We are not savages

We Linguinis are very civilized people, in spite of that fact that we have, temporarily at least, hit the skids.

And when I say "skids," I don't mean to devalue where we have found ourselves. Considering we had two days to find somewhere to live that would accept us and our dogs, this is really not so bad. In fact, I would go so far as to say we were downright lucky.



As we clear out more and more boxes (ahem...I swear we only got boxes at the liquor store. I haven't reached the point of needing to buy by the case -- yet), I'm starting to enjoy living here. Dirtman did me the favor of wandering about the yard to take pictures of what we have to work with.

This house used to be owned by our landlord/neighbor's great aunt and it shows lots of signs that it was loved. There's no getting around the fact, though, that it's small for four adults and I choose to treat it as a lesson in cooperation. And I will keep repeating that over and over and over and over until -- well -- I'm ordering vodka by the case.




But then, of course, we are the neighborhood renters so no welcome wagon for us, I'm afraid. Therefore, I choose to consider it their loss because we're fun people, dammit. We really are. We eat that fish and are fun. Only occasionally do I go off on the inbred mutant population that crawls out of the nicotine washed atmosphere of their decaying double-wides to park their skin-tight-tank-top-over-cellulite-clad bodies in front of my face.



But, alas, poor Gnorm. Seems he's been followed here by whatever evil spirt plagued him in The House That Shall No Longer Be Named.

Rainy days and Fridays always get me down

Rainy days have taken on their own brand of...um...specialness.

Six dogs. Two-bedroom rambler. No fence out back.

Yeah.

Lots of rawhide bones, pig ears and Kongs.

Lots of checking out the window for a lull in the downpour.

The one glimmer of happiness today?

Gnorm* stowed away in the garlic keeper!



*The Oracle, having done his job and removed Gnorm's ob-stackles.

Wednesdays, we mow

I haven’t lived in a “neighborhood” for a very long time. For the past 27 years I’ve been zoned “agriculture.” So, while I’ve read about and have seen movies of neighborhood behavior, this is the first time in a long time I’ve had to deal with it myself.

For instance, I don’t know what brought it on, but yesterday everyone rushed out to mow their lawn. I didn’t notice that the lawns were becoming excessively shaggy.

Is it because Dirtman started to mow? Or because it was Wednesday? What happens if I let it go until Thursday? I mean sometimes the Heirs have something to do on Wednesday and it might be put off until Thursday or even Friday. What will become of us?

Oh, and did I mention the warm welcome we, as “renters,” received from the neighborhood? Like – none. I mean, other than from our landlords, who live next door. Even when Salt slipped under the fence and I chased him across the street where he went to greet the big black Lab whose name, as it turns out, is Pepper, and I apologized and introduced myself and the couple looked at me like, “Why on earth would we give a renter our real names?”

Though another couple across the street did offer us a place to park our cars while we had moving trucks and stuff in our driveway, so that was thoughtful.

I’m very conscious about keeping the dogs quiet, to the point of obsession. All it takes is one neighborhood dog to set mine off and there is a big difference between one dog barking and six dogs barking. Salt has, therefore, invented a form of communication that cannot, technically, be called barking. It’s sort of like he’s talking a strange language: rau, rau, raurauraurau…” Topper mutters expletives under his breath and, I swear, Abby rolls her eyes.

Then there are the Heirs’ rules of conduct: No loud music; no “peeling out” of the driveway; no driving up with the bass thumping; wave politely back to a neighbor if, in fact, anyone bothers to wave to A Renter; and no screaming profanities back and forth outside like we’re on Cops or something.

Oh – and no getting arrested in your underwear. I’m really strict about that.

Dear Reigning Power/Universe/God,

On behalf of the Linguini Clan, may I respectfully request that, if it’s convenient and wouldn’t screw up plans too, too horribly, that, for awhile at least, you leave us alone.

I submit that we have endured the past few weeks’ buffeting with considerable tolerance and a reasonable amount of patience. There was only one incident of total loss of emotional control which was quickly put to rest.

And through it all, we would like to point out that one person in particular showed a vast amount of tenacity in maintaining his path to his destiny.

So why’d ya have to go and pick on him?

Oh yeah, he’s smiling now. That’s because we spent all night talking him down off the ceiling. Did I mention, Reigning Power/Universe/God, that yesterday was the day before his AP English final? Did I mention that all these little events, the SATs and AP exams, that have been on the periphery of our disaster are key to Heir 2 not having his entire future screwed up?

Now, were You to send plagues of locust and floodwaters into my bedroom would be understandable and -- some would say -- just. And maybe I deserved to hear those chilling words over the phone that set any mother's heart into her throat: "Mom, I've been in an accident." My heart is becoming perfectly accustomed to the trip from chest to throat, back to my chest down to my toes and back again. My heart gets around these days.

And, to his credit, Heir 2 admits this fender bender was his fault. But, as he points out, 3 seconds either way would have eliminated the incident entirely.

Three. Seconds.

So, to You, who control everything, what’s three seconds? Would it have made a huge difference in the fabric of the universe? You couldn’t just take that three seconds and, say, give it to someone who can absorb it – like Oprah or someone?

Just a thought. Goodness knows I don’t want to tick you off any more than apparently we already have.

Respectfully,

Sisiggy

Not a dog or gnome in sight!

Last time for prom pictures, I promise. But they came so nice and Caisee and Joe make such a cool couple.

I wish I'd gotten a close up of Caisee's shoes. You know how I feel about heels, but these were incredible, though Caisee kind of shrugged them off as, "We've had these forever." It would be fun to have a daughter that views her wardrobe as communal property.

Good thing they don't remember tormenting each other when they were six, but I'll not be the one to bring that up...

The morning after

We’re pulling the loose ends together here and coming up with something that resembles a routine. But it’s been touch and go for the past week.

Each morning we try to find the perfect doggie plan. The backyard isn’t yet fenced, and there are certain members of this pack that will take advantage of that (like Topper, who took off for a half hour, ate something that caused him to go into some sort of breathing fit resulting in a trip to the vet). One morning we tried everyone at once, thinking the well-behaved dogs (Zsa Zsa, Hokie and Abby) would encourage the Baker Street Irregulars to stick around for breakfast.

The result was a fiasco of overweight, middle-aged people in their pajamas running about the yard screaming and waving their arms. I’m surprised the neighbors weren’t lined up to watch the next morning’s performance.

Then there was the morning we finally worked out the whole doggie issue so well, I had time to start the coffee while waiting for the puppies to finish their food. Only I forgot to put the pot into the coffee maker.

And sleep. I tried everything: Tylenol PM, Advil PM, and, finally, when I couldn’t stand one more night staring into the darkness, an Ambien given to me by A Concerned Relative. I’ve never, ever taken a sleeping pill before, never taken any drug, really. And, yeah, it put me to sleep. I didn’t feel like I had slept, but it did make those long hours of darkness go away. No dreaming, which I think is vital for my mental health.

But then, last night, finally, sleep. Actual sleep with no more of a sedative than my book. And I dreamed – I couldn’t tell you about what, but I remember dreaming.

So this morning I find myself actually able to think and – there it is – feel like I can handle what’s going on without the “woe is me” expression on my face. Is this allowed when you are declaring bankruptcy? Or am I required to walk up and down the streets, self-flagellating and begging forgiveness? What’s the protocol?

Well, just know that I’m a lot more productive for society not having a nervous breakdown. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gravity of what has happened. But I can’t live in despair. Apparently I’m not like that. I tried to stay depressed, didn’t I? But there was this morning and there was ‘Pode curled up in the curve of Dirtman’s leg and there was Zsa Zsa wiggling her butt and robins on the lawn and I couldn’t help but think, “This isn’t so bad.”

How surprising, especially in my family, to find that I am, after all, an optimist.

Pretty spiffy, eh?

Did I mention that the very day we had to flee Gnome Hill was the same day that Heir 2 had to take the SATs and that the following Tuesday he had to sit for his AP History exam?

Oh, and also? Today is prom.
Yeah. If they still made hair shirts, I'd be wearing one.

Yet, Heir 2 maintains his positive attitude and insists all this will work for all the essay questions on his college applications -- you know, where they ask you about your character because you know that only people with good character are permitted into this country's best universities. (That sound is me choking on my...um...apple juice.)


I think this shows character.

...and this.


This just shows he's a Linguini.

More apple juice, please!

My New Workstation: from here will come enlightening prose of great insight and sensitivity.



My New Workstation: can you find the newly-added inspirational feature? (No, it's not Dirtman. Dirtman talks to himself when he works. He asks himself questions that I feel obligated to answer, even though I truly do not know, "Where the hell did they put that drainfield?")



Now?


That's right! ...apple juice... (ahem).



Am I down? Am I beaten? Hell, no!

It's Thai Noodle Night!*

*Don't tell me I'm spoiled. This morning I was so happy that we got back our old phone number from before Gnome Hill that the phone lady had to remind that it was, after all, just a phone number. I think she said this because my joy was so out of proportion with a new phone number she didn't want me to think I was getting anything other than that. Like free cable or something.

Good-bye Yellow Brick Road Gnome Hill

It’s a done deal. We’re no longer in residence.

If this seems sudden…well, it was for me. We knew we would have to leave, but this entire process ended up being a four-day scramble to find new housing and move out. Without going into way-too-personal details, I’m still a little shell-shocked. I find myself in the middle of the night sitting up and thinking, “What that hell happened?”

For anyone reading this who doesn’t know me or my family and before you rush to judge, know that we didn’t have a fleet of Hummers in our driveway. I don’t own one single designer item (I, in fact, avoid wearing anything sporting a designer logo); don’t own a lot of jewelry, valuable or otherwise. My kids bought their cars with their own money and they both have jobs. Most nights we all eat dinner at home together. We’ve always vacationed within 500 miles of where we live.

What we did was build a house at probably the worse time we could have picked to build a house. But it didn’t look that way at the time. At the time, we’d been in business for three increasingly successful years, the area building trade – of which we are a part – had prospered during the 9/11 economy slump (giving us a false sense of faith in the area building trade…), we had six months liquid cash in savings in case things turned sour and had no debt other than a little house with a nominal mortgage and a monthly payment of $350 (yeah, I know…) and no credit card debt. By our calculations, if we only did a quarter of the business we were doing, we could afford the house we were building.

So we signed, planned and, as long-standing Linguini readers will recall, obsessed over getting the house at Gnome Hill built before the House of Squalor became uninhabitable. Our budget: $325,000, including pool and full deck with screened porch. Yeah, it was a huge house and Dirtman had big plans. And it seemed to get larger every time Dirtman watched too much Home and Garden TV. But it was still within budget.

Until Katrina hit and building costs soared.

Until the large developers got greedy, started building on spec and crashed the bubble; the large developers who refused to pay their bills to their smaller subcontractors like us, knowing we didn’t have the lawyer-power they had; the large developers who went crying to Washington for subsidies and tax breaks that never trickled down to the rest of the industry they had stiffed because by that time most of us were bankrupt anyway.

We put some plans for the house on hold, and then cancelled them. Some things had already been started. By the time we were committed to the house legally, too much had been begun to turn back. In order to get an occupancy permit, we had to use every bit of credit we had.

And – no, we didn’t use subprime mortgage. We had a construction loan that was supposed to be mitigated by the sale of The House of Squalor.

Like I said, the absolutely the worse time to build a house.

We do have to own the fact that we totally miscalculated how long it would take for the building industry to come back. We hung on for two years, trying to pay everything down, trying to move first The House of Squalor, then either house.

You know the story.

So here I sit among the very-loosely-packed boxes in a two-bedroom rambler we now rent from a very kind couple who took us on faith that our six dogs and two cats wouldn’t be a problem.

I’ve seen the death of a son and both my parents; I’ve nursed family members in my home and helped others through personal crises. I’ve been out of work and faced chronic illness. But I have never felt so raw, so depleted, and so doubtful about my ability to cope. Whenever faced with crisis I usually fume for maybe – maybe – a day or two; and then I find a plan and look forward to it. But I’m having trouble with this one, perhaps because it’s an ongoing process that we’re still dealing with everyday, climbing over boxes, shuffling dogs, and filling out endless forms.

And of course there is the real and perceived judgment of others that dogs us wherever we go; because there are assumptions about people like us: we’re spendthrifts; we’re spoiled; we’re boors; we’re nouveau riche without the riche.

Before you start telling us how thrifty and morally superior you are over us, just know we hear it over and over and over and over from every person we see. So if we don’t seem satisfyingly repentant and humbled all the time; if we try to bolster our self esteem by cracking a joke; or if we are forced to buy damn Arby’s sandwich because we haven’t yet unpacked the damn frying pan and are so emotionally depleted that we have trouble working a stove, please be assured I’m up all night long beating myself up, berating every decision I’ve made for the past 50 years and trying to figure out a way to disconnect my brain so I can get one decent night’s sleep.

I realize all that’s about making your self feel good at the expense of someone else. There’s nothing like seeing someone fail to make the fact that you didn’t all the sweeter. It makes you feel that every decision you made was not only right for you, but is right for everyone else.

But, I’m rambling now. The only thing left to do is say it, so here goes:

Two foreclosures and a bankruptcy.

So there it is. Details about the move will come later. Or maybe not. I'm living hour to hour and yet still would like everyone to know I'm aware that this is a totally self-serving entry

Where's Gnorm?

The whole Gnorm saga has been taken out of my hands. His fate rests with others now. They are linked in the side bar. Only one more thing...







Do you believe in Gnomes? If everyone believes in Gnomes all got together now...now...NOW...everyone clap your hands! Clap! CLAP!


Damn. It worked for Mary Martin.

Poor Gnorm

What sick creature from the fetid festering pools of Hades would pick on a defenseless, wandering gnome?

Oh.

A short pier

I am in a foul mood today for any number of reasons in which I feel perfectly justified, even if there are people suffering in Africa a million times more than I am. I have no sympathy for anyone right now.

Part of this attitude is probably due to the fact that because of my asthma and related health care insurance deficit, I was forced to sleep in a semi-upright position last night. I am a light sleeper to begin with and any disruption of optimum sleep position ensures a miserable night.

Still, I decided, once the dogs were cared for, I'd head back to bed for a quick nap. Threw the puppies out into the back yard, settled in and was just about to drift off when a deluge of rain began and I had to bring them back in. So I wasn't there when Gaspode started the preliminaries of a major vomit-fest. Usually I can get him out the back door before any major damage occurs, but since I was preoccupied with the puppies, I wasn't there when he ultimately threw up all over the bed.

Yeah. The bed.

Then it became like that scene from Alien where they're trying to neutralize some acid before it penetrates the lining of the space ship and they run from deck to deck trying to get ahead of the damage. I'm pulling off layer after layer of bedding, hoping I reach a layer that hasn't yet been befouled by the more liquid contents of 'Pode's stomach. I guess I'm lucky that the worst of it didn't reach the mattress, but still...And I'd just changed the bed the day before.

So I come up to my office and I have to come up with something bright and funny and clever and I'm tellin' ya -- it ain't there.

And I'll tell you what else ain't there.

Gnorm. I can feel it in my bones that Gnorm has gone where no Gnorm has gone before.

So here I sit, with no sense of humor and Gnorm-less. And no clue what to make for dinner.

Happy Birthday, Heir 2...

To the kid who introduced us all to projectile vomiting!

Editor's note: This photo is in no way doctored. He actually crawled into that cubby hole.

Gnorm-ally Caffeinated

Hmm...I know I smell him around here somewhere...



You in there?


Nope. Cabinet's empty. I'll just grab my coffee...

GNORM...


Aww...Gnorm!

Much better. Now for that coffee...

GNORM...

As if you need any further proof... (edited)

...that I am a major geek, I've spent the better part of this afternoon with my camera poised out the window* because we actually have a bluebird family moving into our bluebird house...


...and...

...and...

...AND...

...the cowbirds are back!



They may not look like much, but their call absolutely sparkles in the trees.

I don't know what it says that these two developments had me in tears of joy this morning. I admit this reluctantly because I'm not really a sentimental person.

To save face, I will share with you that I'm about ready to dispatch this fellow to the fiery and, hopefully, annoying depths of birdy hell.

*Obviously, no luck in the bird photography department. That might have something to do with the four Aussies panting over my shoulder.

This is what I found on my kitchen counter

That's right: Heir 2 is back to sniffing baking soda again.

And you know what that means: If we have vinegar salad dressing tonight, his face will explode.

A’ ‘ight. I have a confession to make...

I have been sucked into the vortex that is Oprah. It all started with the puppy mill show and since then I’ve been compelled to watch more. Not every day, mind you. Just more than usual.

The reason this bugs me is that television in general, while soothing and seductive, is a gigantic waste of time. And it Gets. Into. Your. Head. Not that getting into your head is a bad thing, if it’s something productive or positive. But what am I to do with Blondie shrieking in my head about dusting my floor?

But my opinion of television is well documented elsewhere. But Oprah, specifically?

Well, you all know that it bugs me when any one person has so much say over our culture or society – that’s one thing, and really not Oprah’s fault. There are other books out there, People. There are other voices and other opinions. And then there is Your opinion, which – believe it or not – is just as valid as Ms. Winfrey’s.

Actually, I find my fascination with watching certain shows (I avoid her celebrity shows) is that I can’t figure out which one of us is out of touch with reality.

For instance, yesterday’s show was about families who volunteered to “scale down” their consumption. This was Oprah’s idea of “hardship”: No computer (except for homework), no shopping, no cell phones, no iPods, no video games; only one hour of television; thermostat kept at 70; and no bottled water. They were required to eat home cooked meals together and, in one family’s case, were required to eat the same home cooked meal together, because apparently this was a family who thought the mother was a short order cook (and I use the word “cook” loosely since her “cooking” involved heating up prepared foods).

My reaction was, What’s the big deal? The families’ reaction? You’d have thought they’d been banished to the middle of the desert with nothing but toilet paper and a spoon. The whining from their kids alone made me want to give Heir 2 a big kiss when he walked through the door. (Ya know – I’m all about allowing my kids to verbally express themselves and understand that sometimes you don’t want to be chirpy and cheerful. However, I do demand a certain amount of civility, particularly when I am treating them civilly. If my kids talked me like these kids talked to their parents, their bedrooms would resemble a cell block on Rikers Island instead of a suite at the Sheraton.)

I can’t believe that this is a fair representation of families everywhere. And if it is, then we deserve to blow ourselves up into extinction. Come and get us, gigantic asteroid.

The day before that featured Maria Shriver who wrote a book about the obvious. Apparently it occurred to Ms. Shriver that who she Is, is not about what she does for a living. That this concept is available in any Philosophy 101 textbook is beside the point. She’s Oprah friend and has a book to ply.

Oprah, however, was absolutely incredulous that Maria Shriver had an existential crisis. “Didn’t that just shock you?” she kept prodding her audience.

Even they were too polite to point out that we’re talking “Kennedy Family” here – the family that on their own supports every rehab clinic in Massachusetts. Just Winfrey’s description of being a guest at Hyannis Port made you realize that Shriver may need more than her little (112 pages) book to find herself.

“You would never let my mother catch you just sitting watching TV,” Shriver shared.

Oh. My. I mean, I hate TV, but talk about control issues…Well, at least it’s good for the figure. Maybe a little too good, if you ask me...

I could go on and on, particularly the juxtaposition of the “scale down and go green” shows with her celebrity “fabulous luxury bathroom that helped her lose 15 pounds” shows; her “the dysfunction of accumulating ‘things’” shows with her “Oprah’s favorite things” shows.

But I’ve gone on long enough. I know this is longer than usual and would even be too long for Spot-On. Besides, I've annoyed Spot-On with my Oprah and television rants enough. I'll save my opinion about the New Earth thing for another day. (Is that an audible sigh of relief I hear?)

Does it make me a paranoid person...

...when I think my daffodils are talking about me behind my back?

Dark Garden is obviously obsessed by a little dog

I took this picture actually to see the daffodils, since any horticultural success on around here has to be documented, they are so few and far between. It wasn't until I downloaded the picture that I realized there was anyone other than Salt in the picture. So I'll clarify, in response to yesterday's comments.

There are only three real dogs in the picture:

Salt, of course:

Topper:

And Zsa Zsa (whose ass Dark Garden described so lovingly):

Dark Garden was, in a way correct in that there is, though, technically, a fourth dog on the welcome garden flag:

And, of course, Gnat, who was a kind of afterthought:


As for under the doorknob, DG...I don't know what you're seeing...

WAIT! Now I see it!

Highlights (for Linguinis)

There are three dogs in this picture. Can you find them all?


Bonus: Find Gnat the Gnome.

Points off if the only thing you notice is that my grass needs mowing.

Gnorm gets a sinking feeling