“Let us celebrate the occasion with wine and sweet words.”
– Plautus
And finally, rounding up the November triumvirate, (Venice’s was Saturday) happy birthday, J.!
You may be in London without me, but I still like you an awful lot.
“Any man can be a father. It takes someone special to be a dad.”
– Anonymous
My Dad:
Taught me how to dance.
Taught me how to hunt and shoot.
Read to me throughout my childhood (starting with The Monster at the End of this Book 
Sent me letters and notes whenever he traveled all throughout my freshman year of university. I got messages on hotel letterhead from the middle east and postcards from Germany. I looked forward to those letters more than I did to buying new books!
Loves his family and has never, ever been hesitant to show it.
Dragged me up Saturday mornings to do chores. I hated it. I’m also planning on making my kids do the same because in retrospect, that’s when he taught me lessons about hard work and finishing jobs.
Unless physically out of the country, he was at every piano recital that I can remember.
Taught me how to drive. He reduced me to terrified tears teaching me how to start a manual on a steep jungle road, but let me tell you, I can now drive anything!
Has answered every question I’ve ever asked and never brushed them off.
Is the best man I know.
When I was three or four, I gave my dad a little trinket and told him, “You’re the best dad I ever had!” He must have chuckled a bit at that, but twenty years later he still has that trinket tucked away in the box with his father’s watch, cufflinks, and medals. And he’s still the best dad I ever had.
Happy birthday, Dad.
“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.
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.”
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!
“A box of gorgeous flowers just landed on my desk and made me cry at work. I hope you’re happy.”
– C.
Confession: I knew it was going to be hard to have J. move to London. Even if it was just for a few months, I knew I would hate it; I’d feel lonely, bored, occasionally bitter, and all of this would war against my very real excitement for and pride in him. But looking at a roller coaster and riding one are two very different things, my doves, and I’ve felt a little miffed by the experience so far. Granted, I’ve got this marvelous cocktail of female hormones flooding my system right now, so that can’t be helping.
I’m not an overly emotional person, but I’ve never felt so weepy in my life as this past month. Talking to him on Skype for the first time – stuttering in my throat. When suddenly his face popped up on my screen (I don’t have a camera for my computer yet although he does, but we hadn’t been using it) – eyes watering. Today when a box of beautiful flowers showed up on my desk – full on tears.
I married him and he turned me into a girl. The horror.
But, ladies, everything I know about love I learned from this guy, so take my advice on this. If a man stays up until midnight just to Skype with you because he, “likes listening to you talk,” run away with him. Immediately. Sooner if he’s got flowers. Even if they make you cry.
“I’m going as your mom.”
“And I’m going as your dad.”
“And I’m going…to therapy.”
– The Fairly Odd Parents
Costumes spotted on campus:
Captain Jack Sparrow (in swaggering, drunken form)
Mario riding a papier-mâché Yoshi
Pumpkins
Ninja Turtle
An 18th century girl
Mummy
Cinderella
Steampunk galore
Batman
The King (of Burger King fame)
Hermione Granger
Hobbit (in bare feet, the freezing idiot)
Doctor
The Doctor (which is not the same thing as a normal doctor. Is it, fellow geeks?)
The medieval club in full regalia
And a whole host of babies dressed up as everything under the sun (the cutest is Janssen’s darling little cheeky monkey, even if they weren’t technically on campus)
I was thwarted, I had two really good costume ideas and wasn’t able to find crucial components to either of them. Next year, dumplings. True to expectation, Hennessy and I ran to the university bookstore on a break, and the red and green are already on display. Le sigh.
“They might in the future more than ever before engage in hunting beavers.”
– Samuel de Champlain
We have a bunch of feral cats that roam campus after dark and periodically leave their kittens in bushes for us to find, we had a young bull moose on campus that trampled two cars once before being tranquilized, we have tons of deer that come down from the mountains and graze the lawns and landscaping in the early hours of the morning (once when walking to a class I heard a snapping of branches to my left, looked up and not three feet of me was a young buck munching on acorns, as placid as a cow). You get what I’m saying, right, lovelies? We attract the wildlife at Undisclosed University, we are pals with Mother Nature, we can deal with the fluffy and furry.
But every once in a while something weird happens.
For example, when a beaver crawled into a truck engine like a cat and road to campus from parts unknown. When it arrived outside the student center and the truck came to a halt, the beaver shot out and began running around looking for a new place to hid – prompting our dispatchers to be flooded with calls of, “There’s, like, a huge rat over here!” and “Kill it kill it kill it kill it!” and “My daughter just called me and told me there was a rabies infested rodent terrorizing students, and I want to make a safety complaint.”
Our officers were on the case. Armed with long poles with a lasso like loop on the end of them, they chased the beaver around campus until in Animal Control moved in to take over, by which point the beaver had retreated to another truck engine and was stubbornly refusing to budge.
We were simultaneously setting up a sting operation for stolen electronics and dealing with a domestic violence incident that required most of our on duty officers to diffuse.
And that, my pumpkins, is what we call “Friday.”
“Ironically we were studing the scarlet letter. Isn’t it always the way? The book you read in class always seem to have strong connection with whatever angsty adolescence trauma is going on. Exept for Huckleberry Finn, ’cause I don’t know any teenage boy who ran away with big hulking black guy.”
(later)
“Did you hear than Brandon ran away from home? Yeah, totally. He left his parents a note that said, ‘I’m gay, *******!’ and then he skipped town with some big hulking black guy.”
“…My apologies to Mark Twain.”
– Easy A
Mum called last night because she’s going to throw Beowulf into the mix for her class on Western Civilization this term and needed to know the pronunciations for some of the names, as she’s more at home with Greek and Latin.
And I knew the answers. ‘Cause I’m a nerd.
My knowledge of Beowulf was what initially won over the seemingly alarming and crusty high school teacher who went on to become my mentor and good friend to this day. I’d read it for the first time in 8th grade and fell in love with Early English literature, so I knew whereof I spoke when I confronted him (trembling) about a test question that I was sure I’d got right. He turned a baleful eye on me before apparently deciding not to disembowel me, and decided that if I could show him the reason for my answer in the text, he’d give me the points. I could and he did.
And as it turned out, for a special few students who showed a genuine love to literature and history, he had heart of butter. And once he loved you, he loved you. I was one of the few who could misbehave at all in his class, and my mates didn’t even mind me being a teacher’s pet because I alone could persuade him to postpone tests when more study time was needed. We debated vigorously across four classes for two years. He wrote me glowing recommendations when I was applying to universities. I still send him Christmas presents, he sent me the most lovely card and note for my wedding, and we exchange lengthy emails every couple of months.
All because of Beowulf.
See, kids, those required readings pay off eventually.
“This is what fellows always run up against in the detective novels–What to Do With the Body. They manage the murder part of it all right, and then stub their toes on the body problem.”
-P.G. Woodhoues
The other day, Susie was taking a break and walked around the office when she came up short at the copy machine station and froze with a sort of irritated sound.
“C., is this yours?”
In her hands was a photo of a particularly grisly murder scene that our department investigated some years back. After even just three years working here, and murder hardly a typical event, this is utterly unfazing to me. Even less so for Susie who has a good decade on me. We’re excellent people to have around in emergencies.
“Ah,” I squinted at it, “no. Definitely not. And it absolutely should not be laying around.”
See, apart from being inappropriate and gory, it’s rather a huge records protection issue to leave sensitive stuff like that just hanging out on a work table.
“Do you know the case?”
I did, from my adventure in the media lab last year.
“Would you mind – ” she thrust it at me with a wave to indicate my general responsibility and returned to her regular, less gruesome duties.
Of course, this sort of surreptitiousness (unusual in our gossipy office) aroused considerable interest on the part of some of the student employees as I went from department to department with the large photos pressed tightly to my body trying to keep them from seeing as they begged, cajoled, and outright tried to bribe me for a peek. Eventually Lt. Citrus claimed them. He had no idea how they got where they did – which seeing as it’s Halloween season, doesn’t inspire confidence as to whether or not our campus is located on an ancient burial ground filled with restless spirits.
There are days, ducklings, where the weirdness of my job is thrown into sharp relief. Most of the time it’s notarization, stolen bikes or backpacks, or basic receptionist work. Every once and a while, I’m skulking murder documents around the office like MI5.
Weirdest thing that’s happened to you at work recently, kittens?
“The internet: transforming society and shaping the future through chat.”
– Dave Barry
Pumpkins, I wish I could muster some humor and snark for you this Friday morn, but alas the well is dry. I live just off a major road in our humble university town and the Powers That Be, with their usual clear-sighted wisdom, have decided to start tearing up it and the other main road at the same time. Just before the snows set in and the construction will have to be halted for winter anyway and we’ll be stuck with fewer lanes and more traffic until April. We’ve some towering geniuses on the city council, let me tell you.
A byproduct of this is that the several of the stores on the main roads are no longer easily accessible by the semi trucks needing to make deliveries and so the behemoths have taken to using the smaller streets to load and unload. Like the one I live on. All night long. Very loudly.
Thus, I didn’t sleep well and despite it being Friday and payday, I’m in a foul, sleep deprived mood. So! In the absence of real effort, from around the internets, the Small Dog team cherry picks the topics you need to know about. Or at least the pictures of cats that are bound to make you LOL, srsly, OMG, etc.
The byline says this will make you giggle or cry. I fall on the latter end.
*Snort.
Neat paper art.
Like unto PBS, my love for NPR runs deep (although I did used to mock my dad horribly for listening to some of the programs). By far my favorite program is This American Life – here’s one of their recent episodes I particularly liked: Gossip. Act II’s short story is quite good.
In case you hadn’t heard, today is the day of the rescheduled End of the World. In May I bought cupcakes to commemorate our office’s imminent demise. I’m thinking of doing it again.
Dear Rick Santorum: Quoi?! Let’s talk about the danger of lack of contraception, shall we? And the rest of the “logic” is equally head scratching, I assure you.
Last political jab, I promise. “Due diligence,” eh? It’s a miracle to me why some people are actually given any attention at all.
Just what I like to see. Tasteful displays of wealth.
Oh look, I managed some snark after all. What other stories need to be shared with the Minion Coterie? To the comments!
Small Dog Syndrome 