The Saxonator has left the country...

It is true, dear Saxontologists, I have hopped a flying machine and jumped across the sea to visit the land of my birth...the U.S.A. I am basing my American operations out of Gammy and Poppy's house here in upstate NY from which I can fulfill a multitude of social obligations. I plan to be here for a month with my mom (dad has to go back to London to work) and I will, of course, keep you updated on the exciting events that happen to me and keep you hungering to hear more about the continuing adventures of the Saxonator!

What To Do With a Mullet?

Imagine this, dear Saxontologists, it is Saturday morning and the Olympics are on television. You and your dad are just hanging out watching some female powerlifting (ooh lala those biceps!) when suddenly your mom appears...holding a pair of TRAUMA SCISSORS! That is right, she has a pair of those huge, nasty, serrated steel shears meant to cut through cloth, plastic and metal equally well. She holds them above my head and announces, "I can hardly see your eyes because your bangs are too long." Despite my protests, she persists in snipping my lovely long locks and five minutes later, I officially have a mullet. (In the interest of preserving any future self-respect, I have declined to provide photographic evidence of my humiliation.)

Luckily, Dad looked up from the Olympics on TV long enough to say, "He looks terrible." He then promptly whisked me away to the barber shop around the corner. And now, I look like...

In the end, I am quite happy with my new hairdo. My mom felt so guilty for defacing my good looks that this morning she let me play with her hair products. It was so fun smearing glue into my hair that when I was finished, I looked like a real British yob (London backslang for uncouth young thug)...just let them try to mess with me on the playground now!

What do you prefer? Hippie surfer dude or British yob?

Part Fish. Part Boy Wonder. 100% Saxonator

As the Summer Olympics in China begin, I wonder if my dad is getting a little Olympics nostalgia. On the other hand, maybe my enthusiasm for water in Devon tipped him off. Either way, I win because last weekend, Dad took me to the Portchester Baths near our house. For those of you who might wonder why I wouldn't just take a 'bath' at home (I am not naming names but I will say that it isn't a coincidence that collectively you find yourselves located on the other side of the Atlantic.), 'bath' in this instance is a Victorian Britishism meaning indoor swimming pool.

As you can tell, I dig this kind of 'bath.' (Floating noodles are soooo much better than conventional bath toys.) Dad dunked me under the water and after the first few times with my mouth open, I realized it is much better mouth closed. The best part was micromanaging dad by pointing and directing him about where to go in the pool via primeval grunts.

(Did I mention that I am still a man of very few words? Why speak when you can grunt?)

Then again, why walk when you can float?

Devon is Devine!

Take another cyber trip with me, Monsieur Jetset, to a fabulous and exotic locale. This time, my parents decided to book a trip with authentic bragging rights. You might be thinking Thailand or the Amazon or even the Canary Islands. In actuality, my friends, we went to Devon and lived in a caravan for a week.

Now, for some of you readers from the other side of the Atlantic, you might wonder what exactly possessed mom and dad to live in a mobile home (that is American for 'caravan') for a week with a toddler and a geriatric poodle. In fact, this is how many British people vacation and it seems to be a cultural phenomenon unique to this funny island that caravan parks dot the countryside to house vacationers just like us.

In defense of the caravan, I feel obligated to state the very important reasons why a caravan is PERFECT for this toddler and his poodle.

1) The poodle travels too. What could be better?

2) The beach is just outside my door. This is an important consideration when the water is FREEZING (more on this later) and you want to go back inside when you are done to change clothes.

(That's right...the physique is 100% Saxonator..gut and moobs included...admire it, love it, envy it.)

3) I get my own room and I can scream as loud as a want when I don't want to go to bed and the neighbors aren't bothered. Truthfully, however, after all the excitement of the day, I usually screamed a few times for effect and then crashed.

4) Caravans are INDESTRUCTABLE to even my most serious efforts at dismantling.

So, what does a caravan dweller do in Devon? Well, we went to the beach and even though it was cold, I very enthusiastically discovered a love for the water at any temperature.

My mom eventually made me come out when my lips turned blue...but I wasn't happy about it.

We walked in Exmoor National Park many days under various weather conditions.

Ms. Kari came with us on all the walks and seemed to particularly enjoy jumping in the mud.

I discovered my new favorite thing to eat--scones with clotted cream and jam...YUM! See how I can shove an entire scone in my mouth?

I helped my dad do the dishes which, when you love water in all its forms like me, is much more interesting than you might think.

I took my first shower...reluctantly. (Don't ask why but the ladle made me feel better.)

On the way home, we visited Dad's old school and Dad said that after developing such enthusiasm for swimming in Devon, maybe someday I would swim at Millfield as well.

A Saxonator's Ode to Fingerpaint

A Saxonator's Ode to Fingerpaint

Fingerpaint is naughtiness,

Tinted and Bottled,

Made to attach to fingers,

in wet globs that are mottled.

Artistic inspiration quickly leaves the paper,

With a smear and a swipe,

Leaving only the evidence,

Of a technicolor stripe.

Up the wall climb dots

of green, red and yellow.

Saxon discovers he is

quite an artistic fellow!

Too quiet. Mommy goes

to see the newest caper

Shakes her head sadly saying,

I didn't order new wallpaper.

Gammy visits London!

Gammy came from the US to visit me (and only me)! While she was here, we did all the things that I like to do.

We played in the sand.

We rode the Underground.

We played with toys and read the Elmo book.

We visited all sorts of touristy attractions...none of which impressed me much.

We met up with my grandma and grandpa W in St. Albans. Although mom and dad said that it was not far outside London, it was far enough for me to throw up in the car on the way. (Damn those crazy roundabouts!) Here I am with Grandma and Grandpa W soothing my tummy with a gentle swing.

Later, however, I was feeling better and got to ride on a carnival ride. Can someone tell me why a car seat brings on nausea while a painted red fire engine spinning in circles to Disco music brings only shrieks of joy? More importantly, can someone tell me how I can get one of these spinning red fire engines home with me?

Country Toddling

Apparently, they do not celebrate specific three day holidays over here. President's Day, Columbus Day and Memorial Day (or the British equivalents) are not observed. Instead, throughout the year, there are randomly placed three day holidays which are all given the identical (and in my opinion, rather bland) designation of "bank holiday." Last weekend happened to be a "bank holiday" so mom, dad and I rented a car and explored the English countryside.

Here I am with mom at Heathrow airport where we picked up the rental car. You might think that I consider myself too big to be a papoose. But you would be wrong. I still enjoy riding in my carrier. I can carry on extended conversations with mom and dad when I am right next to their ears and if I happen to loose their attention, I can regain it quickly with a simple hair tug!

Did I mention how much I like to ride in my car seat? It gives me a great sense of power sitting in the captain's chair.

On the first day, we drove Southeast out of London to Kent. We found rolling hills, picturesque villages and lots of sheep. On the second day, we drove Southwest to Hampshire and found more of the same!

Here I am with dad at a village pub. Yes, I did try to drink the lager but my mom snatched it away just in time.

Ooops! Quick front seat diaper change!

And so, after a pastoral weekend, I am back to my urban grind. On Monday morning, Iam back to work in the office (also referred to as the sandbox) and the very serious business of digging, burying and sharing with others.