction, Lois McMaster Bujold and Douglas Adams…and then realized I had no idea where any of them should go chronologically! “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away” didn’t necessarily come after post-modernism in my mind. And what about all my academic books, J.’s philosphy and textbooks?
I finally got it all sorted, but with an additional bookshelf not all of the available space is used. Which means of course a run to the campus bookstore (hurrah for employee discounts!) and Barnes and Noble is in order!
“What?” I demanded, pulling away.
I eventually decided on chronology, starting with Homer, Virgil, and Beowulf (remember how I majored in European Studies with an emphasis on literary history?…) working my way through Geoffrey of Monmouth, Dante, and Petrarch, and got on rather well until I butted into the sixteenth century. I stared down at my copy of The Other Boleyn Girl and then frowned at the space it should go for a while before setting it down in a new pile. I could not, in good conscious, wedge it between Sir Thomas More and John Donne. I didn’t even get a full century ahead of that before I ground to a halt again. Rousseau, Voltaire, Manon Lescaut, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and…The Scarlet Pimpernel? Hm, a better fit than the Boleyn Girl, but still didn’t seem quite right. 
Small Dog Syndrome 