You demanded, Small Dog complied! Our wedding, in slideshow form, we apologize in advance for the crazy format:
With just a couple months away, C. and J. take pictures and try not to take everything too seriously.L'Artiste tells C. to practice looking "sultry," C. bursts out laughing after the camera flashes.
C. is just glad she got veil and shoes figured out. J. is just glad C. can stop agonizing about it.
The whole clan meets up (the day before The Day), luckily everyone seems to get on well! It'd be a shame to back out at this point.
...Although...all this family can be a little overwhelming. Meeting/marrying into a clan, not for the faint of heart!
No, not their six secret illegitimate children, C.'s newly acquired nieces and nephews!
Atticus, Darling, J., C. (who can't look at the right camera), Mama, Dad
J. chills with Scotticus, Cakes, and Bear...
...while C. gets fixed by Venice and Peregrine (AKA, 2/4 the greatest bridesmaid team ever)!
The complete gang: Snickers, Venice, Marie, Peregrine
No time to rest! On to the luncheon!
Our rather fab luncheon venue!
Dad cracks guests up with the parents' viewpoint into our relationship.
Mama giggles at Dad's tale.
Ring Ceremony, close up of my pretty engagement ring. Green!
Snickers, adorable scrag-a-muffin!
J. and Darling.
On to the reception!
The gorgeous spread...which we didn't get a bite of...
Good thing we got cake (red velvet!) to tide us over...but we still had to get fast food on the way to the carwash to get rid of our mutual brothers' handiwork in decorating it.
Speaking of! Here are mine, goofing off with the flowers.
Godfamily in the foreground. Early in the evening. Hostess said we had over 400 people, glad I didn't have to herd them!
Unfortunately, you don’t get to see the video of my dad completely showing up J. in the dancing section of the evening. But it didn’t matter so much because after I tossed the bouquet and we cut the cake, the real party started! Dancing, mayhem, the usual. Apparently we were partying too fast to be seen, because half of those pictures didn’t turn out at all! But there, your insatiable appetites must be satisfied by now!
For the record, gentlemen, ladies do not find most of your “awesome” exploits funny in the least. Neither do the police. If you simply mustannoyingly display your affection, stick to pulling our pigtails. Because finding an elk, recently deceased due to an unforeseen run in with a car, decapitating it, and leaving the head on a girl’s kitchen table (shades of The Godfather) does not inspire affection. In fact, it’s considered alarming and creepy.
Also, if you decide to engage in this sort of behavior, don’t post pictures of your exploits on Facebook for the police to find.
“And the Lord did grin. And the people did feast upon the lambs, and sloths, and carp, and orangutans, and breakfast cereals, and fruit bats-”
“Skip a bit, brother…”
– Monty Python and the Holy Grail
The Cable Gods have looked upon their lowly worshippers (who can afford but the most basic of basic cable packages), shown pity upon them, and twisted the space-time continuum/the cable lines. The dull waters of ABC and C-SPAN have miraculously parted and let the humble parishioners pass through to new and exciting channels! J. is soaking up as much ESPN as possible, while I have been watching The Italian Job, cruising through the Style Network, and even shamefully dipping my toe into the Food Network. (Have you seen the cake decorating shows?!)
What is not commonly known is that the Cable Gods' evil TV revocation minions resemble cats.
However (realizing that where the Cable Gods giveth, they also taketh away), I called up Comcast to make sure that I won’t be slapped with fees or dour-faced legal types sent to smite (disconnect) us with stern Thou Shalt Not Steal Cable punishments.
“Just making sure there hasn’t been a mistake or a mix-up,” I chirruped into the phone, “because while I think it’s fantastic, I would like to make sure it’s legal.”
“Yep, I checked,” said Carrie, our lovely Comcast customer service representative. “We have no idea how or why it happened, but you’re not at fault and won’t be penalized for anything.”
“So I should…”
“Live it up while you’ve got it, because I have no idea how long it will last.”
Who am I to question the messanger of the Cable Gods?
“Happy is the man with a wife to tell him what to do, and a secretary to do it.”
-Lord Mancroft
Shades of this flash through my mind!
8:45 – Susie comes to my desk and says, “Chief would like to meet with you and Hennessy at 10, is that ok?” C. blanches in panic and promptly dives deep into a pit of the horrors (I’m getting sacked, Hennessy’s getting sacked, We’re both getting sacked, NO!!!!, They can’t do this, Don’t they know what I’ve done for them, I’m too important, right…No, I’m expendable…AH!, Angst Angst Angst, etc.) Susie assures her that nothing is wrong, but as you may imagine, this does little to help matters.
9:00 – Hennessy comes into work and receives the same message. Panic escalates. Circumstances are dissected during morning walk to turn in checks and cash to the accounting office.
9:30 – C. alternately tries cajoling and blackmailing anyone in the office for information.
9:45 – Bleak. All is bleak.
10:00 – Chief is nowhere to be found. C. is “defibbed” as her heart succumbs to the stress and anxiety of worrying.
10:15 – Chief, Lt. Figaro, and Susie convene with Hennessy and C. in conference room. Hennessy and C. sit at the far end of the table to give them more reaction time to the blow that is coming. They are sternly asked to move closer. They grudgingly comply.
10:20 – Chief reveals that the department has new needs, and needs to go in a new direction, so they need to shake up the ranks a little.
10:21 – C. and Hennessy clutch their chairs as the vortex of doom swirls around them.
10:22 – “So,” continues Chief, “we’re going to take you out from Figaro’s supervision and make you both subordinate to Susie instead. Fun, huh?”
10:23 – “Vortex of doom” evaporates instantly leaving C. stuck with the amassed fear and anxiety that has plagued her for hours. She feel oddly cheated.
Not exactly my boss. I'd like to think I could be this secretary (minus the dirty mistress part) but alas...
Anyway, this so-called shake up just means that Hennessy and I are now reporting…to the person I, at least, have been reporting to for months now. Susie is pretty much queen of the secretaries: Joan without being social-climbing, manipulative, or sexually adventurous, just an all around decent person. She’s also the administrative brains of the office and actually managed to pound it through our supervisors’ heads that we’d be much more effective as a secretarial pool rather than as scattered puddles. Within ten minutes of us being under her command, I’d been given a list of both long and short term projects and assignments.
Unfortunately, since I’m a fast worker (or just possibly have nothing else to do) I’ve already crossed about half of them off. No change there, I suppose.
“Technology makes it possible for people to gain control over everything, except technology.”
– John Tudor
Our resident IT guy (a species who, as you may remember, is the ancient enemy of secretaries) coming up to me one day and saying, “I’m going to take your phone so that the dispatch center in the stadium can have it.”
C. asking quickly as he started walking away, “Um, can I get a new one?”
“Yeah, the old stadium one. It doesn’t work very well, so good luck with that.”
Irritation.
“New phone” being broken to the point that it isn’t recognizing picking up or hanging up, and the surface scratched so badly the screen is unreadable. Dozens of incoming messages being lost into the netherworld of dropped/missed calls. Calling up the IT gods where they wither in their dark, lonely cave and demand a solution. An actual New Phone getting installed and C. learning from the IT minions how to personally program the phone’s appearance.
Satisfaction.
Small Dog's means are few, but she takes what she can get!
The office IT guy strolling by and looking down at the screen, where he sees, “WHY ARE YOU READING THIS?!” blazoned across it, and jumps about a mile. C. seeing the whole thing.
“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.
This dialog went on regularly until once when the queen was having a bad hair day and was desperately in need of support, she asked the usual question and the mirror answered,
“Alas, if worth be based on beauty, Snow White has surpassed you, cutie.”
– Politically Correct Bedtime Stories, James Finn Garner
Like unto the wicked step-mother of yore, I too have a magic mirror. But as opposed to telling me the truth, or even just what I want to hear, this mirror actively lies to me. And it’s great!
I have a love/hate relationship with mirrors, but it’s a relatively recent thing because I was never a mirror gazer growing up. I heroically resisted lots of “girlifying” attempts on the part of well meaning friends and family, and had only the usual amount of angst about my looks. Gradually I first succumbed, then became addicted to mascara, developed a late blooming but fierce love of fashion, and realized that I was a pretty decent looking girl…
Hm...maybe the lie is actually internal after all...
Until! Kiri took me home with her for the Thanksgiving break our junior year of university! This act of kindness towards my semi-orphaned-in-a-strange-land state hid a crippling dagger which would be thrust deep by her cousin.
“I like your mirror face,” she said one day as we put on on various coats, hats, and lip gloss, preparing to head out into the cold.
“What do you mean?” I asked, pausing mid-act in swinging a scarf I’d bought in Paris around my neck. I sensed the approaching danger.
“We all do it. When you look in a mirror your face automatically shifts a bit. Because the mirror’s a two dimensional surface, it reflects your three dimensional face back a little skewed, so you don’t actually look the same in the mirror as you do in real life. We make mirror faces because we’re trying to show off our best features, it’s all psychological–”
Stupid mirrors...
I tuned out at that point because I was deep in the horrors. I’d just come to terms with what I saw in the mirror! My previous adolescent nonchalance had taken an abrupt nosedive when I came to university and saw the assorted Quirky Chic Girls, Effortlessly Stylish Girls, Not Exactly Stylish But Rich Enough To Fake It Girls, and other types you invariably bump into in a crowd of forty thousand people (I learned quick, but the lingering air of shame scuppered my aplomb). In a matter of moments, my recently rebuilt sense of confidence had crumbled. Parisian scarf, English hat, and new leather gloves notwithstanding, I spent the day torturing myself over my buck teeth, asymmetrical face, Hapsburg Lip, and sallow skin.
None of which I actually had, of course, but since my faith in mirrors was shattered, could I actually trust what any of them showed me?!
Years later I’ve made peace with the Mirror People (my own reflection in particular), but I’d be lying if I said my current mirror didn’t help the process a bit. By some magic trick of the light, a flaw in the glass itself, or some other miracle, anyone who looks in that shiny surface has slightly longer and thinner legs, fuller hair, and a waist that just maybe an inch or two smaller. Not huge changes, just enough to make you feel like a fox when you walk out the door.
Until you catch sight of yourself in a those sadistic fun-house jokes they stock GAP changing rooms with. Hiss….
“Dispatch, from 81.”
“Go ahead, C.”
“Um…just checking to see if we were on the right channel. Er…thanks.” WOOOOOOP!! (Police Car Siren) “Hennessy!”
“Sorry!”
“What did you push?!”
“I don’t know!”
-C., Dispatch, and Hennessy
So, Hennessy and I got to play with the radio and sirens again today. As you can see from the above quote, it went over very well.
This deserved a double.
See, about three weeks ago, Lt. Citrus came to me and told me, “In a couple of weeks I’m going to give you an assignment to get some jackets done up for security at the games. New patches and such, I’ll let you know more about it later.”
And after that? Silence until last friday when he stomped up to my desk and barked, “Have you done anything with that project I gave you? I need those jackets done right now, what have you done?”
“You didn’t give me the go-ahead, or tell me exactly what you needed,” I said, confused.
“Yes I did!” he snapped. “This patch with this logo across the back. Fix it!”
So Hennessy and I drove to (and through!) the stadium to pick up over one hundred jackets, get them sorted out, and today had to go pick them up so they could be used in upcoming football games. With a variety of police equipment technical…incidents…along the way.
I believe the order was for...strapping? (Editor's Note: none of our officers even remotely resemble this guy)
However, we got to use the radio for some fun, which made it all better. Pulling up to the station, I called Dispatch again (in a much more composed manner).
“Dispatch from 81.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve got a rather large order here. Can you dispatch some strapping men to us for heavy lifting and slave labor? Over.”
Two minutes later, five or six chuckling officers put in an appearance, a couple of them flexing.
It made my day. Or it could be that I’m getting out early on a friday…yeah…that could be it too…
“I want a pet!”
“We can’t have one.”
“I know, but can’t we get a fish or something?”
“No.”
“Why not?!”
“Because of the plant by the front door.”
“It was as good as dead when it came to me!”
-C. and J.
A day of freezing rain equals three days of kitties in the Police Department.
This is the season of animal escapades! The last three days in a row, some well-intentioned student has brought in a kitten to our office. And the last three days in a row, the sheer cuteness of these critters has ground the entire office to a halt. Of course…when does a series of isolated events stop being a series of isolated events and start becoming a pattern? apparently there’s a small…herd? Pod? Pride?…of feral cats on campus that all decided to spawn right before the temperature dropped forty degrees overnight. So these hapless little babies just keep turning up so we now have Animal Services on speed dial and we lose an hour’s worth of work every morning putting them in front of heaters, buying milk to feed them, and cuddling them (risking who knows how many communicable diseases).
The downside is that my puppy-lust has been enflamed and I want a pet even more now!
Never would think she was an ocelot wannabe, huh?Granted I don’t have the best luck with plants…but I do have a history with feral cats! When we lived in the Pacific there were hordes of cats in the jungle. A particularly nasty one that haunted our street had a kitten we decided to rescue from the evil mother. It took weeks of feeding it in order to trick it inside. The minute the door closed behind her, she attacked the glass in terror and then hunkered down shivering, her tail the size of a baseball bat. Twenty minutes later, she decided she was “our housecat” and that was the end of the matter. And in a continuing Egyptian theme, we named her Nefertiti because of the heavy black marks around her eyes.
Of course, we were all mildly allergic to her (Buddy was catastrophically so) but we refused to get rid of her. And she repaid our generosity by having kittens under my bed while my parents were out of town.
You can’t handle the cuteness!
Since scrubbing cat placenta out of my carpet isn’t an expirience I’d like to repeat, I don’t think I’ll want a cat ever again, but I do want a puppy. A border collie puppy! Want want!
“Make it classy.”
“I thought we were supposed to be sexy.”
“It is possible to be both.”
-Sushi for Beginners, Marian Keyes
Halloween was easily my favorite holiday growing up. I have fond memories of strategically mapping out my plan of attack in neighborhoods in the search for candy, staggering home under the weight of a bulging pillowcase, and spending days or even weeks on my costumes. For a chunk of my childhood we lived in Germany so we had Fasching instead of Halloween (German version of Carnivale), but since the concept of costume + candy + pranking remained the same, there wasn’t too much of a difference to me.
See back in my day, darlings, we made our costumes. Sure some kids were starting to run around in polyester store-bought Power Rangers outfits, but I always regarded them as sad, unimaginative creatures more to be pitied than envied. Even the year I went as a ghost, I took the time to shred my own sheets and drape them hauntingly about my white and black smudged face. My mother would take me to fabric stores to wrinkle my six year old forehead over the merits of historically correct Indian vs. Polar Bear, rifle with me through the chest that held my hats, boots, and scarves that I used for dress up, and applaude my ideas enthusiastically.
That's right. This guy. Bit of a creeper. Hung out with dead people.
The crowning achievement of my dorkiness trick-or-treating career was the year I announced impressively that I wanted to go as…wait for it…Anubis.
That’s right. Egyptian god of the dead. I think I was seven or eight at the time. As an adult I can now only begin to fathom what thoughts might have scrambled through my impressed/perplexed/weirded out parents’ minds as they heard this plan, but they rallied with admirable self control. My dad helped me fashion a jackal head out of a baseball cap for the base, wound about with wire to form the long snout, face, ears, and Egyptian headpiece, and then mummified (pun!) in paper mache. This whole contraption was then painted with black, gold, and glaring white eyes. A baby towel wrapped around my waist, a white tee-shirt, and a cardboard collar painted gold with blobs of color for the gems completed the look.
No one I begged candy off of had a clue who I was. It was also sweltering hot so by the time I made it home, black streaks of sweat and paint had slithered down my face, but I had the most absolutely amazing costume ever!
My childhood memories have been trashy-ed past recognition. (Editor's Note: these are TAME).
And nowadays what am I left with? The only Halloween costumes available to me (since I can’t sew) are cheap, mass produced trashy stuff usually involving thigh-highs and not much else. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a touch of tart as much as the next girl, but I also firmly adhere to the “time and place” mentality. I also believe absolutely that sexy and slutty are not the same things at all. For example, one year one of my flatmates went as a Victoria Secret Angel: bras, panties, wings. Fin. Kiri and I were saloon girls, complete with fishnets and garters, but we took the time to make sure that the OK stayed corralled!
Trick-or-treating seems to be on the decline, too many weirdos out there I suppose, but I’m still debating how to get in on the holiday this year. Perhaps a party with fabulous friends? Or be boring and just watch Hitchcock movies? I’ve never been to a haunted castle/cornmaze/whatever which seem to be all the rage in these parts, so I’m going to try to trick (or treat) J. into taking me to one. Small Dog has no comment on the possibility of thigh highs.
EDITOR’S ADDITION: COURTESY OF DAD
A bit Wylie E. Coyote, but I nevertheless feel as if you, the reader, should be impressed at my creativity! C. Small Dog, Genius.
Halloween was easily my favorite holiday growing up. I have fond memories of strategically mapping out my plan of attack in neighborhoods in the search for candy, staggering home under the weight of a bulging pillowcase, and spending days or even weeks on my costumes. For a chunk of my childhood we lived in Germany so we had Fasching instead of Halloween (German version of Carnivale), but since the concept of costume + candy + pranking remained the same, there wasn’t too much of a difference to me.
Small Dog Syndrome 