“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.
“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!
“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.
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.
“How much sleep have you gotten in the last three days?”
“…twelve hours…maybe…”
– Parents and C.
Hello, darlings! J. and I have returned from Merrie Olde Englande but I’m not at all intact! For some reason I didn’t adjust to English time at all this trip, and no amount of Tylenol PM could fix me. And rest certainly wasn’t on the agenda because J. had never been and there is SO MUCH TO SEE/DO. All of which I will faithfully recount, as soon as I have recovered from the exhaustion induced headcold fog I’m currently clawing my way out of. Thank goodness I’ve the weekend to rest before going back to work.
And now, a few observations.
Small Dog, upon arrival.
Item the first. Some women look good when they travel. I am not one of them. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been flying at least a couple times a year for a good portion of my life, how much I hydrate, how many naps I squeeze in, whether or not I put on makeup, how many vitamins I’ve popped, or whether I’m seated next to the banshee child from Hades or a perfectly silent baby, I will inevitably arrive looking haggard. My hair will be in desperate need of a wash, my skin will have turned to an ashen mess, and my eyes will be rimmed in red agony. And also inevitably, on every flight there will be a leggy blonde in skinny jeans that fit her properly, a flowy cardigan, the perfect carry-on bag, at least one unobtrusive and flattering accessory, flawless skin, and perfectly mussed hair that will come out of the jet in the same lovely condition it went into it with. I hate this woman.
Item the second. Terrorists will make an appearance. I’ve had some experience with the fallout of their behavior. A few years ago I was flying out of Brussels back to the States, my family was on their way to the UK and I was back off to university. It was a day after the UK-based terrorist plot to use liquid explosives on airliners had been discovered and dismantled (2006, if you don’t recall in these fast-paced times) and the resulting chaos was ricocheting around airports world-wide.
Goodbye, dear. Be safe and don't talk to extremists. See you at Christmas...maybe.
My parents drove me to the airport, waved a cheerful goodbye, and off they were down to Calais to take the ferry across the Channel to Dover. And there I stood in the Brussels airport staring blankly into the pandemonium. There were security guards everywhere, dogs, and barking airline employees informing me that I would not be permitted a carry-on on my flight so I would either need to repack everything or throw my carry-on and everything in it away. I had turned in my European mobile phone (and so had my parents) so there was no way to keep in contact, and exchanged all my money for US dollars so there was no way to pay for anything unless I wanted to eat the exchange rate fees on my US credit card. And they were on their way to France (without me!). A very nice Middle Eastern family made room for me with their group on the floor where we all repacked, stuffed, sat on suitcases to close them, and repacked again to make sure we were within weight requirements. Going through the security screening took nearly two hours, but it didn’t matter because my flight was delayed for five.
After the foiled terrorist plot this past week, Heathrow had stepped up security but J. and I actually made it through in good time with only a frisking. Unfortunately, after we were frisked and shown into our containment area, we weren’t allowed out again and so I had to forego breakfast.
And item the third. Continental’s new entertainment system?! Amazing! You should fly with them just for the countless movie options!
“You’re making a mess.”
“I’m spreading holiday goodness!”
– J. and C.
Saturday (which was spent almost entirely at Catriona and Bear’s wedding) ended in a mad dash around town to pick up last minute gifts, travel sized shampoo and toothpaste, wrapping paper, and ribbon. Then I threw on a movie and dove into my holiday vortex!
Artistic rendering of our carpet/my face.
Three hours later, a fine coating of glitter had fallen over everything (the wrapping paper was a gorgeous mash of crimson damask pattern and gold glitter swirls…that might not have been as securely fastened to the paper as could be hoped). My face and hair were coated with sparkling cheer which was starting to snow all over the couch and carpet. I tracked it back into the office at some point. Somehow, it managed to get into the tape (as in inexplicably underneath the various layers) which upped the stickiness factor exponentially.
Admittedly I probably didn’t help matters by skipping about the house dusting off my hands over everything trilling, “La la la la la, la la la LA!” However, out of respect to the dignity of J.’s very masculine suitcase, I stuffed all the presents into a plastic bag before packing everything up tightly.
We fly out to London in two days! We’re set to leave the country via Dallas, the logic of which I originally questioned as it tacks on extra hours to an already excruciating flight, but since that huge storm slapped the east coast, I’m not grudging the extra time.
“Twelve monkey mating, ‘leven donkeys dancing, ten pygmies farming, nine socks a-swimming…FIVE GOLD RINGS!”
– Eddie Izzard
For some reason, our productions did not receive nearly as much acclaim. Can't imagine why...
As promised, here is one of our favorite and probably most quirky/embarassing family traditions. Long ago, my mother made some hand puppets for a group Christmas project. Nothing fancy, just felt oven mitt sorts of things. We used them for years at Christmastime to act out the Nativity Story, without incident or indiscretion until one year, Dad had the brilliant idea to turn on the video recorder.
The footage of this historic event is long departed into the void of computer-crashing-moving-technical-kablooey, but mutual stored memory among the siblings suggests a potential fist-fight behind the stage (sofa) and much arguing and some sacrilegious name-calling.
In subsequent years our quiet family puppet show devolved from its auspicious starting point. It didn’t take too long for it to hit the point of parody.
The next year King Herod breathed like Darth Vadar (complete with asthma inhaler), and the Holy Virgin did lamaze breathing to calm her nerves while Saint Joseph (who was captain of the football team at Nazareth High) stumbled about flexing uselessly. The cap and crown to our we-will-go-to-Hell-for-this performance was the angel Gabriel as played by Yoda as played by Dad. “Annunciating I am! Have a baby you willll…” His voice cracked on the last word and has become holiday tradition ever since to impersonate Dad (as Yoda as Gabriel) choking. Somehow, I misremember, the cow featured prominently leading Gio to exclaim, “It’s a holy cow!” which immediately became our production company name.
A subsequent year featured a lampooning of Monty Python: the taunting Frenchman as the inn-keeper, Mika as the Dreaded Black Beast of Augh, an improvised kick-line (performed by the intrepid puppeteers) and, naturally, the falling cow of catapult fame.
You're destroying cultural and literary icons, you barbarians!
Our most memorable foray into the dark, iredeemable depths of nerdiness was a Lord of the Rings spoof. Our three wisemen (Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli) form the Fellowship of the King. Galabriel annuciates. The shepherds of Rohan ride sheep around energetically. Mary, who looks wearily into the camera and whines and constantly about the terrible burden she is forced to carry alone, is saved when Joseph Gamgee (Gio) declares, “I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry YOU!” and sweeps the other puppet gallantly off. Then there is the memorable presentation of the gifts: gold, myrrh, “and my axe!” There were random interjections of Buddy’s dragon puppet (which does not feature in the usual cast, but he wanted to use it), Gio stole one of Snickers’ lines which nearly brought on an actors’ strike, and most of the outtakes feature us alternatively arguing with one another or dissolving into giggles while Dad vainly demands, “Quiet on the set!”
Wednesday – I had work, J. didn’t have school. Bitter. I spent the afternoon making party favors for the department Christmas party and curling ribbon until my fingers were numb.
Thursday – Meet up with Fairy, Brando, Drill, Trixie, and others at that bastion of Americana, Chuck-a-Rama for cheap, easy food that we don’t have to clean up after. Then back to godparents’ house for a rousing game of Rummikub and phone call from parents.
Friday – C. goes shopping (although NOT at 3am like the intrepid GS and GBIL…she waits until 10 and then hits the GAP and a couple unnamed stores for Christmas shopping). Then she and J. group with everyone again to go to a movie.
Saturday – runs errands and finishes off the evening with The Football Game in which her team beats their hated rivals. At some point during the celebrations, C. smacks her leg against the bleachers and obtains a nasty black and blue mark that she doesn’t notice until the next morning, so high is she from the euphoria.
Sunday – sleep in.
Small Dog does not enjoy going back to work after four days of indulgence.
Holidays, as nice as they are, have one horrible symptom: the reality check at the end. Four days free of work means that all the industrious little habits one has get unceremoniously kicked out the window and waking up Monday morning is a chore. I barely got in a shower before we had to dash out the door and didn’t have time to wash my hair. Not the best way to kick off the busiest time of the year, at work and otherwise!
“Thanksgiving is, after all, a word of action.”
– W. J. Cameron
Small Dog's first married Thanksgiving. Aw...
My immediate family has always been rather insular, we live far away from my extended family and haven’t always had the best relationship with them anyway. So holidays have mostly been just us and I’ve always liked them that way: smaller, inundated with our own bizarre traditions (I think I’ll discuss some of our more quirky holiday habits at length later), and just plain cozy.
And then I married the youngest of five children (three others of whom are married with kids of their own) whose parents live nearby and who like to get everyone together on holidays.
So yesterday when we had our first faux-Thanksgiving (another one with godfamily may or may not be forthcoming…they haven’t celebrated a holiday on its designated day for some years now, thanks to Drill’s work schedule. Who knows? Maybe we’ll just eat pie and go to a movie!) because Darling and Atticus are going out of town this week, it was quite the event! Four kids, two babies, eight adults, three ovens, two dozen rolls (not enough!), four pounds of yams (barely enough), one turkey, approximately four million toys all over the kitchen floor, and one minor blizzard.
Do not stand in the way of hungry nieces and nephews.
Absolute madness! In a fun way. I met J.’s oldest brother and sister-in-law for the second time (first time was at the wedding) and tricked their baby into liking me. My brother-in-law misunderstood instructions and dumped a bunch of boiled potatoes onto the counter instead of mashing them up and then took a picture of his baby’s new trick of grabbing onto things (I taught him!). Unfortunately, baby was grabbing onto my necklace and the camera was perfectly angled down my shirt. The kids had already eaten a bunch of the rolls before dinner even started and then spent a good chunk of the time crawling around under the table as we adults tucked into turkey. Afterwards they disappeared upstairs for a while only to return shrieking and pasting post-it notes over everything and everyone in reach and one of the boys punched the other in the face.
When I graduated university, my parents flew over from England and managed to work my ceremony in with a lot of other traveling. Amid the rejoicing (and I’m sure the feeling of, “Praise Jupiter, we’re rid of one!”) we had a small soiree at my godparents’ house to celebrate, and at said celebration I was given a fabulous present: my car.
This was a victory on three counts. First of all, I had just got my U.S. driver license a couple months earlier. Second, I had a car! After four years of coordinating eating schedules with flatmates so we’d run out of food at the same time and have to go to the store together. Bliss! And finally because my parents had always sworn blind that the one thing they would never do for their kids is buy them a car. I was such an impressive child that I bent the laws of parental rule (…or my parents really are that cool. Probably the latter).
My car is not so new, not so shiny, but she is far prettier in my (biased) eyes than this one.
In any event, Mum and I put our heads together immediately to find an appropriate name for my new chariot. Being classical studies/ history types, a number of unusal literary names were tried and dismissed as being too “foofey,” outré, inappropriate, or ridiculous to suit my old but perfectly serviceable and rugged little Honda CR-V. Finally in a burst of inspiration, my eyes stretched wide and I breathed victoriously, “Indy!”
“Yeah!” mom echoed, “Perfect!”
Less of this...
To explain. It is not, as many assume (and J. continues to imply despite my numerous efforts to stop him), a tribute to Indiana Jones. No, no. Rather it is the nickname for the ship HMS Indefatigable from Forrester’s “Hornblower” series. Both Mum and all of us kids love the A&E mini-series, partly from a nerdy liking of the Napoleonic wars, but mostly (on the girls’s end) from a crush on yummy Ioann Gruffudd.
...more of this.
Indefatigable, definition: unwearying, unremitting in labor or effort. Perfect for my car which is a decade old and doesn’t do terribly well on highways, but never lets me down!
Indy has earned her title yet again recently after a series of near-disasters. Last night I went straight from work to GS’s house. Or rather that was the plan. The reality included being stuck in traffic for over an hour, getting hopelessly lost, and ultimately getting rear-ended on an overpass. Defeated (and still lost for a while) I slunk home.
And though I was in a bit of a strop, what of Indy you ask? There was not a scratch on her (the guy who ran into me had a crumpled license plate, i noticed. HAH!), and she made it home with just enough gas. If I hadn’t just bought her new tires I would have now just for being so impressive!
Small Dog Syndrome 