XXIV: Christmas & New Year

I have survived the holidays. Only just. Or maybe I'm speaking too soon, since we've a few hours yet and some people consider New Year's Day more holiday.

I didn't get anything for Christmas, which doesn't really bother me. What did bother me:

I suppose this is what comes of not being clear. I had said there couldn't be two stars on the tree, so The American opted to dress me as an angel instead. Allow me to point out I wore the halo and wings well past the tree's decorations being taken down. In fact, she didn't remove them until yesterday, when we went to the salon . . .

I don't trust these women behind me, not least because they have no bodies.

Afterward, we went down to Connecticut. Turns out I was being dragged to a concert.

Not sure why everything looks so pink . . .

Turns out The American is rather fond of this fellow:

Rob Thomas at Mohegan Sun Arena, 30 December 2011

Fine for him, but my ears almost couldn't take the man on our right who evidently believed he was part of the band and sang along to every song. At ridiculously high levels.

After that, we wallowed in Americanism. By which I mean sodas, burgers, milkshakes.

Then finally returned to our hotel.

Yes, I am wearing her necklace. No, I don't know why.

As a sort of early New Year's treat, there was champagne.

Which meant in the morning we were required to put some more food in ourselves. Ate at Octagon, which had a very friendly staff and good food.

I would have stayed longer, but they insisted it was time to go.

Home now with John, which is as it should be.

That's the proper way to start a new year.

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With gratitude for the hospitality of Secrets Salon; Mohegan Sun Resort & Casino; and Marriott Mystic Hotel & Spa and their restaurant Octagon.

XXIII: Birthday Weekend

Not mine. God, no. But I was still forcibly compelled to "celebrate." As if getting older were something to be glad of. It seems to me that birthdays are designed to congratulate people on not having died over a span of the previous 364 days. Good for you! Have some cake.

Cupcakes, anyway.

I'd say life is like a box of miniature cupcakes that come in a variety of flavors, except no, it isn't.

As if that weren't enough she dragged me to a movie. In a cinema. Where we were surrounded by other people. Hadn't we just done this the previous week? In London no less?

She never looks this happy with me.

Seats weren't even comfortable. But at least I had one this time.

And this is a terrible angle besides.

Fine. I endured and prayed the jubilation over the simple fact of having existed for any number of years was at an end. But no. Just when I was certain it couldn't get any worse, she insisted I come along with a group of friends to a comedy club.

Do I look amused?

Though the low grade of humor turned out to be the least of my worries.

The best I can say of the evening, besides having come out of it in one piece, is that I walked away with pastries to my name. (Though my name is not Mike.)

The final touch to the weekend was Christmas decorating. Look, there can only be one star at the top of the tree . . .

Just as well she chose the other one; not a terribly comfortable perch, and I can't imagine having been required to stay there for a week or more.

Whether I survive the remainder of the holidays remains to be seen.

XXII: The Surprise

I gave The American an early birthday gift.

Note to Self: consider a bigger coat.

The tickets were for some screening in London she'd been wanting to attend. This meant traveling to London, which we did the night before, landing the day of the event. We were there bright and early, able to watch the sun come up over the duck pond in Kensington Gardens . . .

. . . and walk the Palace grounds . . .

It was chilly, so we visited The Orangery and enjoyed hot chocolate while sitting like cats in a sunspot.

The Orangery

We whiled away the day in this fashion; I'm always happy and relaxed when home in London, and The American was good company because she was losing her voice, which meant she spent more time simply smiling and less time making a fool of herself by talking. Though the locals seemed a bit confused by her muteness.

We went to the screening, of course.

I fancy that fellow on the left looks a bit like me.

I had my own seat . . . at first.

Long story short, The American threw me over for a better vantage point. Voice or no voice, she has quite the self-interested streak. I can grudgingly admire it, but I don't have to like it. At least not when it works against me.

We flew home the following afternoon. A quick trip, all told, but a very happy birthday for The American.

And she still can't speak, which makes it a very happy day for me, too.