“I need to take a picture! I need to post it!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said no.”
“Puh-leeeese?”
“No.”
“But I need too. I can see the caption now, ‘Cleaning dishes. The sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.'”
“No.”
“Why not?!”
“Because I’m tired and cranky.”
“Please please please please please?”
“What do I get out of it?”
“What do you want?”
“Donuts.”
“Cupcakes.”
“Deal.”
– C. and J.
“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.
Jerk.
“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.
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.
“I love being married. It’s so great to find that one person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.”
– Rita Rudner
The other day, J. came to my office earlier than usual and so he went to the break room to study for a while before my lunch break. A bunch of the student officers congregate there between shifts or to eat so there was a group of them there at the time.
Helper, a notoriously unobservant young man, was among them.
Helper is an interesting kid. He spent several months trying to flirt with me, mostly by slinking up to my desk, lurking behind me for a while, and then informing me of what I was doing quite suddenly.
“You’re reading CNN.”
“Where’d you come from?! Um…yes. I am.”
The weirdest thing he did was hover silently one day while I went online to my bank account to pay my credit card bill.
“You use [name of bank]?” he drawled.
I jumped, as I’d had no idea he was there, and demanded why the hell he was looking!
“No reason. Is that your email too?”
I shut my windows and pointedly asked him if he was on duty.
“Heh, yeah,” he gave me a ‘I-get-it-we’ll-talk-later’ look and meandered off.
This was two months after I’d gotten engaged and had this nice rock sitting pretty on my left hand that was supposed to protect me from the over-amorous attentions of clueless men.
It never registered. It wasn’t until a couple months after that he must have figured out I was getting married in the near future because he came to me while I was reconciling a report, lurked behind me for a couple minutes, and finally muttered, “So, you’re engaged.”
“For about five months, yes.”
“I see.” He sat looking at me for a few more seconds before sighing and murmuring, “I won’t bother you anymore.”
He wandered off while I sat with my jaw slack, wondering where he had pulled this supposed relationship out of. I don’t think he’s spoken to me since, though I have caught him glaring furtively before he whisks himself around a corner. And once I overheard him once complaining to a co-worker that I had flirted with him, and the ensuing guffaws.
“Are you kidding? She’s married, and she was dating the guy before she ever worked here. Besides, she thinks you’re creepy.”
The reason for this back story? Well, there J. was sitting in the break room for quite a while before Helper realized he had no idea who J. was and enquired.
“I’m J., C.’s husband.”
“C.?” Helper asked nonchalantly, “Who’s that?”
“You know,” Lexie said, “she works at the front desk. Dark hair, green eyes, pretty?”
“Short?” offered J.
I still much prefer him to Helper.
“And by the way, everything is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
– Slyvia Platt
I’m in a bit of a bind, darlings. I signed up for a creative writing class this semester(after work hours so Chief can’t quash it) both to get me back into the school mindset and to make me start writing again. I’ve lapsed of late, so I thought this would be a great way to spur me on a bit. I got good and excited for the class and then I walked in on the first day and immediately realized Creative Writing was not going to be a comfortable class for me.
See, I want to be a writer. Most of the (mostly freshman) class want to be creative.
This is not the same thing at all. When we shared what our favorite books are most of the class said Twilight (blech and sigh) or named a fantasy series of some type or another. Then when we went around talking of what we wanted to do with our writing almost everyone said poetry, a couple said songwriting.
My teacher is a poet as well, but talking about “snow melting like a woman crying” and trying to bring “the magic and mysteries of the cosmos to the page” is not really…what I do. He gave a long, rambling lecture about how he wants us to create art, ART (said in a rolling voice with a dramatic fist shake towards the skies), and that’s what he expects. I immediately blanched.
Now, I think I may be a talented writer but by no means do I think I’m a Great Writer (I’d paraphrase an evaluation of someone I heard once and say that I’m mediocre with flashes of brilliance). Mostly I just like to tell a good story. To be honest, I’d have to say that my sense of humor is probably what makes my writing at all readable, but I have a feeling that humor in this class would not go over well. So, whilst I was floundering in this sea of doubt, my teacher volunteered me to write a piece for class this coming tuesday. I have to submit it by email tonight to be ripped to bloody shreds by the rest of my artistic and suffering classmates in peer evaluation.
Of course, I probably shouldn’t tease them so much because this assignment plunged me into a pit of despair and I wandered about in a pretty artistic slump of my own for a couple days as I was seized with Writer’s Block and whined about the lack of poetry in my soul. Not that I’d ever want to write it, but that I’m shallow enough to want to impress my teacher.
Quick, someone tell me to suck it up and get to work! I’ve been telling myself for three days but my inner wanna-be-writer is actually pretty fragile and seems to be ignoring me out of fear of scathing peer reviews. Or the realization that I’m not actually any good. Yikes.
“Open sesame.”
– 1001 Arabian Nights
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?”
Any ideas?
“There is nothing new under the sun but there are lots of old things we don’t know.”
– Ambrose Bierce
So, Avatar. I have to give it one big “Meh.”
Now, before the raging hordes come for blood, I can absolutely appreciate the scientific whammy of creating completely new technology to make something totally innovative. I can also appreciate the fact that the special effects are indeed pretty special (as long as you’re not in the second row at a 3-D theatre…woof…).
But, and I stand on this, the plot is boring.
I have seen A) Dances with Wolves, B) Pocahontas, and I have also lived through the Bush administration (subtlety, thy name is not James Cameron. Might as well have named the planet Iraq and the invading commander Cheny…yes, we get your point. Thank you).
“I think it’s a terrible shame that politics has become show business.”
– Sydney Pollack
My name is actually not a real name, per se. It’s a word that my parents turned into a name (which incidentally has enjoyed rising popularity in recent years, which makes me long to kidnap, rename, and adopt out any of these children who’ve stolen it, but I digress). I’m very fond of my name and when I see the word used anywhere I tend to get a bit excited. I was a vocabulary word in 8th grade, a fact both my teacher and I still find funny.
However, occasionally my name can cause me pain. Yesterday for example, as I was doing the laundry run and scanning through different radio stations I crossed paths with the Sean Hannity Show on talk radio. And he used my name. I felt unclean.
Politically I’m moderate and don’t associate myself with any parties (America needs a few more, I’m convinced, but that’s another post for another day) because I tend to agree with some things a party will support and strongly disagree with others. To be honest I think there must be a lot of people like me with opinions they’ve arrived at after lots of thought and examination. And if they’re like me they don’t like being herded by politicians or pundits into one camp or another for their own convenience.
However, I irrevocably and unequivocably hate Fox News, more specifically Fox Talk Show Hosts Claiming To Be News. I find them inflammatory and painful (like a bad rash) for their circular reporting and flagrant bias. Now, I understand that all news sources have a bias and that you need to be aware of that bias when you use them for information, but I maintain that Fox News is the only one to wave its around proudly and use the protection of free speech to declare their opinions fact. See here for further details. (Genius.) Oh, this too to expound.
And now, they are bringing on…Sarah Palin? Um, has anyone ever listened to this woman speak for any period of time?
All of which has nothing to do with my name, but it really got my goat!
“Ah, Venice!”
– Casanova
Venice, who if you did not know, is a rather awesome crafter, recently launched a blog and Etsy shop to share her jewelry creations. Go check them out at once! I’m particularly digging her vintage-y looking post earrings, and fantastic charm necklaces (the Lovebirds Necklace is my current favorite and I’d totally buy these green lovelies if I didn’t already own three pairs of emerald and one pair of peridot earrings already). She also does exchangeable watch bands to match any outfit, and best of all she does custom orders!
You’d pay twice as much for these pretties at stores and no two are alike so you’ll never have a “That wench is wearing my outfit!” moment.
Another reason to follow her blog? She finds other great Etsy sites and artists to pass along and highlight and she’s always doing giveaways and who doesn’t like shiny, free stuff? Valentines Day bonus at her Etsy shop going on now, run don’t walk!
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.
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.
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.
Small Dog Syndrome 