“The Christmas season has come to mean the period that the public plays Santa Claus to the merchants.”
– John Andrew Holmes
Black Friday is not really something I participate in, I’ll occasionally venture out (closer to noon than midnight) but it’s no different for me than any other weekend shopping except the people are ruder and all have a look of unmasked panic flitting across their faces.
But. This year J. and I were tipped off early to Amazon.com’s sales. BIG mistake!
I can quit any time I want!
– Five DVDs
-Eight books
– 80% of my inbox is shipping emails from Amazon
– Two packages received already
– One sore clicker finger
– Fourteen other books “Saved To Buy Later”
– Six squeals of excitement while clicking through site
– Nine heart-rending decision about what to buy and not buy
– Four times I’ve checked my shipping status since breakfast
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.
“You can do a lot if you’re properly trained.”
– Queen Elizabeth II
All police officers and dispatchers are required to complete a certain amount of training hours per year to keep their certification, and it is one of my jobs to keep track of those hours and turn the total into the state every year. So, as a good little secretary does, every few months or so I pull out all the training information I have on everyone and reconcile the spreadsheet and database we keep them in. Then I give that info to Lt. Citrus who in turn sends it out to all the officers…
…five minutes after that email goes out, my inbox is flooded with angry missives and my phone lights up with the rabid snarls from officers accusing that I have “forgotten to log their hours,” “obviously didn’t get their many emails,” or passive aggressive suggestions that perhaps I “just misplaced them, dear.”
After three days of checking, double checking, data entry, and getting yelled at, Small Dog is not inclined to be friendly towards officers who try to blame email for their problems.
I take a certain amount of dark pleasure in showing them my stack of training reports that I collect and my email archives (which I started saving for months for this very purpose) to show that I have logged all the hours they’ve given me, obviously have gotten all of their emails (their emails just don’t mention training hours as much as missing laundry), and have certainly not misplaced anything. Dear.
It’s all for naught! Three months from now I’ll go through the whole reconciling process again and then have to reconcile myself to the wrath of the officers!
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!
Unbelievable! J. Crew was having a sale on shirts (which I needed a couple more of for winter to give my few work sweaters a break) and the skirt I was lusting after was also miraculously on sale as well. PLUS I had a $50 gift certificate that I got from my health insurance company for completing a bunch of health challenges they do throughout the year so I could afford them. Obviously I had to take advantage, n’est pas?
An artist's rendering of a suspicious individual seen in the area about the same time as me. What a cooincidences, huh?
Not as easy as it first appeared! This sale closed at midnight over the weekend and I (ridiculous creature that I am) of course forgot the gift certificate in my work desk. Which meant a late night weekend gallop to the office, fetchingly attired in an old shirt, flannel pajama pants, mad hair, thick socks, and heeled shoes because they were the closest thing to hand as I rushed out the door. Accompianied by J.’s fond head shakes and sighs of, “You’re a nuggins.” His “adorable” nickname for me when I’m doing something particularly silly (I’m not so fond of it).
But apart from the slight craziness I exhibited, all was well! I ordered my things happily and went to bed at peace.
This morning I woke up to a shiny online coupon in my inbox advertising 20% off one’s total order. Which means had I waited 24 hours (and was psychic), I could have gotten my order for over half off.
“This is always going to be a problem for us, you know.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well in June there’s your birthday, July our anniversary. And then November is my birthday, followed by Christmas.”
“Oh my. We did not time that well…”
-J. and C.
J.’s birthday is tomorrow, and oh the problems! I ordered his present weeks ago, and after much angst that it wouldn’t come in time, I happily opened the mailbox yesterday to find it snuggled inside along with my mother’s christmas present (Poverty means that you have to buy presents in conjunction with paychecks. The more people in your life, the more paychecks you have to start thinking ahead. I have to think very far ahead). I got it inside, past J.’s grabbing hands and demands of, “What did you get me?!” and snuck it into its hiding place, when an Awful Realization struck.
I think J. may already have what I got him. Uh oh…
Never mind! He’s under orders to appear absolutely thrilled in front of my in-laws and I will quietly exchange it later if it is in fact, as I fear, a double.
Another realization that struck me this past week, though not as awfully as the first, is that I am now in charge of J.’s birthday. His last one we celebrated at his sister’s house complete with parents and four nieces and nephews (which I have now inherited) and it was definitely his parents’ show. This year it’s my job. Which meant a frantic scramble to call up Darling and my sister-in-law to coordinate a family get together. Today I ordered the cake he wanted (thereby pushing Gio and Buddy’s presents to next paycheck’s shopping list. I’m already behind!) and am I hoping haven’t forgotten anything else.
Also unlucky? I’ve already run through my allotted Pandora minutes for the month. Sigh.
“Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels.”
-Faith Whittlesey
Ew.
Thank goodness we’ve moved into colder weather, where my work wardrobe can do me some good! However, it has been brought to my attention that looking nice at work can have some unforeseen consequences. Apart from the expanding waistline (that comes from less exercise)…wearing some sort of heel everyday has apparently given my calves such a workout that they are getting bigger. To the point that my nice boots are snug!
“Advice is cheap, Ms. Molloy. It’s the things that come gift wrapped that count!”
-Hello, Dolly!
Handmade be damned! I buy holiday presents for people. Reason the first: I am not in the least bit crafty, I prefer forming words to paper mache. Reason the second: I like shopping way too much.
Too many presents!
Of course, the holidays get more and more expensive every year as a result, to say nothing of it being harder to come up with ideas. My father, J. and Venice have birthdays this month, mere days apart. In December, Fairy, Elle, and Buddy have birthdays all orbiting Christmas. In addition to family and god-family this year, I now have in-laws to buy presents for! Remember the panic I endured last year when I was only J.’s girlfriend? Multiply that times siblings, nieces, nephews, and pets. Gah!
Last year for J.’s birthday I got him tickets to an NBA game for his favorite team, in the lower half of the stadium. Ergo, I was Girlfriend of the Year. In retrospect, I completely shot myself in the foot because there is nowhere to go but down from there. And even my Christmas presents last year were pretty good!
How am I supposed to keep doing this for the next fifty to sixty years?!
“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy not respectable, and wealthy not rich…this is my symphony.”
-William Ellery Channing
A worthy, worthy goal, my loves, but how is a girl supposed to resist the allure of the fabulousness we endured during our secretaries retreat today?
How can a secretaries retreat be fabulous you ask? I shall tell you.
Well, if we MUST...
First of all we went to the local ski town/get-a-way for many of the rich and famous. We were treated to an incredible suite in an amazing five-diamond winning lodge-style hotel, because the guy who is head of security there used to work for our police department and likes us. We were given the works! Valet parking, personally escorted to our rooms, a charming young man sent up to light a fire for us, lunch at the five-star restaurant on the house, and the grand tour of the premises. He pointed out the various celebrities homes on the neighboring mountain (many of which he’s run security on), walked us through where a certain un-named actress was recently married, took us through the rooms where a past president stayed, gave us several un-repeatable bits of gossip into the lives of some celebrities and dignitaries as he led us through the rooms they occupied, and also told us stories about the incredible lengths they go to in this place to preserve privacy
Sidenote – why oh WHY am I a secretary?! Why didn’t I go into protocol, start in the government and military circles that revolve around themselves in England and work my way up through the fabulous hotels of London, doing the obligatory stint in the Queen’s service of course, and finishing up in a place where interesting people whirl in and out and ask you for nothing but to keep their secrets? Whilst leaving five hundred dollar tips! My only recourse at the point is to somehow break into the world of writing and become one of those interesting people with secrets, I suppose.
Back to our tale! After being wined and dined, we spent two glorious hours attacking the local outlet stores that include everything from GAP to Coach! I justified buying myself a few things by buying even more things for other people, knocking a solid three family members off my Christmas-shopping list in an hour. Completely disregarding the fact that we are still paying off the four new tires currently cushioning my car. Christmas is coming, and there will be no goose to get fat because C. will have pawned it in desperation.
Small Dog lives it up.
And believe it or not, we managed to have a lovely meeting in which frustrations were discussed, problems were solved, training was accomplished, and much needed venting got done. It was glorious.
“Why don’t the guys ever go on retreats like this?” asked Wise as we pulled out our folders, took notes, and stretched our feet luxuriously towards the fire.
“Because they don’t know how to do things properly,” I retorted. “Peasants.”
J.’s birthday is tomorrow, and oh the problems! I ordered his present weeks ago, and after much angst that it wouldn’t come in time, I happily opened the mailbox yesterday to find it snuggled inside along with my mother’s christmas present (Poverty means that you have to buy presents in conjunction with paychecks. The more people in your life, the more paychecks you have to start thinking ahead. 
Small Dog Syndrome 