Furniture for Free! That's right, FREE!!!

Wait! Jag, before you buy. In just a few days this could be yours*! For free! (Of course it has considerably more duct tape than yours and Dirtman is strategically placed so as to hold up the center, but whaddaya want for nothin'...)



*The desk, not Dirtman. (He told me to write that. I didn't think a little ambiguity could hurt...)

In Shenandoah County

So this is what it has come down to:

We go to the House of Never-ending Construction.

We do laundry. We water tomato and herb plants. We sit on the deck and read. The dogs romp in the yard. We occasionally use the bathrooms. We pass by a brand new king-size bed.

There are items accumulating in the refrigerator: bottled water, condiments and leftovers, which is all we ever seem to have in a refrigerator.

Sometimes I dust or vacuum, but mostly not.

When I’m by myself and it’s raining I sit in the library and knit while I wait for the laundry. If it’s not raining, I sit on the deck. I read there too.

In fact, we do everything anyone else does in a house except live in it.

We always end up back in the House of Squallor, sleeping on a broken mattress with wires sticking in our backs.

And all because of the garage door.

Yup.

The garage door.

Apparently, in the county of Shenandoah it is a health hazard to not have a garage door. In Shenandoah County.

It did no good to explain that The House of Squallor has no garage door either. It’s not a health hazard if the house is already there. In Shenandoah County.

The funny thing is that last time the inspector was here, it was a health hazard to have a spare bedroom unpainted. In Shenandoah County. You’d think the subject of the garage door would have come up at that time.

But no and we just sigh and accept that communication in the construction industry is non-existent and someone is making up and changing the rules as they go along. Someone who hates us.

So we continue to do our laundry, water the plants, read and sit.

Then we go home to The House of Squallor.

In Shenandoah County.

A Controversial Birthday Present

From Mamma K and Michael. I was going to put this on my charm bracelet, but I didn't want it getting lost in a crowd. Now, apparently, rumors are flying as to who is the Aussie on the necklace.

I have no comment.

I also have to thank Mamma K for providing the fodder for one of this week's Spot-on columns, to be posted Wednesday. Next time you see Mamma K, sing her the Viking Spam song.

Point of Gnome Return

And thanks to our wine mentors and good buds April and Steve...



...there is once again a gnome on Gnome Hill. (No thanks to certain festering boils on society's tush.)

(Editor's Note: The final naming of the destined-to-never-be-inhabited-house is by no means settled. In view of the sheer number of bathrooms, Flushing Meadows has been suggested, a name Sisiggy reluctantly agrees is appropriate, but not quite so charming as Gnome Hill, which had been abandoned in light of the fact that gnomes were no longer on the hill. But since a gnome has officially returned to the site, the name is now back on the short list. This will not be put to a vote because Sisiggy strongly suspects most voters enjoy flushing.)

A meeting of the minds?

Dear Mr. IRS guy or gal,

Really, it was a blogger convention. We talked about blogging. Here is my receipt for the gas to drive to Northern Virginia, where we did, I’m sure, mention blogging.

I think. There was a lot of cheese. I remember that.

I seem to recall Jag bringing up blogging and I’m pretty sure I answered her. Then Trasherati changed the subject to something else, but I’m positive we came back to it. Blogging, I mean. Then we ate some more cheese.

The wine receipt? It was part of a….uh….team building exercise. Yeah. That’s it. A team building exercise. You pour wine into a “never-empty-wine-glass.” Seriously. You drink and drink and the wine glass is never empty. It truly brought us all together, except for those of us who don’t do team building exercises.

So it was necessary to break out the Limoncello. Strictly for the sake of unity, you understand.

How did this benefit my blogging capabilities?

Oh.

Well…it…er…we…discussed… the socio-economic…ramifications…of periodic communicative… stuff…

Did I mention we broke out the Limoncello?

And cheese.

What did I learn from the evening?

Ummm…AH! Evidently I have absolutely no shame because just as Trasherati’s husband arrived we all decided to discuss tampons and estrogen. Surprisingly this did not faze him in the least.

Hmm…what else. Oh! It takes overstaying your welcome and two double shots of expresso before you should get behind the wheel of a car after the never-empty-wine-glass, Limoncello and, yes, the cheese.

There was a whole lot of other food, some of which required cooking even though there wasn’t supposed to

be cooking only cheese, but I can’t in all good conscience claim that as a deduction.

Is it still deductible if you admit you had a wonderful time? When it’s my turn to host the next….er….blogging convention….will that make my hot tub deductible?

Sisiggy, Jag, Trasherati

How Spicey McPustule lost his college money

DO NOT go on the roof, Spicey McDweeble...



I said, GET OFF THE ROOF, Spicey McDeafness...


Are you on that roof?




I can hear you up there...


Get down off of there before you...

break your neck!


Told you so.*

*The preceding has been brought to you by the soon-to-be-grounded Spicey McPinhead whose college account will be used to repair the roof that he seems to think is his private balconey.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that...

I'm usually pretty sedate with the whole jewelry thing (which is pronounced "jew-el-ree," not "jew-ler-ee," by the way. I actually hear "professionally" done commercials pronounce it incorrectly). Since I'm short I have to keep things in proportion anyway, but I don't often go in for kitchsy stuff.

But in Harpers Ferry at the Mountain Heritage Arts and Crafts Festival, Dirtman found these for me.



An early birthday present.

They're from A Glass Act, who also makes, among other things this lovely piece which we bought for the Never-Ending-Construction House.

Perhaps, if I can grab the stuff before it get carted off to storage, I will post the other "gifts" we bought each other this weekend, since Father's Day and my birthday are sharing a date once again this year. (We will also take each other out to dinner on Sunday, if we know what's good for us.)

I held back from wearing the martini glasses to the abysmally long high school sports banquet last night (for which Spicey McDandruff owes us big time).

In other Linguini news, which isn't really our news, but more Mamma K's news, look what magically appeared in her livingroom last Thursday with absolutely no effort on anyone's part!
Mamma K just woke up and there they were, right Mamma K?*



That's Polly and her eight (OMG -- eight!) puppies.

Ms. Zsa Zsa is pea green with envy, what with all the attention she just knows her former nemesis is receiving from Mamma K, though she inisists she's too young to have puppies "like that cheap tart, Polly."

*In actuality, Polly's puppies have been a much-anticipated event, at least around here, and Mamma K was there helping Polly out from puppies one through eight, documenting every move in her little book. The next afternoon we weighed each puppy (which was also recorded in her little book) and the pictures look only slightly like she's making a puppy salad.



We've decided to do a re-shoot tomorrow.

I wish I'd known Mamma K when I whelped my puppies. I'll bet she wouldn't sit in the corner and read the Washington Post, peaking over every now and then to say, "Oh Yeah. Breath."

The Prime of Miss Jean...er...Sisiggy

Okay. It’s official.

I will never be “put together.”

I had hopes, even at this advanced age. I thought that maybe, someday, given the perfect alignment of the stars and synchronization of serendipitous events that for perhaps a minute or so I might achieve that “put together look.”

But I know it is not to be. If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. And at this stage, really what's the point?

I can tell myself that if I had the perfect shoes or if my shirt were just a tad smaller or the sleeves a little bit shorter, “the look” would be mine. But no. This will never happen.

Not only will it never happen but, if I had the perfect shoes or if my shirt were just a tad smaller or the sleeves a little bit shorter, on that particular day my hair would have a dorky cowlick. This is a given. It’s always something, to quote Roseanne Rosannadanna.

I does make me feel better to know that there are others like me. You’ve seen us. Nice outfit, nice bag, nice hairdo, and the shoes…….ooooooh, the shoes…just…miss…the … mark. Or the jewelry is too small. Or too big. Or too loud.

Perhaps we can form a support group.

Take the world’s simplest outfit to put together: t-shirt and jeans. What can go wrong? Two universal wardrobe elements. You don’t even have to check for holes anymore! You would think this would be the ideal uniform for the terminally scruffy.

But my t-shirt is never the right size. It’s either too long, too short, too big or too tight. And jeans? It’s either that the waist is up around my ribs or the crotch is down around my knees.

And should the t-shirt be the right size and the jeans fit me perfectly, there’s always, always, always the hair factor. Jeans and a t-shirt require clean, shiney, but not too pouffy hair. Casual hair. Kind of free-style, blowin’-in-the-wind but returning to flowing tandem-strand action hair. But the day my jeans and t-shirt fit would be the day I slipped with the conditioner bottle and, having taken the last shower in the household for that day, would only have cold water with which to rinse it out, resulting in lank, lifeless wavy strings. Except for the grays. They would be up and pouffy and waving a greeting to everyone.

I guarantee.

And so I am now embracing my inner and outer slob that I now realize is eternal. Don’t pity me. I know that everyone has a cross they must bear and mine is the burden of infinite dweebdom.

If you aren't yet sick of housing updates...

This:is now this:

This:
Is now this:


This:

Is now this (my office):


And then there are these (the Heirs' rooms):




And the master bedroom (okay, no sleazy comments about the equipment, you pigs):



And this (dining room) (It's not yellow, it's cream, I tell you. Cream):
And this (living -- er--great room) (Okay it is yellow, but I ordered cream):


And this (library):


And, Sisiggy says with a great big sigh, is my bathroom:


Of course, Zsa Zsa has her own view of the new house.

Editor's Note: Okay, so there's no pithy and insightful writing. But Sisiggy has waited a long time for this house and, lest you think she may actually be living it up in her new house, we offer this, the guest room:


Shenandoah County doesn't feel we are able to occupy this house without paint on the guest room walls. Mine is a life of irony.

To the relief of the non-dog people...

...and for all you dog people (and you know who you are) and those who are wannabes:

Ms. Zsa Zsa has started her own web page, though I have a feeling that the terriers will manage a post now and then, when they can sneak online. And, of course, Topper will be permitted a post when it suits her majesty.