So the long Birthday Weekend was lovely, much to my surprise (things here at Casa Frampton are not always as shiny-gleamy as they look from the outside. Sometimes people are stressed. Just saying.). The Spouse de Cuisine grilled a whole turkey, which he’d marinated for 24 hours prior, and others remarked that the turkey was “life-changing.” Plus he grilled pork belly, which was just sinful. And I made ginger cake with crystallized ginger frosting, which turned out great.

I’m therefore oddly energetic, something I don’t say very often, and I am hoping to a) kick ass and b) take names. The Book Expo America is this week, and friend and fellow Risky Amanda McCabe (along with RR Diane Gaston) is coming to town. Plus my cousin visits for the weekend, which will be awesome fun.

Hopefully some fiction writing will occur, too, since this story isn’t going to write itself. Even with me helping, it might not get done that well. But, you know, nothing will happen if I don’t write.

And I’ve worked out eight days in a row, which is just crazy. Still weigh the same, but see what I’ve been eating, above, and marvel that I’m not a house right now.

When I was little, we lived in New Hampshire, in a tiny town (population: 1000) about 30 minutes north of Hanover, New Hampshire, home to Dartmouth College.

We lived in a huge house, the former vicarage of a church, which was conveniently placed to our right. Huge–I had two rooms, one of which had a jungle gym in it. Our bay windows looked out over the big circular drive leading into the church.

So one year, my parents had some sort of stubborn detente (my mom is the Most Stubborn Woman in the World, btw, my dad was commuting weekly to Boston, working 14-hour days and then collapsing on the weekends), and NO-ONE took the Christmas tree down. It sat, forlorn and dropping needles, as January fed into February into March and finally into April. If I had been older, like not eight, I would have done it, if just to show myself as the Best McLaughlin.

The only reason one of my parents caved–I think it was my mom, because she was more sensitive to these things–and took the tree down was because the following week was Easter, and it woulda been tacky to keep up the birthday things for the guy when he was dead. Never mind that neither of my parents were religious. The neighbors would be able to see the dying throes of the tree, and know the worst about my family.

I think of moments like that and realize no, I did not have a normal upbringing. I don’t always like to share stuff like that, because it seems self-aggrandizing, as in ‘look how weird I am!,’ but it’s my reality. Which is probably why I am itching to take the tree down on January 2.

And I think about it every year as Easter approaches.

Most of you know my dad died a little over a year ago. In that time–and due entirely to Dad’s death–my uncle and I have grown very close. I can just hear my dad now, growling: “I had to die for this to happen? Well, next time I’ll make sure I do it sooner.”

Today is my uncle’s two-year anniversary of sobriety. I am so, so proud of him–it’s hard being an Irish workaholic who always thinks someone is smarter than they are (even if they are SO NOT). He stopped drinking due to my dad, and he and I both knew he could never take it up again after Dad died. Dad would be really pissed.

My uncle is coming to visit this weekend, and I look forward to getting that big McLaughlin bear hug I loved getting from my father. My uncle and dad are very similar, down to the senses of humor and the great belly laugh, and hanging with him has made me miss Dad a little less.

I love you, Jon.

Love,

Megala
PS: Left to right: My dad, my aunt, her daughter (peeking over shoulder), her husband (although not, surprisingly, her daughter’s dad), my uncle.

I went through the sobbies on Friday, not too many, but still, and Saturday the dreaded Back Spasm appeared, which it usually does the day after a traumatic event (note to Spouse: Do not pick fights with me. You’ll have to be tying my shoes for a week).

But yesterday we got our tree, and had the first snow, and got stuff done, which is always good. Today I am kinda hobbling around, but still able to move things from one place to another.

I am enthused about returning to work on this contemporary thingie I’ve had banging around in my head, and will be doing so at the Alpha Sparkle Dog’s house this Tuesday. Meanwhile, my agent remain on the case, but nobody is buying anything lately these days, and we just gotta wait until after the inauguration, she thinks, for something to happen.

My family talked amongst itself on Friday, and boy, does my family rock. They are tremendous people, and I love them all to bits. Especially my uncle Jon, who hurts more than I do, since at least I have the Nine Year-Old to distract me. And the P-I-C commented here, and the Picky Vegetarian sent me a lovely email, and boy is it great to have such amazing friends.

The 9 y.o. and I went and saw Twilight, which I thought did as best as it could to translate a teenaged girl’s fantasy onto film. Because, of course, each of us have differing fantasies, so how could one universal image ever satisfy? But that Robert Pattinson was a darn good Edward. My only quibble was Jacob, I thought the actor who played him was too young and mushy-looking, but that’s minor. And I’m not a teenaged girl.

Oh, AND, we bought and won a vintage blow-mold Frosty the Snowman, which will be adorning our back deck!! I am beyond thrilled!

More later. Meanwhile, thanks for stopping by.

The birthday was wonderful! Thanks to everyone who stopped by and spared a kind thought, even if you did not post a comment.

There was dim sum, big cocktail rings, hoisin sauce, pix, awesome gifts (go, Netflix!), sushi, hugs, tear-worthy cards, delish dessert, sake, more hugs, more pix, and lots of non-stress. A good day.

The only thing missing was Clive on my doorstep, but pursuing your dreams is what makes you push forward in life, right?

Today looks to be good as well, with some writing planned. Actually planned!

Yay!

(Yes. It does feel weird for me to be so content. My brain is looking for some potential area of stress. Whatever. It’s all good).

Okay, so I look kinda odd (I am NOT drunk here!), but the rest of the fam looks fabulous–the two ladies are my two aunts. The dark-haired one is the total kick-ass survivor sister of my mom (she has lupus, and has had other big deals in the course of her life), and the blonde is my dad’s youngest sister, who is finishing her degree after getting all of her kids through school. I love both these women, and they are both inspirations. The Spouse Scott is on the left, my paternal aunt’s husband is the older gentleman, while the guy on the right is my cousin, her son, who just graduated college. And in the middle, of course, is the hammy child.

My uncle David Rowan Campbell is a decorative artist who does amazing, fantastic work that you can see at his internet home, here.

He advised us when we were choosing colors for our house, and his suggestions were dead-on (”You can’t go wrong with Atrium.”) Plus he calls Benjamin Moore ‘Ben Moore,’ and I appreciate that familiarity.

Scott, the Son and I will be seeing him and my aunt when we go to San Francisco. Yay!

Today is my first full day in Brooklyn; very glad to be back, although sad not to be in the Land o’ the Lakes.

Some pix:

The Nine-Year Old with my cousin.

The Spouse (otherwise known as Scott), the Nine Year-Old and my aunt Mary.

It was a fantastic visit, I am happy to be back for a bit before heading to SF.

Liz Maverick brought up one of my perennial conversation-stopper topics recently, only hers was a different take on the problem. Namely, pantslessness. The pantsless thing has long been of concern to me. Why do cartoon characters wear jackets but no pants? Porky Pig, I’m talking to you.

(That doesn’t even BEGIN to go into how I feel about Mickey Mouse. I have a vendetta against him, I think I’m unhinged. It bothers me so much–he’s not funny. He’s not likeable. He wears gloves. Why, in the name of all that’s holy, does he exist?!?)

And I was talking about this to my cousin, the gorgeous, totally together 22 year-old with whom I was shopping yesterday (yeah, how’s THAT for a confidence booster? “Hi, Megan’s insecurities, meet someone who’s literally half your age, blond, smart, savvy, with boobs, who looks good in everything she tries on.”). And Lisa followed up the pantsless question with why Daffy–or Donald, I’m not sure which–Duck* wears a towel after he gets out of the shower. . . when he’s about not to put on any pants! What’s he hiding?

We do know ducks are one of the few birds with penises (is that penii?). Is that it? Is Daffy/Donald hiding the goods, only to expose them when he’s dry?

But really–why can’t cartoon characters have pants? It wouldn’t bother me nearly as much if they weren’t wearing jackets. Consistency, people, consistency! If your anthropomorphic animals wear clothes, make sure they’re fully dressed!

That’s all.

Megan

*Oh, I just googled “Donald Duck shower” and found a quote from Friends about Donald and his showering ways. A flaw in the otherwise perfect cousin? She watched Friends? Megan’s insecurities feel a wee bit of triumph right around now.

The Son and his class did a study of Ghana this year (as well as the Inuit, and the Amazon, I think). Anyway. We have a CD called London Is The Place For Me, which is a compilation of Trinidadian calypso in London, and includes the song “Birth of Ghana” by Lord Kitchener. The Spouse burned it onto a disc for our son to take into school and wow his classmates.

Does it make up for the fact that between the two of his parents, we can find a song that relates to almost any topic, and will sing it loudly even though the Son begs us to stop?

Probably not.

But still.

(Scott also included the Wylde Bunch “Last Day of School.” Beats Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out For Summer” anyday).