Housing Update (for you, White Trasherati)

This is for White Trasherati, who brought me to task last week for dragging my heels on building my new house.

So I got busy.

I painted the library. (no, it's not pink. It's beige, I tell you, beige.)

Then went out and poured the patio (pay no attention to those men)

and put the stone on the front of the house (Dirtman, of course, insisted on inspecting it).

The I painted my office and put up the drywall in the basement.

I spent the rest of the day working on the deck.

There, WT, can I relax for tonight? (if I promise flooring, painting and decking will be done this week?)

He's going to be really mad about this...Hee!

Today is Heir 2’s birthday. Heir 2 gets mad when I call him Heir 2, or even his posting name, Spicey McWhatever. So today, for his birthday, we’ll call him Joe.

Joe was born at 1:04 a.m. on April 27, 1991, in Winchester, Va. That makes him 15 today. That makes him nine months away from getting his learner’s permit. This will be the entire theme of his 15^th year.

In case you haven’t gleaned this from previous posts, Joe is very smart and, more importantly (at least around here), very funny. But he’s not funny in the morning. Or smart. Or conscious.

Joe has a tendency to go into what we call “Monk Mode” every now and then, becoming obsessive about something stupid like alphabetizing, categorizing and cross-categorizing our DVDs. (When he was a toddler he used to sit in his car seat and count out loud until you screamed at him to stop already. Then he’d sit there, lips moving, still counting to himself. This worried other family members no end. ) We think he has moved on to other things, though his geometry homework sometimes looks like it’s been produced by a graphic artist and he tapes the hole punches on school papers.

When it comes to visits to the emergency room, Joe is the family leader. This is because he comes up with elaborate mechanical ideas I don’t find out about until after the fact, usually involving the garage roof and something with wheels. It worried me that perhaps the ER people would think he was abused or neglected, but one doctor assured me that he understood what it was like to raise “one of those kids.” (Though I’m glad we were able to extricate the Lite Brite from his nose without requiring an ER trip.)

Joe’s favorite hobby is playing guitar and he wants a bass for his combined birthday/report card present. I think he’s good at it, but I don’t know what he’s playing. It’s very loud and he’s very enthusiastic. He may even know one complete song by now.

I keep waiting for Joe to enter his “angsty teenage years,” but he’s pretty upbeat. Except in the morning. I cannot stress this enough.

Oh…and….

Joe has great hair. Really. It’s fine. Leave it alone and go to school.

EDITOR’S ALERT: MammaK has taken the leap and has her own blog!

I am a Joe, sent by God.

Angsty again...Sorry

Remember one of the many feelings on Sept. 11, 2001, was that celebrities, Hollywood and all the commercialism that went with it were even more of a waste of time and money than usual? This brings back those memories.

Apparently some genius in the movie industry thought it would be a good idea to provide a red carpet for the opening of the film United 93, about the hijacked plane bound for the Capitol in Washington, D.C., that went down in Shanksville, Pa., instead thanks to the heroic efforts of passengers and crew. The film opened the Tribeca Film Festival at the Ziegfield Theater, an appropriate venue to be sure, though having anything amounting to "festivities" leaves a bad taste.

Some things just don’t mix, as reporter David Segal points out. The only thing “in keeping with the situation” (to quote Dickens) is the fact that moviemakers have managed to turn such a tragedy into a circus.

First we have Universal Studios proudly proclaiming that they are donating the first weekend’s profit to the proposed United Flight 93 memorial in Pennsylvania. After that, Universal rakes in all the money made. They’re proud of this?

Then, in true Hollywood fashion, there must be a gawking opportunity. Whose idea was it to parade Flight 93 victims’ family members down the red carpet? To what end? To be ignored by the paparazzi (I hate that word) who weren’t even interested in the caliber of celebrity available for – er – shooting? I’ll bet that was a real warm moment: “Could you and your orphaned children move out of the way? I’m trying to take a picture of Tom Selleck.”

Of course this is not the first film about a tragedy and, while not my favorite genre, I can sort of understand their function. Schindler’s List forced you to look at the results of an entire nation (and world) looking the other way. All profits went to the Shoah Foundation. Even Titanic is a study in human arrogance in the face of nature.

Perhaps it is the treatment of the subject matter that makes the movie and all the accouterments in such poor taste. If this were an expose’ of the intelligence bungling of both the Clinton and Bush administrations it would be less sordid. But to watch the events leading up to the senseless death of 44 innocent people amounts to nothing more than voyeurism. It teaches nothing, it reveals nothing. It’s not entertainment. And it’s not even fund-raising.

I agree with the man quoted at the end of the article:

"Well, it took 60 years before there was that movie by Michael Bay about Pearl Harbor. Isn't it nice that with the advance of movie technology, it now takes only just five years for a director to cash in on tragedy?

Tomorrow I will come up with something original.

Thank you, Jag, for this meme.

I AM: easily overwhelmed.

I WANT: my kids to grow up without making phenomenally stupid mistakes. Minor, instructive mistakes, okay. But I pray I spawned beings with a modicum of common sense.

I WISH: I hadn’t wasted my time worrying about things.

I HATE: kale.

I MISS: big get togethers with my family. All the funny people are dead.

I HEAR: selectively.

I WONDER: How people come from somewhere else, build a new structure in a rural area, move in and then, without a bit of apology, complain about “new” people building new structures and moving in.

I REGRET: Not learning Italian when I was a kid when it would have been easier and I could have heard the pronunciation first-hand.

I AM NOT: Martha Stewart.

I DANCE: Pretty well, actually. My parents, who went to Arthur Murray, insisted we all learn at least the fox trot, lindy and waltz.

I SING: Not so good now with asthma. I considered a professional career at one point.

I CRY: when Lassie lifts her (his) paw.

I AM NOT ALWAYS: so tough.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: anything I can. I have this thing about being able to create from the ground up.

I WRITE: only light extemporania (I’m quoting…); However, I’m a literary wannabe.

I CONFUSE: my right and left. Truly, to this day, I have to think about it. This is why I look like an idiot in the conformation ring.

I NEED: a good 8 hours’ sleep per night.

I SHOULD: not be such a wuss.

I START: lots and lots of projects.

I FINISH: very few of them.

I TAG: whoever else besides me needs a topic for today…

This just in...

Oooo! Oooo! I thought of another one! A weird thing. This is even better than the hair thing – if you can believe that.

You know when they reroute a road or straighten out a curve in a road? You know how sometimes you can still see the old, abandoned road?

I love that.

A real find is a whole section of a highway that has been abandoned and there’s grass growing in the pavement. I could spend a whole day just driving around and taking pictures of these ghost roads.

Oh! And abandoned buildings. I love to stand in abandoned buildings. Dirtman call this breaking and entering, but when I was able to do it, my intentions were honorable. I never take or touch anything.

And old little, tiny sheds from back when everything built was sturdy. Going over the North Fork of the Shenandoah you can see part of the old bridge (I love that too!) and there is a tiny shed in the middle of the stream up on concrete. I love that shed.

And we all remember (well, I do, anyway) the tiny shed at Longwood Gardens.

That weird enough for you? So there, Jag! I came up with....a whole bunch (do the sheds and bridge count?). Jeese -- I admitted to breaking and entering...

A Meme in the Nick of Time

John over at Misadventures of a Middle Aged Dad tagged me for this meme just in time for me to run out of blog ideas.

This was a challenge because the topic is Six Weird Things About Me. I’m a pretty conventional person, so I won’t blame you if you nod off around number 3.

Okay.

Six Weird Things About Me

1. I can touch my tongue to the tip of my nose. Don’t ask me to do it, please. It’s not very attractive.
2. (Thinking, thinking…) Whenever I brush my teeth the “Really Doesn’t Matter” song from The Pirates of Penzance plays in my head.
3. (Hmmm…) I will go to great lengths not to talk on the phone. I was so happy e-mail was invented.
4. I hate black licorice, but my favorite candy is Good ‘n’ Plenty. (Oh, give me a break, people. I’m trying the best I can. Only two more to go. WAKE UP!)
5. I hate, hate, hate going to the hairstylist. That’s why my hair is long. I hate it long, but I hate going to the stylist more.
6. I don’t like to run air conditioning except for the few extremely hot weeks in the middle of summer. I like to feel the seasons.

I’ll tag whoever wants to be tagged.

Editor’s note: We are full aware that #4 on the list is actually an irony, not a weirdness. So we offer this additional piece of weirdness: Sisiggy every now and then talks about herself in the third person, adopting an alter ego to make the statement convincing.

No I don’t.

Yes she does.

Mea Culpa

My Darling Heirs,

Forgive me, my sons. I didn’t realize the abuse that I’ve forced you to tolerate.

How can I live with myself knowing that I’ve scarred you for life by making you breakfast each morning? I know, I know. You tried to tell with your subtle hints that this practice was unwelcome (“Oh, God, no…not poached eggs again!”), but would I listen? Noooooo. I just kept flipping that French toast, dispensing vitamins and pouring orange juice, not aware how it was killing you inside.

As much as it will pain me, I promise you that I will try in the future not to be home whenever you call for transportation or cash. It was callous of me not to understand how humiliating it is for your friends to see how you have access to whatever you want with a simple phone call.

Instead I realize I should be grateful to you for maintaining your grades in school. This totally selfless act must be so difficult to keep up knowing that its only benefit will be to a mother who is so obviously oblivious to your needs.

Can you ever forgive me for being so nosey about what you do? I’ve come to realize this character flaw is so very unattractive. After all, what business is it of mine what you do with your friends, no matter how many of them have a record?

It was total selfishness when I quit my decent-paying job where I had seniority to stay home and raise you. I know the subsequent decrease in money which led to my force-feeding you homemade food is a constant nightmare to you. I’m sorry you both saw your fourteenth birthdays having never tasted Spaghetti-ohs.

I am sure that I join your father in apologizing for staying married and present. We realize this makes you stick out like a sore thumb among your peers. I’m so sorry our early involvement with your movie, television and book choices so thwarted the development of your language skills in the area of profanity.

I understand how embarrassing it is for you when something prevents you from telling your teachers or the principal where to get off. I’ll never forget the anger in your face when you told me, “I wanted to tell (the teacher) to go to hell, but I just couldn’t. And it’s all because of you.” Such an indictment haunts me to this day.

I’m sorry the cafeteria lady finds you polite. I’m sorry girls find you safe. I’m sorry your friends’ parents enjoin them to be “just like those nice Linguini boys.”

How long I can live with this guilt, I don’t know. But it will help to know that you, at least, can show mercy on the evil witch I have been.

Love,

Your Mother

A Shameless Piece of Self-Promotion

www.spot-on.com/

Don’t ask me how I fit in with all these really smart and experienced writers, but I have to trust editor Chris Nolan to make it work so I don’t look totally inept.

So click away! Leave and then click again. Come back here and click and back and click. Make it look like I really do have a fan club.

(Oh, that's me, Jeanne Jackson. Now you know who I am, if you didn't already. And where I live. Just don't hurt my dogs. Oh yeah, and my kids...Dirtman can fend for himself.)

There is much rejoicing!

I was going to post pictures of progress at the new house.

Yes. I said progress.

We have progress. There are things that are….wait for this….can you believe it?....DONE!!!!!

I was going to take pictures of all the doneness. But, no. I want to take pictures when the contrast is so unbelievably profound, that you will not trust that it is something belonging to a Linguini.

“This must be a house belonging to someone for whom all things go well in spite of what an idiot she is (like Anna Nicole Smith),” you will say. (Hopefully this, Ladies and Gentlemen, will be the last time you ever think of me and Anna Nicole Smith within the same….week.)

So, though I have dozens of pictures of our new drainfield and the completely insulated basement and the drywall in my secret bathroom, I’m keeping them to myself.

By next week at this time will be photos to thrill and amaze. The stonemason comes Thursday. The basement drywall will be done. The deck and hot tub will be installed. We will be ready to paint!

There is much excitement here in Linguiniland. There is the ritual throwing of things into boxes, things we’ve accumulated since throwing other things in boxes when we thought we were going to move in the fall. Things are being flung out the door. I am packing away the winter clothes, that’s how sure I am that we will not need them until we are in the new house. There is even talk of address changes.

So, while we still face an Easter Sunday without the clever egg hunt I had planned and though we still mourn the loss of the gnomes, we are all uplifted, if by uplifted you mean running around wildly and every now and then screaming at each other, “WE’RE MOVING IN A MONTH AND A HALF!!!!”

Maybe they need some new, fresh ideas at the fortune cookie factory...

I scanned this in so you would know this was my actual fortune in my fortune cookie:




So I'm wondering, what does this mean?

You can't keep aiming a duck over and over until you or it dies?

You can't aim a duck in the direction of death because it's too smart to face it?

You can't aim a duck in the direction of death because it is cowardly?

You are such a lousy aim, you can't even aim a duck in the direction of death?

You are such a pitiful loser you can't even aim a duck in the direction of death?

Help, quickly! This is my fortune and my entire future hinges on this duck!

Let them eat...cereal

I love to cook.

I just wish I lived with people who love food.

Notice I didn’t say “love to eat.” They do love to eat, if by “eating” you mean putting a substance into their mouths and swallowing. It just doesn’t particularly matter what that substance is or what it tastes like.

I come from a long line of very good cooks and, if there is one thing an Italian family teaches its young, male and female alike, it’s how to cook. They start us young.

So I’ve been cooking for a long, long time. I don’t claim many talents, but I am a good cook. And I wouldn’t be good if I didn’t love to do it.

That being said, I hate – hate – cooking for Dirtman and the Heirs.

Scenario 1: Sisiggy spends the entire day in the kitchen preparing a full meal from salad to dessert. Every dish is carefully thought out so that the ingredients compliment each other without overpowering. The presentation is worthy of any glossy gourmet magazine. She calls her family to the table and they pass around dishes, Sisiggy, as cook, serving herself last. But before she finishes plating her meal, Heir 1 is already done and clearing the table. Dirtman has literally swallowed some food items whole, stuffed them in his cheeks and heads for the computer, still chewing. As Sisiggy eats, Heir 1 looms over her, waiting to grab her plate.

Scenario 2: Sisiggy has prepared a simple weekday meal, scheduled to be served at 6 p.m., half an hour after the time Dirtman has said he will be home. At 5:30 p.m. Dirtman calls and assures her that, though he is “running a little late,” he should be there not too much after when he’d originally told her. So she waits. At 6:15 p.m. she receives another call that he “is almost there.” At 7 p.m. the meal sits waiting in the oven.

Scenario 3: Sisiggy prepares yet another weekday meal and calls her family to the table. Heir 1 arrives, looks at the dinner and moans, “Beef Stroganoff again,” in spite of the fact that the dish has not made an appearance in over three months. Heir 2 arrives, takes note of the menu, rolls his eyes and proceeds to place a minute portion in his plate. Dirtman finally hangs up the phone, arrives at the table and declares that he’s eaten a huge lunch, so he doesn’t think he’ll eat much for dinner. That night all three eat huge vegetable bowls of cereal. Sisiggy, thinking there is something wrong with her Stroganoff, later offers some to her brother who, upon tasting it, say, “What’s wrong with those people?”

Scenario 4: Sisiggy prepares yet another weekday meal. The first phone call comes at 5:30 p.m. from Heir 2 at track practice. He tells her the whole team is staying at school for a soccer game and then is going to McDonalds. At 5:45 p.m. Heir 1 calls from his friend’s house and tells her they’ve decided to go to the soccer game after which they are going to McDonalds. At 5:52 p.m. Dirtman calls and tells her he and his crew decided to stay late and “finish up” and he thinks he’ll catch the high school soccer game on his way home. He’ll just pick up a burger at McDonalds afterwards.

Scenario 5: Sisiggy decides to prepare Dirtman his favorite meal, filet mignon. She takes the time to cook the meat to perfection, deglaze the pan for the perfect sauce and serve it up with sautéed mushrooms and the perfect wine. The meal lasts exactly 7 minutes before Dirtman is back at the computer (still chewing).

I would think the problem was my cooking, but it is the same at restaurants. I’m still eating and Dirtman is staring at me, tapping his foot, until I give up, box my meal, and agree to move on. The Heirs won’t go to restaurants, preferring to stay home and eat the ever-popular cereal.

So, though I love to cook, I no longer cook. My cabinets are dominated by cereal boxes, my refrigerator by milk.

When John Boy comes over I indulge in cooking a whole meal and it’s a pleasure to watch him eat. John Boy loves food and he takes his time with it (he does hold the family record for requiring the most time for a meal). So this is the only time I can sit, enjoy and savor my meal.

It drives Heir 2 crazy, which is another bonus.

Why I miss New Jersey

No. Really.

I didn’t say I’m eaten up with remorse that I’m no longer living in the ironically-named Garden State (there is a reason it’s called that, ya know…it used to be “the country” back when my father was a kid).

There are certain things I miss, though.

There is a Parkway sign on the moon.

No matter where you are in New Jersey, you can find a Garden State Parkway sign directing you to the road which gives you access to everywhere in the state. Hence the joke: “You’re from Jersey? What exit?”

Speedy checkout satisfaction.

No one will ask you how you are today in the checkout line. You can run in, grab that gallon of milk and be out of there without ever having to speak to a soul. They will not chat amiably to your toddler, so keep the kid quiet and get busy bagging those groceries.

They will thank you for your business, but will not make inane comments about the quality of your day.

I can pee by myself, thank you.

Okay, I’ve got to ask. What is it about Southerners and the bathroom? In Jersey when you go to someone’s house the first thing they do is show you where the bathroom is so you don’t have to make some grand announcement about your bodily functions to the host, who then leads you on some grand parade to the bathroom, turns on the light for you and then – explain this to me – scans the room for…what? What is it ya’ll do in there that you have to insure there are no remnants of before a guest goes in there? You knew I was coming over and everyone checks the TP before guests arrive. I feel like you’re out there, listening, waiting, so we can have another official procession back to the livingroom.

Networking

Everyone knows a guy who knows a guy. Whaddaya need?

Clear, concise driving advice.

That yield sign? IT DOESN’T MEAN STOP! It barely means yield. If I can floor it and beat the oncoming car, it’s legal.

It’s a small state, but…

My nose fits in New Jersey. In New Jersey my nose is almost…well…demure. In Virginia I’m outnumbered by Anglo noses. And they all have allergies.

Sporting options.

You can be a Yankee fan. You can be a Mets fan. You can be a Phillies fan – if you’re a real masochist.

Public service.

No where in New Jersey do you have to take the trash to the dump yourself. She usually drives her own car…

Fun while you drive.

There’s a coin toss game every ten miles or so on the parkway. Really hones your skills, though it’s hardly sporting now that you have to actually apply the brakes because of the cross bars they installed.

So you see, there’s a reason New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the country. Don’t agree? Then there’s always the New Jersey state motto.

And I don’t mean the official state motto (“Liberty and Prosperity”)…

Yeah, that state motto. It’s kind of caught on everywhere, ya know!

Gettin' Antsy...

I think it’s time for a road trip.

Spring? Check.

Been sitting behind the computer dealing with tax crap too long? Check.

Everyone getting sick because they’ve been cooped up in the house too long? Check.

Yup. Definitely road trip time.

Linguini family road trips are more memorable than any planned vacation we’ve ever taken. On vacation, we know where we’re going and why because we’ve researched it thoroughly due to the huge cash outlay required. Road trips are spontaneous and there is no guarantee that the direction you are heading will yield anything exciting. Vacations require a week’s worth of packing. Road trips, if any luggage at all is required, are throw-a-toothbrush-in-the-bag affairs, with a change of underwear and socks. In fact, vacations can feature several road trips.

And don’t think we just pick a direction and head that way. Noooooo…that would be much too obvious. We’ve got a destination in mind, usually via Roadside America (the website, not the model railroading extravaganza in Pennsylvania). The cheesier, the better.We may or may not get there, but as a focus it works.

And forget major tourist traps. We don’t go to Hershey, Pa., to see Hershey Park or even the chocolate plant. We head 20 minutes away to take the shallow water ferry across the Susquehanna River.

We try to confine road trips to one day, but we’ve pretty much consumed all the local cheese.

The best part of road trips isn’t always the destination we originally planned. Road markers were made for people like us. All those plaques pounded into concrete sidewalks commemorating some event no one remembers? We read every one of them and have to find out why they’re there. Only the Linguinis would plan a trip to Long Branch, NJ, just to see the statue of James Garfield (and they have a spa hotel that takes dogs!).

This is where Dirtman shines as the road trip king. Dirtman is genuinely interested in people because he finds the behind-the-scenes workings of even the most mundane operations fascinating, thereby making the people doing them feel fascinating. People will tell him about the local attractions they usually keep for themselves. They give us things. We get tours and free food and all kinds of extras.

I remember taking the water taxi at Inner Harbor in Baltimore once. It was really hot and the guy running the boat was just hanging on the controls, droning his mandatory orders, not making eye contact, sort of annoyed. We got out on the water and Dirtman started asking the guy what kind of hours he works, how he learned to run the boat, what regulations he had to follow. You could actually see the guy straighten up as he related to Dirtman about how he had to time his trips and deal with large groups and all the other errata of his job. When we got to Little Italy where we were stopping and everyone got off, he gave the boys (10 and 7 at the time) a little tour of the boat, showing the safety equipment and how it ran -- guy stuff. Then he hopped out of the boat and gallantly gave me his hand to disembark.

So, because of Dirtman, we’ve seen an oasis in the middle of the Nevada desert, received free fossils from a tour guide in Wyoming, knew to go here instead of here (“It smells really bad,” our bellhop told us.) when we were in Utah, got to see vernal pools, real and imagined, in San Diego and, on our honeymoon, toured a gravestone quarry (a story in and of itself…) in Vermont.

I do, however, have to credit my cousin with showing us the studio where Jimi Hendrix started out and the gay bar where Thomas Paine lived that’s named after my aunt, both in New York City. And you probably went to see the Statue of Liberty…

And now a word from Angsty Sisiggy...

I have no right to try to appeal for sympathy as it seems the entire world is currently sick in bed.

So I will look on the bright side and point out that, had I not had a fever yesterday, I probably would never have turned on the television and seen that Judgment at Nuremburg was on public broadcasting last night.

I had seen this a very long time ago and it had been edited to pieces to fit TV, as they used to do in the 60s and 70s, and shown very late at night. Since then it has not crossed my path. The PBS showing had restored the film to its original length.

The movie was probably as uncomfortable for people to watch in 1961 as Schindler’s List was for us to watch in 1993. Though it is mild by today’s standard, I have to remember it was speaking to people who had, for the most part, lived through the rise of the Third Reich. It’s reminder that the whole world was in part responsible for allowing the atrocities of the Holocaust had to have made everyone squirm a little.

I say this from the safety of having been born in 1957 and provided with the kind of 20/20 vision experiencing it as “history” affords. But that doesn’t mean I still don’t squirm.

The usual reaction to references to the Holocaust is “how could those people have been so gullible,” hinting that there was a measure of acquiescence on the part of the German citizenry that didn’t exist anywhere else, and certainly not in this day and age.

I’m not so sure.

And I speak from a personal standpoint, not as an indictment of anyone else. Because when I see references to the Holocaust I get a sick worry that I would not have had the courage, the knowledge, the sense of sacrifice to stand up against the Third Reich.

Certainly I’d like to think I would. Of course, I was raised in a post-war climate and during the 60s when we were taught a supposedly new idea called “equality.” Yet a mere one generation removed from mine could grasp that having to bulldoze human bodies into a pit because the slaughter was so great was a bad thing, yet could not see the horrors racism had caused in their own country.

It makes me shudder to think that my sanctimonious cries of “I would never do that” depend upon the happenstance of my birth date and location.

But I have to wonder, if I had been born in my father’s generation in Germany, lived through the poverty that was the result of World War I; if in my teenage years I was told in school by adults in charge that my poverty was the result of the greed of a certain segment of the population I saw every day living a better life than I; if all I heard over and over and over was how great and superior my family and I were over them; if all I heard and saw was the Nazi message every single day, at the most crucial and vulnerable time in my life, what would I have done when people started disappearing?

I know what Sisiggy in 2006 Virginia would do. But I’m not so sure about Sisiggy in 1933 Germany.

I don’t think anyone can say what they would or would not have done. Because in this day and age, we are still selective as to who we think is worthy of our sympathy and aid and who is not. We still have a price as to how far we will go to right a wrong. (It’s bizarre to me that to protect elephants you can no longer buy or sell ivory, but purchasing diamonds is commonplace because it’s only endangering humans.).

This is what happens when I’m feverish and miserable and watch a depressing movie. Angst, angst, angst. Happy Sisiggy will be on duty tomorrow, perhaps.