“It is folly to punish your neighbor by fire when you live next door.”
– Publilius Syrus
Those of you who remember this little fiend, will be happy to know that he has departed for grimmer and more diabolic realms. Alternatively, you will be saddened to know that he has been replaced with something far, far worse:
Our new upstairs neighbors.
Artist's rendering of the neighbor's parties.
Not only do they fight, constantly, at the top of their lungs, specifically at ridiculous hours of the the night, but they are also completely incapable of walking. No, no. They stomp. Which makes our ceiling shake. And they throw parties with loud friends in which they, as far as we can tell, practice riverdancing. Or dropping bowling balls.
The other night, when we were watching a movie, we heard the door above us slam and moments later the light fixture started rattling around.
“Ah good,” J. said, “Lord and Lady Stompington are home.”
Obviously all this PBS watching is starting to rub off on him!
C.’s Quick Translation for Online Oppinuendo on Health Care
You liberal/conservative idiot! : I respectfully disagree with you.
Don’t you have a brain?! : I respectfully disagree with you.
The Republicans/Democrats are out of touch with the American people! Down with them! Drag them into the streets! : Rep-R/Rep-D voted against my personal opinion!
Obama is the Antichrist! : I’m conservative.
Obama is brave to take this problem on! : I’m liberal.
Stop making asinine comments! : I have weighed and measured such information as I have found, and I now find myself on the other side of the aisle from you.
You socialist nazi! : I respectfully disagree with you.
You conservative nazi! : I respectfully disagree with you.
This is a choice between good and evil! : This is a choice between political ideologies, about which I feel very strongly.
It’s unconstitutional! : It personally offends my sensibilities.
I can’t even begin to tackle your logical fallacies! : I refuse to attempt to see things from your liberal/conservative point of view and prefer to argue.
As a future doctor I don’t want to have the government dictate the terms of my work (requirements, treatment standards, paycheck, etc.) to me! : I much prefer to dictate the terms of my work (requirements, treatment standards, paycheck, etc.) to my patients myself.
Go ****/$$$$/@@@@/%%%% yourself! : I’m afraid we just can’t see eye to eye on this.
The End Times are coming! : I am seriously displeased with the turn of events.
I’m moving to Canada! : I am not actually moving to Canada despite ranting to the contrary for some time.
There, now you find yourself able to navigate the intricacies of Facebook, comment threads, and forum mudslinging. Take a few calm breaths to recharge and think of some withering profanities, and when you feel ready, charge back into the fray. Discussion doesn’t seem to be the name of the day, so feel free to bandy tired clichés back and forth, quote the pundits/talking heads in lieu of actual original thought, and mistake insults/gloating for a solution. Carry on!
“Julius Caesar was killed for one reason,
the Senators decided to accuse him of treason,
the day was the Ides and March was the season,
he wanted to be king, they wanted his head.”
– stanza of a poem I wrote ten years ago. Won me a school competition.
Monday feels a bit, appropriately, like this today:
Ouch!
Editor's Note: If only all brutal monday mornings were accompanied by a young Marlon Brando.
“At least she’s eating better things than macaroni and cheese.”
– Heidi Klum
Translation of fragment: "Mac and Cheese is food fit for dogs. And Gauls. Go Rome!"
Throughout my life my mother has been in school, in some capacity or another. When I was about three or four, she had to leave Dad and I for a few weeks to finish up something or other with one of her degrees (I misremember which. Which isn’t me being a bad daughter, it’s her having one in Asian Studies, one in American History, and now another in Classical Studies from Cambridge because she decided to learn Greek and Latin. In other words, my mother is exceptionally awesome). Time has blurred the details a bit but as I recall, this was an absolute highlight of my short life because Dad and I subsisted on mainly pizza.
I didn’t realize this during the Great Pizza Blitz, but it turned out that my Dad hated cooking. Really hated it. He encouraged my Mum to go to school, continue her education throughout her life, and work if she wanted, but by golly the one thing he wanted was dinner to be on the table, because left up to him, dinner would come grudgingly from a frozen package.
So, a few years down the road when she decided to teach for a semester or two at a local university, I thought the Pizza Affair would be reborn. I was sadly, terrifyingly mistaken.
This is NOT food.
Mac and Cheese. From a box. Every night. Some days even for lunch. Sometimes we varied it up with chunks of hotdog, but mostly not. Again, I’m sure both time and horror have worked their magic on me and the vile orange sludge was not as prolific as I remember, but it sure seemed like it at the time. When my mother’s teaching finished, I refused to eat another disgusting, processed bite, and I’ve never touched it since. Once when shopping J. picked up a box for himself on days when I’d be at school late or he needed a lunch, I had to swallow escaping bile.
However, watching Food Network the other day, I saw a recipe for ‘Grown Up Mac And Cheese’ and thought suddenly to myself, “That doesn’t look so bad.” It sounded pretentious enough that I could assure myself that it would be as un-Kraft-like as possible, but looked really easy to make. So, on Sunday I girded my loins and made Mac and Cheese for the first time in years.
And you know what? It was pretty darned tasty!
**I’ll still never make the packaged stuff again. My children will not be subjected to this powdered cheese monstrosity, except to survive the Zombie Apocalypse. And even then, I might choose death.
“So…we’re not eating out again until after, approximately, the birth of our third child.”
– C.
Indy, though a blessed luxury after four years without a car, does come with a certain amount of wear and tear. She’s 12 years old and I’m increasingly of the opinion her previous owner didn’t love her as I do.
We came back from Christmas to find her battery (the one she came with: a secondhand, refurbished one at that!) had died. J.’s parents had generously bought us a new one for a Christmas present but when they were bringing her back to life, the mechanic said we should keep an eye on our timing belt because it was obviously old and cracked. Also a mount and filter needed to be replaced (thanks, Indy’s negligent previous owner).
As far as I can tell, you should be dead. But I will charge you an arm, leg, and that third child you mentioned to fix it.
So, when I took her in to get her oil changed yesterday, I batted my eyelashes and asked the mechanics if they could pretty please also check the belts for me because I was ever so worried about them (no charge!). Unfortunately I went to pick her up I got some scary news. Both the timing and driving belts seemed to be in immediate danger of molecular disintegration. And even a non-tech type like me knows that when those go, the entire car goes. They recommended immediate replacement but as it was already late afternoon and as it was going to be “at least a half day job,” they said the earliest they would be able to do it was today.
This morning I drove J. to school and then to the shop to be there when they opened at 8am thinking that, as they said it would be a half day thing and they are first come first serve, everything would be done by noon and I could go into work after lunch. I dropped Indy off and then walked the half mile home.
I’d just got to the door when I realized I’d turned all of my keys over to the mechanics and was locked out, and our landlord would be no help because J. and I had just changed the bolt lock. Sigh. I trudged back to the shop, sheepishly asked for my keys and headed back home grumbling. My grumbling increased exponentially forty minutes later when the shop called to explain that the water pump attached to the belt was leaking everywhere and needed to be fixed as well. Don’t worry, I didn’t let them charge me double labor.
I achieved this crazed expression sometime around 1pm. It was hyperactively downhill from there.
The rest of the day I spent checking my phone every ten minutes to see if the shop had called. I did five loads of laundry, scrubbed the kitchen counters and floor, and cleaned our room. I rang Susie every two hours to update her and explain that I was still fully planning on coming into work, until about 3 when I became resigned to my fate. I watched two full movies on AMC while I folded clothes, as well as part of the Westminster Kennel Club dog show. I’d gone verifiably stir crazy by 11. When I began looking around the flat and thinking of decorating ideas I realized I’d reached a Stepford Level of Battiness. They called at 4:50 to say they had finished.
Praise be to Jupiter, Odin, and Quetzalcoatl that we have a Pell Grant to cover tuition and a fat tax return on its way (hurrah for being young, poor, at university, newly married, and living on a tiny income!), as well the fact that we like to save money for just such circumstances. It’s a steep bill buts it’s cheaper than a new car! I’m glad we’ve got the means and common sense to take care of ourselves, I just wish it wasn’t so bloody expensive sometimes.
The downside: $800.00 and an even larger pile of work on my desk tomorrow.
The upside: three day work week and clean laundry.
“Always be nice to secretaries. They are the real gatekeepers in the world.”
– Anthony J. D’Angelo
Not an hour into work and with stacks of paperwork already piled high on our desks, both the copier and shredder broke causing a swell of panic on the secretaries’ part. Wise, Susie, and I dove into action. After the right combination of kicking, bashing, praying, and human sacrifice was accomplished the copier shuddered, whirred, and started working again and we moved our attention to the shredder. Then my phone rang and there was a grouchy state attorney on the line, and Amanda was dragged off to do a record expungement leaving Susie to wrestle with the machinery.
In sauntered Lt. Figaro (late as usual) and he meandered up to Susie and started talking.
I imagine that if the officers ever did take the initiative to fix their own problems, the secretaries' reaction to the resulting chaos would look something like this.
While I looked up records for the attorney I watched her stick her arm and fingers into the mechanisms to fix a blockage while he told the story of an African student he knew (which is really inspirational, don’t get me wrong). As she dragged the whole thing away from the wall to poke around the electrical hookups he led into the differences of education in multiple countries, which turned naturally to American politics. When she dragged the bag of shredded paper out of its compartment (which was nearly as big as she is and threatened to spill out everywhere) he reached his crescendo:
“And that is just what the terrorists want! They want to make us feel inferior and inadequate! We can’t let the terrorists win!”
At which point the attorney let me go and I was able to scurry back in time to keep the mess from tipping over and shove the whole contraption back into place.
“Good job, girls,” Figaro said and went back to his office to take a nap or something.
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.
“I don’t need to compromise my principles because they don’t have the slightest bearing on what happens to me anyway.”
– Bill Watterson, Calvin and Hobbes
Chief has squashed my plan of taking a class this coming semester to prep for grad school. The reason given is that Wise (who is enrolled in the very program I’m after) has a lot more leeway to take classes since she doesn’t have a front desk position and work with the public as I do. A decision that makes sense on paper, and which I can grudgingly understand…if it were not for the fact that several police officers and other supervisors for the department take classes very frequently, often for multiple semesters in a row (and shouldn’t police officers deal with the public just as much, if not more than me?). AND if it were also not for the department history and manifesto I retyped and edited four days ago, containing an entire paragraph about how the department strongly encourages and accommodates the further education of its employees through university classes.
Although I find the logic painfully baffling, I also understand that it’s an executive decision on the Chief’s part which, in all fairness, he did mull over for several days (before crushing it into tiny, tiny pieces). And though I admit I wish I could throw my level-headed acceptance of this ruling out the window and throw a (mild) tantrum, that’s not really my style.
I prefer weaseling around the problem. I’ve enrolled in some independent study courses and am looking into evening classes as well, which fall outside supervisor oversight. It’s annoying to try to get into them at this late date, but I have at least three terms between now and when my application would be turned in so I have plenty of time to formulate a new plan of attack!
Small Dog is feeling, er...bulldogish.
I could switch departments (unlikely with the hiring freeze, but I won’t rule it out). My French course, offered through independent study, could potentially count as my final language requirement and remove all obstacles. I could say, “To Hades with it all!” and become a full-time student again (plunging us back into poverty, but only for a year or couple of semesters towards the end of J.s degree – very unlikely, but still possible depending on my level of desperation). I could stage a coup and overthrow the school, take the president hostage, and demand he let me take my one single class (extremely unlikely).
“Why the HELL didn’t I continue with French?!”
“Don’t swear.”
“Why the CUSS didn’t I continue with French?”
“Well, you can take classes.”
“Yes but if I don’t do well, and I haven’t studied it for three years, it will affect my GPA which will affect my application. CUSS CUSS CUSS!”
– C. and J.
We all have them, but for about a month or so I’ve been going through a right awful funk. And although I wish I could say I’ve been keeping it under wraps, I’m afraid it’s been spilling over a bit. I’ve gotten noticeably sharp with people, even friends, short-tempered at work, and bitter about small things that have just seemed to mount on top of each other. It culminated last night in a meeting for J.’s new fraternity for accountants when I was exhausted and stressed. I tried to be funny but only succeeded in being rude, and collapsed in a sobbing pile of guilt when we got home.
Unfortunately, I’m a bottler: I keep things locked up inside until the inevitable explosion that tends to leave a wake of destruction. And even though we’ve all been told time and time again that this is not a healthy way to live, so many of us keep doing it because it has some obvious immediate benefits.
Liar.
My problems are petty and selfish, but that doesn’t make them irrelevant or mean they don’t affect my life.
– I’m in a state of constant frustration that I spent four years getting an education, but work in a job that has nothing to do with what I studied (the European Studies field is not exactly conducive to jobs in the Western United States).
– I don’t really like living where we do.
Humph!
– Truthfully, I had this plan post-graduation, which involved me moving back to England. I am an ENTJ, I frame my life in these little plans and get frustrated when they don’t come to fruition. It wouldn’t matter if common sense, good counsel, or God changed my plans, I’d still get annoyed/angry if things didn’t work out the way that I had intended. (Which I absolutely think happened in my decision to get married and stay in the States, and which I still think is probably the best decision I’ve made for myself. It’s just not what I thought was in the cards a year and a half ago; that’s what makes my little control-freak, inner Napoleon jump up and down howling, “Zees was not le plan!”)
– I miss being in school and recently came to the conclusion, after much deliberation, that I wanted to pursue grad school. And seeing as I can take classes for free, a perk of working for a university, why not? Problem A) my major, which I loved and would not hesitate to choose again, did not really prepare me for any of the graduate degrees offered here. My emphasis was in history and they have removed the MA in History degree (an idiotic move if ever there was one!).
Problem B) the next best degree, and one I am really interested in due to the interdisciplinary nature of the program, requires more classes in French. Which, if I want to get into the program beginning this coming fall, I’d need to complete in record time. A troublesome goal if one works full-time. Oh! And I’d need to take the GRE in about a month.
Mostly, I feel stuck. I can’t progress (at least immediately) in the way I want my education to go, we aren’t leaving this area (at least immediately) for a small eternity, and I can’t pursue my own interests (at least immediately) due to duty to my family.
And I’m the most impatient person I know!
There are treatments. Obviously I need to take better care of myself. I don’t work out anymore [again] and I’ve noticed that I haven’t been eating enough, which would put anyone in a strop. I also don’t have any pursuits outside of work right now, and that’s soul-numbing. I’m committed to grad school, but will I kill myself trying to make it happen all at once (or at least before the March application deadline)? Maybe I should make it a goal for next year and work more slowly and steadily towards it instead of trying to rush it.
Weigh in, friends. Had a minor life crisis recently? Plans get disrupted? Get impatient with goals that are attainable, but seem so far off?
“No look, I’ll show you.”
Pause.
“Wow. I was just about to lift up my shirt and then I thought, ‘No, there’s got to be a better way…'”
– Kay
I love my husband. I do. But I am more convinced than ever that he married me purely for the entertainment. Last night, we both collapsed in the door feeling generally beaten about by the world (him from mid-terms, me from work), and dove straight into pajamas. I was freezing so, against my will, I grudgingly pulled on my only long sleeve pajama top: a gray one with the words, “You, Me, and the Mistletoe” emblazoned across it that’s been in storage for a year. (I’m breaking one of my cardinal holiday rules: one at a time!) However, feeling toasty I forgave myself my Thanksgiving-overlooking indiscretion and happily relaxed, allowing J. to eat macaroni and cheese to his heart’s content while I finished off leftovers…until after we had cleaned up and I snuggled up against him for a hug…he leaned into my neck and smelled me.
Not adorable “I love your perfume” smelling, or even “I’m just trying to annoy you by doing weird things” smelling. Full on, “There’s something wrong here” smelling.
“What?” I demanded, pulling away.
“No! Come back!” he yanked me back against him, leaning down to bury his nose in my shoulder.
“What on earth is wrong with you!”
“You smell funny.” Deep inhale again.
“Hey!”
“No, I mean you smell…” he sucked another sniff down before declaring, “like seasoned salt, or spices.” A pause. “Why?”
“You’re just picking on me.”
“No I’m not, take of your shirt and smell.”
“Of all the stupid-”
“I’m serious!”
Not only did I get my shirt ridiculously caught on my elbow (and therefore stuck), I didn’t even need to get it over my head before the unmistakable whiff of Cajun seasonings hit me full in the face.
The great question for me is not J.’s “Why?” …but “How?!”
“What?” I demanded, pulling away.
Small Dog Syndrome 