“I collect antique fountain pens, I’m quite adept at Japanese flower arranging- Ikibana- oh, and I was also the starting offensive tackle at Illinois…..Surprise!”
– Cameron, Modern Family
Though I find it mildly weird that both J. and Margot mentioned this to me on the same day…I can’t help but wonder how many problems in this world could have been avoided if we all had one of these:
“I had to scrap and entire post about my future library because you beat me to the punch.”
“That just means you have good taste too!”
– C. and Vodka
The term “Someday House” entered my vocabulary at a very young age. My family has had many houses as we’ve flitted from country to country and continent to continent, but my mother and father would often (usually in the middle of a Great Purge) get a far-off look in their eyes and say, “In our Someday House, we’ll have…”
A Someday House is more than a Dream House. The latter you just wish for, the former you actively plan for and will absolutely achieve one day.
The first time I used the phrase, “In our Someday House-” to J. he was completely baffled. These days I can smugly note that it’s part of the Small Dog Family common vernacular. We are slowly building our Someday House in our head together (awww…) and it’s shaping up to be a rather nice one, though I say so myself.
I was talking with Sav and Vodka the other day about future homes, and let the phrase “Someday House” slip. I felt a bit silly saying it to Outsiders, but it turns out they both loved it! We then had a long in depth conversation about our Someday Houses, and I was planning on blogging about my desire for a library…when Vodka did it first!
Go check it out, she said everything I was thinking, only better!
“To keep your balance you must keep moving.”
– Albert Einstein
Venice, leaving in just a week (cue fits of rage and denial), is in the process of packing up and getting rid of things. It’s stressful. I have personally benefited in the form of several pairs of pants which she wanted to get rid of…which does nothing to lessen the approaching pain.
My family, hopping the world as we did, got really good at moving. The formula is very simple: keep the necessities and get rid of half of your personal belongings each time you pack up. To explain: books stay, your old T-shirts acquired from work, community events, and concerts must go.
The funny bit about moving is when you are going through your things and sorting your treasures from the expendables. You will inevitably come to the realization that half of the clothes in your closet haven’t been worn in months, a third of your shoes have ragged heels, give you blisters, or are too ludicrously high/colored/pinching to be kept, and you have a wealth of old garbage (shopping bags, boxes, receipts, hair pins, loose change) taking up an inexplicable amount of space.
And thus, The Great Purge. You sit down in the piles of the stuff you had utterly forgotten you owned and have a candid talk with yourself (which can border on the schizophrenic to outside observers). The end result of which is that several large garbage bags are stuffed with the things you don’t use, don’t want, or can admit you don’t need. These items are either claimed by friends, donated, or unceremoniously chucked. The remaining items are lovingly horded because, after all, you have carefully and considerately come to the conclusion that you absolutely need them.
And a few years later when NATO, the UN, James Bond’s M., etc. tell you that you’re off to Zanzibar, Tokyo, or Belgium, you go through the same harrowing, soul wracking process all over again. And invariably, all of the things you saved previously will be looked over with disdain (“Why on earth did I keep this?”), and end up in a garbage bag by the front door.
And, depending on the country you’re off to, a good portion of your household belongings will have to go as well. All of your electronics, for example, because for some reason the world cannot get it together on matching plugs to outlets, much less voltages. In our area of Suffolk, the building codes demand four houses per quarter acre, an unthinkable thing for the US, which meant that when Dad left NATO and Brussels, a good portion of the house went into storage in Switzerland, or something.
Soon the things we’ve left in small hordes all over the world will converge on our new US doorstep. Mum, already thinking of decorating, will have boxes, bins, and whole trucks of tables, chairs, bookshelves, books, antiques, artwork, and knick knacks to contend with. I’m willing to bet the entire family will be surprised to see what turns up. I certainly don’t remember half of it.
People don’t need nearly as much as they think they do.
“Nothing but heaven itself is better than a friend who is really a friend.”
– Plautus
Well, J. took the GMAT today and scored a 720 (way to go, love!), Venice is going to be interviewed by the local paper tomorrow for a petition she’s started, Lexie is engaged, Hennessy is getting married any second now, my brother Gio got an impressive scholarship to virtually any school in the US and he’ll be making a final decision about where to go by the end of the week, my father retired and has decided to move…to the States! Which makes little sense to me, I’d have picked Tuscany, personally. My mother, her Classics degree from Cambridge fresh under her belt, is in the US already going through an intense Latin program that should make her a nice candidate to teach Classical Studies Stateside.
Our family is already dreading moving. Apparently, one of the highest accolades that the kids’ school gave itself this past year was getting in fewer fights than the year before. And they chief form of entertainment was lighting fires in the school and then calling the bomb squad. Interesting. “We’re going to be the weirdos now. Don’t tell them where you’re from, where you’ve lived, or what you’ve done,” is my father’s advice, “LIE.” You know that when your pretty spectacular family, though I say so myself, is planning very hard to be inconspicuous that life is about get odd.
My whole family and I are going to be on the same continent for the first time in six years. Permanently. Bizarre!
“Who can hope to be safe? Who sufficiently cautious?
Guard himself as he may, every moment is an ambush.”
-Horace
For the past almost-two years that I’ve worked here, there has been a large plastic mat residing beneath my chair and the corners of various desks and cabinets. This mat is clear, studded on the bottom, a quarter of and inch thick, sharp edged, and slippery. As you may imagine, this mat has been a sore trial for many office staff, but myself in particular as I am A) a sad klutz, and B) the person who practically lives on top of this thing.
We, meaning mostly I, have slipped, tripped, slid, glided, skidded, twisted ankles, and face planted because of this contraption without complaint or word until today.
Hennessy and I were walking back from the Administration Building when a perfect storm of un-coordination happened. First her heel caught the edge of the mat. Then she started to fall forward which both lifted the mat and tore her shoe off. Then behind her I stuttered my step trying not to collide with my flailing friend. And THEN the sharp corner of the plastic peril bit into my foot. When we managed to right ourselves and glance down to survey damages, I was bleeding.
That was it! We grabbed Susie, one of the officers to move heavy furniture, and dragged the whole thing back to the custodians closet (it weighed about as much as Brazil, was filthy underneath, and smelled horrid to boot). Good riddance.
My foot hurts.
“Remember, kids, the Quail Call is not a toy!”
– Quailman (Doug)
Once upon a time, Margot began working in the university library in the Children/Young Adult Literature section. I take some credit for helping her get this job as one of the questions they asked her was, “What books are you currently reading?” She responded with a book I’d lent her, entitled “I, Lucifer” (click for Amazon link). Which, as you may have guessed, is not a children’s book, but absolutely fantastic. But apparently she was the only person who didn’t say something like, “The Berenstain Bears,” “The Magic Schoolbus,” or “The Three Little Kittens,” and she got the job because of individuality (not to mention brilliance. She’s annoying like that).
And I’m so glad she did because that meant she could share this gem (which pops up on library computers when an error occurs) with us!
I personally think we should set this up on all campus servers (particularly the parking system and its annoying offspring computer problems). Wouldn’t seeing this make your technical issue so much less aggravating? I think all universities should offer some sort of equivalent, though some mascots should not be used (such, as Pinto pointed out, a duck).
Also, the Fail Quail unintentionally reminds me of my youth:
“A man’s growth is seen in the successive choirs of his friends.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
I have one friend going to study in Korea for the next few months. His wife is staying here, working, and currently performing in The King and I. Another friend is officially back from her world travels and has found a lovely house to move into in the city. Yet another friend is recovering from morphine withdrawals.* And finally yet another dear friend received and turned down the offer to be a man’s mistress.
I know SUCH fabulous people!
* Post surgery, which doesn’t sound nearly as intriguing.
“If you wait a few minutes you can have a piece of cake. Baked it chock-full of love, actually chock-full of unrelenting, all-consuming rage and hostility. But still tasty.”
-Grey’s Anatomy
I made light of it but yesterday’s brush off (you know, when I delivered fifty years of an otherwise undocumented perspective on the growth of the university, state, and country through some of the most turbulent social decades of the previous century…nothing big) was a crushing blow. I’ve been coasting along blissfully at work ever since my rage stroke without caring too much about the administrative snafus that I seem to see everywhere.
But then this happened and my entire academic life flashed before my eyes. I wondered if all my education even mattered, if I’d ever be able to use it again, what would become of me, blah blah blah. It was rough. To make it worse it was compounded with hormones and J. wanting to talk about our future (grad school, loans, working now, internships). The overwhelming sense of uncertainty blended nicely into the tempest already brewing in my teapot.
Cue minor meltdown. I started baking immediately. I hate cooking of all forms so for me it’s the ultimate cathartic experience: I can take out my emotions by beating eggs, shredding carrots, and pummeling dough into submission, and come out with something sugary at the end. Perfect. Luckily Venice and I met somewhere in the middle – she needed butter, I needed Midol – and I got a nice heaping dose of perspective, as she’d had a pretty wretched day too.
She’s been suffering at work for years now. And unlike me, she doesn’t have lots of really great co-workers and supervisors to make the stupidity and drudgery less irksome. (Don’t go, Venice! Er…ahem…) Twenty minutes complaining about work, mutual resolve to learn to cope better, and I was ready to talk grad school with J.
“Oh dear. Hennessy and Vodka? What sort of operation are we running here?”
“Clearly a P.A.R.T.Y.”
– C. and Sav
The ever fabulous Savvy alerted me to the fact that I too have neglected to mention Daae’s replacement! (Click link to meet our new friend) Sav christened her Vodka, which is perfectly appropriate. Although how so many liquor nicknames are sneaking into our lives is a bit beyond me…ahem…
In happier news, it would seem my Lord and Lady Stompington may have moved out! Building gossip suggests it, and the unnatural quiet we’ve been enjoying seconds the idea, but it has not been positively confirmed yet. Fingers crossed, all. Good fortune and goodbye!
Also, Sav and her husband CK may be moving into our building. Which would be lovely! When Venice basely abandons me, it would be nice to have someone I know and like in easy cup-of-sugar borrowing distance.
“No one loves the messenger who brings bad news.”
– Sophocles
I’ve been in denial about an upcoming Tragic Event. This year as America celebrates its independence with exploding things and overeating, I’ll be not-celebrating my forced independence…from Venice. Val is done with his degree and they are moving to Kentucky on July 4th. This has been a long time coming, but of course I’ve stuck my metaphoric fingers in my ears and ignored the impending catastrophe.
Last weekend they flew out to Kentucky to scope out the area for his potential job, their potential home, and potential lives. Last night, coming home from work I saw him at their flat door and asked how the trip went. Really well, apparently, because he’s got the job and plans are now in motion.
“I am honestly thrilled for you guys, but you do realize I’m never going to forgive you for taking her away,” I said despondently.
“If it wasn’t for me you’d never have even met!” he reasoned.
Which is true. We used to live in the same apartment complex a few years ago and I got to be friends with him and his flatmates. One day he said, “I think you should meet my girlfriend. You two would get along really well.” The rest is well documented history.
The Val giveth and the Val taketh away.
Peregrine is in D.C., Scarlett is in New York, Angel is in the city, Margot (who just got back from New Zealand) is probably going to head north at some point in the near future. And I’m feeling supremely stuck and left behind. I’m trying really hard to keep perspective. J. and I will be moving back East in a couple of years and Venice (and most of others listed) are already on speed-dial…but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t devastated.
Small Dog Syndrome 