“Winter is a ball hog. It’s time to warm the bench and let Spring play a bit.”
– TenFour
I make this same error every year: sometime around mid-February we get a week of warmer temperatures and sun instead of thick, low-hanging clouds, and I will invariably mistake this for the early signs of Spring.
I'm ready to be right regular March Hare!
I’ll start gleefully stripping my closet of turtlenecks, sweaters, and wool trousers and putting them in plastic tubs for storage. I’ll shun hot chocolate and tea and valiantly start drinking lemonade. I’ll start sporting brightly colored shirts and colorful accessories. I’ll shave my legs with more enthusiasm than I’ve done in months!
However, immediately after one (foolishly) locks the last of one’s winter gear away, the snow clouds roll back in and one has to snag a cardi from home on one’s lunch break because the temperature has dropped. It’s been snowy and gray all day and I’m in a strop. See here and here for last year’s thoughts on the subject.
Admittedly, it’s been an irregular winter to begin with. Here I’ve sat (mostly) high and dry in the Rocky Mountains while two nasty snowstorms have walloped the East coast. Where’s the logic?
“You should give up hamburgers for Lent.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Well, I’m giving up something bad for me, so you should too. Be supportive.”
“I’m giving up smoking.”
“You don’t bloody smoke!”
“See? I’ve improved myself already.”
– C. and J.
I’m at a loss. New Year, the time for such bursts of ardent revamping passed without so much as a guilty twinge. The number on the scale creeping upwards gave me pause, but not enough. The subtle tightening of my trousers was acknowledged, but then dismissed (though oddly enough my shirts displayed no such variance). No no, friends. What gets C. back into the gym, swearing off junk food and dedicating herself anew to salads?
Alright, I'll work out. I'LL WORK OUT!
Lent.
Of course I’m not going down by myself so J. has been bugged, hounded, and generally harassed until he agreed to give up Mountain Dew (though not all sodas, he would like it noted). He’s also being dragged to the gym with me to keep me on the straight and narrow. I got on an elliptical machine today for the first time in six months and clocked nearly three miles before doing a half hour of weights, so I forsee the traditional Lenten feelings approaching tomorrow: sorrow, remorse, and reliance on prayer to get one through.
I’m already craving sugar. Keep me strong, friends!
“I came up with direct marketing. Well, someone else already had, but I came up with it independently.”
– Mad Men (Pete Campbell)
“I love your necklace!” said a patron to me today. “Did you get the idea from Ugly Betty?”
“Er, no,” I answered, having never watched the show. “Anne Boleyn.”
“Oh. Who’s that?”
Sigh. Stupid history degree. Nobody has a clue what I’m talking about half the time.
Watching the Westminster Kennel Club dog show has had an unintended effect. Out of nowhere, J. has told me he likes scruffy-furred dogs with beards (see Fig. 1). He also showed a distinct fondness for large dogs with dragging jowls.
Fig. 2
On the other hand, I go for the more streamlined and sleek looking dogs (see Fig. 2).
In fact the only things we can agree on is that we both like border collies, and both are seized with rampant puppy lust. It’s a good thing we don’t live in a flat that permits animals, otherwise can you imagine the raging fight we’d have?
Editor’s Note:
Fig. 1 now updated. The first “scruffy dog” I displayed was insufficiently scruffy, according to J. This is my point.
“So…we’re not eating out again until after, approximately, the birth of our third child.”
– C.
Indy, though a blessed luxury after four years without a car, does come with a certain amount of wear and tear. She’s 12 years old and I’m increasingly of the opinion her previous owner didn’t love her as I do.
We came back from Christmas to find her battery (the one she came with: a secondhand, refurbished one at that!) had died. J.’s parents had generously bought us a new one for a Christmas present but when they were bringing her back to life, the mechanic said we should keep an eye on our timing belt because it was obviously old and cracked. Also a mount and filter needed to be replaced (thanks, Indy’s negligent previous owner).
As far as I can tell, you should be dead. But I will charge you an arm, leg, and that third child you mentioned to fix it.
So, when I took her in to get her oil changed yesterday, I batted my eyelashes and asked the mechanics if they could pretty please also check the belts for me because I was ever so worried about them (no charge!). Unfortunately I went to pick her up I got some scary news. Both the timing and driving belts seemed to be in immediate danger of molecular disintegration. And even a non-tech type like me knows that when those go, the entire car goes. They recommended immediate replacement but as it was already late afternoon and as it was going to be “at least a half day job,” they said the earliest they would be able to do it was today.
This morning I drove J. to school and then to the shop to be there when they opened at 8am thinking that, as they said it would be a half day thing and they are first come first serve, everything would be done by noon and I could go into work after lunch. I dropped Indy off and then walked the half mile home.
I’d just got to the door when I realized I’d turned all of my keys over to the mechanics and was locked out, and our landlord would be no help because J. and I had just changed the bolt lock. Sigh. I trudged back to the shop, sheepishly asked for my keys and headed back home grumbling. My grumbling increased exponentially forty minutes later when the shop called to explain that the water pump attached to the belt was leaking everywhere and needed to be fixed as well. Don’t worry, I didn’t let them charge me double labor.
I achieved this crazed expression sometime around 1pm. It was hyperactively downhill from there.
The rest of the day I spent checking my phone every ten minutes to see if the shop had called. I did five loads of laundry, scrubbed the kitchen counters and floor, and cleaned our room. I rang Susie every two hours to update her and explain that I was still fully planning on coming into work, until about 3 when I became resigned to my fate. I watched two full movies on AMC while I folded clothes, as well as part of the Westminster Kennel Club dog show. I’d gone verifiably stir crazy by 11. When I began looking around the flat and thinking of decorating ideas I realized I’d reached a Stepford Level of Battiness. They called at 4:50 to say they had finished.
Praise be to Jupiter, Odin, and Quetzalcoatl that we have a Pell Grant to cover tuition and a fat tax return on its way (hurrah for being young, poor, at university, newly married, and living on a tiny income!), as well the fact that we like to save money for just such circumstances. It’s a steep bill buts it’s cheaper than a new car! I’m glad we’ve got the means and common sense to take care of ourselves, I just wish it wasn’t so bloody expensive sometimes.
The downside: $800.00 and an even larger pile of work on my desk tomorrow.
The upside: three day work week and clean laundry.
“I don’t understand why Cupid was chosen to represent Valentine’s Day. When I think about romance, the last thing on my mind is a short, chubby toddler coming at me with a weapon.”
– Unknown
We spent St. Valentine’s Day at church, scrubbing meat juices out of the fridge after a pot roast thawed and dripped everywhere, throwing away leftovers from (seemingly) nearly twenty years ago, leaving nothing but milk in fridge, celebrating Sadie’s birthday, eating red velvet cake at my godfamily’s house, playing games, and watching Masterpiece and the NBA all-star game. I gave J. a gift certificate for a massage, he gave me this pretty thing I’ve been coveting. Tomorrow we’re going to the Cheesecake Factory for the official wining-and-dining.
I was never long on this holiday, nothing against it particularly, but thought it wasn’t the big deal some people make it out to be. I’m coming around.
“Demosthenes overcame and rendered more distinct his inarticulate and stammering pronunciation by speaking with pebbles in his mouth.”
– Plutarch
Our supplier’s secretary would have done well to copy the ancient orator. Quoth her voicemail message:
Pictured: a testicle handcuff key
“Hey this is [name] with [supplier], just calling to let you know your testicle handcuff keys are ready to ship, please let me know when you’d like me to proceed.”
Susie called Wise, Hennessy, and I all in to consult and figure out what on earth she was talking about (amidst some mock horror, “Susie! What did you order?”) but we finally managed to deduce she meant tactical handcuffs. Which isn’t nearly as intriguing.
“Hello, I have a problem. I’m a landlady for a condo rented by students and some of them are reporting that one of them has a…hoooo-cah…? I think that has something to do with drugs and I don’t know what to do. I called the university’s housing department and they refered me to the city police, but they said they couldn’t help me.” “Did they tell you why, ma’am?”
“Well, my tenants said he was smoking tobacco and the police said that that’s all right!” “Er, yes, ma’am. If they are violating your landlord/tenant agreement though, as long as you uphold your end of it in the time you give him to remove himself from your property, you will be able to evict him.”
“But the university forbids drugs!” “Yes, ma’am, but tobacco is legal as long as you are of age. The university does have certain behavioral requirements of all its’ attendees but that is not the same thing as someone breaking a state or federal law. The university may take action against him, you may take action against him as his landlord, but though he’s forming a bad and unhealthy habit, he isn’t doing anything criminal.” “But he has a…hooo-cah! And I don’t even know what that is!” “It’s a sort Middle Eastern pipe that uses water-“
“I’m sure he’s using it for heroin or something!” “I doubt that, ma’am.”
“But what is it?”
WHO are you?
This is the only cultural reference I could come up with that she recognized:
Note: I never knew I knew so much about hookahs! As a non smoker/drinker or druggie of any kind, the only hookah’s I’ve ever come across were on a family trip to Turkey, decor in some Middle Eastern restaraunts…and children’s films.
“Always be nice to secretaries. They are the real gatekeepers in the world.”
– Anthony J. D’Angelo
Not an hour into work and with stacks of paperwork already piled high on our desks, both the copier and shredder broke causing a swell of panic on the secretaries’ part. Wise, Susie, and I dove into action. After the right combination of kicking, bashing, praying, and human sacrifice was accomplished the copier shuddered, whirred, and started working again and we moved our attention to the shredder. Then my phone rang and there was a grouchy state attorney on the line, and Amanda was dragged off to do a record expungement leaving Susie to wrestle with the machinery.
In sauntered Lt. Figaro (late as usual) and he meandered up to Susie and started talking.
I imagine that if the officers ever did take the initiative to fix their own problems, the secretaries' reaction to the resulting chaos would look something like this.
While I looked up records for the attorney I watched her stick her arm and fingers into the mechanisms to fix a blockage while he told the story of an African student he knew (which is really inspirational, don’t get me wrong). As she dragged the whole thing away from the wall to poke around the electrical hookups he led into the differences of education in multiple countries, which turned naturally to American politics. When she dragged the bag of shredded paper out of its compartment (which was nearly as big as she is and threatened to spill out everywhere) he reached his crescendo:
“And that is just what the terrorists want! They want to make us feel inferior and inadequate! We can’t let the terrorists win!”
At which point the attorney let me go and I was able to scurry back in time to keep the mess from tipping over and shove the whole contraption back into place.
“Good job, girls,” Figaro said and went back to his office to take a nap or something.
“It is a difficult thing to do, to stop being a full-speed-ahead student and settle into the more mundane life of a working woman. Suddenly you find yourself no longer super stimulated, intellectually, or running 100 mph, 24/7.
It’s very hard to get into the swing of mundane things, and find satisfaction in them. Learning to love the simple things in life is a art form. It takes a change of mental attitude and a lot of practice in order to go slow and enjoy the ride. Instead, we tend to want to fill up our days with things that stimulate, but don’t really feed our needs. Burnout is the inevitable result.
Do get your exercise and healthy food, do go to bed earlier, do say ‘no’ to things, but ‘yes’ to fun, and do let me know if you want me to buy you a light box.”
– Mum
Funny how mother’s just get things, huh? Like winter funks and the contributing factors. And how they immediately either make you feel better or know what to suggest that will. Hope I’m this wise when I’ve got my own spawn to raise!
I’m lucky to have lots of mother figures in my life so here’s a happy birthday to the newest but by no means least, my wonderful Mother-in-Law Darling tomorrow! I’m lucky to be able to share my families (all of them) with you!
Small Dog Syndrome 