Holiday Fun and Twitches

Thanksgiving wasn’t totally sucky, which in Tiara family parlance means “actually rather nice.” Everyone behaved themselves, and the food was excellent. Of course, it’s not hard for this year to look good when I compare it to Thanksgivings past, like the time everyone was being so awful that I just skipped it or the time my grandfather’s London Fog raincoat got stolen at the truly awful restaurant he insisted we eat at*.

The four-day holiday was nice too, except for the fact that I seem to have developed a new stress-related symptom. In addition to stomach problems, red scaly blotches on my skin, and insomnia, I now have a facial twitch. Seriously, a facial twitch. So unfair, people. Lord Merlin tells me that he read in Men’s Health that twitches are usually stress-related and can be exacerbated by lack of sleep and dehydration. This all sounds plausible, but I’m still going to go see my doctor, since I don’t really consider Men’s Health to be an authoritative source. Especially since I am not a man.

In my time off, I did a lot of sitting around, saw The Queen (v. good) and The Fountain (also good, but if the internets could explain it to me, I would be totes grateful), and finally finished that Marie Antoinette biography I’ve been slogging my way through. It was very good, but I have had the worst time finishing it, and have actually put it down several times to read other books. I think my problem relates to the ending. I know how the book is going to end and I know it’s not going to be pretty. And it wasn’t. Sometimes, I reread books I’ve read before, and of course, I know that ending, but that just makes it better. For example, it’s hard to read about the trials and tribulations of Jane Eyre, but you know there is going to be a big payoff in the end, and Jane will (spoiler alert for anyone who’s never read Jane Eyre†) overcome adversity and live happily ever after with Mr. Rochester. And as I read about Marie Antoinette, I already knew there wasn’t going to be some last minute rescue. So sad.

*Which is kind of like poetic justice in a way, because he forced to eat at this awful Irish (a people not known for their fine cuisine as you are no doubt aware) restaurant all the time, and on three separate occasions, the same ancient drunk Irishman walked off with the raincoat, because he had a similar one and got “confused” after 18 Guinnesses. Three times. Each time, my grandfather got the coat back, but it always smelled of old man, cigarettes, and cheap Irish whiskey.
†Just read it already.