“So Amanda stays with Darcy and Elizabeth stays in the modern world? Why does she want to do that?”
“Birth control, indoor plumbing, and women’s rights?”
– J. and C.
Whether against his will or not, J. is slowly getting dragged into my PBS obsession, and it’s been fun to watch.
Pictured: a post-modernist moment. You may close your mouth now.
For someone who dislikes Jane Austen pretty strongly, he liked Lost In Austen quite a bit (granted, we both loved Pride and Prejudice and Zombies). He laughed just as loud as me when the main character asked Mr. Darcy to take a dip in his pond so she could enjoy a Colin Firth-esque “post-modernist moment.” He found the fact that Caroline Bingley was a lesbian hilarious, liked that Wickham was a good guy after all, and that Jane and Charles run off to America together. One Sunday night he called back to where I was in the office and reminded me that Masterpiece was on in a half hour and asked if there would be another LIA installment.
She heard you, J.. Beware.
And when Dorcas Lane (of Lark Rise to Candleford fame) stated she doesn’t like to judge people, to the face of the man she’s refused to marry for having a scandalous, mistress-mongering past, and said man snaps back, “You’ve never had a problem with sitting in judgement before. Good-day,” … it was incredibly satisfying to hear my red-blooded, football/basketball loving, hamburger devouring, man’s man, all-American husband cry, “Oh no he didn’t! Burn!”
I’m sure he’d like me to reciprocate by learning to love basketball and Sports Center, but I’m not quite there yet. I’ll work on it.
“Are you buying lunch, or am I?”
“I will.”
“Thanks. Oh! You also need to write me a check to replace the savings we used for car repairs. Wow…I sound like a gold-digger.”
“You are a gold-digger.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You’re expensive.”
“I am not!”
“Well, someday, you will be expensive, so someday you will be a gold-digger.”
“No I won’t, I’ll be a trophy wife. They aren’t the same thing at all.”
– C. and J.
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.
“A ruffled mind makes a restless pillows.”
– Charlotte Bronte
Apart from the subconscious boxing J. and I seem to engage in while asleep, it is not the only adjustment to be made sharing a bed.
Though we have little awake experience to corroborate this, morning evidence suggests that we also play blanket tug-o-war on an almost nightly basis. Admittedly our second best set of sheets is pretty flimsy and doesn’t grip the bed well, but many is the morning we have woken up nearly smothered by a fitted sheet sprung free from its mattress corner. We also must toss and turn a lot because some mornings we awake to find blankets kicked off to the floor, or gathered so tightly around our heads that our feet are poking out. I suspect myself of secret malice because some mornings I wake up, completely overheated, but piled with most of the blankets, as if to keep J. from getting at them.
J. however, has sunk to a whole new low. A few nights ago, I was deep in slumber when he started moving around a bit and woke me up. Just an eyelid flicker, nothing too serious. I’d just closed them again when suddenly…
Thunk! My head dropped back and plunked on the bed. I scrambled up in confusion but a quick glance to my left explained all.
J. had stolen my pillow! Right from under my head! In his sleep!
I dragged it back, which of course woke him up, disgruntled I might add.
“You stole my pillow!” I accused.
“No I didn’t,” he returned.
“Yes you did,” was my witty rejoinder.
“No I…oh…”
His own missing pillow surfaced, shoved up in the corner of the bed.
“It’s January. Masterpiece Classic Season!”
“What are you, a fifty year old woman?”
“Sometimes.”
– C. and Brando
I love PBS. Even with the unexpected gift from the cable gods, still gracing our TV by the way with no end in sight, I flick back to my beloved public broadcasting at almost every commercial break.
PBS has given me lots of fond memories. The first time I saw The Marriage of Figaro (my favorite opera) was on a PBS station when I was nine, I’ve watched countless Nature episodes with my parents, Bill Nye the Science Guy and Wishbone when I was younger, and BBC America now that I’m older. My particularly loves (currently) are Larkrise to Candleford and Sherlock Holmes…and whatever documentary is playing.
Does anyone else miss the Edward Gorey style animation sequence for Mystery! ? No one? Am I really that much of a hopeless nerd? Shutting up...
Some people’s entertainment lives cycle around the sweeps, but not I! I live and die by PBS’s Masterpiece! Contemporary I don’t really care for, but during Mystery and Classic season the TV is mine starting 8pm on Sunday evenings. January is the kickoff for Classic season and I’ve already swallowed Return to Cranford and the first episode of Emma whole. And! Not content with just Sundays, I usually develop cravings (staring early January) for costume drama mini-series not currently airing, which means I get on a long waiting list at the local library and torture J. with those on weekdays as well.
J. is tolerant and does homework while I watch, and is occasionally firmly shushed when he commits the cardinal sin of speaking before a commercial break.
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.
“So, every once and while I look up and go, ‘Oh, hey! We have a fan in our kitchen,’ because I forget about it and you have these short little arms that can’t reach.”
“Shut up!”
-J. and C.
We spent January 1, 2010 flying in from London at 2am, crashing at my in-laws so we wouldn’t have to drive home at that ungodly hour, sleeping until 10 (jet lag), and lounging around waiting for nieces and nephews…who didn’t show up until ten minutes after we left, reading The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie (which I couldn’t put down, go read it at once!), and crawling pitifully back in bed for a fitful night’s sleep.
It was also our six month anniversary.
Now, J. might have an awful penchant for cracking short jokes, think that me getting furious is about the funniest thing possible, and not do the dishes as often as I would wish, but he also tolerates my stupid TV shows, kisses me at every opportunity, and flat-out orders me to a masseuse when my jet lag weariness won’t abate.
And that, my dears, is a very nice sort of husband to have. I am terribly fond of him!
(Editor’s note: YES! England trip updates are coming, I just keep forgetting to upload the – very sparse – photos we took!)
“Why the HELL didn’t I continue with French?!”
“Don’t swear.”
“Why the CUSS didn’t I continue with French?”
“Well, you can take classes.”
“Yes but if I don’t do well, and I haven’t studied it for three years, it will affect my GPA which will affect my application. CUSS CUSS CUSS!”
– C. and J.
We all have them, but for about a month or so I’ve been going through a right awful funk. And although I wish I could say I’ve been keeping it under wraps, I’m afraid it’s been spilling over a bit. I’ve gotten noticeably sharp with people, even friends, short-tempered at work, and bitter about small things that have just seemed to mount on top of each other. It culminated last night in a meeting for J.’s new fraternity for accountants when I was exhausted and stressed. I tried to be funny but only succeeded in being rude, and collapsed in a sobbing pile of guilt when we got home.
Unfortunately, I’m a bottler: I keep things locked up inside until the inevitable explosion that tends to leave a wake of destruction. And even though we’ve all been told time and time again that this is not a healthy way to live, so many of us keep doing it because it has some obvious immediate benefits.
Liar.
My problems are petty and selfish, but that doesn’t make them irrelevant or mean they don’t affect my life.
– I’m in a state of constant frustration that I spent four years getting an education, but work in a job that has nothing to do with what I studied (the European Studies field is not exactly conducive to jobs in the Western United States).
– I don’t really like living where we do.
Humph!
– Truthfully, I had this plan post-graduation, which involved me moving back to England. I am an ENTJ, I frame my life in these little plans and get frustrated when they don’t come to fruition. It wouldn’t matter if common sense, good counsel, or God changed my plans, I’d still get annoyed/angry if things didn’t work out the way that I had intended. (Which I absolutely think happened in my decision to get married and stay in the States, and which I still think is probably the best decision I’ve made for myself. It’s just not what I thought was in the cards a year and a half ago; that’s what makes my little control-freak, inner Napoleon jump up and down howling, “Zees was not le plan!”)
– I miss being in school and recently came to the conclusion, after much deliberation, that I wanted to pursue grad school. And seeing as I can take classes for free, a perk of working for a university, why not? Problem A) my major, which I loved and would not hesitate to choose again, did not really prepare me for any of the graduate degrees offered here. My emphasis was in history and they have removed the MA in History degree (an idiotic move if ever there was one!).
Problem B) the next best degree, and one I am really interested in due to the interdisciplinary nature of the program, requires more classes in French. Which, if I want to get into the program beginning this coming fall, I’d need to complete in record time. A troublesome goal if one works full-time. Oh! And I’d need to take the GRE in about a month.
Mostly, I feel stuck. I can’t progress (at least immediately) in the way I want my education to go, we aren’t leaving this area (at least immediately) for a small eternity, and I can’t pursue my own interests (at least immediately) due to duty to my family.
And I’m the most impatient person I know!
There are treatments. Obviously I need to take better care of myself. I don’t work out anymore [again] and I’ve noticed that I haven’t been eating enough, which would put anyone in a strop. I also don’t have any pursuits outside of work right now, and that’s soul-numbing. I’m committed to grad school, but will I kill myself trying to make it happen all at once (or at least before the March application deadline)? Maybe I should make it a goal for next year and work more slowly and steadily towards it instead of trying to rush it.
Weigh in, friends. Had a minor life crisis recently? Plans get disrupted? Get impatient with goals that are attainable, but seem so far off?
Small Dog Syndrome 